by Meghan Feldman
I had been flipping through the old album when I found it. I had known that the old relic contained many ancient artifacts, but I didn’t know that some were this old. I had found a bona fide photograph. Photographs were rare, now. They had all been lost, destroyed by the sun, or whisked away to distant museums before further harm could have come to them. I peered at it, trying to make out the image beneath the sand scratches and scorched corners. I blew off the last of the dust that was concealing the image. The picture was of a girl, forever frozen in time, looking so happy as she rolled around in something that I had only believed to be a myth. The girl was bundled up in layers of thick clothes that now, had all but been abandoned.
“Snow.” The word jumped onto my lips. I tried to hold onto the word for as long as I could before the beating suns boiled it away. I looked at the girl, longing to be in her place. I bet she didn’t spend every single minute of her existence drenched in sweat. Her happiness was reflected by the icy crystals, and scattered to the wind. She looked so peaceful in her world of silver and blue. Rolling hills and mounds of fluffy, light snow tumbled around her. At the bottom corner of the picture was a date. It had been written in Standard Newtime Form; the year, followed by the month, and then the day. Most of the date had been obliterated by the sand and sun, but I could still make out the year. It puzzled me. It had been a long time since there were four digits in the year number. I glanced up from the album resting on my knees, and gazed off towards the horizon. The twin suns spat hate and heat towards our little planet. I stood up and ran my eyes ran over the landscape. Every day it was different. The dunes changed, swirling this way and that. Every day that one woke up, they were in a whole new world. Every day, the towering waves of golden sand threatened to burry our little city. Every day was the same. We were a little adobe boat set afloat on a gilded sea. I closed the book on the little ice-girl.
“Your world is gone, child.,” I thought quietly. I stood up and started towards the city, my thin, light robes swirling around in the advent of the late afternoon winds. Sand whipped through my bound hair, and jumped and danced over my calloused skin, grating away at any smoothness left. The sand stung my cheeks, and I pulled my scratched goggles over my eyes as the storm began to pick up. I continued long trek home.
Meghan Feldman is a sophmore in highschool who fills her free time wordsmithing.
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'Interior Christmas (With Snow Angel)'
'Slope of Perfection'