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Frozen Whispers in the Polar Night

  October               I have been living alone in Grandpa’s cabin for over a month now. The long days with golden sunsets have gradually faded, and the nights are getting longer and longer. Yesterday, when I turned on the satellite phone, I found three messages from Mum, asking me how I was. My reply was very dry: “I’m fine, don’t worry.” She had tried to dissuade me from embarking on my arctic pilgrimage to the island of Svalbard from the very start. She had told me that for a young woman like me, accustomed to living in a bustling city, that remote place would turn into a nightmare. She hated anything that reminded her of d ad. But the more she had discouraged me, the more my resolve had strengthened. For once, my two halves, the Norwegian and the Italian, had been in agreement. The Norwegian half had insisted that I should visit the land of my father’s ancestors, while the Italian half had hard-headedly wanted to sh...

A Very Special Typewriter

Sandy Wright waited until the chitter-chatter of his students abated. “All right,” he said, “settle down!” He raised one eyebrow at the class and quickly the remaining hubbub fizzled out. “For the Christmas holidays, you have a short literature assignment. You are to write a 250-word paragraph about your favourite minor character from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”             A freckly-faced boy with a permanent gap-toothed grin raised his hand.             “Yes, Robbie,” said Wright, rolling up his eyes and sighing.             “When you say a minor character, Sir, do you mean one like Professor Digory Kirke?”             Most of the students giggled, while a couple laughed out loud.             Sandy ...