The dilapidated railroad station, aged after years of disuse, loomed above them like a ghost as they trudged up the hill.
“I always come up here when I want to be alone. You’re the first person I’ve brought here.”
She smiled, a little out of breath from the steep path.
The rusted rails disappeared into surrounding woods as she looked left, then right.
“The tracks are unused now, right?”
“Are you nervous?” he said with a smile. “They’re retired. Look at them.” He kicked a bit of rusted metal off the top. “I doubt they’d be safe run a train over them.”
She took his hand. “Thanks for bringing me here. I know this place means a lot to you. Do you ever go inside?”
“There’s a broken window around back, but it’s pretty dirty in there.”
A sound, far off in the distance, made her look to the right. “What was that?”
“I don’t know, but I hear it all the time.”
“It sounded like-“
“Go on…”
“No, never mind.”
He bent down and put his hand on the track. “Feel it.”
She did as she was told and felt the slight vibration. “What is that?”
“You were going to say it sounded like a train was coming, right?”
She nodded, a little unwillingly.
“I hear it all the time. And after I hear it, I can always feel the tracks vibrating the tiniest bit.”
She quickly removed her hand from the rusted metal. She wiped the brown dust off her hands onto her jeans as he stood back up. She stood as well and watched the tracks coming from the woods to the right, waiting.
“It won’t come,” he said, breaking the silence.
“What won’t?”
“The train.”
She took his hand, and squeezed it tight from fear when they heard the sound again, this time closer. It sounded like the echoes of the horn of a train, but not the actual sound itself. She continued to watch, waiting.
Photograph taken by Nessa Skotnitsky of Ethereal Fine Art and Photography.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Matilda stared out the window of the train as the hissing sounds emitted from underneath. Her belongings were scattered on the seat next to her, both because she was unorganized and trying to keep a stranger from sitting with her. As her eyes focused on the Market East Station sign she jumped up. “Is this Market East?” she yelled in a frantic tone. The ticket collector nodded as she attempted to collect her stuff. The line of departing passengers was long gone and the hissing happened again, warning of the train’s imminent departure. She threw objects into her bag as fast as she could: a book, a newspaper, her iPad, an umbrella. She made it off just in time.
A Flash of Inspiration 