The Train
The train is a story that everybody knows, but nobody knows the truth. Christopher has dedicated his life to discovering the truth of the train. He will wait his entire life, if it means the stories are true and he gets out.
The train station holds only 10 people today. Five of them can't be younger than 80 or so. The train probably won't come for them. They probably came today because they figured that their lives are boring and each day the same as the last. The train waits for no one. The train doesn't care if your 80 or 6 months old, it will come whenever the hell it wants to. Some say, the train will only be seen by the person whose turn it is. Some say the train just won't let you on, and you have to watch it go. This is my 12th year waiting. I haven't seen any train. I came here when I was 10. Now I'm 22.
I can't help but wonder if my time has already passed, in the first 10 years of my life. But there's always a chance that I haven't missed it, and if I leave thinking I did, I will. I glance over at Terry. He is slumped over a bench snoring loudly. His hair is graying and long. His dirty and stained with urine. He has been waiting for the train since he was 15. I know his story well. I've heard it weekly in the past 10 years. Yes 520 times. Maybe more. I know it as well as my own story. Terry will be turning 63 this year.
There is only one train in existence. Our city, is our world. There is nothing else. There's only blackness that circles the city limits. The blackness doesn't hurt. It's just what it is. Nothing. We are liked caged birds. There is no need for any train but for the one that will take us pass the limits. The one I wait for.
I don't know the date anymore. I just know the seasons and I guess the date by what the people wear and hold with them. Lately, the snow has covered the street in a slushy mess and the people wear an assortment of head coverings and big coats. I enjoy watching the people. I frequently make up stories about them. Guess what will happen to them in 10 years. Predict what their childhood was like. Most of the people who walk by the massive window of the train station carry bags with different names and logos printed on them. So, I assume it must be getting close to Christmas. I remember what Christmas tastes like. It tastes like roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and that sweet and sour tangy taste of cranberries. I remember what it smelt like. Like evergreen needles, baked goods, peppermint and crisp wrapping paper. I even remember what it felt like. Warm, cozy, and like soft bubbles popping against my skin. The memory felt much better than actually feeling it.
The last real Christmas I had, was when I was 9. My family is pretty wealthy. My father works in the business field. The top dog. My mother sells an unreal amount of baked goods at the bakery she works at. There's only one bakery in town, and mother is the best of the best. So, the Christmas tree was crowded with gifts big and small. Most for me, some for Grandpa, and Elder Mother. Some for Aunt Tiffany, Aunt Georgia and Uncle Jeff. Some that my father bought for mother, and vice versa. Some for Josephine, the huge saint Bernhard dog mom bought to keep me.
I can't remember what I had received. Those things don't matter anymore. I can only remember the feeling, the taste and the smell. Those are the only important memories that I hold dear anymore.
I can't help but wonder if my time has already passed, in the first 10 years of my life. But there's always a chance that I haven't missed it, and if I leave thinking I did, I will. I glance over at Terry. He is slumped over a bench snoring loudly. His hair is graying and long. His dirty and stained with urine. He has been waiting for the train since he was 15. I know his story well. I've heard it weekly in the past 10 years. Yes 520 times. Maybe more. I know it as well as my own story. Terry will be turning 63 this year.
There is only one train in existence. Our city, is our world. There is nothing else. There's only blackness that circles the city limits. The blackness doesn't hurt. It's just what it is. Nothing. We are liked caged birds. There is no need for any train but for the one that will take us pass the limits. The one I wait for.
I don't know the date anymore. I just know the seasons and I guess the date by what the people wear and hold with them. Lately, the snow has covered the street in a slushy mess and the people wear an assortment of head coverings and big coats. I enjoy watching the people. I frequently make up stories about them. Guess what will happen to them in 10 years. Predict what their childhood was like. Most of the people who walk by the massive window of the train station carry bags with different names and logos printed on them. So, I assume it must be getting close to Christmas. I remember what Christmas tastes like. It tastes like roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and that sweet and sour tangy taste of cranberries. I remember what it smelt like. Like evergreen needles, baked goods, peppermint and crisp wrapping paper. I even remember what it felt like. Warm, cozy, and like soft bubbles popping against my skin. The memory felt much better than actually feeling it.
The last real Christmas I had, was when I was 9. My family is pretty wealthy. My father works in the business field. The top dog. My mother sells an unreal amount of baked goods at the bakery she works at. There's only one bakery in town, and mother is the best of the best. So, the Christmas tree was crowded with gifts big and small. Most for me, some for Grandpa, and Elder Mother. Some for Aunt Tiffany, Aunt Georgia and Uncle Jeff. Some that my father bought for mother, and vice versa. Some for Josephine, the huge saint Bernhard dog mom bought to keep me.
I can't remember what I had received. Those things don't matter anymore. I can only remember the feeling, the taste and the smell. Those are the only important memories that I hold dear anymore.
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