When I was little, my mom used to carry me everywhere. She would cradle my pudgy pale body and rock me back and forth, watching me as I cuddled close to her warm body. My mom's eyes were big and blue, but were always terribly sad when they saw me. On the days when her eyes would become so glossy raindrops fell off her face, my mom would roll up my dress sleeve to reveal a delicate bangle resting around my wrist. "Your number suits you…sweet like berries…" she would coo in my ear, "Palmer and Rodney don't have numbers as sweet as yours." Her voice would weaken and shake whenever I asked what my number was.

I didn't understand why it bothered her so much. It was really pretty bangle, with intricate detail work that was designed to look like silver stems. Those stems led to sixteen bronze daisies, where a moonstone was in the center of each one. No one I knew had a bracelet as lovely as mine. My brothers' bracelets were plain and boring-- iron bands with a lot of small gems randomly secured in the metal. My mom's was almost gaudy, with colorful, circular jewels that followed a three-color pattern over and over until the bracelet ran out of room. Palmer had told me that when our dad was still around, he had a bracelet too, which was carved like a fish and had diamonds for scales. I never saw it though, and despite Palmer's insisting, my mother would always deny its existence.
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My mother still tried to force me to wear white dresses with frills and flowers like the ones I wore when I was younger.  The dress still itched at my knees and pinched me when I raise up my hand to speak, but seeing as birthdays are important to her, I decided to humor her today.

"Hey, Robyn," Beth said, finding a place on the bus next to me.

"Hey," I said, "Thanks for the alarm clock. I'll be sure to use it."

"Sorry, I wanted to give you something no one else would…I mean, everyone got you flowers," Beth said solemnly, "I mean…"

"Beth, I was joking…" I said, watching her face become too much like my mother's to bear. I turned my attention to the window. Everyone was dressed in black, down to their backpacks as they quietly walked out of school. All of them with my mother's sad eyes. It made my stomach churn so much, I swear it was making butter out of the chocolate milk I had for lunch. I turned back to Beth.

"Robbie…I'm gonna…"

"Don't," I stopped her. "Here, come to my house. My mom and I have a lot of decorating for the party."

We both swallowed hard to avoid crying when I said that. For the first time, my mom had allowed me to wear makeup, and we both knew that meant we couldn't cry. If she cried, I would too, and then my mom would have wasted her time as well as the last of her makeup. I
don't want to think she wasted her time with me.

When Beth saw my house she froze in awe and fear before running to her own house, which was the next block over. I wanted to go with her, to escape somewhere and breathe for a bit, but I knew I couldn't. My mother would freak if I tried. I took a deep breath, strutted past the hearse, the flowers, the morbid black flowers...I sprinted to my room.

It was there I saw my mother, and a government official holding her bracelet.
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To be honest, I expected my funeral that day. Everyone else seemed shocked too, because if the government gives someone a funeral warning the day before their birthday, generally speaking, it's them that dies, not their mother. I can't believe I failed to realize that the year I turned sixteen was the year her jewels were all accounted for. I feel so overwhelmed…all this time, I thought she was protecting me from the year I died. Really, she was trying not to think about the leaving me alone.

I don't remember much about the funeral, only that I wore a frilly white dress stained with my dead mother's makeup. I'm sure a couple people said their condolences, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I was trying to figure out how my mother managed to die on my funeral day. Trying to figure out whether or not I should cry or smile. Then I lifted up my sleeve to reveal my bracelet, and with my mom's sad blue eyes I manage to say, "Bittersweet like berries."

"I'm gonna go home before it gets dark," Liboria said.

"Lib, you promised," he whined.

"Yeah, whatever. Just wait a sec," she said, grasping for a good place to pull herself up.

The barren branches clawed at her as she climbed to the top of the tree. Liboria's heavy boots made the bark crumble, revealing a cream color wood that was smooth and slick. Crows cawed out to the gray sky, which only replied with their echo. It was getting late.

There was a boy sitting in the snow below. His blue lips quivered. He stuffed his pink, frigid fingers into his coat pocket and winced in pain. His nose was redder than his cheeks.

"My hands hurt." Amos shivered.

"I don't see you helping," she snapped.

"But you did it!" Amos yelled.

Liboria growled as she lifted her body to the next branch. Her orange hair whipped around in wind like active flames. Her eyes, like a hawk's, fixed on the lime color kite as if it were her prey. She straddled the branch and stretched her arms as far as possible. The kite was just inches out of reach, tangled in a branch above her. She let out a cry of frustration.

"Did'ja get it?" Amos asked, standing up.

"Amos!" she shouted.

His eyes grew round like snowballs, and salty tears threatened to roll off his face. He frowned and rubbed his sleeve against his nose.

"Meanie!" Amos exclaimed, stomping his foot.

Her fingertips touched the kite enough to pull it closer to her other hand. The kite's string snapped with one powerful yank, allowing the diamond to nose dive into the snow below. Amos' heart dropped as he looked at the crumbled heap of lime paper and snapped sticks.

"There. Got it back." Liboria said, climbing down the tree.

"You…" Amos said, his voice just as broken as the kite.

"What now?" she sighed, allowing her attention to drift to Amos rather than the branches.

He scooped up the remnants of his kite and lifted it above his head.

"Seriously," she said, "Serves you right for not catching it."

She misplaced her foot and lost her grip. For a second, she hung by one hand, but the branch snapped, flinging her to the icy ground. She felt one of her legs twist, and they both heard a snap, like the sound from biting into a fresh carrot.

"Lib!" Amos yelled out, "Are you--"

Liboria's leg couldn't support her weight when she tried to stand. She soon was down again.

"You always ruin everything!" she wailed in fury.

Amos threw the useless pieces of kite as hard as he could into the snow before running in the direction of the wind.

"I just bought a whole new load of ink yesterday, now it's gone," the store owner, Mr. Peter, said to Heather, as her mother looked at the dresses.

"Why is it gone?" Heather asked him.

"Must be the work of devils," Mr. Peter said, "If it weren't for the high demand, I would stay as far away from it as possible.

"Oh," Heather said.

She quickly turned to her mother, holding her hand.

"Oh my, look at this. Heather, you would look beautiful in this," her mother said, holding the yellow dress in front of her daughter. Heather nodded. Her mother went to the cash register.

"Ah, that's a pretty one," Mr. Peter said, placing the dress in the bag. "The Gilberts' were just looking at it."

"Oh really?" the mother asked, taking the bag.

Heather looked around the store. Dresses, jeans, candy were all around the store, trying to tempt or bore her. She didn't understand why grown-ups came here so much. She'd rather be playing with her dolls.

A young boy holding a journal and an inked quill in his hands sat down by the marketplace steps. Heather moved to her toes, glimpsing at him. He was writing. Or drawing. Heather couldn't really tell. Just then, the boy turned his head to the window and saw her. He chuckled a little before motioning for her to come outside.

Heather glanced at her mother. She was still chatting. Heather scurried out of the store.

"You know, it's easier to watch someone if you are sitting next to them," the boy said, shrugging.

Heather looked at his notebook. There were scribbles and doodles all over the page, along with several inkblots.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

"Oh, Mr. Pete didn't tell you?" the boy said, "The Inklings are here."

"What is that?"

"You mean, who."

The boy handed her his notebook. The cover was a smooth leather, and the pages were flimsy due to the amount of ink written on each one. Pictures of tiny people and stories about them covered each page, making her world more magical than she had ever thought it was before.  

"Wow," Heather said, gazing at every page.

"Wow is right," the boy smirked, "I've seen them."

"No way," Heather said, quickly turning to him.

"No really. Cute little crooks, they are. Keep 'em away from your Pa's ink."

"Heather!" her mother called to her, "Come on, chatting time is over. Time to go home and get dressed."

Heather waved goodbye, and trotted to her mom. When they got home, her mother slipped the dress on her small body, and used a gold ribbon to put up her hair.

"You look so pretty," she told Heather, "Just like me when I was your age."

Heather smiled, and curtsied for her. Her mother clapped her hands.

"Now, Heather dear, go downstairs while I go fetch your father from the shed."

Heather stepped downstairs, rushing over to a place she knew the Inklings would be. Her father's study.

The study was simple and small. Books were stacked on top of each other, and the typewriter had long since gathered dust. Crumpled paper was scattered around the room, but none was actually in the trash bin. On his desk, was the inkwell. She grabbed it and quickly dumped it in her hands.

Ink ran across the paper and onto Heather's hands, staining them with an odd blue tar tint. The ink crawled in the small crevices of her skin, seeping and spreading like little rivers, all collecting as a lake in the center of her palms.

"You've arrived," she whispered to the pools of ink.

"What have?" Her mother said as she stepped in, her fabric in one hand, her thread and needles in the other, "Your father said he had to quickly finish somethings before he came to see you."

"The Inklings Mama," Heather said, showing her the ink as it dripped through the slivers between her fingers. The ink dripped fast onto the wooden floor.

"Heather, you know better than to play in the ink wells," her mother said, "Stay right there while I get the hanky."

Heather frowned. Ink was splattered like raindrops on the floor. Heather dropped to her knees, starting with wide brown eyes and clenched fists.

"Come out," she said, "it's time to play."

The inkblots trembled as warts started to overcome their once smooth skin. Shiny, black hands poked out of the inkblots, and soon shoulders, necks and heads followed suit. Each ink painted person was as tall as an inchworm was long. A few rubbed their hands against their big eyes and yawned, others covered their hands and cried. One, a small little boy with sleek short hair, gazed around the room with his mouth gaped open. His eyes met Heather. She smiled and waved faster than a hummingbird's wings. The little boy tumbled out of his ink and two legs with feet flew out with the rest of him. He glanced at the girl before falling to the ground and becoming a drop of ink again.

"Wait," the girl said, slumping her shoulders.

Drops of ink started tumbling into each other, forming a round puddle in front of her. When the puddle of ink started to become restless, only one pair of hands appeared, lifting itself out of the ink. The boy came up with a smile on his face. He was now nearly the size of her hand.

"Wow," she said, "What else can you do?"

The inkling smirked. Sprinting for the inkwell, he dumped the rest of the ink on himself. Little black footprints were left as a reminder of his birth. Grabbing the last of their ink he dumped in on him, laughing as he became the size of Heather. Heather snatched his hand and held it tight.

"Let's go play outside," Heather said, grabbing her dolls.

The boy stumbled alongside her, still wobbly on his new legs. Heather spun around, and held out the doll to him.

"This is Cindy. Wanna hold her?" Heather asked him.

The boy grinned and nodded, greedily grabbing the toy. It only took moments for him to make Cindy's pink dress black.

"Oh no," Heather said, stealing the toy back, "you weren't supposed to do that."

The boy put his face to the ground, and kicked his foot into the soil. A little piece of ink dropped into the dirt.

"It's okay," Heather sat Cindy down and patted his back, "It's okay, really."

Heather hugged him with care.

Suddenly, the hose kicked on and soaked Heather's back first, and then the boy.  It was over. The boy screamed as he continued melting into the ground before washing away forever.

Heather fell to the grassy floor, scooping up the ink that was now mixed with mud. Tears rolled off her face, adding to the mess in her hands.

"No," Heather said, still trying to force the liquid together, "You can't, you were going to play with me."

Her mother turned off the hose and rushed to her. All she saw were the mittens of filth in her hands, and a ruined clothes.

"When I told you not to go anywhere, I meant it. Now look at you, ink all over your dolls and new dress. Get on up to the bath. You have a lot of explaining to do," her mother grabbed her arm tightly, forcing her up to the bathroom.

"But the inkling—"

"For goodness sakes, those things are fake."

Her mother then filled the tub with water then left the room.

"197,000,000  miles isn't enough," said Greed.