New Project
I've been busy being creative. You all know I love to write, so I turned my hand to children's stories recently. It's a lot harder than you would think!
PrincessPoot · 56-60, F
afreshstart77 · 61-69, M
@PrincessPoot
You know, I never minded the quiet.
A railway halt has its own kind of music.
The wind in the wires. The creak of the signal arm.
The rustle in the hedgerow that means Pip is about.
But it was the children who gave it all… meaning.
They’d come tumbling down the lane, all buttoned-up and bright-eyed, waiting for the 3:15.
And they’d see me there in my signal box, and… they’d wave.
Just a little wave.
But it became a kind of ritual.
After a while, they started asking questions.
What’s that bird called? Does the fox live here? Where does the badger go?
And I’d tell them.
Not just facts… but little stories.
Because children don’t just want to know what something is—they want to knowwhoit is.
So I’d tell them about Bramwell the Hedgehog, who wasn’t prickly at all once you got to know him—just terribly shy.
Or Pip the Rabbit, who was braver than he looked, especially when it came to finding the sweetest clover.
And Saffron… that beautiful white-tailed fox who seemed to watch over them all, like a quiet guardian.
Their faces…
I’ll never forget their faces.
Eyes wide, imaginations alight.
For those few minutes, this platform wasn’t just a place to wait.
It was a place tobelieve. They’d clutch their little suitcases and listen, and for a while…
the world felt gentle.
And so did I.
When the train would come, they’d climb aboard still looking back, waving through the window.
And I’d stand here, watching until the train rounded the bend and the quiet settled again.
But it was a different kind of quiet.
A warmer one.
Then… things changed.
The trains came less.
The platform grew still.
And one day, I realised… no one had waved in a long, long time.
That silence…
It wasn’t peaceful anymore.
It was hollow.I’d sit here and see Bramwell rustling in the leaves, or Pip twitching his nose by the tracks…
and I’d think,There’s a story there.
But there was no one to tell it to.
So I started writing them down.
In here.
(He gently lifts a worn, leather-bound journal.)
Every tale I’d ever told, and ones I hadn’t yet found the words for.
I wrote about Pip’s courage, Bramwell’s kindness, Saffron’s quiet wisdom.
About the world just beyond the platform—the one we could only see if we really looked.
I wrote them for the children who were no longer here…
and for the ones I hoped might come, one day.
I wrapped this book in oilcloth and tucked it away in a dry corner of the signal box.
Not hidden… just waiting.
Because stories… good stories… they don’t fade.
They sleep.
And one day, someone wakes them.
That day is here.
The tales are found.
And somewhere, I hope a child is listening.
Somewhere, I hope a parent is reading aloud.
Somewhere, Brackenlowe Halt is alive with imagination again.
That…
That was always the point.
You know, I never minded the quiet.
A railway halt has its own kind of music.
The wind in the wires. The creak of the signal arm.
The rustle in the hedgerow that means Pip is about.
But it was the children who gave it all… meaning.
They’d come tumbling down the lane, all buttoned-up and bright-eyed, waiting for the 3:15.
And they’d see me there in my signal box, and… they’d wave.
Just a little wave.
But it became a kind of ritual.
After a while, they started asking questions.
What’s that bird called? Does the fox live here? Where does the badger go?
And I’d tell them.
Not just facts… but little stories.
Because children don’t just want to know what something is—they want to knowwhoit is.
So I’d tell them about Bramwell the Hedgehog, who wasn’t prickly at all once you got to know him—just terribly shy.
Or Pip the Rabbit, who was braver than he looked, especially when it came to finding the sweetest clover.
And Saffron… that beautiful white-tailed fox who seemed to watch over them all, like a quiet guardian.
Their faces…
I’ll never forget their faces.
Eyes wide, imaginations alight.
For those few minutes, this platform wasn’t just a place to wait.
It was a place tobelieve. They’d clutch their little suitcases and listen, and for a while…
the world felt gentle.
And so did I.
When the train would come, they’d climb aboard still looking back, waving through the window.
And I’d stand here, watching until the train rounded the bend and the quiet settled again.
But it was a different kind of quiet.
A warmer one.
Then… things changed.
The trains came less.
The platform grew still.
And one day, I realised… no one had waved in a long, long time.
That silence…
It wasn’t peaceful anymore.
It was hollow.I’d sit here and see Bramwell rustling in the leaves, or Pip twitching his nose by the tracks…
and I’d think,There’s a story there.
But there was no one to tell it to.
So I started writing them down.
In here.
(He gently lifts a worn, leather-bound journal.)
Every tale I’d ever told, and ones I hadn’t yet found the words for.
I wrote about Pip’s courage, Bramwell’s kindness, Saffron’s quiet wisdom.
About the world just beyond the platform—the one we could only see if we really looked.
I wrote them for the children who were no longer here…
and for the ones I hoped might come, one day.
I wrapped this book in oilcloth and tucked it away in a dry corner of the signal box.
Not hidden… just waiting.
Because stories… good stories… they don’t fade.
They sleep.
And one day, someone wakes them.
That day is here.
The tales are found.
And somewhere, I hope a child is listening.
Somewhere, I hope a parent is reading aloud.
Somewhere, Brackenlowe Halt is alive with imagination again.
That…
That was always the point.
PrincessPoot · 56-60, F
Absolutely amazing
afreshstart77 · 61-69, M
