Saturday's Storyteller: "And the birds stopped chirping."

by Belinda Roddie

And the birds stopped chirping. And the wind stopped blowing. And the rain stopped falling and the trees stopped growing. And the sun stopped rising. And the moon stopped setting, while the stars got brighter and we just stopped forgetting. About broken heart play dates, about clumsy dance and figure eights, about separation of church and state or about getting locked behind electric gates. I stopped forgetting, and my memory just erupted with a data that was mined and inadequate and corrupted.

This was the beginning of something much more sinister. This was the beginning of the Half-Moon Winter.

***

It was not easy to find food to eat. The grass was green, but still. Somehow, it was cold even without breeze, like the impending chill before snow. Only it did not snow. It remained night, and we remained frigid against our shelters.

I went outside to gather collapsed bark for a meager fire, only to discover that the trees, once stunted in their growth, appeared somewhat taller. This disturbed me. For nine months now, we had seen no sun, seen no development of foliage, seen the deaths of countless birds and mammals while thousands of our townspeople starved. Now, it was as if the trees had adapted to the endless night. And we couldn't. Or could we?

I snapped off a branch and stared as another grew back just as quickly. I heard crunching nearby - footprints on dry, dry earth. And then a husky voice.

"It will rain again soon."

I spun around. The voice was light and young, like a schoolgirl's. Like the schoolgirls I now remembered vividly from my classes. All curly-haired and bright-eyed. But I did not see a schoolgirl. I only heard the voice.

"It will rain for days and days and days," the hidden went on. "And it will flood this place. But there will be no clouds. And the half moon will shine forever and forever until we, too, can become Half-Moonlings."

"This cannot be real," I uttered, turning back to my cabin. But I could not bring myself to walk. I could only listen.

"It will flood. Your house will become your boat. You will float away on our ocean. You will grow gills. You will learn to swim. Finally, at your age, you will learn to breathe salt and drink brine."

My head was beginning to whirl. I managed to propel myself away from the tree, which seemed even taller than before. And then I heard the thunder above in the mistless sky.

"Be careful, stranger," the voice warned, with a lively and crisp giggle. "You don't want to drown before you grow your scales."

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.