Jim groaned, cursing the talkative man in the privacy of his thoughts with all the ardor of a white castle frycook staring down a customer asking for a big mac.
"Seen what, Frank? Please, I beg you, enlighten me."
But Frank wasn't phased, he just kept on staring down the east track waiting for the sunrise.
"The light at the end of the rails."
Jim frowned. He knew Frank was a romantic, and a hopeless one at that, but there was something different about him now. He was always the optimist, a sort of hopeful firebrand that kept the camp's spirits up even when a squall rolled in off of Lake Michigan and it started raining sideways under the overpass. He was a fighter, old as he was, and there was always a hint of defiance just audible under the gravelly gargle of 30 years of a pack a day. Now though? Now he sounded almost... peaceful.
"Whaddya mean?"
"I saw it once, that light, in this very spot even," said Frank, and Jim wasn't sure he'd even heard him. "It was the day after my brother died. Drunk as a skunk, head over heels off the side of a flatcar. We were still young enough to ride the switches, back in those days."
Jim shivered, and it wasn't just from the cold pre-dawn air of Chicago in March. There was something in Frank's voice, a certain otherworldly something that he couldn't quite place. Last he'd heard it was when the preacher came round to the camp on Saturdays, talking 'bout heaven.
"The light at the end of the rails..."
Jim turned his head now, following Jim's gaze and staring down the east track too, searching for what it was the old geezer was seeing. Was it soemthing coming in the distance, just round the bend, or maybe a cataract that had finally gotten bad enough to be blinding?
"There I was, my bottle in one hand and my brother's in the other, feeling for all the world like my number'd been wrung, just sittin alone in the dark when it happened."
Suddenly, a bright point of fierce orange light peeked out over the roof of a garage in the distance, sharp as a needle and blinding. Jim winced, scrunching his eyes up as the sun started to rise, but Frank just kept on looking straight ahead.
"The sun rose, just out of sight past the bend, but the light lit up the fog like a sea of gold and I saw the tracks march off round the turn and right up into the sky."
The light was getting stronger now, the frost on the rails starting to gleam like copper and bronze as more and more golden light began filtering around past the bend, the grime and graffiti of the city starting to dissappear as the light washed out everything else, everything but the rails and the horizon.
"It was beautiful."
Jim raised one calloused, grimy hand up over his face as the light became blinding, and by the time he'd adjusted to the brightness he knew something had changed. He blinked furiously, the gum in his eyes slow as ever to clear as he looked at the tracks. They seemed quite plain now, plain and ordinary as dirt. But for a moment, just a moment, he thought he'd seen something more.
"Hey Frank, what was it y-"
His voice died in his throat as he turned to look at the other man. Or rather, where he'd been. There was nothing there now. Nothing, save a single, small scrap of paper. He reach out, fumbling fingers still half-numb from the cold, and picked it up to read. It was ancient, yellow as skin and crumbly, and there on the face, in dark red letters that looked like they'd been typed up some time in the twenties, were seven words.
The_sockmock on November 1st, 2022 at 08:42 UTC »
I like it, good photo, made me happy!
Valirys-Reinhald on November 1st, 2022 at 13:33 UTC »
"Have you ever seen it, Jim?"
Jim groaned, cursing the talkative man in the privacy of his thoughts with all the ardor of a white castle frycook staring down a customer asking for a big mac.
"Seen what, Frank? Please, I beg you, enlighten me."
But Frank wasn't phased, he just kept on staring down the east track waiting for the sunrise.
"The light at the end of the rails."
Jim frowned. He knew Frank was a romantic, and a hopeless one at that, but there was something different about him now. He was always the optimist, a sort of hopeful firebrand that kept the camp's spirits up even when a squall rolled in off of Lake Michigan and it started raining sideways under the overpass. He was a fighter, old as he was, and there was always a hint of defiance just audible under the gravelly gargle of 30 years of a pack a day. Now though? Now he sounded almost... peaceful.
"Whaddya mean?"
"I saw it once, that light, in this very spot even," said Frank, and Jim wasn't sure he'd even heard him. "It was the day after my brother died. Drunk as a skunk, head over heels off the side of a flatcar. We were still young enough to ride the switches, back in those days."
Jim shivered, and it wasn't just from the cold pre-dawn air of Chicago in March. There was something in Frank's voice, a certain otherworldly something that he couldn't quite place. Last he'd heard it was when the preacher came round to the camp on Saturdays, talking 'bout heaven.
"The light at the end of the rails..."
Jim turned his head now, following Jim's gaze and staring down the east track too, searching for what it was the old geezer was seeing. Was it soemthing coming in the distance, just round the bend, or maybe a cataract that had finally gotten bad enough to be blinding?
"There I was, my bottle in one hand and my brother's in the other, feeling for all the world like my number'd been wrung, just sittin alone in the dark when it happened."
Suddenly, a bright point of fierce orange light peeked out over the roof of a garage in the distance, sharp as a needle and blinding. Jim winced, scrunching his eyes up as the sun started to rise, but Frank just kept on looking straight ahead.
"The sun rose, just out of sight past the bend, but the light lit up the fog like a sea of gold and I saw the tracks march off round the turn and right up into the sky."
The light was getting stronger now, the frost on the rails starting to gleam like copper and bronze as more and more golden light began filtering around past the bend, the grime and graffiti of the city starting to dissappear as the light washed out everything else, everything but the rails and the horizon.
"It was beautiful."
Jim raised one calloused, grimy hand up over his face as the light became blinding, and by the time he'd adjusted to the brightness he knew something had changed. He blinked furiously, the gum in his eyes slow as ever to clear as he looked at the tracks. They seemed quite plain now, plain and ordinary as dirt. But for a moment, just a moment, he thought he'd seen something more.
"Hey Frank, what was it y-"
His voice died in his throat as he turned to look at the other man. Or rather, where he'd been. There was nothing there now. Nothing, save a single, small scrap of paper. He reach out, fumbling fingers still half-numb from the cold, and picked it up to read. It was ancient, yellow as skin and crumbly, and there on the face, in dark red letters that looked like they'd been typed up some time in the twenties, were seven words.
Apollo rail, last call, passage for one.
LingererLongerer on November 1st, 2022 at 15:46 UTC »
I want to say something about the extreme saturation and HDR, but that seems to be what people on social media like. Bizzare.