Creative Writing Sample

The following is a sample of a creative writing piece.

There has always been something strangely romantic about trains. images float through my head, of the orient express; well-dressed men and women sipping champagne out of crystal glasses, talking about how the butler did it. There is the excitement of falling asleep in Prague and awaking in Dresden, there is the feat of tunneling under the English Channel, there are the ever-ending jokes at the expense of British rail, and the mournful songs of violinists in the Parisian Subway.

The rest of the world has it’s own rich Railroad history; enough to satisfy any train buff like me, but in my book, American Rail is something special. Maybe it’s just because I know it better. I know its’ history, I know what it meant to this country. There are the echoes of the Chinese immigrants, who for the most part, built the first rails that made manifest destiny more than just a dream. There lingers for me still, the clouds of dust left behind by train robbers and bandits, both real and imagined, galloping through the Wild West. I can hear in the gentle rhythm of the rails the faint sound of harmonica and bluegrass guitar, music left behind by a generation of transients, victims of the great depression, betrayed by the American Dream.

I think I first fell madly in love with the rails on the slow train from D.C to Lynchburg. I rode out of the nations capitol on a car full of Steelworkers. I was in the club car, surrounded by their smoke and laughter and sweat, and as I listened to them swap war stories of union battles fought and won and lost, it occurred to me that this is a class of people you don’t find on airplanes. These men were America. No laptops, business suits, New York Times or frequent flyer miles. These were the blue jean, third generation union member, salt of the earth Americans, just glad to be headed home. They were the remnants of a better time, and still believed that if they yelled loud enough, their voices would be heard. I wish I held their optimism… I’m not sure anyone is listening anymore.

At this very moment I am riding the local from Rochester to Penn Station, the remnants of the old Genesee line, a slow and laborious journey, but beautiful if looked at in the right context. The scrolling picture presents the very essence of America, endless faceless towns on the banks of endless forgotten tributaries that begin somewhere not much and end up somewhere even less. These are the sorts of towns that you could easily forget if only they did not exist by so many names in so many places along so many rusted stretches of rail. The defunct factories with their broken window panes, flaking paint and once proud walls crumbling into disrepair; the rambling farmhouses stretching from the riverbanks, climbing upwards from the dirty banks and up into the hills. The general store, the mills, the shabby rail side diner; repeated in every small town along every railroad across the great country of America.

My fellow passengers are a motley crew. Even at this time of year, there are many empty seats. Most have forsaken the rails for the Skies; driven away by high rates and inconsistent service. There are a resilient few; students, an elderly couple, a commuter or two, a woman having a very loud cell conversation with someone called “Linda”, a Cantonese couple prattling on behind me. Perhaps they are aficionados like me. Maybe they too, are charmed by the decaying glory of the mill towns. Maybe they too are lulled by the gentle sway of the train. Maybe they just don’t know any better. The ticket man comes through, a burly character with a thick mustache, placing blue destination labels in the slots above our seats. I wonder it that’s really necessary anymore. There are so few of us left.

As the train rattles through Clyde, through Rome, through Albany, Schenectady and on up the Hudson to Poughkeepsie; at each stop I examine the boxcars that lie rusting in the train yards. Cotton Belt, Wisconsin Farm, The Great Union Pacific… I wonder how many of those companies still exist today. Our rails are dying, like a rusting metal whale that has beached itself on the shores of progress. As our leaders and representatives banter non-committally about what it to be done, a great living museum, a testament to American ingenuity and perseverance breathes its last.