Flash Fiction

In his dreams the ticket collector wanders through the Luxembourg Gardens heading towards Opera. He takes his responsibilities seriously and diligently asks each and every passer-by for their tickets. Of course, they stare at him blankly. He shows them his collecting machine slung around his neck by a worn leather strap. They shrug and hurry on ignoring him. It is autumn and the trees have spread their unwanted leaves across the paths hiding many pitfalls. 

The ticket collector is trying to catch the attention of a young couple just parading into the gardens when he puts his foot into one of these hidden traps. He falls. He keeps falling. He feels the dried roughness of the leaves scratch his face. He feels his skin turn to autumn. He feels the wind rushing by. The only colours he can see are yellows, browns and fading greens. All the autumn colours rushing by faster and faster. The wind is rapidly increasing in speed. The ticket collector is heading heedless, helpless towards infinity. Then it stops. The wind ceases, the leaves smooth to a gentle pastel colour. The ticket collector awakens with a start. He goggles at a bus full of pensioners. They stare open mouthed at his nakedness, covered only by his firmly held ticket machine.