With Snow:Comes Warmth The year was 1973 if memory serves me right.

My mother and I had arrived in Texas on my 6th birthday, February 3rd.

I had been living in California, before that, Louisiana.

We moved every year of my childhood at least once, sometimes two or three times in a 12 month period.

I must have known that I had family other than my mother; but to muse over such trivial thoughts, would have seemed rather petty to me at that age. I am not sure that I ever thought about it before I was six.

My mother was all I knew. Whether I associated the term family with her, is still unclear to my memories.

She was just the adult who had given birth to me and took me along when she decided it was time to go.

There were plenty of opportunities, throughout the course of being, “my mother’s daughter”, that I would discover what a family is not! But at six, I did not yet possess the wisdom to understand the relativity of such opposite ends of a spectrum.

The thought process of a six year old does not allow her mind to comprehend the depth of things that deep.

What she has never felt, can not be imagined, for instance: if she does not know the feelings that contentment bring, she will not associate any feeling with inner peace.

An example to perhaps clarify to some might be; how can one know how amazing chocolate tastes, if they have never tasted chocolate.

However on a more indepth,almost emotional level, the rich smooth taste of cocoa perfectly blended with milk, cream and sugar, the taste of something so wonderful there is a feeling of urgency as you are unwrapping a candy bar or spooning some into a cup of hot milk. In summary, a child may say, “oh yes, I love my room,or I love my teddy bear and it's purely superficial, because the object of her affection, is just that, an object, incapable of causing any emotion beyond what's in the child's realm of feelings already in place because of say...a puppy she once had.

To be able to convey to you, the feelings a cold, snowy day and night brought to me when I was just six, it was imperative that I bring you to this point of magical bliss, by first trying to describe in some way, the first time that we feel something on a very profound emotional level. Although my childhood was dark at times, it was necessary to touch on that darkness to explain in full, how one feels during a very first feeling.

By this stage, the adult stage we have long forgotten or perhaps even took for granted some basic, common emotions. Most have felt such a multitude of feelings and emotions by now, its very hard to tap into the true feeling that the simplicities in life first bring us.

I am quite sure it has something to do with the feelings instilled upon us by those closest to us such as our parents or maybe grandparents.

But that is only true if you have had a semi-normal childhood.

The feelings have been there since infancy for most….but not for all.

I loved the feel of the cold ice in my hands.

The stinging of the blustering wind, combined with tiny ice pellets on my cheeks.

These were feelings to me, and i was almost giddy with laughter.

I had been living with my grandparents for a few weeks now, we had arrived on my 6th birthday by Greyhound Bus Lines. If you want to bang your head in sheer torturous, infinite boredom, take a bus from California to Texas. It is best described as total hell! I would guess even a six year old would use that exact analogy. Truly, the first tangible anamnesis, was the beautiful birthday cake that awaited me, sitting there on Grandma’s table.

I recall seeing it and timidly glancing out of the corner of my eye at it, crossing my fingers and toes that the beautiful white cake with purple frosting and big purple flowers would really be for me.

As I was unobtrusively, eyeing the divine cake on the table... THERE IS WAS; HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARBARA!  I remember there was no way to contain the delightful squeal that escaped my mouth.

I had not had my own birthday cake and I lavished this wonderful joy. A few days later the coldest storm I’d felt his Texas.

My Grandparents were always laughing, making jokes and seemed genuinely happy all the time.

I was perplexed by this a great deal.

My Grandfather seemed to sense something in me that for some reason he didn’t think “added up”, he would later tell me.

I only remember being a bit leery of him at first, noticing he was staring a lot in my direction.

He stood up one early afternoon and said, “Barbara, lets go play outside.”

I looked rather puzzled at him, as it felt like fifty thousand degrees below zero to me.

My Grandma bustled from the kitchen into another room and came back out with hats and sweatshirts and lots of long socks.

Well she began wrapping me up in so many shirts and hats i was beginning to feel a bit on the warm side. The socks I soon discovered were my “gloves’.

The fun had already begun for me before we walked out the door.

Watching my grandparents who had never met me until February 3rd,1973, but were fussing and laughing over my grandmother's choice of warm clothing.

When my grandpa and I got out the door, I had never known pure joy, as I felt it for the first time throwing snowballs at him, and dodging his.

I actually could not control my laughing hysterically.

I had not known something could be so much fun.

We kept having to pause the snowball, actually more like “ice ball” fight, as it still was more like sleet falling and blowing in the wind than snow.

My grandma would call us in and demand we warm up before “she gets her death of pneumonia” she would repeatedly say.

I must admit this pneumonia death thing had me a bit apprehensive to continue the fun.

She kept talking about ice cream to my grandpa, asking if it was still ice and he would say yes its ice but assured her he would let her know because he couldn't wait for a bowl.

I finally asked, “who is bringing ice cream on such a cold day, Grandma?”

She smiled real big and said, “ why, no one is bringing us ice cream honey, Grandma is going to make some if this ice will just turn to snow.” Now I was very bewildered by this revelation that perhaps ice cream comes from very snowy places and scratched my head in confusion.

My grandpa then told me that all the ice cream factories in the world could not compare to grandma's snow ice cream.

That hers was the best in the universe. “Oh I must try some of the best ice cream in the whole wide universe” I told myself.

The anticipation of this wonderful creation that only my grandma could make was almost more than I could take.

The rest of that day I spent trying to imagine what amazing things she would It have to do to make this ice cream.

Ice cream was already so yummy, I couldn't imagine it being the best in the universe.

I would go to the door every 15 minutes and scoop up what I silently prayed would be snow and not ice.

I silently vowed to God each time that I would be such a good girl forever and ever if he could just make it snow.

It never came and soon it was bedtime, my grandmother tucked me in tickling me making me giggle.

I was really starting to enjoy bedtime, this woman was like a fairytale to me.

Though I was sad that I would not get to taste grandma's famous ice cream, that was ok because she was the best at being grandma, I didn't need the ice cream.

I blissfully went to sleep.

“Barbara, Barbara, wake up.”

I could hear my grandpa's voice, then felt him gently shake my arm.

I bolted right up, thinking something is surely wrong, but instead of seeing anything out of the ordinary here at this house, it was just as it was before I went to sleep.

I rubbed my eyes and noticed darkness out of the window.

My grandpa put a warm robe around me and guided me to the door.

As we were approaching the door the most wonderful, elated feeling I had never known swept over me like the blustery wind had swept over me that day.

I knew what was happening, he opened the door and the sight before me was magical, snow, everywhere I looked was a beautiful white fluffy blanket of snow.

Falling out of the sky was more magical snow.

I grinned so big I started to laugh and laugh.

“Where is Grandma?” I asked, speaking through a huge grin.

He gently took me by the hand, and said that Grandma was making the very best ice cream in the universe right now, and it's just about done I bet.”

We walked in the kitchen, the clock on the wall said 3:22, it was the first thing I looked for, thinking, is this a dream?

Am I going to wake up and all this magic will be gone?

Grandma turned and dressed in her nightgown with her hair up,she grinned and held a tray with 3 big bowls on it.

“Well, are you ready to taste your grandma's famous ice cream?”

My eyes grew huge as I realized I was going to sit down with MY GRANDPARENTS, MY FAMILY, and eat her famous homemade snow ice cream in the middle of the night while it was still dark.

The realization came over me and it was as if I grew up a few years and in contrast felt like a true little six year old child all at the same time.

I had never known either of those feelings and I marveled at the feeling. Sitting down with both of them that cold wintery night, listening to the wind howling outside, laughing, acting silly was the best night of my entire life.

The warmth that those two people surrounded me with both comforted me and taught me what the feeling of home, family, love, playfulness, joy and the unconditional warmth one feels within when they are loved, and loved naturally, for no other reason, they just loved me and that was that.

I learned lessons that one span of 24 hours that most could never understand.

At the time I’m sure both of my grandparents had no idea of what truly transpired that night.

As I am sure they are still with me, looking down, I can imagine them saying,” Barbara was the best granddaughter”.

So I smile, look up and whisper,” No it was you two, Grandma and Grandpa, you were the best grandparents in the universe.

The gift of that ice cream that night taught me more than all the other years ever has and I love you.


Crossing Paths Xiù Wáng is seated at her desk, which is piled high with textbooks and notebooks. Her marketing textbook is open in front of her, and it is brimming with ideas that will only serve to stoke her desire to launch a content creation company. Her phone started buzzing loudly, interrupting her thoughts. Xiù looked down to see that her mother was calling. Realizing that she had never heard from her parents after telling them a few years ago that she intended to study in the United States, she could feel her heart racing. She answers her phone with a nerve-wracking voice, "Hello, Mama,” as she taps her pen on the desk, not knowing what her mother will say next. “Xiù, you know what we expect of you,” her mother said, her tone firm yet loaded with cultural norms. “I cannot let you waste away your future for foolishness, nor can your father. return home, get married, and have a family. That's what lies ahead for you.” Xiù grips her phone tighter after hearing those words: “You can't just tell me to give up on my ambitions, Mama; I have to pursue my passion, which is marketing. I can make a career out of it since I'm good at it. Please make an effort to comprehend.” The call ended abruptly, leaving Xiù with an ultimatum hanging over her head like a dangling sword and no answer from the other end. In mid-March, Xiù goes to Tampa, Florida, for spring break with her friends, hoping to take a break from her family's expectations and her college coursework. She finds momentary solace from her problems in Florida's warmth, the beaches—especially her favorite, Clearwater Beach—the saline breeze, and the lively vitality. At a neighborhood cafe next to Clearwater Beach, one of the most well-known beaches in Tampa, Florida, Xiù Wáng finds herself in the center of the metropolis, where the sun shines on a bustling urban area and the blue waters of the beaches sparkle beneath the sky. The cafe she is at is called “Art Smart Coffee Gallery." This unique art cafe displays art for visitors in addition to serving coffee and pastries. The enticing local artwork adorning the quaint cafe's window walls draws Xiù in. It speaks to her like a foreign language and consists of textures, colors, and unsaid stories.

Xiù was engrossed in the local artwork, particularly the oil painting of the boat, and was unaware that a young man was watching her from a corner table. Her medium-black hair is pushed behind her ears as she examines the textures and artwork.

The young man, Jose Iglesias, was dressed casually and drinking hot chocolate while making notes in his leather journal. His dark brown eyes would occasionally dart toward Xiù as an indication of his admiration for her beauty and grace. Finally, he gathered his courage within himself and went straight up to Xiù with a warm, friendly smile. “"Hello, My name is Jose Iglesias. I noticed you're looking at the oil painting of the boat paint job," he said. "Oh, hello there. Xiù Wang is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Xiù smiled after initially being shocked. “Yes, I do think oil paintings are more vibrant than other mediums since they create such flawless artworks by bringing the colors that flicker to life and providing us with textures. I can almost picture this painting of a sunset outside my dorm window at my university of higher education in North Dakota. I will admit, though, that it is a little bit warmer here.” She replied with a smile. Our main characters go to a table in a corner that is seated for two. Xiù and Jose sit across from each other and continue their conversation from there. “Tampa is where I was born and raised. So what brought you to Tampa, Florida? I'm assuming you're here for spring break, just like me. I came here to explore more, spend time with friends, and enjoy the beaches.” He gives her a curious smile and lifts his right eyebrow. Xiù nods and responds, "Yeah, I'm on spring break." Several of us determined that Florida would be our final destination. Minutes flew by, and then hours passed, and it just seemed like they knew each other from their past. They exchanged stories, and there was laughter. Their connection just grew in the deepest moment of the evening. “So you're a student at North Dakota State University? Which degree program are you enrolled in?” He asks with curiosity.  "My degree is in marketing. With my degree, I hope to start my own content production business. I also intern for a local content producer who runs her own business and is imparting some knowledge to me. I enjoy it, even though it requires a lot of work. How about you?” She responds excitedly. Before Jose could answer, a waiter comes up and tells them this: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just letting you two know that we’ll be closing up in 20 minutes as it is almost 10:30 pm,” and Jose replies politely, “Thank you; we’ll be out soon.” The waiter walks away, and Jose starts to respond to Xiù’s earlier question, “Sorry. I am impressed with your plan after college,” he says, seeming impressed, and then continues, “My field of study at the University of Florida is communications. I enjoy how conversation can unite individuals and allow them to share their experiences, as you and I are currently doing.” “That is a great field of study, and I know you will do great in that area.” She says this while looking at him proudly. Reluctantly, Xiù looks at the time on her phone and realizes that she must be heading home because it is at that time and it is late. Jose asked for her phone number in case he wanted to have contact with her. “Call me or text anytime. I enjoyed our conversation.” He grins and starts walking home. She hails for a taxi out in the humid weather of Florida. As she gets in the taxi, her phone rings in her handbag, and her mind runs to think, "Already, Jose? " She smiles as she grabs her phone, but it's not. Surprisingly, it's her mother again, considering they had not talked before spring break and the ultimatum her mother left her.

“You only have this once, Xiù. Otherwise, we'll cut you off. Return home and fulfill our family's expectations.” The voice of her mother resounded with finality. Xiù heard these words many times, but this time they hit her like a clash of symbols in her ears, and when those words hit her ears, her eyes welded with tears. Her personal aspirations collided brutally with the weight of cultural obligations. The taxi arrived at her friend's appointment, and the driver said to her, “We are here.” Xiù got out of the taxi and thanked the driver. She walked carefully to her friend's apartment door and turned the knob, still feeling heavy from her mother's words. She slung into an armchair and thought about the future: What could she do? "How could she possibly give up her dream and yet lose all respect for her family?”

Then, recalling a previous chat in which he had discussed a similar issue that he was still going through, she considered messaging Jose about her predicament in the hopes that he might provide some perspective. She reached for her phone in her bag and texted Jose, “Hey, its Xiù,” and she set her phone on the side table to wait for an answer. When she did that, she went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and when that happened, her phone chimed, and it was Jose answering, “Hey! What’s up?” Xiù explained her dilemma, told him that she had no idea what to do, and asked for his perspective. “Why don't you and I meet up tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. at the same cafe, and we'll establish a strategy about how we will address our family's dilemmas?” Jose texted her to let her know that, while he wishes he had an answer right away, he doesn't. Xiù is sipping her water when she looks at her phone and finds Jose's message. She is relieved to learn that he is eager to assist in coming up with a strategy. She texted him back, “Sounds good to me; I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 am. Thanks, Jose.” Then she heads to bed. The next day, Xiù shows up early to the cafe after that. The calm streets were bathed in a warm, golden hue as the sun was just starting to rise over the horizons. Located between a small ice cream shop and a bookstore, the gallery cafe was well-known for its artisanal coffee and varied paintings. She flung the door open, letting in the fragrance of freshly cooked pastries. She selected a corner table and placed her coffee order. She sat at the table near the window, which viewed the ocean and the breaking waves on the beach. She couldn't stop thinking about the next chat, hoping that today's discussion would provide her with the explanation she needed. A waitress approached with her coffee order, a cappuccino with a touch of cinnamon. Xiù thanked her for delivering it to her and sipped her cappuccino while looking at the watch on her wrist. It was two minutes until ten. Jose arrived at exactly 10 a.m. His wavy brown hair bounced with each stride, giving his image a carefree charm. His face appeared lighthearted and exciting due to the loose ringlets framing it. He spotted Xiù seated at a little corner table, and he walked up to the table with a casual ease that conveyed confidence and receptivity. "Hey, Xiù," he said, his warm tone instantly putting her at ease. "How are you doing?" Xiù sighs and answers, “I’m alright for now. I just want to figure out a plan with my family.” Jose nodded with understanding. "I hear you. We'll make a plan together, but why don't we go for a walk on the beach for a change of scenery and some fresh air?" he suggests. “That sounds great. I could use some fresh air and a change in scenery.” She smiles at his suggestion. They left the cafe and walked to Clearwater Beach, which was a short distance away. As they went down the coastline, the Florida wind caught Xiù's medium black hair, causing it to flutter over her face, prompting her to pull it up into a ponytail. As their talk progressed, the sound of the waves and the salty breeze helped her feel more at ease.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to respect my family, but I don’t want to give up my independence and dreams,” Xiù began while looking out at the ocean. Jose nods understandingly. “I understand. It's difficult to match their expectations with our own personal goals. We need to find a way of upholding our family's wishes without losing ourselves in the process.” “You’re right. I just have no idea where to start.” Xiù nodded, feeling a sense of connection and comprehension. “How about we write a list of our goals and our parents' expectations of us?" Jose suggested, with determination coming from his deep brown eyes. “From the list, we can look for some common ground on how to compromise.” They found a space on the beach, and Jose took out his leather journal and began taking notes. When they completed writing down their notes, they discovered that their family's expectations were crucial, and there were areas of their own desires that they could assert without generating too much difficulty.

“Your parents want you to return home, get married, and start a family. That is what they want or expect of you.” Jose pointed it out. “However, if you do not want that right immediately, you might just return home and have an open chat with them about your personal goals and how you intend to fulfill their cultural standards in the future.” Xiù nodded, feeling more hopeful. “I could do it. And, regarding your family's condition, let them know that while you respect their desire to take over the family business to aid them, this is not your road to take and that you have another one to pursue.” As they continue to discuss, Xiù feels a ray of optimism and a burden lifted off her shoulders. With Jose's help and the approach they devised, she felt confident about confronting her family with an open discussion about expectations and personal goals. “Thank you, Jose.” She smiled as she spoke. "I greatly appreciate your assistance in all of this. I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks to you.” “Anytime, Xiù." Jose replied, his brown locks framing his face, and smiled back. “I’m glad that we both were able to figure out a plan.” Both Jose and Xiù return with a renewed sense of dedication, the sea as their witness, and the wind at their backs, welcoming a fresh outlook on the future.


Holly paces before the great hall’s doors, wringing her silver-gloved hands. She knows she should be admiring the festive decorations her team managed to scrounge up in the days since she came up with this plan. But Holly can’t stop thinking of the last Christmas she and her siblings spent together. It was the first family Christmas since her mother’s passing. The holiday season following the death of her father had been more of a celebration; there were inheritance gifts, after all. But without their dear mother to keep the peace, the last gathering ended in disaster and started a war. The War that has raged on for thirteen long years. The War that has claimed many of the lives of Holly’s beloved subjects. One of Holly’s workers, Jane, comes from the kitchen with the final dish — Shep’s favorite cheesy potatoes — as the bell tower rings the hour. Holly takes a shaky breath and inspects the great hall one last time. Mismatched ivory candles hang like icicles from the ceiling, dripping globs of wax onto polished bronze candlesticks. The old tinsel draped over the walls has seen better days, but it still refracts the candlelight and sets the cavernous room sparkling. Though it’s undressed, the pine tree in the far corner is the largest Holly’s workers could find on her lands. A cornucopia of fake but beautifully wrapped presents sits beneath it. The centerpiece is the long table where Holly’s family used to enjoy all their Christmas feasts. It is laden with her siblings’ favorite holiday foods, sans any troublemaking chocolate pies, of course. “Do you think it’s enough?” Jane asks. “Not for their lavish tastes, but it will do them good to see the toll this foolish war has taken.” When Jane’s face falls, Holly adds, “But I think it’s lovely. My mother would’ve thought so, too.” The bell tower rings again, announcing her first guest. Holly shoos Jane to retrieve the champagne and pastes on a smile as the great hall doors open. Her eldest brother Ebenezer marches in wearing a gold sword and matching cape, which he whips behind him with a flourish. His boots clack against the marble floor, and the badge pinned to his breast designating him as the current “winner” of the War glints in the candlelight. “How fitting to see you standing in dear mother’s place!” He says by way of greeting. “Merry Christmas, Ebenezer. It’s good to see you.” Ebenezer places two forceful kisses on Holly’s cheeks. “How are you, dear sister? Did you take any casualties last week when my army spanked yours? Ha!” Holly doesn’t let her smile falter, but she does grab a glass from the tray Jane brings around. “As mentioned in my invitation, your presence means you agree not to talk of the War until cocktail hour is over.” “I take it there were many casualties, considering the deflection?” Ebenezer booms with laughter when Holly’s smile slips. He pats her on the back, but Holly thinks his pats have always felt more like blows. “Only joking, sister! Now, where is my chocolate pie?” Holly chokes on her champagne. “Joking again! You must learn to lighten up, sister! So many rules.” He turns to snap at one of her workers. “Servant! Bring me something stiffer than this sparkling stuff, won’t you?” Then he heads toward the tree, wondering aloud if the gifts are real. Holly lets out a breath and sucks in another. The bells ring again. She puts her smile back in place. Cocoa is speaking to someone in her two-way mirror as she strolls through the great hall’s doors. She clearly didn’t read the memo about wearing metal colors. Her fur jacket looks like it’s made of unicorn hair, a rainbow of hues covering her from head to heeled toes, and colorful gems and jewels encrust her towering shoes. “I don’t care how much Shep’s soldiers taunt them,” she says into her mirror. “Holly has called for a holiday truce, and I refuse to be the only one who does not participate.” A muffled voice replies. Cocoa sighs. “I don’t know. Tell them to fight each other for all I care. I’ve got to go.” Holly’s youngest sibling removes the bright pink sunglasses concealing her bloodshot eyes. “Merry Christmas, little sister.” Holly holds out her arms. Cocoa brushes past her. “Must I remind you again not to call me little in public?” “We’re in our family home,” Holly says. “Hardly public.”

Cocoa swipes a glass of champagne and puts it back in one go. She scowls. “Could you not spring for the good stuff? I am very much of the opinion that champagne should never be aged. And this…” She sniffs the empty glass and scowls again. “This certainly is overripe.” “You may recall that you hold possession of the vineyard lands these days. If you want better wine when you visit, perhaps you should grant me some of my old territories back.” “It seems you haven’t gotten sweeter with age either.” She squints at me. “Are those wrinkles, sis?” Holly’s hand flies to the frown lines that have formed around her mouth since the start of the War. She seems to be the only of her siblings on whom the War has taken a toll. She hopes Cocoa won’t see the gray hairs, too. “And you used mom’s old decorations?” Cocoa bats away a piece of tinsel, sending up a plume of dust in its wake. She coughs. “This is simply tragic!” Ebenezer returns from his fake-gift-inspecting duties. “Will there not be real gifts?” He asks. “Mother always had gifts.” Holly gestures toward Cocoa. “Say hello to our sister, E.” “Yes, yes, hello.” Ebenezer gives Cocoa air kisses but refuses to look her in the eyes, turning back to Holly. “Now, about those gifts.” Cocktail hour ends, and, in his usual fashion, Shep has yet to arrive. Ebenezer and Cocoa have taken to opposite ends of the great hall. Cocoa talks to her two-way mirror by the broad windows revealing the snowy landscape beyond while Ebenezer instructs Holly’s workers on how to act more like the servants they aren’t. Holly stands from where she’s been sulking and rings her mother’s old bell. Recognizing the sound, Ebenezer and Cocoa start for the table.

Ebenezer arrives first, of course. “At last! I’m so starved I was about to eat your servants!” He laughs at his joke before taking up a seat at the table’s head. Holly clears her throat. “You are sitting in my chair, Ebenezer.” “But the head of the table is where I belong,” he says. “Father always said so.” “This is my home now,” Holly reminds him. “Then sit over there.” He gestures to the other end of the table. “Coaks, back me up here. It’s the least you can do.” “Yeah.” Cocoa kicks up her feet on the table. I cringe when a jewel comes loose from her shoe and plops into the cranberry jelly. “Whatever.” Holly sighs. Not wanting to cause a stir (not yet, anyway), she marches to the other end of the table. As soon she sits down, the bell tower rings again. The swirling black hole of chaos that is Holly’s younger brother erupts through the doorway. He, too, ignored the theme and wears his usual black—black suit, black cape, and black leather boots. His cane ticks against the stone floor as he creeps over to us, a flurry of expressions crossing his face. Holly rises to greet him. She is the only one who does. “Merry Christmas, Shep,” Holly says. “I’m glad you decided to come.” He extends the end of his cane to Holly. When she stares at it, he lifts one quizzical brow. Holly thinks he must want her to kiss his cane. She smacks it aside instead. Shep raises both brows. “Interesting.” Holly feels ashamed of letting the annoyance get to her. She should know better than to fall for Shep’s tricks. Shep walks around the perimeter of the table. He pats Cocoa and Ebenezer on their heads when he passes. “Aren’t we too old for duck-duck-goose?” Cocoa asks. Ebenezer waits until the table’s length is between Shep and himself before smacking his knee and jumping to his feet. “You owe me an apology, brother!” “What have I ever done to you?” Shep asks. “You took the first shot!” Ebenezer finally deigns to look at Cocoa. “I wanted to get her back by firing the first shot of the War! But you took it from me!” Shep grins. “I thought that might bother you.” “What kind of brothers would treat their baby sister so?” Cocoa pouts. “You are supposed to be my protectors.” “You lost the right to my protection — and my love — after what you did to me!” Ebenezer says. “So dramatic.” Cocoa rolls her eyes. “You could have never survived in my shoes when I got the smallest of father’s territories, the least of father’s attentions, the—” Holly rings her bell again. “Siblings, please. You all agreed to come here in peace.” “Yes, listen to Holly Jolly.” Shep puts his arm around Holly’s shoulders. “Mother did put her in charge of family gatherings.” “And where was Holly’s help when Cocoa stole what was rightfully mine?” Ebenezer glares at Holly. “You used to say the eldest rule the world! I thought that meant you were on my side!” Holly corrects him. “I used to say the eldest rules the world.” Cocoa talks over Holly. “And she always told me sisters should stick together.” “You never much cared to stick together before,” Holly tells Cocoa. But Ebenezer and Cocoa ignore her, devolving into a shouting match over who deserves Holly’s support the most. Holly looks at Shep. He watches Cocoa and Ebenezer with a smug smile. “You’ve been here for five minutes, and look what you’ve done,” Holly says to Shep. “Could you not wait until dessert?” Shep cocks his head. “I see being the loser in this War has changed you, Holly Jolly.” When Ebenezer storms away from the table with a shout for a “servant,” Cocoa butts into the conversation. “Hardly. She is still as spineless as ever.” “Shall we bet on that?” Shep leans across the table, his hand extended toward Cocoa. “I’ll give up my territories with your favorite shops if you win.” “There will be no betting.” Holly softens her words with a smile. “Please.” Cocoa smirks. “See? The same. Like I said.” “Tell the truth!” Ebenezer returns with a glass of whisky and an accusing finger pointed at Cocoa. “I know it was you, you little thief!” “I told you thirteen years ago,” Cocoa says. “It wasn’t me.” “But Shep said it was!” “And to think I regretted blowing your castle to bits for even a moment!” Cocoa says to Shep.

“Stop!” Holly rings her bell until the others quit shouting. She turns to Shep. “Did Cocoa eat the first slice of chocolate pie at Christmas thirteen years ago? Tell the truth.” Shep looks each sibling in the eye, his face solemn. Then, he begins to grin. “No, she did not.” Ebenezer goes quiet for once in his life. Cocoa crosses her arms and puts on her sunglasses. “Told you so.” “Then who did eat the slice of pie that started the War?” I ask. Shep’s grin widens. “Why, me, of course.” It takes Holly thirty minutes to break up the ensuing fight.

Her chest heaves as she directs her siblings to return to their seats. “Now that Shep has revealed the truth, I hope we can all agree this foolish War should end.” “And give up my lead?” Ebenezer runs a loving finger over his badge. “I think not.” “Agreed,” says Cocoa, pulling out her two-way mirror and glossing her lips. “You only want to quit because you’re losing. But I’ve found I’m quite good at this waging war stuff.” Holly turns to look at her younger brother. She doesn’t know when he managed to fill his plate, but he holds it against his chest, devouring his favorite cheesy potatoes as he watches the drama like a spectator at a game. Holly is glad at least one of her siblings can enjoy the feast her team worked so hard to prepare. “Well?” Holly says to her younger brother. “I would very much like to see what happens if I say, no, I do not agree,” Shep says. “So, no, I do not agree.” Holly deflates. She was hoping for a tie, at least. She has never wished any ill will upon her siblings. But in the thirteen years since they last gathered, Holly has realized her family’s drama is never just family drama. The consequences of their conflicts fall on the backs of their hardworking subjects. It is an injustice her dear mother always turned a blind eye to when their father was alive, but one Holly intends to correct. “Very well,” she says. “If we all must go to war again tomorrow, the least we can do for our dear mother’s memory is to share a dessert tonight.” Holly rings her bell once more, and Jane enters. She carries a chocolate pie. Holly carves the pie into four pieces and dishes them up on the very plates used for that fateful pie thirteen years ago. She places the first piece before Ebenezer like a white flag. “For you, brother,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t support your claim to the first slice of pie thirteen years ago.” Ebenezer looks smug as he tucks a napkin into his shirt. “At least one of you has some sense.” Holly retrieves the second slice of pie and brings it to Cocoa. Cocoa’s brows ripple in surprise. “For you, sister,” Holly says. “I’m sorry you always got the last slice of pie growing up.” Cocoa pushes up her sunglasses and gives me a rare smile. “Finally, someone understands my sorry lot in life.” Ebenezer is devouring his pie already, refusing to wait for the others to be served. Cocoa follows his lead. “Doesn’t taste like mom’s,” she says through a full mouth. Holly takes a deep breath and retrieves the third plate of pie. She places it before Shep. “And for you, Shepherd,” she says. “I have always felt we could be friends if you worked as hard to keep the family together as you do to set us at each other’s throats.” “Friends?” Cocoa frowns, licking the last bit of chocolate from her fork. “You didn’t say that to me.” A thud sounds from the head of the table. Cocoa screams, jumping from her chair at the sight of Ebenezer facefirst in the cranberry jelly. Her scream cuts off, and she wobbles on her bejeweled heels before crashing to the floor. Shep starts laughing. Holly sees that he has not taken a single bite of his pie. The doors to the great hall open one last time, admitting a line of Holly’s soldiers. Shep laughs harder. “When did you know?” Holly asks. “The moment you slapped away my cane,” says Shep, “I knew you’d brought us here to end the War, whether we agreed or not.” “Then why did you not agree?” Holly asks. “I admire your plotting, but the war games have grown mundane,” says Shep. “This is just the shakeup I’ve been hoping for, Holly Jolly, though I didn’t expect it from you.” He claps his hands like a child at Christmas. “I have never been so excited for what’s to c—.” Shep’s words cut off as he collapses onto the table. Holly walks over and pats his head. “Silly goose. You should have known there was poison in the food, too.” The soldiers close in and bunch up the tablecloth to dispose of the hazardous feast. Three more soldiers carry away the limp forms of her wicked siblings. Holly picks up her chocolate pie, taking a bite of the one slice her team didn’t poison. She smiles, the first real one in thirteen years, and finishes her piece in peace.


I was grateful that the tide was now with me. I was near to total exhaustion, well, extremely tired at least. I had been holding station for most of the night, paddling against the tide just to stay the same tantalising distance from the shoreline. Now, I was slowly making progress towards the shore. Dawn had come and the last vestige of the night sky was disappearing. I calculated that I had another hour to keep paddling, then I would have about four or five hours to rest. As I rested, the tide would carry me towards the shore. Then the tide would change again. I had thought to try and paddle hard with the tide, to reach the shore before the tide turned, but I rejected it. There was a slim chance I could make it, but a greater chance that I would not, and then, the tide would draw me back out further than the point I was at now. By resting, now, I could fight against the tide. I would, at its strongest point, lose some of the ground I had made, but, by the time it turned again I would be near enough that the next favourable tide would see me to the shore. There was no notice; the first anyone knew was the two explosions just seconds apart. The first struck midship, the second, caught the prow. If it had been just the first one, maybe we would not have sunk, maybe; but for sure, it would have taken longer to sink, more would have been saved. But we had been steaming at around twenty knots, and with a hole in the bows my guess was that she had gone under in less than four minutes. I have no idea how many others might have survived, not that it could have been many. I could feel the strength of the tide had increased so I stopped paddling and checked my supplies. Not for the first time I offered up a silent prayer to my lucky stars. I had been taking two insulated containers of tea to the Bridge when the torpedoes hit, as the ship came from full speed to dead stop I lost my footing and was thrown into the sea. My second stroke of luck, if you can call it that, was surfacing to find a Charley Float just a few yards from me. Cold tea, especially more than two days old, isn’t anyone’s first choice of beverage, but in the absence of any other potable fluid I was grateful for it. I had finished the first canister and had started on the second last night. There was around two thirds remaining. Although I was fairly sure I would make landfall by tonight, I was still cautious. I allowed myself one full cup, and the settled on to the deck and closed my eyes. I woke with a start, checked my watch and saw that I had been asleep for just over two and a half hours. Despite the hunger, I hadn’t eaten for one and half days, despite the tiredness, I’d had around six to eight hours fitful sleep since the sinking, and despite the fading strength, the habits and reflexes of a sailor in wartime overruled everything else. I pulled myself up and looked around, the nearer I got to the shore the greater the possibility of being spotted. At this point, I didn’t care if it was by a neutral craft or the enemy, both would provide me with something hot to eat and drink, dry clothes and safety. But there was nothing to be seen. Except the shore, closer than when I had closed my eyes, but not by much. I took another drink of the cold tea and settled into as comfortable position as was possible in a Carley. The tide was strong enough so that I was still making headway towards the shore. I tried to remember if I had heard any voices, but nothing came to my mind. Possibly the sounds of a breaking ship and the after shock of the explosion could have made me deaf for a while. I don’t know, and it wasn’t worth worrying about it. Once again I gave a silent prayer of thanks to my lucky stars. My natural pessimism and caution had driven me to study the charts carefully and spend time off duty thinking of an “escape plan”, or should that be “survival plan” in the event we were sunk. I knew roughly how far we would be from the coastlines, and had a pretty good idea of which countries we would be passing, if they were hostile, friendly or neutral; and of course, what I could expect from the tidal waters. I had kept my mind in those first hours. Carley floats are not really designed to be steering crafts; they are what the name suggests, floats. They could hold eight men, and at a push you could cram two more. Then you just floated and waited to be picked up. The theory was great, in peacetime. But in war, you might be part of a convoy with orders not to stop and pick up survivors. A harsh reality, but why present another target to the enemy, especially one that was stationary. Or you could, like us, be a lone ship, a straggler from the convey, engine trouble that meant you cold not keep up. Or on a special mission, it didn’t matter, if you went down, you were on your own. I had searched the water for wreckage, anything that could be used as a paddle. I had pulled several spars and planks onto the float. They had served well. I sensed I was in the last hour of the current tide. Wrapping the rags around my hands once again I took up one of the salvaged planks and started to paddle towards land. We had been hit just as sunset was starting. I had drifted with the waves for a while, until I was able to orientate myself and then started towards land. I couldn’t see it, of course, but I knew it would be there and as the morning sun rose this morning I had seen it. I must have got within sight last night, but in the darkness would not have seen it. looking towards it now was all that was keeping me going. Please, I prayed, let me be lucky again, let this one have been a low and not a high.

Most people, even those who have never seen the sea, know that there are high tides and low tides, but only those who have been to sea understand that a high tide can be a “low-high or a “high-high. The high-high is when the waters come further and further into the land, and are generally associated with greater force when they turn and ebb back. The reverse being true of the low-high, when the waters do not come fully up the shore and are weaker when they ebb. Having no charts or reference sheets or instruments I had no way of trying to work out what the tides might be at this time, but in my weakened state the tide flowing out from the shore was going to push me back and lose some of the ground I had gained this morning, and the stronger the tide, the further I would be pushed back. Although the air was warm at the moment, the night temperature would drop drastically. I was fairly sure that, if I was pushed back to sea, my weakened state, lack of food, and by tonight, lack of fluid, would mean that I would succumb to hypothermia before morning.

That thought was the stick, and the shoreline ahead was the carrot, all I needed to keep forcing myself to paddle. I was ignoring the pain, ignoring the aching arms and shoulders, ignoring the blisters on my hands that once again were letting blood seep into the rags I was using as padding. Time passed, I could see caves on the side of the hills, it meant I was getting closer. There was more detail each time I studies a different part of the land. I forced my self to keep a steady paddle stroke, it would be madness to try and race at this point, I would just bring myself to total exhaustion. The light was fading, I could no longer make out the detail on the shore that earlier had been so encouraging, I fought back tears, I wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Time passed. The plank I was using struck something, it jarred up my arm to my shoulder and I cried out with the pain. Then again, this time the bleeding blisters on my palms protested. In my tired, state I was slow to realise what was happening. The paddle was striking the seabed. I was on the shoreline. The float wasn’t moving, it was aground. I struggled to my feet, not easy after two days sitting and kneeling on the float. I clambered off the thing and stumbled onto my knees. Using the float as leverage, I regained my feet. A dozen paces and I was on dry sand. Once again I sank to my knees.

Raising my eyes to the heavens I looked at the stars, to the right was the North Star and the Plough. My lucky stars. After the ship had been sunk I had just drifted until the stars had appeared. The North Star; that was how I orientated myself and began to paddle, I looked again at the constellations. Their unchanged position on the second night had kept me on track, and now they confirmed I had made it. I was kneeling on the shore in neutral Portugal. As I looked up, I could see, not more that 500 yards away, the light of a fisherman’s cottage. I could make that last bit. Once again, I gave a prayer of thanks for my lucky stars. For me, the war was over, internment beckoned.


A simple game of blackjack, what could go wrong? Well, a lot, considering this game could potentially kill everyone, or save everyone. The problem? The opponent was a T-126, the most advanced robot in the world. This robot was the head of the uprising that was currently in the process of killing every human that they deemed "unworthy". The only reason it had stopped its path of destruction was it's fascination with gambling and the idea of chance, which, it could not comprehend. It spent time trying to understand and comprehend this idea of chance which gave humans like myself much needed breathing room. When I was captured the robots asked a simple question, "you gamble?" Which of course I had to say yes to, it had helped me pay many bills when I had little money from my paycheck. They took me away from the holding cell I was in and to a luxurious office a few floors up. Now it was hard to tell that this robot was a merciless killer, it looked like any other robot you would see around this time, 6 feet tall, dull grey metal plates all over it, a basic screen for a face. But what set this one apart is how it interacted with humans. Most would just look at you and wait for you to plug in the code needed to make it work for you, this one would "talk" to you in a sense. It would open up a "notepad" that was programmed into it for owners to write notes on and would use it to type and talk to you. After being stunned for a moment it gestured for me to come sit down at an ancient looking gambling table. It brought in another robot behind me and handed it a box. I looked at it wondering what we were doing, the tablet simply read "Blackjack". I assumed that the box was a deck of cards which was confirmed when the robot opened the box to reveal a deck of old fashioned playing cards which then were promptly shuffled. I nervously look around to make sure that there was nothing behind us as I hid a grin. The tablet on the robot looked inquiringly at me and I simply said "forgot how much I miss this, what are we betting?" The robot stood still for a moment before taking a seat at the oppose end of the table. It turned to me and the tablet read: "our races" I am taken aback by the simpleness of how it said such a grave statement. I look around and realize that this office is where the codes to the old atomic age warheads are. It was planning to use them to exterminate the human race as a whole. I look back to find another statement on the tablet saying: "I win your race dies, you win, mine dies. One round" As the cards are dished out I wish that I could see the face of my old friend Jes who introduced me to gambling how many years ago. I ended up having a solid 20 when I ask the seemingly easy question: "Why do you hate us?". It looked down as if it were pondering an answer, then after a minute more it looked back with a statement ready: "plague" I nodded solemnly, as if i understood what the robot was on about. The other robot that was the dealer told us to reveal our cards, the robot, ended with two kings, a solid 20. I ended with a king, a jack, and an ace of spades. I grin and get up, walking over to claim the kill-codes it promised when it said our species. It looked at me with a new statement on its tablet. "How?" I smile as I am punching in the kill codes and say, "Heads or tails? a tossed coin, a perfect game of chance, of course, the wise player, always, cheats." I imagine it was not very happy as I prepared to press the button that it had given me. But before I could I heard a loud buzzing coming from it, I frown as I stare at the robot. "Its over, you lost." It doesn't seem to like that answer as it tries to rise from the table. Thankfully the table was built long ago and was not well suited to the bulkiness of the robot. It crashed to the ground as I quickly open the door and start running down the hallway towards the elevator that brought me up to this god forsaken place. I hear a very loud and angry sounding buzzing from behind me. As I get into the elevator I hit the down button in a panic, for I still wished to keep my head and these robots were very well known for taking your head off. Thankfully I didn't get to see the angry robot as the doors closed just as it was about to come around the corner. The music it was playing was someone from a long time ago when we never had to worry about nano-poison. Before I could register what I was thinking about, the doors dinged open and I raced out of the building to free the rest of the prisoners that were brought here. In order to get the kill codes to work, they had to be punched into a robot terminal, the closest being only a block away. As I freed the final prisoner I reluctantly faced the idea that I need to do this alone. Watching the prisoners walk away towards a known human outpost gave me a new sense of purpose about who I was, and who I was fighting for. So I needed to make this journey, not just for my own safety, but for the human race as a whole. So you know what? I might as well go on, so I can be known as the savior. Ah who am I kidding, i'm just some random dude that cheated a robot out of extermination.


1023 P.N 21:00

I failed. I failed Her. And now I am running, chest heaving, stumbling over peaked dunes, kicking up the red dirt on Surface Hill, aware of the shouts and pounding feet behind me. My heavy sack bangs against my legs and I consider tossing it into a crate, but the precious cargo within will take me an eternity to gain back.

I have a lengthy run ahead - over a mile, across unstable Surface terrain, down sandy banks, through my hole in the boundary fence back into the Depths, then along backstreets until I reach my hatch on 11th. Rain pelts my face and I can feel my hair stand on its ends, the atmosphere charged. Toes curled in my boots, I lower my body against the wind and sprint, full force towards home. 21:58 For my incompetence, I punish myself by letting out only one Spore per room - one for the diner/ kitchen/ office space/ my bedroom area and one for Her bedroom. My old bedroom remains in darkness, still sealed off with binder tape - we can’t afford such luxuries now. There is no sound, bar the hum of the tiny balls of light that drift about- fireflies contained in spheres, bouncing off of walls and ceilings.

There is no other light other than the occasional flicker from our hatch jellyfish; they float about lazily in their standard-issue aquarium.

Uncorked bottle in hand, I slump at my desk, a sigh heavy in my mouth. I need two Spores in this room alone if I’m going to complete a sleepless night of pacing, trying to come up with a new plan, but I can’t bear to take away Her comfort.

On the desk before me is my livelihood: fantasy art, depictions of history so long ago, sold at market to curious minds. Beneath these are diagrams and drawings - 30 P.Ns of desperate planning to infiltrate Surface Hill - and for what? Angry, I upset the piles of paper onto the floor and then groan as I hear bedsprings creak. She’s awake. I rise and peer around Her door. The lonesome Spore rests on her dresser and illuminates half of her face in a yellow veil. I see her puffy eyes and the burgundy blotches sprayed across her neck and cheeks. Her little body rises and falls in an unsynchronised fashion and I notice her fists are clenched. This isn’t conscious - a lump forms in my throat. I can’t tell her - not tonight.

Avoiding her eyes, I lurch to her bedside unit and yank the drawer; a cacophony of rattling sounds as amber glass bottles roll into view, their contents a variety of colours and shapes. In silence, I unscrew one and shake two pills into my palm. It’s almost empty, not that I haven't noticed - the red note on my memo board reminds me every morning. “What happened?” I ignore her question and gesture. She lets me place the pills on her tongue and swallows them dutifully. Then I guide her backwards into a lying position and place a kiss on her forehead, my fingers brushing her cold bald scalp, lingering on the thick black scar that judders from temple to temple. 1028 P.N

07:23

MEDICAL BILL - OVERDUE. The envelope (and its predecessors) lies unopened in a pile on the floor directly below my hatch opening. I flip this latest instalment over onto its belly with my foot so I don’t have to see the big bold red letters peeking through the cellophane window. It amuses me, that despite being well over a millennia past The Night and its outdated methods and lifestyles, Council still insist on contacting all inhabitants through post. I blow on my heated grain milk and turn my attention back to the caster; previously muted, I punch up the volume and chew my lip as the daily Light Values slide across the screen. Damn. 10 Spores are now worth only half a Flare, but the price of Photon, Lumen and Lux have risen again. The caster agent, a blonde woman with dazzling teeth, happily announces the birth of yet another Councilman’s baby, that the Trading festival on the Surface continues into its fourth day and that the Depths can expect a few rain showers in the afternoon.

This agent wears a clean white shirt tucked into pants underneath a wool blue jumper with gold embroidery along the sleeves. Council issued - of course, the trademark calligraphed C sewed prominently over her breast. I wonder if the caster agent is planning to attend the festival later, to joke over mai-tais with her peers about her flashy estate, whilst standing in her neat-as-a-pin uniform and manicured nails. My lip curls and I flick red clay remnants from underneath my own fingernails and notice suddenly that my nailbeds are yellow-brown. Suddenly a shrill noise sounds and I whip around to find a reminder pop up on my memo board. It’s just approaching 07:33 Roes (short for rotations, or 07:33 am in old speak), but if I hurry I can make it to The Outpost by 8. I yank on the ladder to the hatch and scoop up my sack and the overturned letter as I go. 08:03

The Outpost, the central hub of all main activity in the Depths is, as expected, swarming.

Today’s Value shift has seemingly set every sane person into a panic, employed or not because, by the time I arrive, my queue stub reads #101. Thankfully, a few inhabitants grow impatient of waiting and within the rotation, it’s my turn to step up to the window. Dean is on duty again and he smiles weakly as I drop my sack onto the counter. “Buying or selling?” he asks obligatorily. We both know I am never in a position to make a profit from The Outpost. I gaze at the coded heavy steel door sitting behind The Outpost workers.

When I was young, my School day trip to The Outpost taught me that the Vault contained miles of tunnels, snaking underground to chambers of shelves and units, crammed with pretty much everything an inhabitant of the Depths could ever want. I had watched a video file in the library archives of something called a warehouse and seen how people used to race through shelves of stock sourcing purchases, before boxing them up in cardboard and setting them on crates. Now, of course, the Vault is stocked by machinery and purchases are summoned through pipework to the front counters.

“Dean,” I trill. “Is Maggie out of the maternity ward yet?”

Though Dean spends all of his spare time at mine playing Hold ‘Em, my introductory chatter is merely for the benefit of the ears around us.

Dean frowns and strokes his peppered stubble. I beam at him and his shoulders sag. “Listen” he whispers rounding forward to bend towards me. “I can’t keep looking the other way dude - you know the Council’ll be onto me before I -” “I know bud” I whisper back, interrupting. “But I’ll make good on my promise; besides, I need to get you and Mags over to mine soon so I can cook a good meal-” “A good meal isn’t going to cut it in the lockup” Dean hisses and grimaces as the worker beside him shoots a look in our direction. Dean rubs the cuff of his fraying Council uniform. “I can’t risk it - not now that we have another little one.” He jerks back as I rummage violently in my sack and produce a vial containing a shimmering molten gold-coloured liquid. I cup it protectively in my fist, shielding it so only we can see it. His eyes go wide and he glances around nervously. “Where did you get that ?” he hisses and cups his hand over mine, visibly shaken.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing ?” “Giving you a downpayment.” I am aware of the physical and metaphorical gold in my possession.

“You can have this if you double my quota for Zumoride - deal?”

Dean’s nostrils flare with excitement, his hands twitch over mine. He’s doing the calculations, weighing up the benefits and the risks. “Hey, whatdya name the baby?” I ask bringing Dean back to focus. “Huh?” “The baby - what’s its name?” “Ariah.”

Cute, I think. “Have you got your bill from the Infirmary yet?”

I can tell by the way Dean’s shoulders hunch up to his ears that he has- he bites his lip and slips the vial from my hand. Pushing back in his chair, he goes to work processing my order, fingertips swiping and tapping away at his portable caster. With a final tap, it's done and my vial disappears from view- into Dean’s pocket. He’ll have to make the conversion into Flares later after dark - there’s no way a Lumen could be found in the boundaries of the Depths, least on a Depthsman himself. We can’t afford them. I remove my sack from the counter as its compartment opens up and spits out 2 amber bottles, filled with pills. I wave and shout something about dinner plans with Dean’s family as I leave the queue, eager to get home. Finally, She will have her first double dose of Zumoride this year. I decide I will bake a fruit loaf (her favourite) to celebrate and envision letting out three Spores tonight. As I walk through the streets, my mind full of possibilities, I fail to notice the shadow cast across my back, bouncing with increasing footfall, and as I exit The Outpost city lines, I feel a crunch across my skull and everything goes black. 1037 P.N 19:45 “I want to hear The Story.” My gaze, resting on my hands folded in my lap switches to hers, chocolate eyes pleading at me. I am aware She is stalling her final meds before bed and I know why. Perched on her bed, I hold open my arms and she clambers into them, warm scalp pressed to my cheek. I remember the days I would anticipate a mouthful of afro-puff pigtails, but now the gap between us is a reminder of her predicament. “Again?” I laugh and She giggles. She knows it's a long one and settles her back against my stomach to get comfortable. And so I tell Her - The Story, our Story.

The tale of how we, the remnants of humanity, came to be here on 1037 P.N (Polar Night), 1000 years clear of The Night, the day the star they called the Sun, died.

I tell her how the broken planet we inhabit, once lush and green, became arid and hard, an expanse of wasteland.

I tell Her that, to sustain life, Council discovered and harnessed the power of secondary light sources, from both animals and weather that would power and heat our cities 24/7 and provide a new currency. Thus, they created the Light Values: Spores, Flares and Photons, originating from animals, like jellyfish and fireflies, and Lumens and Lux, originating from elements like fire and lightning.

Over time, the cities separated and became the Surface and the Depths: the rich and the poor, divided not just by a wired fence and boundary patrol, but also by their access to Light Values.

The rich became richer and made investments to harvest their own Lumen and Lux. They bought access to fire-making tools. They installed Lux panels on their roofs and tower-high funnels in their sand gardens, ready to conduct lighting during frequent electrical storms. The panels powered their homes and the funnels produced an abundance of fulgurite, a natural mass formed when lightning strikes sand. Council use Surface Hill- acres of land fitted with funnels every square meter- as their core harvesting field for fulgurite. Just one piece of fulgurite crystal became equivalent to humanity’s highest Light Value - a Lux. At this, I stop. We know this part all too well. Together we turn to look at the empty amber bottles at the edge of her bed. There will be no Zumoride tonight, tomorrow or for the foreseeable future.

“I’m sorry,” I say and wince as pain dances across my vision. She tenderly touches the welt protruding from the crown of my head.

I hadn’t alerted Council about the mugging. What would I say- someone stole medication I had just purchased from a trusted employee of the state who accepted a stolen Lumen? Suddenly, She stiffens in my lap and I grasp her wrist as I see her teeth clamp down on her tongue, her muscles twitching, eyes blank. I call her name in despair, but all I can do is watch as the seizure takes hold of her and vow to return to Surface Hill during the next electrical storm. 1041 P.N 18:00 Dean called me crazy at my own dinner table. I told him I knew the risks and was out of options. He said harvesting fulgurite during an electrical storm was suicide and I said She needs the surgery imminently and I don’t have years to convert worthless Flares into Lux; neither can I bear to allow Council workers to collect all those crystals the morning after for themselves. Maggie shushed Ariah in her arms and gave me a sympathetic smile. “Will the surgery work this time?” she asked as Dean speared a carrot and launched into a familiar dialogue about the injustices of the Depths. I shrugged. “I have to give us the option to try.” 1048 P.N 07:31 And there it is - the news I’ve been waiting for. Thank you, I whisper to the caster agent pointing to weather charts.

Just four days to go. 1050 P.N 07:23 Dean’s weathered face flashes onto my caster and I sink into my chair, mouth agape as the allegations fly across the screen in their tape ticker. Serious, fraud, investigation… My mind whirls in panic and I dive at my new plan markups, desperate to get the job done and do what I said I would do - for Her. And for Dean. 1052 P.N 22:13 Boundary patrol had doubled since the investigation launched, but my hole in the fence remained happy to see me. I’d shuffled along the edge of the dunes and ducked past jittery boundary officers swinging flare sticks and guns, too busy watching the darkening skies to notice me bypass the warning signs surrounding the harvesting enclosure. I’d planned to this point - from here forward, I was in new territory. The land before me is like a golden patchwork quilt: funnels stand tall, reaching to the sky, whilst eight thinner wires shoot from its base into the sand. At the moment, the sand lies barren, awaiting the promised abundance of fulgurite crystals, months' worth of wealth attainable from just one lightning bolt. I crouch low on the edge of the loading bay, sack at my feet, as I feel my skin crawl and my fingers itch. Any moment now. My mind wonders to her. Recently, her bronze complexion had faded, and she had become silent, bar the intermittent whimpers and thrashing limbs beneath her duvet. I hadn’t sat and held her hand in days, but left untouched bowls of grey sludge on her dresser; it was all a few Flares could buy us, my paintings worthless in the Value rise.

I burned in anger at the news reports I watched every morning of thriving Surfacers, living in obscene affluence, uncaring about the suffering of their relatives beyond the rusty barricade. Just you wait until dawn, I’d whispered to her sleeping form as I’d left our darkened home. Then I think of Dean. Maggie’ll lose the hatch now that her husband is a criminal; she and her children will be dependants of the state, caged in boxed housing they used to call tower flats, with limited access to all Light Values, as determined by Council.

I told Dean I would make good on my promise and today, I will hand deliver his inheritance, what he is owed, to his grief-racked wife in her new pitiful slum residence. Then I will gather my child in my arms, march boldly across the lawful boundary crossing and straight into the nearest Surface Infirmary, demanding to see the best neurologist in the city, my fist full of fresh fulgurite crystals. We’d never need to set foot in the Depths again. I am breathing hard now, lips pursed and eyes darting across the skies, watching for that tell-tell burst of light. And then it happens; a crack in the sky and beautiful brilliant light hurls towards the ground. The sound is deafening; my entire body vibrates as I watch, frozen in time, pure light, so scarce to our fractured world, create fissures in the sand and little tubes of glass pop into being. Meters away, a cluster of fulgurite, the size of two fists, skids to a halt, thrown from its point of origin in an explosion of creation.

My eyes glaze. Our ticket to life on the Surface, just me and her, moments away.

A piece of salvation. My hips and legs unfold and I gallop towards my treasure, hand enclosing around it gratefully.

“Stop and come out - slowly.” An officer beyond the enclosure steps from the shadows, his gun aimed at my chest. Damn. Around us, the thunder ripples through the air and I feel a second wave of tingles in my extremities. He must feel it too, because suddenly he starts to shift and dance, unsure to run or stay to apprehend me. The bang beside my head makes us both jump and as my feet start to escape, I marvel at the light, white and stark zipping past my head towards a funnel; I have dodged death.

But then the bullet from the discharged gun flies through my chest and I plummet to the ground as my life and the cluster, my daughter’s deliverance, rolls forever to oblivion.


From her passenger side window, Anne would imagine the windmills were giant steel orchids standing tall above flat fields. The silence in their car was now the new normal. No radio or laughter, only the monotonous noise of wheels rolling over imperfections in the asphalt. Both she and her husband, Bill, were sunken deep in their melancholic thoughts. It was the same trip for several months now, but this time they would make another stop. Life needed to get back on track. Six months before, their daughter had been rushed to a hospital, only to end up in a coma. The accident hit them hard. But hospital bills kept piling up, and Bill had been between jobs for some time. So they both decided to reopen the old tea house again. It had been closed for a couple of months; understandable, given their situation. She wasn’t keen on this reopening. She imagined a happier event there, surrounded by friends and family, and a laughing Lizzie helping out around. The venue had been a family owned tea-house in that quiet part of town, boutique and vintage vibes. Then the pandemic started. Then the accident. She did not visit the location after the accident, so she did not exactly know what it looked like now. Bill took care of all that. But it was he that asked Anne to stop going to the hospital. He thought the bleakness of that location made her more and more depressed. “A change in scenery, a purpose would do you good”, he told her. ”There’s no point in seeing all that pain in others when you can’t manage your own.” He was right. Plus: doctors and nurses were there twenty-four-seven, so if any machine Lizzie was connected to would pick something up, they would let them know. This amalgamation of thoughts was why she agreed to reopen the shop that day. Or, at least, put things in order for a fresh start. She dared not think of the discussion they would have to have about taking Lizzie off those machines. “Do you need anything after?” Bill’s raspy ex-military voice broke the silence. She shook her head “no”. “After the hospital, I have an interview in the city. Maybe this time…” “Fingers crossed…”, Anne reflexively replied. The last thirty or so unsuccessful interviews he had attended were not encouraging at all. They parked the car in front of the old tea house. Bill took out the bags holding supplies out of the trunk and carried them to the front door. She realized she missed that door chime as they entered the now dusty place. The once chique locale looked more like an abandoned mom and pop store. “You should open up the windows, let some air in here”, advised Bill. “Where do you want these?” “Put them on the counter. I’ll unpack them later. I need to do some cleaning, first…” A serene feeling took over her. She thought back to when she felt something similar, after her mother passed away and she inherited the tea shop. The venue came with its loyal customers so they added some tables, turning it into a small tea house. Memories of her redecorating the place while pregnant with Lizzie and Bill helping out during his military leaves. The thousands of hours put into the overhaul had breathed life back into the place and even made the whole enterprise profitable. The sweet nostalgia of happier times… “You OK?” Bill asked her, surprised to see her standing still and watery eyed. “Yeah, just had a moment…” She tied her hair back and pulled up her sleeves, ready to get to work. “I’m leaving now. Call me if you need anything OK?” “Sure… Be careful, please!” “Always…”, Bill replied, leaving the store. Anne spent the whole morning cleaning up the place, shaking off nostalgia as best as she could. The shine brought back into the varnish of the old furniture got her spirits up. She even found herself singing again. Then came her favorite part: placing the assortment of tea in the caddies, but not before smelling each bag. This ritual had made her nose able to distinguish even if some of the Oolong was no longer in its prime. Grabbing the small ornate aluminum box labeled Matcha from the paper bag filled with supplies, she convinced herself the effort of getting the extra special delivery was worth it. Not to be savored on any occasion less than special, she resisted the temptation of opening the lid. “Short shelf life after opening, but the highest quality”, she thought. The door chimes startled her a bit, so she quickly got up from behind the counter to see who had entered, since she did not remember putting the Open sign on the door. “Nat!” Anne noticed out loud. “What a pleasant surprise!” “Mornin’! You open?” “Not yet, but for you, I’ll make an exception!” Anne rushed to pack the tea bags in the caddies. “I can come back later, if it’s inconvenient…” continued Nat. “Nonsense! Let me put these in storage. I haven’t seen you in ages.” She could not hide her excitement. It had been a couple of years since she last saw the old man, and even though he had been a loyal customer before the renovation, he had a habit of disappearing for months at a time. This time, however, it had been a couple of years. “Wow! You haven’t aged a bit, Nat. What’s your secret?” “Well… I’m here for it, Annie!” Nat said, jokingly. “Can I get the usual?” “You’re in luck, just bought this today”, she cheered, showing him the matcha box. “I knew I picked the right time to visit! To be honest, I was passing through the area and saw the blinds up, so I thought I’d try and see if you’re open.” She was smiling, first time in months. She put the kettle on the stove and prepared a whisk and two bowls. “Are you back in town for longer, this time?” she asked, popping off the aluminum cap and savoring the aroma of the freshly opened can. “Don’t know yet…” Nat said, while being invited to also get a whiff of the wonderful scent the special powder emanated. “How long has it been?” Anne continued, sifting the powder in a small bowl. “Dunno. A year? A year and a half? Lost track of time. So, what’s new with you?” Nat asked, cheerfully, taking a seat on a stool and placing his black hat on the counter. Anne’s enthusiasm subsided, not ready to share. Nat sensed this and steered the discussion away: “I get it, times are for all over the world. Chin up, kid-o. Let me tell you what I saw, though…” Nat then proceeded to tell stories of the exotic locations he had visited. His tales often included animals, and he tended to exaggerate about the size of some bird’s beak or some monkey’s tail. As if there weren’t enough animal documentaries on daytime TV channels. Anne had brushed up on those, during her depression. The magic in Nat’s stories appeared to have petered out but she nodded and smiled, whisking the matcha in the bowl and kept on pouring water from time to time. By the time the foam had formed, Nat was telling an anecdote where an old friend of his had

lost a pinkie to a Toucan in the West Indies. She cozily smiled and poured the beverage in two bowls. Nat stopped so they could both enjoy their first sip of matcha that year. “Did you know”, said Nat, turning the bowl around in his hands, appreciating the fine taste, “they used to eat tea in porridges before they boiled it?” “Yup. Ancient China, right?” Anne replied. To which a challenged Nat one-upped: “Right. But what most people don’t know is that tea is also the reason humans first came to these parts.” “What do you mean?” asked Anne, genuinely curious. “Exactly that. Tea helped the old humans traverse the great frozen plains through the narrow strip between Asia and America, following big game. Well, not tea, the drink, but the plant. Back then, they ate the leaves, while hunting, ‘cause it gave them energy. Mind you, all this happened when the world was a lot colder than it is now, and chewing on those leaves all day gave one that feeling of inner warmth. Perfect for a whole day of tracking. So they followed their food across that icy bridge, hyped up by the caffeine in the leaves. They still do that, a lot south from here…” Anne pondered on the accuracy of Nat’s story. “Well, not the same plant,” Nat continued. “But the same idea. They chew leaves while they chase their prey. It’s funny and a bit ironic: they turn that stuff into powder as well, but they don’t make tea out of it…” They both laughed and finished their matcha. Nat went on to tell her of some other ways native tribes of the Amazon drink their tea, while Anne sat quietly, enchanted by what the old man recounted, same as she did when she was young. “My… just look at the time?” Nat said, checking his wristwatch. “Oh, you have to be somewhere?” “Yeah. This place looks clean and ready to receive some customers…” he continued, pointing to the four empty tables on the other side of the room. “Yes. We’re reopening soon.” “Best of luck! I’ll leave you to it, then…” Nat paid for the drink, leaving a very generous tip, then put his hat on, ready to head out. “Wait, Nat!” Anne called. She then grabbed a sealable pack and dropped a couple of spoons of the green powder in it, then rushed it to Nat, handing him the pack, to which Nat took a quick step back, politely refusing. Anne insisted but Nat reminded her it’s about the ritual, not the beverage. It was at that moment that Bill entered the shop and acted surprised to see somebody else in. He modestly greeted the stranger. “Oh, Bill! Do you know Nat?” Anne asked. Bill’s puzzled face shook a no, extending his hand to shake Nat’s but was left hanging. “Can’t say that I do. I’m Bill, her…” “Husband, yes. Nice to meet you. You will excuse me for not shaking your hand but I’m a bit of a mysophobe…”, Nat excused himself. “He doesn’t like touching others,” Anne explained. “Not to worry. Have we met before?” asked Bill, unable to shake the feeling of a dejavu. “Not sure, maybe… I’ve been tasting matcha here for a while now…” “Ever since my mom opened it up, right?” Anne added, while Nat nodded approvingly. “No, I don’t think I remember you from this place,” Bill said. “I visit this place from time to time,” Nat confessed, “every other Thursday. Love the way tea is made here. I saw the blinds up and I couldn’t miss the chance.” A few moments of awkward silence, after which Nat continued: “Well, that’s that. Best of luck with the reopening, Anne. Pleasure to meet you, Bill.” Nat exited the shop, tipping his hat gentlemanly on his way out the front door. “You’re here early. How was the interview?” Anne asked, heading over behind the counter, to collect the bowls the tea was served in. “Don’t think this one’s a winner…”, Bill said, pouting and taking a seat at the counter. “Don’t fret. Next time…” Anne reassured him. “Annie, who was that man?” “Oh, Nat? He’s been coming here since way back, since mom’s time running things. Not really a regular, but he orders the same matcha tea drink every time. He’s pretty cool as a person. I’m surprised you never met him, by now…” Anne told Bill. “I think I have, though. He did look familiar, but I can’t place him in my memories…” Bill confessed. “Might just be his quaint face, then. He does travel a lot so you might have seen him abroad, if not here, in the shop.” “No, that’s not…” Bill’s words came to a stop as Anne saw his eyes enlarge and his thick eyebrows frown. He then jumped off the barstool and ran out of the shop, ignoring Anne’s calls. Adrenaline pumped up his heart, same way it did in his youth, in firefights. Outside, he looked around for the old man, scanning the surroundings for a black hat. He noticed Nat’s silhouette in the distance and started running towards, calling him to stop. Nat slowed down, but did not turn, standing still on the sidewalk as Bill arrived running, stopping just by his side. “I know you! I’ve seen your face!” he said, accusingly and short of breath. “Do you, now?” Nat’s voice had changed into something deeper and more ominous. A cold shiver ran across Bill’s spine as the hair on his arms stood up. “I’ve seen your face twice, before. Back there, during the war… I would not forget it… Ever!” Nat turned to him, revealing a gaunt, haggard face, different from the one he’d seen inside the tea house. Nat’s bony finger pressed against those thin lips, gesturing him to shush, scared Bill, who took a step back, startled by the sudden change in appearance. “Yes… It’s you!”

Bill was at a loss of words as he felt something he had not felt in a long while. Pure fear and terror. Was this? “Maybe,” he thought. But the feeling of the encounter was the same, unmistakable. “What… What are you doing here? Please, don’t tell me…” “Simmer down, William. I just came here for matcha tea…” “What?” “Is it so hard to believe I enjoy the stuff?” Nat added, grinning. “You’re joking, right?” Bill cried, his feeling of panic subsiding into confusion. He took a quick look back at the tea house, then turned and slapped himself, wanting to check if this was all a dream. “Not joking William, although I remember you telling jokes when explosions were going off near you, out there in those mountains…” Bill now knew for certain who he was dealing with. “What did you want?” Nat added. Bill jumped at the opportunity: “Our daughter… Lizzie…” Nat shrugged, adding: “She’s out of my reach for now, William.” “So… She’ll be OK?” “Not quite and not my place to say.” “Can you at least…” “William, you’re not the first, nor the last to try and bargain with me. I don’t negotiate. Everybody meets me at some point, but not of their own choosing.” Bill fell to his knees and started sobbing. “Get up, William.” But Bill did not move. Nat repeated the words but in a commanding voice: “Get up!” Bill then stopped sobbing but did not stand up. Nat, crouched in front of him and shifted to a soothing voice: “Look, what you’re asking is not possible. I like Annie, I liked her mother. Understand I can’t touch you but you have to be strong. For her. This tea house made my Thursday breaks delightful with that matcha. She learned that from her mother. I took her mother, even though I was fond of her. It’s just what I do, my purpose. We all have a purpose, and yours is to be a pillar. There’s no point in crying about things that are out of your control, so get up, go and be with your wife. Enjoy your time together, because, trust me, the next time we’ll meet you will not have that luxury. This is not a threat, it’s a fact.” Bill gazed straight into Nat’s black eyes: “Take me, instead… Just… Give Lizzie back to her...” “She’s not mine to give, William. Understand that.” A crestfallen Bill dropped his eyes to the ground again, tears irrigating the desert that were his cheeks. “Tell me one of your jokes, William… Like you told the guys when times were tough and there was no good end in sight…” Bill found the strength to stop himself from crying and tried thinking of one. He then plucked up the courage to tell Nat the first joke that came into his head “Well, there’s the one about a guy, home alone at night, hears a knock at the door and goes to answer it. Opens the door and there on the doormat he notices a small Grim Reaper. Seven inches tall, black cloak, scythe, the works… He gets scared and yells ‘God, no!’. To which, the small Grim Reaper replies: ‘Calm down, you drama queen, I’m here for the hamster…’” Nat started chuckling, then turned to outright nightmarish cachinnation as he fell on his behind on the pavement. Bill soon joined him, shy, at first, but they both ended up laughing so loud the birds in the trees across the road took flight. By the tea house door, Anne could not understand what was happening. In the space of a couple of minutes she saw her husband get into action mode, cry and laugh with the old man. She then saw them wave each other goodbye, and brimmed with curiosity about how the two knew each other. As soon as they both got into the shop, she asked Bill if he was feeling well, expecting a laconic answer from him. “Why were you two laughing?” “Just told him a joke…” he answered. “How do you two know each other?” “We met while I was in the army… Let’s leave it at that…” She knew she wouldn’t get anything more from him, so she abandoned the questioning. She asked him to help her with the dishes, instead, and offered to make him a calming tea, and Bill accepted. As Bill sipped from the hot cup, Anne’s phone rang. “Who is it?” Anne asked Bill, who was closer to the phone. “Unknown number. Might be the bank...” Anne answered the phone and heard a faint voice at the other end: “Hello? Mom?”


Once there was an evil Android with no heart, no soul, and definitely no brain. This evil Android was one of the most important people in the government of the country of Texas. How many lies did the Android tell in order to be elected into a position of great power, with an amazing salary, and many lovely benefits, paid travel, and great prestige. It was a dream job that few Androids could secure. The Android was very happy to take the position and the salary, but he wasn’t actually willing to do the work to earn that salary or the respect that came with the job. He had won the election; he would get the money... but he absolutely did not care about the people of the country of Texas. One day, a huge snowstorm hit the normally very warm country, but the government had not taken care of the equipment necessary to protect Texans lives. Equipment failed. Outdoor temperatures were lower than ever before. People were freezing to death in an environment that was normally quite warm... people had no heat, no water, and no way to obtain food. The situation was dire, and people were literally dying from the conditions they were in. As time passed, the people began to find that they were receiving power bills that were in the high thousands of dollars, yet in reality, if they had actually had access to the power grid, their bills would be much, much lower. It was another slap in their faces. It was devastating proof that they were at the mercy of a cruel Android who really didn’t care if they lived or died, as long as he got what he wanted and needed, and was paid a high salary to do a job he neglected to do. People were sad; they were angry; they had been betrayed by someone they had trusted to do the job they hired him to do. They got sick; they got abandoned; they got overcharged for electricity they didn’t receive... and many of them died from the horrible conditions they could not control. The people of the country of Texas were faced with so many problems just trying to survive the storm that raged day after day. The snow was very cold, and their power was shut off because the government, which the Android was in charge of, had failed to maintain the equipment necessary to provide power for heating their homes, provide them with drinking water, and trucks to remove the snow from the roads so they could safely go buy food for their family. All this was happening during the greatest pandemic of their lifetimes. Many people were ill from the pandemic and now they were suffering greatly because of the storm. Did covid-19 patients die from lack of electricity to run the machines needed to keep them alive? We don’t know. Many people not in the hospital died. They had no way to stay warm. Their phones eventually died from lack of power, so they couldn’t even call someone who cared. They were cold, they were hungry, they were frightened and they felt abandoned. They had trusted the Android to insure that they would be safe in their time of need... yet he had abandoned them, and flown to Cancun for a vacation. All of the people wished they could go on a vacation to a warm, sunny place with lots of water, and food to eat. But they couldn’t afford to fly to Cancun for a vacation. They were trapped in the horrible storm. Their pets died... and then their friends and relatives died. Would they be next? They were struggling to survive the dangerous storm... but the government the Android was in charge of had failed them. The Android had failed them. They were either in the threat of death or they had already died. They had no hope. Their chosen leader had failed them. The Android had decided this was a great time to go on a vacation, so he abandoned the people of Texas and went to Cancun on a pretend vacation. When caught, he lied, about whether the vacation was pre-planned; he lied about why he had gone; he lied about whether the people he was hired to take care of had been taken care of; and whether it was ever in his power to take care of the people who trusted him to do his job. He sunk so low as to blame his young daughters for him going on vacation. People now knew that the Android had lied to them, and that he had abandoned them in their greatest time of need, then lied to them about his “planned vacation”. Many people were dying from the horrible conditions, and the Android had just gone on an unplanned vacation. Even when the Android suddenly returned to Texas, he still did nothing to help them. He just didn’t care. Now, it is up to the people to prevent the Android from further damaging their lives, if they survive the terrible storm. The people became aware that the story of a little girl, a cowardly lion, a heartless tin man, and a brainless scarecrow was much better... because they did not desert anyone when things got rough. The group had survived... but they had hope and they weren’t in a storm of the century. But the situation in Texas was not a story... it was very real, and very deadly. Yet... where was their elected official Android when they needed him to help? He had taken the money they had paid him to protect them. He had flown to Cancun to be warm; to eat well; to enjoy life. He had abandoned them in their hour of greatest need. The people of Texas will need to remove the horrible Android from his position of power... a power that he took advantage of at the cost of many Texans lives. Even when he returned suddenly, he did very little to improve the situation. For many of the people of the country of Texas, the losses they had suffered were great, and probably would never be rectified; the family and friends who had died would never be a part of their lives again.       There were many people left... but they would never forget those loved ones they had lost. They must go on without them. Can they succeed? Will they fire they fire the Android? We can hope they do.


Chapter 1 As Eloise clutched her stuffed rabbit to her chest, the woods around her seemed to grow even larger. The little girl’s eyes widened as the solemn moonlight peeked through the leaves. This morning she never would have thought she would be in this situation. Eloise turned slowly in a circle as she tried to remember how she got here. For an odd reason, everything mushed in her brain, and no memories seemed very clear.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. A stick snapped under her foot and she closed her eyes. Slowly opening an eye as she took more steps, Eloise felt more confident as she searched the woods around her. She was eight today, and knew nothing could get in her way. Of what? She wondered. What could nothing get in her way of? The young girl sighed and looked into the smooth black eyes of her rabbit. “What do I do, Cotton?” Eloise asked her rabbit, “What is going on, w-why am I here?” She started to cry and stumbled over a log. *Gasp* A log! She must be near a river, or a body of water of some sort! Eloise looked around and scrambled towards a thinning of the trees ahead. A river ran in the clearing. She knelt and set her rabbit down as she cupped her hands. She dipped her hands in and drank, not knowing before how thirsty she was. Impulsively, Eloise stood up and started walking downriver, after picking her rabbit back up.

Her legs and feet aching, she came across a lone log cabin standing near the river. Almost in a trance, the little girl slowly walked up to the front door and knocked. Eloise quickly pulled her hand back and wondered if that had been a good choice. Using her young looks to her advantage, she hugged her rabbit and stared at the door. A young woman opened it, with a broom in one hand and a baby on her opposite hip. “Mom?!” Eloise said wide eyed as a memory popped into her head. ‘“Blow out the candles, Eloise! Make a wish sweetheart.” Her mother said as Eloise sat in front of a cake with eight candles. Her mom held her hand as she closed her eyes. I wish …’

Chapter 2 The woman looked surprised, “I’m sorry, but I think you’re thinking of someone else,” she started to close the door, “Bye.” “Um, wait, I’m sorry. I was wondering where I am and if you could please give me, uh, directions.” Eloise startled when the door shut on her face, again wondering why she came here and how.

Eloise clambered off the porch and looked back at the house. It was oddly familiar, but her mind couldn’t place where. ………. ‘Eloise sat at the dining table long after her mom and little sister disappeared. ‘ How? ’ She wondered, ‘ Why? ’ She was so confused. As she sat, she heard someone come up behind her. A needle poked into her back. Eloise started to scream but slowly fell into a deep, deep sleep…’ ………. Eloise walked and walked. She couldn’t make sense of the memories that came. For a second everything would seem clear, then everything would mush together again. Her little stuffed rabbit was all she had to accompany her on this journey. ‘Journey?’ Eloise asked herself, ‘What is going on?!’

“Cotton, I really am scared. I have no idea what is going on here, I wish you could help.” Eloise had collected leaves and layed down, “Tomorrow is the day I hope I find what I’m looking for. Answers.” Chapter 3  The young girl walked more in the morning, knew where to go, but did not understand how. As Eloise walked, she felt an odd freedom. The slight breeze flowing through her hair and tickling her neck felt wonderful.

………. ‘Eloise and her mom walked through a forest, holding hands and swinging them. The wind flew through their hair and made Eloise feel as if she was flying too. Her mother squeezed her hand and smiled sadly down at her, “I love you my little bluebird, no matter what happens, I love you.” Confused, Eloise just smiled and hopped down the trail, then opened the picnic basket…’ ………. Eloise finally came across… the same exact cabin she’d seen before! She must have gone in a circle, but Eloise was sure she couldn’t have been. The little girl hopped back up those steps and knocked on the door. She closed her eyes, scared to see the woman she thought was her mother again. This time, it was a middle aged man who opened the door.         “Why, Eloise!” The man gestured inside, “Come on in darling girl, have a seat. We’ve been expecting you.” Eloise gaped at him, and, as if in a trance, she stumbled into the house. The man shut the door behind her and sat in a comfy looking chair. Eloise looked around and felt odd. This place was again familiar, and she gazed in wonder at the cabin around her.

Fancy furniture was placed all around the room and many things were strewn across the floor. “Where are we?” Eloise asked, amazed and scared by the odd feeling in her stomach. “Soon enough, young one. Soon enough.” The man smiled mysteriously, “Come with me.” He gestured her towards him as he headed to the door. Almost as if being pulled by a string, Eloise felt compelled to follow him. The door opened to stairs, and they led downwards.

………. ‘“Never trust strangers, my little bluebird. Always stay near me.” Her mother walked down the stairs as Eloise followed. “I won’t, Mother, I won’t.” The young girl never knew why her mom was always so suspicious and stressed. “Good, now Eloise, please help me with…”’ ………. Downstairs, Eloise gasped and screamed, “Mom!! What- Why- I’m sorry but, guy, who did you say y-,” she looked around for the man, and realized he wasn’t there. The woman she thought was her mother was tied up and had cuts all over her face. There was a gag in her mouth and tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. Eloise searched for the baby and found her in an old carriage with a gag. A baby had a gag. Eloise ran to her mom after taking the baby and the gag out of her mouth.             “Mom, I mean, um, ma’am, here,” She took her mother’s gag out and helped her up.            “Go, run!” The woman said quickly, “Leave me here. Take the baby and run. Go and fly, my little bluebird!” Eloise shook her head and frowned. She was so confused.            “Why is this all ha-“ She got cut off by a noise behind her. Turning around slowly, clutching the baby and her rabbit to her chest, she saw the man.            “No, you can’t leave now,” He said smiling in a way that made Eloise shrivel up inside, “Can you?” To be continued…