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A very sweet book. If you enjoyed The Little Prince, I reckon you'd like this :)

TwistAPlot, an early 1980s knock-off of the ubiquitous Choose Your Own Adventure series for children, featured a number of scenarios in which "you" played a major role in unravelling some manner of underhanded deception, or in surviving an archaic land, or perhaps even living with a sudden physical anomality such as becoming invisible. The second in the series, The Train of Terror, is a maudlin escapade which unfolds aboard a train destined to Twin Falls, Idaho, from an unnamed locality referred to as "your hometown" (which patently excludes "your hometown" from being Twin Falls, Idaho, the seventh largest city in the state which would have held a population of just over 26, 000 people at the time of the book's initial release). The tale itself presents no real intellectual challenge for the mature reader - due to the miniscule size of the tome itself, bearing numerous pages of so-called "alternate paths" and accompanying illustrations, each individual "path" leads into a story of only a handful of pages. Very little room for in-depth plot or vivid character development. Instead, the social relevence of The Train of Terror comes from each individual reader of the book - why does one choose the options one does? Given the limited selection of "this or that" choices which, in turn, direct the reader to its own inividual arc of simplistic fiction, there is a basic thought process inolved over choosing one seemingly innocuous option over another. Left or right? Here or there? Yes or no? There are no correct answers... and yet one choice may lead to an ostensible "happy ending," whereas the alternative leads to the main character's (i.e. your) fictional demise. In short, The Train of Terror presents itself as a potential medium for in-depth self-study. To more fully understand this concept, allow me to guide the way through one possible storyline (as initially chosen by me, as reader): Upon entrance of the train to Twin Falls, Idaho (which, interestingly enough, would have had an immoderately high crime rate for a municipality of its humble size, a standing of approximately twice that of the national level per capita), I am presented with the option of sitting alongside a "beautiful woman" with a pet carrier (which I decide must be carrying a dog, statistically speaking), or next to a disfigured yet silent gentleman (herein labelled "Scarface" by the author). I opt for the gentleman, as I had no interest in being seated next to a live animal for what could potentially be a long trip. Also, the sexual tension and discomfort would be at a minimum if not seated near the apparently "beautiful woman." In other words, I opted to sit next to Scarface because of some deep-seated hangup associated with the opposite sex along with fear of the unknown "animal" in the carrier. Scarface, grunting as if mute, attempts to sieze my pencil from my hand while I decipher a cryptogram. A choice is now rendered: Do I allow the man to take my pencil, or not? Due to the fact that I am uncertain as to the man's intentions, or his psychological profile, I make the decision to become passive and allow him this small liberty. That is to say, becoming fearsome of unnecessary confrontation, I acquiesce to the strange man. The gentleman painstakingly scrawls the message: DANGER IN BOX GO BAGGAGE CAR RUN. My options, as presented, are to take the written advice as offered and make haste to said location, or to "decide that he's kidding." Once again, taking the path of least resistance, I decide upon the former choice. Within the baggage car, I discover another pet carrier, identical to that which was in the possession of the "beautiful woman." According to the book's text, I am greatly incensed by this apparent cruelty to the caged beast (the nature of which is not revealed by this point), and I am given the opportunity to "release the animal" by turning to PAGE 49, or to "decide it's none of your business" by reading PAGE 50. By now, a sense of false bravado has crept into my reader's heart, and I take the plunge into PAGE 49 - the first real move of selfless bravery shown by me since having picked up the book. Unfortunately, the "beautiful woman" had followed me from my seat into the baggage car. She is expressing her anger toward my hubristic man-handling of her secondary pet carrier, and demands that I not touch her belongings. And once again, the storyline forks: Do I, or do I not, decide upon releasing the animal? Having had my earlier surge of pluck and mettle quashed by subsequent events, I opt to eave the carrier alone, sequestered amongst the other baggage within the car. And in this way do I arrive at an ending. The scarred man - he who had requested that I "GO BAGGAGE CAR RUN" - materialized from beyond the doorway, overpowered the "beautiful woman," explained the bizarre set of circumstances regarding the passanger coach into which I had originally traipsed, and informed me that I had aided in the prevention of our train being "hauled away by awaiting enemy locomotive and put on a ship for Outer Rroberia." And thus, the story ends with the moral: "Be kind to animals." Of course, no such animal had ever appeared within this particular unveiling of happenings, so this moral-of-sorts serves as a trite veil to mask the soul-searching questions which precluded the ending. Upon further reflection, it seemed that my selection of moderate decisions - infused with the singular emboldened move - was rewarded by the emergence of a "happy ending." A confidence-bolstering, self-affirming activity wrapped up in the inoffensive guise of a light read. ...Or should it be so simple? This conclusion excludes, obviously, what may have happened should I have made a different choice (or choices) along the way. Could my surrogate self have survived so smugly if I had displayed fortitude earlier within the story? Or later? Or... not at all? Only a rereading of the text would grant this knowledge for certain. And so, at a later point in time, The Train of Terror will be awaiting upon my bookshelf.