"Scenes from a Slow-Moving Train"
Jan. 20th, 2002 03:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ateolfit's pretty obvious where i wrote this story...it was kind've some sort of real-time experiment on my part...i wrote everything as it happened...well, of course there's a large fictional component, but the scenery or whatever was actually happening more or less...i haven't reread it yet, but i'm sure it needs a little smoothing, as i said, i was trying to get as much as it was happening as possible...yea...
The train moved down the Northeast Corridor silently, bridging the gap between Penn Station and Hamilton. The first stop brought a new hoard of travelers filling the aisle, spilling out of the full seats. Jeffrey remained in his, an aisle seat, three from the window. He stared out past the grey-mustached businessman reading his paper--stared out in to the black nothingness of northern New Jersey. . . Newark International. . . he remained seated. Movement returned and he was back to staring. The pairs of red and white dots flew by in both parallel directions in bright contrast against the void.
The young boy sitting next to him kept falling over into his arm. He was asleep, head down. Fucking kids. In his past, Jeffrey would have cracked his head open, but those days were gone. People change, the past gets left behind. Jeffrey put his jacket over his lap and began jerking off. He came almost instantly. Another stop.
Small towns were beginning to take shape, sliding and dissolving one after the other, each indistinguishable from the next. He wished he had time to count the cars in front of the Chowder Pot--the lives wasting away in this world enclosed within this strip by the tracks. A town is a town and he was nowhere. . . on a train.
Metro Park--there's apparently a gap between the station and the car. More people were getting off here. Latest AIDS statistics: 40,000,000 infected 00,000,000 cured. You can learn a lot from signs.
He wiped the semen up from his lap with an old t-shirt from his backpack, zipped up, and put his jacket back on. The window here brought more black than anything else. There was another stop, but he couldn't see anything save for a pair of headlights on a bodiless sportscar.
More useless town, Tutor Time, waste of space, empty buildings for empty lives. It was here that he brought out the knife.
He was a sculptor. His arm became a tree, a giraffe, a country house--moving and twisting between the shapes, gliding in the slick viscosity of his blood. At the next stop his wrist became the head of an elephant and by the time the bell rang and it started up again it was a group of low-lying shrubs. He wrapped his arm up in the come-drenched shirt and went to sleep. He didn't even notice when the stopped at New Brunswick.
He was awoken shortly afterwards by the kid beating his dismembered arm with his tiny, curled fists. Apparently he fell over in his sleep. He growled and the child ceased his violent activity. A Mexican Restaurant & Pizza flew by, neatly flowing into another empty stop.
Now the pain in his arm was agitated and began to throb in a slow, rhythmic pulse. His blood marched along, spilling out into the cloth and sperm in a steady procession to this dirge. Every slight bounce of the train made him want to sick up all over the floor and the kid and maybe Grey-Moustache-New-York-Post, not giving up his seat like so many others before him. He prayed for the next stop, clinging onto his seat.
"Where you headed?"
He ignored the inane chatter, didn't even bother seeing where it came from. He was too busy focusing on each rocking motion of the train slowly bringing him to his death.
The kid started hitting him again, this time in his head. He was sprawled out across his lap and never even realized it.
"Sorry kid," but he couldn't make out the reply. He gripped the armrest tightly. How come no other stop took so long to reach? People began standing up, a good sign. Princeton Junction: the kid was gone, the man was gone, he was alone on the three seats. The train took off once again. "Hamilton next." Thank god. He spread out across the seats and hoped for the best, longed for the worst. The minutes drug behind the weight of the train as he lie there. The world was engulfed in the florescent strips working their way down through the cracks of the ceiling. He shut his eyes but all that remained was the light.
Finally the train screamed to a stop and he stood up and immediately fell flat on the aisle, vomit spewing out across the floor in exaggerated waves of yellow. The sperm-laced blood flowed along and mixed with. Jeffrey was dead within the minute. An employee came along and swept the body outside, straddling the edge of the concrete platform hanging above the tracks.
The train moved down the Northeast Corridor silently, bridging the gap between Penn Station and Hamilton. The first stop brought a new hoard of travelers filling the aisle, spilling out of the full seats. Jeffrey remained in his, an aisle seat, three from the window. He stared out past the grey-mustached businessman reading his paper--stared out in to the black nothingness of northern New Jersey. . . Newark International. . . he remained seated. Movement returned and he was back to staring. The pairs of red and white dots flew by in both parallel directions in bright contrast against the void.
The young boy sitting next to him kept falling over into his arm. He was asleep, head down. Fucking kids. In his past, Jeffrey would have cracked his head open, but those days were gone. People change, the past gets left behind. Jeffrey put his jacket over his lap and began jerking off. He came almost instantly. Another stop.
Small towns were beginning to take shape, sliding and dissolving one after the other, each indistinguishable from the next. He wished he had time to count the cars in front of the Chowder Pot--the lives wasting away in this world enclosed within this strip by the tracks. A town is a town and he was nowhere. . . on a train.
Metro Park--there's apparently a gap between the station and the car. More people were getting off here. Latest AIDS statistics: 40,000,000 infected 00,000,000 cured. You can learn a lot from signs.
He wiped the semen up from his lap with an old t-shirt from his backpack, zipped up, and put his jacket back on. The window here brought more black than anything else. There was another stop, but he couldn't see anything save for a pair of headlights on a bodiless sportscar.
More useless town, Tutor Time, waste of space, empty buildings for empty lives. It was here that he brought out the knife.
He was a sculptor. His arm became a tree, a giraffe, a country house--moving and twisting between the shapes, gliding in the slick viscosity of his blood. At the next stop his wrist became the head of an elephant and by the time the bell rang and it started up again it was a group of low-lying shrubs. He wrapped his arm up in the come-drenched shirt and went to sleep. He didn't even notice when the stopped at New Brunswick.
He was awoken shortly afterwards by the kid beating his dismembered arm with his tiny, curled fists. Apparently he fell over in his sleep. He growled and the child ceased his violent activity. A Mexican Restaurant & Pizza flew by, neatly flowing into another empty stop.
Now the pain in his arm was agitated and began to throb in a slow, rhythmic pulse. His blood marched along, spilling out into the cloth and sperm in a steady procession to this dirge. Every slight bounce of the train made him want to sick up all over the floor and the kid and maybe Grey-Moustache-New-York-Post, not giving up his seat like so many others before him. He prayed for the next stop, clinging onto his seat.
"Where you headed?"
He ignored the inane chatter, didn't even bother seeing where it came from. He was too busy focusing on each rocking motion of the train slowly bringing him to his death.
The kid started hitting him again, this time in his head. He was sprawled out across his lap and never even realized it.
"Sorry kid," but he couldn't make out the reply. He gripped the armrest tightly. How come no other stop took so long to reach? People began standing up, a good sign. Princeton Junction: the kid was gone, the man was gone, he was alone on the three seats. The train took off once again. "Hamilton next." Thank god. He spread out across the seats and hoped for the best, longed for the worst. The minutes drug behind the weight of the train as he lie there. The world was engulfed in the florescent strips working their way down through the cracks of the ceiling. He shut his eyes but all that remained was the light.
Finally the train screamed to a stop and he stood up and immediately fell flat on the aisle, vomit spewing out across the floor in exaggerated waves of yellow. The sperm-laced blood flowed along and mixed with. Jeffrey was dead within the minute. An employee came along and swept the body outside, straddling the edge of the concrete platform hanging above the tracks.
