Thoughts of a writer in mortality

On 082207, I was returning from the legacy writers conference in Detroit, where he conducted a workshop. I began the last leg of my train trip from New Orleans to Los Angeles, the euphoric feeling. (For those who do not know me, I love a train trip cross country every few years or so to take time to reflect, regroup and regenerate.) But why do not they

I had all my contacts without problems of Los Angeles, Detroit, then off the beaten path, Memphis, and then to Atlanta to see my oldest son (whom I had not seen in nearly two years) then back to New Orleans to take the standard midday train back to LA It was all good in the world, as the song says.

Ten hours later, however, open his mouth open, staring at me with dismay and shock. Against a backdrop of a sky of Texas, a triangle of lights flashing red, green and yellow, resembling a Christmas tree, had interrupted our journey by train. However, this was not a happy occasion, joyful. I knew it was a tragedy.

Talk about a bipolar experience. I was happy and content zip unwell and disoriented in seconds. It all started around 1030 pm, after I close my laptop and prepared to settle down to sleep.

Bam! I jumped with a start in what sounded like a sonic boom. What was that Next thing I know, I heard the most blood-curdling sounds than ever, hope to hear again in this life - that of the train wheels screaming and braking. This noise crashing through the air and seemed never end. The stench of burning metal filled the train. All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind.

What was happening Suddenly, the audience, staff and drivers, concise expressions on their faces, were running down the hallway to the front of the train. They do not tell us what had happened during the first hour. Not sure if they knew. I was near the rear of the train and in the corner, I realized that I had skated nearly a mile of the rail.

After the scandal, ran up to the observatory where I saw the police car after police car, fire trucks, cranes and cars coroner released through the night as the asteroids on the scene of the accident. We had hit a car. Unlike the dead deer, which hit the road in Los Angeles, they were human beings. What People

I do not know if I would change the train or what I was awake all the time. Later, a policeman came into our car at 330 am and be like I was the only one awake, asked if I had seen something. I told him what I heard, what we smelled. That's all I could attest.
By then he had learned that, apparently, three young men, who carried around the barrier, were killed.


He did not move until 330 am the next morning. We were running six hours late, (of what would become a long eight hours late), at that point. He never changed trains. Later, I learned that was 10 miles east of Houston when the accident occurred.

The next day, while watching the landscape of sage brush, cactus, desert, yucca plants, acacia trees, telephone wires, and reel windmills of my window, all I heard was the whistle of death . The train is the blood that called this train. The wheels kept moving forward despite the death, which is how life goes on. I just wanted someone coming, and this process with us, as they do in schools when tragedies occur. Is this post traumatic disorder

To process my feelings, I have spoken with different passengers. No doubt, three deaths. One of the passengers postulates that for the driver who has lost his car, he would have had to jump the tracks, endangering the lives of passengers on board. The driver
convicted car had taken the decision to go by rail. The passengers of traindidn't make that decision and should not have to suffer the consequences of another person of their choice wrong. This did not appease my troubled thoughts, but it made me think.
Maybe this is one of the dilemmas of life making a choice between the lesser of two evils. I wondered, in a case like this, does that change the drivers Or is that the same driver to continue in that period of service

How does one live with taking a life - even if it is an accident How to find redemption
I'm trying to make sense of all this tragedy. Is this the fault of the survivor Why them and not me Do not get me wrong. Glad to be here.

When we stopped that afternoon, I took a photo of the front of the train and saw that burned on the right side. Obviously, the car tried to beat the train and was beaten on the right side.

The way the train kept rolling along, I thought the metaphor of life. Just keep going after his death. I have only to move on.

The next day, I thought.

Somewhere some parents were in mourning. Perhaps college tuition had already taken
place, and life ended abruptly, hanging in the void as a slope map.

So what can we do as writers We note the joys, pains, sorrows, triumphs. For the next generation, we leave a map that we were here. In this way of life long after our death, a kind of Anne Frank made his day. This is how human behavior captured Shakespeare four hundred years ago, which is as true today.