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From Esfandiar C. Hale's contest: Yet Another Picture Prompt
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Stella awoke from her slumber up in the treehouse when she heard the sound of crickets trilling nearby. Her eyes flickered up and down as they met the moonlit, indigo sky. It was far too early for her to be awake, but hearing the crickets made her form a small smile. They were a sign of good luck. She hadn’t heard crickets in ages.
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Something pulsed next to her. Something flooded with blazing light. She sat up and steadied herself, yawning deeply. Then, turning her head to the right, her eyes immediately widened. The flames in her magic lantern burned as powerful as ever, blinking wildly as if someone was on the other side, signaling for help. Stella extended her arm and grasped the handles. The blinking eased.
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“Who’s there?” she asked the lantern. At that moment, she realized how cold her environment was, especially because the treehouse was so exposed, and her dress was uncomfortably thin.
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The lantern spoke. Not with words, but with swift surges of light. It glowed twice, then stopped. “M,” she mumbled. Three times, then stopped. “O.” Once, then stopped again. “T.” It emitted four short beats. Then another short beat after that. Finally, it released a short, then long, then short pulse and gradually dimmed. Vanished.
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Stella, having already learned the lantern’s language, jumped giddily. The lantern spelled out MO-T-H-E-R. She was sure of it.
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She hadn’t heard from her mother in a long time. Specifically, two years. And now, her mother wanted Stella to find her.
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“If that’s really you that’s calling, Mother,” she whispered, “then I’m coming to find you.”
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Stella’s magic lantern had been passed down for generations. It started with her great-great-great-great-great grandfather, who was an artisan. Her mother used to tell tales about him before she tucked her into bed with a night kiss. He, Taveon, built everything from children’s toys to women’s jewelry, from flower vases to cutting knives. He was the most skilled and known craftsman in the village. One afternoon, he purchased a pouch of magic gold dust that he had mistaken for salt. The same night, he poured the salt into his dinner, and was taken aback when he realized it wasn’t. He threw the pouch on the floor, spilling its contents, thinking he was scammed with sand. Little did he know, as he went to sleep that night, the wind flurried through the windows, sweeping the dust into the corner of one of his unfinished projects — the two wooden lanterns. Now, Stella and her mother had one. They used them to communicate.
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Stella loved that story, mostly because of how her mother told it. She would speak in a low, mysterious tone when she talked about magic, gesturing with her hands as she talked. She’d even make realistic noises, like the sound of crickets chirping the next day when Taveon woke up. Her mother could imitate sharp footsteps, thunder, and the sound of the autumn breeze, which would send thrilling shivers up Stella’s spine.
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Her mother’s voice made it so much more magical.
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The glow of the stars somehow made Stella feel warmer. The wide, navy sky somehow comforted her, like a tender, familiar embrace.
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“Mother,” she said gently, gazing at her lantern. “I’m here. I’m here, Mother.”
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The lantern didn’t respond. It was dead silent.
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Stella took off her slippers and trod further north. It was faster that way, and her feet were much freer.
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“Mother?” Her voice cracked and echoed.
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Her strength did not decrease any less than what she had to begin with. The stars gave her hope. Stella breathed in the air; a briny odor shot up her nostrils, mixed with seaweed.
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She was smelling the sea.
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The lantern suddenly buzzed with light. Her mother was there. Stella could sense her presence.
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She hovered the lantern over her head and squinted.
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The lantern pulsed violently. She stepped forward.
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Warmer. She took another few steps. Her feet brushed against the cool water.
Warmer. Stella’s ankles were soaked. She wiggled her toes to keep them from numbing.
Warmer. Her knees submerged.
Even warmer. The hem of her dress was drenched.
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But Stella, with barely any traces of uncertainty, stared at the lantern, now being held at shoulder level. Four swift beats. Once. Stella focused on the rhythm as her mother continued to communicate.
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H-E-R-E.
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Then, at that moment, that exact second, a little star fell and landed on her head.
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She slowly reached to pick it up, startled.
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It wasn’t a star. It was a firefly, glowing in the same rhythm as the message her mother sent. Then flew dozens, hundreds of them, surrounding Stella, like gleaming orbs from heaven. For a second she forgot that she was knee-deep in the bitter, freezing ocean.
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Because Stella was flying. Flying above the water, her feet no longer touching the sea. Her dress wavered behind her like a cape. She was no longer trembling. No longer afraid. Both her arms were outstretched in the air, trying to get ahold of the fireflies. Trying to grasp the light that led Stella to her mother.
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This was where her mother was all along. It was her home.
In the stars.
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