This is descriptive writing for my GCSE English Languague.
Cast the shadows out from sight
A final stand, a shouting cry
All the wrongs now turned to right
So fight the past, take back the night
A reflection of light visibly illuminating the grand terminal, sunlight reached with its fingers through unblemished, latticed glass. Every towering wall, every greyed tile, every inch of the vast station was now lit by the ablaze sun, like an omnipotent god. Somehow, it was present everywhere all at once.
Light bounced back into the station; given back like a stolen trophy. Polished, sheening rays creating an orange glow on the floor, a deep, golden sea in the station. Radiant rays promptly flooded the station, like a raging, blazing fire in a gigantic forest.
Glorious day fiercely conquered gloomy night: shadows cast out from sight.
Dangling lamps, upside down greyed bells steadily undulated from side to side, like a grandfather clock passing the time by. Cones reaching down, outstretched arms reaching out like desperate arms trying to grasp the surface.
Behind it all lived a thriving web of metal forest. Support poles, electric gantries and signals became spiders, avoiding the tracks, making a mess of web. A steel forest, with the towering poles intertwined densely like trees in the Amazon. The occasional sound of animals scuttling had been replaced with the buzzing of electric current above the railway.
Robust, sturdy brick walls of the station, gradually worn down over decades of diligent operation, protected the extensive platforms like a loyal factory worker.
Further back still lay a winding, curving, confusing network of sun-baked rails, all contributing to the maze: the final goal was to reach the station in the middle, an impenetrable goal unless you were in a 40-ton elephant. Poles weaved through the dense forest of metal like a narrow, winding footpath through a woodland, like a gleaming river snaking through the bottom of a deep valley.
Meanwhile, inside, straight, crystal white hands on the clean, dustless clock quietly ticked, as the time slowly passed by, resting on a grey, clean pole.
It was sleepy morning, when most were still dormant in their comfortable, snug beds, like a fallen, undisturbed log. Yet these odd passengers leisurely awaited the train like impatient, rebellious children waiting for school to be over.
Standing prominently, the station was constructed impressively under an immense arch, with vast iron rods stretching the entire length of the platforms. Suspended above the seemingly endless station, the intertwined beams forever united. Steel plated struts bravely braced the roof from harsh, gustywinds fiercely blowing like a gusty, violent hurricane.
Lying dormant on the elevated canopy, like a lighthouse over a cliff, was a statue of a bulky, obsidian bear, heavily dozing on the peaceful station, protecting, monitoring, overseeing and guarding every train. It was skilfully sculpted from oak wood; every curve carefully cut by a master craftsman. It respectfully watched over and guarded the metal network behind the station, personally caring for every single tree in the dense web of woodland.
They looked down upon a compact shop. A shining metal rack fathered the newest papers, the aroma of paper flooding the immediate area around the stall, like a new thriller novel fresh off the press. You could taste the delicious sensation of hot dogs slowly roasting over a cooker, their gloopy, thick grease dripping deep into the machine.
On the other side lay a reclaimed, verdant platform. Being liberated from the duties of trains, now the luscious green moss and greenery overflowing onto the released platform, the once area now luscious and vibrant, like a delightful national park: rich, flourishing and thick with vegetation.
Barely perceptible was a very quiet, muffled conversation. Voices subdued and faint. Less audible than a white feather gradually drifting down onto the soft, wooden floor. Deciphering or making out the words was near impossible, with echoing whispers through many empty and clear platforms.
Passengers rested on soft, luxury wood benches, closing around them like a warm hug. Three identical bronze wooden panels appeared untouched yet also cared for - as if the few outcasts who used the trains cared for the seats like long-lost family members.
Relaxing on one of these chairs was a thrilled, overjoyed young man, gleaming and bright. He bounded onto a gleaming train the very second the clean, scarlet doors opened
A face was a rolling soft desert, his polished clear skin and silky. Neat brown hair was carefully brushed on his head, with a soothing scent surrounding him. A long loved cyan shirt clung to him, telling stories of a thousand adventures with deep, worn blue jeans, slightly frayed at the bottom.
He began to whisper to himself: ‘I can’t wait for the train to arrive!’
The only other passenger was an esteemed, senior man, with silky white strands of hair placed on his head like spaghetti, telling a century of stories, stories from years gone past.
Despite his apparent age, he moved like a toddler: unable to steadily walk, as if trying to find his mother. Each leg suspiciously probed the ground; unsure if every step was safe and secure.
Weakly waddling through the carriage, in, he reminisced on a time when he remained young and bold, budding and immature. He worked long hours at this very station – a time when the trains ran in and out like a tipped bucket, the station bustling and hectic.
A time where commuters were sardines, packed into an overcrowded station, grasping to reach the city as if it was their last hope.
A piercing whistle, the screech unpleasantly grating your ears. The thunderous rumble returned as the mammoth started to accelerate, rolling out of the now completely silent, grand station, effortlessly navigating the maze of rusted trees.
The quiet, desolate station waves a final farewell to the departing train. It felt the rushing flow of memories, memories of disorganised pandemonium: when there was a flowing sea of different faces, queues snaking around the station, constant gushes of wind with the many different trains rocketing through the hectic, swamped station.
Now, the tranquil, hushed place stays at rest, steady and content, accepting its new role as a secluded, remote station, but still secretly longing for the years that have long since passed.