Crunch: The Train
Writing Exercise #7
Keepin’ this train a-rollin! Hey, that’s a good idea…
This song may help flavor this story.
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Enjoy!
Crunch: Write about a train.
The ground swept past the window. Occasionally he would see a building, a car, a person, someone walking—a moment in time. It occurred to him that he was as fleeting an actor in their worlds as they were in his. He realized that any square-foot of ground he passed, was a precious but fleeting space.
The ground swept past the window.
He had with him a single bag. It was heavy—full to bursting with odds and ends and essentials. Clothes—not many, just enough for the journey. A book, a journal. A piece of paper with his itinerary, the stops the train will make, and the list of things he needed to pack, which he used the night before.
The ground swept past the window.
He was leaving home. A place comfortable and familiar, or so he told himself. The only thing that connected the place he was leaving with the place in his memories is that he called both places “home”. It was different now. The warm embrace of that place had turned to stone in his arms, and the cold chill touched everything he did. He was more alone at home than he was on this train. At least the people around him respected his anonymity, his space. The statuary of the place he called home regarded all he did with cold judgement.
The ground swept past the window.
He was heading to the city. Not at all comfortable or familiar. Busy, uncertain, scary. He was afraid of the city—afraid of the millions of intersecting lives, afraid of the uncertain paths. But he was called there—it was where he needed to be, at least for the duration of the trip. He had a mission. Some work to be done. He would go, and he would do it. And then, he would return home. He hoped he would return home different. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? But different or not, he had answered the call. He would be a fleeting actor in the kaleidoscoping performance of city life, and would return home—uncredited, but accomplished.
The ground swept past the window.
He wondered where his precious, fleeting space was.
(365 words you can’t stop me )
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Have you ever ridden on a train?
What has been your least favorite place to visit?
What place that you’ve visited has had the best food?
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Also, I loved the story: the repetition of the ground sweeping past the window line really set the mood. Felt like a metaphor. In the end, aren't we all looking for our own space, in a way?
Hm.
When I was a little kid, my Grandma would take me to the train station so we could watch them come and go. I loved trains you see. I told her it was my dream to one day ride them. She told me that some people did that every day.
Two decades later, I rode the same train from the same station, to work each evening. It felt just like you described here, at first. Eventually it became demystified and routine. But oh, those first few months...