What Happened When Frank Died: In-Transit


Frank died.

The window was rolled up. He rolled it down. As he did, he noticed his wrists. He frowned, remembering.

“Hey, I’m dead,” he informed the Taxi driver.

“Yes, sir.” The Taxi driver told him through a small window. They stopped at a red light. Frank looked out at the city, recognizing nothing.

“Where the hell are we?”

“In transit,” the taxi driver informed him. There was traffic. The light changed green and they moved the stride of a baby’s first step. Frank tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey, can you let me out?”

The taxi driver just shook his head.

“Asshole,” Frank muttered. He propped himself up and went to climb out the window. As soon as he did, it began rolling itself up. Frank sat back.

“So, what? I just have to sit here?”

The Taxi driver didn’t look back. “You are in transit,” was all he said.

Frank shifted to the other side of the Taxi. Another Taxi was stopped beside them. A big hairy face peered out of the back window at him. He waved. The man waved back. Frank unrolled the window. The air was still, stale, almost without temperature.

“Hey!” he called to the man.

The man smiled. “Howdy.”

“What’s going on?”

The man shrugged. “Did you ask your man?”

“Yeah, all he said was ‘in transit,’ whatever that means.”

The man across nodded with sympathy.

“Yeah, this one too. I’m Charlie.”


“How’d you wind up here Frank?”

Frank held up his wrists.


Frank shrugged. “Not as bad as you might think.”

“Mind if I ask, for what?”

“Following my wife and son, you might say.”

“Ah,” Charlie nodded. “As good a reason as any.”

“You?” Frank asked.

Charlie shrugged. “Life got bored with me, I suppose.”

The light turned green again, they moved, they stopped.

“Learn to drive you pricks!” Charlie called to the cars ahead. Frank looked out, down the road. As far as he could see there were Taxis.

“This is a bit of an odd heaven wouldn’t you say?” Frank called across.

The taxi driver cut in from the front. “You are in transit,” he said calmly.

“What’d he say?” Charlie called over.

“Same shit.”

“In transit?”


“Shit-head. Oh well, can’t go on forever. A few thousand more years for me, but can’t say I blame them.”

Frank nodded.

“Wait, what? How long have you been here?”

Charlie frowned up at the sky. It was a gray sky.

“A few years I’d imagine.”

Frank felt panic. He thought about it, but his chest didn’t beat faster. Didn’t peat at all, in fact. He looked to the taxi driver. He paused, took a breath.

“How long are we in transit?”

“Seven-hundred-thirty-two years,” the taxi driver informed him, toneless.

Frank stared at the man a moment longer, digesting.

“What’d he say?” Charlie’s voice cut in. Frank turned.

“Uh,” he tried to think. “Seven hundred years.”

Charlie’s eyes went wide. He whistled.

“You lucky dog,” he said.


    • Thank you very much. Actually no, this is a collaboration project. Nikita is an artist and I am a writer. I write a story each day and send it to him and then he draws a picture based on his reading of that story. We’re trying to do it for one year. Eight months done, almost.


    • Thank you. You have some interesting stuff. Actually the illustrations are done by Nikita. Every day I write a story and send it to him and then he draws a picture for it and then we post it. I am not involved in the art side. He draws whatever strikes him from the story.

      Liked by 2 people

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