Wassup guys :) I'm going to start a little series of creative writing blogs. I'm no pro writer, but I really enjoy it. PLEASE let me know what you think, good or bad :)). This ones a bit longer than usual. Written quite a while ago, I just rediscovered it sitting in the depths of my laptop.
The trains cold in the morning. It usually is a bit nippy waiting for the 6:13 to Central Station.
The concrete platform is, well, like concrete, hard and cold. As the usual group of morning commuters stand, awaiting the long metal tube that shall soon be hurtling them towards various workspaces, a thin wind picks up. Not blunt enough to cause a retreat into the small cutaway shelter. Or around the corner behind the bulk of the building. Yet just sly enough to skid off the painted white and blue lines up into the exposed necks of the commuters, pale and as vulnerable as fish bellies.
Such a breeze needles and worms its way through the seams and holes of clothing, caressing the warm skin inside before sharply cutting its way along, leaving the commuters with just enough discomfort to squirm and lower their chins, wishing the pesky breeze would cut it out but resigned to the fact they were at its mercy.
The train station itself was a single building, glossy orange and yellow tiles running lengthwise. The platform extends long past the building, leaving those commuters out there at the mercy of such elements. The platform, facing inland (west), looks onto the dull side of a highway overpass, some small bushes and scraggly grass giving way to a line of medium sized trees, vainly attempting to hide the hulking trucks and squealing automobiles that flow behind them.
Many social interactions were to be found on such a platform, the arguing couple in a whispered debate that screamed
ohnowearentarguingshutupJohndonotmakeasceneohGodyouwokethebabygoodoneyouidiot.
The gangs of adolescent teens patrolling on BMX bikes and scooters despite the obvious no riding on the platform signs, the drunken party goers at 2 AM either abusing the concrete platform with insults or making friends with a solitary man who had just come from the police station after losing his license for drink driving after losing his wallet, and offering him a drink or two.
The isolated commuters that stared stoically across the tracks, or at the tracks, or at the concrete, or really anywhere where there was a safe chance of avoiding human interaction, the most common place being one’s mobile phone. Oh, the exquisite technology of a mobile phone, the grown man’s teddy bear. A place to hide. Momentary pictures and feelings that flit through their minds as easily and often as the wind scuttles the leaves along the tracks.
Speaking of the train tracks, they shudder slightly in warning as the train comes closer, emerging from a tunnel south of the station, scaring a magpie off the tracks with a frantic flap-flap-flap. The commuters, dressed mostly in the appropriate greys, blues and black suits, pants and blouses with thick jackets appearing to keep them warm, finally raise their heads and do a little penguin shuffle towards the edge of the platform, strides slowly widening as the opportunity for movement draws closer. Two teenage girls giggle excitedly as they lug 100 kilograms of luggage in suitcases and bags behind them, excitements drunken glitter flooding their eyes and cheeks. Such vitality as they eagerly look forward to the plane trip, departing from Sydney airport at 1pm.
A man hops approaches the train a couple of doors down, tall and toned. He walks with an athlete’s confidence, a slight swing in his arms, quads flexing and feet light. He must be in his late twenties. A pair of white and red Beats headphones cups his head. He wears a black leather bomber jacket, supple and fitting. Across the back the words “Champ’s Camp” are stitched in cursive gold, glittering. 2019 is stitched down his right arm. His shirt underneath is wine red, with the gold crown and diamond over the left breast. He glances left and right, eyes icily clear and sharp. Looking at him, one gets the impression of a lion, majestic. A strong, confident king with laser focus, closing for a kill with a violent beauty.
Next to him walks a younger male, 19 years old and at least half a head shorter than his companion. He also wears a matching jacket. A team, a family. A duffel bag is slung over his shoulder, black leather. He holds a phone in his hand, earbud in his left ear, and jiggles his knees as the train arrives. A pair of dark Rayban’s hide azure eyes, and freckles crossing his nose and cheeks, blending into tanned skin. He smiles slightly as he remembers yesterday’s morning run up a particularly gruelling mountain, 6 kilometres of hills with a final 400 metres of steep hell. As the train pulls to a halt the two men bump fists and duck aboard.
On this particular early morning, a peculiar character makes an appearance upon the platform. Slightly taller than average, he sits upon a navy bench underneath the cover of the roof, chin lowered against his chest. A gigantic coffee brown suitcase rests next to his legs, deterring any other antisocial commuters from taking their place beside him. A reason for this may also have something to do with the fact that he sits dressed in a clown’s jumpsuit. Red polka dots upon silky yellow sit across his chest sit like cranberries in pineapple juice, contrasting with black and white liquorice stripes upon his legs. One pant leg is covered in rusty smears and handprints, as if the cranberries popped and slid down his chest. A corner of his mouth also was smeared with the same stuff, slightly wiped as if with the back of his gloved hand in an attempt to clean it.
If one looked close enough, they would see and perhaps be slightly alarmed to notice that his entire face and neck was painted in thick white greasepaint, real thick stuff. It looks old, faded on and cracked as a parched mud bed in the height of a drought.
Should any commuters have been game enough, they would have learnt from the train station operator that the man had simply appeared around 1:30 AM while his back was turned, as if he had merely popped up on the tracks and climbed onto the platform. Since then, he had remained in this position, one leg resting upon the other knee, with only one deep gurgling breath since. Slightly more disturbingly, they would have also learnt that the smears upon his pant leg and mouth were fresh and glistening at that time. Despite the thin material of his outfit, the man made no attempt to shield himself from the wind, indeed he did not acknowledge its presence at all.
The train pulls away at precisely 6:13, accelerating with a slow hum that jolts a couple of unprepared passengers backwards with slight expressions of surprise.
The sun is almost fully risen in the east, a beautiful disk rising to spread life once again to the world, as it has been doing for hundreds of millions of years. It pulls above a slight bank of clouds, suddenly lighting the sky alight in beautiful streaks and sweeps of highlighter pink, vibrant orange and amethyst, soaking the altostratus clouds plastered to the top of the bowl of the sky like wet cotton in these primal, invigorating colours. The clouds appear to be behind the sun, as if the sun itself was being swept across the wet cotton like some ethereal paintbrush, painting the perfect picture that, for us mere mortals, can only be fully comprehended by being there in the flesh, feeling the first rays and drinking in the shifting colours through one’s senses.
A young man sits in the single seat at the end of the third carriage from the front, in the upper floor next to the stairs. A laptop case rests against his leg, headphones comfortably nestled against over his ears, delivering the latest podcast, music or audiobook. Below him, in the exactly the same single seat, sits the jumpsuit clown, his suitcase standing on its end at an angle to the side of him, almost creating a private booth with no leg room. The young man, at least 21, rolls his shoulders, trying to stretch some of the tense muscles in his back before looking out of the window, admiring the beauty of the natural world and its many hues, shapes, movements and patterns. The rippling clouds, now at their most saturated, look like soaked bandages plastered against the skies ceiling. He almost cracks a smile at the thought of bloody bandages pressed against some enormous dome.
Below him, the clown-man conducts an identical movement, turning to look out the window. However he doesn’t notice the sunrise. Some 70 metres away, a fox chases down a rabbit across a field, marvelling at the lithe power in the fox as it follows the bunny’s erratic leaps and hops. He draws an excited breath as its jaws snap down onto the rabbit’s hind legs mid-bound, holding the struggling animal with one paw as it eagerly rips through soft fur and flesh, spilling blood and exposing innards the colour of dark cranberry juice. It raises its head, jaw dripping, fur matted and makes direct eye contact with the man, eyes glistening, tail quivering. It lasts for the eternity that is found in a split second, enough for the man’s heart to begin to thud against his ribs, before the machine whisks the man out of sight. The fox dips its head again, the scent of iron, grass, dirt and vitality intoxicating its brain.
The man settles back into his seat, his lips splitting into a small and dangerous grin, black eyes wide. A second later, his chin is once again slumped against his chest. A young family six seats down exchange worried glances, having seen the momentary flicker of murky madness in his eyes, making his appearance even more unusual, uncanny. A 3-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter nestled close against their parents’ sides. The father, a strong yet timid looking man with Harry Potter glasses whispered to his wife,
“Do you think he is alright?”.
Honey he is fine. Whatever state he is in he got himself into. Anyway, we should stay away from people like that. The children, the children. Shelter them.
“Right, yes of course”. His eyes never leave the hunched figure.
The train continues, the occasional roll and shake reminders that they were in fact moving, not standing still while the world ran past them, though for the majority it felt as if the world was just doing that. Blur blur blur, credit card, Christmas, failed New Year’s Resolutions, blur blur, birthday, blur, anniversary, blur, birthday, blur blur short vacation, blur blur blur, work
work work, Christmas, food, guilt.
Blur blur.
The 4-year-old daughter, who went by the name of Dawson despite her real name being Sally, slapped her brother. Hard. Apparently, he had been pulling her hair. Why he would do that isn’t clear, as his hair is longer than hers, so he could’ve just pulled his own instead. A scuffle broke out, the sound of angry toddlers filling the air of the carriage. Quick suppressing hushes and whispers erupt from the parents, attempting to subdue their children before the man in the corner looks up again.
Too late. He looks up. And this time the parents see the thick, faded and cracked greasepaint looking like peeling industrial paint, grey in colour, a black oval around his mouth and a crimson diamond stretching over each eye.
The eyes.
His eyes lock onto the family. From inside the dark crimson flesh, sparks flicker in the black. Lank black hair hangs down his forehead, coming down to the bottom of his eyes. Then he looks away again, leaning into his corner.
In the upper level, the young man stares as well, towards a young woman sitting six rows down the carriage. She sits facing him, preoccupied with something below his line of sight. Blonde hair with dark roots is braided, revealing a sharp jaw line and high, strong cheekbones.
Except for a slight layer of lip gloss and stroke of eye shadow, her skin is clear of makeup, revealing a small smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones, drawing the man’s gaze even more. Just the tops of her shoulders are visible over the seat top, a Denim jacket. Her eyes lift momentarily, looking out the window briefly before returning down. Long enough for the man to get sucked into her intelligent baby blue eyes, a smattering of verdant strains throughout her iris. She scanned the carriage, catching the man mid stare.
With a slightly quizzical look she cocks her head, a small smile pulling the right corner of her full lips up, looking at him slightly expectantly as if waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t, but rather hurriedly fumbles with his laptop, pressing several wrong keys and almost dropping it before regaining his wits. After five minutes of completely distracted fake typing, he risks another glance, at the exact same time she does, again the coy smile plays across her lips and he smiles hesitantly in return, trying to contain the flutters inside his chest and not reveal too much emotion.
The man himself wears a long brown overcoat with navy jeans and black framed glasses, burnt coffee coloured hair cut fashionably in an undercut, a longer top flicked over to the side. The coat sits comfortably, his shirt underneath covering a toned build that isn’t skinny nor too muscular, lean. A quiet air surrounds him, evident though his reserved attention to the laptop and non-intrusive glances around the carriage. He opens his laptop and does his best to focus once again on the document in front of him, changing the podcast he had been listening to background music, the soaring and swooping bass and melodies matching the erratic beats of his heart.
A page full of writing looks back at him, his current attempt at a longer piece of creative writing. Since high school he has loved to write and read, and at the moment he desperately wants to conduct a larger scale writing piece yet has no idea how to go about doing so, so he has been writing anything that comes to mind, descriptions, ideas, imaginary scenarios. With the music flowing through his mind and fingers, his hands fly over the keyboard and he feels unstoppable, bewitched with the ability to create portals into new worlds and situations. A world where the girl suddenly decides to stand up, make her way down the aisle and sit across from him, eyes shimmering, coy smile upon her lips.
A movement!
She stands, drawing the strap of her bag over one shoulder, hair flicking. In the fluorescent lights he feels he can almost see each individual shining strand. No fantasies will be fulfilled today however, as she moves away from him and down the stairs in preparation for the upcoming platform. A senseless flush of disappointment fills the man, a hollow chest. The train slows, stops, hisses and beeps as the doors go through the routine and Siri’s sister announces the platform. Hoping to get a last, discreet glimpse, the man leans forward. She looks up. Eyes connect.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Again, the smile, a small wave, and she is gone. He feels as if someone sitting next to him had just left, a physical emptiness created by the severing of eye contact. Her presence had been unlike anything he had ever felt, a physicality accentuated in her movements, her very gaze. A depth. Alongside her hurries a young family, two children being ushered along almost frantically by their mum and dad, an awkward rush in their movements. As if trying to get away from the train as fast as possible with minimum disturbance.
He quickly clicked his laptop and began discharging the whirlwind of hope, longing and wonder in his heart.
The train fills up as it approaches the inner city, with many commuters standing in the middle sections of the carriage next to the doors, politely minding their own business as usual. At each station more, people cram on to it, looking for any overlooked seats. The only empty seats on the entire train were, funnily enough, the two rows in front of the man with the clown outfit. Surprise, surprise. Is it the rising trend of coulrophobia inspired by recent horror movies and pranks depicting killer clowns? Or just the wider fear of the unusual? Either way, neither answers deter a young man in his middle teens from sitting in the next row along, quizzically studying the figure in the corner. Perhaps he is just young enough, just dumb enough, not yet set in societies concrete social norms to ignore the obvious bubble of space between the public and the man.
He settles down, black backpack with multiple clips resting next to him. Thick eyebrows hover over a pair of charcoal glasses. A verdant scarf is wrapped around his neck against a navy-blue hoodie. Wavy sable hair flops around with every twitch of his head, inspecting his surroundings in bobbing fashion similar to that of a sparrow sizing up a worm.
He smiles at the man behind him, offering a slight, timid wave. Realising that none of his gestures have been seen nor appreciated, he clears his throat slightly before turning around, shaking his head with a look that would have said “tut-tut” if translated into words. He turns back around, muttering something about the current awful state of politeness in society. A snort comes from behind him, freezing the young man mid-mutter. With a slow turn, he looks at the clown with a peculiar combination of humour, disgust, offence, belittlement, confusion and disbelief, topped off by a raised left eyebrow.
“Pardon me sir, was that directed at me or?...”
When no answer came, he continued, making himself comfortable with his back pressed against the window of the train, feet stretched across the seat.
“You know, if you want to talk, or converse, you can just say hello or use normal words or something, I mean, we aren’t cavemen, or anything are we? Anyway, I’m glad you are willing to chat because I feel like no one is these days, it’s as if they are all avoiding or scared of conversations. I mean, how crazy is that right? You think they’d be scared of clowns or terrorists or vegans or something, not conversations.”
The clown’s eyes open and lift, fixing onto the man from beneath a lowered brow, though the teenager is on a roll and shows no signs of slowing down or noticing the man’s actions. He animatedly gestures at at the opposite window with earnest facial expressions. He doesn’t even notice. The man’s face is shadowed, sinister in its darkness.
“It’s as if their very brains and all sense of social interaction have been sucked into those bloody smart phones. I’ve never had one, you know, ma doesn’t let it. She says it’s better for our personal growth to not have one, I think her theory is working perfectly fine so far, don’t you Rick? Otherwise we would have never struck it off if I had not decided to sit here in the first place, rare to find six empty seats at this time, isn’t it Rick?”
He shrugs, then continues.
“I think you look like a Rick, and as you are so intently listening, I’ll name you for myself for me, don’t bother to correct me as Rick is stuck in my mind. I’ve got a thing you know, for remembering names. It’s both and curse and blessing. Whatever name I first associate with a face becomes the only one I remember with that person, so If they change their name or have told me a false name then I am screwed. Pretty weird hey?
Sorta like a photographic memory but using superglue to stick a post-it note onto a person’s forehead. You currently have “RICK” across yours, so you’re welcome. What’s your story Rick? With the way you are listening I am guessing you did very, very well at school and university, such a mind to absorb all the facts and details, such concentration, wow. Can I take a little bit of it?”
He laughs and adjusts his feet.
“I’m going to go to university, yes sir I will. People, parties and study. How could life get better. For what course you ask? Oh, something to do with English or social sciences. How society runs and interacts, it’s an art you know? Interactions like this, they don’t come often or easily you know?”
The clown begins to tilt his head, still intently staring at the teenager with a lowered brow, but more quizzically than sinister. One eyebrow seems raised. The babble doesn’t slow.
“To have an interaction such as this it requires two parties, two interacting partners who move, respond, react, initiate, connect and understand, you know Rick?”
His face alight, positively glowing as he gets caught in the passion of what he is describing. He becomes slightly breathless, head bobbing quicker and hands opening and gesturing passionately.
“It’s an art, a dynamic web of moving parts that are constantly reacting, adjusting, calibrating on an emotional and instinctual level.”
The clown’s eyes shift sideways, past his suitcase towards the stairs. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. A low growling whisper escapes the shadows of his face, floating up to the teenager just to be buffeted away by the constant stream of words.
It comes out louder this time, slightly higher. Just enough to catch the teens attention.
“Hey? What’d you say Rick? All that listening and signalling, I was beginning to wonder whether I was simply talking to myself. Go ahead Rick.”
“Do you…ever… shut up?”
The words sounded like they were granite blocks grinding against the clown’s teeth as he spat them out. The teenager stared at him, perplexed.
“Also… I think… I think you need those glasses cleaned. The only thing clear here is your goddamn stupidity.” He grinned, lips merely stretching outwards, the rest of his facial muscles slack. He leaned forward, inch by inch.
“Oh, how about I show you a truly spectacular interaction hey? One that’ll send your professors insane… one that could well send you insane. Hehe. What do you think? Do you trust Ricky?”
The teenagers face now is edgy, bordering on panic.
“Ricky? … ah… ”
The train enters a tunnel. As the windows go black, so does the carriage. The lights flicker and go out.
Two points of glittering light float above the seat back, drawing closer to the teenager. Inch by inch.
His hands are shaking now, yet the lights are mesmerising in a fated, black way. They reach a distance that seems no more than two inches from the teenager’s own eyes. A presence presses against his forehead, not physical, but the sense of a presence. Then the lights go out.
Blank, pure nothingness.
Just a whistling, vibrating blackness as the train glides on. Then a chilling crescendo. A spine-tingling grating, like raw granite upon a broken shard of tooth.
The lights come on again, a miracle. Fluorescent flicker. Hum and crackle. Illuminating the cold window that his back is pressed against, reflecting. Illuminating the tremor in his fingers, once fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, now frail as an old man. Beads of sweat slide from the teenager’s forehead down along the frame of his glasses. A child’s laugh bubbles up from down the stairs, the movement of the train comes back to the man’s senses. The seat is empty. The clown and his suitcase are gone, the seats blue fabric decrepit in the hollow light inside the tunnel. An echo slides past his ears, a grating whisper.
The blackness of the tunnel opens onto the platform of a small, empty station two thirds of the way to Central. Sitting upon one of two benches is an elderly woman, a pair of earbuds in her ears. She rocks side to side slightly to the rhythm of her music, large rectangular glasses covering most of her face. Wavy shoulder length silver hair is held back by a rainbow bandanna. As the train exits the tunnel, an outline momentarily appears on the roof. An eerie looking man, large brown suitcase by his side. He vanishes as quickly as he appeared, the train slowing down. A phantom.
Mmmh. Must be lost.
She shuffles onto the train and up a small flight of stairs, taking the only free seat behind a teenager with wavy sable hair and an emerald green scarf.
In the carriage behind her, the stylish young man continues to type laptop, not registering the blackout or aware of the events occurring below him. He pours out the rose-tinted glow of affection that is welling up in his chest just thinking about that eye contact with the girl. Replaying the memories, he notices a small twinkle in her nose, a silver stud. Its simplicity adds a risqué hint to her smile. Highlighting the straight, slender bridge of her nose, coming to a softly rounded point, sharp but perfect.
[It’s astonishing how quickly a connection, bond, or obsession can be created. For the better or worse. Humans are just creatures in need of contact, a smile, a conversation, to relate. Without these, how are we different? Different from a beast, an animal]
Onto the page went the coy smile, the flick of her golden hair, the way the denim collar sat against her exposed, soft neck.
[One word, gesture, look, message is all it takes. Then your circle of influence and connection grows]
His heart beat rises.
[A bond for a lifetime. Make it or break it]
The slight gap between her striped shirt and pant tops, smooth skin flashing as she hitches her bag up.
[Such a simple act of pursual and continuation of the bond. Such a simple act requiring such courage. A character test]
The end of a tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her right arm.
[What will it be? Discomfort for a beautiful opportunity. Or comfort for a lifetime of regret]
There is no mistaking the sense of uncanny connection he feels. Heart fluttering, he closes his laptop with a decisive snap, resolving to sit in the same spot tomorrow and every following day until he finds her. Either that or get off at the same station as her. A ‘coincidence’ that they ended up in the same place, same time. Oh, how the universe works.
[Done. The promise is made. Action and deliverance are needed]
One carriage down, the two companions sit across from each other. One with earbuds in and one with headphones on, legs comfortably sprawled across the respectively opposite seats. Further along from them sit the two teenage girls, surrounded by a fortress of luggage. With nervous glances at the pile they debate about how best to lug it through the congestion of bodies once they arrive.
Once again, the train begins slow, the hissing of brakes and shift in momentum now familiar to the commuters. Once again, Siri’s sister (or mum?) rolls out her message, for the final destination.
This train will terminate at Central.
The train slots into place among the seemingly endless rows of platforms, signs, poles, people and angled rafters. Caught in the embrace of the concrete platform. The platforms connect to the larger Central station, a grand hall funnelling crowds of commuters towards public transport or exits. The echo of footsteps jostles each other as they reverberate off the walls and roof, swirling around a small bird’s nest nestled in a joint between steel supporting arches. A small sparrow head pokes out, mundane brown in colour.
Twitch left, twitch right.
Small, jerky movements. It watches the commuters hurrying in stationary crowds, fed by streams of fresh additions exiting various train doors.
Its line of vision is set directly down the length of a platform, looking from inside the hall out through the open southern wall. The train doors open simultaneously.
From one pair, a teenage boy emerges, glancing around nervously. Arms around his body, hands pushed into his pockets. Glossy black hair flops about in waves as his thin neck twitches left and right as if searching for something, or running… He pushes a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. He shivers and draws an emerald green scarf closer round himself.
Behind him is a man in a stylish overcoat, gripping a laptop bag. A slight breeze pushes strands of his barber cut hair straight up, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are wide and slightly distant, as if an image is burned into them and hovers in front of the reality that he sees in front of him. An expression of heavenly agony tightens his facial muscles.
Further along, two males alight from the train, rolling their shoulders and grinning at one another. Chests up, legs strong.. The older pulls his headphones around his neck and the younger pulls out his earbuds, drinking in the city sounds, the heavy feel of the air. Cars, music, chatting, footsteps, birds, air vents. A beautiful concrete jungle. Still admiring the towering buildings glassed in sheeted blue, they bump fists.
An elderly lady shuffles out from the next door down, shivering. Unnerved by a feeling she wouldn’t be able to explain. As if a shadow had enveloped her since taking a seat, pressing upon her soul as the train made its way.
The sparrow chirps, the sound unnoticed below. It hops and takes flight, weaving and sliding through the air currents just as the commuter’s below twirl and slide through the current of individuals amassed.
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