The Late Train
The train was late this morning, but as I was running late myself I didn’t mind.
I felt such relief at seeing it pull into the station as I ran onto the platform. Now I wouldn’t be late and be cautioned once again by my boss. I grumble about my job, but I’d be grumbling a whole lot more if he sacked me. Should be grateful for small mercies, I thought, settling into a seat. At least I can pay my bills every month.
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| Thanks for the comments, Brian. It was a bit sparse, I know, and is deserving of a bit more imagination. |
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Brilliant subject for a story, or even a poem, this idea -- a conflict that many many people will relate to.
The text, however, is clumsily written. Don't be put off for my saying so though: it means nothing, and Shakespeare was improved on occasion over the centuries (his spelling, too).
The point is: you've put forward an interesting, sensitive dialectic. Trying getting your head into it: unleash your imagination on the scene and the character. Try colour, the cold, the ennui.
Thanks for posting. |
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