from Meg Tuite’s “Wien,” now at Pure Slush:
Oh my God, this place is heaven. We’re in Firenze and we got off the train and had to close our eyes because the people here are so damn beautiful, it’s distorted! We are doing the espresso bars by day and Stefanos and Francescos by night. Wish you were here. Love B & T.”
It’s true, the population was dumbfoundingly pretty, but we walked the streets and talked of the great bagels we couldn’t get in a place that had the most outrageous food and bottles of Pinot Grigio for four bucks, while sleazy, fat men and boys followed us grabbing our asses and spitting obscenities between missing teeth.
Meg Tuite’s “Eurail Pass” appeared in the April 22, 2011 issue of TrainWrite.
An excerpt from Ian Brown’s The Boy in the Moon:
Laurent (also known as Lorenzo, because he was born in Italy) was trim and well dressed; he made a soft moaning noise as he ate, and liked to walk into a room and then stand stock-still for long stretches. Lydie, a young woman from the south of France who was Laurent’s assistant, said, “Laurent loves trains. He has all sorts of books about trains.”
“Train!” Laurent said, in French. It was the only word I ever heard him speak.
“C’est ça,” Lydie replied.
I pull into my usual parking spot under the shoddy carport, and hear the Amtrak train approach. The station is a convenient walk across the street, but you always walked me anyway on those days when I took the train home to Bakersfield.
I always write better on trains.
The first night we slept here, the whistles kept us awake, and we laughed at how blindsided we’d been, new to Fresno and somehow unaware of our proximity to the tracks. That was three years ago. You followed me here, from the consistency and reliability of the desert, because you always said I could be a writer, and less than two hours from my hometown felt like the right place to try.
KES, “Hanging in the Unkempt Fur”
The wine made us silly, left my head with less than I’d brought with me, and Estelle and I took the subway home, because it was more romantic, she’d said, and made love with the sounds of 9th Avenue leaking into our room like a thunderstorm.
Danny Goodman, from his soon-to-be published (I just know it!) short story “If You Waited Here, You Would See Almost Everything”