The Midnight Writer

by Tanvi Bachipale (she/her)

The sky was dark an half past midnight. She was sitting in front of a table which was close to the window. Scribbling something that seemed like nothing - just words and words written in handwriting which didn't made any sense to anyone except her. Bhuma seemed to be in hurry, occasionally she looked at her cat who was sleeping in her lap and threw glances at moon. The stars were bright but the vibe was spooky. No one was outside except the lamp lighters who lightened the streets in 18th century Britain.

She kept writing until the bells rang. The sound of bells made her stop, she looked out from the window. The sun was up.

'Again' she thought, 'Again no sleep.' back to her abor shelter.

The cat jumped on the floor and stretched.

"Snowbell, you had a good sleep. Lucky you," Bhuma smiled and hurriedly hid her book and quill under the carpet.

It wasn't easy - working all day and writing all night but when else could she write? She never went to school but somehow; learnt to read and write. Her whole family, including her and her younger brother, worked in an iron mine. The work was harsh and wages low. Well and on top of that the work was seasonal too. When the snow had covered the land, the mines closed and workers were left unemployed.

Today was the last day of work for this year. Snow was already covering the la wages. No foo next summer.

She opened the window and resumed writing, without having dinner. For her writing was so addictive that food hardly mattered.

This night she didn't keep writing until the sun rose, at midnight she tore the papers on which she had scribbled her writing, made paper birds out of them and and threw them out of the window. It was her hope someone who would value her work would find those papers. But this was possibly never going to happen.

Each night she kept writing and kept writing and those little birds kept flying out of her window, often landing in drains and garbage. But on night of December 25th, Santa seemed to have helped her. This night the bird landed on the Prince's bed.

The next morning, the Prince saw the bird and it crossed his mind to untangle the folds and invest his time understanding what was scribbled in unrecognizable handwriting. He smiled once he had finished reading and went on with his daily works. A few days past and then one night another bird came to the Prince. The same happened for a few months.

The Prince was taken by the stories of the unknown Midnight Writer, he loved the stories and hoped that he would get a new story every night. The stories often improved his mood on bad days and motivated him. He was really thankful to the Midnight Writer.

To thank the Midnight Writer he decided to print a book out of those stories so that more people can read those amazing stories which made words seem alive For next month he waited for more birds but f 20 birds or 20

The book was prin Midnight Writer' and was widely read throughout Great Britain. Soon the summer came.

One fine day the Prince happened to walk near the labor shelter. Two men were chatting outside and their conversation caught the Prince's attention.

"Well, this winter was harsh," said one of the men.

"Ya, ya... really harsh... hey, do you remember Bhuma?"

"Well? Jack's daughter?"

"Yes, whose whole family died of starving this winter."

"What about her?"

"Nothing, I just often saw her throwing bits of paper out of the window at odd hours of night... poor child, I guess she was trying to find happiness by doing so."

At this moment the Prince looked up he saw that the castle window of his room was facing the labor shelter. Now he finally knew who the brilliant Midnight Writer was. A tear creeped down his cheek in the memory of talented writer, who despite living a harsh life managed to bring words and imagination to life.

The Prince tho materialistically stories, as THE

In between

by Fernanda Armada (she/her)