Ashes and Sunshine
A Short Story
Nathaniel Sullivan
Publisher’s Note
© 2018 Nathaniel Sullivan. All rights reserved.
This short story is a work of fiction. Characters, concepts, places, events, etcetera, are all a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people or places or events, is purely coincidental.
First Edition, 2018
Any reprinting or reproduction of any part or whole of this story without the author’s written approval is subject to legal prosecution.
If you have questions/comments, or want to read more, feel free to contact the author.
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Part I: Ashes
I steal a glance over at the old shopkeeper woman, and I wonder if she’d be an easy mark. Kind eyes, tired body, dark grey hair—seems ideal.
Almost too ideal.
It’s the eyes. People like her don’t exist in this world of ash and ruin. If they did, they’d be killed or robbed before they learned to know better and their kindness was turned into uniform blackness. Yet, there she was—feeble as can be and smiling like a simpleton.
Surely she’s not the owner of this shop?
It doesn’t add up. A gentle grandma can’t possibly have acquired so much expensive scrap from the dark side of the planet. If by some miracle she had, it’d get taken from her by a competitor.
I glance over my shoulder again and give her another going over. Not even a visible weapon! No flamer, no gun—nothing! How is she still in business?
Perhaps I’m overthinking it. Could just be my lucky day.
Either way, I can’t afford not to risk it. Father will have my head if I come home emptyhanded again. Or rather, he’ll sign me up for another test. And I hate the tests. Last drug company he’d handed me off to kept me in a small room with nothing in it but a smelly toilet and a ratty blanket for over a week. I’d nearly died of boredom. The only interesting thing they did to me was blast me with a funny gas every now and then. I really don’t want to do another test.
The alternative he offered me wasn’t much better. I don’t like the brothels either, and I’ve done my best to stay away from them. I’ve heard the rumors, and seen enough to know them to be true. The clients are unbearable—and the other girls who are there voluntarily are so emptyheaded I might as well be back in the drug room talking to the walls.
So, my father and I have a little compromise. I get father money my own way, and he doesn’t sign me up for any more tests or brothel contracts.
I said I’d get him money easily, but lately, I’ve been having trouble delivering.
There isn’t much work out there for a small girl who wasn’t trained in one of those fancy academies and can’t lift heavy things. Thievery is my best choice—but I’m new to the business, and I can’t afford to make mistakes.
I walk to the end of the aisle and give the grandma one last look. She meets my eyes and stares back at me. I hold my breath and look away.
Good going. Now she’s on her guard.
I shake my head clear of worry and look for the best item to remove from the display. It has to be perfect. Not so expensive that it’ll be missed right away, but not so bland that it won’t get father off my back. Has to be small, too. I casually stroll down the shop from one corner to another. It’s a busy day, and if I’m lucky, the old shopkeeper lady already forgot about me.
I stop dead in my tracks as I spot the perfect object. A lifebattery. Rare—I’ve hardly ever seen one before. The fancy folk with formal certificates and such in the big city have stun guns and gadgets that run on them. Most people around here on the outskirts of the city settle for solar batteries—less power, but they still maintain a good lifespan on the days when it doesn’t get too dusty.
I look at the price tag. It’s worth as much as several days of hard labor.
A beautiful bounty.
It’ll be missed as soon as it’s gone, but my greed speaks before my reason does. I dart my eyes from side to side and quickly reach down and throw the battery in my pocket.
My heart races, but I try to keep my gaze level, and I willfully slow down my steps so I’m not running out the door—I can’t have anyone thinking I’ve done anything wrong.
The doorway to my freedom grows closer and closer.
It’s going to work!
Nobody’s noticed!
Everyone is going about their business, eyeing their own tools and trying to figure out what they need to buy to make their lives complete.
I reach for the door and feel a cold, boney hand tightly grip my wrist.
I jerk my head up and see a wrinkled old face peering back at me. She’s smiling. I’m not. My chest has fallen into my stomach, and I consider pushing the old woman over and running out the door, but I bite my tongue instead. Perhaps I can still get out of this without any trouble. I haven’t technically stolen anything yet.
“Did you forget to pay?” she asks me, not releasing her grip. Her mouth is still wide from an impossible smile.
I shake my head. “No—no! I—” Quickly I try to think of something that will save my hide. My mind’s blank. My conversation skills aren’t the best. I’m not cut out for this kind of thing. “I’m just leaving. I don’t need to buy anything.”
She chuckles, revealing stained-browned teeth. “Your pocket says you do.”
I fight back the urge to scream, and she pulls me closer. She’s stronger than she looks.
“In my experience, which I might add, is quite extensive, there are two kinds of thieves. Those brats who do it for the thrill, and those who do it because they can’t afford to pay for their next meal otherwise.” Her glazed-over brown eyes attempt to look inside my soul, and it sends shivers down my spine. “Which are you?” she asks me, her smile finally turning into a thoughtful frown.
“I’m—I—I—”
“You look like the hungry kind to me. Skinny. Poor clothes. You homeless, child?”
“No—No!” I manage to answer.
“Not homeless? Well, I suppose even those of us with homes can have trouble in these times.” She briefly looks up from me as if recalling a different life, then her eyes snap back down to mine before I’m able to gather my thoughts. “Do you want to go home, child? Or would you rather stay with me for a moment?”
“I—I want to go home!” I lie. I want to curl up and die in a corner somewhere, but I’ll say anything if the woman will let me go. If she hands me off to the gang-lords, I’m done for…
“No you don’t,” she scoffs. “You want to leave. I understand. I’ve seen your kind before. You’re the discarded rats of the streets anymore. Ever since that giant rock fell on this tiny little world, we’ve all been scattered and poor. Those of us not at that shining city in the falls, anyhow. The way I see it they want us to fight amongst ourselves. Gang wars, starvation, stealing, unfairness and the like. As long as we’re busy killing each other we won’t be a problem for them.” She lets out a heavy sigh and leans down to whisper in my ear, “Wouldn’t it be nice to break the trend for once?”
I met her eyes uneasily. “I—I su—suppose.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, forgive me, child. You’re still just a frightened little thing, aren’t you? Afraid I’m going to turn you in to the Red Watchers. Be at ease, child. I’ve more a heart than that.” With her other hand, she reaches into my jacket pocket and pulls out what I stole. “A lifebattery, eh? It’s a good item. My husband got it from the dark side, you know? Several years ago. Sur
prised it hasn’t sold yet.”
She drags me to the counter and puts the battery back on the shelf. “Now,” she tells me. “The way I see it, everything is back the way it was. I got my battery, you got your lesson, and if you want to leave now, you can.” Her hand releases my arm and I ready my feet to bolt out the door. “However,” she continues, and something about her voice makes me inclined to hear her out. “If you want a warm meal, I can feed you—if you’ll stay with me for the remaining hour as I close up the shop. What do you think, girl? You want a free meal?”
I don’t really. I am hungry, but I have bigger problems at the moment. Even though I’m grateful that she isn’t going to turn me in to the local gang lords, I still have to get father something valuable, or I’ll be the one envying the homeless girls on the streets.
She notices my reluctance. Her hazy eyes are surprisingly insightful. There is wisdom in there, I realize.
“It’s not a trick. I’m just an old woman. I’m not looking to take advantage. Here, have a seat.” She offers me up a stool from behind the counter and gestures for me to use it. I slowly sit down, and she smiles at me. “That’s it. Sit for a while. Rest. Fiddle with the gadgets if you want. I won’t be long. Just need to make a few more sales before the night’s out.”
I watch her walk away from me to the cashier, and I can hardly believe what just happened. My first thought is that it’s a trap of some sort. She’s too kind. Maybe she’s trying to earn my trust so she can hand me over to some depraved slaver. I shake my head. Surely not! She’s just an elderly woman. A kind old woman who’s managed to survive—perhaps her husband is the tough one. She said he’s the one who scavenged the battery…
My head rolls side to side as I consider my options. I could leave… but then what? Go home to a father who’ll yell at me or worse for not bringing back anything? Better to stay here for the moment. At least I might get some food first.
The shopkeeper lady works quietly and efficiently as I watch her go about her business. She smiles to her dark customers and helps them find the items they’re looking for. It’s a strange contrast in these slums. A smile among gloom. Sunshine through the ruined ashes.
True to her word, as the hour draws to a close she shuts down the shop and looks over at me with a smile.
“Come, darling. Let’s cook something tasty.”
She leads me to the second level of the small establishment, and I’m greeted by a snug feeling as I enter her living quarters. A tiny kitchen, home to an old-fashion stove and pantries stuffed to their limit with food. A wooden dining table with three simple chairs, and in the far corner, under a loft, a large bed with layers of endless quilts and piles of books.
As she throws several fresh ingredients in a pot and puts it on the stove, she looks over her shoulder and asks me questions.
“What’s your name?”
I consider this for a long moment. Names mean a lot. In our culture, a name is only given once a child earns it. Often first names are assigned based on distinguishing physical characteristics or deeds, and last names are chosen individually, commonly based on personality. I have two separate names, neither official (I can’t afford a naming certificate yet). One my family calls me, and another I use when normal people ask. After pondering which to give her, I realize I feel compelled to tell the truth.
“My father calls me Worthless,” I tell her, “but I don’t have an official name.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she clicks her tongue. “What do you want to be called?”
I’m grateful she avoids asking about my father’s choice, and I think hard on answering her question. I look out the window and feel compelled to say, “Sunshine,” so I do.
Grandma smiles and continues stirring the pot. “So you are. Nice to meet you, Sunshine.” I blush to hear her call me something so pure and pretty out loud, and she continues talking over her shoulder as she works. “In the Old World, I was called Grandma Evelyn by the little ones. Anymore I’m known as the Grey Shopkeeper.”
“I like Evelyn,” I say without thinking. It’s a funny name. It means nothing to me. Just a new word to say. I play with the syllables on my tongue.
“So did I,” she replies, and looks back down at the pot.
Such a sad silence falls on us that I feel compelled to break its spell.
“What was the Old World like?” I ask her. I’ve never talked to a person as wrinkled as her before. My parents, and most people I’ve ever seen are in their forties or younger. Old people are very rare, and young people don’t talk of the time before the falling ashes—they have no memory of it.
She shrugs, “It was different. There were more people. More sunshine.”
“Did you like it better?”
“I miss my family. Most of them didn’t make it through the five years of ash fall. But it truly wasn’t any better or worse. Just different. Instead of gangs, we had governments and lobbyists. Instead of crooks, we had crooked laws. Instead of brothels, we had rapists and sex-trafficking. Instead of thieves, we had taxes and crony corporations. Same concepts, different labels. I make do with what is.”
I think on her words, but they don’t mean much to me. I’ve only ever known this world. Old World vocabulary—government, laws, and such is almost gibberish as far as I’m concerned.
Grandma seems to recognize this. “Don’t worry yourself with it, darling. It is what it is.” She takes the pot over to the table and sets it down. “We have food—that is what matters right now.”
I smile at her and she pours me a generous helping.
“Where’s your husband?” I ask her as we start to eat.
“Gone,” she whispers, and by gone I know she isn’t referring to the Dark Side of the planet to look for scrap.
I set my mouth on the task at hand and eat with the ferocity of a famished lion. It’s less than three minutes before my bowl is empty, and I look back up to grandma, trying not to plead too hard with my eyes. She doesn’t seem to mind, and she fills my bowl for a second time.
“What work does your father do?” she asks me as I peck away at the second helping.
“He’s a factory man. Sometimes. Other times he’s a nothing.”
She nods, “And do you have a mother?”
I shrug. “Father has a woman. I call her mother sometimes, but she doesn’t seem to like it.”
Grandma sighs and shakes her head in pity. “Where you stealing for your father?”
My eyes widen with horror. “No—no—I—wasn’t—I—I.”
She nods to herself. “You were. It’s okay. I don’t blame you, but you shouldn’t feel loyalty to someone who has no loyalty to you.”
I look back to the meal and wonder what her game is. “Why do you care?” I suddenly snap at her. I didn’t intend to sound so hostile, but I don’t take back the words either.
“I don’t know, child. I just do. Perhaps I’m tired of seeing desperate people and doing nothing. Perhaps this is just a way for me to atone for something I did long ago. I only know I care. So let me help you.”
“How can you help?” I ask bitterly.
“I may be old and weak, but I have my ways. I haven’t survived on my own for so long with nothing but my smiles, you know. If you want me to help, I can help. The only question you have to ask yourself is this: What do you want? Your wish is my desire.”
My wish? I can’t help but laugh at her.
She looks at me curiously as I spasm from increasingly harder laughter and nearly fall out of my seat. “What? Don’t laugh—speak. What is so funny?”
I manage to grip the table to steady myself, and I scream my mind. “You ask what I wish?! I wish that I didn’t live with a father who hates me! I wish I didn’t have to steal to stop him from hitting me! I wish I was rich, and lived somewhere far away and wonderful on my own—a place where nobody talked to me or told me what to do! I wish all of these things, and you can grant me none of them! That is what’s
funny!”
Grandma stares at me deadpan, and speaks in a slow, calm voice, “But I can, darling. I can grant you all of these things, should you want them. All you have to do is ask.”
My breath fails me, and I find myself struggling for air. She can’t be serious! But she is! Has her mind turned feeble? Does she know her own words? But—but—
I struggle to regain my thoughts and outwardly tears form in my eyes.
Are her words possible?
Grandma scoots her chair close to mine and lets me fall on her shoulder.
“What do you want me to do, child?” she asks me again, and I weep all the more.
Through the tears of hopelessness and desperate gasps for air, I manage to tell her in an uneven and shaky voice, “I want you to adopt me.”
***
After I’d managed to calm down, grandma started explaining everything to me.
“I’m happy to adopt you, child, but there will be some trouble, you know. You can’t just stay missing. Even if he doesn’t like you, your father will look for you—you’re an asset to him. So we’ll have to deal with him first.”
“How can we do that?”
She tilts her head from side to side. “Eh… there are a few ways. This old grandma still has a few friends in the world—I think I’ll give one of them a call. Should set matters straight.”
And that was all she told me.
That night I slept in a pile of blankets beside her bed and pinched myself every hour to remind myself that I wasn’t in a dream.
This is real. I’m going to be free.
When sleep finally overcomes me, I dream and I dream, but none of them are as hopeful as my life has become on this night. It feels as if reality and fantasy have been impossibly reversed. Somewhere, deep within my soul, I know that it is too good to be true. Should I dare to hope?
***
The next day I help her work in her shop in the morning, and she teaches me everything she knows about sales in the scrap business. It’s surprisingly interesting stuff. She pays specialized adventurers and scavengers to go on expeditions to the Dark Side to look for the good scrap in the ruined buildings of the Old World. She has trade maps where the best hauls tend to come from, and she has catalogues of the most valuable parts from machines and electronics that make the sort of gadgets people like today.
Ashes and Sunshine Page 1
