The Goodnight Station

By Georgia Honey

The Goodnight Station follows the journey of a man awoken unto purgatory; whose soul duty is that of the caretaker of the train station which services those who are on their way toward their dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: For Mimi
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223004837

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Goodnight Station

It began as a dream ,

And ended as a story,

Where the sun don’t ever shine,

Is where our hero found his glory.

It began in a field,

Filled with fog and little light,

Where our hero’s journey ends,

Comes the birth of every night.

To this day, our poor man,

Holds but little recollection,

Of the day when he awoke,

On a train's intersection.

With no bearing on this world,

And no purpose but to walk,

Our poor man did just that,

Until he found his first flock.

Some say they were sheep,

With shut eyes and closed peepers,

Whence our man came to find,

The kingdom of the day-sleepers.

Who are these tired souls?

These tired eyes and sleeping masses?

Sound asleep across the fields,

Like the hills of Calabasas.

One sleeper, two sleeper, 

Ten dozen miles more,

Of these sound asleep bodies,

Safe from storms, and washed ashore;

In this strange and old place,

Without a sea and without stars,

It was then when he first heard,

The arrival of train cars.

Choo-choo went one line,

Chugga-chugga came the others,

Soon, the line, backed up and weary,

Huddled together like rusted iron brothers.

With no memory of whence he came,

He saw a sight for sore eyes:

A lone train’s station,

Stood above the rail ties.

He crept quick inside,

To find no one was home,

And yet, this long line,

Had found nowhere to roam.

Ten dozen, twelve dozen,

Twelve miles far aback,

Each train car, wholly empty,

Sat still, and painted black.

It was then when our poor man,

Put two and two together,

That these snoring, tired masses, 

Belonged inside these train’s feathers;

Unlike any he had seen,

These train cars shared in common,

One empty bed inside,

For one empty, sleeping straw-man.

Perhaps, if on purpose,

This train station had one goal:

To pair each and every train car,

With one sleeping, tired soul.

And so, he got to work,

Dragging one body in one bed,

He was careful with the legs,

And careful with the head.

He picked one man, for the slaughter,

A man with skin as smooth as oak,

And when he was in bed,

Our poor man smirked, as if a joke.

It looked oddly silly,

This old man, laid to slumber,

But little did he know,

Our hero had earned his first number.

From the ceiling, hung a string,

Red as blood nearly dried,

And, when pulled, this strange string,

There came a noise that nearly cried;

Outward, across the field,

A lone whistle of a tune,

Our hero had done the impossible,

At an invisible high-noon.

To his shock, and his surprise,

The train car began to chug,

But before it could leave,

There was one thing left to tug.

Inside the station, old and weary,

A machine of some kind,

And when pulled, the string of wonder,

A golden ticket, came to find;

The hand of our hero,

Who admired the ticket with much glee,

Found, he did, our poor hero,

A surely strange sight to see:

As if by magic, or by blood,

Words appeared across the surface,

A riddle to be read,

And for one sleepy purpose:

She guides me on this path,

And, hand in hand, we walk,

Past the candlelit houses,

’Till we reach the door we knock,

Her father opens it, and frowns,

At the sight of this young man,

I’m there to ask for her hand in marriage,

Though I was never aware of the plan.

At first, he scratched his head,

As he looked at the ticket, moreover,

Then there came a thought to his mind,

Like the luckiest four-leaf clover.

Our hero dawned a smile,

As he read the words aloud,

He had placed the final piece,

Of this puzzle, and was proud;

This strange poem, a conundrum,

Surely, it would seem,

Were the very private details,

Of a very private dream.

Aha, said our hero,

"I’ve done it, I surely have,

Found the reason for this station,

Not for cattle or for calves;

But for peace, and for charity,

Inside of these silk seams,

I’m to send these sullen sleepers,

Off to their very dreams."

Quick to work, he was once more,

With a brush in his hand and paint on every bristle,

He wrote across the station’s walls,

The one name these trains would whistle;

In this land without location,

Nor a sun nor a nation,

There came the very first vocation:

Forever known as: ‘The Goodnight Station.’

Chapter 2: The Never-ending Line

For a long little while ,

Our hero worked the line,

Without pay and without a boss,

It was all very fine.

Stacking bodies in each car,

He sent them on their way,

If this land had a sun,

He would work away the day.

One car, two car,

A dozen cars at best,

He would work until he couldn't,

To send them to their rest.

For a ticket, then a poem,

For a tug of the red string,

Twas no price to ride this line,

Twas surely the strangest thing.

The poems brought him joy,

As he pictured their events in his head,

He wondered if this was his salary,

In lieu of a loaf of bread.

As the hundredth car had sent,

He had an important thought,

To count these strange train sleepers,

Until his mind would rot.

With chalk in hand he marked them,

Across the wall with one dash each,

Perhaps this was but foolish,

But perhaps he had to teach;

A lesson to himself,

As the very first conductor,

That one must never lose count,

Especially the lone instructor.

But, however,

Wondered our conductor with glee,

Was there a quota to be filled?

Or was there only just he?

Come to think,

Thought this thinker,

I’m the only one who’s walking,

And so he went to tinker,

Ignoring his latest flockling.

He wandered the station halls,

Without a soul or sight to see,

Am I the only thing here?

Is it all just old me?

In the last room that he searched,

There was one offbeat thing,

A small wooden box,

That gave his heart a sting;

Across its surface there read,

A sign that said ‘complaints,’

Had he made this box appear?

Within his mind of all constraints?

He smiled at this joke,

Feeling afraid, just a little,

Then he wrote himself a poem,

With enthusiasm, brittle.

To ease my limbs,

And my mind,

Perhaps send these sleepers,

In cars of their own kind.

He folded the slip,

And slipped it inside,

With little hope he wondered,

If this would change the tide.

On the two hundredth sleeper,

The conductor felt fatigue,

It was then that came the cars,

Of their very own league.

Twas the first sight to see,

A car, with passenger preloaded,

Draped in blue and white silk sheets,

It seemed the conductor had surely goaded;

The first line of cars,

With sleepers all aboard,

No longer would this conductor,

Heavy lift them all onboard.

With one tug of the red string,

The conductor had surely found,

That these new set of tickets, as well,

Had much more inbound.

I ache, my sordid mistress,

Read the ticket, draped in gold,

And, along with this poem,

Gave the name, and just how old;

This passenger was,

Skin like silk,

Jonathon Jacobs, fifty five,

And a face as white as milk.

Though the conductor knew not,

Of what the little numbers meant,

He welcomed their addition,

And on, the passengers went.

If this is how it was to be,

This job was but a cinch,

Then a thought came,

That gave his mind a pinch;

I’m not alone at all, am I?

No, surely, it can’t be,

That that box appeared,

Without another ‘he.’

He crept quietly inside,

The room where this box sat,

And, to his surprise,

He saw a uniform, green and gold,

And a little blue hat.

‘Conductor,’ read the hat,

‘In big trouble,’ thought the man.

I’ve earned myself a job,

Without so much as a plan.

Who was it, or what,

Had made these things appear?

There might just be a watcher,

That much was all clear;

If I’m to perform this duty,

With the utmost of pride,

I’m to need this station in tip-top shape,

And prepared for every ride.

He gathered masses of paper scraps,

From each and every nook,

And with not pen, but chalk and pencil,

He wrote his very first book:

To whom it may concern,

Read the first line of this journal,

Let this be this station’s guide,

Wrote our newfound colonel;

A manual, of sorts,

To govern how it would all run,

He thought of every need he could,

Until the book was done.

First and foremost,

A new chalkboard and some chalk,

To keep track of every sleeper,

Like a farmer to his stock.

No, not just chalk,

Chalk won’t do enough,

I’m to need stack on stack of paper,

And a supply of pencil rough.

And perhaps a library,

To fill with these counts, I wonder,

So I may never lose one soul,

Else I’ll fall to blunder.

He jotted each need out,

And, for every need, its due,

What more could he need?

What would help him get them through?

What have I got and what must I need?

Will they only come by train cars?

Or will they ride in on a...

An itch came to his mind,

As if searching for some invention,

What was the word he was looking for?

If he had never heard it, how could his mind mention?

With the first services requested,

He took a walk about,

And, to his shock,

There lay a library, now en route.

Filled with paper,

And books galore,

How much more would he need?

How much, much, much, much, more?

On one wall, perplexed him:

A painting of some need,

Underneath this strange creatures drawing, read:

‘The final sleeper’s steed.’

Where, before, had he heard this word?

This, ‘steed,’ Of course,

Where before had he seen this four-legged, mane flying, fur-covered...

Horse!

The conductor nearly jumped,

As he heard a voice behind him,

There sat a strange new machine, entitled the ‘Vocational Services Verbal Dictionary,’

Which appeared inside this library, and as if on a kind whim.

He first inspected it,

Then marveled, with such glee,

This job was made for him,

This job was made for he.

He scratched his head and wondered,

What more does this machine know?

Could it tell me where I am? 

Could it tell me where they go?

Ahem, cleared the man, 

Clearing his throat,

Where am I? He asked,

What is this strange...

Boat!

He jumped once more,

For this machine, ne’er could it fail,

What does a boat do? He asked.

Sail!

"To where are we sailing?

To where will we go?

Pardon me for wondering,

After all, how could I know,

Don’t all boats move?

Toward some strange, enchanting..."

Glow!

"Yes, toward, well... something:

If to ‘sail’ means to ‘move,’

This ‘boat,’ however, has no sails,

How can we find our groove?"

With no response to his earnest question,

He asked again, the same:

"Where am I? And,

Am I the one to blame;

For my makings, coming here,

The place I came to, after my roam,

Just where am I, exactly?"

Twas to this when the machine answered:

Home.

Home?

How could it be? Was it all a fact?

That the one thing this man needed,

Was the one thing that he lacked.

He cleared his throat, once more,

And tiptoed close to ask,

Am I... Alone here?

Twas when the machine said not one word,

But enough to ease his doubt,

A request, of the conductor:

Go outside and find out.

Against his intuition,

As he now felt afraid,

He went outside and saw,

Just what debt he had paid.

Glimmering, in faint light,

A sky made of cloud,

And, across this land, 

Fog-mists which would enshroud;

The grounds, whence they played,

Somersaulting and such,

This sight, in all its beauty,

Had been all too much.

Our hero’s eyes watered,

As he took upon the vast,

He ran back inside and hoisted,

This ship's mighty mast.

Quick to work, he jotted more,

Asking for each necessity,

Each and every nook and drawer:

Filled with books, which told many;

Stories of sleepers,

And waking souls, if there were any.

He spoke to the dictionary,

And it often spoke back.

What’s the name of the thing they ride on?

Why, that's a super train track!

And, to where does it lead?

That, I cannot tell you.

Why not? the man asked,

Do dogs bark when they bleed?

Sometimes, the answer, clear,

Was enough to understand,

Though, clearly, after trial and error,

This task was much too much for his hand;

And his head, which circled round,

As it tried to comprehend,

The strange nature of this place,

With which the train tracks learn to bend.

Though, much to do, he wasn’t all too worried,

As he furnished up the place,

He even found a pair of glasses,

Which he wore upon his face.

Yes, it all came into fruition,

The Goodnight Station, never through,

With the place now in business,

The conductor now had much to do:

Pull one string, send one down,

Stamp the ticket, read and frown,

As you try to uncover this conundrum,

Of what the wondrous dreams all mean,

The place where these sleepers go,

Is a sight you’ve never seen.

Perhaps, if I,

Wrote the conductor, 

Upon a piece of paper white as snow,

Perhaps if I, wrote some too,

I’d learn where they all go.

What’s a rhyme? He had asked,

After reading a poem which would beget,

"A rhyme is a set of words,

Which you’ll never soon forget."

With the books, which he had earned,

After his fifth batch of getting some,

He began a whole new practice,

Which kept his mind from going numb.

The shift went something like this:

Send a hundred sleepers,

Take a break to unpack,

The loads and loads of books he ordered,

To show that which he would lack;

To write a book,

Was all too easy,

To write a poem, much more a chore:

This job isn’t for the faint hearted,

This job is quite a bore.

Twas when, he soon discovered,

There was something he much more enjoyed,

Than to perform his purgatorial duties,

Of the job which he employed.

After each order, left unpacked,

He would sit on his new cot,

And write himself a poem,

That was always fun to jot.

To write a book, is all too easy,

To write a dream, so much more.

I feel I’ve an infinite wallet,

In a never-ending...

"Store!"

With his latest book,

A tutorial on paper airplanes,

He would write and fold a letter,

And sent it out onto the plains.

This practice, soon his mantra,

Became his daily creed,

If this world had had a sun,

He’d know just how many he’d freed.

His books said the sunlight’s gorgeous,

And the moon’s, evermore,

If he’d had an infinite wallet,

He’d own himself an infinite store.

Send a hundred, write one poem,

Though, that wasn’t just the trick,

He’d yet learned the trick of rhyming,

though, to this he’d always stick.

If, I, a set of words,

Across an infinite paper page,

Wrote our lone conductor,

Would I know my infinite...

Age!

With his latest rhyme,

Our conductor was but chuffed,

To learn, that always rhyming,

Was really, really, tough.

Send a hundred, 

perhaps a hundred more,

If I, an infinite wallet,

I’d own an infinite store.

What’s infinite?

He had asked,

The time that he had learned it,

"Why, you and me, of course,

You’ve done more than enough to have earned it!"

Earned what, exactly?

Exactly, exactly that.

Exactly, exactly, what?

An infinite little fact.

I still don’t understand.

"Believe you me, you might just yet,

To learn that those who learn to rhyme,

Are those who never learn to forget."

I still don’t understand!

Cried the conductor, arms raised,

"Don’t sweat it," Said the machine,

"You’re never too unphased;

To learn that times tricks yet stand still,

Upon this eternal hill,

For you, an infinite set of pages,

For an infinite number of ages.

Read the latest ticket, their name and number, if you please:

For those mighty little numbers, do much more than tell their ease."

You mean, this?

Said the conductor,

Eyebrows raised, and heart aquiver.

He held up the latest ticket,

A girl whose number: thirteen,

And whose name: Eliza Liver.

"Yes, quite," Answered the dictionary,

"That’s the very special page,

These tickets tell more of their journeys, their names and dreams,

Those little sullen numbers,

Represent their very age."

Age...

A word which had perplexed him,

Somehow more than his favorite new word: Infinite.

If there was one thing he’d ask about forever,

It’d be this number he’d inquisit.

"An age is how old,

Upon these tickets of gold."

How old?

Yes, quite.

How old is what?

How old is a number of years.

This head scratching nearly brought him,

To the brink of heroic tears.

A number of years?

"Yes, quite," Said the machine,

And how many years have I?

That much, I have not seen.

In the following shifts, 

Of unpacked books and sorry sleepers,

The dictionary’s answers,

Gave him the chill of many creepers.

Creeping, crawling, crouching sights!

"What are spiders? What are lights?

What’s this and that, and what’s a stocking?"

It was then when the machine had learned,

To finally stop talking;

Our hero, through sheer perseverance,

Had learned that learning’s easy,

When you stick to books, and reading,

Instead of talking to that machine, so sleazy;

No good, rotten, godawful!

Yes, this dictionary’s answers,

Were wholly unlawful.

When the conductor had sent five thousand dreamers,

He decided to stop asking the machine any questions,

Good riddance, he said,

"I hope you take this time to look within,

To teach the lie, that infinite,

Is perhaps the greatest sin."

Why have I, eternal?

And yet these sleepers all but pages,

In all of the books he read,

He found no answer about ages.

The more he sent on,

The more that he read,

The more answers he found, all his own,

Inside of his little bright head.

"I’ve no need for questions,

Any longer, any still,

I’ve got all the answers I need,

Atop this eternal hill."

Time went on, and nothing changed,

Save for the sleepers, which he sent,

Tall and short some had seemed,

And far more interesting than any paper airplanes he had bent.

For little while, he stopped writing,

And found his