I saw the kid standing in front of the mine elevator.
He was a dirty miner kid, maybe ten years old, and he was just standing there staring solemnly at me. He wore plain clothes, a coal-dust smudged shirt which was clearly too large for him, simple linen pants, and a miner’s hat with an oil-wicked lamp. That kind of mining cap disappeared from this country around 1915.
He just gravely held my gaze and slowly shook his head.
Seven hours later, an earthquake killed thirty West Virginia miners in a coalmine collapse. My crew didn’t go down there today.
100 words. Inspired by this week’s Warmup Wednesday prompt:
ParkInkSpot 