Seeler
Well-Known Member
I was wondering if anybody would bring this thread back up. I write prose, not poetry. Nobody gave any guidelines as to length but don't worry, I won't post a novel. In fact I'll break my story up into manageable lengths.
The Train. The Fish, and The Boy
The train was assembled in the railway yards of Moncton; huge engines rumbling, cars banging, as they were sorted and shunted into place throughout the night. In the morning the train, now over a hundred cars long, pulled away and started its journey north-westward nearly diagonally across New Brunswick.
Although the train was climbing almost continuously from near sea level from the rail yard toward the height of land that separates the Maritime provinces from the St. Lawrence river valley in Quebec, the roadbed built in 1912 was almost strait, with wide, banked turns, the incline was so gradual it was almost negligible. The cars were mostly empty, having carried their goods to the Maritimes and were now being sent back for another load.
The train thundered along, past farmland and villages, through forests of spruce and fir, crossing long trestle bridge over the Salmon river at Chipman, slowing only a little to meet an east-bound train on a siding at Hardwood Ridge, past the overgrown blueberry fields of Bantelor. Well before each level crossing, it sounded its whistle, loud and clear. It hurried on bypassing scattered little stations without a pause. Even at McGiveny Junction where it crossed the now abandoned tracks that had once connected the Mirimichi with the capital city of Fredericton the train rushed westward. Its whistle shrieked as it passed the half-way point at Napadogan - a railway yard that once rivalled Moncton in its size and importance but now reduced to a few tracks.
The salmon had hatched in the rocky gravel bed of the fast flowing, cold north branch of the Southwest Mirimichi river. After spending two years as a parr, managing to survive as her many brothers and sisters became food for larger fish, she had changed to a smolt and made her way down the river and out into the Gulf and then the north Atlantic ocean where she spent her time in the cold waters off the coast off Labrador, returning first as a grilse, and then as an adult salmon, to spawn in her own stream.
Now on her third and final journey upstream she pushed against the current. Her belly, heavy with eggs, almost scraped the rocky bottom as she made her way through the swiftly-flowing, shallow water of the Black Rapids. She hugged the left side of the river and when she reached the Forks, she didn’t hesitate to turn up the North Branch, her instinct guiding her once more to her home stream. Tired now, she slid into the still dark waters in the shade under a railroad bridge, where she paused to rest. She aligned herself with the current, facing upstream, letting the water flow through her gills with life-giving oxygen, she moved her fins and tail only enough to keep her balance and maintain her position.
(continued)
The Train. The Fish, and The Boy
The train was assembled in the railway yards of Moncton; huge engines rumbling, cars banging, as they were sorted and shunted into place throughout the night. In the morning the train, now over a hundred cars long, pulled away and started its journey north-westward nearly diagonally across New Brunswick.
Although the train was climbing almost continuously from near sea level from the rail yard toward the height of land that separates the Maritime provinces from the St. Lawrence river valley in Quebec, the roadbed built in 1912 was almost strait, with wide, banked turns, the incline was so gradual it was almost negligible. The cars were mostly empty, having carried their goods to the Maritimes and were now being sent back for another load.
The train thundered along, past farmland and villages, through forests of spruce and fir, crossing long trestle bridge over the Salmon river at Chipman, slowing only a little to meet an east-bound train on a siding at Hardwood Ridge, past the overgrown blueberry fields of Bantelor. Well before each level crossing, it sounded its whistle, loud and clear. It hurried on bypassing scattered little stations without a pause. Even at McGiveny Junction where it crossed the now abandoned tracks that had once connected the Mirimichi with the capital city of Fredericton the train rushed westward. Its whistle shrieked as it passed the half-way point at Napadogan - a railway yard that once rivalled Moncton in its size and importance but now reduced to a few tracks.
The salmon had hatched in the rocky gravel bed of the fast flowing, cold north branch of the Southwest Mirimichi river. After spending two years as a parr, managing to survive as her many brothers and sisters became food for larger fish, she had changed to a smolt and made her way down the river and out into the Gulf and then the north Atlantic ocean where she spent her time in the cold waters off the coast off Labrador, returning first as a grilse, and then as an adult salmon, to spawn in her own stream.
Now on her third and final journey upstream she pushed against the current. Her belly, heavy with eggs, almost scraped the rocky bottom as she made her way through the swiftly-flowing, shallow water of the Black Rapids. She hugged the left side of the river and when she reached the Forks, she didn’t hesitate to turn up the North Branch, her instinct guiding her once more to her home stream. Tired now, she slid into the still dark waters in the shade under a railroad bridge, where she paused to rest. She aligned herself with the current, facing upstream, letting the water flow through her gills with life-giving oxygen, she moved her fins and tail only enough to keep her balance and maintain her position.
(continued)
. That should have been "NOT read extensively". Sometimes my brain works faster than my fingers and I miss words.
With light and a shining one might see one's way through it ...
