Dawning Of A New Day

• Poppy Hartley, Grade 8, St Catherine's School -
• Short Story
• 2020

Excellence Award in the 'The Inside Story 2020' competition

The sky was painted brilliant pinks, purples and blues, the last vestiges of the dark, star-spangled night chased away by the new dawn. I exhaled, watching my frosty breath swirl in the frigid morning air. My dangling feet kicked, sealskin boots scuffing the black-grey pebbles of the shore. I lay across a particularly large, flat boulder overlooking an inlet choked with ice that shimmered in the early morning light. The cove was well sheltered, free from the thick snow and howling wind of the tundra, only a few hundred meters away. The weak, watery sun rose slowly, almost totally clear of the sea now, and spread a beam of light across my face. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the brief, meager warmth. I sat for a few more minutes, soaking in the delicate landscape, but I knew I had to go. I had responsibilities. Sighing, I picked myself up off the rock and walked slowly to the trail I used to access the small bay, meandering along the shoreline, picking up bits and pieces and tossing them back. I listened to the lapping of the waves, little more than ripples, watering the stones along the shoreline. The light flickered on the rocky cliffs sheltering the cove, dancing back and forth to the swishing of the sea. I breathed in the salty air and sighed. By the time I reached the tundra the sky was icy blue, and the sun had climbed to the top of the East cliff. I see the Mountain, the Wood, and the thin stream of smoke that marks our settlement. I start walking toward the ribbon of grey vapor, footsteps crunching in the icy snow. They call me a dreamer, and I suppose I am. Nobody seems to have time for dreaming anymore, not since the Disaster. Although I suppose even back then the elders would always tell me to pull my head down from the clouds. I twist a lock of ebony hair around my gloved finger and tug lightly, eyes tracing the horizon. The mountains are grey and craggy, pale in the golden light of the rising sun. The shadows are deep and play tricks on my eyes, making a slight divot seem like a gaping cavern. The wood is a dark green-black brushstroke on a blue-tinted canvas. Sometimes it snows there, and the tree boughs are weighed down by icy crystals, taking only the slightest breath of wind to dislodge. The streamers of smoke grow larger and more numerous as I walk closer, until the pine cabins come into view, each one trailing a thin stream of the grey vapor. The snow-filled streets are almost empty and I wander along them, watching the sky. Clouds drift across the perfect sea-blue backdrop, wispy and indistinct. I watch them, enjoying the fluffy, three-dimensional feel to the white puffs. Dawn is my favorite time of day, when the world is still asleep and yours to wander and enjoy. I reach our log cabin, and sit on the steps, face in my hands, to watch the clouds drift by.