Tag: fiction

This is an experiment. If it doesn’t work, that’s fine. I’ve written bits of fiction here and there through the years. Since I have an outlet, I figured I’d use it. If no one is interested, cool! Maybe I’ll keep posting anyway.

The Coffers (Part 1)

Sissa had always harbored a fear of the darkness for as long as Eli could remember. He never needed to discuss it as she clung closely to him beneath their worn blanket. The fear was ancient, rooted in the time before Momma’s passing eight years ago. Despite being six years Sissa’s junior, Eli had accepted his role as the courageous one when night shrouded their world. It seemed that her fear intensified when warmth enveloped the land. During summer nights, she’d sometimes cry out for Momma as she clutched his arm in her sleep.

On this particular night, the cold bore down upon them, but hints of spring’s arrival had begun to thaw the snow. Eli sensed the impending change of seasons. Spring, he knew, brought opportunities to scavenge for food and supplies. The village relied on miners, who, despite having enough clothing for everyone, continued their quest for more. Elders whispered that if they could dig deep enough, the treasures they sought would be enough for a village ten times their size. Eli understood numbers up to ten, a lesson etched into his memory after Mr. Burdin’s stern lecture when he had gathered only nine baskets of apples.

Mr. Burdin had been their protector ever since Momma’s departure. She had joined the Purists during the hiding, a time before Sissa and Eli’s births. Momma’s history seemed shrouded in secrets, but Mr. Burdin had shouldered his responsibility to protect them, perhaps out of loyalty to Momma for the hardships they endured during the hiding.

The post-war world had been marred by chaos and violence, where the strong preyed upon the weak. Those who could wield power or secure weapons took what they wanted, leaving the vulnerable to hide. Initially, the hiders had banded together to scavenge for sustenance under the cover of night. The Takers, ruthless and armed, hunted down anyone who dared challenge their dominion. Food grew scarcer by the day, and many hiders succumbed to hunger. As despair grew, some believed survival meant consuming the fallen among them.

The hiders had eventually divided into two factions: the Feeders and the Purists. The Purists staunchly refused to partake in the macabre feast, even when the cold of winter became unbearable. Many Purists perished during that harsh season, some outright and others succumbing to the temptation of survival through cannibalism. Spring brought a glimmer of hope, and the Purists, numbering about thirty, ventured forth together, only to find a desolate world. For months, they journeyed, subsisting on grass, berries, and meager prey. Then, as if by divine intervention, they stumbled upon an apple orchard, untouched by looters—a miracle in the midst of devastation.

Over the years, the Purists constructed humble shelters from the remnants of their old world, creating Purist Village. Small victories added comfort to their lives. The discovery and taming of turkeys by Mr. Burdin in the first year offered a steady food source. Then came the revelation of the “red circle,” a place Momma mentioned as a store in the distant past, now reduced to rubble. Five village men, self-proclaimed “miners,” labored tirelessly, uncovering supplies that gradually improved their lives.

Sissa was the first child born in Purist Village. Momma named her Mary, but it was Eli who playfully christened her “Sissa.” Momma recounted tales of her father, who ventured out to find a better place for the village but never returned. Despite Momma’s story, no one else recalled anyone leaving or knew who Sissa’s father was. Mary was eight when she awoke one warm summer night to find Momma gone. Her screams roused the entire village, and frantic searching ensued, but Momma had vanished without a trace. Weeks turned into fruitless months of scouring the hills. Mary, left in the care of the kind Habner sisters, grew despondent, convinced she would never see her mother again.

Then, a month later, Momma reappeared, descending from the western hills into her hut. She kindled a fire, prepared food for herself and Mary, but her demeanor was distant. She hugged Mary, albeit with an emotional disconnect, muttering to herself, “the coffers, the coffers,” as though reminding herself not to forget.

Several days passed before Momma fully regained her senses. She retained a strange fixation on something she called “the coffers.” Mary couldn’t grasp its significance, but she promised to stay away from it. The cryptic warning piqued her curiosity, and she skipped some of her chores to secretly watch over Momma. One day, while eavesdropping outside their shack, she overheard a conversation between Momma and Mr. Burdin.

“There were two of them. I don’t know how they got me. I woke up in their house, tied up. At first, I was hungry and thirsty. They offered food and water, but it only made me drowsy. When I woke again, I knew they had done something to me. I stopped eating and drinking, but they insisted. They said they needed me alive for nine months,” Momma sobbed as she recounted her ordeal.

The revelation left Mary bewildered, but she dared not let Mr. Burdin discover her eavesdropping. She hurried to complete her chores, knowing she needed to keep an eye on Momma.

As weeks passed, Momma grew ill, though people did not avoid her as expected. Her sickness seemed different, as if it were an ailment exclusive to her. When Mary inquired, Momma confided, “I’m going to have a baby, Mary—a brother or sister for you.”

The villagers rallied around Momma as her belly swelled, and the Habner sisters assisted during the birth. Mary watched, eager and anxious, as her baby brother entered the world. After a day, she finally asked, “What’s the baby’s name?”

Momma hesitated, her eyes distant. “Mary, I don’t know what to call him. I don’t even know how to feel because he’s illegitimate.”

“We can call him Eli, since he’s eee…,” Mary trailed off, struggling to pronounce the unfamiliar word, “Eli.”

Eli, their redheaded bundle of curiosity, became the name that stuck, not just for Mary and Momma, but for the entire village. The past was unchangeable, but the Purists, ever resilient, continued their modest existence.

Years passed, and the Purist Village adapted to its surroundings. Life progressed in small increments, primarily marked by discoveries made by the miners. Some findings transformed their lives, while others served as reminders of the world they had lost. Shovels allowed for more outhouses and easier maintenance. A chainsaw, though fuel-starved and futile, brought brief excitement. Among their discoveries were several iPhones, now defunct relics. Momma held one close, recalling a time when such devices connected people across great distances, offered directions, and entertained with games. Though seemingly useless, the iPhone held a special place in her heart, a place where Eli had never resided.

Eli, now seven, remained an outsider in the house he shared with Momma. His usefulness, however, grew with each passing year. While the village yearned for more substantial progress, they embraced Eli’s growth. Yet, Momma’s fixation on the iPhone persisted, an invisible barrier between her and her son.

Then, the iPhone’s presence seemed to suck the life from her as Momma fell ill. It began as a common cold but lingered. Her spirit withered, her memories slipping away into the abyss of the past. The strong woman who had endured wars and hiding now clung to a fragmented recollection of a world that no longer existed.

Sissa and Eli, now inseparable companions, became housemates in their small abode. Though not truly alone, the village’s support and Mr. Burdin’s watchful eye did little to fill the void left by Momma’s fading presence. Eli, ever eager to contribute, fulfilled various roles within the community. He collected apples, then graduated to water carrier, a vital task for the village’s survival. Yet, with every step forward, the villagers remained trapped in the inertia of their existence.

It was on one of Eli’s routine trips to the stream, laden with two heavy buckets, that he heard agonized cries piercing the air. He instinctively set the buckets down and followed the anguished sounds, navigating through the thickets with caution. As he drew closer, he realized that the voice belonged to a stranger, trapped beneath a pile of rubble.

The man’s cries had evolved into pitiful whimpers as Eli approached, his trapped leg a source of immense pain. Although fear of strangers had been deeply ingrained in Eli, this time, sympathy overrode his trepidation. The man seemed less like a threat and more like a survivor of a bygone world.

“Are you okay?” Eli asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.