Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Rusted rails

Everything goes by so quickly these days.

I remember when I was the talk of the town, the savior, the one everybody waved to as I barreled down the tracks. Now no one ever notices me, except the birds that built a nest in my smoke stack.

I suppose this is the way of things, and I should not complain. Everything else has gotten faster as well, but at least the run-down cars keep their own company in junk yards - I sit alone at the end of a track that's overgrown with underbrush.

Before you go, as I'm sure you will, can I tell you what I miss most of all? It wasn't the noise I used to make, though that was cool - blowing my whistle as loud as I could before arriving at every stop. It wasn't the cargo - human necessities do not produce much excitement, to me. It wasn't even the ability to see the whole country and travel around, because the rustier I got, the harder that became.

It was the smiles. The appreciation for a job well-done, a destination finally reached, a task completed and a product delivered to those who needed it. It was faithful gratitude from the many many hands that loaded and unloaded me, depended on me, and helped me through any adversity on the way.

Things go by so quickly these days. Destinations are reached in minutes instead of hours. If only the gratefulness had increased to the same degree.

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