Gallade's Story Archive

  I’d never been asked why I wear them, before. I just assumed everyone did. It came up because I flinched. She squeezed my hand and it hurt. The first few times I just assumed this is what it was like for everyone, but after enough occasions I found myself asking her how she could do that when it hurts so much. She asked what I meant, and I pointed to her gloves. * * * * * * * * My gloves were hand-me-downs, you see. The kind my mother wore when she was my age. I was resistant to wearing them, of course. Every kid is hesitant to take things they don’t understand and don’t like, but I didn’t know then what an honor they are to have, to be gifted. Eventually I was convinced and began to wear them both to school and around the house. I told my Mom they itched but she brushed me off, saying she knew: She’d complained about the same when she was my age. But she got used to them, so I would too. * * * * * * * * My friend looked down at her own gloved hand in confusion....

  The wheels of the locomotive clicked against the rails, thk-thk, thk-thk, along the tracks as the popular boxcar rattled its way down the path, snowy trees hiding the horizon, making the world feel like it was but a single lane of foliage in an empty, dim-skied world.             “That sound ain’t real, you know.”             Rupert looked back, annoyed. “The hell ya talkin’ about now, Ernie?”             “The clack of the rails.”             Lauren gave them both a confused look. “How- What do you mean it isn’t real?”             “I mean , that noise was a byproduct of rails being assembled in multiple pieces back in the day.”             Ru...