"Psst, wake up!"

"Hm? Is it time already?"

"Yes, it's the fifth of August, you dolt. Today's the big day!"

"The big day for what?"

"Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, we're so glad you could make it to the Wattpad Block Party!"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Don't ask logical questions, we'll lose our jobs."

"We have jobs? We work? Since when?"

"Since Yilei began giving us paychecks for introducing her stories."

"Who's e-lay?"

"The person who wrote those dialogue stories about ice cream, eyes, and snow. Geez, keep up with the times."

"Wait, isn't her name Eve?"

"It's a pseudonym, you insolent lump of coal. Anyway, she's a newbie to the Block Party. I hear she's nervous to be featured alongside such talented writers."

"I don't blame her, they're awesome. Especially that Kelly Anne Blount. What a sweetheart. Never thought she'd select Yilei for this event, but I suppose we all go digging through the trash at some–"

"Yilei would like to introduce Sparkler Snapshots, her new story where she writes about festivities around the world. How exciting!"

"You cut off my sentence!"

"You almost lost us our paychecks!"

"You only suck up to Yilei because she gives you money!"

"I'll give you a fist in the face if you don't shut up! She writes the story in lots of styles, such as prose, dialogue, scripts, letters, and–"

"You're so rude to me."

"Without further ado, here's the Sparkler Snapshots introductory chapter for your viewing pleasure!"

"I still don't know who you're talking to."

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Travel has never been your area of expertise. Not that you have anything against touring the world, munching on exotic foods and soaking in the history each country has to offer. The empty stomach of your piggy bank, however, means you have trouble paying for the roof over your head every month, let alone dipping your toes in waters thousands of miles away. You hardly ever go outside, and your presence in a public area attracts stares. It's a miracle your neighbors know your name. Unbeknownst to you, however, your travel habits are about to change.

A typical morning begins with an alarm shrieking beside your ears, and this one's no different. You greet the morning with a groan, tugging your blanket over your head to block out the sound. The sound fades to a hum, a mosquito which sucks away your sleep. A slap on the snooze button hushes the alarm clock and you sink into your cocoon of blankets, hoping to sleep enough that you won't need coffee. Its aroma does wonders to wake you up, but too many cups mean you're often bouncing off the walls during the night, and humans aren't supposed to be nocturnal.

Once sunlight halos your face in earnest, sleep is no longer an option. You reach out to grab your phone with your eyelids taped shut, and your fingers snatch at thin air before finally closing around a rectangular object. You sigh in relief and trace your thumb down the side to switch it on, but the button isn't there. Apart from your phone, you only keep books on your table, and the object is too thin to be a book, so what did you just grab? You run your fingers down its surface, the texture dry and coarse, and wrench your eyes open to see your hand curled around an envelope.

Your stare instantly zooms in on the gold letters at its center, where your name is inscribed in a cursive font. A frown creases your forehead as you rip open the envelope, wondering how it ended up on your table. Is this letter from a burglar? Why would a burglar leave a letter? Did they steal anything? Did I forget to lock my doors last night? Did I leave a window open? Who would even want to break into my shabby old apartment? These thoughts bubble in your mind before popping as a letter falls into your hand.

You gingerly unfold the paper to reveal a page of handwritten words, so neat that you're almost convinced the letter was typed, if not for the smudged ink. Whoever this person is, they must've been writing in a hurry. A voice in the back of your mind asks why the anonymous sender opted for a letter rather than email, insisting the origin of this letter is sketchy, but curiosity overpowers your rational side. You slide the envelope under the letter as your eyes scan the page.

Dear beloved wanderer,

It is with great pride and pleasure that I extend a formal invitation to you for a worldwide expedition. I plan to travel the globe over the span of a single year, you see, and I am in desperate need of company. If you accept this offer, then be aware that we shall be experiencing more celebrations than most have in their lifetime. Even though each one is merely a bite-sized sample, they pack more punch than you may be able to handle. However, I know you love a challenge, so I do hope you consider this opportunity.

The person who wrote this clearly doesn't know you well, because last time you checked, you aren't a fan of challenges. To take a risk means effort on your part. Between university and your job, you don't have any effort left to spare, so you just avoid challenges at all costs.

As you move onto reading the next paragraph, your thumb brushes a stamp on the envelope. The slick sheet, in contrast to the rough surface of the letter, catches you by surprise. You turn over the envelope to look at the stamp, where hundreds of dots are gathered on a wide road, dressed in flamboyant garments. The photo must have caught them halfway through a dance move, the womens' hands poised in mid-air as their skirt flares out from their waist. Your breath catches at the blur of color. You've never seen anything like it before.

As you marvel at the stamp, a strange glow begins to peek out beneath its edges. You gasp and drop the envelope. Sunspots flash before you as the light consumes the entire envelope. You wrench your eyes away from the letter, tears beginning to swim at your waterline. Gold flares streak across your vision even when you close your eyes, and you begin to wonder if you can afford treatment for permanent blindness, when the light suddenly recedes.

Beats pummel the back of your skull, ones you usually associate with rock bands and fancy drum kits. The tempo begins to mingle with shouts and pounding footsteps. Is there a marathon going on outside your apartment? Every one of your instincts screams that something's wrong. No one was in your room when you opened the envelope, so how are there people beside you now?

You cautiously open one eye, and then the other. Your vision takes a while to focus, but when it does, your jaw hits the carpet. Except, the floor is no longer a carpet. Instead, hot concrete sizzles beneath your feet, and once you register that your soles are starting to blister, you leap away. Glancing around, you notice bushy trees lining the street and make a beeline towards them. The moment your feet touch the cool surface beneath their shade, you sigh in relief and make a mental note to find shoes as soon as possible.

The envelope has vanished from your hands, but the fact that it nearly blinded you means you don't miss it much. The more important matter at hand is how you got here. Last time you checked, magic only exists in fictional worlds, which is why you lose yourself in books. Are you dreaming? One second, you were groggily grasping for your phone in your decrepit apartment, and the next, the same dancers from the post stamp are twirling down the street before your eyes.

Your eyes widen as you drink in the scene. Dresses in every color of the rainbow flutter in the breeze, their design similar to a piñata. The women clothed in them dance with vigorous swipes of their hands, hips swaying from side to side. A group of marchers stomps down the street, pounding their drums in unison. Floats drift past you, featuring various performers whose laughs rise into the atmosphere. A group of children on one of them hang off red rails lining its side. A few catch your eye and wave, hands enthusiastically slicing the hot air.

You raise a hand and manage a weak grin, but the contrast between your quiet room and this loud parade leaves you dazed. More cheers pierce the air as a group of female dancers begins an elaborate routine, movements so rapid that you can't make out the colors of their identical costumes. One dancer in particular catches your eye, and you watch, enthralled, as her sheet of dark hair flares whenever she spins. As for the casual partiers shimmying down the street, you shuffle back to make way. Their caramel skin darkens as the sun beats down on them, but they're having too much fun to care about sunstroke.

"Come!" a nearby man shouts in a thick accent, a maraca in one hand and using the other to beckon you. "Dance with us!"

You shy away from the man with a shake of your head. Spectating at social events has been your modus operandi for as long as you can remember, and even being transported to a foreign parade doesn't change that. "Don't worry about me." You wave him off with a friendly smile. "I'll just watch."

"Alright, your loss," the man shrugs and is quickly engulfed by the crowd. Relief diffuses through your chest once he leaves you alone. The last thing you want to do on this crazy day is smear paint on your face and prance down the street in a flamboyant costume.

Someone taps your arm. You spin around to face a girl no older than ten, who offers you a can. Accepting the drink, you take a cautious sip. Sparkling lemonade dances across your tongue, the perfect drink to combat the heat. You thank the girl, whose beam outshines the sun as she plunges back into the parade.

"Where am I?" you mumble once you drain the last drops of lemonade, tossing the can in a nearby bin. "What's this about?"

"Cinco de Mayo!" someone answers and shock runs down your spine. You didn't realize you spoke out loud. A woman pops up in front of you and you reel back, but once you get a good gawk at her face, astonishment bleeds into your expression.

It's the same dancer from before, the one you shamelessly stared at as she twirled on her float. You do a double take at her exotic skin, a layer of bronze which catches the light. Confidence radiates from her. She must have stopped to take a break, and as your eyes skim the area, you spot a group of women who are dressed in the same outfit, conversing with grins as they sip from their lemonade cans. They must be her co-dancers. Each and every one of them as gorgeous as can be.

"Cinco de Mayo?" you echo. You've never heard the term before, but just from its name, you can tell the celebration has a Spanish or Mexican origin. That would explain the incomprehensible chatter around you.

"It translates to the fifth of May in English," the woman elaborates upon seeing your quirked eyebrow. "It's a festival in Puebla, Mexico, which is where we are right now, and it commemorates the Mexican army's victory over France a couple hundred years ago. This parade is for publicly celebrating it. There's loads of color and dancing, which captures the Mexican spirit well, in my opinion."

"I agree," you laugh as confetti cannons burst, rainbow paper raining down to decorate the road. "Cinco de Mayo looks fun."

"Mexican events always are," she winks, before chittering some Spanish at her fellow dancers, who are beginning to join back in the parade. They link arms in twos, each a set of Siamese twins, a line of Russian dolls, sisters bound by dance. "I should go, I have another routine to perform. Enjoy the parade!"

"Thanks!" The word leaves your mouth as a cheerful chirp. She shoots you one last grin before heading off into the parade. Her smile is contagious and your own lips curve upwards, until you catch sight of a paper fan at your feet. You bend down to pick it up and admire its intricate design, but the woman must have dropped it, so you decide against keeping it as a memento. "Wait!" You call to her retreating back. "You dropped your fan–"

A glimpse of white behind the scarlet fan slices off the rest of your sentence. You frown and turn the fan over, and your eyes grow wide at the object on the back. No way. You lost the damn thing when you were transported here, and good riddance too, but there it is, the same envelope which nearly seared your eyeballs off. Your name is inscribed in familiar strokes of cursive gold. Even the coarse paper is the same. The only difference is the stamp, which features an oak tree this time, a green glaze across its leaves.

Before you begin to wonder what the envelope has in store, let alone how the writer made sure you found it, your finger skims across the stamp. A glow begins to peek out from its edges, and you whisper, "oh no," before averting your eyes. Your last glimpse of the parade sees another bout of cheers and confetti explosions. No one notices the glowing envelope. You squeeze your eyes shut and light dances across your vision, until it vanishes all of a sudden.

A stream of chatter bubbles beside your ears, but you understand the language this time. English, with American accents. Your eyes flutter open to greet a wave of green, and you wonder whether you've been dropped in the middle of a forest, until you notice hundreds of people bustling around the area. Grass tickles your bare feet as you glance around the field with your mouth open. Kids to your left giggle as they poke tiny saplings, while adults bury their shovels in the earth.

"Come on, hurry up!" a reedy voice chides behind you. You whirl around to greet a man whose face is etched with a frown. He clucks disapprovingly and shakes a bag in your face. "The daylight won't last forever."

"P– Pardon?" you stammer.

The man sighs, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "No one follows my instructions. What a useless bunch you are." He glances critically at your empty hands, before plunging his arm in the bag and dropping three root balls onto your palm, each the size of a tennis ball. "There you are. Plant those over there. Hector can help you."

You follow his pointed finger to where a freckled teenager works, knees pressing into the soil. He places a root ball in a shallow hole and begins surrounding it with dirt. His movements are graceful, the epitome of an expert. The reedy man shoos you away in his snappish manner and you pick your way over to Hector, eager to leave him behind.

"Hey." Hector breaks into a smile as you approach, a streak of dirt across his forehead. He seems nice enough, and you instantly feel more comfortable in his presence. "You new? I've never seen you here before."

"Yeah, I'm new." You return his smile and gesture towards the nearby saplings. "What's this about? Why're we planting trees?"

He raises an eyebrow. "How do you not know what you signed up for?"

Your stomach drops as you struggle to think of a lie. If you reveal the truth to Hector, he'll think you're insane. Besides, if you're stuck here forever, you'll need a friend, and Hector is a good candidate. You don't want to lose him within the first five seconds of conversation. "Uh, my friend signed me up." You hope he doesn't detect the uncertainty creeping into your voice. "She was supposed to be here herself, but she had a, um, commitment on the same day. I offered to take her place."

"Oh, okay." Hector takes your story with a touch of skepticism, but doesn't question you further. "Well, this is volunteer work for Arbor Day." He gestures towards the people spread across the field, wiping sweat from their forehead after hours of work. "It's a day when we're encouraged to plant trees. We volunteered to do this here because planting as a community is more fun. Trees are important because they provide life support for other species. They also give humans tools. They give us paper, give us shelter. We take trees for granted."

"Wow, I've never looked at it that way before," you say earnestly, placing two root balls on the ground and holding up the third. "You mind showing me how to plant this?"

Hector chuckles. "Sure, I'd be happy to."

You follow his first instruction by grabbing a shovel and starting to dig a hole at your feet, and you somehow manage to spray dirt onto his face, but Hector laughs it off and says every job comes with a price. Once your hole is broad enough, you place the root ball in the hole and smother its sides with soil, making sure not to disturb the sapling. By the time you finish, your shiny forehead matches everyone else's, but pride overwhelms your exhaustion. After all, you planted a tree. You and Hector step back to admire your handiwork.

"Nice one," Hector says approvingly.

"Thanks!" You shoot him a bashful grin, before reaching down and grabbing the other two root balls. "Should I plant these?"

"Of course!" he says brightly. "The more, the merrier. Earth needs more trees, especially since they produce oxygen for us to breathe. We cut them down faster than they grow. Trust me, we need as many as we can get."

With that in mind, you begin to dig another hole, but you've only gotten three inches deep when a sliver of white flashes in the dirt. You blink, wondering if you're hallucinating. A glance in Hector's direction shows he's busy chatting to his fellow tree huggers. Taking his distractedness as a chance, you bend down and tug the paper out from where it has rooted itself in the earth. As you brush away the dirt, golden letters which spell out your name reveal themselves. You bite back a groan, but the stamp catches your eye. Music notes decorate this one, twirling upwards in a spiral, while piano keys line the edges.

Well, you may as well go see what this one's about. You gently tap Hector on the shoulder and he turns around with a questioning smile. The last thing you want to do is ruin his mood, but the envelope is a sign that your time here is up. "Hector, I have to leave now."

His grin fades. "So soon?"

"Yeah, I have a doctor's appointment." Guilt chews at your stomach for lying a second time, but you also want him to avoid thinking you're a lunatic. "It was fun planting trees with you, though. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome," he replies as you wave goodbye, before hurrying out of the field. The side of the nearby street is lined with cars, but people have deserted them in favor of planting trees, so you run in solitude.

You skid to a stop once you reach a deserted area and tap the stamp. The glow begins tearing through the envelope as you shut your eyes, waiting for the sunspots to fade away. Once they do, you crack open your eyes. A blur of dots materialize before you. For a moment, panic seizes you as you wonder whether you opened your eyes too early, but your vision clears to reveal a crowd far below you. Stars freckle the Stygian sky while the moon hovers above your head, a luminous orb casting its soft glow.

Thin rails prevent you from falling as you rush to the edge of the platform. You grasp a metal bar to steady yourself, and your brain turns to mush upon realizing how high up you are. The scenery before you is familiar, not from firsthand experience, but from seeing hundreds of photos depicting the same view. The reflection of the moon ripples across the River Seine. The symmetrical greenery is unmistakable. As you gaze out from the top of the Eiffel Tower, the pieces converge to from Paris, the City of Lights.

As much as the view astounds you, the stamp brought you here for a reason. "Which one is it this time?" you whisper, sifting through every French festivity you can think of.

Your question is answered by a nearby man, who hollers into his microphone, "who's ready to celebrate Fête de la Musique?"

The cheers of the crowd ring into the night, children and adults alike gathering to celebrate the festival. Many of them hold instruments, some of which were strummed or bashed to add to the roar of approval. The announcer, seated near you, continues hyping up the crowd. "This festival celebrates the wonders of music, and you guys have done a fantastic job with your own instruments so far, but I believe we should hear from a professional."

The announcer leans away from the microphone and directs his next words at you. "Are you ready to perform?"

You blink. "Me? Perform? No, thank you."

"Too bad," he chirps, holding out an electric guitar which glints under the lights of the Eiffel Tower. You've played guitar before, but those sessions were kept inside the walls of your room. Playing for a crowd of thousands sends snakes writhing in your stomach, and you count yourself lucky that you didn't get to eat breakfast, because it would've come right back up. "You're a VIP for a reason, and that reason is to play for them," the announcer continues, pointing at the crowd as if you didn't notice them before, and ignoring the sickly green shade your face has adopted.

"Oh no, you've made a mistake. I'm not a–" you break off as you suddenly notice the extra weight around your neck. You glance down to see a VIP pass dangling at your chest, and bite back curses towards the envelope.

The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd, his voice booming out for all of Paris to hear. "Okay everyone, we're going to start off the night with a guitar solo!"

A roar of approval echoes back at him. The crowd hushes as you step onto a podium and the announcer gives you an encouraging nod. You gulp, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the crowd, and strum a single chord, fingers laced with sweat. It quivers for five seconds before dissipating in the air. The crowd rumbles as your heart threatens to break through the walls of your chest, but a few claps pierce the night. You take that as a cue to keep strumming and although your eyes are closed, your confidence soon rises above the stars. Before you know it, the crowd is screaming approval as your fingers tear across the final notes of your improvised solo.

As your fingers stroke the strings one last time, however, a faint rustle comes from the guitar. Your audience doesn't seem to notice as they break into a standing ovation, and neither does the announcer, who cheers, "how was that? Awesome, right? Another round of applause for our guitar soloist!" He leans away from the microphone, teeth glowing with a pearly grin. "You're a talent to be reckoned with. That was impressive."

Rather than accepting the compliment, you lean towards him and shout, "I have to go!"

"Wait–" he begins, but you rush off before he can say another word. You spot an elevator to your left, which must take you down to ground level. Rushing towards it, you jab the down button repeatedly until the doors exhale, drawing away from each other.

As you launch yourself into the elevator, you begin fiddling with the guitar, but with no luck. You contemplate smashing the instrument, but your hand accidentally brushes across a tuning peg as you prepare to do so. A faint creak resonates against the elevator walls. You frown and twist the peg even more. A hatch swings open at the back of the instrument, one which shouldn't exist on an electric guitar. Bingo.

A sliver of white winks at you, pearlescent at night. Your cue to leave has arrived. You draw out an envelope identical to the rest, except the stamp bears a blanket this time. You replay the moment you found the first letter, which seems so long ago, and you realize why the blanket is so familiar. It's yours. It's the blanket you tugged up to block out your alarm clock. How does your blanket represent a celebration?

You frown down at the stamp to decipher its intention, but it doesn't give away any secrets. With a frustrated sigh, you stab your finger on the stamp, straight into its heart. Light begins flooding from the letter and you close your eyes, except this time, your mind begins to float up into dreamland, and sleep beckons you towards its embrace, and a Siren croons a lullaby in your mind, and your body simply becomes a cluster of atoms, and you slowly drift up, up, and away...

Your eyes snap open. A bundle of blankets wraps around your body like a sushi roll. You lay on a soft surface. A mattress. A bed. Your bed. An alarm clock begins to shriek beside your ear. A groan rumbles at the back of your throat. You roll over to slam the snooze button before drawing your blanket to your chin, shock snatching the breath from your lungs. What the hell just happened? Why are you back in your bed? Was this a dream? Did you just wake up? Who did this to you? What was the point of those envelopes?

The envelope. An envelope had been on your bedside table when you woke up. You scramble out of bed, haphazardly tossing your blanket to one side, and glance towards the table. Your phone buzzes with notifications, but you ignore them for once, because the envelope is there, and it's the same envelope from the morning you woke up, the envelope sealed and pristine, except this one doesn't have a stamp. Disappointment tugs at your chest. You were starting to enjoy those adventures.

You tear open the envelope with eager hands and greet the same letter as before, but with an extra message scrawled at the end.

P.S. That was a taste of what is about to come. If you would like to join me on my expedition, meet me at the airport tomorrow morning. Bring your ticket.

Ticket? You frown and tip the envelope upside down. Another sheet of paper flutters into your palm. Upon closer inspection, you realize it's a plane ticket, and your heart skips a beat. Why did this anonymous person pay for your ticket? What if they want to kidnap you? Why should you go? Why would you even consider going? Then your eyes bulge out of your head once you catch sight of the next sentence.

P.P.S. Look to your right. I thought you may want to keep these as souvenirs. Perhaps they can help you make a decision.

Your gaze drags to the right and lands upon three familiar objects. A hoarse shriek escapes your throat as you leap back in shock, and five seconds pass before you inch forwards. Your fingers trace the folds of a paper fan, stroke the thin leaf of a sapling, twang the string of an electric guitar. You realize you've been stuck. Contained by money. Confined by fear. The letter said you were up for challenges. You brushed it off at first, but now you're starting to reconsider. Maybe the person who wrote the letter knows you more than you know yourself. Maybe you should take this risk.

You rush to your wardrobe, grabbing every clothing item in sight. Dumping the mass on your bed, you tug your suitcase out from a dark corner, blowing off a layer of dust. You open your passport and stare down at the blank paper, void of travel stamps, and a smile slowly spreads across your face as you realize that's about to change.

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"That's the end, wonderful readers! We hope you enjoyed this chapter. Make sure to check out Sparkler Snapshots if you want to read more."

"What if that envelope thing was a ploy and the character is actually kidnapped?"

"How would the kidnapper transport the character to three different countries in a single day?"

"The kidnapper could've drugged them. Drugs do crazy things to a brain."

"Don't get logical on me again, it's exhausting to argue with you. This was supposed to be lighthearted."

"I can't help how my mind works!"

"Anyway, don't forget to enter Yilei's giveaway! If you win, you'll get to become a character in Sparkler Snapshots. How cool is that?"

"You'll also get a dedication, apparently, since my co-worker's been reading from a script the entire time, you cheater."

"How am I cheating? That's just showbiz!"

"Just because you love a good jazz square, doesn't mean you should hide the script!"

"You filled in the gaps with your mindless chatter just fine."

"Excuse you, that's offensi–"

"If you've read up to here, Yilei is super grateful for your amazing support, and she thanks Kelly again for giving her this opportunity."

"Blah blah blah, lots of love, are we done now? Can I eat this Kit Kat?"

"Yes, you can have the Kit Kat. Peace out, guys, and thanks for reading!"

***********

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