Competition Showcase – Collision by Fran Tracey

This section of the website showcases stories by Writing Magazine competition runners-up.

Collision, by Fran Tracey, Ruislip, Middlesex, was runner-up in the WM Journey competition. The competition celebrated the centenary of Jules Verne, who died in 1905. Commemorating his most famous story, Around the World in 80 Days, entrants were asked to write a story about a journey.
The winning story, The Final Journey, Esther Chilton, Thatcham, Berkshire, features in the March issue of Writing Magazine.

The judging comments are on the last page
Posted: 10 February 2006

Taking maternity leave from her job as a librarian gave Fran Tracey the time to take up writing. She has already had a couple of short stories published in women’s magazines and has a regular column in a local magazine for families. ‘I prefer writing humorous stories,’ says Fran, ‘but it has always been my darker stories that have been published - so there's a lesson to be learnt there.’ Fran is also a member of the Internet-based Group ‘Wild Geese’ writers’ group.

Collision

Fran Tracey

The train shuddered to a halt.
‘Late again,’ I muttered. The man opposite me gave me a small, wry grin. Since our move to the country my daily commute had become nightmarish. Barely suppressed expletives filled the stifling carriage. Several minutes passed. The train remained still; there was no announcement. From my window seat I watched sheep grazing in a field and a solitary farmer crossing a stile. Idyllic scenes to muse upon in more relaxing circumstances, maybe. But these circumstances were not ideal. I did not want to be late again. And maybe the scene outside was not as idyllic as it appeared. Beside me an angry man called his secretary, his loud tone clearly stating his sense of his own importance.
‘Well, put them off for an hour,’ he demanded and finished the call without a goodbye. People were becoming tetchy, shifting in their seats, careful to avoid physical contact with those next to them. For this, at least, I was grateful.

Twenty minutes crawled by. I was daydreaming. But today I could not conjure my favourite meditative fantasies of blue skies and empty beaches. I could not empty my mind of unhappy thoughts.
Simon and I had argued before I left the house. A silly row about collecting milk and vegetables; but all too common these days. Since Simon’s classically corny affair with his secretary we had supposedly patched things up. I had found them in bed together in our London flat, she had dressed and fled, I had lost control. The next few months were hell; Simon grovelled, I sulked, and resentment built. Once we had reached a truce I found it hard to trust him. I no longer wished to live in our London flat.
The train jerked forward a few metres.
‘At last,’ the man opposite me smiled. I caught his eye and looked away. Heads around me were raised hopefully, but soon dropped again to their laptops and newspapers when the train slowed to a stop once more. I avoided eye contact with anyone, unwilling to connect with those around me. They were strangers to me. I feared the next stage of our collective reaction when barriers were let down and we began to bewail the transport system.

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