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  from Going Home by Jack Wolfe Frost

Going Home
Flash Fiction

The train rumbles on as I stare blankly at the scenery passing before me. The train has always run along this route. Years ago it would puff great plumes of steam as it trundled along to its destination. Now, the hum of the diesel engine and it’s monotony replaces the steam.

My thoughts are elsewhere though - I know the route, so well etched from my youth. Sandy red desert, almost featureless and only distant scarred mountains to break the scenery. My mind hears the bleating of the goats and sheep, the smell of the pigs; it feels the wind in my hair from the open wagon.







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