"My name is Ozma”

"Hey, guess what?" I texted my buddy as I lounged on my couch, scrolling through my phone.

"What?" he quickly responded.

"This week's Reedy writing prompts are about fabulism," I said, excitement bubbling up within me.

"Okay, so?" he said.

"So? So it means I can finally write an Oz story I've been wanting to," I said.

"No, you can't. They won't take a story based on copyrighted work," he said.

"It's in the public domain, though. As long as I steer clear of specifics from other people's recent stories, I'm good. Trust me, people write Oz stories all the time," I assured him.

"Uh, yeah, I suppose that's true. So, what's your take on the Oz tale?"  He said.

I was about to text my response when a sudden thwack against my window interrupted me. Startled, I peered outside to find a concerned-looking kid eyeing the window. After I confirmed that no damage had occurred, I reassured him with a thumbs-up. He returned the gesture before darting back into the snowy chaos of the neighborhood.

It was not a big surprise. I live alone in an otherwise lively neighborhood. It had been snowing for days. As usual when the weather was right, all the neighborhood children were out playing in the snow.  Snowball fights, sledding, snow fort building. If it was a winter activity, someone was doing it.

With the storm approaching, the school canceled classes. The winter fun would continue throughout the day tomorrow.

I left my friend staring at the three dots of a pending text message. I had forgotten about our conversation. I anticipated diving into my writing and bringing the world of Oz to life.

I spent most of the night writing, too excited to sleep as I poured my ideas onto the page. When my body gave in, exhaustion claimed me. I managed to snatch only a couple of hours of sleep before waking up. As I stretched and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a strange realization hit me. 

The house was empty, as usual, but something felt different. The familiar sound of children playing outside was absent. 

Shrugging off the feeling, I made my way to the kitchen. I brewed a strong cup of coffee to fuel another day of writing.

With coffee in hand I walked over to the book shelf and admired my collection of first edition Oz books. Each volume held a piece of history. It was a connection to my grandmother and a legacy of storytelling that I cherished.

The spines of the books gleamed in the soft morning light. Including "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz," "The Marvelous Land of Oz," "Ozma of Oz," and the rest of Baum’s works. The complete series stood as a testament to the enduring magic of L. Frank Baum's world.

Some were gifts from my grandmother. While others I had hunted down at auctions determined to complete my collection.

A complete collection worth a small fortune. Both monetarily and sentimentally. My friends had often urged me to sell the books citing their value on the collector's market. But to me, these books were more than objects—they were a part of who I was. A link to my past and a source of inspiration for my writing.

No amount of money would ever convince me to part with my treasured collection of Oz books. They were, and always would be, priceless to me.

I was eager to see how bad the storm got that it halted excited children from playing outside. As I stepped onto the veranda, my breath caught in my throat at the sight before me. Instead of the expected blanket of snow, there was a scene straight out of springtime. The sun shone overhead, casting warm rays of light onto the vibrant green grass below. Leaves rustled in the breeze, and chirping of birds filled the air.

If the storm didn’t arrive, the ground was still covered in snow last night and it was impossible for it to have all melted. Wasn't it? I know the weather can change fast, but not like this. There was no snow at all. Not even a small pile you would find at the end of the season trying not to melt.

I blinked in disbelief, rubbing my eyes as if to dispel the illusion before me. But no matter how hard I tried, the scene remained unchanged. It was as if l winter had never happened, or time itself had skipped ahead to a different season.

I went outside, my winter coat left hanging on its hooks. I soaked in the unexpected warmth and beauty of the day. I expected to see more people outside doing the same. But there was no one. It was quiet. Almost like I was the only person that lived in the neighborhood.

After returning indoors, I switched on the local weather channel. I was hoping for some explanation for the bizarre turn of events. Despite being a fiction writer, I relied on my rationality. There had to be a logical explanation for the sudden weather change. To my surprise, the TV refused to turn on. I was growing frustrated when a curious thought distracted me.

Realizing something I had failed to notice outside, I abandoned the TV and headed back to the door. Stepping outside once more, I confirmed my suspicions: there was no sign that snow had ever been on there. Not even puddles. If the snow had melted, there should have been water on the ground.

I stumbled back into my house, my mind reeling with disbelief and a creeping sense of dread. I wondered if I had stepped into a surreal reality. The sudden change in weather, the absence of any sound in the neighborhood was too much to comprehend.

As I sank back onto my couch, the weight of isolation pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket, each breath heavier than the last. Fear clawed at the edges of my mind, whispering unsettling thoughts of what could be happening beyond these walls. Was I caught in some bizarre experiment? The only logical explanation was that I was drugged, but that theory collapsed as I scanned the room. I found no clear sign of forced entry, and I hadn't indulged in any substances that induced such hallucinations. The most potent item in my house was a bottle of aspirin, reserved for those late-night writing sessions that often left me with pounding headaches the next day.

With a sudden surge of determination, I sprang from the couch and made my way to my computer. I logged in and waited for the browser to load and I attempted to navigate the internet. But it wasn't available. It wasn't just a matter of my internet service being out – it was as if the entire online world had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but an empty void.

Once more, I found myself engulfed in silence, the only sound my own ragged breaths echoing in the stillness. Then, after an eternity, a sharp rap reverberated through the air. It was a knock at my door. Though it was likely of normal volume, the knock shattered the quiet like the first thunderclap before a storm.

I made my way to the door. I would have swung it open without a second thought, but in the wake of the inexplicable events that had unfolded throughout the day, I found myself hesitating, a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of my mind.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice betraying a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"I need help," the person responded. The voice was that of a female.

The sincerity in the woman's voice tempted me to swing the door open. But again, I hesitated.

"Who are you?" I pressed, my tone cautious yet tinged with empathy.

"Please, I need help. Will you open the door?" she implored.

"Tell me your name first," I insisted, my grip tightening on the doorknob as I braced myself for her response.

"My name is Ozma," she said, the words sending a ripple of disbelief coursing through me.

For a moment, I hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of my resolve. But then,  I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. It was all too clear now – this was a clever yet elaborate prank, designed to unsettle and amuse in equal measure.

With trepidation and anticipation, I turned the doorknob, half-expecting to be greeted by the blinding glare of camera lights and the sound of laughter from a hidden crew. A prank of this magnitude would require the expertise and resources of a professional television network.

But there was no camera crew. Indeed there was just a girl standing outside my door.

As I write this, I struggle to find the words to describe her. I realized the futility of my efforts. No matter how carefully crafted my prose, no amount of creative expression could capture the breathtaking sight before me.

In her twenties, perhaps, though age seemed irrelevant in the presence of such timeless grace.

The woman who stood before me was the most beautiful person I have ever laid my eyes upon.

Her presence commanded attention, drawing my gaze like a magnet with an aura that radiated grace and elegance.

Her features were a delicate symphony of perfection, each line and curve meticulously sculpted to create a portrait of timeless allure. High cheekbones caught the light in a dance of shadows and highlights, casting a captivating glow upon her flawless complexion.

Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of green reminiscent of glowing emeralds, appear to hold the secrets of the universe within their depths. They sparkled with a luminous intensity, reflecting the light like precious gemstones, drawing me in with their magical allure.

Her lips, curved into a gentle smile, illuminated her face with a warmth that was both intoxicating and inviting. Each movement, each gesture, exuded a grace that defied the very laws of nature, leaving me spellbound in her presence.

But it was not just her physical beauty that captivated me; it was the way she carried herself, with a quiet confidence and an air of mystery that left me longing to unravel the secrets hidden beneath the surface. She was not just beautiful – she was a vision, a living work of art, a muse whose mere presence left me breathless with wonder and awe.

As I have seen it written before, it proved to be true that her heart and mind were as lovely as her person.

Looking into her eyes, there was a depth of wisdom and ancient knowledge that seemed to transcend the bounds of reality.

I have no explanation. Despite the impossibility of it all, I knew the person standing in my doorway was Ozma of Oz.

"You're... Ozma?" I said.

The woman nodded. "Yes," she said. "I have come seeking your help, for the fate of Oz hangs in the balance."

I blinked in astonishment, struggling to process the magnitude of her words. This was beyond anything I have imagined, beyond the realm of possibility. And yet, here she stood, a living embodiment of a world I had only ever known through books and stories.

"What do you need from me?" I asked. I had no apprehension. I knew I would help her with whatever she needed

Ozma's gaze met mine with a piercing intensity, her eyes alight with determination. She embodied the ruler I had read about in the books—kind yet strong and fearless. "You possess a storytelling talent that surpasses the bounds of reality," she stated. "Only you can aid me in rescuing Oz from the encroaching darkness."

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling upon my shoulders. This was no ordinary request; this was a call to action, a chance to embark on an adventure beyond my wildest dreams.

As we stepped out onto the street, I couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration.

"I don't see any yellow bricks anywhere," I remarked, my attempt at levity falling flat in the face of the surreal situation.

But Ozma smiled at me, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. With a single tap of her foot, the ground erupted in a burst of dazzling light. Before my eyes, the once ordinary street began to transform.

The dull asphalt shimmered and morphed. It gave way to a winding path of vibrant yellow bricks stretching out as far as the eye could see. The bright yellow road looked to have no end.

With a sense of wonderment coursing through me, I took a tentative step onto the yellow brick road. Beside me, Ozma beckoned me forward with a reassuring smile, her hand outstretched.,

Without a second thought, I stepped forward and took her hand. It wasn't a romantic gesture, nor was it reminiscent of the comforting grip of a mother's hand. Instead, it was something altogether different yet profound. But it felt safe, and not only would I follow that yellow brick road, I would follow Ozma wherever she led me.

My loyal readers, fellow writers, and judges, I must take a risk and break the fourth wall. You see, I am aware that the rules state that entries in the Reedys prompts contest cannot be part of a larger body of work. The open-endedness of this story would indicate that it is a part of a larger narrative. But it is not. I don't know what will happen. As I sit here, almost blinded by the glowing emeralds of the Royal Palace of Oz, there are no words I could write that could continue this story in a way that the land standing before me deserves.