Author: Audrey Grey
Category: Fantasy
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Huge winter trees with winding trunks and silver leaves rise from the icy ground. The branches all grow in one direction, making the trees appear to reach toward the heavens at an angle.
Bright red bark clings to the trees, peeling away to reveal grayish skin beneath, and strange fruit peeks between the leaves. Each perfect golden teardrop shimmers with ice.
And the frost—it’s everywhere. Dusting the foliage, the soil, the leaves. Near the Shimmer the snowfall is thin, exposing thick green grass. Each blade is frozen solid, and when I walk, my boots crunch the delicate strands, the sound like shards of glass ground together.
A screech pierces the crisp air, and I duck just as the snowy owl from earlier swoops onto a crooked red branch. His snow colored feathers fluff out as he watches me with amber, unblinking eyes too sentient for my liking.
This world is alive with animals. Two white rabbits hop between the trees, and a squirrel with black tufts above his ears scampers over a branch. Chatty Cat flicks a glance at the squirrel and then slides his lazy gaze to me and yawns.
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No wonder you’re starving.
A red cardinal drops from above and lands near us, pecking at the snow.
My jaw clenches. Perhaps the Fae are purposefully keeping us out because they want us to starve. First they took half our land, then they poisoned the earth along the tainted borderlands so those of us trapped here have nothing. They decimated our population, made orphans of the children, and expect us to obey their laws.
And now they get to sit behind some faulty, pretend wall in their stolen lands and watch us die?
Anger rushes through me, hot and pungent as a newly tarred highway in the middle of summer.
Stop sightseeing like this is the Dollar General, Summer.
Lungs aching, I reach for my bow with numb fingers. By now my hands have lost all sensation. Plus I’m having trouble getting used to the way my breath clouds my vision every time I exhale.
This is not the place to let my guard down.
Drawing an arrow along the bow, I sight down the squirrel first. I hate killing animals, but I have to bring something home to eat. My fingers are red and achy.
What are the stages of frostbite? Is red first or is that a later, fingers-fall-off stage?
“Who needs fingers anyway?” I say conversationally to the squirrel. “You do just fine without them—at least, you did until I came along.”
Only I can’t shoot him. Pretend he’s a cheeseburger, Summer. I try, but he’s so cute with his fluffy black ears and spastic tail. I want to take him home and cuddle, not eat him.
Sighing, I sling my bow over my shoulder, slip the arrow into my back jean’s pocket, and then pull out another lollipop, this one cherry-flavored.
For a moment, as the sugary goodness rushes over me, all seems right with the world.
Then I remember it’s freezing, and I’m still a good twenty minutes from home. I can’t re-enter our world in the same spot, in case Bryce is still waiting for me. And the guards are probably all looking for me now.
If I follow the Shimmer for about a mile to the north, I’ll be out of the Millers’ territory and near the woods close to our property.
“Time to jog, Summer. You can do it.” My little pep-talk falls flat. My arms shake, and I’m so tired that even taking three steps seems impossible, let alone a freaking mile.
Yet I don’t have a choice. Story of my life.
Promising myself the rest of the candy in my pocket when I’m done, I break into a half-run half-lurch. Bribery is an underrated act, especially when bribing oneself. Chatty Cat follows, swerving in and out of my legs as he bounds across the snow and makes weird mewling noises.
My breath plumes around me as I parallel the Shimmer, pushing my body hard, my boots slogging through the snow. My arms are frozen, and my sweat has formed a thin layer of ice that encrusts my body.
When I’m done, I can hardly stand. My body completely numb. But I’m incredibly proud of myself, and I demolish another lollipop, crunching straight to the gum this time.
As the sour juice from the gum trickles down my throat, I let out a cloudy sigh and then sweep my gaze over this forbidden world one last time. The beauty of it is haunting. The way nothing is dead, as if a winter storm blew in one fine summer day and froze everything just so. Even the moon seems covered in a layer of hoarfrost, the air honeyed with whatever fruit hangs from the trees.
Fruit. My tongue prickles with moisture. I haven’t tasted any real produce beyond a few expired cans of mandarin oranges in months, and the artificial cherry flavor on my tongue suddenly pales in comparison to the real thing.
The golden spheres taunt me from where they hang, swollen and ripe, begging to be picked and eaten.
I can almost feel my teeth breaking their skin. Almost taste what I imagine is a semi-soft inside, like a firm pear. The promise of fresh fruit sends a surge of energy into my body. The promise of not going home empty-handed?