On an early summer day, I am sitting at a small train station. Tall cypresses cut into the bright blue sky.
Across the railways, I see the back of a village hotel that crumbles in its antiquity. Its only open window spills a delicate lace curtain waving memories of my grandmother; her chest of blankets returns to mind folded in fond textures of the past.
The soft warm breeze hurries small pink flowers to my feet: I smell their fragrance in the blossoming air around mixed with the scent of fresh-baked bread from a bakery somewhere close.
But for a grey cat slumbering at the threshold of the Stationmasters’ office, I am the only one waiting for the train.
Without breaking the silence, a young gipsy with a long black braid claims my attention as she shuffles by in her slippers and makes her way beyond me down the platform.
An illuminated panel with flickering sign announces the arrival of the next train.
A wooden advertisement board is layered with decayed posters, echoing attentions called to ghosts of long passed products, tired hues of red and violet rasps, calling all comers to a long-passed circus show. Nothing is new here; even time feels abstract, as though the station exists only in a half-forgotten dream.
The train arrives. Rolling slowly, it ticks to a halt. A brunette woman looks indifferently at me through the window, reflections of distant cities in her eyes.
The doors hiss open and hesitation grips me as they clatter. I pause. The departure alarm begins beeping.
A forceful tug takes me by the elbow.
And there, I am suspended in the moment as we begin to pull away.
Across the railways, I see the back of a village hotel that crumbles in its antiquity. Its only open window spills a delicate lace curtain waving memories of my grandmother; her chest of blankets returns to mind folded in fond textures of the past.
The soft warm breeze hurries small pink flowers to my feet: I smell their fragrance in the blossoming air around mixed with the scent of fresh-baked bread from a bakery somewhere close.
But for a grey cat slumbering at the threshold of the Stationmasters’ office, I am the only one waiting for the train.
Without breaking the silence, a young gipsy with a long black braid claims my attention as she shuffles by in her slippers and makes her way beyond me down the platform.
An illuminated panel with flickering sign announces the arrival of the next train.
A wooden advertisement board is layered with decayed posters, echoing attentions called to ghosts of long passed products, tired hues of red and violet rasps, calling all comers to a long-passed circus show. Nothing is new here; even time feels abstract, as though the station exists only in a half-forgotten dream.
The train arrives. Rolling slowly, it ticks to a halt. A brunette woman looks indifferently at me through the window, reflections of distant cities in her eyes.
The doors hiss open and hesitation grips me as they clatter. I pause. The departure alarm begins beeping.
A forceful tug takes me by the elbow.
And there, I am suspended in the moment as we begin to pull away.
Create your life
On an early summer day, I am sitting at a small train station. Tall cypresses cut into the bright blue sky.
Across the railways, I see the back of a village hotel that crumbles in its antiquity. Its only open window spills a delicate lace curtain waving memories of my grandmother; her chest of blankets returns to mind folded in fond textures of the past.
The soft warm breeze hurries small pink flowers to my feet: I smell their fragrance in the blossoming air around mixed with the scent of fresh-baked bread from a bakery somewhere close.
But for a grey cat slumbering at the threshold of the Stationmasters' office, I am the only one waiting for the train.
Without breaking the silence, a young gipsy with a long black braid claims my attention as she shuffles by in her slippers and makes her way beyond me down the platform.
An illuminated panel with flickering sign announces the arrival of the next train.
A wooden advertisement board is layered with decayed posters, echoing attentions called to ghosts of long passed products, tired hues of red and violet rasps, calling all comers to a long-passed circus show. Nothing is new here; even time feels abstract, as though the station exists only in a half-forgotten dream.
The train arrives. Rolling slowly, it ticks to a halt. A brunette woman looks indifferently at me through the window, reflections of distant cities in her eyes.
The doors hiss open and hesitation grips me as they clatter. I pause. The departure alarm begins beeping.
A forceful tug takes me by the elbow.
And there, I am suspended in the moment as we begin to pull away.
Across the railways, I see the back of a village hotel that crumbles in its antiquity. Its only open window spills a delicate lace curtain waving memories of my grandmother; her chest of blankets returns to mind folded in fond textures of the past.
The soft warm breeze hurries small pink flowers to my feet: I smell their fragrance in the blossoming air around mixed with the scent of fresh-baked bread from a bakery somewhere close.
But for a grey cat slumbering at the threshold of the Stationmasters' office, I am the only one waiting for the train.
Without breaking the silence, a young gipsy with a long black braid claims my attention as she shuffles by in her slippers and makes her way beyond me down the platform.
An illuminated panel with flickering sign announces the arrival of the next train.
A wooden advertisement board is layered with decayed posters, echoing attentions called to ghosts of long passed products, tired hues of red and violet rasps, calling all comers to a long-passed circus show. Nothing is new here; even time feels abstract, as though the station exists only in a half-forgotten dream.
The train arrives. Rolling slowly, it ticks to a halt. A brunette woman looks indifferently at me through the window, reflections of distant cities in her eyes.
The doors hiss open and hesitation grips me as they clatter. I pause. The departure alarm begins beeping.
A forceful tug takes me by the elbow.
And there, I am suspended in the moment as we begin to pull away.
gipsy
the past
early
dream
circus
abstract
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Genia
Ivashchenko
Ivashchenko