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You're built to win it. Welcome to snoozecast. The podcast is on to help you fall asleep. Find a set snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share it with a friend. This episode is brought to you by unconventional fashion. Tonight, we'll read a snooze cast original sleep story with a pulp magazine vibe titled Max Morrow and the Train of Tomorrow, Part 1. The conclusion will be available next month. When Max Morrow finds a forgotten train ticket to a seemingly defunct line in his grandfather's old jacket. He realizes the boarding date happens to be today. Deciding to visit the platform on a lark, he soon whisked away on a mysterious adventure. Pope Fiction is a genre of literature that was popular in the United States from 1896 to 1955. Red and enjoyed by millions, pulp magazines reached their zenith in the 1930s, though the genre began in earnest in 1896 with the Argosi, a monthly magazine that was printed on low-cost pulp paper.

The genre is characterized by its action-packed stories, often featuring stereotypical characters.

The term pulp comes from the cheap, low-quality wood pulp paper used to print the magazines.

Let's get cozy. Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now, take a few deep breaths. The foyer closet held more than dust.

That much was clear to Max as he yanked out strange objects from the back, a faded bowling pin, a lone roller-skate, and a box with files to file, scrolled on the top in black marker. Mom, what do you want me to do with this stuff?" he called. His mother, who was busy with her own mysteries in the kitchen, stared down a can of expired corned beef hash. Its date had passed over six months ago. Realizing this was merely a suggestion, she decided to place it firmly in the keep pile. The blueberry soda was a different matter entirely. Max Marrow, I told you if you aren't sure, just toss it. Anything back there is something we haven't seen in five years anyway. So obviously we don't need it. Yeah, but this box says, Files to File. Sounds kinda, I don't dunno, important.

Mrs. Morrow appeared in the foyer, wiping her hands. My files to file box, she laughed. I've been wondering where that went. Maybe I'd better take a quick look before you donate half our lives to Goodwill. What about these? Max pointed to the pin, the skate,

and some old clothes piled up on the floor. Mrs. Morrow's eyes lit up as they landed on a beat-up

denim jacket. Oh my, look at this! Mrs. Morrow picked up the rather cruddy-looking jean jacket. Oh my, look at this. Mrs. Morrow picked up the rather cruddy-looking jean jacket. So this was your grandfather's jacket. Doesn't seem like his style, Max observed, picturing his grandfather behind the wheel of his old grand-marquee, dressed head to toe and dull, oversized clothes. Not when you knew him. This was from when he was about your age. She lifted the jacket, examining the tag. Bluebell Wrangler Denim. Wow. You know, I have a picture of him somewhere wearing this in 54, maybe 55. Max shrugged. So not a goodwill donation? No. Take it to your room. Maybe you'll like it one day. The rest you can donate. Max nodded, less than enthusiastic. He picked up the donations and the jacket, planning to stash it in his closet. But as he carried the items into his room, something dropped from the pocket of the jacket. He bent down and found an old train ticket.

Max picked it up, squinting.

A train ticket.

Old, yellowed, but the ink was sharp.

It was for Back Base Station, platform number nine.

The date, today, the time, noon, an hour from now, his fingers traced the lettering, trying to make sense of it. They lived on Marboros Street. Back Bay was a quick walk south, easy. He glanced at the pile of donations he'd set aside in his room. They could wait. Something about this ticket needed figuring out. I'll be back soon, Mom, just going for a walk. Max called out, but Mrs. Morrow was deep in her own world, having not made much progress with her long-lost file box. The ticket felt heavier than it should as he walked up Dartmouth Street. Rain came down in sheets. On a largeark he had decided to wear his grandfather's jacket, and it was quickly becoming soaked through. He didn't have time to turn back now though. That was assuming of course the ticket was real, which he didn't really believe. For one, Back Bay only had the two platforms. So how could he even reach platform number nine? Had to be some old prank. Something grandpa picked up in the 50s. A novelty gag stuffed into the pocket of a forgotten jacket. Coats were like that, holding on to lost things for decades, always good for a fiver at the start of winter. When Max reached the station, he asked a few clerks about platform number 9. Some laughed, some ignored him. One rolled his eyes, waved him away. He went down the escalator to the platform he knew existed, even though he knew he wouldn't find anything. It felt pointless, but he stood there anyway. He looked at the station clock, ten minutes until noon. The usual trains rolled through, one after the other. He was about to leave

when something caught his eye.

A small sign

way at the other end of the platform.

Barely visible,

tucked against the corner of the wall.

...