A year ago, I wrote this short story whilst waiting at Central Station for my train.
I did a lot of writing while I commuted, it passed the time and there was a diverse range of people showing different character traits that I a could, as a writer, observe and write.
I hope you enjoy. I would appreciate some feedback if anyone has some to offer; I love constructive criticism.
“Next stop, Central Station. This train terminates at Central Station; please take all your belongings and rubbish with you. Thank you,” said the voice of the city rail train.
I stood with my face up against the closed doors. My reflection stared back at me; a young man, unshaven face, unwashed blonde hair, with a bleached white shirt, ocean blue jeans, black thongs, and a yellow backpack.
People pushed and shoved behind me. The train was full like a school of salmon caught in a fisherman’s trawling net. I was shorter than the crowd, allowing me to disappear but my appearance could not blend into the trawling net – the black suits, ties and briefcases. “Please stand clear,” said the loud voice of the train.
The door opened and the trawler yanked his net from the ocean. Sweeping me with the motion of the crowd. I ducked out and stood tall to observe the school sweep off through the Central Station tunnels. The smell of the braking trains swept across the platform and the taste of toothpaste lingered on the back of my tongue reminding me it was early morning.
I observe my feet in black thongs, a passer-by knocks me off my balance to fall hard onto the cold concrete ground. No one or nothing helped me stand on my own two feet, the wave of suits and ties rush past like I was a grain of sand stuck on the ocean floor. Central Station was loud: tapping of the collective formal business shoes, the beeping sounds of train doors closing, and swearing from people responding to the announcements of trains that have been delayed.
Central Station was not the place to be for a country person, like myself, or was it? Was this how life should be? A fast paced life with a narrow vision of where to go. When I finish my degree, will I be caught in the black wave of suits and ties?
I hope home never becomes like Central Station. I strolled through the crowd, shoulders clashing from side to side, overtaking me like an old-lady on the highway., Seven thirty this morning I had to meet my sister, I thought, but I felt like I should have be on my way to work.
My way of life, was this where it lead me?
The morning winters breeze lightly tickles the soul of my feet, – I wriggled them in discomfort. Suddenly, the faint yelling of my name in the distance, side to side I glanced. I looked at the platforms above but nothing.
I look towards the exit were the sun shone through. A silhouette arm waved and I rushed through and meet her; her long untied brown hair, a black jumper, and acid-wash blue jeans. We close the gap between us and greet each other with a warm hug – white and black hugging together among the black suits and ties, we stood out like a sore thumb, reaffirming me of who I am. Thank you sister.