I forgot to submit last week's post to the FWG site, so you might want to take a look at "Ogres' Home", also. Anyway, this week's effort was inspired by:
Here is "Sometimes a Train is Just a Train."
Sometimes a Train is Just a Train
The train chugged its way through the mountains. The evening’s snowfall turned the trees and ground into a flocked Currier and Ives wonderland. George sat bundled against the cold in the drafty carriage. The other occupant of the compartment was a young woman, dressed in a tartan skirt, black hose, and sensible flats. She, too, wore her wool coat buttoned to her neck. Out the window, the track followed the curve of a river until it dove into a tunnel in the mountainside. A waterfall next to the hole sprayed a rainbow of mist into the morning sunshine.
“Sometimes, a train is just a train,” she purred.
George put down the book he was reading. “I think Freud said, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’”
“Whom did you say?”
“Ah, Sigmund Freud?”
The car swayed as the train rounded a sharp bend. The tunnel drew closer.
“I just meant that one could interpret the image of a train entering a tunnel in a variety of ways,” she said demurely.
George smiled. “That is exactly what Freud was referring to.”
She blushed as the final curve threw her from her seat. George lunged forward and caught her, then seated her next to himself.
Flustered, she said, “Thank you. Please don’t think of me as too forward.” She looked out the window at the rapidly approaching black hole. “That gaping maw simply reminded me of how long it has been since I have…eaten.”
“Of course. I would very much like to treat you to breakfast.”
At that moment, the car was plunged into darkness as the train entered the tunnel. When the sunlight illuminated the carriage once again, the woman sat alone, licking the last of the blood from her lips.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she murmured, then belched.