Fantasy Tales - Three Short Stories by Elle A. Rose Read online



  Frozen

  By Elle A. Rose

  Copyright © 2012 By Angela Watkins, Elle A. Rose

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  They say many years ago, before my great, great, great, great grandparents were born, the young at heart and kids of all ages celebrated Halloween. On October thirty-first of every year, individuals would dress up in costumes either to party with friends or, to go door to door and collect candi from neighbors. Candi, what a foreign name. It’s unknown to our generation, but from what I’ve been told, it holds an alluring sweetness. After The Great Takeover, production of any sustenance not needed for survival was unnecessary. Although the joyfulness of Halloween is extinct, the premise of collection or ‘Trick or Treat’ still remains.

  Halloween is now a day for obtaining provisions to support our family throughout the year. I’m of age this year, so it will be the first time I’m allowed to participate in the food and materials scavenge. My name is Verick Cedar. I reside on the planet formerly known as Earth. The Great Takeover, which occurred sometime in 3100 left the entire planet’s surface merged together. The Xecerptavode (ex-serp-ta-void), an alien race, infused our land, drained all the fresh water, and forced us to live in destitute conditions. Because of the relocation and meshing of the grounds once separated by water, the spiritual barrier between the living and dead, ley lines, were also destroyed. Without intact ley lines, spiritual nights like All Hallows’ Eve have become the salvation for humans of the planet once called earth.

  Thanks to the Goddess, Pomona, this one night she and our ancestors rise from the dead to entomb the xecerptavode in stasis, while our people attempt to gather food. Even though Pomona is a powerful Goddess, she is unable to hold back all of the spirits of the dead. The xecerptavode, who have lost their lives on this planet, also rise in spirit form to assist their imprisoned descendants. For this reason, collection of necessities can become fatal. Although this is my first year of ‘Trick or Treating’, it very well may be my last.

  My father is depending on me tonight, I see it in his gaze. For months now, he has coached me on what to expect. If it wasn’t for the chronic, gurgle of warm bile swishing in my stomach, I may have tried to back out for one more year. I believe my mother is right, sixteen is still way too young. Granted, next year, I will begin the tradition of picking a wife, courting her and wedding her by eighteen--that is, if I live through this night.

  I’ve barricaded myself in my four-by-five foot room with the mattress. It leaves me little freedom to pace, and I continue to kick the dried seaweed and kelp that has leaked from my bedding onto the floor. Resting my arms behind my head, I mull over the pending adventure of the night. Thea and Rylee, my younger sisters, scurry past my door singing. Their angelic voices squelch all doubts. I can do this! I have to do this! If I do not do this for myself, then I shall do it for them. With a slight nod, I flip my mattress away from the flimsy fabric used to close my bedroom off from the rest of the residence. More brittle algae spills to the floor, but I do not stop to refill my bed.

  My sisters come running toward me, arms open wide, as I emerge from my room. Rylee, the younger of the two, bounces into my arms. As I pull her close, her wavy blonde hair brushes my face. Thea, our middle sister, wraps her arms around my leg, and both girls giggle while I try to walk with their bodies attached to me. It’s one of our favorite games. Their giggles turn to hysterical laughter as I pretend to struggle under the extra weight I’ve picked up. We make our way into the kitchen, with a grunt here, a moan there, and laughter that rings throughout our small household, reminding us of better times.

  Mom and Dad are in the kitchen. The creases seem to fade from Mom’s face as she watches us make the six long steps from my room to the kitchen. Her eyes water and she turns back to stirring dinner--stone soup. Dad looks up from sharpening a knife. I count three more knives on the table. Mom says I look like him. We both have green eyes and the same shade of reddish-blond hair. Dad’s face is set in an unreadable expression. His brother was my age when he lost his life on All Hallows’ Eve. Thea releases my leg, and Rylee slides from my arms, as we join Dad at the table for supper.

  There’s little speaking between us as we eat. It’s cool outside and the soup has done little to warm my insides. I wanted to place my spoon back on the table after the second mouthful, but I know I need my strength, regardless of whether my stomach can handle the mineral slosh. After dinner, Rylee and Thea give Dad and me hugs, and then Mom ushers them into their windowless bedroom--it’s best they’re asleep before I leave. If it wasn’t for my sisters, I believe my mother would come scavenge with us. My Aunt Ella, Uncle Etan and cousin on my mother’s side will be making their way to the house, along with my grandparents from my dad’s side. The grandparents, my mom and aunt will keep the children safe tonight.

  While we wait for the others, Dad pulls out a hand-sketched map of the ground we will cover tonight. I’ve seen this map before; however, this will be the first time I must pay close enough attention to the precise legend scribed on the side. For generations, my family has used this map, marking on it new paths to follow and old avenues that may lead to death. I commit to memory all of the lines marked with a red X. Those are lines that we no longer used, and are marked in blood to represent the death of a family member.

  The rusted tin door rattles from a light rap. I can’t hide my fright as I jump from the noise. Dad’s eyes focus on me for only a second before he leaves to let everyone in. As the door creaks open, I notice the sun has begun to fade. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and a cool sensation brushes my skin. Our human spirit ancestors will be erupting from the shattered ley lines soon, so will the xecerptavode ancestors who died on this land.

  My aunt kisses my cheek as she breezes by me to lay my cousin in the room with Thea and Rylee. He, too, is asleep. I’m greeted as one of the men this year. My grandfather reaches his hand out and we shake. Next Uncle Etan welcomes me. Then as tradition dictates, the eldest family member retrieves a small statue of the Goddess Pomona. We take turns. First, the women, then in descending order, the men, all ask the Goddess of fruit and seeds for safe passage tonight. Being last, I gaze at the miniature statue longer than everyone else. I give one more silent plea for a safe return to my mother and sisters come dawn.

  My father, Uncle Etan, and I say our goodbyes as the last sliver of the orangey-pink sun slithers behind the dusty horizon. In the children’s books Thea and Rylee read, it’s claimed that once upon a time ample trees and bushes graced this planet. The stories talk of lush foliage that at this time of year would turn pretty shades of red, orange, yellow, and brown. After the fresh water dried up, most vegetation died. Due to the xecerptavode’s chemical makeup, our atmosphere has been altered, resulting in an end to precipitation. Other than the plants that can survive on salt water—which are very few, you cannot find shrubbery in sight. We do, however, maintain underground farms, which consist of mutated plants from the old world.

  “Verick, I need you to pay close attention.”

  My father’s voice pulls me from the melting sun.

  “Yes, Dad. Go on, I’m listening.”

  He gives me an uneasy gaze. Perhaps he’s second guessing my participation tonight. I stand up straighter and square my shoulders.

  “Last year we headed east first. We seemed to have had luck that way. If you get lost make sure you take the southwest route back,” Dad says, as he taps his finger on the map.
r />   We never return home on the same path in which we begin our journey. In years past, nomads wait on the direct paths back to our slums. For a proper one night’s sleep, they’ll rob you of your goods and return missing items to the xecerptavode. Out of the corner of my eye, I see other families are on the move. To fill my empty hands, Dad thrusts the handle end of the knife he sharpened earlier, along with three burlap sacks towards me. As we begin our trek, my heart frantically throws itself against the wall of my chest, trying to be free, to flee back to the comfort of our home.

  The first few miles need to be jogged. There’s a lot of land to cover and time is slipping by. Before we make it one hundred feet from the house, we come across our first xecerptavode spirit. It is still materializing, so we slip pass it. That is a sign our ancestors are freezing all living xecerptavode in the midst of activity. I pray the semi-transparent alien we skim by will not make its way to my home. By now, Mom will have the jack-o-lanterns lit. It takes days of preparation to carve the jack-o-lanterns for every window ledge and doorframe for the three households. All of the pumpkin innards have been stored and will be a