JACK PAUL

I look up and squint into the infinite, whiteness that stretches out in front of me. On days like this, when the clouds hang thick and low, they merge with the snowy landscape, and the horizon disapears. The difference between sky and land becomes indistinguishable until all that remains, is a colorless, featureless world that envelopes everything.

The winds are howling again. They tear at my cheeks, lacerating them with frozen fingers as sharp as blades. When the winds howl like this, it get's even colder. Sheets of sleet and snow start falling again. Raging blizzards gnaw at the icy landscape, altering its shape as they pound it relentlessly. And it gets even darker.

They used to call this winter, but that was a long time ago when the earth had four seasons. But since the great freezing, it only has two; cold and colder. Dark, and darker. Windy, and even windier.

Sometimes, the wailing winds are so loud that they drown out everything they meet. Once, when a mother was giving birth, white knuckles gripping the animal skin rug, sweat beads clinging to her skin, her screams weren't even heard by those wiping her brow.

But that's what this place does; it drowns out life, suffocating it under feet of powdery ash and snow. But it's all I've ever known. It's all any of us have known. There are stories, though. Stories of a place so strange and exotic that if I hadn't seen pictures with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it.

They say the world was once covered in a rug so soft and green that you could run on it with bare feet. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun... the sun was the most glorious of all. That faint, diffuse blur that attempts to reach out from beyond its cloudy grave, was once so bright you couldn't look directly at it. Fat and yellow and warm like fire.

A few of us think a place like this might still exist somewhere beyond the whiteness. Many winds ago, a lone traveler took refuge in a cave nearby, bringing with him stories of a place so green and warm that you didn't need to wear clothes there. He died that night, taking his stories with him. But there're a few of us who still cling to them.

People like my father don't like to imagine places like that. It's much easier to pretend that nothing else existed before the great freezing. Before the volcano cracked the earth open and destroyed everything it touched.

"This isn't a place for foolish hopes and dreams," my father's always saying. Hope is what killed my uncle, after all.

I look down at the old, worn book I'm cradling in my hands. Most of the pages still bare the scars from the night my uncle left. My father doesn't know this, but when his back was turned, I scooped it out of the fire and have kept it hidden ever since. My great grandmother called it a children's book; a story to put children to sleep. I can't read any of the words, so I look at the pictures instead.

I'm scrutinizing my favorite page again. Even though I've seen it a million times before, it still exerts that same magical power it did over me the first time I saw it. Green trees, blue skies and colors I have no names for because I've never seen. I was born here, 23 winds ago. Born into this white, icy wasteland. I close the book gently and slip it into the safety of my bag. This book is my most prized possession.

Then suddenly, through the blustering winds, the sound of the horn echoes across the tundra. My heart thumps in my chest, I propel myself onto my feet and start running. My feet sink into the soft snow, and the faster I run, the more my heart thumps against my ribcage, pouring excitement into my veins. As I get closer, I hear the urgent shouts of my clan as they scramble to get ready.

When a whale washes up on shore, there's so much that needs to be done, and quickly. Because of this, it's also the only time that all the small clans dotted around our bay come together.

It's a big whale. Massive. The biggest one that's washed up in many, many winds and it's going to take a lot of people to cut it all up and get it into storage. And when that's done, when it's been carved up and shared amongst us all, we'll allow ourselves a moment of celebration. Tonight, we'll feast, we'll dance, and we'll sing old songs that have long been forgotten. Tonight we'll forget, for the briefest moment, how exhausting our daily struggle for survival is.

"Jack! Do you see it?" My father runs up and passes me a knife. He's smiling. I haven't seen him smile in a very long time. My mother exists our igloo and also starts running towards the beach. She doesn't have my brother, Joshua, with her and I feel an intense pang of guilt.

"Come." My father gestures for me to follow him, but I don't.

"I'll be there soon," I rush into our igloo, pick up my little brother and strap him to my back like we usually do.

His legs don't work, and as my mother puts it, his mind moves at a different speed. He was born this way, like so many other children. They say it's from the poisonous air and acid rains. As I said, this place doesn't value the sanctity of life much.

My brother smiles at me as I pick him up, and even though he doesn't understand what's going on, at least I'll give him a little bit of joy today. I start running to the beach again, knife in hand and brother strapped to back. The whale is still too far out at sea, and we risk losing it if we don't hurry. I run straight into the ice-cold water, ignoring the freezing agony it inflicts on me as the chill shoots through the bones in my legs, claws up my spine and explodes inside my skull.

The horn sounds again, and soon, there're others running towards us. The clans that live so close together, yet are so far away. The clans that we only trust on this one, specific day. We all have good reasons not to trust each other, though.

We descend on the whale, and soon it's a frenzy of blood and knives as we hungrily pull it apart, some tearing into it with their hands and teeth. The water around us turns red, and there's an unfamiliar sense of camaraderie between us.

My hands are drenched in blood, as I raise the first piece of soft, fat to my mouth and stuff it in. I bite down hard, and the life-giving fat liquifies on my tongue. I swallow and savor the sensation as it slips down my throat and immediately warms me from the inside.

RUBY HAMMOND

The Champagne flutes float past me on trays and I take one. I raise the crystal rim to my lips and sip; the cool bubbles dance on my tongue for a short, exquisite moment, and then I swallow, feeling the liquid warm me from the inside. I look down and shake my sandals off, running my pink painted toes through the still-warm sand. The crystal-clear lagoon and its pearly beaches look beautiful at this time of the cycle. As does the lush jungle that surrounds it; a tangle of electric green and burst of bright oranges and reds.

The moon has been turned on; it casts a soft, silverly glow across the water that shimmers when it ripples and makes the sand look like it's made up of a million crushed diamonds. The smell of sweet jasmine has been released into the air conditioning, and its subtle fragrance impregnates the air around us. The night-cycle sounds are also on; the hypnotic buzz of the cicada beetles and the Mockingbird's night melody fill the balmy air.

It's another perfect night inside the Greenhouse, and everyone who's anyone has gathered for the annual party held on the shores of the lagoon. We do this every year on the day we closed the doors of the Greenhouse and started our new life. The clink of cutlery against a glass makes me look up, as my father steps onto the central platform.

"Welcome." My father's commanding voice silences the crowd. Everyone stops what they're doing and looks at him. The look is always the same; reverence, respect and gratitude. He's the most important person here, after all. Silas Hammond, the man that holds this place, and everyone in it, in the palm of his hand. The great conductor who keeps all the intricate parts of this wondrous machine working in perfect unison.

It was my great, great grandfather's vision that saw The Greenhouse come to life, and now it's my father's vision that keeps it going. That is, until its safe to venture outside again. Whenever that may be...

The first time I became aware of a world outside my glass walls, was when I was five. My mother had taken me to her favorite spot just beyond the boundary to look through the glass. People don't like to look outside anymore, so they've let the jungle grow right up to the walls. But my mother loved it there. I still remember exactly how I felt the first time I saw it. The never-ending white snow that stretched out in front of me filled me with anxiety. It surrounded us, on all sides, like a hostile army. The grey, cloudy skies were so turbulent that I remember wondering what they were so angry about; why wouldn't they let the sun come out? I was terrified. I burst into tears and ran home as fast as my small feet would carry me.

I overheard my parents fighting that night. My father kept saying that she needed to forget the past, that the Hammond family had greater responsibilities now. My mother kept saying something about holding on to where we came from. And then my mother screamed. I'd never heard her scream before...

"How the hell do you live with yourself, Silas?"

I still don't know what she meant. That's one of the last memories I have of my mother before she died. I've never gone beyond the trees to the boundary again.

I recently asked my father about the world outside, a science team ventures out in helicopters from time-to-time. But it's still the same; no signs of melting and no signs of life. When Yellowstone erupted, we really were subjected to the almighty wrath of Mother Nature.

We still don't know how bad it is in the rest of the world. Because the first thing she did, was destroy our means of communicating. Phones, power and the Internet went crashing down around us, much like the thousands of planes that fell from the sky that day.

"Well, here we all are again." My father says and a cheer rises up from the crowd. "Today is a very special occasion, it's the day we celebrate our very existence here." My father raises his champagne flute and looks out across the water. "We were only meant to be here for seventy years, but our Greenhouse has held us in her warm embrace for another 29. And today, we celebrate 99 years together."

The crowd cheers louder and hundreds of champagne flutes are thrust into the air. Suddenly, an arm wraps around me, and I flinch in fright.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," I turn and look straight into Benjamin's blue eyes.

"It's ok." I force myself to smile at him. It's not that I don't like him; it's just that there seems to be a new family responsibility on my horizon. And it's coming faster than I'd like.

And then, without any warning, it's pitch black. The lights go out with a deafening buzz and a frightening pop. Panic-stricken gasps and frightened screams fill the air. I jump in terror and Benjamin pulls me closer until I can feel his breath on my cheek.

What the hell is going on? My heart hammers in my tight chest, and suddenly I feel like that little girl looking out of the glass all over again.

"It's ok. I'm sure your father will fix it," Benjamin's lips brush my ear as he tries to calm me. But I'm not calm. My entire body starts shaking and a sensation, so unfamiliar and ghastly moves through me. My hairs stand on end, goosebumps pebble my skin from head to toe and I feel an involuntary urge to wrap my arms around my body.

"What is this?" I whisper through chattering teeth that are making it hard to talk.

I hear my father again, and a small wave of relief washes over me. "Calm down!" His booming voice cuts through the panicked darkness. "Everything's going to be ok." And then, as quickly as they went off, the lights flicker back to life. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust, I've never seen darkness like this before; so inky black that it swallows everything. And there's something else I've never seen before either.

A strange thin, mist is curling out of my mouth with every out breath. I try and catch it between my fingers, but it disappears. I breathe out as hard as I can, and I'm reminded of those turbulent grey clouds again. I look around. Everyone is wide-eyed, shaking, pale-faced and they're all looking to my father for the answers.

I also look, and for a split -second, I see something in him that I've never seen before. His brow crinkles, his lips purse together tightly, and he clenches his fist. A guard rushes up to him and whispers something in his ear, and then my father does something very strange. He throws his head back and laughs. I don't see him laugh often, but when I do, it looks nothing like this. He walks back over to the microphone and taps it.

"There's nothing to worry about. " He's chuckling, and I can see the crowd look as confused as I feel. "The powerhouse is running on a skeleton crew tonight. Most of our engineers are here, and one of our younger engineers was left in charge." He pauses for a moment and smiles, "And I'm sorry to say, but it seems like our young trainee could do with a lot more training." My father shakes his head and continues his smile. The collective feeling of relief is palpable and a few people begin to laugh. "We won't hold it against him, though," my father raises his glass into the air once more, "in fact, let's toast him. I'm sure he feels as shaken as we do."

I raise the glass to my lips and am just about to take a sip when I see my father's brow crinkle once more. This time, an intense feeling of dread drops into the pit of my stomach like a slab of heavy metal.

JACK PAUL

My stomach is full. It's an unfamiliar feeling, but it's a welcome one. This will be one of the few days in my life when my stomach will feel like this. Because tomorrow, we will ration again.

We've made a massive fire on the beach, something we never do. The whale blubber burns hot and bright and fills the air with the sweet smells of cooked meat. People from the different clans are sitting together, talking and laughing. Children shriek in delight as they chase each other around and clamber up and down the whale carcass. A few others like my brother sit together by the warmth of the fire. Even they're smiling today.

"You did well today, Jack," my father sits next to me, draping his heavy arm across my shoulder. "You'll be a good provider when I'm gone."

I promptly shrug his arm off and turn to him, "Stop talking like that." He's been saying this a lot lately as his last winds draw near. He's lived through 43 of them already; most don't make it to 45.

"Ok. Ok," he pats my back, "tonight we'll feast. Tonight we'll sing and dance and take our women in our arms. You too son. It's time you had some children of your own." He nudges me with his shoulder.

Having children is both a necessity and a curse. One extra mouth to feed but another pair of much- needed hands to share the load. Most importantly, though; one more person to replace the tens of millions we lost.

My father leans back, closes his eyes and lets out a loud, long sigh. I can feel his relief. "Now isn't this better than sitting around daydreaming and wishing. Look around you son. We are living the dream."

I look around at the smiling, laughing, eating faces. Is this really the dream? Is this as good as it gets? I sigh. It's not in relief. There's got to be more to life than this?

Suddenly, a thunderous noise shatters our revelry. It violently fills the air and seems to come from everywhere all at once. It's like nothing I've ever heard before, and as it gets louder and closer, the ground beneath my feet begins to shake.

Panic erupts. People run for the safety of the caves and igloos, and some take up weapons against the invisible enemy. And then, a blinding, white light flashes and sets the entire sky on fire. It's the brightest thing I've ever seen, and I'm blinded. I cover my burning eyes and fall to the ground. The brutal pain of my head colliding with something hard momentarily incapacitates me. I try and stand, but my body pulls me back down into the cold snow.

Blood-curdling screams reverberate around me and out of the corner of my eye, through the blurry haze of my vision, I see ropes falling to the ground. The ropes are followed by feet wearing shoes I've never seen before. I try and grab one as it passes, but my sluggish arm is no match for its speed.

Then the sounds change again. The screaming stops and everything starts to quiet down until, finally...silence. The deafening silence is so unsettling that it chills the marrow in my bones. It takes me a few more moments to stand again and when I do, everyone around me is looking up at the sky; pale-faces, wide-eyes, open jaws. For a few more hushed moments, we all stand like that, until someone speaks.

"I've heard about this." A man screams. "A traveler told me that flying machines came and took half his clan."

"I've heard of this too." Another man yells in a quivering voice.

"Who are they?" I ask, looking from one ashen face to another as heads shake in unison. And then suddenly the gravity of the situation hits me all at once. "Dad?" I scream and start scanning my surroundings. "Dad? Where are you?"

"DAD!" I scream so loudly that my throat rasps and I taste blood.

"Here!" He shouts back, emerging from a pile of snow holding Joshua in his arms. I feel momentary relief until the next wave of fierce panic grips.

"MOM?" I push my way through the crowds and run to our igloo, crawling inside as fast as I can. "Mom?" I scream, but the only sound I hear is my own echo bouncing off the walls of an empty room.

And then the shouting begins again, and in that moment, my entire life changes.

"The women are gone! Where are all the women?"

I walk outside in a state of subdued horror and take in the scene around me. A few women rush into the arms of their relieved partners, but there are many, many more partners who stand there with empty arms.

One of the men falls to his knees and screams. His guttural scream is so loud that it silences us and we all look down at him as he sobs and claws at the snow with his bare hands. And then, I see it. Blinking up at me from the white snow.

My head spins, my heart flutters rapidly, and my breath catches in the back of my strangled throat. I feel unsteady, but I take a slow, small step toward it. Others have noticed it too, and they're no longer looking at the man in the snow. Instead, they're all looking at me. I approach it tentatively and just before I reach it, I stop and look down at it.

"What is it?" Someone yells at me as I slowly bend and pluck it from the snow with shaking hands.

It's so smooth and soft and exquisite. I've never seen, or felt, anything like it. I raise it to my nose and inhale. A scent so unusual and intoxicating fills my nostrils and lungs. And at that moment, something deep inside me wakes up. Something that feels like it's been lying dormant and waiting for this exact moment to open its eyes, rear its head and roar.

"I knew it," I whisper, feeling the sting of salty tears in my eyes. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!" My voice gets louder, and I look up. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stare down at me.

"I knew it, and my uncle knew it!" I yell triumphantly, lifting the perfect green leaf into the air for everyone to see.