There’s a lot to be learned here, like how you shouldn’t invite strange werewolves into the house, because they will shed everywhere.

Timeline/World: Until Tomorrow – New York City
Current Date: March 17, 2023

Character: Leann Thompson
Race: Human
Age: 29
Current residence: New York City Ruins, New York
 

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One thing I’ve discovered during my short stay out of the school, just before the snow, is the delightful side to life that are books.

Growing up with the nuns at the orphanage led to a very limited knowledge of all things. Now, I’m not saying they weren’t trying their best—they were—but nuns that lived as though they were in a far away convent, out of touch with reality and believing that their god could fix all things did not make for a very good childhood home for this sickly child. I’ve lost count of how often they would more or less lock me in my room—near literally at times—and tell me that they were praying for me. It’s only through Roslyn that I survived the last sickness, she’s the one who got me medical help. It got her in trouble, but I wouldn’t be alive today if she hadn’t gone that, so I’d like to think that it might not be such a bad thing, in the end.

As it does stand, I’ve discovered books, as many books as I could devour once I did find out that I could read all of them. Cyrus was clearly willing to get me books from the library and that was free, something I had a hard time wrapping my mind around. The downside to those books was that I had a limited amount of time during which I could keep them. Not that it turned into much of a problem considering how voraciously I read. It was one of those things I could do, after all.

I was fairly sad when—after surviving the snow and making it to the bunker—I finally realized that there would never be any books for me ever again. Quite dramatic, I’m aware, and with good reasons, if you’re asking me. I thought I’d never get to read anything ever again and after discovering that I could read? It was a strange sort of blow.

Of course, I not much later on realized that the bunker had a fair collection of books, nothing quite like what the library had to offer but I’ve learned very, very long ago that beggars cannot be choosers and that was fine. I had books to read, and they still were interesting to me.

Oddly enough, one of the books I remember reading and discovering a decade ago was set in a fantasy setting but with a bit of a humorous side to it. I didn’t know what to think of it when I first started reading but it grew on me to the point where I asked if I could keep this copy of the book. It is one of the only things that I found myself calling my own. I’d never really had anything of my own. Certainly not when I more or less escaped the orphanage and less so after the snow.

I still have that book in my small collection of things I now call mine. I take good care of it; I want it to last in as good a condition as I can manage for as long as possible. There is a scene in the book about someone complaining to their housemate about how they shouldn’t invite strange werewolves into the house because there now was werewolf fur everywhere and it was a struggle to get it out of everything.

I’m still not really sure why at this point but it used to make me smile and it still does when I think about it. I don’t have much of an artistic talent—at least, I don’t think that I do—but I found myself trying to sketch out that particular scene from a few different angles over the years. When I look at my scribbles, I don’t really see much of anything that would resemble art but that’s okay. Paper and pencils are somewhat limited. I know they’ve found means of making more but still.

There’s a small pile of sketches in a little box next to the book. A werewolf looking more like a tall puppy just rolling on the rug; that same werewolf flopped out on a bed; on a couch; digging through the fridge. None of these were actually written out in the book but that’s the thing with letting your imagination have a bit of a sway, right? You get to see extra things your own way and I’m hardly hurting anyone with these sketches, so I fail to see why it might be a problem for me to do this when the mood strikes.

Cy certainly seems to think they’re sort of cute, even if they’re scribbly, so I’ll just keep on doing what makes me happy, in the end. That’s what matters, right? Right.

Final Word Count: 801

I just think it’s funny that you believe I know how to do magic.

 
Timeline/World: Until Tomorrow – New York City
Characters: Leann Thompson
Race: Human
Age: 27
Current residence: New York City Ruins, New York
Final Word Count: 713 words
 

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I’m a quiet soul. I’ve always been that way. From my time spent at the orphanage, the school, the hospital; you name it. I had Roslyn as a friend, but she didn’t make it through the snow. I wish she had. I still miss her every day and, every year, I go to the little place I’ve picked as hers and I visit her. I leave a few flowers and I tell her about how things have been.

I personally don’t see these actions as unhealthy. If I were to head over there every day and spend all of my time there, I might imagine things differently, but I go there once a year, I talk to her a bit, I stay maybe an hour at the most and then I come home. I’ve been called weird things by the rare few who have crossed my paths while I was there, a witch is one of them and I might have mostly just stared at them in complete incomprehension. How does just talking away at my lost friend make me a witch?

The other rather strange moment that I’ve witnessed recently was closer to the lines that I’d been gathering a few different flowers and herbs. I’ve been speaking to Simon; he used to run an herbal shop and while I’d never been there before in my life—somewhat difficult to, if you ask me—I found out that he still was gathering herbs, flowers and other bits and pieces that he dried out and prepared as teas. It’s from there that I’ve learned about what teas were and well, that’s where I learned that I did quite love teas.

Now, even though my health has gotten to be much better than it had been before, I’m still fairly limited in what I can or can’t manage. Gathering herbs, berries and flowers is something that is actually pretty easy for me to do so I’ve been helping him with that whenever I can. Now, this is just a bit of background information that leads to the strange moment in question.

I’d gathered what I felt I could find, I’d brought it back to him so he could dry out what he needed, and, in turn, I got to leave with a bag of mixed teas. It wasn’t much but it was enough to hold me for about two weeks. Yes, I know I might very well be strange for drinking hot teas in the temperatures we have currently going on. That’s fine.

But to make a lengthening story shorter, I’d steeped some tea to drink, and I had stepped back outside because our floor wasn’t quite level with the ground, but it was only a few steps away. I always feel a little trapped on the balcony, so I tend to step outside and settle near it. One of our newer neighbours came by as I was settling down, somehow got one look at my bright blue steaming drink and asked to know more about my magic and how I could turn water into whatever this beautiful blue thing was.

I gaped a little, eventually managing to wrap my mind around the strange request. All I did manage to point out was that it was just tea, herbs and berries put together and steeped in hot water. Herbal tea in its purest form but said neighbour called me a liar and told me that they’d find out, no matter that I was clearly set on refusing to share my magic knowledge.

I would have rolled my eyes at them if I hadn’t been worried about them taking that as an affront or something. I didn’t budge from my spot, though; I might not be much of a fighter, but I don’t want to start fleeing what I consider to be my safe spot because one particular neighbour is an ignorant idiot who thinks that tea is brown or green or even yellow and that steaming blue water can only be managed by magic. I really don’t know how I’ll get through their mind that they’re wrong but it’s one of those things. It’s not my place to argue this point, I’ll just have to be a little careful whenever they’re around, I guess.

I was in the room the whole time. It’s not my fault you didn’t notice me standing in the corner.

 
Timeline/World: Until Tomorrow – New York City
Characters: Leann Thompson
Race: Human
Age: 26
Final Word Count: 770 words
 

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I’m small; I’m used to being small. I know I’ll never grow any bigger but that’s also pretty normal. I was born sickly, though it’s gotten better after spending some time with Doctor Flynn. I never thought I would be able to do half as much as I can do. I never thought I’d be more than the meek shell of a girl and I still am not completely sure what Cyrus saw in me all those years ago.

My life with the penguins, as Aaric used to call them, was nothing to feel good about. I was one of many orphans under their care, which, in a way, I suppose I should be glad about, otherwise I wouldn’t really be here today. As one of a few girls under their care, I went to their school and followed their rules. All in all, that particular thing was never an issue; the main issue was that whenever I got sick—and I was sick often—they would lock me away in my room and pray for their god to make me better.

While it ‘worked’ for minor things, that being, my body somehow managed to overthrow the invading virus or bug, it certainly didn’t for bigger things and if not for Roslyn who managed to call the ambulance for me a couple of times, though it got her in trouble, I would have died back then.

The short version story of my life is that if I could disappear, I would. I was the best wallflower ever and most people never noticed I was there, never you mind that I stood out like a sore thumb with my dark skin and the pale clothes the nuns gave us to wear as schooling outfits. I still was invisible to most people.

Even now, I feel like I might be invisible every so often and while I’m not concerned about it, I’m still not really sure that it’s a good thing. Then again, if it can scare certain people into silence, I’m all for being invisible until the right time.

Debbie-downer is still on my gathering team. I think it’s bad when I still can’t even remember her name, no matter what she’s been on this team of ours for more than two years. All I can still hear out of her mouth is the same old refrain. We decided things badly, our decisions were terrible, this is purgatory, we would be in a better place if we’d been better people.

Through all that, does she do or say anything to ‘repent’ from her own so-called sins? Not really. When she’s not being a downer, she seems to be set on doing all she can to bring others down to her level and it’s frustrating, to say the least.

The last ‘episode’ was just a couple of weeks ago where most of us in the gathering team was bringing back a load of herbs we’d gotten from a small field we have growing; from most of the team, only two or three—myself included, so four—stayed inside to set the herbs out to dry in a room that was changed just for that purpose. There’s something in the air of that room that is drier than that of the outside, so there must be a dehumidifier or something of the sorts. I don’t think we’d manage to dry these herbs at all otherwise, it’s so humid outside.

She was badmouthing someone on our team who had stayed outside and the other two in there with us were keeping their mouths shut and their head down. I know that most of us have tried to reason with her before but it’s completely useless. I was getting tired of listening to her so I did one of the things I rarely ever did. I spoke up. I told her to knock it off. She was so startled by my presence that she screamed and actually ran outside as though she’d seen the devil. I know she doesn’t like me much. Claims my dark skin is a sign that I’ve accepted the devil into my life. No amount of telling her I was raised by nuns would get her to admit that she’s wrong, so I haven’t bothered.

I didn’t bother telling her that I’d been in the room all along; it was on her that she hadn’t noticed me. Now she probably thinks I’m even more of a devil who can teleport wherever I want to; who knows if that doesn’t work in our favour, though. She might be quiet now.

Do you know what you’re getting into? They’re dangerous.

 
Timeline/World: New York City – Surviving Earth
Characters: Leann Thompson
Race: Human
Age: 25
Final Word Count: 567 words
 

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I miss Roslyn. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t give a little thought back to her and Aaric. They deserved to survive as much as we did but life cannot be predicted. I refuse to believe in an almighty ‘god’ who might get to decide if we live or die. I spent too many years of my life being raised by nuns who only believed and trusted in their god to take care of everything and that left me on the verge of death. If Roslyn hadn’t called the paramedics, I would have died in that orphanage.

It got her in trouble, of course, but she made everything seem like it was worth it. She was the best friend I didn’t really realize I had until it was too late. She was the one who always looked after me. Despite her wild ways, she was a bit of a mother hen with me.

I remember the times she would sneak out to see Aaric, I’d be wagging my finger in her face and telling her to be careful. That she didn’t know for sure what she was getting into, that it was a dangerous, oh so dangerous world out there. I think she laughed in the face of danger.

Every year, around the date of the snow that took them away from us, I have a quiet all around day. I have a sort of thanksgiving morning when I just think about all of the things she did for me and all I wish I could have done for her. During the evening meal, I also like to murmur a quick thank you to them both because I know that we wouldn’t be here otherwise, I don’t think so.

Some people would likely be telling me that it’s time to move on if they knew about my little yearly ritual but I’d just remind them to mind their own business. I mean, how many other people take time to remember the dead? How many people, back before the snow, visited graveyards year after years to go and see their loved ones? How is this any different? This is my private life; I certainly can do what I want. I’m not hurting anyone.

It isn’t as though I’m screaming at the top of my lungs that I miss them and I wish they hadn’t died. That isn’t going to bring them back, though the idea was tempting for a long while. The idea still seems to have merit but I know it’s pointless. No one can bring back the dead and there is that one small belief that there might be something better once dead. If not better, then something different. Something new. I don’t think there’s a single entity out there that controls it all but I do believe there might be some powers at work and if not some powers, I still believe in spirits, souls, ghosts and a lot of things the nuns would have scoffed at.

I want to believe that I am a good person. That I deserve to be alive, that I am doing my part in this community. I want to believe that I will do all in my power to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain. I think that would hurt me more than anything else. I refuse to let their memories be tarnished.

I think none of us would be here if we made the right decisions. This place is for the unlucky.

Timeline/World: New York City – Surviving Earth
Characters: Leann Thompson
Race: Human
Age: 24
Final Word Count: 558 words

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There are some people I will never understand.

I suppose I should start at the beginning but there are times when I’m not sure when that beginning is. Is it when Cyrus became part of my life, saving me from possible death at the hands of women who only believed in their god and refused to bring the sickly orphan to the hospital when it was clear she was dying, or when we lost our friends to the snow or when that very snow melted into a whole new world, or even when I was given a proper chance at life with a better bill of health than I ever had had in my life?

I think all that using ‘all of the above’ as an answer would do. My life changed in a drastic way during each of these moments and while there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t miss Roslyn, I know the decisions that were made, when they were made, were good ones. They have kept both Cy and me alive. We lost our closest friend along the way but we are alive and I refuse to live in the past. Their deaths will not be in vain.

It has been seven years since the world has ended. Seven years. I never thought I would live to see eighteen, let alone twenty-four. Every morning is a breath of fresh—although somewhat humid—air and I thank everyone who has helped me make it this far. This world is not perfect but it is a good world and a world in which I am alive is a wonderful thing.

Now, while my health is indeed better than it once was, I still have limits as to how much I can do before I have to stop and take a break, so most of the time I’ve found myself on gathering duties and I’ve learned so much I wouldn’t know where to begin to talk about any of it. There’s this one young woman on my team though, I say young woman but I figure she might be a little older than me; she keeps on complaining about everything, she keeps on saying this is purgatory and that if we’d made the right decisions we wouldn’t be here. I try to shut her out most of the time but now and again she just gets really frustrating and I wish I could tell her to shut up.

I’m still a bit too meek for that, I guess. The only person I feel comfortable enough around, to be myself, is Cyrus. It took a long time for me to even be able to tell him that I liked him, let alone loved him. I suppose that might have come from being raised by nuns who thought that women should be meek and subservient and the only man in their lives should be god and that he knew all so telling him they loved him wasn’t a necessity, it was weird, in any case.

This woman though, she’s a downer and it’s emotionally and even physically exhausting to keep up with her when she gets to talking, I wish they could transfer her to another team, that would just make everything so much better. Someone else can be at the mercy of her stupid purgatory theories.