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It was the morning of Monday the 10th of October. Skies were clear but the ground was clad in leaves burnt ginger with autumn. The sun rose through my curtains and bathed my eyes in a familiar heat; I’m not sure it was one I ever enjoyed. I reached over to my bedside table and fumbled for the chest. Unclasping the lock and pulling back the wooden lid, my hand was met with the latest guidance. I held it up to the light and read.
“10th of October
Keep going, even if you’re falling apart.
Breathe in, let this life warm your heart.”
Still, even after several minutes, I held the crumpled sheet of paper in my fist, to my chest, and thought. She always did know what to tell people at exactly the right times. I’m not sure if she knew it herself, but she really was gifted when it came to communicating with people on so many levels. My mind was transported back to reality. I placed the note back into the chest, only in a different compartment, climbed away from my bed and got ready for another week of being me. It was always going to be a tough one.
“17th of October
Whatever happens, just keep your pride.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
The other side.”
I read, as I returned home from school. Something, as I woke that day, had caused me to forget tearing that particular note from the chest and reading it. Now I had. A sudden compulsion rushed through my veins. I had just started to remove my coat after getting home, but decided it was best left on. I grabbed my keys and dashed out into the open, the note remaining in my hand as if it were guiding me to a fate my sub-conscious had already understood. My legs walked, and then ran, stuttering but always sure of direction. Then I stopped.
Standing in the middle of the dead-end road under a mile from my house, I looked at a sight that flushed through my mind, cleansed my senses, and collected incredible memories. Two trees stood tall, next to each other but alone when looked upon from a wider perspective. They topped a small, ripple-like hill that protruded out from the gravel littered dead-end. Slowly, now confident of where I wanted to go, I trudged up the hill and edged down the other side. There it was. The old train track, sunk into a valley with two hills and decrepit fences guarding either side.
The grass squeaked under my spotless black shoes as I began to venture further and further along the railway line, each and every step searching out memories of nearly forgotten pasts. It took several minutes for me to stop walking, one hand out in front in a closed palm with the note inside, the other holding the rusty fence. But eventually I did stop, and sunk back into the green, fresh grass below me. I opened my palms. On closer inspection, I noticed that the 17th of October note was not just one note, like the growing set I had acquired each week, it was one note, attached to another, stuck carefully in behind it. Quickly separating the two, I read away, my hands quivering with excitement.
“The train tracks ratter, clatter through the night.
Can’t you hear them, Alex?
Can’t you hear them crossing?”
Oh, mum. How could you know, mum? How?
As if tapping into my system for the fourteen years of my life I had her company wasn’t enough, she was doing it beyond her grave as well.
Like I said, mother always did have a special bond with people, not just certain people, but in general. I’m not sure it was the fact that we were so close for so long that meant she connected with me better than anyone else she knew, but there was some sort of factor. It meant, somehow, even beyond her death she communicated and connected with me even though I couldn’t back. She told me as she lay there, etching away, that I needed to take the chest, and tear a new passageway every week. A track leading away from reality and into the intertwining company of hers. And so I did, each and every Monday of each and every week, since October 18th, 2004.
That was when it hit me and tore me to pieces. It had been a year. Okay, there was a difference of a day, but October 18th 2004 was a Monday. So was this. I picked myself up and hurled for home. Shoes crunching on gravel, eyes searching out my house. As soon as my key turned there was only one place I wanted to be, one thing I wanted to be seeing. I grabbed the chest, shut but unlocked on the table. My fingers sailed across the lid and carefully lifted the top.
The left compartment of the chest contained 53 notes, after adding my most recent two. I lifted a small slice of tissue paper, normally used to separate one note from the next; my mother always was precise. Underneath it was a pile of small pieces of paper, each the same size, width and make-up. They were all blank. I lifted them up to search for anything beneath them. Then I saw it, engraved in the wood at the very bottom of the chest.
”I love you, Alex, more than anything I know,
these notes, every one, were here for me to show,
that it tore me to pieces when I had to go,
I hope, somehow, they have healed any woe.”
Two tears fell away from my eyelids and dribbled down my cheeks; my smiling cheeks. I panted slowly, but happily to myself. You would have thought having cancer for such a long period of time would have darkened any spirits left within her; I guess with such a happy person it was impossible.
I shuffled the remaining pieces of paper in my hands, and stared at all the ones I had run my eyes across so many times in the last year. Standing up, I arranged the chest on my bedside table, drew in a deep, relieving breath, and sailed away from my troubles. Recovery complete.
And still even years on, with a wife, kids and a steady job; I still hear the train tracks rattling through the night. The tattered carriages, the chugging engine, the rotating wheels. They play a sweet harmony in my soul. The tracks edge closer and closer until they meet.
I hear the tracks crossing again and again and again.
“10th of October
Keep going, even if you’re falling apart.
Breathe in, let this life warm your heart.”
Still, even after several minutes, I held the crumpled sheet of paper in my fist, to my chest, and thought. She always did know what to tell people at exactly the right times. I’m not sure if she knew it herself, but she really was gifted when it came to communicating with people on so many levels. My mind was transported back to reality. I placed the note back into the chest, only in a different compartment, climbed away from my bed and got ready for another week of being me. It was always going to be a tough one.
“17th of October
Whatever happens, just keep your pride.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
The other side.”
I read, as I returned home from school. Something, as I woke that day, had caused me to forget tearing that particular note from the chest and reading it. Now I had. A sudden compulsion rushed through my veins. I had just started to remove my coat after getting home, but decided it was best left on. I grabbed my keys and dashed out into the open, the note remaining in my hand as if it were guiding me to a fate my sub-conscious had already understood. My legs walked, and then ran, stuttering but always sure of direction. Then I stopped.
Standing in the middle of the dead-end road under a mile from my house, I looked at a sight that flushed through my mind, cleansed my senses, and collected incredible memories. Two trees stood tall, next to each other but alone when looked upon from a wider perspective. They topped a small, ripple-like hill that protruded out from the gravel littered dead-end. Slowly, now confident of where I wanted to go, I trudged up the hill and edged down the other side. There it was. The old train track, sunk into a valley with two hills and decrepit fences guarding either side.
The grass squeaked under my spotless black shoes as I began to venture further and further along the railway line, each and every step searching out memories of nearly forgotten pasts. It took several minutes for me to stop walking, one hand out in front in a closed palm with the note inside, the other holding the rusty fence. But eventually I did stop, and sunk back into the green, fresh grass below me. I opened my palms. On closer inspection, I noticed that the 17th of October note was not just one note, like the growing set I had acquired each week, it was one note, attached to another, stuck carefully in behind it. Quickly separating the two, I read away, my hands quivering with excitement.
“The train tracks ratter, clatter through the night.
Can’t you hear them, Alex?
Can’t you hear them crossing?”
Oh, mum. How could you know, mum? How?
As if tapping into my system for the fourteen years of my life I had her company wasn’t enough, she was doing it beyond her grave as well.
Like I said, mother always did have a special bond with people, not just certain people, but in general. I’m not sure it was the fact that we were so close for so long that meant she connected with me better than anyone else she knew, but there was some sort of factor. It meant, somehow, even beyond her death she communicated and connected with me even though I couldn’t back. She told me as she lay there, etching away, that I needed to take the chest, and tear a new passageway every week. A track leading away from reality and into the intertwining company of hers. And so I did, each and every Monday of each and every week, since October 18th, 2004.
That was when it hit me and tore me to pieces. It had been a year. Okay, there was a difference of a day, but October 18th 2004 was a Monday. So was this. I picked myself up and hurled for home. Shoes crunching on gravel, eyes searching out my house. As soon as my key turned there was only one place I wanted to be, one thing I wanted to be seeing. I grabbed the chest, shut but unlocked on the table. My fingers sailed across the lid and carefully lifted the top.
The left compartment of the chest contained 53 notes, after adding my most recent two. I lifted a small slice of tissue paper, normally used to separate one note from the next; my mother always was precise. Underneath it was a pile of small pieces of paper, each the same size, width and make-up. They were all blank. I lifted them up to search for anything beneath them. Then I saw it, engraved in the wood at the very bottom of the chest.
”I love you, Alex, more than anything I know,
these notes, every one, were here for me to show,
that it tore me to pieces when I had to go,
I hope, somehow, they have healed any woe.”
Two tears fell away from my eyelids and dribbled down my cheeks; my smiling cheeks. I panted slowly, but happily to myself. You would have thought having cancer for such a long period of time would have darkened any spirits left within her; I guess with such a happy person it was impossible.
I shuffled the remaining pieces of paper in my hands, and stared at all the ones I had run my eyes across so many times in the last year. Standing up, I arranged the chest on my bedside table, drew in a deep, relieving breath, and sailed away from my troubles. Recovery complete.
And still even years on, with a wife, kids and a steady job; I still hear the train tracks rattling through the night. The tattered carriages, the chugging engine, the rotating wheels. They play a sweet harmony in my soul. The tracks edge closer and closer until they meet.
I hear the tracks crossing again and again and again.
As a whole, it's a gentle, relatively well handled story with a pleasing conclusion. I specifically liked the mention of "53" notes. Not obvious, but it works - it makes it all more convincing.
I didn't really like the rhymes - they just seemed a little unnecessary and cheapened the story as a result. The description wasn't particularly good either - I had little idea what you were talking about when you mentioned a "ripple-like hill". It also seemed a little tenuous when you slipped in the part about the mother having cancer - it would've perhaps been more effective in the earlier exposition.
I didn't really like the rhymes - they just seemed a little unnecessary and cheapened the story as a result. The description wasn't particularly good either - I had little idea what you were talking about when you mentioned a "ripple-like hill". It also seemed a little tenuous when you slipped in the part about the mother having cancer - it would've perhaps been more effective in the earlier exposition.
I also liked this one, though there's no need to describe fresh grass as 'green'.
That's good, enjoyed it. Gentle, as already mentioned, but had a nice flow to it.
Nice ... very much so. Welcome back.
Kind of ... dreamy ... gentle ... lovely.
2 things: be it my sick mind or not, saying 'mother always ...' produced images of psychos and werido mother-obsessed killers.
: the last note wasn't very good. Didn't like the rhyme.
But, but, but ... everything else is gooood.
Kind of ... dreamy ... gentle ... lovely.
2 things: be it my sick mind or not, saying 'mother always ...' produced images of psychos and werido mother-obsessed killers.
: the last note wasn't very good. Didn't like the rhyme.
But, but, but ... everything else is gooood.
(Y)
Nice story, but a pretty unoriginal use of 'tracks'. That being said, I'll probably do far worse.
Cool good story Ash really liked it!
That was a gentle story. I misread the timings originally but read it through again and then it clicked.
Well written as always and you always do a good job of painting pictures or scenes. Pleased to see it was lacking any abstraction as i've never been a fan of it and it's wasted on you when you better at telling stories.
As for what you said on MSN and didn't give me time to reply to..
No i'm not and wont be properly again, i've got rules now on how much i'm around.
As for what you said on MSN and didn't give me time to reply to..
No i'm not and wont be properly again, i've got rules now on how much i'm around.
It was the morning of Monday the 10th of October. Skies were clear but the ground was clad in leaves burnt ginger with autumn. The sun rose through my curtains and bathed my eyes in a familiar heat; I’m not sure it was one I ever enjoyed. I reached over to my bedside table and fumbled for the chest. Unclasping the lock and pulling back the wooden lid, my hand was met with the latest guidance. I held it up to the light and read.
“10th of October
Keep going, even if you’re falling apart.
Breathe in, let this life warm your heart.”
Still, even after several minutes, I held the crumpled sheet of paper in my fist, to my chest, and thought. She always did know what to tell people at exactly the right times. I’m not sure if she knew it herself, but she really was gifted when it came to communicating with people on so many levels. My mind was transported back to reality. I placed the note back into the chest, only in a different compartment, climbed away from my bed and got ready for another week of being me. It was always going to be a tough one.
“17th of October
Whatever happens, just keep your pride.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
The other side.”
I read, as I returned home from school. Something, as I woke that day, had caused me to forget tearing that particular note from the chest and reading it. Now I had. A sudden compulsion rushed through my veins. I had just started to remove my coat after getting home, but decided it was best left on. I grabbed my keys and dashed out into the open, the note remaining in my hand as if it were guiding me to a fate my sub-conscious had already understood. My legs walked, and then ran, stuttering but always sure of direction. Then I stopped.
Standing in the middle of the dead-end road under a mile from my house, I looked at a sight that flushed through my mind, cleansed my senses, and collected incredible memories. Two trees stood tall, next to each other but alone when looked upon from a wider perspective. They topped a small, ripple-like hill that protruded out from the gravel littered dead-end. Slowly, now confident of where I wanted to go, I trudged up the hill and edged down the other side. There it was. The old train track, sunk into a valley with two hills and decrepit fences guarding either side.
The grass squeaked under my spotless black shoes as I began to venture further and further along the railway line, each and every step searching out memories of nearly forgotten pasts. It took several minutes for me to stop walking, one hand out in front in a closed palm with the note inside, the other holding the rusty fence. But eventually I did stop, and sunk back into the green, fresh grass below me. I opened my palms. On closer inspection, I noticed that the 17th of October note was not just one note, like the growing set I had acquired each week, it was one note, attached to another, stuck carefully in behind it. Quickly separating the two, I read away, my hands quivering with excitement.
“The train tracks ratter, clatter through the night.
Can’t you hear them, Alex?
Can’t you hear them crossing?”
Oh, mum. How could you know, mum? How?
As if tapping into my system for the fourteen years of my life I had her company wasn’t enough, she was doing it beyond her grave as well.
Like I said, mother always did have a special bond with people, not just certain people, but in general. I’m not sure it was the fact that we were so close for so long that meant she connected with me better than anyone else she knew, but there was some sort of factor. It meant, somehow, even beyond her death she communicated and connected with me even though I couldn’t back. She told me as she lay there, etching away, that I needed to take the chest, and tear a new passageway every week. A track leading away from reality and into the intertwining company of hers. And so I did, each and every Monday of each and every week, since October 18th, 2004.
That was when it hit me and tore me to pieces. It had been a year. Okay, there was a difference of a day, but October 18th 2004 was a Monday. So was this. I picked myself up and hurled for home. Shoes crunching on gravel, eyes searching out my house. As soon as my key turned there was only one place I wanted to be, one thing I wanted to be seeing. I grabbed the chest, shut but unlocked on the table. My fingers sailed across the lid and carefully lifted the top.
The left compartment of the chest contained 53 notes, after adding my most recent two. I lifted a small slice of tissue paper, normally used to separate one note from the next; my mother always was precise. Underneath it was a pile of small pieces of paper, each the same size, width and make-up. They were all blank. I lifted them up to search for anything beneath them. Then I saw it, engraved in the wood at the very bottom of the chest.
”I love you, Alex, more than anything I know,
these notes, every one, were here for me to show,
that it tore me to pieces when I had to go,
I hope, somehow, they have healed any woe.”
Two tears fell away from my eyelids and dribbled down my cheeks; my smiling cheeks. I panted slowly, but happily to myself. You would have thought having cancer for such a long period of time would have darkened any spirits left within her; I guess with such a happy person it was impossible.
I shuffled the remaining pieces of paper in my hands, and stared at all the ones I had run my eyes across so many times in the last year. Standing up, I arranged the chest on my bedside table, drew in a deep, relieving breath, and sailed away from my troubles. Recovery complete.
And still even years on, with a wife, kids and a steady job; I still hear the train tracks rattling through the night. The tattered carriages, the chugging engine, the rotating wheels. They play a sweet harmony in my soul. The tracks edge closer and closer until they meet.
I hear the tracks crossing again and again and again.
“10th of October
Keep going, even if you’re falling apart.
Breathe in, let this life warm your heart.”
Still, even after several minutes, I held the crumpled sheet of paper in my fist, to my chest, and thought. She always did know what to tell people at exactly the right times. I’m not sure if she knew it herself, but she really was gifted when it came to communicating with people on so many levels. My mind was transported back to reality. I placed the note back into the chest, only in a different compartment, climbed away from my bed and got ready for another week of being me. It was always going to be a tough one.
“17th of October
Whatever happens, just keep your pride.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
The other side.”
I read, as I returned home from school. Something, as I woke that day, had caused me to forget tearing that particular note from the chest and reading it. Now I had. A sudden compulsion rushed through my veins. I had just started to remove my coat after getting home, but decided it was best left on. I grabbed my keys and dashed out into the open, the note remaining in my hand as if it were guiding me to a fate my sub-conscious had already understood. My legs walked, and then ran, stuttering but always sure of direction. Then I stopped.
Standing in the middle of the dead-end road under a mile from my house, I looked at a sight that flushed through my mind, cleansed my senses, and collected incredible memories. Two trees stood tall, next to each other but alone when looked upon from a wider perspective. They topped a small, ripple-like hill that protruded out from the gravel littered dead-end. Slowly, now confident of where I wanted to go, I trudged up the hill and edged down the other side. There it was. The old train track, sunk into a valley with two hills and decrepit fences guarding either side.
The grass squeaked under my spotless black shoes as I began to venture further and further along the railway line, each and every step searching out memories of nearly forgotten pasts. It took several minutes for me to stop walking, one hand out in front in a closed palm with the note inside, the other holding the rusty fence. But eventually I did stop, and sunk back into the green, fresh grass below me. I opened my palms. On closer inspection, I noticed that the 17th of October note was not just one note, like the growing set I had acquired each week, it was one note, attached to another, stuck carefully in behind it. Quickly separating the two, I read away, my hands quivering with excitement.
“The train tracks ratter, clatter through the night.
Can’t you hear them, Alex?
Can’t you hear them crossing?”
Oh, mum. How could you know, mum? How?
As if tapping into my system for the fourteen years of my life I had her company wasn’t enough, she was doing it beyond her grave as well.
Like I said, mother always did have a special bond with people, not just certain people, but in general. I’m not sure it was the fact that we were so close for so long that meant she connected with me better than anyone else she knew, but there was some sort of factor. It meant, somehow, even beyond her death she communicated and connected with me even though I couldn’t back. She told me as she lay there, etching away, that I needed to take the chest, and tear a new passageway every week. A track leading away from reality and into the intertwining company of hers. And so I did, each and every Monday of each and every week, since October 18th, 2004.
That was when it hit me and tore me to pieces. It had been a year. Okay, there was a difference of a day, but October 18th 2004 was a Monday. So was this. I picked myself up and hurled for home. Shoes crunching on gravel, eyes searching out my house. As soon as my key turned there was only one place I wanted to be, one thing I wanted to be seeing. I grabbed the chest, shut but unlocked on the table. My fingers sailed across the lid and carefully lifted the top.
The left compartment of the chest contained 53 notes, after adding my most recent two. I lifted a small slice of tissue paper, normally used to separate one note from the next; my mother always was precise. Underneath it was a pile of small pieces of paper, each the same size, width and make-up. They were all blank. I lifted them up to search for anything beneath them. Then I saw it, engraved in the wood at the very bottom of the chest.
”I love you, Alex, more than anything I know,
these notes, every one, were here for me to show,
that it tore me to pieces when I had to go,
I hope, somehow, they have healed any woe.”
Two tears fell away from my eyelids and dribbled down my cheeks; my smiling cheeks. I panted slowly, but happily to myself. You would have thought having cancer for such a long period of time would have darkened any spirits left within her; I guess with such a happy person it was impossible.
I shuffled the remaining pieces of paper in my hands, and stared at all the ones I had run my eyes across so many times in the last year. Standing up, I arranged the chest on my bedside table, drew in a deep, relieving breath, and sailed away from my troubles. Recovery complete.
And still even years on, with a wife, kids and a steady job; I still hear the train tracks rattling through the night. The tattered carriages, the chugging engine, the rotating wheels. They play a sweet harmony in my soul. The tracks edge closer and closer until they meet.
I hear the tracks crossing again and again and again.