King’s cross #8sunday

This post is part of Weekend Writing Warriors, the weekly hop for everyone who loves to write! You can sign up  here with your name, blog and email and share an 8 to 10 sentence snippet of your writing on Sunday. Your post needs to be live between 12:00 noon on Saturday 08/19/17 and 09:00 AM on Sunday 08/20/17. Visit the other participants on the list and read, critique and comment on their 8sunday posts.

I’m sitting on the Eurostar, soaring from Paris towards London and for the first time I have working wi-fi. The wonders of modern technology! After her sejour with aunt Paris and the tragic news of the car accident that killed her parents and brother. Returning to her country is not safe for the moment, so she continues her great tour of Europe to London. I find train journeys strangely soothing and an excellent opportunity to write and edit (except when I fall asleep from the swaying motion of the train…)

The train pulled into St. Pancras station and I thought, for at least the hundredth time, that Pancras was a very silly name for a saint. It just didn’t make sense. It sounded like a mixture of “plane crash” and “pancake”, not to mention “pancreas.” Why would you torture your child with such a name when you could call him Peter or Paul or something. Why Pancras?

I preferred King’s cross, a name which sounded strangely fate-ridden to me now. This was the place where royals arrived and this is where I first set foot in Albion.

Where was this King going anyway? Did he cross the sea to visit his daughter he’d sent in to a cloister to bribe God into blessing his country? Did he go to visit his continental mistress who had more passion in her than all the aristocratic English ladies in his court? 

The Meeting place by Paul Day at St. Pancras station

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