Oz

The child has never seen a city. Walking up the frosted rise, breath steaming in brief firefly puffs from their lips the towers grow before them, mirrors caught in early sun ablaze in garish approximation of fire.

What are they, the child asks.

The mother stops and they cease beside her with wide eyed and suspicious looks over the white topped expanse and city beyond. The mothers held breath lets out in a sudden cloud.

It’s Oz, she says.

But it will not be Oz.