Hi, I'm off to watch the Olympics, Celebrate my sibs 21st Birthday with family and get blown up by Fireworks. Well, hopefully not the last one. This week here is part of something I wrote for Camp NaNoWriMo, but frankly is useless for my actual story.
Death Train
I step on to the platform; I look across the train track.
There was no one on the opposite platform. I scan the rest of the Victorian
Train station. There no sign of anyone else, but I know better than to presume
that true.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” I shout out, it echoes
as though trying to convince me that I am talking to myself. “Fine then, I’ll
just leave.” I turn around to illustrate my words.
A blast of wind blows behind me, I stop and turn back to see
a train entering the station at top speed. I sigh at the sight. The train of Death was
sadly familiar to me and it only pulled into the station at nights where a
great many lives had been lost at the same place and time. Their spirits would
soon be here and it will only leave once all the tickets given had been collected
back.
It slows down to a stop with one of its doors. I step back
and admire the great sight of it. It was modelled after the mighty steam trains
that were once the normal. It was because these trains that a vessel that large
was needed for land. Ships sinking had
never been a problem as no one was ever around to experiences the portal that
took the dead to other side or were too engaged in not dying to notice. The feel of death was known by all, even if
they had never experienced it before.
“Hello Heroica,” I smile at the use of my ancient name.
“Hello Death,” I say turning around. He scorns at the use of
his modern name. I walk to the top of the train. He stands on the opening door
of the engine.
“I really wish people would not refer to me as that. I am
merely the organiser of death,” He says for the millionth time.
“People have forgotten that there is an organiser of death,”
I respond with the annoying fact. This was true for so many parts of the mystic
world and it was only getting worse. People used to worship magic, but have
replaced it with science, even forgetting its gods. “Why don’t I just call you
D?”
“You have always ways call me D, unless you are in one of
your annoying moods,” he replies in his serious tone, though almost friendly.
You always have to be a bit sombre when dealing with death, so many people see
it as the end now.
“So why do I get the pleasure of train spotting?” It fun to
dance around topics, especially when I know it can’t be good. It never is when
D calls.
“The same reason I do,” he says simply. I stare at him for a
moment trying to figure out of what he implying. It hits me when I see the
first of the spirits arrive.
“They weren’t on the list, were there?” They were clearly all young, which didn’t
really mean anything in tends of death, but wanting to stop someone before they
done what they meant to do with this live, it’s obvious to stop them when
they’re young.
“Yes,” he said simply. Sometimes I wish he would just spit
out the important part.
“How much damage has been done?”
“Not much, there were a few potential protectors or healers,
that “damage” is easily repairable. However, one of great importance was on the
bus.”
“Is this why you needed to see me?”
“Yes, there a chance she can still live.”
“She’s not yet dead?” I ask cautiously, I feel a caught
coming.
“In times of magic and modern science she may as well be,”
he says slowly. “There is a spell stopping any healer, no matter how powerful.
But we both know that you often play outside of these two limits.”
“Has her heart stop?” I ask, choosing not bother with
denying my advance knowledge. I was aware of things that were not yet available
to the public or the world of medicine.
“Not yet, but only because of Machine keeps it pumping.”
“Where’s the hospital,” I say sighing.
“Through that door,” he says pointing to a side exit, behind
the spirits standing on the platform, waiting confused. I glare at him.
“Don’t you think you better start organising?” I say annoyed,
walking through spirits felt so… discontenting. You feel all their emotions,
sometimes their memories if you’re sensitive. Most just shiver and only pick up
merely the strongest of emotions.
“Yes, I best,” He says plainly, not moving. I breathe in and
make my way through the wall of the dead. I don’t bother to ask them to move,
they won’t be aware of me so soon after dying. I run through them, but time moves
slowly. I’m glad they only feel confusion, only small catches of fear.
I hit the door to find it locked; I turn around to see D
waving at me. The spirits were now slowly making their way onto the train. The
door swings open behind me and I dive through it without looking.
Next week find out how my exams went. Results come Tuesday, 7th August.
