Introduction
This is a very short story that I wrote for a writing class back in November 2023. I’ve edited it after a year of writing experience, and was pleased to see how my writing has already improved! I might revisit this each year to see how my writing has changed 😊 The goal of the piece was to fully immerse yourself in a place—in this case, a train. What do you feel, see, hear, taste? I put myself on a train back home to Cornwall.
Story
A sudden jolt brings me back to my senses. The stale taste in my mouth is the first of those senses to welcome me back to the waking world. A god awful crick in the neck is the second.
It takes a minute for my surroundings to come into focus, as my eyes readjust to the light. Empty seats populate the majority of the train carriage, with the only proof of their prior inhabitants being the assortment of rubbish that they left behind, the faint smells of hot food left in boxes. Typical, I think to myself. Humans have the awful tendency to ruin whatever they touch. I look away.
My earphones must have run out of battery whilst I slept. The gentle pitter patter of rain takes its place, and I find myself not missing my music at all. When I remove my head from the window, the low bickering of a couple at the other end of the carriage materialises. Too low for me to make out the topic, much to my dismay. I could use the entertainment.
I’m amazed I slept as long as I did—which is to say, at all. The anxiety of needing to gather my things and hastily exit at some point often ensures I stay awake. The moment that thought pops into my head, I frantically pick my phone up off the tray and switch it on. Thank fuck. I still have half an hour to go. A quick glance around—down to my feet, where my bag is; the tray, where my phone is; and my pockets, holding my keys and purse—reassures me that I was not robbed. Everything’s fine. There’s no reason for me to feel panic equivalent to someone being hunted for sport.
My hand instinctively rises to my chest as I take several deep breaths. It soon slows to its usual rhythm, and my anxiety dissipates alongside the tension I held in my shoulders. I let them sag. The cushioning of my seat envelops me and I sink into it, before flopping my head back to gaze lazily out of the window.
Blurs of green whip past and I immediately recognise where I am. Between the droplets on the glass, looming pine trees reach out for me under the moonlight. Further down, weaving through them like a piece of thread, a river appears to race the train, twisting and turning and flaunting. Under the radiance of the moon it glows a brilliant blue, greatly contrasting the murky, muddy banks it fights against. In the face of the trees, eternal, unmoving, the river still pushes through. I am overwhelmed with an urge to jump in and lose myself in it—
The vivid—albeit imaginary—feeling of the frigidity of that water brings my back to my body. Safe and dry. My imagination is a gift, most of the time. Other times it haunts me, I curse myself, I bring monsters and horrors to life. My mind is my own and yet I seem to have so little control over it. It wanders where it pleases if I’m not careful.
I tighten my leash on it. It’s not enough. It wanders into dangerous lands once again, and thoughts flood through me, drowning out everything else.
I am not just a girl on a train, enjoying the scenery outside and inside of my head. I am a girl with a destination. The numbers on my phone tick on by, my destination only grows closer. My heart rate picks up again. There are no other stops. No turning back. All I can do is wait, and relish in these last moments alone, before I step off the train and into a place that no longer feels like home.