The Scent of Sunlight
A Fantasy Short Story by Annie Bellet
Copyright 2011, Annie Bellet
All rights reserved. Published by Doomed Muse Press.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to
[email protected].
Cover designed by Greg Jensen with images from © Ron Chapple Studios | Dreamstime.com and David W. Siu
Electronic edition, 2011
The Scent of Sunlight
Queenie Hayes strode quickly, shoulders hunched, through the freezing fog and shoved aside the broken front door to her apartment building. It was nearly three in the morning and she kept her right hand inside her purse, clutching the pepper spray, until she reached the landing outside her door.
Tap, taptap. Tap, taptap. She heard stirring within in response to her knocks. Shivering in the unheated hallway, she glanced around. The florescent lights flickered above the stairs, humming like tired glowbugs. The light on her own landing was burnt out, still. The chain rattled and Queenie listened as the deadbolts slid aside. She waited to enter until she heard the scrape of Angel, her eight year old son, pulling the chair away from the door.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She ruffled his thick short curls which earned her a suffering look. “Any messages?” she asked as she relocked the door.
“Two,” he said and pointed at the pad by the phone. “Tabby went to bed at eleven, I made sandwiches but we’re out of milk,” he added.
Queenie pulled off her shoes and dropped her purse with a sigh. Fridays were the worst. During the week she worked day shifts at the deli and was home in time to get the kids after school. The deli wasn’t full time and paid not nearly enough, forcing her to work at the bar on weekends. Mrs. Jimenez, who lived near the park, took the kids on Saturday and Sunday nights, but couldn’t do Fridays. That left Queenie working until two or three a.m. and Angel watching his four year old sister.
Angel perched on the faded yellow floral couch, sleepy eyes dark and solemn as he watched her. He’s growing up too fast. Queenie shook her head and walked the few steps to the narrow kitchen and checked the messages.
Written down in Angel’s blocky but legible handwriting was a note saying Mrs. Jimenez couldn’t take the children this weekend because she had to visit her sick mother in law. Queenie sighed again. With rent due in a week and a half she couldn’t afford to ask for the time off.
Angel and Tabby would manage. They’d have to.
The second message was from Ms. Stringer, Tabby’s kindergarten teacher. It only said she’d called, nothing else. Queenie shivered. Teachers called only when there were problems, and she couldn’t afford problems right now.
“Angel baby, did Ms. Stringer say anything when she called?”
“She asked for you, I said you’d gone to get milk and would be right back.” He shrugged and then looked at his feet in their bright green socks. “Will you tuck me in?”
The apartment was generously called a ‘double studio’ and Queenie had hung a curtain across the opening between the living room and kitchen area and the makeshift bedroom beyond. In the soft glow of the caterpillar nightlight, Queenie could make out the smooth lines of her daughter’s face. Tabby’s eyes opened as she and Angel entered the room.
“Mommy, hi,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.
“Hi, little tiger, go back to sleep.” Queenie knelt and kissed Tabby’s forehead.
Angel climbed in on the other side of his sister and Queenie tucked the thick blankets around both of them.
“Tell a story, mommy.” Tabby’s smile was like sunlight in the dim room.
“You want a story, too, Angel?” She smiled back as the aches in her feet and back faded. She was home and her children were safe.
Angel nodded and then said, “tell us about the Veldt.”
“Veld veld veld,” Tabby chanted.
Queenie shifted to sitting cross-legged. The Veldt was something she’d made up after reading a story as a little girl. Like her kids, she’d lived in the city her whole life. She’d never known a world not full of concrete and smoggy skies. The Veldt was her escape, somewhere beautiful and natural, with golden grass and a bright, shining sun.
“What do you want to know?” She was very tired, so tired she could almost close her eyes and slip away into imagined sunshine and a breeze carrying the scents of oranges and cinnamon bark. “Angel is a prince of the Veldt, did I tell you that?”
They both nodded.
“But I’m not a princess,” Tabby said.
“No? What are you? A gazelle maybe?” Queenie rubbed her hand over her eyes. Tabby loved this game and she wished she could feel more than just exhaustion.
“A tiger!”
“A tiger? A fierce tiger, too, with lots of stripes. And you take good care of Angel,” she said. Queenie opened her eyes and smiled at her kids.
“Are there horses there?” Tabby asked.
“Yes, pretty golden horses with tails that swish the ground,” Queenie answered.
“And stripes. Gold stripes.” Tabby’s eyes closed.
“You think everything has stripes,” Angel muttered.
“Not mice,” Tabby said, her eyes still closed. “They got purple spots and big long tails and jump really far.”
“That’s so the eagles don’t eat them,” Angel said, closing his eyes too.
Queenie took a deep breath. She hardly needed to tell the stories; her fantasy world of the Veldt had become her children’s now.
“Mommy is queen,” Tabby said, “who is king?”
“A mighty hunter who always makes sure that we have horses to ride and good things to eat.” Queenie put in the mighty hunter part for Angel and was rewarded with a sleepy smile.
“He’ll teach me to hunt,” Angel said.
“Yes, but only if good kiddos get sleep. We’re going to the park tomorrow, remember.”
She leaned forward and kissed both children goodnight. She was too tired to do more than tug off her jeans before crawling into her own bed. She fell asleep rocked by the gentle breeze and the strong arms of her King holding her close and keeping all her fears at bay.