This book is the combined work of the eleven

Year 8 students who were part of

Mr. McDonald’s Literature to Life class in

Semester 2, 2012.

Everything that appears upon these pages is

entirely student work, and the result of a

term’s worth of perseverance, collaboration and

unbridled imagination. May it inspire those

who read it to explore their own love of

literature and open their eyes to the beauty

that lives within everyone’s writing.

A very special thank you must be given to

Sarah Bourke, who personally created the

hand-drawn beautiful illustrations that appear

throughout this anthology.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Little Dream Page 1

Courtney Affat Nonsensical Page 19

Sarah Bourke Red Velvet Page 31

Esther de Belle Morte Page 41

Megan Diplock Obliquity Page 65

Kate Johnson Distortion Page 87

Brandan Lapeyre

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Many Thoughts of Merlin Page 97

Claire Murphy Suburbia is a Lie Page 107

Carla Russo Sanctus Cacas Page 127

Paul Sadauskas Ball Page 139

Olivia Schenk Yellow Star Page 151

Rhea Singh

1

2

3

4

PROLOGUE

The only indication I received that something was

wrong, or about to happen, was the chill I got when I

stared deep into the grey eyes of the man standing in line

behind me. His eyes showed certain desperation but they

also held rage and a kind of craziness or madness. There

was nothing remarkable or significant about him, ancient

tatty runners, worn jeans, and the typical brown leather

jacket. In my sweep of him, I guess I never saw the odd

shape of something in his pocket or the panic that now

flashed in his eyes. I had always trusted my instincts and

I trusted them now. This made me grip the delicate hand

of the three-year-old girl beside me just a little bit

harder.

I turned my back to this strange man to face the

bank tellers. I waited for my number to be called and

looked adoringly at the girl, my daughter, who looked so

wonderingly around this new world. Happy, innocent

5

and ignorant of how this world really was. I sighed with

the wish that I could keep her like this forever, and then

jerked in surprise at the bang that went off behind me.

More bangs erupted before I realised that these mini

explosions were gunshots right behind me. Adrenaline

shot through me as I flinched at each of these deafening

blasts, all the while ducking and weaving my way to

behind a counter dragging my precious little girl with

me.

My breathing was ragged and my chest heaved from

the rush and panic that flooded through me. I plastered

one of my hands to my chest in an attempt to still it and

another around my daughter to try and calm her.

It was only when her eyes widened and her tiny

chubby hands reached out to touch my chest, that I

realised I had been shot; blood was rapidly flowing from

me. I felt my life pouring from me, so I looked to the

roof and prayed. I prayed that my daughter would

survive this day and that my dear husband would be

alright. As my eyes drifted shut I saw all the days that I

would miss; my husband grieving and daughter confused

that mama wasn’t here, the day my husband’s heart grew

cold and numb and the day that my daughter was forced

to stand alone.

6

CHAPTER ONE

The chill of the wind bit into his skin but he paid it no

attention for the thoughts that raged on in his head far

outweighed the need for bodily comforts. Anger and

frustration preyed on his mind while hunger and

exhaustion targeted his body as the memories of that

dreadful day replayed over and over in his head; a film

that never stopped and you couldn’t leave even if you

wanted to. You had to see it to the end and even then it

just replayed.

He remembered watching the news in his parliament

office, as news of a bank robbery aired live. Police and

ambulances rushed towards the scene as the news

showed the outside of the bank with a robber in a ski

mask standing in the large glass doorway, pulling two

hostages that were bloody and bruised with him in each

hand. But that wasn’t what caught his attention or make

his heart stutter, it behind the robber, behind the

hostages, behind the counter.

It was his wife sitting on the ground looking up to

the sky while he could see his sweet daughter shaking

her with tiny hand stained red; his breath stopped as the

thought that his little girl was hurt but it was then as she

willed for her mum to respond that he realized what had

just happened.

7

He could suddenly hear his own heart beat falter and

the blood roar in his ears as he realized what he had lost.

He cried, roared out his grief as he realized that the one

he was supposed to spend an eternity with was gone.

Poof, just like that. Fear and denial broke into his heart

as he rushed out of his office to the bank too broken

minded and broken hearted to give excuses to anyone.

When he arrived and broke though the lines of

police trying to negotiate with the robber, he called out

with a desperation that tore at some, “Get up, answer

me! Please, just answer me! Just once more” His cry

made few respond though many felt sympathy for this

businessman that was obviously trying to call for his

love.

It wasn’t his wife that responded though but his

daughter. “Daddy!” She ran past the robber with the gun,

the line of police that cried out with shock and fear,

darting between the legs of many to get to my arms as I

kneeled down in shock and fear. I held onto my daughter

tightly as fear that she would also disappear from my life

rushed through me. She struggled in my arms though as

she tried to pull back and see my face. “Mummy is not

talking back to me, did I do something to make her

upset?” her little blues eyes started to tear up at this

though, still at the young age of wanting to please her

parents and never being away from them.

“No you didn’t sweet pea, mama is just resting, for

your birthday tomorrow.” He smiles at her. She thought

8

about this and seemed to find this make sense as she

went back to squeezing my neck as hard as her short

arms could. She didn’t see his heartbreak or his eye’s go

back to his lost love’s body.

They stayed in that same position for almost three

more hours as the negotiations went on. She also didn’t

see his eyes go ablaze as the negotiators compromised

with the results of the robber leaving free but only two

thirds of the money he planned on leaving with in return

for us receiving all the hostages alive. But that was a lie,

his wife died and her murderer just walked away.

Grief, frustration and helplessness tried to push its

way into his mind and break his concentration, weaken

his resolve.

He gripped the cold railings of the balcony in front

of him as a way to fix himself to the present, to right

here and right now.

He stared unseeingly into the distance, unaffected by

the beautiful city night view or the crying three-year-old

girl that tugged on his suit pants wondering where her

mummy was.

It was then as his hands flexed on the cold metal

railing of his penthouse balcony that his heart grew cold

and numb. It was then when he made his plan to avenge

his wife’s tragic death. He would get justice.

9

CHAPTER TWO

12 Years Later

Twelve years of searching had finally revealed a name

and a place. For years he had searched, looking for his

wife’s killer, the one that destroyed his and his

daughter’s world. The time has come he thought as he

packed up a brief case that contained all he would need

for this journey of his

I will finally be able to have revenge and my love

and I will have peace. He picked up a piece of paper that

stated a name, place and picture. It showed an

unremarkable, crumpled man with intelligent grey eyes

that looked old and haunted. His hand crumpled the

paper in anger.

Grant Keller, I’m coming for you

“Papa, are you going out now?" his daughter asked,

she stood uncertainly in the doorway to his study, not

willing to actually step in because of all the papers that

cluttered the floor, scattered everywhere.

“Yes, I found him." He stated quietly. These four

words put dread into her heart, for though she wanted

justice to, she feared what he would do.

10

"I’ll go to him and then give the all of us peace at

last,” he declared “I will bring him to justice!” he closed

his briefcase with a snap.

That one click had a sound of finality and she

wondered once more just how far he would go.

“Dad please, just forget about it, you don't need to

get revenge. Mum has been gone for twelve years. Leave

it alone!” she pleaded with despair, venturing into his

office a step.

“FORGET ABOUT IT, LEAVE IT ALONE! How

could you ask me to do that, how can you think that

possible?” he raged on as he stormed around the room.

"Is that what's happened, you forgot about her!" His look

of betrayal tore at her heart, ripping the hole that was

already there even wider.

Her return shout was equally as loud and furious

"Don't you think that I want closure to? I dream of her

every night! How do you think I feel, I was three when

she died and I actually saw her die and you never once

thought how I felt or how I felt when YOU shut me off.

No one taught me how to live after that, no one was

there for me!" She was screaming her head off by now,

releasing all her feelings in one burst, setting free all she

had kept in for years.

But her father remained untouched and her eyes

dulled and she slumped back against the doorway as she

realized this.

11

He was as unmoved to her as he had been for the

past dozen years, still stuck in the memory of her

deceased mother. That might sound to some cold, unfair

or sad but it was her life, the way it had been since her

mum passed on. Long gone were the days of frolicking

in a field, playing with puppies and kittens and acting as

princes and princesses. She almost laughed at the irony

and how those memories were so far gone that they

didn't seem to actually be memories anymore.

He didn't respond to this, seeming shocked at this

loud outburst from his quiet daughter that had never in

his memory raised her voice in anger or frustration.

"We'll then, I'm sorry that you felt like that but I

hope you know that was never my intention to make you

feel alone or unloved" his voice shook unsteady and

uncertain, wavering between the decision of staying to

comfort and reassure his only daughter that he did care,

love and hope or going to avenge his love.

Her eyes regained their shine as she once again felt

hope and he felt a pang in his chest reminding him once

again that he did have a heart and a conscience. It told

him that he was hurting her, that he should move on, it

told him to stay.

"I'm sorry but I can't, I've spent twelve years

preparing for this moment I won't give it all up now" his

voice was desperate for understanding, but it was too

late.

12

Her face shut down, as once again she was

disappointed, another event to add to the numerous ones

he had left her alone at, disappointed her at.

"Then I guess this is goodbye and that i wish you

luck in finding the closure you so seem to need." Her

face was shuttered, a stone mask that didn't look like it

was going to come off anytime. Absolutely shut off to

the outside world.

He stood before her, uncertain once again for he had

never before seen her like this, what did she mean by

goodbye?

"Thank you, I'll see at dinner tonight as usual?" He

asked. It was meant to be a statement but in his

confusion and concern it sounded like a question.

She nodded curtly, not meeting his eye sight

anymore, looking over his shoulder and into the distance,

a place where he himself couldn't afford to go. For that

was where all the memories were. It was not his sweet,

charming little girl standing before him. But then again,

she was fifteen now. She had grown up a while ago he

mused.

He stood with his briefcase in hand, it weighed him

down, getting heavier and heavier every passing second.

She seemed to be about to say something, it was on the

tip of her tongue. Indecision in her eyes.

13

He waited for what seemed like a millennium,

needing and wanting her to something.

Anything at all.

But the words that he waited to hear never came and

so he left. Just like that.

CHAPTER THREE

His walk out the front door and to his car rang in his

head and ears as he counted each and every footstep that

brought him closer to his revenge and the memories that

haunted him but further away from his home, his

daughter and the memories that gave him the joy he had

shut off for years.

The drive to the address given was long and

twisting, winding up and down rolling slopes.

He used this time to think, wondering how he would

react when he came face to face with the murderer of his

wife.

The house that he came up to was old and run down,

in desperate need of repairs. The garden itself was no

better. Infested with weeds, anything that wasn't a weed

was in the process of being strangled and entangled with

them.

14

His walk towards the tatty and rotten front mesh

door was gradual as he walked the treacherous trail

slowly but surely. Only hesitating when he arrived on the

crumbling porch before the shaky door. His fears once

again came to life as he wondered once again how he

would react.

"If you are looking for Mr Keller, he will be at the

graveyard at this time of the day," stated an old

weathered woman rather abruptly, shocking him back

into the present. She slowly shifted back and forth in her

ancient wooden rocking chair.

"It’s just down the road from here, you would've

passed it. Looks like a field," her voice grated on his

nerves as he smiled politely and tried not to flinch as her

own smile revealed blackened crooked teeth.

He backed away slowly, afraid to look away from

his feet. Not because of her haunting yellow eyes but the

long, winding weeds that tried to ensnare his feet,

trapping him to the spot. He shuffled his way quickly to

his car, wanting to be gone from here and to his actual

destination.

The drive to his new destination put his state of

mind into disorder, new questions popping up to make

him question his every move. Why was he at a

graveyard? Is he just visiting a deceased relative? Is he

the groundskeeper? Yes . . . That must be the answer.

The desperation of his questions and need for

15

reassurance frightened him, putting everything into a

whole new perspective.

CHAPTER FOUR

His car rolled to a stop in front of the field he saw,

looking at it closely now, he wondered how he could

have missed it. The place was dark and spooky, shadows

smothered all light in this place.

His walk to find Grant Keller was slow and hard and

he sweated in the evening sun. It when he was wanting

relief or a break from this hardship as he stopped to strip

off his suit jacket when he saw him.

An aging man by now, he was tending a relatively

new gravestone with shaking hands, laying down vibrant

flowers to replace old flowers that had long ago

withered.

It was when he took in all the details that he saw the

name on the gravestone.

Rosie Keller.

"I'm so sorry, Rosie. I tried to save you, I really did!

I'm so sorry, I said I would protect you, care for you and

I failed! I'm so sorry." This was a cry of despair, a beg

for forgiveness, a wail of agony but in reality it was only

a whisper to long gone. It tore at his hear to listen to this

16

but he still needed answers, he had no time to be

merciful.

"Grant Keller, I've spent twelve years looking for

you and for answers. I want those answers now." His

voice shook with an emotion he himself couldn't

identify, whether it was with anger or fear.

It was this demand that made Grant Keller turn

around in fear, eyes wide. Looking like a trapped animal,

cowering in fright for what would happen next.

This was the first look he really had the man who

had taken his wife away from and he was disgusted. This

man wasn't really a man anymore, just a skeletal being

that was still alive. The clothes he wore were threadbare,

tiny moth holes covered all of his clothes and ripped

jeans that looked a few sizes to small, covered all that

was need to be covered.

It was as he was looking at this small being, that he

regained his confidence.

"I want to know why you killed my wife that day,"

he raged, his fists clenched and unclenched convulsively,

wanting to swing or hit something in his anger.

Grant Keller cowered before him, whimpered in

fright, drawing into himself even further as he watched

the man before him flex his muscles.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he

whimpered.

17

"I'm sure you do, that day when you robbed a bank.

You killed my wife, shot her in chest you did!" He

accused. Spit started to fly from his mouth, and his

finger pointed harshly at the ball of fear that was human

before him.

Realization struck this person before him but also

confusion.

"I admit that I robbed a bank but I am definite I

didn't kill anyone. I couldn't have, I couldn't have. That

would mean . . . Oh god!" he wailed, the cries of despair

that burst forth from him were muffled as he drew into

himself even more, rocking back and forth as he clutched

what was left of his ratty hair.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive, I'm so

sorry," he repeated over and over as Grant Keller finally

released himself from his tight ball to come and crawl

over to his feet. "I didn't know, you have to believe me! I

just need money for the heart transplant and surgery for

Rosie."

This was not what he had anticipated, not what he

had prepared for and so he stood still in this disturbing

graveyard with a man begging at his for forgiveness.

18

CHAPTER FIVE

He guessed he could call this an out-of-body experience.

It was when everything hit him and he saw it for another

point of view.

Laughter burst forth from him, a chuckle of mirth. It

was uncontrollable as tears started to leak from his eyes

and create a downfall. The being before him looked up

in shock, wondering what the hell was going on as tears

started to splash down onto his face and the man before

him clutched his sides as he howled with laughter.

Everything was wrong and everything was right, it

was a paradox. He accepted, he forgave, he laughed until

he was lying on the dirty ground and the overcast skies

cleared and sun shone onto his face that suddenly

seemed to be infused with happiness, forgiveness, love

and every other emotion that he had shut off for years.

He looked to towards the man that kneeled beside

him in shock and confusion and told him five words with

a smile. "I forgive and I love."

19

20

21

22

The darkness was utterly complete. It was oppressive, it was

eerie, but it was complete. The only light exuded from a fair

haired young woman at its centre. Her lilac dress produced

almost no contrast to her ivory skin and those pale yellow

tresses that hung down her back. Her cool, eyes cast their blue

gaze out frantically for something unseen. Tugging nervously

at the black, silk ribbon in her hair, it became clear that her

eyes were fixated upon another, growing light. The silhouette

of a black-and-white cat made itself prominent against the

light.

"Dinah… Dinah? Don't get lost in the light, silly kitty,

they'll take you away... No… Dinah... Dinah come back!” The

young woman, Alice, called desperately, velveteen voice

growing shrill and unpleasant. The dark and the light swirled

about her in muddled confusion and…

23

"Alice, Dinah is dead. You know that. Now stop being so

silly!" Alice's sister stared at the girl, the schizophrenic freak.

She tossed her head in disdain, chocolate ringlets following

the movement.

"Dinah's not dead… she never died! Can't you see her,

Anita? Look at her. She wants you to pet her Anita. Pet her."

Alice's blank blue eyes wondered over her sister's skirts as if

Dinah was there, purring and rubbing up against her knee.

Anita set down her knitting things in exasperation at her

fourteen-year-old sister's apparent "silliness".

"Father, Alice is at it again, telling lies!" Heavy footfalls

could be heard nearing the lavishly decorated living room. A

tall man appeared in the doorframe, looking down his hawk-

nose at Alice, his furrowed brow expressing deep displeasure.

Alice looked up at him with a fathomless grin.

"Dinah's teeth have grown quite long, Father. Anita says

that Dinah isn't here. Tell her that she's lying, Father. Dinah's

there. Can't you see her?" Though her words begged, Alice's

voice wasn't a pleading one. It was unsettlingly cold, as was

the mirthless grin spread across her pale face. That stare

obviously disturbed her father. Alice had been so… so

innocent, and that had been twisted so harshly…

"You have Black Kitty and White Kitty, Alice! Dinah is

dead! Now go to your room. No dinner for you tonight, Alice.

If this nonsense keeps up young lady, I'll take Dinah's kittens

away!" The man had a tendency to lose his temper with his

24

younger daughter lately because her turn for the worse seemed

permanent and much more real than the assumed "nonsense".

He watched tensely as Alice got to her feet, her grin reduced

to a small, secret smile. Those liquid blue eyes met his brown

ones with a distinct carelessness present within them.

"Oh Daddy I never asked for dinner. Wouldn't it be

strange, Daddy, if everyone answered questions that had never

been asked? Then everybody would be quite out of sorts. The

wolf wouldn't ask the deer if it wanted to die, and then the

deer would be dead!"

"Alice, to your room, NOW!" her father bellowed

baritone voice unforgiving in its order. He had no patience for

any more of these strange musings, he found them unsettling.

Alice strode past him, almost floating. Her hard shoes made

only the slightest of sounds against the Oriental rug. Her sister

looked quite pleased that the disturbance had been removed.

"You know, Father, Dinah's teeth have grown quite long.

Wouldn't it be a pity if she bit you, and you bled red blood

until there wasn't any left? How much blood can one bleed, I

wonder?" Father watched Alice go, unable to say a word. The

girl's own words had been addressing him, it was clear;

however, the way her eyes never fell upon him was strange,

and even her sister had picked up on it. They both watched her

leave and neither one could help thinking that she had been

speculating how many ways her father could die. There was a

25

long, uncomfortable pause that further distorted the usual

order of things.

"Father, something has to be done about her! Why you

and Mother have tolerated these… games of hers for so very

long, I've not the slightest clue." Anita sat back in her stiff

armchair, a hand resting lightly on her knee. "I'm beginning to

think," she began again after a pause that made it clear that

her father had no intention of replying, "that Alice isn't being

silly anymore. This has gone on much too long, these…these

fragments of stories and sick anecdotes concerning subjects

that a young lady should not know about, much less think

about so actively!” The eighteen year old was done, and her

fingers clenched her knitting at this point, slightly heeled

shoes burying themselves into the rug. Whether she cared

about her sister's mental wellbeing or her own, it was hard to

tell.

"I know, Anita. You're mother and I have been talking

about…." he sighed, his brow furrowing into a

conglomeration of unflattering wrinkles. Alice's mother was

close enough to hear the conversation and made her way over

quickly to join a conversation of utmost importance.

"Anita we've decided to have a doctor come take a look at

Alice. She's hardly herself."

"She's hardly a person, anymore, Samantha," corrected

her husband sadly. "She's grown so distant and I'm sure I

know what the doctor will say. She isn't stable mentally. We'll

26

have to send her away. Samantha, Anita, you both know that

today is a good day for her. She screams often in the night,

and talks to us about graphic death. More importantly, she

says she lives in Wonderland and the Looking-Glass House,

and she won't come out until we leave her alone. I think the

mental institute would be the best place to put her. Her

behaviour is ripping apart the family." As he finished, he

knew that the vote on what to do with Alice was at this point

unanimous. What he didn't know was that Alice had been

listening.

* * *

"They're all the same, Kitty. They all smell like filth and

waste and sweat and blood, but every time I try to get away

they get mad, Kitty. Why do you suppose that is? Dinah is

quite displeased with them and their evil habits. She says that

I need to go back to Wonderland, but Father just won't let me

out of the house. It quite flusters me." Alice's small hand

travelled down the length of the black cat's back. The cat,

unlike the rest of the family, enjoyed Alice's company so long

as she wasn't screaming or ripping the heads off of her dolls,

throwing them at the walls and screaming off with their heads.

"And do you know what's strange, Kitty? They just won't

let me go into the family room anymore. They didn't like how

27

I would stand in front of that pretty looking-glass for so long.

That's what they said, Kitty. I think they don't want me to

leave. They'll keep me here forever and ever where the stars

don't talk to me and the walls don't smile.” Today was one of

those days where Alice was feeling ambitious. Usually, her

words tumbled from her mouth, poorly thought out, or at least

it sounded that way to the rest of the world. Kitty looked like

she was listening, so all was well with the world.

“I think that the mental institute would be the best place to

put her. Her behaviour is ripping this family apart.”

Those words floated into Alice's world and the girl

stiffened. Kitty leapt to her feet. The cat had learned early on

how to read Alice's moods, being the only one who would

stay with her for very long and this mood was not a pleasant

one.

She began to laugh in a manner that suggested lunacy.

"I'm ripping this family apart? Why, how could I possibly do

that? I've not the strength to rip. Only the big cat with sharp

claws and a smile of sharp teeth can do that…." Her voice had

grown distant, quiet and utterly distant. "Dinah, I know. You

needn't tell me what has to be done. I must go back to

Wonderland… and the Looking- Glass House. Dinah, how do

you suppose I will be in two places at once? Oh, I understand

now, Dinah. I know what I have to do. I don't want to go to

the mental house, I really don't. I'll bring Black Kitty, and

White Kitty, and leave the rest to rot." And then that

28

fathomless, chilling voice stopped, and Alice got very, very

quiet.

* * *

The family's utter silence was as oppressive as the darkness

Alice liked so very much. Of course, the family wasn't used to

this… And they were having a hard time grasping what had

been presented among them. Alice had been so nice as a

young girl. Things had changed… But how could it be so very

simple? It couldn't. Just as Anita was about to agree with her

father, the subject of their conversation appeared in the

doorway. Alice was wearing a black dress. It was meant for

funerals or other more or less solemn occasions. When she

suggested to her mother that she wear it whenever she

pleased, she was swiftly boxed in the ears. It hadn't helped

matters much. She was holding one of the swords from her

father's collection, and she was smiling an eerily sweet smile.

Everyone turned to look at her, and then their gazes landed on

the long, heavy weapon in her hand.

"Alice, what did Father say about his swords?" asked her

mother warily.

"They shine like the stars and are red when bloodied.

Blood cleanses the metal… doesn't it Daddy? Do you think it

29

wants to drink blood?" Her father didn't dare grab at her lest

he lose his hand for the stupid movement. The room's

atmosphere grew impossibly tense. "Mother, may I see the

looking-glass? It's been so very long since I've seen it."

"Alice, dear, you know…" her older daughter and her

husband shot her warning looks that seemed both utterly

agonized and completely torn with indecision. "Alright." She

sighed, and for the first time in over two years, Samantha

swung open the living-room door for Alice to pass. As Alice

twirled by wearing a dreamy façade, her mother drew up her

skirts as if avoiding contact of some hideous, slimy beast.

Alice took no notice, straightening out her own black dress as

she went along, adjusting the collar now and then. The sword

never left her hand, and that sickening smile never left her

face. It was because of that smile that her nursemaids had left,

because of her constant talk of interesting deaths that many

servants refused to clean or work in the same place as her.

"How doth the little crocodile…" she began to sing,

crawling onto the ledge above the hearth without waiting.

How had she done it before? Ah, that was all she had to do…

Imagine, remember… and it became.

"Improve his shining tail…" Her fingers ran over the glass

and her family stared. No, Alice was not the daughter or the

sister that they had known for so long. Where was that little,

inquisitive girl now, they had to wonder? They watched in

30

disturbed silence as Alice closed her cool blue eyes and

gritted her teeth.

"And pour the waters of the Nile..." Things were coming

back to the girl now… The chess pieces, her having been the

red queen for a time, the talking flowers, Tweedledee, and

Tweedledum. They were all so very real. The girl could

fabricate them in her mind. Alice had gotten good at that,

making dreams real.

"On every...golden….scale…" A finger slipped through

the glass and that quiet, acidic smile turned into a wide,

incomprehensible grin.

"How cheerfully he seems to grin,

How neatly spreads his claws,

And welcomes little fishes in,

With gently smiling jaws!"

Alice's head whipped around to look at her family which,

at this point, was beyond any petty utterances. They managed

an exchange of glances and a shared tenseness that had been

mirrored nowhere in the world. And when they looked back,

Alice was gone.

31

32

By Esther de Belle

33

34

Skin and bones. Skin and bones. Rueful and lonely I stood in front of

my antique, floor length mirror. My blue eyes sunken. My angular

bones jutting out at unnatural angles. My brown hair wispy and limp.

When did things start to go wrong?

Spring. A time for new beginnings. Not for me. Not this year

anyway. The cherry blossom outside my window was coming into

bloom. Tiny pink buds, waiting for the right moment to reveal their

beauty to this sorrowful, heartless world. My window was open and a

warm breeze wraps its comforting hands around me providing me

with a moment of solace. I sunk deeper into the soft armchair hoping

that I would get swallowed up in the faded floral fabric. I couldn’t

remember the last time that I smiled. With much effort I heaved

myself out of the chair and walked over to my mirror. I was but a faint

whisper of the girl I used to be. Ugly, Worthless, Insignificant, the

voices in my head tormented. After so much ridicule, you can only

believe them. A gash ran from the corner of my eye to my jaw where

he cut me last night. I can’t complain though, I’ve been through

worse. I traced my bony hand across my face, flinching as I touched

the dark purple bruise that had appeared on my cheek. A crestfallen

sigh escaped my lips. A year on and things remain the same. I was still

35

trapped in the solitary prison of my life with all only my sorrows to

keep me company.

Bang! The sound of the door slamming reverberated through the

house. The sound of heavy footsteps followed soon after.

“Hope,” Phil roared sending a shiver of fear down my spine.

He stood in the doorframe, swaying ever so slightly from side to

side.

“Get over her you worthless piece of crap.” I timidly inched

myself closer to him. The pungent smell of alcohol hit my senses. His

hand connected with the side of my face and left a stinging red mark

in its place. I flinched and bit my lip. Suddenly he pulled his hand

back and punched me in the stomach. Gasping for breath I staggered

backwards.

“This is all your bloody fault,” he spat slurring his words. He

shoved me to the floor and stood above me. “You don’t deserve to

live,” he hissed, kicking me and stumbling off into the kitchen.

Desperately trying to get my breath back I crawled over to the

door and used the frame to pull my dishevelled body up. Clutching my

stomach I staggered into my adjacent room and collapsed onto the

blow up mattress on the floor. Phil didn’t think I was worth enough to

have a real bed. I crawled under my purple fleece sheet and hugged

my legs to my chest, reminiscing on the days were my life was better.

Phil wasn’t always like this. Only since mum died. I remember

the first day he abused me. It was eleven at night and the lounge light

was still on so I got up to see what was going on. Phil was sitting on

the floor a half empty bottle of whiskey beside him trickling it’s

36

amber liquid onto the ground, and a picture frame of my mum

clutched in his trembling hand. He spotted me and got up, his face red

and blotchy from tears.

“I-,” I began but I was stopped abruptly when his fist slammed

into my cheek. A trail of blood trickled out of my nose as I lifted up

my hand to protect my already throbbing face. His fists continued

swinging, pummelling me to the ground, until finally he stopped,

wiped his face and left me there, sobbing silently to myself. Alone.

That one memory had imprinted itself like a tattoo on my brain.

My mind flashed back to another distant memory that remained

trapped in my thoughts. It was 9:15am and mum and I were driving

home from the supermarket. Katy Perry was blasting on the radio and

we were singing loudly, off key, laughing at how terrible we both

sounded. The next few moments went by in a blur. A car appeared out

of nowhere obviously speeding and rammed into the side of our car.

White lights blinded my vision and the next thing I know was I was

being wheeled into an ambulance. I saw my mum being pulled out of

the debris, limp, with sticky blood leaking out of a huge cut on top of

her head. Phil was beside her, crying. It was then that I knew she was

dead. At that very moment, a part of my heart died with her. A part of

my heart that would never heal over.

The pale waxy moon rose high in the now blackened sky. A

chill enveloped my body and made its way right down to my bones

leaving me with an uncomfortable, unsettled feeling. My tired, weary

body yearned for food, which I knew it would never get. I wasn’t

worthy enough for food. To distract myself I recollected on a memory

of a few weeks ago in the autumn.

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I was walking to school, my head bowed in shame. People

passed me laughing with their friends. My heart ached to join them

but I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk my secret being discovered. So I

continued down that lonely road and walked through the iron gates,

isolating myself from the rest of the world. As soon as my mum died I

turned off. It was like a light inside me had died. As I began to drift

away, my friends deserted me and I was left alone. And just like that I

became an outsider. A black hood cloaked me, hiding my bruised

face. Walking into the classroom I shuffled down the aisle and

carefully lowered myself into my usual seat at the back of the

classroom by the window. Just as I was about to sit, the seat

disappeared from under me and I collapsed into a heap onto the floor.

I winced in pain as I hit the ground, biting my lip to keep the tears

from falling. The class erupted in laughter and I turned around to see

Robbie Redwood smirking at me holding my chair. I used the table to

haul myself up before I snatched my chair back and sat myself back

down, turning to the window. The teacher walks in and sits at her

desk. She immediately asks me to take off my hood.

“Please, no,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Hope we don’t wear hats or hoods inside, take it off now,” Mrs.

Karter demanded.

I was about to protest when I felt the hood slip off my head.

Seconds ticked by before I fully realized what was happening. I

covered my face in horror as the class gasped and fell silent.

Suddenly, and without warning I pushed my desk forward and ran out

of the classroom. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Robbie,

whispering to his friends. About me most likely.

38

I furiously wiped the tears off my face and ran around to an

isolated part of the school. I collapsed onto the dark green grass and,

for the first time in months, I cried. Out loud. I cried for my mum. I

cried about how I’d let myself become a nothing. But most of all I

cried about the times when I’d endured all sorts of torture, and stayed

silent. Hadn’t even uttered a word. Only once had I said something

and that was “I’m sorry.”

I must have been crying on that patch of grass for hours, because

when I finally stopped the sun had slipped below the horizon, staining

the sky blood red. I struggled up and stumbled down the path, out of

the gate and back down the lonesome road. Again. Nothing had

changed. Again. My hopes had shattered. Again.

It must have been about three o’clock when I decided to get up.

The sky was beginning to lighten to a shade of ashen grey. I was weak

and malnourished. I was like a delicate flower. Easily crushed. I

walked over to my closet and opened it slowly. Inside hung a deep

velvet dress. The last remnant of my mum. I reached inside and pulled

out the dress. The soft fabric slipped through my fingertips and left me

with a warm fuzzy feeling.

I slipped into the dress and stared at myself in the mirror. The

dress hung loosely on me but never the less gave me a warm fuzzy

feeling. I tiptoed into the hallway and out of the front door, whispering

a faint goodbye to Phil. I knew this day would come eventually. I had

been putting it off for too long. Every day I spun further into an

endless spiral of sadness. The street was quiet. The birds still slept,

dreaming, and anticipating the dawn. I hitched up the dress so it didn’t

trial on the ground and continued on. My bare feet kissed the cold

pavement lightly. The sun had started to peek above the horizon.

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My feet welcomed the grass that came next. I stopped; relishing

the feeling of serenity I felt when I was at one with the earth.

Dropping my long skirts I continued on, every step casting away my

melancholy. Baring my soul to my audience of one. Me, myself and I.

The smell of the sea hit my senses. I had finished my journey. Peering

down, the only thing I could see was the ocean. A few waves danced

lightly on the surface. A light shade of pink crept up in the sky as the

sun rose higher.

I wasn’t scared, only relieved. I inched closer to the edge of the

cliff that dropped away to the ocean below me. And so it was, at the

break of dawn that I, Hope Craw, took the final step to freedom and

jumped.

A train of red velvet trailed behind me. A flicker of a smile

crossed my face. Not a happy smile, but a wistful smile. As my body

hit the water and sunk slowly to the seabed I felt my soul being lifted.

A warm nostalgic feeling settled in my stomach. At last I’ve been set

free.

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42

Morte By Megan Diplock

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It was a Sunday afternoon and I was watching the rain outside, seeing

the drops on my window pane race each other to the ground. I grabbed

my coat and slipped on my yellow gumboots. The air outside was

fresh and the rain pitter-pattered around me, drenching my hair,

though I didn’t notice. I ambled down the cobble stone alleyway, my

mind drifting from subject to subject. The sky was a navy blue and it

crackled with glee as it chased after the lighting. There was a fresh

smell of bread wafting through the air, which battled with the greyness

of the afternoon.

I reached a courtyard where some children that live across the

square were playing with the water leaking from the broken gutters. I

felt a sudden pang of sadness and longing for being that young again

and not having to worry about all the things that were going on around

me. There was another flash of lightning and the thunder quickly

followed. The storm was getting close and everyone knew it too. It

was going to be the biggest storm anyone had ever seen.

Everyone had closed up shop and gone home to look after their

children. Another bolt of sadness ripped through me. My life was

falling apart, piece by piece, and my mother didn’t even notice, she

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wouldn’t even talk to me. The rain grew stronger and I sat down on

the empty courtyard bench. I looked around. It was beautiful really.

The grass was a bright emerald green and the trees stood like towers

rising up to the sky, like a ladder to a mysterious land in the clouds.

The buildings were all made of stone and the tiles that surrounded me

were a dark grey. There were birds above, flying in fear from the

thunder. Dogs howled in the distance and the sweet scent of perfume

dodged its way through the cascading rain. Everything was so

picturesque, so pure, so alive.

The town clock chimed half past four and I found myself

feeling utterly helpless. The news would be in the paper tomorrow and

my mother wouldn’t be able to look at me. Tears streamed down my

cheeks. I tasted the salty liquid in my mouth and slowly stood. As I

stumbled home the weight on my shoulders nearly crushed me. I fell

to the ground and everything went black.

The King stood and everyone bowed. “It’s time,” said the

servant. The servant led The King through a dim tunnel. The walls

lined with lanterns. The noise of scurrying mice and the taste of stale

air gave The King an uneasy feeling. He would never rule again, never

lead his people or see the light of day; forever he would stay in his

room. But it was his curse whether he liked it or not. He had one last

task ahead of him. A task that he would rather die than do, but he

knew his duty and job and that was important.

Along a few more lanterns they reached the maids’ quarters. It

was a cosy room, sunken down, almost below the town streets. A soft

glow filled the room and seeped out of the tiny window along the roof.

There was a small fireplace along the wall and beds on the other. In

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the corner people were crowding around the end bed. A cry of relief

followed by a screaming baby echoed off the wooden walls and floor.

They turned and found The King standing in the centre of the

narrow door way. As they filed out he walked over to the bed. In it

was the new born baby with her soothing mother. “I know what

you’re here to do,” she said “but I can’t let you do it”. He turned to

look out the window and saw peoples’ feet scurrying about looking

for him. He turned to face the Mother again. “You know that it must

happen and she is my only chance. I’m so sorry” he peered down at

the baby and whispered, “Morte”.

The Mother’s patience with him shattered as she heard the

word bounce off the walls and sink into the baby’s skin, into her soul.

She tried to stand up but fell back down and wept. The King then cast

a protection spell on the Mother so that until the baby was sixteen she

was safe. The town clock chimed half past four and they heard the

thump of a fallen body around the corner and then nothing.

I woke up. Looking around, I found myself in the maids’

quarters. My bright gum boots were placed neatly next to my bed and

my coat was hanging on the bed post. The clock read six fourteen. I

was needed in the kitchen in an hour; although there was no chance I

was going to fall back asleep. I stumbled through the tunnel fixing my

hair and apron, so I at least looked presentable. I crept through the

main passage, passing portraits of previous Kings and then into the

kitchen.

Already the baker stood kneading dough. Bread and pastries

filled the shelves of the oven, their sweet scent overpowering. The

lights were blinding, reflecting off every metal surface. I weaved

through pots and pans hanging from the ceiling only to trip on the

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uneven mat that lay on the wooden floor. I hit the floor and the

drowsiness left me; memories of last night came flooding into my

head as it pounds from hitting the floor. How did I get back to the

quarters? Confused, I got up. Struggling to stand I grabbed the bench

for support. I must have made my way back through the storm.

Down on the bench, I saw my ragged reflection. I was a mess.

My supposedly fixed hair was worse than any birds nest and my hands

were covered in dirt. My face was almost as dirty as my hands; the

only difference was that it was ripped to shreds. The oven alarm went

off and I hurried over to help the slumbering baker take out the bread.

I think he was too tired to even notice how awful I looked for when

the bread was on the bench he just turned around to kneed again.

I went to go find the bathroom, again passing the portraits, the

only pictures of the prior Kings. All the pictures had been burnt during

a disagreement the town had had with one of them. I don’t know

which one; my mother won’t tell me anything about it. Startled, I

stopped. I observed the newest portrait hanging from the ceiling. The

man somehow looked familiar but I couldn’t place my finger on it.

His bright green eyes seemed to glow and his brown hair shone.

Sighing I continued my walk to the bathroom.

The bathrooms were certainly nothing special at all. They

smelt like a sewer and looked like they were from a rundown castle;

which is technically true, for this part of the palace was the rundown

part, they hadn’t bothered to fix it up because… well, it was after all,

only the staff quarters. Unlike the rest of the castle it was all made of

wood and was painted gray. Everything was half-heartedly fixed and

you could tell. The only thing that was nice was the fresh smell of

baking bread, which reached everywhere except the bathrooms. I

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washed my face and hands and brushed my hair. In the reflection my

golden eyes flickered. I still looked like a mess but at least I was

cleaner. I tied my hair up in a messy bun, fixed my apron properly and

went back to the kitchen. Along the way I stopped to look at the

familiar portrait.

The underground passage was like a museum. It was full of

Knights’ armour and every sword that had ever been made in the

town. There was no use for them anymore. Overgrown weeds

attempted to overtake the solid stone walls and cobwebs smothered

the ceiling. A slight smell of mould rose from the ground. “This way,

my Lord,” the servant said while scurrying ahead with a lantern

leading the way, his oversized trousers tripping him as he went. They

came around a bend and found a large wooden door with corrugated

iron spiralling the edges for decoration. Behind them, in the distance a

door banged, and the screams of determination vibrated through the

dim passage.

The servant ripped open the door and hurried The King in. As

the servant hurried up the turret’s steep stairs, The King turned and

cast a protection spell. On the other side of the wall, the door slowly

faded away. And the roaring voices came and pasted. They came to

another door and in a flash they were through it. Behind the door was

a bedroom. It looked like a jail cell, but that would all soon change. It

was perhaps the size of small kitchen, just big enough to fit a bed and

a small book shelf. “I must go” the servant uttered “I must go and…”

he trailed off as he left the room.

The King picked up a broom for the first time in his life and

started making this new place his home. Within hours the room was

almost clean. New linen lay on the bed and a large golden trimmed

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mirror hung along the stoned walls. A large rug lay on the carpet with

a rocking chair sitting on it. The bookshelf rested on the wall opposite

the bed complete with every tale anyone had ever heard of. The beds

iron bedhead glimmered in the sunlight and you could see the dust

dancing near the window.

Climbing up onto the rocking chair you could see the whole

town and in the town square an angry mob, looking for a missing King

who they all wanted dead. Who would have thought that a King would

hold power over life and death? The King felt an empty feeling inside

him. He had just given half his powers away and over the next sixteen

years the rest would slowly drain away. He lay down on the bed, a

feeling of grief washed over him and then nothing.

That night he dreamt of a little baby girl. She had little tuffs of

mousey brown hair and bright golden eyes. Her smile lit up the room

but around her was a ring of black shadows. She was cursed.

* * *

Down in the maid’s quarters, my mother sat on her bed reading

a book trying as hard as she could to ignore me without it looking like

she was meaning to. “Mum?” I wait for her to respond but she doesn’t.

“Mum?” I repeat. She looks up and I can tell she’s been crying. She

doesn’t say anything, just pulls me in and holds me.

I drift off into an uneasy sleep then, I see him. Roses line the

pathway and their scent floats up into the fresh cool air. The grass is a

pea green and the sky a light purple blending into a red sunset. There

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are butterflies hovering over us looking down trying to find the perfect

flower. We go to sit on the bench near the pond. You can hear the soft

sound of flowing water and bees humming as they glide over it. The

breeze is warm against my bare arms. I always come here in what I

was wearing before, in this case shorts and a black singlet. Though it

doesn’t matter what I wear, the weather here is always perfect.

Everything here is perfect.

I look up at him, seeing the pain in his vivid green eyes. He’s

wearing the same thing he has worn forever, his loose shirt and

matching stripy, loose pants. I’m almost as tall as him now, when I

first met him I thought he was my father, but he doesn’t look anything

like me and when I asked, he chuckled and said no in that soothing,

protective voice of his.

Up above in the trees, birds are singing their lullaby. The same

one they always sing, nothing is ever different here, it’s always the

same, the same time of day, just getting dark but leaving enough light

to easily see. The trees always bear the same bright autumn leaves,

occasionally one or two float off the branch and make their way to the

ground, like a feather, slicing their way back and forth until they clear

the landing. It is perfect here, has been for almost sixteen years and if

I had the choice I’d never leave.

“How are you?” I ask. “Good” is his response; he never says

much but you can read it all through his eyes, you can tell that he’s

sad and lonely, although he would never admit to it. We talk for a

while longer. I tell him about my mother and how completely helpless

I feel. He listens patiently, a butterfly landing on his head, its crimson

wings gently flapping back and forth in his aged, white hair. When I

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finish he stands up and offers his hand, I take it and he brings me over

to the edge of the pond.

“You are going to be sixteen soon……” he trails of as if he

can’t find the words to continue his sentence. I let him stare into the

pond and I know that there’s no point in asking him what he was

going to say, he would just shrug as he always does. He frowns, and

when he does, wrinkles appear on his forehead. There was a question

burning in my head, trying to escape, looking out into the pond I

couldn’t hold it in anymore. “How come every time the town clock

chimes, someone around me dies? And don’t tell me that it’s not me

again!” I yelled at him, “because that’s what mother says too and I can

tell you’re both lying, it has to be me, it’s been happening for sixteen

years and it’s not a coincidence.” It all came rushing out of my mouth

and I couldn’t stop it, tears poured down my face.

All the pain I had locked up over the past month, broke free

and was running wild. “How come my mother can’t even look at me?

She hasn’t spoken to me for days and why do I feel so empty? I can’t

feel anything.” He stood there looking at me, saying nothing. “Did I

kill all those people?” I waited but he didn’t say anything. “Tell me!” I

scream at him. He nodded a tiny nod barely noticeable. “How?” I say.

Years had passed, sixteen to be exact and each night of those

sixteen years The King dreamt of the girl. He acted like a father to her

and they became friends. The King got used to his new style of living.

The room was now customized with The King’s meagre belongings.

He ran a hand through his white hair and looked into his vibrant green

eyes. Rubbing out the sleep, he yawned and sat up from his bed.

She knew, well not all of it but some, enough to make things

dangerous again. The King remembered the afternoon too clearly. He

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was in the throne room when his servant came sprinting in yelling his

head off. He had to hide The King before the whole town barged

though the door trying to rip his head off. His brother gladly took the

throne after that and that’s all he had heard since then. The King

hadn’t been out of his room in sixteen years, the only escape he got

was at night when he was pulled into a shared dream with the girl.

The King flicked on the light and pulled up the covers on his

bed. In the corner he sat down on the oak rocking chair. He swung

back and forth, racking his brain of plans to keep the girl quiet. His

memory flashed back to the afternoon when he set the curse on the

girl. She was almost sixteen; her mother wouldn’t be safe much

longer. He could see what her mother was doing, she was afraid of

death, like everyone else. She was distancing herself from her

daughter so when the time came she could leave.

In a few weeks the girl would be sixteen and have his full

powers, the power over life and death. He could hardly feel the hum of

power run through him, it was almost gone, and he missed it. That was

the only feeling that almost surpassed the unbelievable guilt that was

constantly with him, following him everywhere. He couldn’t let

anyone find out what she could do; otherwise she would have to suffer

the same fate as him. He could not let it happen.

Hanging over the rocking chair were some green trousers, a

shirt and some slip on shoes. He threw them on as quickly as he could,

leaving his blue and white striped pyjamas on the floor. The King had

considered leaving the room a thousand times but in the end agreed

that it was horrible idea. Still agreeing with that thought, he forced

himself out the door.

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Keeping close to the wall, he pressed his back against the cool

stone. He slipped down the turreted stair case and came to another

door, the same door he had passed through when he first came here,

some sixteen years ago. The protection spell had long since worn off,

leaving the smell of off magic. He went as fast as he could gathering

his bearings along the way.

What if she tells someone? They would know what she meant

at once, he couldn’t let it happen, after all he cursed her; he certainly

couldn’t let them kill her. He came around the bend passing the

kitchens and then later portraits of The Kings. As he reached his own

portrait, he stopped. He hadn’t realized how much older he looked. In

the picture, his hair was still brown and he looked happy; he hadn’t

seen himself happy in a very long time.

Footsteps in the distance brought him back to reality, and he

continued down the hallway. The red carpet on the floor was soft

under his feet as he ran; the golden trimmings herding the carpet to the

maid’s quarters. Finally, he reached his objective and crept through

the door and, as fate would have it, the girl was in the room on her

own. She was still fast asleep, dreaming of the garden, undoubtedly

trying to find him. She wouldn’t be able to though. Once you’ve

woken up you’re completely erased from the dream. He heard her

stirring and made sure he was out of view.

I woke up gasping for air, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My

thoughts were running a million miles an hour, with me breaking into

an anxiety attack, I felt like I was going to be sick. My whole life,

every day I had lived, someone had died for me, I had killed thousands

of people who had done nothing. It all made sense. There was a noise,

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outside the door, then nothing. I listened for more noise but none

came. I got out of my bed and slipped on my gumboots.

I went to run out the door but an arm grabbed me. When I tried

to scream, my mouth was covered. I struggled to get free, but

couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe. I saw a blurry image telling me to be

quiet. I stopped struggling and was let go, I fell to the floor. I looked

up and saw a familiar face. “Oh my god” I breathed. He stood there

towering over me, giving me a friendly but worried smile. “Am I

imagining this?” I pinched myself to make sure that I was awake. “Are

you real?” He just stood there with that loving smile on his face. I

poked his foot, he was there alright.

“Can you talk?” I said. “Yes,” he replied with a gentle laugh. I

went to go sit on my bed, he followed me and sat down beside me.

“How are you here?” I asked him. He told me all about the dreams and

who he was. “Wait, so you’re the actual King? But I thought you were

dead, my mother refused to speak about you.” He didn’t say anything;

he just stared into his lap. “Please tell me,” I begged, “please?” for a

few moments I thought he wasn’t actually going to tell me anything

and I would be as clueless as before. Reluctantly, he told me the whole

story.

“When I was a child, I grew up in a village not too far away

from here. The villagers were all afraid of us because there was a tale

of my father being a magician. He wasn’t a magician, although he did

possess some powers. He controlled life and death. Without us” he

pointed at him and me, “there is no such thing as death. Without us no

one would ever die.” He paused.

“My Father had the power to kill people. I despised him

because he took pride in what he did; he thought that he was doing the

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right thing. He was really but, to take pride in killing innocent people,

well… it disgusted me. For twenty years we lived in that village, and

for twenty years, each day someone in that village would die. Soon

after those twenty years my father passed away and left his, what he

called gifts to me. For years after that I couldn’t stand living with

myself and I had to move from the village.”

“I couldn’t kill the people I had known my whole life, so I

came here. After that I became King because the town was chaotic and

needed some help. I ruled this town for thirty years, but when the

town’s people found out what I could do, the idea of immortality got

to their heads and they tried to kill me. I had to be hidden away

somewhere safe, but I was getting old and needed to pass on my curse

so, I came down here to this room and found that a baby had just been

born. I cursed the baby and put a spell on the mother so that she was

safe until the baby was sixteen.”

“Each day the baby lived someone would die for her and each

day the baby would grow stronger and gain more of my powers. On

her sixteenth birthday she would gain full control and would have to

decide who would die and when. She would be the master of death.”

He paused again, out of breath. “If you tell anyone, they will try to kill

you. You can’t let them; it is going against nature” he sighed, “I must

go…. If anyone finds me here neither of us will ever see the light of

day again.”

I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t upset yet there was no way

anyone could be happy, I was almost so mad that I was numb. It was

as if the whole world had been sucked into a black hole and time had

been turned upside down. As if all the air had been taken off the earth,

for the third time that day I couldn’t breathe. “I won’t do it” I said,

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“I’m not going to kill anyone.” I waited for his reaction, “what

happens if I refuse?” I asked, he sighed and I saw the ache in his eyes.

He had never shared this much with me; normally it would be me

talking and him listening. “If you refuse” he started, “people will be

able to live forever, they will think they can do anything they want for

they cannot die.”

“They will try to take over, the power they think they have will

get to their heads and the only thing they will see that is stopping them

is the people around them. So soon they will turn on each other and

civilization will come to an end.” He stopped and closed his eyes. The

walls around me seemed to closing in, and rain started to pour down

on the roof, the birds squawking, trying to get under cover. I didn’t

understand how this could be how things were supposed to be,

someone having the power to murder another in an instant with no

way of fail.

The room was warm and comforting. The rain had slowed to

little taps on the roof. In The Kings arms, was the sobbing girl. She

had mousey brown hair that was tied up into a messy bun. Golden

tears fell down her face and made their way to the wooden floor. The

King started to hum, attempting to sooth the girl and make her feel

alright. It didn’t work; the tears just kept spilling down her face.

She got up to look out the window. Outside was a cobble stone

alley way, dense with vines clinging onto the walls and making their

way all the way up to the roof. Little rain drops blurred the window.

The King got up and with one last glance, left the room without a

sound. He hurried his way back to his room. When he got there he

crashed on the bed. As he drifted off to sleep he saw his father telling

him about the curse.

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Sitting there in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and, on

the other side of the room stood his mother leaning against the door

frame expressionless. He remembered his father being terribly ill and

on death’s door step. When his father has finished telling him, he

recalled feeling awfully confused and thought his mother and father

were playing a trick on him. It was then when he first saw his father

kill someone. The friendly post man walked through the door to greet

us. As he set his package on the floor he asked his mother how she

was and his father if he was feeling any better. He came over to The

King’s father but before he reached the chair The King heard a word

rushing past his ear. “Morte” his father whispered. The post man fell

down.

The King rushed over to him, only to find he had no pulse. His father

looked him up and down before whispering the same word to him. His

father slumped in his chair and The King knew he was dead. That

night The King had scrubbed and scrubbed trying to get the word off

him, but there was no use, it had already sunk deep into his skin and

penetrated his soul. When he looked in the mirror he saw the curse in

his eyes, all the death that hung around him. The King fell out of the

memory and into sleep.

The air was fresh, fresher than I had ever remembered it.

Normally the air had the fragrance of honey or roses, but this time

there was nothing, just air. Down the pathway I saw The King sitting

on the bench waiting for me. “No” I uttered under my breath. I turned

and walked the other way. Following a path I had never been down, I

found a hill. Jogging up the hill, I saw that on the other side was a

small waterfall. The sparkling water fell down the dip, as free as a

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bird. Spilling over rocks in its way and ducking under low branches.

The trees framed the water, moving with the twist and turns of the

liquid. It was a purplish blue with pink splotches, mirroring the sky

perfectly.

I walked along the water’s edge, and as I got further away

from where I knew, the trees began to twist and the next minute I was

walking through a forest. It grew thick and hard to walk threw but I

stubbornly persisted. The leaves began to change from the red and

orange to green and furthermore no leaves at all. It was like walking

through the seasons, the water changed to ice and the forest thinned,

the branches growing thorns. The river entered into a lake, a lake so

big that you couldn’t see the end. Next to the forest was a gravel

pathway, tracing the lake, going the other way from which I came.

The air grew thin and the once warm breeze turned sharp and cold.

Moon light shone down showing the way. I finally came to a

graveyard, the stone walls beckoning me in.

I passed through the broken down gate and took hold of the ivy

hanging down from the trees off. As I did a piercing sensation went

through my arm. I shrieked and left it fall out of my hand. A groan

came from the gate and I went further in. Climbing up onto a step I

could see the expanse of space, every millimetre of it covered by

grave stones. Coming close to one of the stones I dragged the vines off

it and read the name. I gasped and pulled myself back. It was a guy

that I used to play with in the square when I was a kid; he died when I

was in third grade. I went to the next one and read the name, it was a

teacher I had when I was in ninth grade. As I ripped the overgrown

weeds off the grave stones I found time and time again someone I had

known and had died in the last sixteen years. I rushed back to the gate

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trying desperately to open it. As I did I found a sign on the ground. It

read “Morte”.

The King saw the girl walk down the path. She ran off in the

opposite direction. He waited for a moment for her to appear again but

realized she wasn’t coming back. The King broke into a run and

followed her. Reaching a hill he lost sight of her. Climbing to the top,

he searched around but she was nowhere. The breeze changed and

wind seemed to be whispering, “Run” it said, “she mustn’t find it,

run.” The King knew in an instant what it was talking about. He made

his way down the hill and followed the river.

When the trees changed and the sky tuned a dark grey, he

stopped following the now iced over river and broke through the

forest. Minutes later he reached a stone wall towering over his head.

The wind felt like knives and up in the sky a full moon shone. The

King grabbed onto the first gap in the wall. Placing his foot in another

hole, he yanked himself up, determined to beat the girl. When he

grasped the top of the wall he slipped and fell down grazing his knee

and hitting his head. Everything went blurry. He tried to get up; he

would not let himself pass out. Again he reached the top of the wall

and hauled himself over. He stood up and looked around before he fell

back and fainted.

When he woke it was almost pitch black, giant bats flew

overhead. His head thumped and he heard ragged breathing behind

him. He turned around but there was nothing. A blurred silhouette ran

across the wall to the left of him and a giggle rang through his ears.

There was a scream in the distance but not from a human. An eerie

feeling filled the air, in his head he heard a ringing. It felt like the

ground was tilting and he tried to hold onto the grass to keep from

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falling. He squinted trying to see something but ended up tipping and

had to yank himself up. He told himself to stand, but he didn’t. Again

he tried but as hard as he did he just couldn’t get himself to, as though

he was a puppet and had no control.

The ground was wet. He smelled his hand and smelt something

familiar but he didn’t recognize it, it smelt metallic, he went to lick it

and tasted blood. It flowed into his mouth, there was so much of it and

it was everywhere. Rustling form behind him brought him back to

reality. He spun around, but again he saw nothing there. Cautiously he

walked towards the gate on the other side of the cemetery; surveying

the area as he went.

* * *

The moon was high in the sky, peering down on the activity below. I

sat against the cool stone wall, feeling like I was going to throw up.

How could I go through my whole life, each day killing someone,

someone innocent and not even know what I had done. I had no soul,

every piece of life inside me didn’t belong, it belonged to all those

people I mercilessly killed for sixteen years. My heart felt like it was

rotting inside me, my blood turned cold. The bats in the distance

screeched and the trees swayed. In the air swam a dark and haunted

sensation, seeping into my soul.

A flicker of light flashed past my eyes and floated up onto the

top of a small, plain grave stone. It looked like it was fairly new and

had no over grown vines or weeds smothering it. I walked over to the

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stone, my eyes on the tiny, but extremely bright ball of light. I sank to

my knees, not wanting to look but curiosity taking over, I tried to look

at the name. But it was so dark that I could only make out a few

letters. Running my hand across the indents, I made out a name.

Anger filled my body, taking up every single spare space. How

could this happen? I would never do it. But then again I had no choice

over the matter. It was dark; I could hardly see a thing. I heard a

scream and realized it had come from me. It was The King’s fault, it

always was, he was the one who cursed me. I heard a groan in the

distance. There on the ground lay The King unconscious. He looked

peaceful and like the kind of man you would see helping a stranger

just because he could. I kicked one of the grave stones but missed and

my gumboot flew off.

I cursed and went to go find it. As I started to walk I stood on

something sharp, it pierced my skin. I screamed again and fall

backwards onto The King. The pain was excruciating and blood was

flowing out at a fast pace. The blood was thick and was going all over

the wet grass next to The King. He stirred and I hobbled over behind

an exceedingly decorated grave stone. He stirred again and then got

up, licking his hand and finding my blood everywhere. I was still

bleeding and I took off my cardigan and wrapped it tightly around my

foot. The King started to fall but then pulled himself up at the last

minute. For a while he just sat there doing nothing but staring straight

ahead.

I seemed to be making too much noise because The King

turned and looked in my direction. Satisfied that nothing was there he

turned back. Slowly he stood up and walk towards the gate, going in

circles as if any moment something would come hurtling towards him.

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I stiffly got up and followed him to the gate. He picked up that

dreaded sign and dropped it down as he cursed. He turned and before I

could move he saw me. “I’m so sorry that this has happened to you”

he sighed “This is your grave yard”.

She was so pale and looked almost transparent. If the King was

honest with himself, he would admit that he was scared of her. In her

eyes he saw the full of all his powers. One word and he would be

dead, that is all it would take. “Are you going to kill me?” he said

barely audible, she didn’t say anything, just stared at him with hatred

surrounding her. “I can see it in your eyes” he told her. The look that

crossed her face was something he had never seen before; it was

daunting, almost as if she was suppressing a smirk. “Death should

have no master” she declared.

At first he didn’t realize what she was talking about but then if

became clear, and she was right, he had always know it. To kill The

King meant to kill death, for he had been the master of death. Without

a master, death would be free and people would naturally come to an

end at the point of old age. He was about to protest, to plead that there

must be another way, but before he could the girl smiled and

whispered “Morte”. The King fell in an instant, lifeless and cold.

My feet bled as they pounded down on the gravel pathway.

Finally I reached the edge of the lake. The grass was wet and soft, the

moon was gone and the sun was coming up giving off golden, pink

rays. The light touched my skin, lightly dancing on it. The warm

breeze had returned, playing with my hair. I could smell nectar and the

sweet fragrance of lilies. Bees hummed around me, and the air tasted

fresh and pure. I walked closer to the lake, the autumn leaves

crunched under my injured feet.

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There was only one thing left to do before the curse was lifted.

The water was cold and soon numbed my ankles. Going in deeper I

felt the weight on my shoulders lessen and lessen. The water splashed

around my shoulders. Taking a last, deep breath, I plunged into the

water. My feet hit the sand bank, and the rest of my body followed. I

let the water seep into my lungs, my vision going blurry. In my head a

word, “Morte” repeated itself going over and over until finally it

disappeared. This was it, this was the end, finally the curse was

broken, finally I was free.

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66

By Kate Johnson

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nce upon a time, a couple lived happily together in a cottage.

Behind their cottage was a garden that belonged to a beautiful witch.

That garden was heavenly. Pansies and poppies burst from the

flowerbeds, the trees were rich with fruits, and herbs spiced the air

with intoxicating scents. Birds flittered among the branches, and

butterflies fluttered among the flowers. Every colour was bright, every

sound was peaceful, every touch like silk and satin. The garden was

divine in its beauty.

The wife looked upon it every day from the couple’s cottage. One

day, she spied a patch of the herb rapunzel, so green and luscious. She

longed to taste it. But the garden belonged to the witch, and the herb

was out of reach.

The wife pined after the rapunzel, growing sad and withdrawn. Her

husband noticed, and asked her what was wrong. She told him of her

hidden desire, plaguing every thought – to taste the forbidden herb. “I

must taste the rapunzel!” she cried. “Or I think I might die!”

Concerned, her husband decided to steal his pining wife some

rapunzel from the garden. He carefully snuck into it, and plucked

three leaves from the plant. That night, he made a salad from the

rapunzel and gave it to her. It was the most delicious thing she had

ever tasted. However, the next day the wife yearned for the rapunzel

thrice as much as the day before. Again, her husband crept into the

garden to fetch the herb, but was discovered by the witch.

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“How dare you!” she shrieked. “You sneak into my garden and steal

my precious herbs. You are a thief, and you shall be punished!” Her

rage was terrible to behold.

“Enchantress,” pleaded the husband. “Please forgive my sin! I stole

out of necessity, not greed; my wife saw the rapunzel from our

cottage, and claimed she would die if she did not taste it!”

The witch’s anger softened and she said to the man, “I see. Very

well, perhaps we can make an agreement. You may come and take as

much rapunzel as you wish. In return, I want your firstborn child.”

Giddy with terror, the man agreed.

Soon after, his wife gave birth to a little girl. The witch came and

took her, imprisoning her. She grew up in pain and misery; the witch

was a cruel companion. She lived her life in despair. Until…

creep through the shadowed woods, keeping my feet silent so as

not to scare game. Black tree trunks stripe my vision, accented with

mossy green. The cold light of dawn filters down through the foliage,

painting leopard spot on the undergrowth. The air smells as it always

does in the woods; cold dew and wet moss and growing things. A

choir of birds warble from the treetops, singing their tunes to the sky.

When there is not much to hunt and I am bored, I often lie back

against an old tree and wonder what they could be so happy about.

How could you sing your whole life? Or sometimes they sound as if

they are serenading one another…I sometimes imagine the lyrics.

I have never had anyone to serenade, although I have had many the

admirer. Hunting has taken the lanky teenage edge off my muscles,

and my navy blue eyes are bright. Stubble has just begun to darken my

square chin, black as my unruly crop of hair. But I have never cared to

love; I have not found the right person yet.

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There. I see a shadow move in the undergrowth, across a small

stream. My eyes seek its shrouded form, and see a deer uneasily shift

its weight. Watching its eyes, I can see that it is scanning for danger,

seeing if it is safe to quench its thirst. I stay frozen, trying to blend

into the bushes as it looks my way.

It relaxes, then steps forwards and drinks from the stream. I exhale.

Slowly, smoothly, I pull an arrow from my quiver and notch it into my

bow. I do not make a sound. Then, ever so carefully, I aim it at the

deer’s throat.

Twang! Thud, goes the arrow, burying itself deep in the deer’s neck.

It rears in shock, bellowing from pain. Then it collapses. Blood

streams from the fatal wound. I crash down the bank, charge through

the little stream and kneel by the dying beast. It struggles, trying to

rise to its feet. I soothe it, and then draw my hunting knife from its

pouch. I hate doing this, but I have to end its misery. Besides, it is this

or starve.

I wrench the arrow from its neck and swiftly slit its throat.

The deer immediately goes limp, and I stroke its soft head. It is a

magnificent animal, as tall as I and twice my width. Its fur is a soft

dappled brown, shaggy on its shoulders. Its legs are slim, seemingly

too delicate to support it, and taper to small, dainty black hooves.

Dark blood mattes its neck and chest, twisting the fur into black

clumps. I pick up the dead deer, slinging it over my shoulders. It is

heavy, but the village is not far.

I trudge back through the woods, collecting the occasional berry or

mushroom. I spy a tangle of raspberry bushes, and eagerly cram the

juicy berries into my salivating mouth. They are sweet and succulent,

as delicate as a spider’s web. I lie down to feast on them, gazing up at

the dappled foliage, and watch the birds glide through the braches.

After a time, I reluctantly haul myself back to my feet, replacing the

deer carcass across my broad, aching shoulders. I continue through the

woods, knowing I am close to the village.

But then, through the endless trees, my eyes see something out of

place in this world of green and brown.

Grey stone.

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My curiosity thoroughly piqued, I pad closer. I come to the edge of a

clearing, and peer into it, taking in a very strange sight.

There is a tower before me. It is basic and quaint, the grey brick

sheathed in ivy. It is perfectly round, topped with a pointed roof. The

red tiles are mottled with lichen and age. It is as tall as the trees

around it, and there appears to be no door. I drop the deer and

approach the tower, inspecting every inch. No, there is no door. How

very odd. There is one window, however, right at the top of the tower.

But how could one get up to a room at the top?

After examining this little oddity, I decide to return to the village

and revisit the tower later – I am late already. But as I bend to retrieve

the deer carcass, I hear it.

A young woman sings, sings with the voice of an angel. It is young

and innocent, sweet as honey on hot toast. I am transfixed. The lilting

notes remind me of a bird’s joyful flight, or a girl skipping through a

sun-drenched meadow. The enchanting voice is coming from the

window, and as I watch a girl appears in it and gazes into the rising

sun. Her lovely voice continues her bewitching melody.

She is young, around my own age, and lovelier than a sunrise. Her

eyes are a warm, glowing blue. Her unblemished skin has a light,

creamy tan, and her hair has the colour and beauty of spun gold. Her

face has a sweet daintiness, with round cheeks and a small chin. Her

long, black lashes brush her cheeks as she closes her eyes against a

tear. Her face, which had been so soft and happy a moment ago, is

clouded with sadness and pain. She longingly gazes out on the woods,

more tears slipping down her cheeks. Then her siren song cuts off

with a sob and she vanishes from the window.

My heart aches for this lovely, lonely girl. Questions plague my

mind – why is she alone, hidden in a tower with no door? – but there

is no way to reach her. My greatest wish is to comfort this beautiful

girl, to help her, just to see her smile. Even as I turn and return to the

village, her face is in my head, her tears in my thoughts and her

enthralling voice echoing in my ears. Every moment, I think of her. I

wonder, I wish, I pray. I wonder who she is, and why she is in her

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tower. I wish she would be happy, and free of her pain. And I pray to

see her again.

Every time I leave the village to hunt, I take a detour to the tower,

hoping to catch a glimpse. Occasionally, she will pass by the small

window, and the mere sight of her makes my heart leap and my turns

my knees to jelly. But I do not hear her sing again, though I so hope

to. Her voice…I crave it, crave the way it lit sunbeams in my chest.

She becomes my deepest hope.

tread the familiar path to the tower, having hunted enough game

to last seven winters. I know that I am obsessed with a spectre, a

shade, an evasive ghost, but I cannot pull myself away from the lost

girl in the tower. I am mulling over my own infatuation, when I hear

the ominous crackle of dead leaves. A lifetime of hunting brings me to

a standstill, my ears straining and eyes searching.

Then I see her. A woman, striding through the woods. Her long,

flaming red hair flows down her back, so vibrant it almost appears

infused with flames. Her willowy frame is clad in a long, flowing

black dress. It swirls dreamily around her bare, marching feet. Her

complexion is warm and brown, like chocolate, beautifully rich and

smooth. She is beautiful. But her black eyes are cold, her expression

harsh. There is an aura to her; it is evil and wicked. The air almost

pulses with malevolent power.

She scares me to my bones. That power is unnatural, otherworldly.

But what is truly terrifying is the cold hatred that shrouds her. She is

evil.

She is a witch. That much is obvious.

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But, as I watch her, it seems almost as though that evil is…detached

from her somehow. She acts with evil, her every movement filled with

cruelty. But her eyes seem sadder than that. Her evil is like a cloak

that she has borrowed; she wears it, but it is not hers.

I continue to watch her, speculating, as she strides off towards the

tower. Silent as a ghost, I follow.

The witch enters the clearing and stops at the base of the tower. I

stay hidden in the shelter of the ancient and enigmatic trees, ever

watchful.

She calls up at the window, her voice cold. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let

down your hair!” Instantly, the window flies open and a thick, golden

braid of hair snakes down the tower. It is impossibly long, stretching

right down to where the witch is waiting. As the hair reaches her hand,

she begins to climb. She is swift and sure, reaching the top and

climbing through the window with an ease that speaks of practise. I

catch a glimpse of Rapunzel’s face, tight with fear. My usual longing

reaches out, tenfold thanks to her pain.

I stay concealed, and listen; the window is still open. I hear one

voice scold the other; the witch, presume. The other responds

rebelliously; I cannot hear what is being said but I can tell by the tone

that she is defiant. That must be Rapunzel; so brave, so bold. There is

a pause, and then…

…I hear a slap, resonating from the window.

Soon after, Rapunzel’s hair again descends and the witch climbs

down. As she reaches the bottom, the braid shifts and she loses her

grip. She falls the last few feet, staggering but not falling. She glares

vehemently up at the window.

“What was that, Rapunzel?” she shrieks.

“Sorry, Aldreida,” Rapunzel calls down, though there is a smug,

angry edge to her reply.

The witch – Aldreida – gives her a ferocious look, then stalks off

into the woods, away from the village and back the way she came.

Rapunzel gazes after her. Her expression is that of hatred, yet

drenched in misery.

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I drink her in, loving her strength and defiance. And her name! She

is no longer the nameless girl, locked in a tower and crying into the

sunrise. Now she is Rapunzel, beautiful and strong, yet lonely.

I think of her as I journey home, still yearning. And then I freeze as I

realize something.

I know how I can help her.

I leave the village early the next morning, fabricating an excuse for

my curious sister. I almost run through the woods, giddy and eager. I

dash into the clearing and stand beneath the window. Modelling my

voice to mimic Aldreida’s, I call to the girl of my dreams; “Rapunzel,

Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

The golden braid tumbles, and I take it gingerly. I do not want to

cause her pain. But this is the only way.

I carefully climb up the hair, grasping the rough grey bricks of the

tower. Slowly, I reach the window. Grabbing the sill, I drag myself

into the tower.

The room inside is round, perfectly circular. The dresser, bookshelf

and desk – all a fine mahogany – are curved to fit the contours of the

room. Even the kitchen is curved, the stove and cupboards bended to

odd proportions. The warped bookshelf is cluttered with thick, musty

volumes, and there is a rounded rack of dried herbs spicing the air.

There is an impressive collection of copper saucepans suspended over

the vast marble workbench, a few simmering over the stove. Oddly, I

do not see any food, only a splattering of herbs.

My attention is snagged by Rapunzel, who is backing away from

me. Her eyes are shocked and scared. She darts around the counter,

her hair still trailing out the window. She snatches down a hefty

saucepan, wielding it like a sword. Part of me is laughing, watching

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her defend herself with utensils. Most of me is regretting her wary

stance and frightened sky-blue eyes. I have scared her.

I hold up my hands in surrender, pulling my most apologetic and

innocent face.

“I am sorry I have scared you. I do not mean to hurt you.” I drop my

hands and smile timidly, glad to see her fear waver slightly, though

her stance does no such thing. In the background, my stomach is doing

infatuated backflips.

“My name is Jaden. I live in the village to the east. I have come

because…I am curious. I have never met a girl in a tower with no

door.” I pause nervously, waiting for a response.

Rapunzel stares at me for a moment, then asks warily, “How did you

get in? How did you know to call to me, to climb up my hair?”

“I saw it yesterday, from the trees,” I reply. “I saw Aldreida. Please,

I only wish to talk to you.”

She holds her defensive position for a few moments more, then

lowers her weapon and rounds the bench with a wary look in her eyes

and a small smile on her breathtaking face. She cautiously holds out

her hand, the fingers long and elegant.

“I am Rapunzel,” she says, as I grasp her hand in mine.

We sit on the floor – there are no chairs – and we talk. We talk of

our lives.

I tell her of my village; of my brash father and my wonderful sister

Violetta. Of my dead mother, whom I still miss dearly. Of the times

when everyone gathers around a bonfire, to feast together and laugh

together and sing together, of times gone past. When I realise I am not

alone in the world. Her sea-blue eyes grow a little damp at that, but I

pretend not to see. I tell her of when I hunt; the beauty of the woods

and its inhabitants, how I feel so at home there. How I hate to hunt

and kill. But I do it, because I must. I tell her of my obsession with a

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lost girl in a tower, a curious tower with no door. She smiles a

beautiful smile at that.

Once I have gained her trust, she tells me of her imprisonment. She

was taken from her family as a baby, and raised in Aldreida’s cottage.

Aged 12, Aldreida locked her in the tower and left, retuning weekly to

check up on her. “I have been stuck my whole life,” she says. “I have

never had any freedom. I have been living in the same room for 7

years!” She breaks off with a sob, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her

face is so tragic, my hearts breaks. I slide up next to her and put my

arm around her, drawing her in. She leans against me, her head on my

shoulder and her tears soiling my shirt.

Her touch is as beautiful as she. Warmth spreads from our every

point of contact, infusing my body with heat. She is like a campfire on

a cold night. Our embrace seems too intimate for strangers; but at the

same time, it feels perfect, as if we have known each other for

decades.

It really is a dream come true.

Eventually, Rapunzel pulls away, wiping her drenched cheeks.

Fragments of misery still scatter her sapphire-blue eyes, but she seems

more content. “I am sorry,” she murmurs. “I hardly know you.”

Embarrassment flitters across her angelic face. I touch her hand

gently, and she looks at me. We stare for a few moments, then I ask

softly, “Would you like to know me?”

Her slow, breathtaking smile is like daybreak after a long, cold

night. The hope in her face is so beautiful.

“Please,” she says, gripping my hand tightly.

“I will return tomorrow,” I promise, my heart as light as a feather,

like a bird in joyous flight.

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very day, I visit Rapunzel in her tower.

Sometimes we will draw; flowers and birds and each other. She is a

much better drawer than I, capturing entire emotions in a few lines.

Sometimes, she will sing, or play her lyre. Her voice still enthrals

me, and with her lyre she is paralysing.

Sometimes, we will cook in her little kitchen. I will hunt for hours

and hours, and we cook up a mighty feast, just for the two of us.

But mostly we talk. I talk of my family, she talks of Aldreida. We

discuss life, and joy, and freedom. We talk of pain, and fear, and

death. We tease one another, confess to one another, and become

closer than family.

She is still and beautiful as the first day I saw her; like a budding

rose, full of life and potential. I love the light in her laugh when I tease

her; the pure joy of it. I love the way her azure-blue eyes light up

when she sees me. I love her ideas and her wisdom; we have the most

fascinating discussions.

I love her.

Our first kiss was about a month after I entered her tower for the

first time. I was helping her brush her glorious hair; a task that take

hours every day. But we talk as we brush it into soft perfection. I had

made a joke of some sort, and was watching her eyes light up as she

laughed. I was distracted by the joy in her face, when she looked into

my eyes. Into my heart. Her laughter died, though a smile still teased

the corners of her full mouth. Her periwinkle-blue eyes brimmed with

adoration, mirroring my own. I leaned in, and pressed my lips to hers.

She tasted like honey, and sunshine, and hope. I spent the night – a

long, sensuous night – retuning to the village that morning. I was in a

blissful haze; everything was bright and happy and wonderful. There

were no shadows to my joy.

I spend more and more time with Rapunzel. She is perfect; I love

everything about her. But she is like a siren. She draws me to her,

draws me into the rocks of Aldreida to be shipwrecked. She would

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discover me eventually; it is only a matter of time. And then it is all

over. I tell Rapunzel of my fears, and she says she worries too.

“We must escape,” she vows, a determined fire in her jewel-blue

eyes.

So we hatch a plan – no, she hatches a plan. We have to get her

down the tower somehow, and Rapunzel has an idea. I wish she does

not have to do it, but I know in my heart that she does.

She chooses an afternoon, in the spring. It is sunny and warm, the

sun shining blissfully. The clearing is picturesque, scattered with

patches of vibrant wildflowers. I stand at the bottom of the tower,

waiting for my Rapunzel.

She leans out of the window and smiles down at me, sunlight

shining off her lovely face. Then she pulls back and gathers her hair

together. She loops the braid through a hook on the wall, which has

been designed for Rapunzel to tie her hair to as people ascend the

tower, so she is not hurt. She tosses the end of the braid out of the

window; it pools at my feet, a coil of shimmering gold. She leans out

the window again, facing inwards this time. Her hair travels from her

head and loops through the hook, then snakes down the tower. She

takes a length of hair in her hands and crouches on the window sill.

She pauses nervously. Then she starts to climb down the tower,

supported only by her own hair.

The pain must be heinous. Hideous. Horrendous. But still Rapunzel

climbs. She smoothly feeds her braid through her hands, up into the

tower and down to her head, supporting her full weight. Just the

thought makes me wince, but Rapunzel’s face shows no pain. Just

tight determination. There is no other way.

She draws closer, almost at the bottom of the tower. I reach for her,

and she drops the last few feet into my arms. I hold her as she sobs,

stroking her golden hair. It still trails up the tower.

Eventually, she pulls herself together, smiling weakly and wiping

her eyes. Her strength almost knocks me over. She just climbed down

her own hair! She does not even need time to recover, just a moment

or two. I love her. She gets to her feet and tugs on her braid, which

tumbles down the tower and collapses at her feet. She quickly winds it

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into a fat bun and brushes herself off. I take her hand and lead her into

the woods.

Then we run.

I guide Rapunzel south, through tangled bushes and over moss,

green logs. Her expression is a mix of fear, wonderment and joy. Fear

of Aldreida, and of capture; wonderment of the beautiful woods,

which she has never like this before; and joy at the freedom of out

flight.

My heart is so happy and full. My every dream is coming true; to

rescue the lost girl in the tower. And now I finally have.

We find a stream, babbling happily, and race along it. I am still

holding her hand, and she clings to it. We come across a clearing, and

Rapunzel spies a patch of raspberries. I have brought her many in the

tower, but still she begs to taste them, to taste our freedom. I cannot

refuse her. I pluck a ripe one, its skin red and brimming with juices. I

feed to her, smiling at her flighty joy. She closes her eyes and melts

with bliss, kissing my fingertips. I grin back at her.

Everything is perfect.

Then Aldreida steps into the clearing.

he steps out of the shadows, her vivid red hair billowing.

Terror punches me in the gut. No. Her cold face is awash with anger,

but there is something at the edges…

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Fear?

No, that cannot be right. Why would she fear us? She is strong and

powerful. We are ants beneath her feet. But I could have sworn…

Aldreida strides over to us, stopping before Rapunzel. Her face

should be a sea of terror and panic, a rabbit trapped in snare. But

instead she is…

…furious.

What?

Rapunzel steps closer to Aldreida, who shrinks back. She cowers in

fear.

“How dare you,” hisses Rapunzel. She is enraged, standing tall. Her

face is so cold, so angry. It is like ice. She is an ice queen, evil and

powerful. This is not the Rapunzel I know and love. She raises her

hand. Aldreida flinches, as if expecting a slap.

My confusion is slowly morphing into suspicion. I am wary.

Something is wrong, something has changed.

But as Rapunzel’s hand descends, Aldreida darts backwards. Her

hand misses her by inches. And now there is a fire in Aldreida's eyes.

Defiance. She ducks a second blow, and then freezes Rapunzel as she

comes for her again. Literally, freezes her. Rapunzel glitters a little

with frost and melting ice.

Magic. Rapunzel has told me of Aldreida’s powers, but I had never

seen them in action. Rapunzel is not a witch.

Then Rapunzel explodes into black flames, consuming the ice. Then

it spreads out into a wall and faces Aldreida. Rapunzel smiles, malice

and anger and malevolence all rolled into one little smirk.

Ok then. She is a witch.

Aldreida leaps over the fire as it rushes towards her, flying as high

as the treetops. It has turned into a battle of magical power. Surely

Rapunzel will lose; how can she be more powerful than Aldreida, who

has caged her for her whole life?

But I watch as Aldreida heaves desperately against an invisible,

shimmering, supernatural wall of magic. And I realize I have been lied

to.

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I have been frozen since Aldreida entered the clearing and my life

fell apart, my mind roiling with emotion. But now I step forwards,

ready to demand an explanation for this deceit. My movement catches

the attention of the battling witches, and I watch as the ice queen that

is Rapunzel melts into the girl I know and love.

She backs away from Aldreida, who is eyeing me intently. Rapunzel

races towards me, catching my hand as she passes me. Her face has

morphed into terror and I try to wish away the doubt in my heart as

she tries to drag me into the woods.

“Run, Jaden, run!” she cries, panicked.

I look into her face, and see my Rapunzel. My kind, sweet, lonely

Rapunzel. But I also see the new Rapunzel – the witchy, malicious

Rapunzel – shimmering just below the surface. Like a submerged

sheet of ice, pushed away and out of sight. My head tells me not to

trust her. But my heart is curled up in a pain-ridden ball, clutching its

ears in denial. My heart breaks.

Do you want the truth? asks a voice. But the words chime in my

head, not my ears. They are spoken into my mind.

I cast around for their source, and see Aldreida. Watching me. Her

dark eyes are strong and determined, though her young face is clearly

terrified.

The truth? This madness explained, Rapunzel’s sudden malevolence

explained. The past month of sunshine and rainbows explained. Truth.

I nod once, my eyes locked on hers. Rapunzel is still tugging on my

hand, but I barely notice. Aldreida holds out a hand from across the

clearing, a soft plea in her gaze.

Help me bind her, she whispers, and I will tell you everything. I can

hear the solid vow in her voice.

I make my choice, though my heart keens and sobs.

I rip my hand from Rapunzel’s – who shrieks in panic and

undisguised anger – and dart across the clearing to Aldreida, slipping

my hand in hers.

She smiles, joy and relief tumbling over one another like puppies.

Then she takes a deep, grounding breath and begins to draw magic.

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I feel her pulling power from me, like water swirling down a drain. I

give her everything. My splintering heart demands no less.

Aldreida tips her head back to the sky, throwing up her spare hand.

Her crimson hair whips around her in an invisible wind, glowing like

hot lava. She seems to grow, bigger and stronger. Her face is tight

with concentration, her eyes squeezed shut. She pulls her hand down,

and shimmering golden chains begin to spiral. They grow longer,

writhing like restless snakes. Her eyes snap open – they glow like

flames – and she flings her hand at the fleeing Rapunzel. The chains

soar through the air and begin to bind her.

They encircle her feet, her hands, her arms, her mouth. They truss

her like a turkey, despite her struggles. Aldreida draws her hand

towards a giant rowan tree, and Rapunzel follows. The chains fly her

over to the ancient tree, and she is tightly bound to its trunk by more

golden chains. She struggles against her bindings, then tries to blast

them with her considerable magic. But she is trapped.

Aldreida lowers her hand. The wind dies down, and she sways. She

is pale and weary; it must have taken a lot to subdue Rapunzel.

I approach her, my heart shredded. The ice queen is still squirming,

trying so hard to escape her prison. I stop and look, taking in the true

Rapunzel.

She stops, panting, and gazes back. Her face is contorted in hatred

and disdain. What was once so soft and warm is now set in hard,

frosty planes. Her eyes are like shards of cold, blue ice. The Rapunzel

I loved is gone, replaced by this horrible, wicked witch.

Aldreida comes up behind me, almost collapsing into the soft grass.

She, too, is panting. I sit beside her, gazing at her with a question in

my weeping heart. She steels herself, sits up straight, and begins her

tale.

“I was given to Rapunzel as a baby. My father had stolen from her

garden, and he sacrificed me to repay her. Rapunzel raised me,

teaching me magic and keeping me imprisoned. Once I became 18,

she laid out a scheme. She wanted to hide; her father was searching

for her, and she did not want to be found. So she locked herself in a

tower and forced me to appear as if I had imprisoned her. I had no

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choice; she was so strong.” Aldreida shivers and glares at Rapunzel.

The look she returns is equally as venomous. Aldreida smiles

haughtily and continues. “She could monitor me, monitor my

thoughts. I had no chance for escape, for if I had even considered it

she would know. But I had some idea of what she was doing, doing

with you. Luring in a young, strong, handsome hunter. She is an

intelligent witch. Evil and nasty, but intelligent. But her father had

found her, and he was coming for her. So she ran, taking you with her,

to hide again.”

“Why me?” I ask. “Why did she target me?”

Why did he cause me this pain?

“You are a hunter. The blood of a thousand deaths stains your soul.

She can draw on that, use it as a power source.”

“That is how you conjured the chains? Through the blood and death

on my soul?” I feel sickened.

“Yes. I hate using blood magic; it is dark and evil, and always ends

in murder and slaughter to gain power. But it was the only way to bind

her.”

I understood that. I have spent most of my life doing things I wish I

did not have to.

I look at Rapunzel. She looks broken, defeated. She has used me.

She wove together a whole personality, and wore it like a mask. Just

so that she could use some blood on my soul. I was little more than a

battery to her.

Hot rage coats my tongue, along with the bitter tang of betrayal and

heartbreak. I look away, eyes brimming from the pain. I look at

Aldreida, her expression one of pity and empathy. She too has been

used by Rapunzel. All her life.

“What do we do with her?” I ask. I want to hurt Rapunzel, to torture

her, to cause her as much pain as she has caused me. But I know it is

not right.

“I think we should leave her,” says Aldreida, a smile spreading

slowly over her face. “Leave her for her father.”

Confusion blankets my mind. Then I realize. She is obviously afraid

of her mysterious father, enough to hide for years on end. He must be

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bad, worst even than she. We can leave her to her rightful fate. It is the

perfect revenge. My smile mirrors Aldreida’s.

Rapunzel’s renewed struggles stop, and her eyes widen in terror –

genuine terror, this time. She begins to whimper. Then she turns to

me.

The new Rapunzel softens, melts. Her warm, baby blue eyes are

pleading. She is helpless, lonely and afraid. She needs me, needs to be

rescued. My Rapunzel stares at me, begging.

I stand up and walk away, taking Aldreida with me.

take Aldreida back to the village, presenting her as a lost damsel

from the woods. She plays her part perfectly. She is welcomed with

open arms, and I can see her happiness. She is loved in the village,

cared for. Even when she shows everyone her magic, they are awed

and amazed rather than fearful. They can sense her goodness.

She becomes the village healer, and I fetch her all manner of plants

and berries for her work. She loves helping people, fixing them up

She is so much more than my Rapunzel. Stronger and braver, but

just as kind. She does not need me to rescue her; she is fine on her

own. Independent.

And she understands my pain; she feels it too, though not nearly as

strongly. She nurtures me, healing me as if I were one of her patients.

She fills the holes that Rapunzel left in my heart.

One evening, we are wandering through the woods collecting

mushrooms and berries and herbs and other food. I decide to ask her

something I have been thinking about for a while. “Why did not you

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flee?” I ask her. “You knew she was running. Why did not you

escape?”

She looks down at her bare, brown feet, her cheeks colouring. She

laughs a little, awkwardly, and her reply is soft with embarrassment.

“Oh. That.”

I laugh with her, amused by her embarrassment. “It is alright. I will

not tell.”

She reaches out for my hand, clutching it tightly. “Ok,” she sighs,

smiling teasingly. “I guess…

“When I was imprisoned by Rapunzel – as I told you – I was aware

of you, of what she was doing. I could watch you through her eyes,

lurking within her. And I grew…attached to you.” Aldreida blushes

even darker, and I squeeze her hand encouragingly. “I fell in love with

you. I had hope, hope of rescue from a dashing hero. But I knew how

hopeless it really was, and it tore me to shreds. Every time she kissed

you, I winced. She knew of my wish, though she did nothing to stop

me. My pain made me more submissive, and there was no way I could

escape anyway.” She smiles a bitter, twisted smile. “So when I

realised that she was running off with you, part of me couldn’t let you

go. Also, I wanted to punish Rapunzel.” Her smile turns more vicious

and vindictive. Then it morphs into something more mortified as she

looks up at me. There is a fragility to her story. I know I can’t laugh at

her

I smile serenely, looking at her with my heart in my eyes. “And has

that love survived through your grand escape?” My words are light,

but my tone conveys the gravity of the simple question.

She swings our hands as we walk, strolling along casually. Her tone,

too, is relaxed; “Oh, I do not. If anything, they have strengthened.”

Then the façade drops. She pulls me in, pressing my mouth to hers.

Our wedding is about a year after Rapunzel’s defeat. Only my

father, sister and our closest friends are present. We hold it in the

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woods, my second home. Aldreida wears apple blossoms in her fiery

hair, to show a better future. She is so beautiful.

The celebrations that night are loud, lively and carefree. There is a

mighty feast – I hunted for a month for this – and singing and dancing.

We sing the song of blessings, a beautiful harmony drifting into the

black night. Aldreida is shown a lively folk dance, taught to all brides

on their wedding night. It is notoriously tricky, but she nails every

step. Then we dance together, slowly and tenderly. I hold her tight, so

glad to have her . Her joy reflects mine. Our entwined hope lights

fireworks in our eyes, promises of love and a future together.

We are at peace.

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88

Distortion A compendium of short

Fairy Tales

By Brandan Lapeyre

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Beauty and the Beast

Prologue

Hot, quick breaths. HUFF HUFF HUFF. Inhuman breaths, hot on

my face. HUFF Huff, huff, huff… Breaths that leave condensation

and mucus behind on my face… Then the pain starts. In my right

calf like a hundred needles all piercing my skin at the same time,

fracturing my nerves. But I am prepared… I know what I’m doing.

I’m going to bring this thing down if it’s the last thing I ever do…

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Part 1

“Belle! Belle!”

“Stop calling me that! You know my name is Citrus!” I

snapped angrily at Myrtle. I was storming off angrily that day from

my fiancée-to-be’s estate. In my opinion he was a total twit who had

no idea what on earth a woman looked for in a man, but I needed to

marry him because he would give me a “Good and auspicious

future”. One of which I would rather work for, than rely on a rich

husband. I was off on one of my usual huffs about him, and wanted

to be alone. Despite it being dangerous times lately- a boy I used to

sing to had even gone missing a week ago, what with all the … never

mind. I had never had any reason to be afraid when I hid somewhere

mid-evening but that changed very, VERY quickly the night I

decided to do so.

I wanted to go somewhere where no-one could find me, talk

to me, harass me, or get me out, so I decided to hide in a crack I saw

in the Desolate Castle- a sandstone structure crafted in the Ancient

Days that had fallen to ruin, but was still mostly in-tact. Although it

was once said in an old prophecy that said there were more hidden

strikes to it than the eye could see. Most folk were superstitious and

kept away believing something to be in it that may harm them, but I

figured there was just some cursed treasure or some rabble like that.

As I hiked up the apple grass flecked hill I noticed a purple sunset

over yonder.

“What a wonderful sight” I thought to myself sarcastically.

When I passed the last brambles I saw it- just as I remembered. A

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triangular hole with cracks in the corners and deadening grass. I

knelt down on all fours and crawled backwards into the hole. It was

quite dark in there, but if you ask me, the darkest thing was yet to

come.

I knelt there for what I assumed must’ve been hours because

I saw a few star signs I recognised drift into the void of the horizon.

After a while I thought I heard scuffling noises, but I figured it was

just my clothes rubbing against the rough sandstone. As I started to

fall into subconsciousness I started to think “I didn’t really bother to

see how far this tunnel goes into the castle” and “What is the

prophecy on about?” and “What’s that noise?” I turned with a jolt

and sat bolt upright with a start.

My first reaction was to scream, a pretty dumb idea

considering the situation. I was sitting on a stone slate in an

underground cavern with a wide arch in front of me and four walls

with intricate artistry chiselled into them. The floor had many small

holes in it. Like the imprint in sand when a staff is gently thrust into

it. But one thing other than the darkness scared me. There were

inhuman scratches and marks along the wall, as if made by talons or

claws. But there was something even more disturbing about them.

Or, rather one wall full of them. They formed into one, large word.

MASSACRE.

Before I could think I quickly tried to run right out of there

and ran straight into a… thing! That’s all I can say about it in one

word. It was squatted down. It had black shiny eyes and spotted hairs

all over its body. The creature had a raggedy torn cloth failing to

cover its body. It had fangs dripping some sort of liquid that left

steaming holes in the floor and three long talons on each hand.

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I broke into a full sprint as quickly as I could register and

smacked straight into a wall. As I fell backwards my leg twisted at

an awkward angle. It was a strange moment then. The kind of one

you forget for no real reason other than the obscurity of it. Then the

beast ambled over and leaned in close to my face.

Part 2

Hot, quick breaths. HUFF HUFF HUFF. Inhuman breaths, hot on

my face. HUFF Huff, huff, huff…Breaths that leave condensation

and trails of mucus behind… Then the pain starts. In my left ankle

like it is being slowly crushed by some contraption. But I will kill

this thing. Why? It hasn’t done anything to you. No, that’s what it

wants you to think. But maybe it’s not meant to hurt you. But it has

such horrific features. Most animal are ugly, but that is no reason not

to see beyond it. NO!

“Ooo shin tah meh” The beast growled out of nowhere.

“Ah, what?” I stuttered out my confusion. Those two jet

black shiny eyes peering down into mine is almost hypnotic…

“Yoo singh ta mey” it repeats.

“Tommy?” I question. I gasp as realisation dawns on me. The

boy I used to sing to was named Tommy.

“Who did this to you?” I demand. Instantly wanting to rip

their throats out with my bare hands and dance on their graves.

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“No-one. No pershens did dis ta me. De udda beast wanted

me dead so it tried to khall me. I killed it inshtead so now I am the

beast, Citrus! And now you face the same trial,” he howled with

glee. I was taken aback and horrified. While he was still cackling I

dragged myself away from what he had become. It struck me as to

how much of a bright, wonderful boy he was and what he had

become through all of this. He slowly moped towards me in a

grotesque manner, his fur swaying dramatically in time with his -its-

footsteps, those dead black eyes always casting a reflection from the

moon from a crack in the wall.

I suddenly tried to stand. Dumb idea. I instantly fell with a

cry of pain and all the while it slowly stalked closer…each thump

against the cool stone leaving a trail of holes steaming with acidic

substance for a few seconds before dying out. I flailed along the

floor as quickly as I could and found my back to a wall. I searched

around desperately trying to find an opening, a sharp piece of

rubble… anything! All too soon the beast was upon me.

“I feel like some citric flavours tonight” The beast chuckled

with great gusto. If only there were some weakness I could exploit…

Suddenly the beast opened its maw and revealed a jaw full of

bloodstained teeth with pieces of sinew still stuck in between them.

Its hind legs reared back ready to lunge forward and…

SHOOM! My life flashed before my eyes. My mother,

childhood, lessons, my old teacher Professor Smithmak’s words

“Remember, Citrus in every corrosive liquid there is still a trace

leftover in the corroded material until it burns out”, teenage hood,

lessons, “Flint will create a spark when struck” adulthood, education

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debriefing: “But remember always carry a tinderbox with you in case

you are ever in the dark”…

SHOOM! Just as the beast lunges toward me I duck

underneath it and push. As I slide across the floor I hear a whine

after a loud crash. Presumably the beast crashed into the wall nose

first. I quickly tear my tinderbox from my pocket – I didn’t even

think to use it I was so flustered. I drag myself along the trail of

holes until I realise that the gap between me and the monstrosity is

closing quickly. I fumble with the tinderbox until I find the flint and

strike the floor with it over and over again until a spark flickers, and

splutters, and dies before it gets close. I frantically start hitting the

floor with it again. The monster is almost upon me. I use one final

surge of adrenaline into one more strike…BOOM!

The spark hits home and the whole floor of the Desolate

Castle blazes alight in an inferno. The beast howls in anguish. And

can be heard clearly throughout the castle.

Epilogue

THE NEXT MORINING

“Belle! Belle!” Myrtle cries desperately. I watch as she ambles over

to below where I perch, oblivious to my presence. In the end by

killing the beast I became it. Now Myrtle faces the same trial. But I

now understand why the beast lives on in humans. But if I were to

tell you, you would probably find the answer a bit…Distorted.

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98

The Many

Thoughts of

Merlin By Claire Murphy

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Us fish, we’re so underrated, a memory span of three

seconds...what nonsense! Perhaps I cannot remember the day I was

born although I am certain that my memory span is exquisite,

perhaps even better than that of a human. We could do wonders for

this world if only we weren’t stuck in a bowl to endlessly swim in

circles and use our insightful minds to concoct absolutely nothing.

I awake to a similar scene every day, I will be lying in my

castle (a gift from Mother which nicely decorates my bowl)

pondering the many wonders of the world when the children come

thundering down the stairs as disruptively as a herd of elephants.

Whether they be bickering, chatting or giggling, the children are

always lively in the mornings allowing me no chance to sleep in.

Tapping my bowl and giving me toothy grins the children give no

consideration to the fact that I am not exactly a morning type of

fish. Thankfully is doesn’t last long as Mother soon shows them

through the back door as they head off to school.

My bowl is in the living room beside the television. It is in

quite a nice spot as it is in the busy part of the house meaning I am

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rarely left alone. The living room leads on to the dining room,

kitchen and the back door. In the evenings, the family often gathers

here in the living room to relax and watch the television. When

they do, I entertain myself by watching their expressions and

reactions change as they watch their favourite programs.

My family is no more or less unusual than the average

cluster. Pip is the youngest. She is energetic and is always beaming.

Her long, curly hair flows like a waterfall down her back. Her grin

is full of gaps as she must be losing her teeth around now.

Whenever she smiles huge dimples form on her rosy cheeks and

her eyes ignite. This year is Pip’s first year at school and she is

always coming home singing and chatting about what she learned.

Occasionally, Pip brings a friend home which creates chaos for the

next hour. As lovable as she is, Pip can be overwhelmingly loud,

especially around her friends.

Charlie is Pip’s older brother, I would assume by around

four years. He has the same golden brown hair as Pip which

scruffily sits upon his head. He has dark eyes, matched perfectly

with his tanned skin. Charlie is far more reserved than Pip perhaps

because he is a little shy. Despite this he still enjoys her company

and is happy to laugh and talk with her, for young siblings, they get

along exceptionally.

Mother stays at home all day. She spends her time,

cleaning, cooking and pottering about. She loves her children

dearly and spends as much time as she can with them. I enjoy

Mother’s presence as she has a warming glow that follows her

around, lighting every room she enters. Unlike the children, she has

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dark brown hair and piercing green eyes although her skin is the

same lovely shade of tan as her children.

Lastly there is Father, Pip and Charlie call him ‘Daddy’. He

leaves for work early and returns late. I’m not entirely certain how

he spends his time all day although I suspect he is some sort of a

cleaner as he carries around a bucket which I once glimpsed inside

to see washcloths and some bottles of cleaning sprays. It would

make sense for Father to be a cleaner as from what I understand

they don’t earn much money and if I am completely honest, my

family doesn’t exactly live in a mansion.

My family’s home is small and simple. Most of the

furniture is slightly out-dated and worn out. It fits together like a

patchwork quilt, random bits and pieces of fabric sewn together to

form a pattern that somehow works. To decorate the walls Mother

has framed several ‘artworks’ the children have created which are

composed of paint splattered hand prints accompanied by colourful

scribbles. With the kitchen being in the middle of the house, wafts

of mouth-watering aromas constantly linger in the air. The carpet

that covers the floors of the living room is inconveniently a pale

shade of cream and is easily dirtied. It is covered in big brown

blotches from numerous times in the winter when the children

stomped mud in from the garden. I have seen Mother try to remove

these stains on several occasions but eventually she gave in and

dragged a dusty, battered rug in to cover them up.

As you may predict, the life of a pet goldfish is

extraordinarily dull. The only thing preventing me from becoming

engulfed in a sea of loneliness is having the family constantly

close. I feel I would be far more content though, if I were to have

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another fishy friend by my side. I find life can be amazingly bleak

with nothing to do but swim around in circles and dream.

My dreams follow strange paths, I often think of my mother

and father back at the pet shop. Other times I think about the most

random of subjects like how spectacular my castle would look if it

were painted gold or what the pond my family came from would be

like. Usually though, my thoughts follow a series of paths that

always lead to one place, my desire to be human.

Having spent all my time around people, I would love

nothing more than to be human. I would make such a great human

too, I would have a beautiful wife and adorable children. Together

we would live in a house as grand as a palace and I would have a

profession everyone would admire me for. Rather than boring my

pet by placing him in a bowl by the television, I would have a pond

full to the brim of goldfish. Most of all I would just love to have

places to go and people to see, to be truly needed by others.

Last night after the children had fallen asleep, Mother and

Father sat in the living room sipping tea. Father had a worried look

on his face and as he sat there, I could tell he was planning how he

would deliver whatever bad news he had. How intriguing, I thought

and I pressed my head against my bowl. Being under the water, I

can't hear what people are saying unless I press my head against the

glass, yet still I can only hear snippets of muffled voices.

"I lost my job." Father whispered to Mother, his voice

hushed and pained. "What?" Mother exclaimed.

Her face quickly became shocked then fearful and dreading.

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"You can't have lost your job, you were so good at it!

Surely it's a mistake! Our family relies on you having that job, we

can't live without it. Surely it's a mistake..." Mother whispered.

The calmness that usually followed her disappeared more

with each word that she spoke until it was gone. Her voice become

hurried and fearful and for the first time I saw her look fragile, as if

she would break with the slightest knock. Father sighed, he was

right to have been queasy about delivering such dreadful news. I

knew that my family was not the wealthiest household on the street

although I had no idea they were so short of money. How

unfortunate for them, I thought and I drifted to sleep watching the

couple embrace in a loving hug and listened to Father's comforting

words saying everything would be okay.

The next morning I woke to see Mother and Father

sprawled on the sofa still embraced in each other’s arms. For all the

drama that had occurred the previous night, they looked oddly

peaceful. As the sun rose, I saw their eyelids flicker and their

bodies stir half-consciously until they eventually awoke. They gave

each other a quick worried glance but then plastered their happy,

carefree faces on as best as they could, for both themselves and the

children as they resumed to their normal lives. As it was the

weekend, Father did not have to worry about missing work for the

first time. They went about the house making breakfast, getting

dressed, brushing their teeth and planning the day ahead. Then they

were off, to where I don’t know although they were gone all day.

When they got back, it became apparent that they had been

to some sort of park, due to the mud that covered the children’s

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clothes. Pip’s face was sad and tear-stained and the rest of the

family looked exhausted.

“Pip, if Teddy’s in your room I’m going to be so mad at

you!” remarked Charlie.

Pip responded to this by giving him a look of hatred and

storming up the stairs. How unusual, I thought, for the children to

be bickering so fiercely. Maybe Pip had been like this the whole

way home, constantly crying and whining. If this was the case and I

were Charlie, I would be frustrated too.

“He’s not here! Charlie I told you I took him with me, he

could be anywhere by now!” Pip cried in frustration and came

thundering back down the stairs, in tears again.

Mother wrapped her arms around Pip’s shaking body and

led her to the kitchen.

“Pip don’t worry, I’m sure Teddy will show up, here would

you like a hot chocolate?” Mother asked in a comforting voice.

Poor Pip, most people would think that losing a Teddy

would not be the biggest of dramas in their lives but for a young

child it probably would be. At least she has Mother’s soothing

voice and comforting arms to make her feel better. I notice that in

the family, when someone is in trouble, no matter how small, there

is always another rushing to their side to make sure they are okay.

Maybe being a human is more work than I first interpreted.

Losing jobs, losing teddies, there always seems to be some sort of a

problem to face. I want to live as a human to experience golden

moments such as sending your child off to school for the first time,

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laughing with friends and spending time with your loved ones but I

didn’t ever think about the difficulties you have to face every day.

What I would do if I was in Father’s position? I have absolutely no

idea. I’m not sure if I could even handle losing a teddy bear. Of

course, my dreams to be human haven’t changed over a day, but

now I see things in a different perspective. Would I rather swim

around in a bowl all day with not a care in the world or live as a

human and experience everything that is good and bad? That may

be one question I will never have an answer for.

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Prologue

Rags hung off her thin frame and feathers drifted in the wind behind

her. Flowers entwined in her hair, their stems knotted in the black

jumble that sat haphazardly on her head. Dahlia's feet were bare and

slapped against the warm pavement. Soaking up the sunshine from

every inch of the universe. The sky was straight out of a story book.

Almost sickeningly blue. The pastel coloured houses were as pink as

babies. The whole town smelled of daisies and rainbows and unicorns.

The air tasted of faerie dust and almost every person had a strange

quality about them. A quality that could only be described as a

sparkling aura. A feeling that engulfed you as soon as you walked past

the sign that said "Welcome to Sommerville! Population 666."

So it was an incredibly sweet town, tucked into a haven between

forests, hidden from the highway. You half expected munchkins to

jump out singing and tap dancing. Sommerville was so sweet, in fact,

it was almost certain that it had some dark secret. Something hidden

between the neat rows of sunflowers. A little bit of darkness

underneath every pastel clad child's angelic exterior.

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1. (and the people bowed and prayed to the

neon God they made)

The more days Dahlia spent in high school, the more days she spent

wanting to escape. The locker lined walls, the cafeteria and the

mystery meat smell that meandered into every corner of the vomit

coloured hallways. It was an educational prison, that held her back

from everything she wanted to do. The windows were little

opportunities of hope, and sometimes when the sun shone in and

danced along the desks Dahlia thanked the Gods of Suburbia that she

had landed in Sommerville. Because, now and then, Sommerville

seemed perfect, perfect in a good way. But then her Geography

teacher called on her, annoyingly, his expectant face and receding

hairline staring down at her. And this, she reminded herself, was what

life was.

The bell was the sound of freedom. Dahlia ran past immature

boys and girls comparing eye brow waxing horror stories. Her feet

flapped about on the concrete as she ran down the street and into the

place she'd rather be. Where the pastel died out and damp, woody

odours drifted in and out of the misty trees, where her friends hung

around all day. They didn't go to school. Structured curriculum just

didn't fit into their existences. Art and music and poetry fit into their

existences and flooded their minds with the sprawling creativity that

Dahlia wished could flood hers too. After school Dahlia sat around on

tree stumps with them and carved secret things into wood that only the

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forest would read. Sometimes they had picnics, and played old records

from the good old days. They let Beatles songs linger among the trees

and listened as the lyrics were suspended in the air. Almost like a

soundtrack rambling through their lives, "there will be an answer, let

it be."

"Hey!" Dahlia said to the group, who were gathered around in a

circle writing poems on the forest floor.

"Dahlia!" They all exclaimed, happy as always to see her.

"How was school?" One of them mocked gently. Her name was

Lavender and her face blossomed with life. Her hair was always

intricately braided, thousands of strands tangled together, and

decorated with wooden beads. She was one of Dahlia's oldest friends,

the curious girl who took her by the hand that day so many years ago

and invited her to her forest hideout.

"Excruciating and bland and all together quite brown coloured."

Dahlia replied with a grin.

"Come, read our poems. Cosmo's is about that head

cheerleader." said Lavender, guiding her over to their circle.

There she sits.

Perky and pale

With a face so manufactured.

Her insides gleam,

but there's something that's broken.

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Rickety and rusty.

It's blinding her

from the truth.

To the forest

she will never answer.

"Wow, heavy." Sighed Dahlia, experiencing that breathlessness

she felt every time she read something like that. It twisted something

around inside her, but she didn't quite know what.

Tonight someone had brought an Ouija board. They had all seen

the horror movies, the stories of "skinny, white chicks in their

underwear getting totally massacred by weird ass spirits," as her friend

Ivory put it so poetically. But the chance to contact the 'other side' was

way too intriguing to turn away.

The hours that followed were enchanting. And altogether quite

confusing. Dahlia herself didn't really know what was happening, but

the emotions that coursed through her were tumultuous and not

entirely her own. She felt the spirit's presence, that was certain. The

secrets it whispered, about their town and its sweet disguise. Its

thoughts trickled through her veins. Like the forest's history merged

into her. The forest and Dahlia became the same. Everything it felt,

she felt. And after that, nothing in Sommerville would be the same.

As Dahlia walked back through the street, her vision of

Sommerville was suddenly clear. Her whole childhood had been a

distorted daydream, she had lived something fake. Something

manufactured and tweaked for most perfect outcome. But now, with

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the whisperings of forest sprites playing around and around in her

head like a creaky old carousel, Dahlia saw Sommerville as it truly

was. The pastel colours and sweet atmosphere were crumbling down

around her. She had to expose to everyone all that she had heard from

the forest. There were 665 people who believed in a lie.

She ran back through the forest. The trees whipping past. She

heard murmurs of encouragement coming from hiding places no one

else knew about. The energy of the trees crackled into her fingertips,

power surged within her. She climbed to the tallest tree of all.

Everything could be seen from here. Well, everything that was

supposed to be seen anyway. Splinters punctured her skin, and leaves

latched onto her. But this was the moment. This was the reason she

was in Sommerville.

A throng of people had lumped together in the centre of town.

Amongst the crowd was a boy named Xander. He liked music. No one

really noticed him, his whole life was shrouded in a veil of invisibility.

He had black hair, the kind that could be moulded into any shape. His

clothes were plain from a distance but when examined closer one

would notice, if they cared, that they were surprisingly creative. His

shirt, for example, had tiny fish swimming around the rough grey

material and round his neck was a pendant that had the number 7 in a

circle. This was somewhat confusing, because no one willingly

showed their love of math in public, especially in Sommerville. But

no one noticed because no one cared and even if they did they would

never say anything.

Xander watched curiously at the weird girl, as all the deeply

intellectual and witty beings that are cheerleaders called her. He knew

her name was Dahlia, he liked how it sounded.

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As he looked around at the swarm of expectant faces. He could

spot Constable Flanders, the chief policeman. He obviously had no

intention whatsoever to do anything about the unusual situation that

was unfolding like origami in reverse. In fact he seemed much more

infatuated with the filthy, bulging cigar dangling from his drooling

mouth. Then Xander heard a tearing sound, like someone ripping their

pants, but on a massive scale. He turned to see Dahlia ripping down

the sky. Tearing the perfect blue to shreds. Fragments floated to the

ground, landing gracefully in a heap. For once, everyone was as

speechless as Xander.

And then a very strange thing happened, something you would

probably only see once in your life time. Various signs from around

the town started drifting into the sky. Letters from the supermarket

shopfront and the school and the stationary store levitating in the

midst of the shredded sky. Neon letters and old rusty signs gathered

and began spelling out words. Words that, for some reason, everyone

knew was the truth. As if a message from the gods of Suburbia, who

Dahlia now knew didn't exist. Everyone held their breath as the final

words were being formed. Nothing else mattered to them than what

the words would say. Suddenly Dahlia let out a shrill cry of pain. And

everyone looked towards her.

A shard of metal had perforated her heart. The blood dripping

excruciatingly slowly.

And then the words in the sky lit up. And what they said made

no sense to the residents of Sommerville. Why would it after all? The

meaning of any words formed in the sky was baffling. But these were

extremely puzzling, especially since they said:

SUBURBIA IS A LIE.

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And no one really knew what to do then. Their whole belief

system was ruined.

2. (silence like a cancer grows)

In a place that is the definition of vagueness there sat seven people.

This place is unlike reality. It is a blur, it is isolation, it is like

Antarctica hit puberty and got stuck in an abyss of angst and

confusion for the rest of eternity.

Silence dripped from every corner of the room. It trickled down

the walls and formed a puddle around the people. Soon it would flood

the room, a raging ocean, and would murder them all. Each of them

slaughtered mercilessly.

They sat at a table. It was a white table and had nothing on it

and frankly everyone was wondering why it was there in the first

place. There were nine seats around that table, but only seven of them

were filled.

Anyone could tell these seven people were incredibly important.

But nevertheless, awkwardness was practically emanating off them. In

fact, if you listened closely, you could hear tiny, articulate voices

chanting it. "Awkward. Awkward. Awkward. Awkward."

It had almost been 17 minutes. The awkwardness was more

potent than ever and the immense silence was on the brink of

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becoming deadly. Then, a man walked into the room. He was the most

important. Everybody knew it. The seven awkward, but important

people knew it, the silence knew it, even the tiny, articulate voices

knew it. They all straightened up, as if being ironed by a cleaning

lady.

His ego filled up the room, squishing the awkwardness and the

silence up against the white walls. He carried with him a single 2B

pencil and a strong cup of coffee. It was one of those ridiculous

coffees, not only was it a low fat extra cream monstrosity, he had also

added precisely 3/17 's more milk that he usually did, because today

was a Tuesday. And Tuesday was the day he liked to mix it up. All of

these seemingly useless facts were noted as soon as the man walked

in.

He laid down his coffee and his 2B pencil and began pacing.

Pacing is a sign of being important.

"Sommerville knows," the man announced.

For once the very important people allowed themselves to

express emotion. So they gasped, all very simultaneously. It was

appropriate as they were all having a meltdown inside.

"We need someone to blame." The man announced, hand

gesturing immensely.

So they all thought and once again it was silence. This time the

tiny voices said "Liars, liars, liars, liars, liars" they were like endless,

stringent records running over and over again.

"We" the most important man announced grandly once about 27

minutes had passed, "shall blame it on those uneducated hippie folks

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who the girl seems to love so much. They are believable suspects and

are probably on drugs anyway since their hair is not perfectly styled.

Plus I'm sure some control can be arranged to put that sweet little

town of Sommerville back in order."

And that, was that.

As the very important people made their way home the voices

didn't seem to stop. They knew they were too important to do anything

about the disaster they knew was approaching. They also knew that

the word important could be interchanged with the word cowardly.

3. (there were times when I could've murdered her, but

I'd hate anything to happen to her.)

Life had continued in its usual fashion in Sommerville. Except for the

fact that EVERYBODY WAS IN AN URGENT STATE OF

IMMENSE PANIC!

There was an extremely dense feeling of anticipation and

confusion in the atmosphere. It was almost warm, like cheap cotton

candy left out on a summer's afternoon. Its stickiness melted over the

whole town like pus oozing out of a bulging pimple.

And no one in the whole of Sommerville was brave enough to

acknowledge it.

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The population, all 665 of them moved as one slumberous

parade of pretenders. Everyone was wordlessly urging someone else

to do something. It seemed as if the answer was right there, just a few

streets away, floating around casually, waiting for someone, anyone,

to stumble upon it.

But no one had, and instead they all continued to make polite

conversation about haircuts and golf tournaments and other things no

one really needs to know about. Dahlia's death still flickered in the

background, it tossed and turned and slithered into the small ridges

between their logical thought.

The words still slowly flashed in their minds. Like a neon sign at

the end of the night.

SUBURBIA IS A LIE.

It made a clunky nagging sound at the back of their

consciousness. A whinging child, pestering, pestering, pestering for

some attention. Of course, although it seemed the residents of

Sommerville were more absorbed by the new IKEA catalogue, the

recent baffling events had not gone completely unacknowledged. The

gaping hole in the sky still remained. Its shaggy blue edges gently

dancing in the breeze. And the day afterward the local newspaper had

released a total of one item of relevance to the whole fiasco.

The item was an obituary for Dahlia. It was one page 7. Now,

you must understand, page 7 rarely existed in the Sommerville

Chronicle. In fact, the editor, Mr Fitzsimons normally had trouble

filling up the six pages that did exist with hard hitting journalism. He

usually had to resort to making the writing size 16 on his computer.

Or, if he was really desperate, he would allow his wife, Mrs

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Fitzsimons to waffle on for about two pages and just label it

EDITORIAL because no one ever read those anyway.

So, the town was pleasantly surprised to see a page seven in the

Chronicle that morning, (even if they had to reschedule their

badminton games and hedge pruning in order to read it.)

Because, the truth was, that no one really knew who Dahlia was.

To them she was just a walking mess of op shop rags and flowers and

wild hair.

And frankly they all just assumed she was smoking marijuana.

If anyone had bothered to think about it, it was rather sad that

Dahlia had to be publically murdered by unexplained floating sharp

objects before anyone took any notice of her.

The obituary went as follows:

Dahlia Skog was an upstanding member of the Sommerville

community. She was a quiet girl who attended Sommerville High and

maintained good grades as she spent the rest of her energies on her

co-curricular activities, including swing dancing, lacrosse and still

life drawing.

Her parents were extremely proud of her when she was awarded

Chess Captain within school and also won the Science Fair with her

fascinating diorama on the digestive system. Dahlia was a lovable

daughter and sister to her parents Glen and Doreen and younger

sister Barbara. The Skog's live right in the centre of town, across the

road from the 24 hour Shirley Temple memorabilia store and attended

church every Sunday. Dahlia will be greatly missed by her family and

friends. A memorial service will be held in the church on Sunday and

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a black arm band will be worn in her honour in the next lacrosse

game.

Everyone who knew Dahlia said she was quite an angelic child

and regret losing her to drugs.

This of course was completely made up.

Sommerville High didn't have a lacrosse team.

Who even played lacrosse anyway?

4. (I hope no one ever leaves, ‘cause I don't want to be

alone with me)

The high school walls encased him in a prison of his own lies. Their

manufactured barf colour acting as a constant reminder of his brittle

and tattered life.

He had built his existence on fiction. The foundations of the

world he lived in were distorted and frail, an old man's arms, weak

and wrinkled, gradually diminishing into dust. But now, after every

bad decision he had made, every time he had shaken hands with

someone important, their firm clasp the beginning of another

monstrous whack at his life, this was the grand finale. The last

horrible and cruel blow at his haphazardly stacked deck of cards.

They had found out.

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They knew.

The very last wisp of air spiralled out of his deceiving carcass,

like a paper bag deflating. And there he lay. Sprawled against the

floor, so shiny it could sear your eyeballs out of their sockets and

leave nothing but insignificant scraps of black soot.

The locker lined walls mocked him, their teasing an unsettling

lullaby as he exited this life.

The school bell haunted the empty corridors and classrooms. Its

dull clang a symphony of reminders that he would not be missed.

And the only thing that accompanied him through death were

the questionable smells that filled every high school in the plastic

world he had created.

5. (I'm glad I came here with your pound of flesh.)

Surprisingly, the residents of Sommerville looked up from their

embroidery and golfing news. Almost simultaneously they emerged

from the bubble that engulfed them. The very thought of Dahlia losing

her precious life to drugs was made them furious. The thought burnt

through everything else and gnawed optimistic. It was as if someone

had cast an enchantment over them, controlling them like puppets,

limp and helpless. Dragging them across Sommerville. This notion

was completely farfetched and yet completely truthful. Someone was

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in fact manipulating them, viewing them as animated scraps of flash

and bone.

Suddenly in place of the kitchen appliances and curtain fabrics

that hid in the pockets of their minds was the brutal message of

murder and cruelty. They were bloodthirsty for some hippie junkie

blood.

The whole town marched through the forest, as if taking part in

some eerie death parade. It was like an angry mob, but a lot calmer

and more interesting in savouring the moment. The wandered between

the trees, the forest floor whispered warnings that went unnoticed by

the ambling crowd of zombie like housewives. They were getting

closer , voices inside their heads willing them to kill those bastards

that influenced Dahlia .Ruthless, they burst through the trees,

determined to put everything back in order. All they saw was an

empty haven between the trees.

"They escaped" a woman in an apron shrieked, her shrill tone

ringing through the air.

"What's written down there?" someone asked."Look! In the

sticks!"

"Silence! I will investigate this message. Probably some satanic

worshipping symbol I suspect." Constable Shivers piped up, puffing

his flabby chest out and strutting towards a particularly barren area

where the sticks and leaves were entwined to spell something out. His

stumpy legs carried him towards the message. bending down he

examined the ground peering downs and pompously sniffing like he

was Sherlock Holmes or something.

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A branch reached out and latched onto his leg. His fat oozing in-

between its grip. Another branch clung to his arm. The crowd watched

as his fat sausage fingers flailed about in desperation. The trees

proceeded to pull in opposite directions. Constable Flander's body

lengthening out as he yelled profanities the very top of his lungs.

He wailed. Curse words, ordinary words, gibberish, nothing was

worthy of the indescribable pain. His ribs puncturing one by one,

breaking his skin which was almost translucent. Their brittle edges

sticking out at random angular directions. They were slowly cracking

and bursting into a million, tiny unsalvageable pieces.

"Someone help me! What's going on?" His words bruised and

bashed the air. His face slowly turning purpled blue. Swirls of dull

colours appeared on his pale exterior.

After approximately seven minutes the former chief policeman

of Sommerville was lying in an unrecognisable, mangled heap. No

longer their beloved Constable , he was a mess of stretched skin and

cracking bones.

It was at that point, when although deeply horrified one resident

of Sommerville stepped forward to read the message. For some odd

reason, that no one else could figure out, he was not scared of being

torn limb from limb. He felt somehow at ease with the forest, more

confident and strong than he did out there. Xander looked down and

read aloud the message:

"As hard as you pretend, this is not reality. Listen to the forest,

we will never surrender."

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He read, and even though his voice shook. He knew he was

telling the truth.

And up there, from above, in a better place, where no one else

could see her, Dahlia was smiling.

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128

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The city of Hatha was a large and bustling city. It had large

residence of over a million people, which was a lot for that ancient

time. The city was built of beige-coloured houses; all made of clay

with the same outline of a square building with no doors, doorways

and window holes. Each house and person had similar lives, adorned

with imported produce, dried fruits and coloured cloths. Every

workplace of store was just a wooden stand, against the small clay

walls, rickety and old. Most people lived a simple life, working to

extend the city, keep it running with services or setting up a stand in

the marketplaces or streets. The streets were busy all the time,

chatter and bombarding waves of people everywhere. Hatha was set

in a desert landscape, with food being imported from over the

mountains. It was hot for the people and everything was dusty. Life

was hard.

But above all in the city was the Sanctus Cacas.

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The Sanctus Cacas was an amazingly large structure; with

gigantic walls almost two hundred metres high, an inwards roof and

three hundred metres wide and five hundred long. Its size was jaw

dropping to anyone and the luscious white walls and gold ceiling

made it feel grand and the altar was adorned with jewels and gold, a

sparkling structure incredible to look at. There was not much detail,

just the amazing size. It was the main centre for worship of the

ruling religion, Radibism. Radibism was the superpower of all things

in the country and the entire world, and anyone or anything

challenging it would be eradicated by everyone. Not worshiping it

was against the law and punishable by death. The religion started

400 years ago, according to the Zanata, the Holy Scripture which is

now a common book in every household which is read, studied and

obeyed. The rules had to be followed by everyone and were very

strict. Of the five days of the week, one had to be devoted entirely to

worship to their supreme beings; Zantina, Radib and Cthulhu. On

this day, people would fill the Sanctus Cacas and the rooftops of the

buildings and spend almost the whole day singing the Zanata in a

boring monotone. Many people die each session of exhaustion from

this ceremony, but it is told to be how “the gods chose who was

weak”. Their symbol was a long hexagon with two circles in it:

In the Sanctus Cacas on the worship day, there were eleven

people who were the leaders of the ceremony and the leaders of the

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city and world. These were the ten members of the committee and

the one Leader. They were said to be the descendants of Zantina and

Radib and were the most important and powerful people in the whole

land. They wore robes of the finest silk adorned with coating of

jewels and gold, as a show of importance. They had anything they

wanted, except to contact the leader. They lived luscious lives, while

the rest of the population lived in the sewer-like caves underground.

Trant, the youngest and most rebellious of the committee, the

direct son of the leader, was only about twenty at the time. He had to

attend the ceremonies, even though he hated it and complained like a

child. The Elder leaders would frown upon him, but he was not to be

reckoned with since he was in the bloodline. It was Zanday, two

days after Radibday, the worship day.

“Pietra! Fetch my Zanata and a plate of roasted duck!” shouted

Trant on his chair.

“Yes, master,” Pietra, a lead slave sulked as she rushed out of

the room. Trant Lay on his chair and stared out onto the city from his

little window. The city looked like a desert with a giant building, the

Sanctus Cacas, in the middle. The light rooftops looked like an open

sandy desert.

“Here you are.” Pietra handed Trant the book and a plate of

glorious duck, a delicacy for most, but a usual for him. He opened

the engraved book and brushed the smooth parchment paper, the

perfectly written words showed such effort.

“Which part shall I read, the part where it says how people

should behave or how glorious the gods are, my great-something

grandparents,” he murmured to himself. He had to read it every day,

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because of the rules states in it. He lazily skimmed through it, while

eating his duck, when something caught his eye. He noticed his copy

had larger letters for the first words on each line and if read down it

revealed a message: THIS SCRIPTURE MEANS NOTHING IT IS

ALL A LIE IT IS A JOKE DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING IF

YOU FOUND THIS EXPOSE IT SJFCNDHEG…

Trant’s jaw dropped and he sat there for a few minutes in awe,

and then pondered what to do. After about ten minutes, Rethia, one

of the older members, in his golden, jewel-encrusted gown, entered

Trant’s room and spotted him pondering around the room.

“What makes you ponder, Trant?” he quietly asked in a soft voice.

Trant paused for a moment then said, “Alright, here’s the thing.

I found a secret message in the book calling it as a fake. Look, read.”

He hurriedly said. Rethia looked at the first lines as Trant pointed to

them. Rethia’s jaw dropped like Trant’s, but he started shaking in

fear, his eyes wide open and forehead sweating.

“We can’t reveal this! It would corrupt us; rebellion would start

in the city!” Rethia boomed, his voice strong but worried.

“I think we should reveal it, tell the people,” suggested Trant,

“and I’m going to tell them now,” as he took the book and headed

for the doorway.

“No!” Rethia shouted, as his fat old body hobbled if front of the

door, arms spread wide, “I can’t make you do that and I won’t.”

Rethia pulled a brass dagger from under his gilded coat and swung at

Trant, who dodged and stumbled back and fell onto his chair.

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“I have to hide that secret Trant. I’m sorry.” Trant quickly

looked around and pulled the knife from the duck and plunged it into

Rethia’s stomach. A dash of blood and bile dribbled from his mouth

and dripped on his grey, rounded beard and he fell over. Pietra

walked into the room and saw Rethia on the floor and screamed,

running out the door. Trant jumped out of the little hole for a

window and ran out into the streets, into the crowds. He ran off into

a quiet alleyway and pulled off his royal gowns covered in jewels

and gold. He picked a few gems off with a stone and walked off in

plain clothing.

Trant walked off, getting pulled by the crowds and found out he

was eventually lost. After a while of being pushed around he looked

up and saw the Sanctus Cacas, a wonderful sight, until he was

violently pushed with the crowd into the main square, the

marketplace. He managed to go sideways and climbed on one of the

buildings nearby to look around. He stared at the Sanctus, the

amazing sight still jaw dropping to him, and his eyes wandered onto

the crowd. Thousands of people were pushing through the square,

the noise of street vendors and the crowd wouldn’t even allow him to

think. The stalls all around were wooden but held anything from fish

to clothes to live goats. He was relaxed until a shouting man came on

the rooftop and pushed him off, on top of the people. He fell to the

dusty ground and started being trampled by the crowd. He started

getting hurt and losing air until a hand grabbed him and pulled him

through the crowd into a small house in one of the streets.

It was a young woman in regular coloured robes and dark hair.

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“You should probably know that climbing on anyone’s roof

will bother them. You must be new here though. By the way, I’m

Kina.” The woman said.

“I’m Trant,” he said.

“Trant? That’s the name of the person from the committee, no,

wait… You are!” Kina said, “I am so very sorry, your holiness,” She

said as she knelt in submission.

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t do that. I am one of the committee,

but listen. I found a secret message in the Zanata that says it is not

real and we should expose it. You can look if you like. Do you have

one?” He said to her.

“Who doesn’t?” she said as she picked up her book and looked

at the lines he pointed at. Her jaw dropped as anyone who saw it did

as she read it.

“No way!” she said amazed.

“I told one of the committee and he tried to murder me to hide

the secret. But, I think we should expose it,” he said.

“We?! No-one will listen to me. All I am is a simple rug-

weaver in the largest city in the universe!” she shouted.

“Yeah, but I am one of the most famous people in the world. So

come with me and ring the emergency meeting bell,” he said. They

both walked out the door, Kina still trembling.

Trant left Kina in the crowd and climbed through the secret

passage only the committee knew about, a stone flight of stairs

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leading up to the top of the Sanctus Cacas. He pulled out the

ceremonial stick and hit the giant bell which protruded inside the

Sanctus. The noise was amplified throughout the whole city. The

noise in the city crew as everyone rushed home for their Zanata and

went into the Sanctus. Once the whole city was there, everyone was

quiet and Trant spoke:

“People, I have called you today to tell you a secret. The Zanata

is not true.” The whole city gasped and everyone was arguing and

booing.

“People, look at the first letter of each line and see for yourself.”

He told. The city pulled out their books and all of their jaws dropped

and everything was silent. Then shouting started and people started

chanting:

“You lied to us! Revenge!” The whole city pulled everywhere

and chaos erupted in the city. On person then ran up to Trant and

stabbed him with a brass dagger and shouted at him: “You unfaithful

bastard! It was just a coincidence! I still believe!” Trant fell over, the

pain excruciating, his stomach cramping as he cradled himself.

Blood was all over his hands and they were slippery and warm. He

started getting dizzy, the pain easing, and the world started seeming

like it wasn’t real, like it was just a dream. He then let go and fell

into a sleep. A deep, deep sleep from which he would never return.

The rest of the city was in anarchy, firing catapults and hacking

at the wall of the Sanctus Cacas. It eventually fell down and the

people all threw their books onto the rubble and set it alight. The city

was filled with smoke and dust, screams of revolution and hate

echoing through the streets and all the way to the mountains. As for

the committee, they tried to flee, but were brutally murdered and

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thrown onto the massive pile of flame and dust, in the centre of the

city.

After about a week, the riots stoped and life continued normally,

except for that no-one went to the Sanctus Cacas on Radibday

because it was only a pile of rubble and ashes. Besides, they

renamed Radibday to Sunday, because the sun glowed red on the day

because of all the smoke and dust

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.

139

140

Ball

By Olivia Schenk

141

142

There was a slick ‘swish’ as the ball glided through the hoop. “Oh

hoo yeah! And that’s how you shoot a threepointa!”I said.

“Cody, do you have any idea how good you are man?” asked

Josh as he grabbed the ball and went in for a lay-up of his own. He

missed.

I cracked up. “I dunno, how can you tell? We don’t know what

those guys are in the city can do with the game.”

Josh chuckled. “Have you ever thought ‘bout tryin’ out

somewhere?” he said, wondering around as if he was asking himself

the question.

“No way, Steve would never pay for anything like that in a

million years! He’s just some fat arse loser who doesn’t give a crap

bout me or what I want and just thinks about himself!” I exclaimed.

“Then just go back to foster care and get better parents.”

“No way man! They’re even worst then Stevo is.”

“It’s seven, I gotta go, seeya round Cods.” Josh said goodbye

basketball style, shooting a three pointa… and missing.

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I talk to myself most of the time, who else is there to talk to?

My friends are at school and Steve’s at work. I know I’m alone;

Uncle Steve ain’tdoin’nothin’ for me. Who knows why I’m on this

planet. The boy next door, Josh plays ball with me some days. My

parents didn't want me, they gave me up the day I was born. Bloody

foster care is stupid, new kids come in day in and day out when I

was there. I have one dream, to play for the Knicks, the New York

Knicks. No one older than me thinks I’m even good at the game, let

alone play professionally. I’ve got B-ball shoes I found in the trash

and some knick shorts.

* * *

“Stevio, goin’ shooting!” I yelled.

“Cody, be back in two hours, going to work. Feed yourself.”As

Steve put a bowl of noodles for one on the table, for himself.

“Whatever, gone.” He slammed the door behind him as he

went out.

I run over to the courts only to see…

“Tyson, where’s Josh? He comin’ out?” I picked up the ball

and started dribbling.

“Nahh, Mum got pissed at him, he gotta do homework.”

“Hahahah, what a loser!”

“Yeh, I gotta get back too, shoot with ya later Cody.” Tyson

pasted the ball and left.

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“K man.”

I don’t really care about being on my own, I mean I am most

of the day. The courts are where the real me comes out. I feel like

nothing else in the world matters when you hold a basketball.

Shootin’ three pointas with that ‘swish’ sound drives you further to

get each shot in.

* * *

A guy called Stu who I used to play ball with comes onto the

basketball court, I haven’t seen him in ages.

“Hey Stu, where didya team go? Heard you fell off the

charts?” I asked.

“Cody, sometimes pieces to the puzzle just don’t fit. Anyway I

gotta run, see you ‘round kid. Just thought I’d come by to see if

anyone was here.” Putting his arm around me and then running back

from where he came from.

The courts are usually dead silent on a Monday arvo, kids are

at school and people are working. Ohhho swish baby. The ball sailed

through the hoop with that sound.

“Hey kid” a guy I’ve never seen before pulls up near me in a

black car. Pretty flash car too.

“Uhh, hey” I replied nervously.

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“My names Mark Steiford, I’m the coaching assistant for the

New York Knicks and I have seen you play here a few times. You’re

very talented. What’s your name? How old are you?

“That’s a sweet job, my names Cody and I’m 15.”

“Well Cody, let me give you my card. Next week we are

having a talent search day, you would definitely get in, you could go

far.” He insisted, grabbing a card from his wallet.

“Really, where is it, I don’t have any way of getting across

town. I do live in Brooklyn after all.” Shrugging my shoulders.

“It’s at noon, at the NYBC, I’ll pick you up here at 11.30.”

“How do I know I’m as good as you think?”

“In 12 years of working for the Knicks, I have never seen a 15

year old get 16 three- pointas in a row.” Getting out of the car and

going for a shot himself.

“Alright man, I’ll see you on Monday.” I said.

“Good bye Cody.” He replied, walking back to his car without

another word.

Well that was kinda strange, but awesome! Although Steve

will never let me go in a million years! So I’m not expecting much

from of him. The wind is still, the courts are a lonely place but time

goes by quickly. Theresprobsgonna be like 100 guys doin’ this thing.

Crap, going to be late for Steve.

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“Omg Steve man I’m sorry about being late but I have

awesome news that you’re going to want to hear.” I grab a chair for

him, so he can sit down.

“Really? Not just going to waste my time? What is it now

Cody?” He rolled his eyes.

“Well, there was this guy and he is the assistant coach to the

Knicks! He said he’s been watching me down at the courts and he

offered me to go to this basketball thing next week and try out for

some basketball team or whatever. He gave me his card.” I said with

enthusiasm.

“He asked you, with what you’re wearing now?” He said,

joking with himself.

“Uhh, no. He just wanted me to try out. He said I could go far

in basketball.”

“HA! You! You kiddin’ me? You aren’t got no talent, just

cause you spend all day down there and not at school doesn’t mean

you’ll go far.”

“I hate school and you’ve never even seen my play.” I said

under my breath.

“It was not my responsibility to put you here and it’s not my

responsibility to watch you play some silly game.” He yelled, staring

into my eyes.

“Maybe you need to get over yourself and realise that I am

here. It would be nice if for once you could give a damn about

anything to do with me, because I am sick of it.” I had never said

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anything like that to my uncle ever, and I’m worried 'bout how he

will react.

He didn’t, he just got up and left, to his room.

* * *

The next day was a silent one; it’s a Tuesday and Steve usually

goes out of town, to the city or something so I have to spend my time

somehow. I don’t think I’m going to play ball today. My arms for

some reason are kinda tired. Its 10 AM so I wake up in time just to

watch ‘Sport All Morning’. It’s my second favourite thing to do.

Steve walks through the front door.

“Cody, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked as

he put his car keys and jacket away.

“I’m just watching TV, man.” I replied.

“Well you shouldn’t be wasting time watching that rubbish,

you should be out shooting hoops.”

“My arms are kinda tight and they hurt.”

“Well don’t be such a girl and train. If you really want to get

into whatever it is that you want.” He said.

“I’ll go down later; I’ll see if there’s something I can put on

my arms for now.” I said, turning off the TV.

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I didn’t understand, was Steve actually encouraging me? Wow,

that’s something new. Maybe he got a pay cheque.

A few hours have gone by now and my arms are still aching

but not as much. I know it’s nothing serious because the day after I

have a hard session my limbs always hurt. I’ve had medicine and

rice and water. I am so tired, I slowly drift away…

* * *

“Cody, wake up! Wake up you dumb boy! I don’t want you to

waste your whole day sleeping like you did yesterday!” Steve yelled

right in my ear.

“Steve, what are you talking about? What day is it and what’s

the time?”

“It’s 12 o’clock Wednesday.” He replied.

“What! Impossible, does that mean I slept all of Tuesday and

today?!” I asked.

“Yes, you did. I think you were really tired, but I want you to

get to up now. I’m going to work and by the time I get home it’ll be

dinner and I want to see you sweating it hard at the courts when I

come over.” He told me as he gazed into my eyes with a serious look

on his face.

“Umm, ok sure. I’ll be there! Cya. And thanks.” I said, getting

up from my bed.

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I feel as if there is something going on with Steve, but I guess

he’s just being Steve, he sometimes acts nice, of course only when

he wants to. My arms are feeling as good as new, and that’s a great

thing!

So it’s Wednesday, and the drafting is on Sunday. That’s four

days away. Today’s goal is to get 25 layups in a row, left and right.

Shoot 20 goals in 20 seconds which I guess equals working hard. But

how ‘hard’ is Steve’s ‘hard’?

“Steve, I’m home. I worked hard as you said I do.” I yelled as I

walked through the door after hours of training. Dripping of sweat

and in need of food and water.

“That’s good my boy. That’s what I like to see, sweat and a

hard working face. Do ya want some chicken n chips?” he asked.

“Thanks man. Yeah, defiantly. So starving!” I grabbed the

whole box of chips and shoved it into my dry mouth.

“Hahah” Steve chuckled.

After dinner I get ready to go to bed for an early night.

* * *

It’s now Saturday. I’ve had three really early nights so I can

get extra sleep. I have too if I'm getting up at 7.00 o’clock each

morning to do my daily training. Steve has been encouraging me and

pushing me hard. I cannot believe its tomorrow. Nearly a whole

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week has gone by and the time has nearly come. I got up, ate three

whole eggs, six rashes of bacon, three pieces of toast and two glasses

of apple juice.

I’m not going to train today because I want to be at my best

form tomorrow. I’ll just watch TV and take a nap.

I know I am ready...

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152

Yellow Star

By Rhea Singh

153

154

Chapter 1

The overpowering, intolerable pungency of urine and rotting corpses

pervaded the ominous dark alleyway. Scared and shaking, I uttered

prayers in whispers, imploring God to defend me in this horrid, bleak

place. Mouldy walls were scribbled in graffiti and cobbled stones

covered the derelict alley. As I sat hopelessly in the dark, rat-infested

alley, tears trickled down my dirt-streaked face and the strong stench

of rotten garbage filled my lungs, I wondered what I had done to

deserve such a life.

This dreadful place was absolutely revolting and no one was fit

to live in such a place. The walkways were cracked and weed ridden.

The moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the area. Vines formed a

twisted maze upon the side of the small shelter we shared with many

other families, reaching their tentacles towards the roof. Since there

were so many people living in such an inadequate and cramped area,

diseases spread rapidly. The walls showed black decay from neglect,

but splotches of original paint hinted at its former prosperity.

As I entered the shelter, the door begrudgingly creaked open

and out of the corner of my eye I saw tiny creatures scampering away.

Cobwebs covered the corners of the rooms, tiny black spiders

threading towards their prey. A musty, dank odour crept into my

nose. My ‘house’ was dead silent except for the intermittent creaks

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and moans. Black and brown mould dotted the ceiling in clusters,

evidence of rain seeping through the roof. The windows were covered

with grime and dirt, which caused the calm moonlight to struggle to

penetrate the darkness. A large jagged hole, which was dug through

the wall, dared anyone to enter. Dust swirled around the room and as I

made my way inside I saw that a mirror lay shattered in pieces on the

floor. The only sound to be heard was the drip, drip of water from the

faucet falling into the ceramic sink. A closer look revealed the

discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction. Crusty rags filled

the sink and each step that I took intensified the groaning and creaking

of the floor boards as if it could collapse at any moment.

I already knew that I was different from all my friends. I had

no sufficient clothing or proper food and was continuously forced to

withdraw from my rights. To differentiate between Jews and non-

Jews, the Nazis forced us to wear the Star of David bands on our coat

sleeves. All my friends snickered at me. No matter how much I

badgered my parents to allow me to remove the star, the answer

always remained the same. I didn’t get it though, no one else was

singled out, so why me? I was not allowed to go to school anymore

and my social life was limited. I had curfews for how late I could be

out and restrictions to where I could go. In actual sense I could not

live my life like a normal child. I was stripped of my human rights and

grew up in a world where no child should be.

Despite all these brutal conditions and the Nazis' constant

attempt to control and degrade us through oppression, we tried to

maintain our dignity and some sense of normalcy in a world gone

awry. Although there were the very few of us who tried to fight

against the Nazis, we quickly ran out of supplies, were swiftly caught

and punished, killed or taken to prison. This is my diary about my life

during the Holocaust and a written reminder to not forget what

happened during the Holocaust. About six million Jews died for one

simple reason: they were Jewish.

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Chapter 2 A few days before… “Heil Hitler!” Hitler’s speeches were broadcasted daily and his shrill

shrieks struck panic in my heart. I live in Somorja, a small, sunny

town at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains. The familiar hills loom

in a blue haze towards the west. To the south, a forest rises and an

inviting green oasis is stretching into the distance. The cool, rapid

River Danube is the heart of our town. It pulsates with promise of life

and perpetual motion.

The gloom and slow drag of the war thickened the chill winter fog. I

sashayed through the flow of people on the pavement, their perspiring

bodies pressed together as they stumbled further down the road. I

needed to find him, I needed him. I couldn’t let anything happen to

him. As I rounded the corner, my mouth dropped open and my legs

suddenly faltered.

The local synagogue, where we come to pray, was engulfed

with flames from all sides. The fire burned deep red and amber,

almost livid purple. There was fire everywhere; the roof was on fire,

the doors and windows were on fire, fire was even coming out of the

synagogue through various openings, looking like a fire-breathing

dragon was inside the synagogue, puffing away vigorously. Only the

silhouettes and shadows of the maniacal crowd could be seen. I saw

the flames licking up in the air with the wind, trying to catch

something else on fire, and finding nothing but air, disappearing into

the windy night. Men in uniforms had guns in their hands, firing away

into the midst of the crowd. The putrid smell of smoke and burning

took over the whole area. Panic started to arise and as the crowd got

larger and denser, with so many people scrambling away, it also got

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angrier. People who could not move fast enough were pushed to the

ground and trampled. Voices were raised to a deafening crescendo

with men shouting and women and children screaming. The crush of

people resulted in windows being broken and everyone being forced

through the openings of jagged glass.

From that moment I knew my life was going to change. The

Nazi’s had taken over, their merciless laughter filling the grief-

stricken air. I could hear and feel the smoky air breathed in and out

from a thousand unknown lungs. But all of them were insignificant.

All I cared about was the one black cotton jacket, which was now

dissolving in the shapeless human mass.

Chapter 3 I was drawn to the oak tree that stood alone in the field at the bottom

of the lane. It beckoned to me silently and for a moment I thought I

could hear a whispering voice drifting across the space between the

trees and where I stood; maybe it was just the wind in the ancient

gnarled branches. The sun peered over the crowns of the trees, as if it

was a little too apprehensive to show off all its bright rays. The

blooming flowers of the cherry blossom trees twirled gracefully

through the garden. Across the garden, springs signature features were

creeping out from the long winter. But there was no time to appreciate

nature’s beauty.

My pace quickened and as I peered through the trees I felt like

a gazelle entering a lion's den. The hungry eyes of soldiers bored into

me, waiting to pounce on their latest victim. What I saw, I would

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never forget. Right in the middle of the park, in the midst of a crowd

of people, stood a wooden stake tied to another one hanging up above.

Suspended from the pole was a thick rope. And standing in front was

the black cotton jacket.

Elijah, my brother, stood solemnly before the soldiers as silent

tears rolled down his sweet porcelain face, “No!” I thought, but no

sound emanated from my mouth. I just stood there. My brother, who

was always the strong one, who had convinced me that one day we

would overcome the imbalance that was happening in this world was

now captured. Now I had no one. Was there anything worth living for

now?

The noose was placed around his neck, the drums banged

vociferously. My young eyes, always so sheltered from the horrors

around me were not accustomed to the sight before me. I did not

understand. I was too young to comprehend the situation. Blood

rushed to my face. The disaster that was taking place in front of my

very eyes was not yet completely processed in my fragile brain. The

despicable soldiers approached the lever. The drums abruptly stopped

and the lever slammed down. The silent drops of love and remorse

rolled down my cheeks.

I screamed, my voice finally found. Tears dripped down my

cheeks like a fretful stream over boulders. I scurried to my brother, his

helpless body lying limp on the ground. I fell to my knees, covering

him from the Nazi soldiers’ watchful gaze, like it was poison about to

stab into his peaceful heart. The Nazi soldiers, taking sight of me,

forcefully grabbed my wrists and harshly pulled me away. I took my

last sights of my brother and I promised myself that I would be strong

and live for him. After that everything was a blur, but the guilt inside

me would stay forever.

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Chapter 4 A few months later…

The dark, rainy days of autumn froze into glistening white stiffness of

winter. Another frigid blast of wind carried a hail of snow down the

mountainside and into the windswept valley. Naked trees leaned all in

one direction as if an explosion of ice had bent them to the side and

frozen them permanently in position, carrying away forever their

colourful leaves. With wind brushing my face and whistling in my

ears, I observed the landscape from atop the precipice of a snow-

covered rock, protruding from the ground.

I tossed throughout the night, listening to my stomach as it

gnawed at any remaining flesh. Sleep had fled from my eyes. As the

morning grew near, a dagger rose with the sun and began to sharpen

itself before me. We were imprisoned in detrimental conditions. Just

like the ghettos, the concentration camps were horrendous, but here

you lived in constant fear that you could be killed at any moment.

Infectious diseases spread hurriedly in such cramped, unsanitary

housing. Plumbing usually broke down and human waste was thrown

into the streets along with garbage. There was no privacy and the

constant noise and stench that wafted up my nostrils was unbearable.

We were always hungry. The hunger that plagued me was

intolerable and I often chewed on my buttons to trick my brain into

thinking I was actually eating. During the long winters, heating fuel

was scarce, and many people lacked decent clothing. People were

weakened by hunger and exposure to the cold which is why they

became easy victims of disease.

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Pondering this impossible dream of being free has made me

realize one thing; I don’t care if I live. The little faith I used to have

had been completely shattered. If God existed, he would have

certainly not permitted that human beings be thrown alive into

furnaces, and the heads of little toddlers be smashed with the butt of

guns, or be shoved into sacks and gassed to death. The rope around us

was getting tighter and tighter. I'm turning into an animal waiting to

die. This place, whatever it is, has already taken my soul and my

physical being is tragically stuck in this abyss of darkness. If only I

could say, it's over, you only die once. But I can't, because despite all

these atrocities I want to live, and wait for the following day. I want to

live for my brother.

Chapter 5

I looked through the hostile rods of imprisonment that were evidence

of my incarceration. They separated me from here and the outside

world. The smell of fresh, minty pine was emanating from the

beautifully intricate foliage that blossomed all over the land. The air

was a thick soup of moisture, insects, and pollen, stirred only by the

movements of the creatures who call this wilderness home. As I

looked over to my side of the fence, the ground was barren and there

was absolutely nothing. I was shrieking inside. I wish I had died that

day with my brother; at least I wouldn’t have to go through this

torture. I was struck by a feeling of falling, falling into some deep

dark pit full of poisonous insects. The world didn’t feel stable

anymore. It was shaking violently, undergoing an evil metamorphosis

as it did. How can this happen to our world which is supposedly full

of equal rights?

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As the day went on, the air steamed around me as we were

forced to work. The heat was scorching and working all day was

making me dehydrated and delirious. The striped pyjamas we wore

clung to my skin and mosquitoes blanketed the parts of my skin that

were not covered. I felt a breeze of sand rushing across my face and

body as I scratched my torrid, sweaty arm which was stinging from

whip attacks.

The day gradually turned to night. The still, black sheet of sky

was illuminated by the stars that began to dance playfully in the night

sky. I tiptoed as quietly as a falling leaf, to the border of the site.

There was no soldier in sight. All that lay ahead of me was a giant

fence. This run down place seemed depressed and full of sadness and I

just craved to depart from the misery. I wanted to escape to tell the

world about the barbarity happening behind these malicious bars. I

don’t want anyone to go through what I have. As I began to move

though, I thought I heard the unpleasing echoing of footsteps

somewhere in the shadows. I carefully searched the premises, my

heartbeat drumming inside of me. I slowly took a foot forwards and

then.....

Boom! Crash! My legs gave way underneath me as I

plummeted down to the ground. The odour of gunpowder wafted up

my nose. The ground beneath me crumbled and the uneven surface

struck my body all over. A sudden pain cut through my shoulder. The

pain was agonising! All I could feel was a torturous pain going

through my body at immense speed.

As I opened my eyes I saw vultures flying in circles, ready to

dig through dead battered corpses and eat the dead flesh. Abruptly,

someone grabbed me and held a pistol on my head. I was pounded on

the head; thick blood was pouring down from my left eye. Slowly I

was losing consciousness, my vision grew fainter, my eyes drooped

down and it was as if my body was not responding anymore. I was

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paralysed and was trying to regain consciousness again, but two

guards were holding me from my numb, fragile neck making it

impossible for my blood to flow through my body.

Next to me, another gunshot was fired and out of the slits of

my eyes I saw another Jew who was heavily wounded; he was

bleeding internally, the deathly bullet plundering deep through his

lungs. He was drowning in his own clotted blood, as he was gasping

for breath. Blood poured mercilessly out of his deep wounded chest

and also gushed out from his deformed mouth. His pupils started to

fade which was a sign of his departure. As he took his last, final breath

he fled from this world.

I screamed, the sound piercing the noisy night. This was not

supposed to happen. What had I done? A soldiers blazing eyes were

like fire and his lip coiled back to show a vicious set of pearly white

teeth. His eyes smouldered to a thirsty red as he grabbed me roughly

and shoved me in the ground. A rough rope was put over my head and

all I could hear were the snarling and laughter of the guards. The rope

tightened and I felt my head snap back in a deadly jerk.

Time crawled by as each gulp of air grew smaller and further

apart. The pressure against my thorax choked me, slowing the flow of

blood. I sensed my pupils as they begin to dilate as my eyes grew

larger. Numbness crept through the tips of my fingers and crawled up

my arms, until it eventually shrouded my entire body. My tongue was

beginning to close over my windpipe and I was parched and yearned

for water to quench the dryness in my throat. Little by little everything

around me faded as a welcoming darkness grew near; darkness that at

one time would have stricken fear into every inch of my body, now it

brought desire. The sand that dripped through the bell shaped glass

was almost gone. And along with that my promise.....

163

Epilogue

Today the Holocaust is viewed as the symbolic manifestation of

absolute evil. Its revelation of the malevolent depths of human nature

and the power of malicious social and government structures has

moved the way we think about our world. Before Zemirah died her

final plea was, “Remember! Do not let the world forget!” What

Zemirah and everyone else in her situation have faced is absolute

atrocity. Families were ripped apart and many were killed all because

of one man and his ability to convince people to believe in prejudiced

remarks and the murder of many innocent people. The Holocaust has

left an unmistakable impression on the world and will never be

forgotten.

Sarah, Courtney, Kate, Megan, Claire, Olivia, Esther, Rhea, Paul, Carla, Brandan.

Authors: Courtney Affat Sarah Bourke

Esther de Belle

Megan Diplock

Kate Johnson

Brandan Lapeyre

Claire Murphy

Carla Russo

Paul Sadauskas

Olivia Schenk

Rhea Singh