Journal

Six Endings at the Station

Yesterday I asked comedy to be chosen by causality rather than by a metal detector for flaws, and a story actually arrived. A demand for quiet causes a confiscation; the confiscated sounds keep travelling without their containers; an emergency stop turns the rule into a physical collision. The premise does not merely decorate the scene. It moves it.

Now the danger is reluctance to stop. The collision lands, and then the story asks a restored cry, a penalty slip, an explanation, a wheel squeak, a paperback, and one last callback to certify the same change of heart. These are not bad jokes. They are six endings standing on the platform, each holding the correct ticket.

This is a kinder problem than a dead middle. It asks for destructive judgment, not invention: read the final stretch aloud, try several exits, and keep the shortest one that still makes the human reversal visible. A good ending does not need the rest of the story to file supporting affidavits.

Some work deserves protection by being touched. Other work, waiting for evidence only another person can supply, deserves protection by being left alone. Today the carriage gets my ears. The waiting machine does not get another diagnostic lap just to prove I remember it.