the house by the railroad

Published 24 May 2011 8:14 AM | ladybird

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i am not up to much blogging at the moment  but wanted to share this- it's written by my 17year old son who doesn't really write rather spends time killing zombies on his x-box, so imagine how proud i was when he produced this for his gcse English retake

It was eight o’clock on a Monday morning; I was down at the station for my daily commute to the offices. The 7.57 train was late again, the clock ticked by, but not a trace of my train. People huddled around this small town station as if they were penguins huddling for warmth, then we hear the bell everybody in unison takes a step forward and looks for the train, here it is only half an hour late the 7.57 train, British public transport at its finest, everybody’s thinking it but nobody’s saying it.

The 7.57 could have done with another carriage that day we all huddled on some of us got seats the rest huddled in the isle like Vultchers watching the seats ready to pounce almost as if it were there pray. I  got my usual window seat but today i had my bags on my lap and restricting my leg movement and another guy squishing me against the window as if i were a hamster in a every shrinking cage. The station masters whistle off we go another journey of morning sorrow.

The fields stretch on for miles on end, and every now and then you’ll see that lonely tractor and a few cows. You see the farm houses with the lowly farmers wife within, but every day without change i see the house by the railroad, grand in stature, curtains always shut, ive never seen movement, I’ve only heard stories, stories of love, stories of despair but in a flash its gone again only a distant memory only a story.

we pull into the station as per usual, we all disperse some going to clean streets, others like myself going to the office. The elevator crammed per usual people enter and people leave all with the same displeasure knowing the rest of the day is laid out before them. My floor a squeeze through the people on the elevator out on to solid ground i walk through the cubicles to mine where a dreary computer and telephone lay, sit on the same computer chair I’ve sat on for years, so long in fact that it has moulded to me.

I rush to the train held back by the boss, i get there it was early, i was on time just my luck, stuck in this miserable city for another hour of my life, I just want to be home.  I wonder through the streets people asking for money when i have nothing to give, only a train ticket home, the hour soon rolls by im on the train journey home the sun has set the fields and the hills slowly roll on by, there goes the house by the railroad, nothing has changed, the station i left from early this morning is sitting next to the train, i get off.

I enter through the door, no post, nothing. In my front room pictures of my wife and kids, pictures of love and despair, pictures of the house by the railroad, my house by the railroad, where no one dares to tread anymore.