IGKTW Round 1 - My Brother and the Nowhere Train Journey (916 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.55 on 39 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-04-20 05:28:22 EDT
My brother once told me that if he closed his eyes it didn't hurt.
He sat there, his hair turned to gold in the late afternoon light from the window. Dust motes floated clearly in the beam, dancing above the bare, splintery boards of our bedroom. He was sitting, leaning back on both hands. I remember his eyes, so pale and calm. I remember the way his hands tensed on the floor when he said it.
"It don't hurt when I close my eyes," Billy said.
I couldn't tell if he was lying or not. It was, at times, impossible to read my brother. Billy was quiet for the most part. He often just went along with what I suggested. Billy always seemed so fragile, so still. He sat and looked at the world calmly, assessing all he saw and filing it away.
He seemed fragile, but of course he was stronger than me. He had to be. I bitch about our troubles that we had then, except that they weren't my troubles. I complain about the 'issues' the experience left me with, yet it didn't even happen to me. It happened to Billy.
Sometimes it seemed like it happened to Billy every goddamn night.
We'd lie in our separate beds, on either side of the room. We usually slept with the window open because Billy couldn't bear to have it closed. Billy always liked to think there was an exit. The moonlight always seems blindingly bright in my memory, yet in my mind it doesn't touch the corners of the room. It streamed in through the window in a concentrated shaft of light between our beds, but the beds themselves are always steeped in gloom when I view them through the imperfect lens of memory.
Billy would always go to sleep almost instantly when we went up to bed, but I would lie awake, fitful and scared for him. Perhaps that's why Billy was so calm; I was always worried enough for both of us.
I'd lie there in the dark and listen to the house below. Our mother would go to bed. She climbed the creaking stairs slowly and softly, one hand whispering along on the wooden handrail. The door to my parents' room would close.
Sometimes, before my mother slunk off to bed, she and my father would fight. Sometimes they yelled. If it was yelling sort of fight, I could expect to hear their screams, followed by my mother throwing things. Then my father would hit her. Even if I couldn't hear him strike her, I always knew when it happened because the fight stopped instantly.
Occasionally I could hear her sobbing as she walked past our room. This was rare, however. Usually she passed in sullen, beaten silence, with one hand dragging across the wall. I remember the sound her hand made on the wall, most often in dreams. The kind of dreams when you wake up and stare at the ceiling because you're too much of a sissy to go back to sleep.
That wasn't the worst.
Our father came upstairs next. Not straight away. He'd give it time. Billy slept and I lay awake, dreading the moment that I heard his boot upon the stair. I used to wish for the most ridiculous things as I stared at that ceiling. That he'd trip on the stairs. That he'd just pass out drunk downstairs, that wasn't so ridiculous, sometimes he did. That he'd trip and drop through the stairs, crashing all the way down the to the basement; the stairs were poorly built like much of our house, but this was a bit fanciful.
Mostly I just wished for the courage or ability to stop him.
The hours drew out with painful silence after our mother went to bed. When it came, it always seemed as loud as hammer and anvil, striking peal after peal through the darkened house: my father walking up the stairs towards our room. I never knew how Billy could still sleep.
The door creaked upon, and our father stamped into the room. Of course, an overpowering smell of cheap alcohol followed him like a noxious cloud. I can clearly remember my father's face, but not when I put it into context of these memories. These seemed to be the acts of a different man, not our father at all.
Whenever the door opened, I would shut my eyes and pretend to sleep. I would close my eyes and pray to any god that might be listening, praying for it not to happen, it didn't have to fucking happen, it wasn't necessary and it wasn't fair. My father never said a word on any of these occasions. I heard the springs of Billy's rickety bed move.
It was at this point that Billy would awaken, though he never made a sound. I could hear the shift in his breathing as he became aware that this night would not pass without incident, aware that it wasn't morning and no birds were singing.
The real hell of it was that I held no real hatred for my father. I couldn't. During those nights he became something that he wasn't, something that I didn't understand. I loathed the thing he became during those nights, when drink and some sort of deep-seated bitterness and sickness drove him to those terrible acts. During days he was a decent man. He wasn't the greatest father, but he was around more than most, when he could get time away from the steel mill that ate most of his life. That's what makes it so awful.
Memory's eye pulls away now; I can't face it. I couldn't face it then and I can't face it now. I'm a coward, it's true, and I was never brave like Billy. I was never strong, but somehow as children I always felt the need to protect him. Maybe it's just that I was older. Maybe when I was a child myself I couldn't see or understand his strength. But I think on some level I always realised that there was a part of Billy that was isolated, walled off. This was a part of him that was untouchable and pure, a place that even I wasn't welcome in, and I was closer to him than anyone else.
At school, neither of us had many friends. He didn't have any friends because he was quiet and kept to himself, and I didn't have many because I had an urge to stick by him, as if he needed me. Looking back, it's clear that he didn't. Billy's heart and mind were deeper than my ability to fathom or plumb.
Billy refused to talk about our father's visits to him. He always avoided the questions. I had some skewed notion that talking to him would somehow bring him comfort.
The only time was he ever answered me was on that afternoon, when he said that it didn't hurt if he closed his eyes. I never found out if that was true.
There was one place we used to go, one place we used to play consistently. Our home was but a short walk from a partially disused trainyard. One corner of the place still served as a depot, servicing and housing active trains. That was the minor part of the attraction, watching the men work on the trains and bring them in at night. A larger part of the trainyard for us was the scrap heaps, and the old, out-of-service carriages. The smell of rust and damp cloth, coupled with an indefinable air of age to the place fired our imaginations. We spent hours playing hide-and-seek, pirates, gangsters, cowboys and Indians, you name it.
However, the real drawcard to the trainyard was Blind Mister Jack, an old man who hung around there. In retrospect, he was a hobo who lived in the broken carriages. To us as boys, he was nothing short of a god, a little piece of divinity beamed down to live amongst the rusted and twisted steel of the broken trains. Our father told us never to "fraternise with Negroes" but when it came to Blind Mister Jack, we felt this was an area we could safely ignore our father. Blind Mister Jack wasn't really blind, but he said that that's what people used to call him.
Blind Mister Jack played a battered National Steel guitar, and I never saw him change the strings. Not that I worried about that sort of thing back then. All Billy and me cared about was that Mister Jack played and sang like nothing I have ever heard since. I don't mean to say that he played or sang exceptionally well, exactly, because he didn't. But he sang and played with a clear conviction and passion that transported us wherever his song wanted to take us. He offered us limitless worlds and infinite possibilities, and he offered them free of charge from where he sat in the door of a disused rail carriage.
One day, after he had played us a song we had never heard before, which enraptured us as always, Mister Jack cast a keen eye over us. He wore a dark suit that was decidedly the worse for wear, and a battered hat that he kept cocked over to the left.
"Now boys," Mister Jack said, "Why you gotta look so sad? The sun's shining, the air smells sweet - what more could ya want?"
I looked at Billy, who was standing a little ways back from us and staring off into the distance, an expression of intense misery etched upon his face. He didn't appear to have heard Mister Jack. I spoke for both of us.
"Me an' Billy, we got problems, Mister Jack," I said, not quite meeting the gaze of his dark eyes.
"Oh, come now," he replied. "Ain't nothing could be so bad. What could be so bad?"
I dropped my gaze to my shoes, and I didn't respond.
Mister Jack studied the pair of us for a moment. Then he leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially.
"Lookee here now. Did ah ever tell you boys about the Nowhere Train?"
Something about the phrase, or possibly the way Mister Jack spoke it, caught Billy's attention. He came down off his cloud and said, "The Nowhere Train?"
"Yeah, kids, the Nowhere Train. It's a magic train, boys. It's the most beautiful thing, and it can solve most any problem." He spoke solemnly, but there was a hint of delight in his tone. Billy and I leaned in closer. But then, Mister Jack always had that effect on us. He was a master of stories. "The Nowhere Train runs only at night. If your troubles getcha down too much, why, you just hop aboard and the Nowhere Train takes you away. Takes you most anywhere ya could want to go."
"Why is it called the Nowhere Train?" Billy asked. There was a strange urgency to his voice, which I later remembered, when it was too late.
"It's called the Nowhere Train because it can be any train, anywhere, and it can take you anywhere." Mister Jack said, and he was in a fine humour now. "It's everywhere and nowhere at once, d'you see, boys?" Mister Jack's tone turned solemn again. "But you only use the Nowhere Train when you ain't got no more options, see? Once you take the Nowhere Train, that's it, there ain't no turning back."
We nodded, struck by the magnitude of the secret that he trusted us with.
Then he played Sleeping Annaleah, because he knew it was Billy's favourite. After that we went home.
I visit my father's grave occasionally. I make sure that the groundskeepers are keeping the weeds off. I don't bring flowers. Sometimes I find myself staring at his headstone for hours, wondering how such two completely different natures could exist within the beating heart of one man.
He died at the age of thirty-nine. I was seventeen. This was long after Billy was gone from our lives. My father simply keeled over at the steel mill one day. Turned out to be his heart. Out of respect for the memory of Billy, I tried not to cry at our father's funeral, but I did anyway. Our mother didn't cry, however. She was stony and silent during the entire service and burial. The day that we put him in the ground was sunny and pleasant.
I go and I stare at my father's headstone, and I remember the slamming of his footfalls on the stairs. I remember the occasional whimper from Billy. I remember squeezing my eyes shut and feeling hot tears running down the sides of my face, tears cried into the void of that darkened room. I remember biting my fist to avoid screaming. I remember the shame of never helping my brother. I remember how our father used to go through phases after visiting Billy, phases of lavishing him with gifts, even though we were poorer than dirt, and attention. As if he needed the attention from the man who did those things to him, and as if the presents were even close to an apology, and as if an apology would change a fucking thing.
I visit my father's grave and I don't know why.
One morning, Billy was gone. Just like that. Our father hadn't come in during the night, and I had fallen into a fitful sleep at some unnamed hour. When I opened my eyes that dawn, the sun barely cresting the horizon, his bed was empty. It would never be occupied again, to my knowledge.
He left me a note, tucked safely under my pillow while I slept. He was always light-fingered. The note contained two words: Nowhere Train.
There was a great fuss, naturally. My mother went to the police and accused my father of taking him, or killing him. She was never particularly coherent on the subject. My father was never formally charged, because there was no evidence to support any claims of wrongdoing. The abuse never came up in any complaints. He never touched me after Billy left, though I didn't think he would at the time.
My parents never spoke much after Billy left. Not to me, and not to each other.
I didn't show anyone the note, not once. I think I harboured the notion that if they knew he'd taken the Nowhere Train, they could find him, and as much as I wanted him back, it wouldn't be fair to Billy.
I never saw my brother again. Not once, and I've tried so hard to find him. He's gone; just another stray pounding his feet around some nameless city that I'll probably never visit. I hope with all my heart that things turned out all right for him. I loved him so. For all my attempts to contact him, he's never attempted to call me. At night, when I can't sleep and the clock ticks over to four in the morning, I wonder if he made it. I wonder if I can't find him because he's not there to be found. Or, and this is somehow worse, if he doesn't want me to find him and he doesn't want to see me. If perhaps he at least partially blames me for my silence. That keeps me awake more than anything.
But I'll tell you what keeps me going, what gives me hope. The though of Billy, free. The thought of the smile on his pale face as he rode the Nowhere Train an ever-increasing distance away from his prison, into the night and an uncertain future. How beautiful that moment must've been for him. Perhaps he was humming Sleeping Annaleah, or another of the songs that Mister Jack sang to us. Perhaps he knew how much I'd miss him, and that tugged at his heart just a little, but not enough to make him stay. Not with what he had to go through.
I think of my brother riding the Nowhere Train with the door open and a smile on his face as the wind ruffles his hair, and I can always get through another day.
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-21 02:11:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't like you
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-05-12 00:45:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-27 11:28:39 (#)
Ranking: 0
Seeing as people who give 1.5 seem to get guilted into responding with 2s if they're argued with, you can reply to me on the main thread if you want, so as not to influence your rating.
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I know this train has long since sailed, but I tend to revise my rating if I question/challenge someone about a story element I didn't like and they have a reasonable response for me.
I haven't written fiction in a while. I kind of miss it.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-27 11:28:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Cheers O-Tron.
Circe, I can see what you're getting at. Perhaps there wasn't enough confrontation on the subject. I started to have more brutal detail, and then decided that the narrator wouldn't go into that much detail about his brother because he's quite sensitive about it.
Seeing as people who give 1.5 seem to get guilted into responding with 2s if they're argued with, you can reply to me on the main thread if you want, so as not to influence your rating.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-04-27 10:55:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-04-24 15:36:12 (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent narration.
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Agreed. Stag's got wicked narration. It blows my skirt up each and every time I read one of his stories. And my am I ever in bunches on the days I'm not wearing any panties!
No, really, this was great Stag.
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2006-04-27 06:55:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2006-04-27 06:55:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I want... more. I don't know. I think if you're going to use a topic like incest or paedophilia, it's important not to skirt around it. If you can't be blunt, raw, and brutal about something that IS raw and brutal, maybe you should hold off on making it a central part of the story?
I don't know... 1.5
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-26 08:38:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Many thanks to Monster, Berty and Sphagnum.
Berty, probably you're right. I've certainly never experienced the events chronicled here, and I only know 2 people who have, in my whole life. It is sort of a cliche.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2006-04-26 07:07:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Where did theis stereotype of pedo events spring from? I bet most kids adore the attention of these sort of goings on.
The only catalouged incidents like this are actual full on abuse, which usually are not be sexual in nature. Often it occurs due to post-natal depression or just by dickheads becomig parents. My point is that the scenario in the post has become a cliche, a poor and unrealistic cliche.
The writing was top drawer though.
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2006-04-26 06:36:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-04-24 15:36:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Tough crowd!
I think this is the best one that I've read so far. Excellent narration.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-23 22:34:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks guys.
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-04-23 22:25:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The pedophilia angle threw me a little bit, but the Nowhere Train is too good not to give some props to. Then again, I've had shit thrown at me for talking drunkenly through "Dead Man" about how the long train ride at the beginning is all symbolic of a descent into hell. Trains are cool.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-23 21:04:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I read this for about the tenth time, and it gets better each reading.
Go Stagger Lee!!!
.........................
Don't need no woman
She jes' tie me down
Don't need me no woman,
She jes' tie me down
Spend all my money
With the menfolk in town.
Women like butter
Spread best when they hot
Most women like butter
Spread best when they hot
If you ain't got no money
They cold as dried snot
Women use that thing, control your fuckin' mind
Say it the best one you ever gonna find
They all be the same, some is balder than others
'Cause they been out there fuckin' yo brothers
<solo>
Don't want no woman
I'se makin' a list
Don't want no woman
I wrote me a list
Thoity-two reasons
Why I uses my fist.
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-04-23 20:48:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Torn, think this is an excellent +1.5.
Imagery and everything was excellent as always, maybe a little too drawn out?
I don't know, the attention span isn't what it used to be, and I don't know what you would omit to make it better, because I suck.
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2006-04-23 18:30:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-23 12:03:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks Ash.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2006-04-22 10:19:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The imagery was excellent. I like that about your writing. I would have liked to spend more time in the trainyard, but I know you can only write so much into one piece.
For me, the bluesy part was more about this man who has thought about these events all his life. The fact that he didn't/couldn't stop the abuse. Always looking for his brother, heart stopping glimpses of someone similar and such. ramble ramble.
Good story
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-22 08:22:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-04-21 16:35:12 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:27:03 (#)
Ranking: 0
Not bluesy? It was about escaping via a nighttime train ride from a nightmare childhood. That's the blues, all over.
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I dunno, dude. I don't equate "blues" with "paternal child rape". Maybe that's just me. I always think of blues as, "My woman left me, my dog died, I'm going blind in one eye, my wife is ugly," etc etc. Not, "My daddy fucked me in the ass."
That's not the blues, that's...something else, man.
__________________________________________________________________
When all the young slave girls are being assfucked by ol' massa, that's the
blues. When the young field hand has to use his dick to please all the
plantation ladies while in constant fear of his life, that's the blues.
Drunken daddy beating on mama and de chillins, dat's da blues.
It would give me the blues to be fucked in the ass. By anyone.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 21:48:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
The blues can be a lot of things. I think a drunken, abusive father has his place in the blues as much as the crossroads.
By the way, you don't have to change your rating just because I'm stubbornly arguing with you. It's cool.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-04-21 16:35:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:27:03 (#)
Ranking: 0
Not bluesy? It was about escaping via a nighttime train ride from a nightmare childhood. That's the blues, all over.
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I dunno, dude. I don't equate "blues" with "paternal child rape". Maybe that's just me. I always think of blues as, "My woman left me, my dog died, I'm going blind in one eye, my wife is ugly," etc etc. Not, "My daddy fucked me in the ass."
That's not the blues, that's...something else, man.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 09:40:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Cheers wardy and Thorns.
Sorry to bring you down there, Captain.
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-04-21 09:36:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-20 15:55:21 (#)
Ranking: 2
God I hate it when people blow out contest ratings.
I liked the character development, I liked the pacing, and I'm giving a +2 becuse there were a lot of little things that caught me, like this-
"We usually slept with the window open because Billy couldn't bear to have it closed. Billy always liked to think there was an exit."
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-04-21 08:51:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well you done gone and taken all the cheer out of me this Friday morning with that.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:27:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Not bluesy? It was about escaping via a nighttime train ride from a nightmare childhood. That's the blues, all over.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-04-21 07:19:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Normally I would give this +2, because it's pretty good. But this is a blues writing competition, and I didn't find it very...'bluesy.' I dunno. It didn't feel right for the competition.
I think I got confused about what this competition is all about. I actually expected song lyrics and such, but after reading two entries, clearly that's not what it entails.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-20 22:54:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Cheers Bubba. I usually dislike having to gloss over so much, but I usually go with the first idea that grabs me and this was it.
Thanks Jack. Don't worry about how other people rate, just glad you liked it.
Cheers Stuch.
Thanks Brdn. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna lose this round with or without Shlongy's rating though, so don't worry.
Shlongy, I'm not trying to buy ratings or anything like that. I thought that was pretty clear.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-20 18:27:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I thought it was up to the typical Stag standards. Everything progressed
as a story should. You cannot put years or even months of detail in a very
short story.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-20 15:55:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
God I hate it when people blow out contest ratings.
I liked the character development, I liked the pacing, and I'm giving a +2 becuse there were a lot of little things that caught me, like this-
"We usually slept with the window open because Billy couldn't bear to have it closed. Billy always liked to think there was an exit."
Submitted by Stuch (user info) at 2006-04-20 15:51:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Gonna go with a 1, because, as although it was the usual Stagger_Lee readibility that I have come to know and love, I just didn't feel for them.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-04-20 13:53:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm with BAMF here but will stick to my +2 because of shlongy
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2006-04-20 12:52:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
I know that.
Shlongy's ratings cannot be bought with just + ratings on MY posts!
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-20 10:35:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks for reading, guys.
I reckon I'll stick to stories with more violence in them from now on.
Shlongy, you dumb shit, I already +1'd your post, what makes you think I'd -2 it now? Jackass.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2006-04-20 10:32:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
This'll make you retalitory -2 me.
http://www.ubersite.com/m/86828
Submitted by badassmofo (user info) at 2006-04-20 10:24:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm torn on this one Stagger, I mean its a good story or I should say well told but for some reason and for now I can't put my finger on it but Ijust couldn't seem to get in touch with the characters. I had no feeling for them, no pity for the teller and no sorrow when his brother left.
I'm going to leave it as a +2 for now but I'm going to be thinking about making it a 1.5 for a while, not to hold you in suspense I just need some more time to digest.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-04-20 09:46:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I disagree with comments below. The only thing I would have changed would be that the father's "good" side would have been described earlier, and in just a little bit more detail. Because when it came to the son being torn about how one man could have such different sides, I thought I missed something, but it came later, and was quite brief. I like that you took a chance on the subject matter, and the emotion came through for me. It was well written, as always. This is actually one of my favorites, Stag.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-20 07:28:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I wasn't gripped by this Stagger. It was nice enough and certainly better than a 0, but nowhere near as good as your usual stuff. Sorry.
Submitted by tarnation (user info) at 2006-04-20 07:03:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
needs less incest and more negroes
Submitted by Beano312003 (user info) at 2006-04-20 06:12:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
down the to the basement
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Only because it's a competition have I noted the above.
The story was good but didn't really tug at the heart strings and the imagery of the Nowhere Train wasn't captivating enough. A great idea though and enjoyable read.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-20 05:30:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
WTF, I'm not being depressed by all that.
Contest link: http://www.ubersite.com/m/86802