Once upon a time, on a land far away from any trees nor grass, was a family in a white land full of ice.
Flat, cold, and vast, the land was roamed by a heavy fog, which suffuse to the bones. But life flourishes everywhere, and an ancient civilization not so distant from penguin succeed to live in here.
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Even if they were used to the coldness of the place, it was by far most useful to live in group, making heat between them or chase some fish. And even more efficient, a bit far from the cost where huge snowball built by snowstorm, that penguins used to make a house by digging in.
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To find food, all day, and every day, they walked. By hundreds, their feet tread upon a great stretch of snow from their house to their port, chasing fish for the group. Because they lived together, food was share between them all.
Even though they were a community, there was a timeless rule: better the fishing, better the house. This rule was established to force penguins collect more and more food, and it was taught since they born.
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By time, coming from the outside and right down to their heart, everything cooled down. Snowstorms were recurrent and finding food was more and more difficult.
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Our family used to live near the smallest houses, where walls were thin.
One day, came a huge snowstorm that lasted six, and parents went fishing on an empty stomach, as much as their daughter. They never came back.
The daughter was still too young to subsist by herself, so her house was given to another family who lived in a smaller house. With four other lonely penguins, they survived there.
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During a short time, this situation was enough. But this odd group was going to know the wrath of fate.
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In this plight, the breadth fog became as frisky as a horse galloping.
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From the North came a violent wind, roaming along the plains and faster than any penguins. It shook the house, and our little group narrow between each other. To survive, one must come in the middle of the circle while others make heat. They believed in any salvation, but the storm destroyed their house, letting the cold petrify the penguins. In a silence of despair, with one look they all regrouped around the daughter, the most likely to survive, they thought.
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She looked to each of them.
The smallest had a deformation of the fin and couldn’t chase properly. But he was clever. He knew all the good spot to chase effortlessly, saying his fin was the response of his smartness. You would never have seen it complaining about his condition, even going as far as laughing at those with good houses. Slowly, snow all over his back, the cold began to stink his lips in an ultimate smirk, and he fell behind the group.
The group moved closer, determined to protect the daughter.
On her right was a mother. On the same storm that took her parents, this mother lost her kids. She never showed any sign of sadness, never talked about that either and was able to motivate the group even on the darkest days. But in the darkness of the night, sometimes, she gets closer of the daughter, taking her in her warm fin, letting ice run down her cheeks. Peacefully, she closed her eyes on a thin layer of ice and fell in the snow.
The group moved even closer, defying the cold to separate us.
One the left was a blind one. Living a dreary life, he never built friendship nor family. He was older, but the same tragedy as the daughter happened to him and he had to survive alone. On the path to be one of the greatest chasers, one day when the fish became rarer the group went further than usually. But without warning, an orca rushed at them, all fangs out. Instinctively, he decided to stay as a distraction, letting the group swim to the coast. While he was running away, on the last thrust to join the land, a second orca showed. He dodged him at the last second, but its thin fin cut his eyes. Laying on the ground, the snow was stinged in red, and his hopes of better life disappeared. Staring at the daughter with his white eyes, he raised his head to look one last time at the clouded sky. While the snow was falling on his face, he fell on the ground.
The cold began to be felt intensely, and the group was now only composed by the daughter, and an old penguin.
So old that nobody knew really his story. Each of his gesture were slow, but he never gives up, and with the fervor of a craftsperson he continued to chase, walk, live every day on by one. Only the passage of time has earned him the forced exile of good houses. With resolution, he surrounded the little penguin in his large arm, pressing her against his fuzzy chest.
Around them was no trace of any member of the group.
Deep in the storm and gathering all his forces, the old penguin gave out his last breath. True to himself, he stood up, becoming a real shield for the daughter.
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Not knowing, how many time passed, she closed her eyes, memorizing every detail of the group, reminding every good moment.
She stayed like that for a moment, daring survive in this deadly fog.
Showing an ultimate impetus of bravery, she screamed against the wind, which faint beyond the mist.
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