Teenz Ink Short Story Contest - First Place High School
Crossroads: A Tale of Changing Seasons
* * * * Spring was in full bloom, showing a wonderful plumage of white and yellow chrysanthemums. The sky burned a brazen blue against the flitting shadows of sparrows, paying no heed to the gloom descending upon the three individuals standing before a large black locomotive at the very same platform. Her younger self clutched onto her father’s hand as she stared at the other woman. Her mother wore an emerald green traveling coat and scuffed leather boots, a felt hat cocked jauntily over her dark curls. She reached out to stoke her daughter’s cheek with a gloved hand, bending down so their eyes could meet. “Darling, won’t you take care of yourself and your father for me while I’m gone?” Her words were warm and soothing, like soft velvet. And yet the truth of her character was betrayed through her empty, uncaring eyes. The daughter could see her mother fading already, to a very distant realm – somewhere in the lush jungles of Cochin-China or the lavish palaces of Morocco, or perhaps in glittering Parisian apartments where a mysterious gentleman awaited her in his suite, unbeknownst to his naïve young wife at home. Before the girl could answer, the conductor’s bellowing voice sounded over the din of the crowd. “All aboard the three-ten to Paris!” “Why, that would be me dear,” the mother said airily, picking up her bags. “Will you give one last kiss, popkins? Mummy loves you and will miss you dearly.” “No. You’re a liar,” the girl responded curtly. The mother looked as if she had been slapped, yet her daughter’s biting accusations continued without discretion. “If you still loved us you’d let us got to France with you. I know all about your plans, Mother – you fancy yourself an actress, don’t you? You’re with that playwright because you think he’ll put you in a show and make you a famous star. You’re running away to chase some fantasy of yours, isn’t that it?” The woman’s colour heightened – whether from fury or from humiliation, one can only guess. “Enough!’” she snapped, before continuing with icy civility. “You have made your views of me perfectly clear, thank you. I believe the time has come for me to take leave of you both. Katherine, Reginald.” She nodded curtly to father and daughter before turning on her heel to depart. The child yanked on her father’s hand. “Papa, aren’t you going to say anything? Are you just going to let her leave?” Her father remained as silent and stoic as a statue. No words were needed, however, to express his own feelings, for his listless complexion and melancholy demeanor conveyed it all. The girl turned toward the train once more with growing desperation, only to find that her mother had already disappeared within. Before she had any time to search the compartment windows, the train let out a piercing whistle and puffed to life, slowly pulling out of the station. Defeated, the child collapsed onto the platform and dissolved into tears as she watched the train gain speed, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely into the horizon. Her father could only watch in silence. * * * * The loud whistle of an approaching train snatches the woman from her reverie. She glances up to find a scarlet red engine pulling to a stop at the station and rises from her seat, scanning the crowd that comes pouring out from the passenger cars. Amidst the sea of dark coats and patched caps, she sees a flash of a peacock feather and immediately recognizes her mother, identical to the smiling face on the newspapers and playbills. She seems to have barely aged, despite the slight plumpness in her arms and the occasional wrinkles that mark her forehead. “Katherine? Oh darling, is that you?” Her songbird voice remains unchanged. “My you’ve grown so!” “Hello, mother.” The word tastes foreign in her mouth as she curtsies politely. “Please, let me take your things.”
By: Jackie
The two exit the station arm-in-arm and trod along the dirt road towards the young lady’s curricle, the cool evening breeze of autumn nipping their cheeks. They talk for a bit about the lady’s late father and the settlement of his few estates, but the conversation soon turns to her mother’s budding career in theater. As the young lady listens to the actress prattle on about set designs and scripts, she glances up at the brown leaves falling from the branches with an empty sigh of regret; for just as the earth undergoes seasons, human lives must also undergo phases of change. But while autumn returns year after year, humans cannot repeat cycles of their lives. Some things lost must be lost forever. The young lady nods along, desperately scavenging for some scrap of feeling as she looks upon the childish face of her mother for the first time in fourteen years. But no emotions are stirred. Certainly not love, yet not hate. Perhaps she feels a mild sort of contempt and pity for the free-spirited woman who has not yet learned the burden of responsibility and discipline.
A warm autumn breeze blows across the train platform, swirling dust and fallen leaves around the long calico skirts of a young lady seated on the worn wooden bench. Though not a day over thirty, her plain face is lined with signs of age. She clutches tightly onto a piece of yellowing paper as she looks across the empty tracks, a scene from a particular March afternoon many seasons ago unfolding in front of her like a faded, forgotten letter.
