The Lavender Pages
written by: Rae S. Earley (thestoryscripter)
A draft of winter found Mary’s exposed knuckles as she clenched her pen to her lavender journal’s diminishing pages. She drew a shaky breath, a transparent cloud exuding from her lips. All around, fellow passengers huddled for warmth. Strangers embraced one another, emptying their suitcases of spare blankets and layers. Near the back, muffled whimpers mixed with the wail of the wind.
Mary huddled into the window, indifferent to the numbness in her shoulder. Shifting to another position was impossible, given the tilt of the derailed train into the slope. Snow had begun to build up, cocooning them in frosty arms. Her penmanship trembled ––
…Today’s not as bad as the past four, but that could be because some have gone deathly quiet. Are they the first of us to deboard?
Her fingers whimpering for relief, Mary relinquished her daily log and buried her hands in the cuffs of her coat. She quietly scolded herself for writing so little, but motivation was failing her. The growl of someone’s digestive complaints reminded the car of 79 of their mournful predicament. Crumbs were devoured days ago, and with no furnace to melt snow for water, it would be feeble to collect.
“Someone should at least try to find help while we still have strength,” a woman in a moth-eaten coat quivered.
“It’s suicide,” another wailed, sending her hands into a friction frenzy. “The nearest town is days away. A storm could come up out of nowhere.”
“I’d rather try than just sit here till spring!”
More voices rose up and Mary instinctively opened her journal again ––
…they’re fighting again about our next move. Sitting idly is deplorable, but what other choice do we have? The rest of the train is hundreds of feet down in the ravine, surely afire and lost to the elements. I fear that any shift in its weight could send us careening.
Night saw the train remnants bathed in silence and dread. Wolves howled and the wind relentlessly seeped into the cracks the crash had birthed. Every now and then, a cough broke through the darkness. Hunger viciously lanced Mary’s gut, but there was nothing edible to satiate her cravings. The car was two men shorter.
It’s been two days since the two men left. I hope they’re making good time. I spent all night dreaming of pastries and carnivorous feasts, but instead woke to the scent of disease. The snow has almost completely covered my window pane. Just a strip the width of a ruler remains. The towering ridgeline enjoys preventing the sun from reaching my eyes.
All of us heard the rumbles—more ripple out as I write. Most are panicking in whatever form they can achieve while compressed against one another and the discarded luggage, but some are making their peace. I don’t know where I stand in this chaos, but if I’m writing in a journal even as the end is coming, then I must be releasing myself. The two men still haven’t returned. My view has remained static thanks to vertical winds clearing away the flakes. Perhaps though, it would be better to not see the avalanche’s birth and tumbling childhood as it demolishes everything in its sight. Is there a way to survive this? As someone on the leaning side, I think not likely. So as the snow takes me, I want you to know; I made it to my destination.
With the first spring thaw, the rescue approached, plowing the remnants of winter over the cliff. Damp earth hung in the air, mixing with pine and a mountain-scented breeze. It was a far cry from the chapped wind nearly two months ago. The rescuers screeched to a stop and surveyed the slope. The only evidence of a passing train were a few scraps of metal around a lavender journal.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This specific flash historical fiction pays homage to the worst avalanche in US history, where 96 lives were lost in Wellington, Washington as they awaited for their train to disembark from the station.
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