Thread: On a Bench

Dark, wild hair entangles itself over the rigid and well-worn face of a man who had been sitting for far too long on one particular bench. Despite his anxious position on the rough, wooden seat, he had not moved for three years. A black utterly simplistic tattoo on his ankle read “Ishmael” in miniscule, black letters, however Ishmael is a name long forgotten to him. To refer to himself was an action completely unfathomable for his nostalgic being. His mind was too unsure of anything to even bring himself to an acknowledgement of existence.

All he did any more was count. He enjoyed the lone, focused apathy of a new total every day. So far 1094 northbound trains had passed through the small, junky train station. Every day he sat with nervous eyes and twitching ears to add another pass to the count. Day by day, Ishmael watched as one or two smiling passengers stepped aboard the white transport train. He had grown to hate them. Every day since he had sat down, another person stepped onto the train. They had the courage to do what he hadn’t. Why do they deserve to have it? How could they take a chance so willingly? They shouldn’t step into that train to abandon the lifeless demise of the train station. How could they know where it goes? They had no right to be happy, but they were, and Ishmael sat silently, hoping for the courage to move off the bench, even if it was just to sit back down on another.

It was day 1095, and no one was waiting for the train. It was already 6:50. It might be the first day in three years that Ishmael would not watch somebody step beyond the trains sliding, glass doors and be swept away to some unknown region. He started to grow anxious. It was 6:55, and he sat up from his position of a propped head upon arms rested on his frail knees and looked around. He didn’t see anybody. Despite all previous regard Ishmael was afraid for the passenger who was about to miss his train. The train always picked up someone. Someone was about to miss there chance for happiness. It was 6:58, and the train arrived on time, at seven, every day without exception.

He stood up and brushed the hair out of his face. “There must be someone,” he thought. “There’s always someone.” His heart beat rampantly. There had to be someone. He couldn’t imagine who was about to miss their chance to get on. The clock ticked to 6:59, and the train was coming. Brakes were squealing the signal of approach. “Hello?” he squeaked out of his scratchy throat. “Trains coming…” he said. “The trains coming!” he burst out. He knew that someone had to get on the train. He poked his head around the corner to see if anyone was coming yet. When he started to the stairwell he almost tripped over himself. His legs were numb from sitting so long. No one was coming though.

By this time, his head was swimming, because he knew that whoever wasn’t getting on that train was missing their chance to get out of that place. He didn’t know what was beyond that place, but it could be better. At the same time, he knew that he could never have the courage to find out because, if he did, he might find out that the rest of the world is exactly the same, meaningless and stagnant. Maybe it was better just to have hope that it was better somewhere. He couldn’t do it, but someone had to. His beating, pounding heart screamed and yelled for someone to hear, but no one did. Tears began to trickle down his face, and the train was screeching down the rails.

When he stepped backward to turn around, he fell on his back, onto the cold, tile floor. As he lay paralyzed, on his back, the train stopped. The doors opened up and beckoned to the missing passenger. Ishmael could see the faces of the people inside the train. They seemed to say, “Hey. It’s about time Ishmael.” He picked up his rigid body and stood at the entrance. He stepped on as the doors glided together behind him.
Inside, he sat down and stared at the floor.
“Hey. What’s your name?” asked a young lady with deep, brown eyes.
“Does it matter?” he replied, and she shrugged in turn. “Where’s this train go?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” she gently coaxed.
“I don’t know. I was just hoping…”
“What?” she said.
“I just thought it might go somewhere better.”
She sat down next to him, “I guess we’ll find out together.”

Woah! A very daunting wall of text you got there. May I suggest separating the paragraphs with an empty single line in between each?

As for the story itself, I hope you don't mind it if I just quick-read it, because the closely placed paragraphs were hurting my eyes. The story was good. The hook is immediately there because almost all readers can relate to Ishmael, who is, at many times, afraid of change. As manifested, "At the same time, he knew that he could never have the courage to find out because, if he did, he might find out that the rest of the world is exactly the same, meaningless and stagnant."

The only issue with the plot I'm having some conflict with is the part where Ishmael seems to be searching for a passenger. He hated having passengers walk by him. Why search for him? It didn't make sense. Perhaps he wanted passengers to ride the train just so he could erase his own guilt about not liking to aboard the train himself? If so, why hate the passengers? This complexity could be given more light, I think.

Oh, and this:

Despite all previous regard Isaac was afraid for the passenger who was about to miss there train.

Who in the world is Isaac?!

And "there" should've been "their."

Come to think of it, the whole sentence is wrong. "Passenger" is singular, so the sentence should've been "...was afraid for the passenger who was about to miss his train."

Thanks for your response. I wanted to portray struggle within Ismael. Your interpretation is pretty accurate. He felt guilty for not having the courage to board the train. He wanted so much to find out, but he couldn't bring himself to it, so in a way he felt angry at the missing passenger because they weren't there to do it for him. Sorry about that sentence. I think I switched over to working on this after I was working on my novel. The main character in it is Isaac.I should have read back through before posting it. Thanks for catching that. I'll do a final edit. I think I'll explain more of Ishmael's internal conflict too.

You really do need to break up that text with blank lines between paragraphs.

Edit - I downloaded and broke it apart so I could read it. It's good.

To break it up properly all you need do is 'edit post', go to the first line in each paragraph, hit return, and you'll have it in a readable form.

I only read through it rapidly as I was breaking it up. I'll read it more carefully and give you a better review.

Sorry about that. It was pasted from Word which always takes the indentation out for me.

I wrote a longer critique, but I mis-typed a key, and it disappeared.

Anyway, I'll truncate my response.

Your prose is shallow and lacks relevance. You don't explore why your protagonist is fearful. You stop right before it gets interesting.

Remember, the reader is more interested in why your characters do the things they do than a huge description of how they act for that reason.

The Arts are about the expression of ones self. It is about honesty. Maybe that honesty is boring, maybe no one cares. That does not matter. You cannot evaluate it's pertinence. Only others can and how it relates to them. Don't writer for others. Write for yourself.