Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: STEAM (12/03/15)
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TITLE: Whiffs of Hope | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marlene Bonney
12/06/15 -
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Suddenly, the coal-fed engine entered a frigid wind squall, its labored, steamy breath blowing exaggerated cloudy puffs out of the smokestack that eventually made their way back to the passenger windows. Excitement gripped the still-awake children as the dissipating clouds took on shapes that tickled their imaginations.
“Look at THAT one,” Jimmy hollered, “its making rings like headmaster Gray’s cigar!”
“Maybe the Indians are sending smoke signals to other tribes to attack us,” Sallie Sue shivering at the thought.
Samantha tucked her legs underneath the shabby too-short gingham dress she had picked out of a donated missionary barrel, craning her neck up to the higher window pane. Unlike the other orphanage rejects, she remained silent, spinning dreams of gold in her head like the miller’s daughter in the fairy tale of “Rumpelstiltskin.”
Wiser than her years because of all she had seen—deprivation, evil, neglect, poverty and death—Samantha refused to live in reality, choosing rather to exist in the make-believe world she had created. The next puff turned into a loving father figure who reminded her of the heavenly Father she prayed to every night. Beside him floated a smoky shape swirling into a mother cuddling a baby in one soft arm while the other encircled Samantha at her side. These imaginary parents would never desert her, even if they were poor. Her growling, empty stomach saw a table materializing in the misty steam, filled with garden vegetables, fresh-caught, fried fish from a nearby lake, and spicy current jellies for the still hot load of bread covered by a holey, but clean, piece of cloth from her mother’s ragbag.
Abruptly, the steam disappeared while the train slowed to a crawl.
“Blast it—another gawking welcome committee,” older Martha Ann complained, “don’t’ get your hopes up, kids. It’s just another group of churchy do-gooders who only want to window-shop.”
The children grew nervous as they climbed down the cold metal steps out of the first passenger car. The crowd of ladies was brushing soot off their fancy hats while men stamped their dusty boots, boldly searching the children’s faces and bodies. One older couple obviously was on the prowl for strong farmhands, and walked hurriedly away when there were only spindly prospects. Headmistress Clair made a mental note to stuff straw into the thinner children’s clothing before the next stop. The orphanage could not afford to keep the boarders any longer, funds from benefactors drying up as surely as her spinster countenance waxed into permanent lines of worry and disappointment.
The train’s conductor grew impatient, studying his pocket watch, as the train’s smokestack blew out a loud bellow of steam to signal imminent departure. The townspeople quickly dispersed, empty-handed as they were empty-hearted.
“Told ya so,” Martha Ann quickly swiped at an escaping tear making its way onto the threadbare woolen coat collar that scraped her air-reddened neck.
"And, YOU, Missy,”-- headmistress Clair boxed at Samantha’s ear--“you can just start talking if you ever want to be chosen!”
The rumbling engine came to life with renewed persistence. There were no sudden head winds on the next journey, no made-up happy families, no hope.
Little Emma, the baby of the group, lay sobbing in a dejected heap beside Samantha.
“’There, there, honey, things will be better next time,” the older girl clumsily patting her back, and lifting up a little prayer that it would be so, and she imagined her prayer on the steamy cloud rings rising into the sky from the engine’s smoking stack.
The steam engine began struggling up the tenth hill, but, unlike the little engine that could, came to a powerless stop just shy of its intended destination to Caldwell, at a tiny village called Hope Springs. The lone church’s service having just dismissed, the dying haven welcomed all the orphans with open arms.
The newly-adopted children did not even wave as the recently coal-loaded orphan-less train containing only the conductor, the furnace man and headmistress Clair, steamed away.
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When writing historical fiction, we need to be careful of allusions that refer to events after the time period about which we are writing, such as Shakespeare's famous clock chiming in, I believe, ancient Rome. The orphan trains concluded their journeys in 1929, and the first publication of The Little Engine that Could was 1930.
I wish you had had enough words to have painted more vividly the choosing of the children, the special characteristics that each couple saw through the pitiful exterior of each child.
Nice vivid imagery and descriptions in this tender story.
God bless~