Last Run

A prose poem capturing the farewell of an old steam engine as it embarks on its final journey.

The old steam engine stirs to life as dusk creeps in, its iron belly stuffed with stories untold. Oh, the smoke it puffs out! Each cloud seems to whisper tales of far-off places and rails long forgotten. Listen closely; you'll hear that engine's voice, those deep, rumbling sighs, reminiscent of some weathered old-timer spinning yarns beneath a sky where stars flicker to attention.

Rust has made itself at home in places on what was once gleaming metal. Years on the move have stolen its vibrant colors, but it still stands with dignity. This guardian of steel and vapor, a reminder of raw power, of iron wheels keeping time, of heartbeats from an age we've left behind.

Its whistle slices through quiet air, such a lonesome sound echoing everywhere. It's almost like it's saying farewell to all those phantom travelers who once filled its carriages with their joys, sorrows, and wild hopes. The steam rises, ghostly against the fading light, carrying that unmistakable nostalgic scent of coal dust and the promise of somewhere new.

Kids cluster around, eyes huge with wonder, their giggles creating the sweetest soundtrack. They've no clue about the melancholy in the engine's final melody. The conductor—hat tipped just so, the last nod to traditions nearly extinct—gives a gentle tug. The massive machine inches forward, hesitant at first, as if it's reluctant to abandon the station's safe embrace.

It rolls through valleys, crests hills, this magnificent creature, each chug like a heartbeat, each whistle a shout. It's celebrating its last journey as daylight surrenders to darkness and stars peer down, bearing witness to this goodbye, this final dance along metal paths, where time—just like steam—rises, thins, vanishes... but somehow never completely disappears.

Author's Note

One of my fondest childhood memories from Jamaica is when my brother and I traveled with my dad on the now-defunct passenger train, pulled by a steam engine, from Kingston to Montego Bay.

The steam engine (to my eyes, a beautiful machine of steel and smoke) captured the spirit of travel back then. Its rhythmic chugging promised a sense of adventure and discovery.

I vividly recall my first time seeing the lively Kingston train station. It was akin to entering another world, bustling with people from all walks of life, all eager to catch their train. Some waited patiently in line to buy tickets, while others hurried to their carriages. As everyone boarded, the excitement in the air was contagious.

The windows were open, letting in a gentle, warm breeze that carried the lovely scents of the island. I still remember the bright, cheerful colors of the landscape outside, where vibrant greenery met clear blue sky.

As the train rolled along, I enjoyed watching the people outside go about their lives. A woman in a sunny yellow dress waved to us from her porch, her smile radiant. Nearby, children played, their joyful laughter ringing out above the noise of the train.

Farther along, an older man sat under a tree in a wide-brimmed hat. He tipped his hat as the train sped past, a warm gesture that felt like a gentle connection between two worlds, even for a moment.

I also recall the “shwims” man, walking from carriage to carriage, selling small packets of delicious, seasoned (spicy) dried shrimp. He announced his wares by yelling: “Shwims! Get u shwims!” We begged my dad to buy each of us a packet. It was the highlight of our ride.

The ride wasn’t just about reaching the destination; it was about the experience itself and the wonderful people sharing it with us. Together they turned a simple train journey into a treasure trove of vivid memories, a beautiful snapshot of life in Jamaica that I cherish forever.

Upcoming…

• August’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 20 August 2025

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt: CONCENTRATION, TRANSMIT, FALSE. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 20th!

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