The Strike Rebels: Chapter 1

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Hello Marshmallows, Realmers, Extraterrestrials!

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about Taco Bout it Tuesday, I have decided it will be every other week from now on. Which is kind of pointless because there is only one left but whateveh.

What with Taco Bout Tuesday coming to a close (WAAAHHHHHH *Sobs uncontrollably*) I decided I should finally start The Strike Rebels series! (Remember This Post?)


In the POV of Anika-Belle

I took several deep breaths as I walk up the steps of Miss ‘s Home for Orphaned Girls, my hand clutching Mrs. Hattie’s for dear life.

I pull up my scarf, attempting to prevent the cold air that was whipping my face violently. It was a rainy and cold winter day. Normally I love storms like this, but today was different.

Mrs. Hattie knocks her enormous fists on the huge wooden door of the orphanage. I stare at the ground. I am afraid to look up. I am afraid of the future, of what’s ahead.

The door opens and I rush inside, out of the cold and in to the warm, fire-lit parlor of the orphanage.

Mrs. Hattie scolds me for not wiping my shoes and giving the host a proper greeting. I can tell through her eyes that she wants to beat me. Thankfully, another “civilized” adult is in the room and the chubby woman refrains from spanking me.

I do as I am told, still staring at the floor, not daring to look up.

“Hello. I am Miss Fontez. You must be Anika-Belle.”

I am forced to look up. A woman with curly blond hair in the most elegant dress I have ever seen in my entire life is extending her hand.

I don’t want a beating from Miss Hattie, so I reluctantly grasp her hand and shake it hard. I hope I damaged those perfectly manicured fingernails with those prissy rings on them.

“Good day, Miss Fontez,” I say through gritted teeth. “I am Anika-Belle. Of course I am Anika-Belle. Who else could I be?” Despite this woman’s beauty, I don’t trust her huge, fake smile. I don’t trust anybody these days, in fact.

“A feisty one!” The woman exclaims softly, the fake smile I seem to loathe so much still plastered on to her face.

Mrs. Hattie gives Miss Fontez my name and information while I sit on that way-too-pink sofa, trying to give her a stinkeye. If looks could kill, Miss Fontez would be on her deathbed by now.

When Miss Fontez finishes jotting down my information on a piece of parchment, she files it under the coffee table in a book with a hollowed-out middle. Then she takes out another piece of paper and writes my name in curly script. She pins it to me.

“There, Anika-Belle,” She says. She leads me and Miss Hattie down a long, twisting corridor until finally she seems to decide on a place for us to stop.

She leads us in a similar-looking parlor. A girl who looks my age is sitting on a sofa.

“This is Dianna,” Miss Fontez introduces the girl.

The girl stands up. “Hello,” she says, the same fake smile plastered on her lips.

I sigh and roll my eyes.

Mrs. Hattie and Miss Fontez sit down to discuss grown-up matters and chat about boring stuff while Dianna ‘shows me around’.

She leads me down the hall until we get to a huge circular room with doors all over the walls.

“This is the four years old and under room,” She says, beckoning to then first door.

I hear lots of commotion and scrambling to places a she opens the door. I peek inside. The room is lined with bunk beds. There are dressers where the orphans presumably put their stuff. Little girls are standing ramrod straight next to their bunks. When Dianna closes the door, the commotion starts back up again and I can hear little girls playing and giggling.

The same thing happens with the 5-7 year olds and the 8-10 year olds, but getting quite as the girls get older.

By the time we reach the 11 and ups, the now-familiar shuffling sound is silent.

When we enter, the room is bigger than the rooms before. There is a small desk shoved in the corner. Instead of girls standing in front of their bunks and waving an animated, “Hello!” the girls are all crowded around the desk with a single candle lighting the room. They seem to be working on something.

Once Dianne and I had made our way through the door, Dianna’s posture relaxes and her smile was gone. She has a stern expression on her face. “Ari, Kate, Elisabeth, Marigold, Sasha, and Tiffany,” she pointed to each of the girls that were crowded around the little desk.

“Your bunk’s right there. You got that drawer and the little piece of wall above your bunk customize and store your stuff. Don’t disturb us.”

And then Dianna went to work on whatever those girls are working on.

I climb up to my bunk, not bothering to unpack or undress. The events of the day flash before my eyes.The fire. Mom and dad dead. Mrs. Hattie walking me here. The huge fake smile on Miss Fontez’s face. Now.

Now was now. It would never be anything else.

Then I fall in to a dreamless sleep.

Are you excited for chapter 2?





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