Little Orphan Babble, by Carol Ann Parchewsky

Babble wandered the sticky aisles of the cinema looking for unopened bags of Jelly Tots on Wednesdays when they were part of the aficionado’s combo. Babble liked the orange ones best, not because they tasted like a sun-ripened mandarin in December, but because they tasted like a fizzy-shot of Fanta. No one drank Fanta in Richmond anymore. The last can sold two-hundred-seventy-seven days ago. When Babble drank Fanta, he warbled like a salamander fighting for the last moist cavern in Shardale. When Babble sang, he glimmered like gold in a Yukon stream. When Babble glimmered, Daddy Warbucks realized Babble’s potential.