by Brendan Strong
It’s impossible. I’m on the train, and a train of thoughts causes such a racket in my head, I can’t even read my book. I turn down – and then off – my MP3 player. Such is the power of such thoughts. There I sat, watching
fields of sheep, cows, passing quickly. Hedges, haw, bogs. Splashes of colour from animals (and their farmers’ markings), bogs, flowers, cars (yes, cars – you can’t see the road, but the cars are on it) and then we get to
Adamstown, where nothing seems to be happening. It’s lovely, but much in the same way as a showhouse is. Will it look and feel so good once the families move in with all their humanity? Beyond that, will the families and humanity at least add some character to the place? Questions, questions. So many questions from all this, as well as two poems and three short stories, based on the idea that
The fidgety girl in pink hoodie who legs to the toilet when the inspector comes round actually lives on the train, because she has nowhere to go
The conductor is secretly in love with the girl, and knows she is living on the train illicitly, but won’t report her because then he’d never see her again – plus he’d be ruining any chance he had with her, as he was the informant
And someone else on the train must be something because of some reason
And there you have the problem. Three hours later, I cannot remember any of this. And this is my time to write.