on trying to come to talk to you, but there are problems in transit
Umme Hoque
First, there was a thud. It echoed through the air, with a crisp sound that resonated throughout our entire train car.
I didn’t pay attention at first. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see tourists and small children acting and reacting. Small shouts and holding hands. Grasps, sighs. Looking up from whatever was distracting them a minute ago to see what was happening. The train was temporarily dark; after all, we were in the tunnel connecting the Altman island and main city. The blackness seemed to confuse them even further.
But locals? We didn’t respond. We knew that there were always strange sounds on the train; sudden stops and delays. Odd moments that made you question if taking the train was worth it - but you always came back on. It was your only option. And so you become immune to the experience.
Moments passed. I turned my music up; something would happen soon.
The train jerked slowly, and made a loud roar as it slowly lurched forward. We would continue.
The journey roared along for a few minutes. I turned my head to glance out the window, but we were still in the tunnel, so there was nothing to see outside. I touched the glass and thought briefly of the reality of my journey. The thought that this would be my last time talking to her, and that I needed to have the perfect conversation, but I didn't. I traced her name on the glass and became wrapped in the magic of the moment. It is too much, and I cannot turn my heart away.
I was lost in thought when it stopped again. This time was chaotic; we hadn’t been going at full force, but it felt as though something had smashed into the car. Our speed was consequential; our experience was overwhelming. My head jerked to the left from the force. Had something hit us from the side?
That was the only option that made sense. I paused my music and waited for the cracky voice of the train driver to come on the speaker, to tell us what exactly was going on. That would provide the answer I was seeking.
Minutes passed with no explanation. No sounds. I waited. We all waited.
Suddenly, the light turned off. A woman screamed, a baby cried. And then all went silent. Little did we know that we would never hear another voice. Little did we know we'd never be seen again.
Umme (she/her) is a writer, editor and organizer. Originally from Texas, she currently lives in Albuquerque after spending many years overseas in Australia and the United Kingdom. She writes about the world we live in, the memories we get lost in, the past we keep running from, and the future we could build together, fusing culture, politics, technology and media.