(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . The Little Mac Girl [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2023-12-20 (With apologies to Hans Christian Anderson, who I stole the idea from) The terrible cold had returned. Now the first flakes of snow began to fall from the lowering sky, on this, the last evening of the year. Along the street of rich houses, where the bankers, hedge fundies, and politicos lived, tottered a poor barefoot girl, wrapped in a shawl that was more holes than wool. Her mum had sent her out in slippers, for want of shoes, to sell tweets, and failing that, to sell their last household possession, the iPad, for a few pence. But now her naked feet were red and blue with cold, the slippers lost as she dodged between the Mercedes and BMWs speeding past. The girl approached a passer-by: he stood in a warm coat, reading a copy of the financial newspaper, one hand resting on his illegally-parked Bugatti as he waited, apparently, for someone in a wine bar. Perhaps he would be the first to buy. Nobody had bought from her the whole day, not a single new penny had she been given. “Penny for a tweet, mister?” He looked at her. “A tweet? Ha, ha, I have as many as I need right here!” He pulled out an iPhone and brandished it. “Oh. Sorry.” She crept away, trembling with cold and hunger. The snow now covered her long blonde hair, and the flakes glistened in the light from the shop windows. So thin she was, with a beauty painful to see, that a passing paparazzi mistook her for a supermodel, but only for a moment. She glanced into the shop windows, and saw hampers with caviar, champagne, smoked salmon. One window had a centrepiece of a huge goose, glistening, and she fancied she could smell the delicious aroma even through the cold glass, this New Year’s Eve. Just around the corner of a five-star restaurant, in an alcove formed by the uneven junction of two grand houses, she sat down and gathered her rags around her. She could not go home, not without selling a single tweet, for her dad would beat her; and at home it was scarcely any warmer, for the electricity and gas had both been cut off and the wind whistled through the window cracks. She could no longer feel her feet, and the lack of sensation seemed to be creeping up her legs. Her little hands, too, were almost numb. Oh for a little fire, something to warm her, even if for a little while. And then she realized that she had the means with her, and even though she hadn’t been able to sell a single tweet, it could still warm her. She pawed at the iPad with her frigid fingers. Yes! A wifi connection! Not a strong signal, but perhaps it would do. She Googled “fire” and in moments the screen flashed up a bundle of apps. Eagerly she selected the first one, opened it. How lovely the stove looked, the warm, bright flames. She held her hands over the screen and rubbed them together. It really seemed as though she sat before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet. She smelled the scent of pine coming from the burning logs, and heard them snap and crackle over the tiny loudspeaker. She stretched out her feet to warm them too; but a chirping noise started up, and the app faded, leaving only a sales message on screen; more time would cost money. She went back to the list of apps. Her fingers were so stiff with cold now that they would hardly move, but she opened it. The screen blazed with light, so bright that where the glow fell on the wall, the stones became as transparent as glass, so she could see inside. There was a family, sitting down to their feast. The table, spread with a spotless tablecloth, groaned under the weight of a huge roast turkey. To one side stood dishes of creamed and roast potatoes, and on the other, the green vegetables. As she watched, the turkey somehow sprouted wings, flew clumsily from the table, and rolled towards her across the floor. She reached for it, and— The app stopped running. The screen faded back to the list, the stones became opaque, and the scene faded. With fumbling fingers, she ran the next app. The grimy pavement brightened around her; it seemed as if she sat within an illuminated bubble. Around her feet, the litter of discarded fast-food containers transmogrified itself into a feast of burgers, French fries, chicken wings, and steaming hot kebabs. The smell made her mouth water. The girl reached for a hot dog, seasoned with yellow mustard and red ketchup. The texture of the bread delighted her senses, the aroma of the plump Frankfurter tickled her nose. But just as she bit into it, the app interrupted itself with a message: “Free Content Expired. We hope you liked this taster. To buy more time, visit. . .” and there followed a link to a Web site. The hot dog was no more than a stained paper wrapper, stuck in her teeth. She spat it out, and ran the next app. The screen lit brightly once more. Now it seemed as if she nestled in the branches of a Christmas tree. Around her lay boxes and packages. All of them bore her name. Fairy lights glowed all over the tree. Her eyes followed them to the top, where an angel opened her arms to the heavens. The branches of the tree faded, and now she saw that the lights were really the stars in the night sky. One fell, leaving a trail of fire. “Someone has died just now!” said the little girl, remembering that her old gran, the only one who had cared for her, had told her, just before she died, that her star would fall from heaven when she passed to a better place. Now only one app remained. With nerveless, frozen fingers she stroked the screen, and it came to life. She must have selected the wrong app, because this was not fire, not warmth; a pearly glow filled the air, and within the glow stood her grandmother, looking in the best of health, with a kind smile on her face. “Grandma!” cried the girl. “Take me with you.” Then her face fell, for a moment. “You’re not a paid-for app, are you?” She rubbed the screen with her tattered sleeve, and the radiance brightened, as if the iPad were Aladdin’s magic lamp. She wanted to be very sure that her gran wouldn’t fade like the other visions. Suddenly, perhaps charged by the static electricity of her sleeve, the iPad pixels burned brighter than the noonday sun, which in fact, due to the freezing fog, was really not very bright at all. Her gran materialized from the screen, holding an apple in her hand. She offered it to the little girl, but the girl shrank from it: someone had already taken a bite from the fruit. “Take me, take me, Grandma!” the little girl cried. Her gran smiled, and took the girl by the arm, and suddenly the girl felt her poor frozen feet leaving the ground, and a delicate mist, a warm, life-giving mist surrounded her. They rose and rose, flying higher and higher, finally seeing the sun round the great curve of the earth, and then, above, was neither memory shortage, nor Flash; they were with Jobs. But next morning, as the sun rose, sat the poor girl in the corner, her cheeks rosy, her mouth smiling, propped rigid against the wall—frozen to death on the last night of the old year. On her lap still lay the iPad, a final video playing over and over, stuck in a loop: an advert for patio heaters. “She must have been lost in her own imagination,” people said, but none had any idea of the wonders that she had seen, or dreamt of the magnificence in which she now dwelt. 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