Little girl playing on the tracks, didn’t your mother tell you not to do that? Did she not directly forbid you from setting foot anywhere near them? What are you to do, now that you’ve been caught breaking the rule? I can’t save you, so you might as well catch the next train and skip town by the rails.
The cars clack past on the rails. Clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack… The grinding of metal on metal reminds me of someone grinding his teeth at night against some nightmare that only he can see in his mind.
ONCE UPON TIME THERE WAS A RAILWAY ON THE EDGE OF TOWN THAT WAS ALMOST ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD. IT CONSISTED OF FIVE TRACKS THAT LED TO THE MAIN STATION, A SMALL BUILDING WITH ONLY ONE BATHROOM AND ONE BENCH!
Antonio Bagelshnyder
Direct flashes in my mind, pictures s of abandoned stations that remind me the destruction caused by what we wrongly call evolution.
Gigi González
The railway stretched on and on, into the distance, curving around a corner where there were lands unexplored, places not yet visited, experiences still waiting to be had. She stood there, watching it. She was ready. Ready to go, ready to move forward. She no longer feared the future.
Jessica
we made bridges and destroyed them,
searing steel and wood and concrete with
wrathful fire and broken hearts.
blamed the cracks on mother nature
when they were founded on pillars of salt
( the epitome of dried up, bitter tears )
the chisels you use to chip away
at someone’s ribcage to reach their
lungs, their heart
aren’t the same.
this world was not made for our sadness,
our regrets, our
/martyrs/.
F
Her heart pounded and her breathes came in jagged rasps. She glanced over her shoulder her hair obscuring her view. She ran harder as the pounding footsteps closed in darkness so thick it she didn’t see the railway ties until she lay across them. The footsteps crunched on the gravel beside her and darkness fell.
tracks that lead parallel into the distance until they join, siamese like, leading to nonchalence, coldness and never once turning around. Will there be a return train?
The one thing that my country boasts of is the huge railway network. But to a common person like me it’s more than that. As a little girl i still have fond memories of my first journey.
Shilpika
Our country once had the railway system of transportation that traveled through most of the country. It played an invalvuabe role in the arigculture sector also. The railway went out of commision in the late nineteen forties, when a different form of transport was made available.
It was a cold evening, there was no one about in the town of Elmswood. I stood at the corner light with the lights flickering. I stood waiting, for someone to notice my existence. Would anyone notice me ? Would they stop to ask what was wrong?
Sheena
Me gusta viajar en tren. Libertad, sosiego, aprovechar el tiempo. Me recuerda a momentos de paz y sobre todo a sensaciones de inicar una etapa, algo importante. Como una nueva oiportunidad. Para lo que sea. Es algo genial.
No es más que una sensación pero me gusta mucho,lsmxclksamksamckasmcskmckasmclka
Inés
It was going to my future
I’m leaving this horrid home
This railway to far away
I’ll follow these train tracks
Until I feel rumbling underneath my feet
C
The railway track snaked across the land like a long dark metal sore. Th train followed its path screeching and groaning as it chugged towards its destination.
railway stations are always full. noisy. tiring. but once you are in a train, the journey makes up for all the frustrations accumulated while getting on to the train.
kris
The railway line cut across the path down to the beach, and many times the stillness of a summer morning was disrupted by the scream of the horn on the freight train pulling 200 tonnes of cement down to the brickworks, as it sent children scurrying for cover as they ventured towards the sand and surf.
tonykeyesjapan
The railway platform was empty but for the two of us. I looked at home in this concrete jungle, my ripped jeans and holey tanktop all but blending into the spray-paint covered backdrop. But she was as different from this place as earth from sky, with her glossy black hair pulled back in a sleek pony and her ensemble far more 5th Avenue than West 183rd.
The tracks divided our side of town from the good side, though you had to go through the industrial park and the ghetto to get to the good side even after you crossed the tracks. The Monon was the railroad that went through sometimes, mournful at night, and frightening.
Rose
It’s a delicate act staying on the railway tracks. And when the train master switches the route, it’s always better to follow than to go off the rails.
She balanced on the rails. Step, balance, step, balance. Her arms wavered at her side. Her torso struggled to keep them even. Without the alcohol burning through her system, she’d be walking with more grace. Or she would have stayed away from the train track entirely.
Ann M. Lynn
imagine, if just for a single moment
that you could say exactly what was on your mind
no filter, no pretension
just what you’re thinking
oh, the joy it would bring
the mind a train, riding through a railway
to be free
and at once
burdened by the truth
Matty M.
My dad used to plant his strawberries on the railroad tracks down the road- no one owned that land – an old woman used to steal his crop every now and then. Like I said, no one owns land.
The railway disappeared as the fast, loud, driven train came barreling down. I felt a tinge of jealously; the train knows where it’s going, it knows what it wants. I don’t have the ability to be that diligent. My actions are always on a whim; what feels best at a present moment, and just like that I started to realize what hurt my marriage.
this is your path. not a destination, not an end, but a means. you can go anywhere you choose. out west? to freedom, in any case. there is nothing stopping you, not the horizon, not anything, your only limit is the rails.
Aria
I loved traveling on railway cross country. I had to do it at least once. It was romantic, heavenly, relaxing. Watching out the windows, listening to the sounds of the train, snippets of conversations scattered like seeds in every direction the ear could catch. Oh, how I wrote. Trying to record the moments while I could, i journal, jotted, dictated, texted in and on anything to preserve it all. When I read the words, it all comes back to me and I relive it again.
the loud sounds of the railways motivate me, cause me to to go faster and faster, the satisfying beat of my soles hitting the ground in a rhythm much like a song to me. the sweat pouring down my body is a sign of my hardwork, a sign that maybe ill finally be the “ideal” weight. the air smells slightly like riverwater although i couldnt say why. running intoxicates me. and i will continue to run. as long as i can.
The Railway tracks ran between what once was a forest and a run down saw mill. A reminder of how things once were in this ghost town. No one knew if it was uplifting or just depressing.
The train whistled. “Whhoooooo!” I jumped. “Oh! There’s a train there!”
“You think?” Alex asked dryly. “I didn’t realize.”
“Oh you,” I muttered, and punched his shoulder friendlyly. “Stop it. Teaser.”
Ole Monday
It was a cold day in solemn Westfield, Ma. Brian was taking his usual post-work saunter on the eastern boulevard railway to avoid catching his wife bringing in the groceries. There was nothing more Brian hated than lugging in gallons of milk. See, his wife was a professional cook with an extreme talent for baking cakes. They had sex and died that night.
Race Rugh
The iron smells of pennies and lust as the wind rustles my hair and the train blazes by. I lean back into the grass as the passenger cars approach, grinning as I see a small child only, see me right back.
I lift my head into the breeze of fortune, and grin, knowing that no one can buy this.
Jump. The wheels screech and spark, the wind flaps my new flannel, bought especially for this photoshoot. I can’t help but grin as the ecstasy of real-life shooting takes over me. Fall. My hand, slippery with adrenaline, slips. My grin dies.
eve
He stared at the train tracks, not really sure what he was seeing. Nothing was registering at that moment, nothing made sense. What was he supposed to do here? There was no guidance, no instruction. He was expected to just know. How was that fair? Frustrated, he began to walk down the length of the tracks, not entirely sure where he was going, but ready for a change.
You are my railway I hold onto. Making my down this staircase, surrounded by pitch darkness, I hold onto you to help guide me down. You are my support;, without you I would tumble down and bash my head open.
bombed out square, churches
crumble quietly dozing
like phantom limbs
quietly walking backward in dreams
to where they once stood
where is the steeple
where is the people
the ivy spread back
nurtured by ash
walls I ran past
chasing your laughter
across a waist high eden
two small seeds
must have been sown
you reaped the black
I watched you drift into a tunnel
and not come out
so I search for the white
in clouds, wind, lone creatures
in yards, newsprint, ash
something will grow
yawning in sunlight
and I shall pour out
our water
on which you ride when it’s time to go. If you’e late, you won’t have a chance to think. You’ll kiss your mother’s cheek, clasp her hand, hug your father. You’ll get on and you’ll see them out the window but then everything will be moving, moving, very suddenly and it will be good to know they are still waving, there, behind you. You would like to be sure of it. That’s impossible
Mari
The trains are whispering
they’re screaming
choo choo
they whisper
choose choose
they scream
He lived in the cable car at the end of the tracks. His teeth look like he’d eaten a tin of coffee rounds – yellow, burned brown. He said that the world never looked as good as it did at sunrise, when all the cars were asleep in the yard.
Zori
All along the railway, I see the dusty souls of former passengers, railroad workers; the bifocaled, epaulet-stooped conductors with the overly braided caps which hairs now frayed as if they, too, were going gray and bald with age.
I stop to retrieve a piece of splintered wood wedged into the train tracks. Strangely enough, it looks polished. Recognizable debris from the fire.
Little girl playing on the tracks, didn’t your mother tell you not to do that? Did she not directly forbid you from setting foot anywhere near them? What are you to do, now that you’ve been caught breaking the rule? I can’t save you, so you might as well catch the next train and skip town by the rails.
The cars clack past on the rails. Clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack… The grinding of metal on metal reminds me of someone grinding his teeth at night against some nightmare that only he can see in his mind.
ONCE UPON TIME THERE WAS A RAILWAY ON THE EDGE OF TOWN THAT WAS ALMOST ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD. IT CONSISTED OF FIVE TRACKS THAT LED TO THE MAIN STATION, A SMALL BUILDING WITH ONLY ONE BATHROOM AND ONE BENCH!
Direct flashes in my mind, pictures s of abandoned stations that remind me the destruction caused by what we wrongly call evolution.
The railway stretched on and on, into the distance, curving around a corner where there were lands unexplored, places not yet visited, experiences still waiting to be had. She stood there, watching it. She was ready. Ready to go, ready to move forward. She no longer feared the future.
we made bridges and destroyed them,
searing steel and wood and concrete with
wrathful fire and broken hearts.
blamed the cracks on mother nature
when they were founded on pillars of salt
( the epitome of dried up, bitter tears )
the chisels you use to chip away
at someone’s ribcage to reach their
lungs, their heart
aren’t the same.
this world was not made for our sadness,
our regrets, our
/martyrs/.
Her heart pounded and her breathes came in jagged rasps. She glanced over her shoulder her hair obscuring her view. She ran harder as the pounding footsteps closed in darkness so thick it she didn’t see the railway ties until she lay across them. The footsteps crunched on the gravel beside her and darkness fell.
tracks that lead parallel into the distance until they join, siamese like, leading to nonchalence, coldness and never once turning around. Will there be a return train?
The one thing that my country boasts of is the huge railway network. But to a common person like me it’s more than that. As a little girl i still have fond memories of my first journey.
Our country once had the railway system of transportation that traveled through most of the country. It played an invalvuabe role in the arigculture sector also. The railway went out of commision in the late nineteen forties, when a different form of transport was made available.
It was a cold evening, there was no one about in the town of Elmswood. I stood at the corner light with the lights flickering. I stood waiting, for someone to notice my existence. Would anyone notice me ? Would they stop to ask what was wrong?
Me gusta viajar en tren. Libertad, sosiego, aprovechar el tiempo. Me recuerda a momentos de paz y sobre todo a sensaciones de inicar una etapa, algo importante. Como una nueva oiportunidad. Para lo que sea. Es algo genial.
No es más que una sensación pero me gusta mucho,lsmxclksamksamckasmcskmckasmclka
It was going to my future
I’m leaving this horrid home
This railway to far away
I’ll follow these train tracks
Until I feel rumbling underneath my feet
The railway track snaked across the land like a long dark metal sore. Th train followed its path screeching and groaning as it chugged towards its destination.
railway stations are always full. noisy. tiring. but once you are in a train, the journey makes up for all the frustrations accumulated while getting on to the train.
The railway line cut across the path down to the beach, and many times the stillness of a summer morning was disrupted by the scream of the horn on the freight train pulling 200 tonnes of cement down to the brickworks, as it sent children scurrying for cover as they ventured towards the sand and surf.
The railway platform was empty but for the two of us. I looked at home in this concrete jungle, my ripped jeans and holey tanktop all but blending into the spray-paint covered backdrop. But she was as different from this place as earth from sky, with her glossy black hair pulled back in a sleek pony and her ensemble far more 5th Avenue than West 183rd.
The tracks divided our side of town from the good side, though you had to go through the industrial park and the ghetto to get to the good side even after you crossed the tracks. The Monon was the railroad that went through sometimes, mournful at night, and frightening.
It’s a delicate act staying on the railway tracks. And when the train master switches the route, it’s always better to follow than to go off the rails.
She balanced on the rails. Step, balance, step, balance. Her arms wavered at her side. Her torso struggled to keep them even. Without the alcohol burning through her system, she’d be walking with more grace. Or she would have stayed away from the train track entirely.
imagine, if just for a single moment
that you could say exactly what was on your mind
no filter, no pretension
just what you’re thinking
oh, the joy it would bring
the mind a train, riding through a railway
to be free
and at once
burdened by the truth
My dad used to plant his strawberries on the railroad tracks down the road- no one owned that land – an old woman used to steal his crop every now and then. Like I said, no one owns land.
The railway car screeched, lurching from side to side on the rusty track. We screamed louder.
The railway disappeared as the fast, loud, driven train came barreling down. I felt a tinge of jealously; the train knows where it’s going, it knows what it wants. I don’t have the ability to be that diligent. My actions are always on a whim; what feels best at a present moment, and just like that I started to realize what hurt my marriage.
this is your path. not a destination, not an end, but a means. you can go anywhere you choose. out west? to freedom, in any case. there is nothing stopping you, not the horizon, not anything, your only limit is the rails.
I loved traveling on railway cross country. I had to do it at least once. It was romantic, heavenly, relaxing. Watching out the windows, listening to the sounds of the train, snippets of conversations scattered like seeds in every direction the ear could catch. Oh, how I wrote. Trying to record the moments while I could, i journal, jotted, dictated, texted in and on anything to preserve it all. When I read the words, it all comes back to me and I relive it again.
the loud sounds of the railways motivate me, cause me to to go faster and faster, the satisfying beat of my soles hitting the ground in a rhythm much like a song to me. the sweat pouring down my body is a sign of my hardwork, a sign that maybe ill finally be the “ideal” weight. the air smells slightly like riverwater although i couldnt say why. running intoxicates me. and i will continue to run. as long as i can.
Trains, accidents, travel, transportation, derailment, wind, speed, trees passing by, seeing herds of cows, bells, speed trains, efficiency, ease, low cost, movement.
The Railway tracks ran between what once was a forest and a run down saw mill. A reminder of how things once were in this ghost town. No one knew if it was uplifting or just depressing.
The train whistled. “Whhoooooo!” I jumped. “Oh! There’s a train there!”
“You think?” Alex asked dryly. “I didn’t realize.”
“Oh you,” I muttered, and punched his shoulder friendlyly. “Stop it. Teaser.”
It was a cold day in solemn Westfield, Ma. Brian was taking his usual post-work saunter on the eastern boulevard railway to avoid catching his wife bringing in the groceries. There was nothing more Brian hated than lugging in gallons of milk. See, his wife was a professional cook with an extreme talent for baking cakes. They had sex and died that night.
The iron smells of pennies and lust as the wind rustles my hair and the train blazes by. I lean back into the grass as the passenger cars approach, grinning as I see a small child only, see me right back.
I lift my head into the breeze of fortune, and grin, knowing that no one can buy this.
Jump. The wheels screech and spark, the wind flaps my new flannel, bought especially for this photoshoot. I can’t help but grin as the ecstasy of real-life shooting takes over me. Fall. My hand, slippery with adrenaline, slips. My grin dies.
He stared at the train tracks, not really sure what he was seeing. Nothing was registering at that moment, nothing made sense. What was he supposed to do here? There was no guidance, no instruction. He was expected to just know. How was that fair? Frustrated, he began to walk down the length of the tracks, not entirely sure where he was going, but ready for a change.
You are my railway I hold onto. Making my down this staircase, surrounded by pitch darkness, I hold onto you to help guide me down. You are my support;, without you I would tumble down and bash my head open.
bombed out square, churches
crumble quietly dozing
like phantom limbs
quietly walking backward in dreams
to where they once stood
where is the steeple
where is the people
the ivy spread back
nurtured by ash
walls I ran past
chasing your laughter
across a waist high eden
two small seeds
must have been sown
you reaped the black
I watched you drift into a tunnel
and not come out
so I search for the white
in clouds, wind, lone creatures
in yards, newsprint, ash
something will grow
yawning in sunlight
and I shall pour out
our water
on which you ride when it’s time to go. If you’e late, you won’t have a chance to think. You’ll kiss your mother’s cheek, clasp her hand, hug your father. You’ll get on and you’ll see them out the window but then everything will be moving, moving, very suddenly and it will be good to know they are still waving, there, behind you. You would like to be sure of it. That’s impossible
The trains are whispering
they’re screaming
choo choo
they whisper
choose choose
they scream
He lived in the cable car at the end of the tracks. His teeth look like he’d eaten a tin of coffee rounds – yellow, burned brown. He said that the world never looked as good as it did at sunrise, when all the cars were asleep in the yard.
All along the railway, I see the dusty souls of former passengers, railroad workers; the bifocaled, epaulet-stooped conductors with the overly braided caps which hairs now frayed as if they, too, were going gray and bald with age.
I stop to retrieve a piece of splintered wood wedged into the train tracks. Strangely enough, it looks polished. Recognizable debris from the fire.