Watching a Train Pass

  Today I had to stop at a train crossing as a high speed train came roaring by.  I looked over the graffiti on the train and it made me wonder.  So I asked AI to create me a short story on this topic and it did pretty well creating what I was thinking.

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The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm golden hue over the small town. My car was stopped before the train tracks, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against rails vibrating through the wheels of the car. The crossing gates were down, and the red lights blinked insistently, halting traffic in both directions.

The train approached—a colossal beast of metal and momentum. Its engine roared, and the ground trembled as if protesting the intrusion. My eyes fixed on the graffiti-covered cars that stretched into infinity. Each one was a canvas, a testament to the transient artistry of those who dared to leave their mark.

The graffiti told stories—the rebellious whispers of nocturnal artists, the secret language of wanderers. Some tags were cryptic, abstract symbols that defied interpretation. Others were bold declarations, names etched with pride. You wondered about the hands that wielded the spray cans—their motivations, their dreams, their hidden scars.

As the train hurtled past, I glimpsed snippets of these stories. A phoenix rising from flames adorned one car, its vibrant plumage defiant against the rusted steel. Further down, a melancholic face stared out—a portrait of longing, perhaps. And there, a cascade of geometric shapes merged seamlessly, a kaleidoscope of colors that blurred into motion.

The train’s speed was deceptive. It seemed slow, almost leisurely, yet it devoured distance with relentless purpose. I imagined the landscape beyond—the forgotten towns, the hidden valleys, the mountains that stood witness to countless crossings. The graffiti artists had left their mark on this transient canvas, knowing it would vanish into the horizon, swallowed by time.

A sudden gust of wind carried the scent of diesel and freedom.  The sun dipped lower, casting elongated shadows across the tracks. The train’s final cars disappeared around the bend, leaving behind an echo of thunder and a lingering sense of wonder.

As the gates lifted, I put the car into drive and proceeded forward, my heart still racing. The graffiti had imprinted itself on my soul—their messages of defiance, longing, and resilience. I wondered if the artists knew that their fleeting masterpieces had touched a stranger’s heart.

And so, I drove away from the train crossing, carrying with me the memory of that canvas of steel—a gallery of stories etched into the very fabric of movement.