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The scene in a busy train station (Archived)

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The scene in a busy train station

I wrote this as part of my English GCSE in a controlled assessment. . Submitted by Rebecca (Award 94), age 21

All is quiet. Not a sound but the gentle call of birds' song can be heard
Mist hangs thick in the air, clawing at the murky clouds above, willing them to sink lower and suffocate the world further.
Fear clings to every surface, forcing the doors of the locomotive's lair to open
Another day has begun...

Rows upon rows of people all stand in what once appeared to be a vast amount of space.
An ice cold breeze floats around the masses of prisoners, causing an involuntary shiver to ricochet around the room.
Another packed train trudges away, crammed to capacity, like meat to
the slaughter.
All in formation, the crowd marches forward; rattling their chains with the movement.
Choked sobs of frantic mothers drift from within the shadows; yearning for their absent young.

Everywhere there are pillars; imposing on the helpless citizens below,
inserting fear with their concrete demeanour.
Children stand, frozen; stuffed into their Sunday best, like presents waiting to be unwrapped by their new owners. But Christmas (a time of joy and happiness) is a far cry from the events of today, of yesterday and of weeks and months before that.
Faces light up, awash with lies and propaganda. Hope forced upon them.
Thick smoke drowns the station making noses scream out in anguish. Sour mist stains the inside of bystanders' mouths, echoed by the spluttering coughs it leaves behind

Boxes hang around juvenile necks, the coarse string like a noose, getting tighter and tighter as time goes on; threatening to end it all.
Maybe that would be for the best?

Sergeants holler, snarling over their words; spraying their subjects, trying
to form some order in the chaos.
Trains scream as they approach the station and the guard blows his whistle to further warn all of its arrival.
Infants wail endlessly, even though they are ignorant to the events around them.
Parents stand anxiously; cigarette in hand, attempting to smoke away their stress in a sea of tobacco. They peer after the train which is appearing smaller by the second until it is nothing but a meer dot on the horizon.
And behind it all, trains constantly chug away; providing the beat behind the rhythm.

All is quiet.

Not a soul is left.

The day is done.

The station is bare.

Filth crawls up the walls, refusing to make do with hiding in a secluded corner.
But no one is here to clean up.
All is resting.

Tomorrow the scene shall be repeated; same script, different actors.
First performance: evacuation o'clock.

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