Editor's Choice
Belching and hissing, we approach a once thriving station. My brakes shriek with anger. Puffing my battered body shows signs of age. I watch the passengers alight, their faces etched with melancholy, as I sense the age of innocence dies.
A mournful whistle, as the lights fade and the soft sounds of Auld Lang Syne fill the air, before the gates close on yet another station.
The future begins tomorrow, leaving no room for the past. One more journey, my destination, oblivion. Maybe one day your grandchildren will ask you about the time proud engines like mine served without complaint.
A mournful whistle, as the lights fade and the soft sounds of Auld Lang Syne fill the air, before the gates close on yet another station.
The future begins tomorrow, leaving no room for the past. One more journey, my destination, oblivion. Maybe one day your grandchildren will ask you about the time proud engines like mine served without complaint.
