Flash Fiction: A Train Can Be Life…

A train can be life through the aisles of resistance dancing along the tracks with its metal skin blanketing its body.  First there is a calm in the gentle breeze.  Then the train speeds down the tracks where man awaits its arrival to board and depart for his destination.

Homage is paid to the credence of our times in desolate tracks commencing on the wings of a dove.

A man waits at the depot for the train to come to a complete stop.  The doors open, he climbs in, takes his seat, opens his newspaper, and enjoys his long journey ahead of him.

Passing through open fields, the town speaks to the soul of the wind calling out to man to stop what he is doing to take a look out into the open areas to see what he can discover about himself.  There is a deepness to his soul, getting wound around the bend.  Along comes the bridge where the train goes under.  Darkness seeps into man’s consciousness, as he is lead down the speeding track of his conclusive rain boiling over into his own embattlement.

A flood comes to wash away remnants time left behind in his faulty dreams for making a brighter tomorrow through rising up against the daring, and bold, fulfilling only his own vindictive needs to obtain power over another.

The man on the train falls into a deep sleep, with his hands clinging to his newspaper.  Now his hands are nimble.  His newspaper drops to the floor of the train, covering his feet with its layers.

Words printed up by the media, speak effluent to the mans concentrated visions breaking through the ice blocking his way to the to the sun burning in the blood of the holy.

He sinks into his own wallowing heart upon awakening from his slumber, only to discover he never left the rampage society has left upon his conscience.

The train slows down to a halt.  The man rises from his seat, while bending over to pick up the mess his newspaper has become, a washed out mesh of the tides the rains brought onto him from the soles of his damp shoes.

Feeling his way through the darkness of the nighttime sky, he leaves the familiar behind, to begin anew in a better place.  He now dances in the sun where he is reunited with his own conscience.  Drifting through the waters of the storm, he thinks about what his life can be, now the storm has passed.  Only the tides of tomorrow can flourish with the waves of his present through his holy deeds on earth.

For his song is the mother driven by the endless need to gather her children into her home, feed them, clothe them, send them off to bed, and cover their limbs with kindness and compassion.  She dresses their bodies with humility, and their souls with the consciousness of the Lord, throughout the lulls of the night.

Dance and sing, dance and sing go the children who run up toward the valley leading toward the gateways of heaven.

Man boards the train once more where he is carried of to sleep into the realms of his dreams, where he can run freely across the fields, reminiscing to himself about his times of innocence sustained by his heart refusing to let go of his inner child.

As the rain pelts down upon his head, his senses become clearer, his heart beats stronger, and the rhythms of his pulse speed up the flood rushing through the gates of heaven where he is immersed in lavender, in the light of heaven.

He now chimes to his own song, while his heart stops bleeding, and learns to live.  His mind and spirit are one with the Lord.  His soul is mended, and his spirit strong.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015


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