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The Stowaway

A Melanie Black Short Story

· Short Stories by Melanie Black

Lurching, slowing, screeching to a halt

There was too much for me to hold on to-

Everything I'd gathered from the vault

I had to leave some though. I tried 

Guilty of greed rotting me from the inside


A life of tragedy- of going without

One I am not proud of

There's nothing shiny to boast about

That's why I did it- at least I tell myself

The story of I wrote to tuck up on a shelf


The wheels grind slowly from below

Moving steadily, picking up speed,

Promising to take me where I need to go

Somewhere dark and unseen,

Hiding the person I have been


A thief in the night, a thief of this train

I'm a Stowaway-through and through

I'll spend my life running from the pain

I won't be able to stop until my dying day

It's sad, but things just have to be that way


Sometimes the sadness takes me over

I search for something to make me smile

Hunting and picking for that four-leaf clover

Instead, here I ride, disguised on the rails

Never having found much luck along the trails


The rhythm of the engine, its purr along with its whine

Keeps me awake, away from dreams

But, really, with me, that's just fine

For it's in my slumbers that I think of death

Jumping from this speeding car while holding my breath


A man like me can never find redemption

It's not in my bones, my blood

Not in my pension

So tonight I sail through the midnight sky

On a metal ship of wheels, that doesn't why