Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Underneath the layers of the city, the plaster and asphalt and advertisements playing late into the night, the subway pulled into the station with a long growl.
The ghoul trudged toward the sliding doors. Gasoline wept from his pores, from behind his penny eyes, from the gaps between his lead teeth and then his cracking lips, which he held agape so bitter diesel spit could run past his chin onto the dirt-crusted tile.
He needed to get out.
Starving rats squeaked and scampered away from his heavy steps. He tossed a slice of day-old pizza over his shoulder, and once he passed, they skittered to it with desperation dripping from their chops. Once they devour the pizza, they’ll scavenge the terminal for food until they pick apart the walls and floors, until nothing but bitten wires remain, and still their hunger will persist.
He needed to take the red and get out. Get out of the city.
The ghoul limped onto the metro and sat on a plastic seat, bottle cap knees bending into place. His hand brushed against a receipt tucked between himself and the wall. He drummed his cigarette fingers against his legs over and over.
The metro jerked into motion, and a soft mechanic whir sung from the tunnel. A can with a few sips of flat soda rolled against the floor and collided with a nearby silver pole.
He needed to get out. The subway needed to move faster.
When the doors slid open once more, cold air swept in from the stairway and diffused the leftover warmth that had accumulated underground. Through the doorway, a woman in rags stopped rifling through a trash can. Her neck craned up to meet the ghoul’s eyes, and she beckoned him over with hands wrapped in fabric scraps. Greasy black hair poked out between her layers of cloth.
The ghoul shuffled out of his seat and onto the station. A spark of pain traveled up his leg as his foot hit the platform, and with a grimace he staggered over to her, sloshing gasoline between the cracks.
“Let me get a smoke,” she demanded, her voice hoarse.
The ghoul held out his cigarette fingers, and she snapped his index off. She picked a lighter from the top of her trash collection, flicked it over and over—fighting for a spark, and then it finally ignited, lighting up their noses and mouths. The air around the fire blurred and faded through a thin layer of smoke, and it warmed the gasoline sliding down the ghoul’s cheek before it finally splashed to the ground. She kissed the flame with the tip of her cigarette, then took a deep, satisfied inhale that sent shudders through her body.
The ghoul began to drum his fingers against his leg again, this time his nub not quite reaching the distressed denim of his jeans. He needed to go. Get out. Get on the red. Get out.
“So warm,” she said. The women exhaled puffs of grey smoke. They blew back into the ghoul’s face until they filled his rusted metal lungs.
The subway pulled out of the station, singing. He tapped the knee on his bad leg to the melody.
She drew in another cancerous breath. “I love the smell of cigarettes. If you hate ‘em, I know you got money to avoid ‘em. Not me; once you’ve been around it this long, you’ll know the feeling’s worth dying over.”
The woman paced a few steps, like she had somewhere to go, then turned and paced right back to where she had started. She kicked at a plastic soda cup that had fallen from her rummaging, and it skipped along the ground and under a bench that hadn’t been cleaned in months.
The ghoul’s finger nub burned.
Behind them, another subway car creaked back into its resting place. The red line.
The ghoul waited for the woman a moment, watched her raise her cigarette at him—his own finger—like a champagne glass, and then nod toward the subway.
“You don’t have anything better to do?” she asked.
He glanced at the car then back to the woman.
She raised her eyebrows while taking another long drawl, then shooed him away with one hand. “Get outta here.”
He trudged toward the doors of the metro, hands on either side of his left leg to help lift it manually. He spared a look at the woman’s fading figure, who had turned to walk farther down the station. Shadows fought against the overhead lights to linger on her form.
He didn’t have time for her. He needed to get out.
The ghoul dragged his foot over the yellow bumps at the edge of the platform and onto the subway.
A man, youthful in his build but not his eyes, held onto a pole in front of the center of the car. Dirt lined the soft wrinkles around his eyes, the crevices around his nose, the area where his uncut, tangled hair met the edge of his forehead. His cheeks were red and clammy. He coughed violently into one of his hands only partially covered by the sleeve of a ragged grey hoodie, then stuck it back onto the pole.
The ghoul grabbed onto a different low-hanging beam covered in sweat and grime. A puddle of gasoline collected at his feet, and it crawled into the slits of his shoes and between the pores of his socks.
“You sick too?” the man asked absentmindedly, looking the ghoul up and down as the doors behind them shut, and the world faded away into shadows and plaster walls speeding by.
The ghoul shook his head.
The man gave him a doubtful grimace. “Cause you sure look it.”
Under the artificial white lights, the ghoul’s skin glistened like wet cement, drowning in oil, but the purple under his eyes was darker than the night. He ran his tongue of broken glass over his lips and they bled. He shrugged. Blood slipped between the cracks of his tongue and lead teeth like a sewer grate. He swallowed.
Get out.
The man wheezed and tried to shrug through it.
The ghoul’s gaze fixed on the glass covered in clammy handprints and doodles. Green graffiti, a color the ghoul only recognized from traffic lights and nauseated faces, coated the tight corners of the tunnel. Peering through the door window, he discerned empty bottles—water, wine, beer—flimsy take-out bags with bright red fonts, paper plates covered in grease stains, and newspaper clippings in the space between the wall and the rails. Nestled inside the trash hordes, a rat ravaged for food.
The man continued to cough, spewing disease onto the handicap button beside the door, until they arrived at the next station and he tumbled out, stumbling to his knees. He heaved until water and liquor dripped between the holes of his shoes and the cracks in pavement.
Tears pooled in his eyes as he choked on stomach acid and gas station vodka. He tucked himself onto his knees, nestled like a child, shaking against his vomit and bitter cold.
The doors slid shut, cutting visibility of the man, and surrounded the ghoul back in the subway’s recycled warmth.
He needed to get out. Get out of the city. Past the red. The route map plastered above the doorway taunted him.
The ghoul looked out of the window. A sign near the platform stairs told him he was still trapped in the heart of the city, running through its veins trying to get out. An old sewer rat chasing its tail in a maze.
His heart thumped ferociously against the inside of his chest. He stood. Got up. Slunk off the metro with a broken bollard bone in his foot and a bleeding tongue. A trail of gasoline stalked his steps.
The ghoul barely got his body off the metro before the doors shut and it sped past him, slapping sharp wind against his face. He crept forward until his toe cap caught against the yellow bumps at the end of the platform. Half an inch away from dying.
He sucked in a breath, and noxious air filled his nose and mouth. It was so thick it was palpable, suffocating—like oil bubbling in the river or a dead body slapped against the front of the subway or bills tossed into public dumpsters or rats picking through human shit or advertisements larger than the average apartment complex or overdue parking meters or neon open lights or 24/7 daytime or or or or or or a traffic jam.
The next subway approached and shook the entire world. He could hear it in his left ear, echoing and rickety and fast. It was so close he could feel it brush his concrete skin. The artificial draft was so cold, his knuckles turned to stop signs. Slick gasoline slipped from his body until it dripped past the edge and onto the rails. He gritted his teeth, and blood leaked out like electricity out of a faulty wire.
Wind flew through and up his clothes. It was so close. He needed to get out. The red line. The subway car raced forward. Fast. Slow. Close.
He sucked in a breath and pretended it was fresh air, but he exhaled carbon dioxide.
The subway pulled into the station. He saw his reflection in the muddy windows and closed his eyes.
Get out of the city.
Jasmine Liang is currently studying Writing & Literature at the University of California, Santa Barbara and plans to pursue writing as a career (if she won't starve). She's previously been a staff writer and editor for youth-run magazines, and now works as a video game writer. She can be found doing photography, playing video games, or catching up on books. You can find her on her instagram @jasminexliang.