I sat at the foot of pa’s chair. He’s tired, exhausted really, after a long day in the office. He looks down at me in mild curiosity as the sands patter against the window. The storm’s been raging for a couple hours now, lightning and sand and wind.

  “Really a story?” He asks.

  “Yeah!” I say, my small fist soaring into the air in excitement.

  “Hm.” My father hums as he taps his hip, “A story. Well the weather seems about right and I was about four myself when my pa’ told me this one. Alright then.”

  I scamper slightly closer as he clears his throat to speak: “Once long ago there was a small girl. Her father was a cruel man who beat her mother and yelled at his daughter with the rage of a thunder storm ever since the passing of said mother during a sandstorm just like this one.

  One day he told his daughter to get him water from a river, but the closest river was far, far away and rumored to have run dry. The girl didn’t mind much though and so she grabbed her pail and started walking. The river was far and the sands shifted under her feet. Soon enough she was lost. She saw neither her home, nor the promised flow of fresh water.

  She tries to wander in a straight line towards where her father promised the river to be, but she simply never arrives. Eventually, as night hits, she falls to her knees, weeping. Her tears fall to the sands and she hates herself for wasting water. However she feels a shudder in the sands.

  She knows she is doomed then. Sandgators are the only predators here and if you feel the shudders in the sand it is already too late. However as she looks around frantically for any outcropping of stone, granite or even a place where she could throw her pail to distract the beast, she feels a hand on her back. A woman’s hand.

  She spins around and sees the face of an old crone. A woman of such age her skin is like wax and her face is blessed with both crows feet and many wrinkles from smiling and frowning in equal measure.

  The old woman speaks to the child: ‘Hello dearest-”

  I giggle at the change in pitch from my old man.

  “‘- why are you all alone in my desert sands?’

  The girl sobs as the old crone takes her upon her strong shoulders. Now they booth will die from the beast, but the old woman simply drops her on the porch of a small dwelling. A house the girl had never seen before.

  ‘Speak child, for I am tired and soon to die.’ The old crone begs.

  ‘I am sorry,’ The girl manages, ‘my father asked me to gather water from the river, but the sands took me away.’

  The old crone’s face turns into a smile, a pitying smile, as she speaks: ‘Worry not child of my desert. Your father will bother you no more. Here I offer you water from my own home for your father to drink and a little treat for you to eat now, for your good service.’

  The little girl takes the offered treat and eats it up hungrily, finding both her hunger and thirst sated in the process. The old crone cackles at her wonder, then at the girl’s fear as the house rises into the air. The girl clings to the old crone as she glances down the porch to find the giant legs of a sandgator propelling the house through the sands. The crone cackles as they race over the sands, the distance the girl walked in a day covered in only a handful of minutes.

  The Crone then leans down to the child and speaks: ‘Listen here child, don’t let anyone drink the water you offer your father except for me when I return. Not your neighbors, not the mudpuppy, not the winglizard and not the stranger. Only your pa’ and I.’

  ‘But what if I’m thirsty?” The girl asked.

  ‘I won’t be gone that long.’ The crone consoles before picking the girl up by the scruff of her neck and gently placing her at the doorstep of her father’s house, placing the water beside her.

  The girl knocks on the door and turns around to check on the crone, yet the crone was gone. She disappeared into the breeze. Her father opened the door and angrily brought his daughter and the water inside. Soon enough the man sent her to her room without supper, though she wasn’t hungry at all for it anyway.

  Deep in the night the father then decided to try the water his daughter had brought him. First he took a sip, then a gulp, then he chugged and chugged from the container. And yet no matter how much he drank he wasn’t satisfied and the water was still there, clenching his thirst and yet leaving him thirsty. The man drank greedily until he had his entire head in the container, still trying to sate his thirst.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  In the morning the daughter awakes to hearing a knock on her window. She opens her window with a quick motion to find the crone before her.

  The girl remembers her manners and rushes down into the living room where the almost empty container lays, her father nowhere to be seen. The girl brings the container back up to the window and holds it out in an offering to the crone. The ancient woman smiles and takes the pale back and finishes off the water within with a single sip before returning her attention to the child before her.

  The Crone then spoke: ‘Child, I am sorry to say your father died, though it took a very long time for his wicked body to realize that. Finally his heart gave out last night.’

  ‘What will I do now?’ The girl asked. She was an orphan now, alone without any family left.

  ‘I’ll take you under my wing for a few years.’ The Crone offers, ‘And if you like, after those years I’ll offer you a choice. Be my child and bear my name for your children forevermore, forever damning your father’s name out of memory, or leave my home and family and never ask me of anything again.’

  What choice did the child have? She leaped through the window and embraced her future mother. Two years later, though she had another three to choose, she became the crone’s daughter and when she married she had her husband take her name, the name of the Crone. The Crone welcomed her new son and grandchildren and welcomes every new scion of her daughter’s family with open arms. Be it in life or in death. For she gave their matriarch water and food when she was alone and offered shelter when she had none. The End.”

  I was bored. School was stupid and I still didn’t understand why the fuck I existed here. R4-K3 was bringing me back from school, because apparently a ten year old couldn’t do that by themselves on this hellhole of a desert industrial world. I start to whistle an upbeat worker’s tune which R4 emulates as we finish walking down the street. Just because I don't like it here doesn't mean everything's bad, I guess. I turn into the housing unit, then walk into the house and close the door behind my family’s droid and take off my shoes, gloves, hat and goggles. I keep the bandana on though, it barely even registered most days.

  For some reason I liked wearing the hat, it’s brim keeping the sun out of my eyes and the fabric keeping my hair safe from the occasional burst of sand. I take off my long sleeved shirt, hanging it up beside my hat and gloves, then walk into the kitchen. I stop suddenly when I realize pa’ was in the kitchen cooking. I take a look at the calendar next to the fridge, no it’s not ma’ and pa’s anniversary, wasn’t a birthday either and it certainly isn't a holiday.

  “Whatcha’ doing?” I ask.

  “Cooking. We got a shipment of Nuna bird in our rations this week. I’ve decided to make some fried pieces from it. Get the ground peppers from the cupboard while I finish carving this one.” He asks.

  I shrug and do as he asks, gathering an assortment of ground peppers, garlic and onion powders as he finishes chopping the bird into smaller chunks. He takes a longer moment to remove some of the meat from the bird’s ribcage and places the bones, head and feet in a separate container. Suppose we’ll use that for some stock later in the month.

  “How was school, son?” He asks.

  “Was, fine.” I reply.

  “Start mixing up the spices, you should see the right mix on one of the cards I got out for this.” He says.

  I look through the cards and find the one he wants me to do. I look over it and start mixing the ground spices, placing each little jar back into the cupboard whenever I’m done with it. I look at the spice mix and see I need to add a couple wet ingredients in a bit. I pass behind my old man and open the fridge to take out a stick of butter, bring it to my cooking station, leave it there and grab some vinegar in a different cupboard. I start mixing the spices with the vinegar and pull on pa’s shirt.

  He turns to me with a raised eyebrow: “Yes?”

  “I need the stove to finish the spices.” I answer his question.

  “Alright, let me put on the heat while you grab a saucepan.” He says and I go do as he asks.

  I return with the saucepan and watch as pa’ fills it with the spice and vinegar mix and then slowly starts adding butter, stirring it all the time. Eventually he starts speaking: “You know, my gramps, Davafid Dericote used to make his own version of this sauce with his own peppers, since he owned a small hydroponics farm on his roof. ‘Course he had to sell the hydroponics farm when my pa’ got real sick a couple years before you were born. My gramps said he’d’ve like to meet ya sooner or later.”

  “Why haven’t I met him then?” I ask.

  “He died a couple days after you were born, workplace accident on one of the shipyards. He got to see your picture, but never got to meet ya.” He stops stirring for a moment before picking up again, “That’s why we’re making this. Food is a good way to remember the people we love, because whenever we eat the food we remember the people who brought it into our lives.”

  That was some good wisdom from him. My curiosity is provoked: “Any other stories?”

  “Oh well, I suppose I should tell ya ‘bout some of the family history sooner or later. Useful for ya in the future I’d bet. Now I don’t have the records, your gramps has em right now, but … I remember most of the important stories.” He pauses again as he moves the sauce from the heat and lets it cool. He moves to another station and starts beating an egg into some milk then adding some of the sauce, “Well, your, oh goodness it’d be about thirty five greats grandfather, he was a Colonel during the New Sith Wars. We named you after him. He served as the commanding officer of the 3rd Fondorian Volunteer battalion, 1st Regiment, then eventually took over the regiment itself. He had a decent service record, lost his arm to a Sith and shot the bastard and his apprentice with the ancestral slugthrower, the tally marks of those two should be on his son’s holster, I’m pretty sure my pa’ has that holster too.”

  “He killed two Sith?” I ask, surprised.

  “Well that’s the thing about slugthrowers,” He says while making a dry batter with some more of the spices from the cupboard, “doesn’t matter what kind of laser sword you got, durasteel will still fly through it. A lot of the body armor isn't exactly good against a good slug either. It’s why they were so popular with Mandos during their crusades. Now mind you, a good slug is on the more expensive side, but that’s why I’ll teach you how to make your own when you've turned twelve.”

  “I’ll make my own slugs?” I ask.

  “And when you have kids of your own, through blood or through adoption, you’ll teach ‘em how to make them for themselves and their kids.”

  “Okay.” I say, I didn’t want to think about having my own kids some day, that seemed weird. “Anyone else I should know about?”

  He starts battering the bird, dry spice mix, wet mix, dry flour spice mix, oil: “Well, bit closer to home, your great great great gramps was a half decent politician, almost managed to get the family back into the Thousand Standing. Of course he had an affair with the husband of a political ally and well, we’re still where we are for a reason.”

  “That’s dumb. Why would he do that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, he died in disgrace a couple years later. His kid Olix was the first since Colonel Thraken that entered the Planetary Defense Force, he made it to Captain of one of the cruisers and fought off a couple pirates. Course he kicked the bucket shortly before he made Commodore when some pirates took out the bridge with him on it.”

  “That’s sad.” I say.

  “Well that’s life isn’t it, son.” he replies, fishing out a piece of the fried bird and placing it on a wire rack, “But there’s always the good. Your great gramps, that’s my gramps Davafid had a loving marriage, a quiet life and a job working in the shipyards as a welder and assembler after serving ten years in the FDF, his father, the Captain, was adopted and when he was grown had six children of his own which he loved dearly and with an intensity I only understand now that I’ve had you. The sad stories and the brutal stories and the bitter stories are the easy ones to remember. The hardest stories to remember are the ones where everyone is happy throughout.”

  “Like with great grandpa’s peppers?” I ask.

  “Just like that.” My pa says as he starts tossing the chicken in the rest of the sauce, “He was a happy man who lived a happy life and died a sad death. Does that make his life sad?”

  “I guess not.” I reply.

  “Just right. Now pull some of the tubers out, we’re gonna make some fries with em.”

  “Yes!” I shout as I run to start carefully grab the best looking tubers and handing them over to my pa. I guess he wasn’t so stupid.