 
Change: 2014

## Heaton Extension Writers Anthology

Edited by Beaulah Pragg
Smashwords Edition (2018)

Copyright © respective authors (Franki Tellick, Benjamin Baillie-Gee, Laouena Le Louër, Madi Cooper, Lauren Young, Leon Meier, Mia Porteous, Jesse Holmes, Maddie Flynn, Oliver Garrett, Jaz Tufau, Henry Harrison, Bailey Peterson, Ella Tucker) 2015

Cover image by Unsplash (http://pixabay.com/en/users/Unsplash-242387/) and used under creative commons license CC0 Public Domain.

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Table of Contents

Two Halves - Franki Tellick

Life, or an Explanation of Such - Ben Baillie-Gee

The Thing with the Dudes with the Wings - Laouena Le Louër

Miss Popular - Madi Cooper

On the Inside - Lauren Young

The End of Humanity - Leon Meier

Curiosity - Mia Porteous

Sailing Away from Comfort - Jesse Holmes

Goblins - Oliver Garrett

The Human Child - Jaz Tufau

Witless War - Henry Harrison

In an Instant - Bailey Peterson

The Price of Popularity - Ella Tucker

About the Editor

Other Titles by Beaulah Pragg

# Two Halves

## by Franki Tellick

### Olive, a year before:

Olive Smith sat on her plastic chair, her arm leaning against the wooden desk. With the other hand Olive turned a lock of brunette hair while a lady with jet black hair and a crooked nose stood at the front of the class.

"Eyes to the front," her shrill high pitched voice squawked. Olive peered up. "Now class, I've had an idea that you should write to someone from around the world, since learning about other cultures is our topic," the teacher said.

Olive raised her hand to the sky.

"Yes, Olive," Miss Crow said.

"Miss Crow, how long are we going to be doing this for?" Olive asked.

"As long as you like, but it has to be at least a term. I'll put a chart on the back of the class so we can see who is still doing this at the end of the year," the large croak replied. "Now Olive, you will be pen pals with Jock McCredie who lives in Edinburgh."

The crow burbled on with the addresses of all the pen pals while Olive received her stamps and sat back down at the desk.

### Olive now:

I fling my bag on one of the hooks on the door. It's been horrible since moving to the Council Estate here in London. Dad's been working longer hours and Mum's turning into a pig. What happened to the working mother I used to know? She used to be so happy and cheerful, working at Costa Coffee on High Street in Dumfries, but then she got scared by how all those separatists were talking and made us leave.

Now she's got her eyes fixed on the television, her hoodie pulled right down over her forehead, to cover all the pimples spreading like the plague. With one hand, Mum is holding a cigarette puffing like a dragon, in the other is the remote. We've had to stop my ballet because there's not enough money.

I head to my room. There are two beds, one for my sister Rose, who is sixteen, and one for me. I'm ten. I like to keep things neat and tidy, unlike Rose who just likes to throw all her clothes on the floor after she has finished wearing them. Once, I saw five plates with leftover food under her bed. I almost gagged with the sight of it. I don't blame her really as it's not much fun being around Mum.

I've got a desk where I write my letters to Jock. But what is there to write about in this dump? Sometimes Rose will come home crying greasy black tears of mascara. I hear her sobbing into her pillow, and when I ask what's wrong?

"Teenage stuff Olive, just stuff you'll find out one day," she says in a sore voice.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll come home crying black teenage tears like Rose. The sun is still shining like arms reaching out to me, pushing me forward, making me positive. The vote for Scotland's independence was a few weeks ago and now there is rioting, even here in London. Wails of the Scots wanting to be free. I sit down at my desk and look over all my letters from Jock.

The first letter

Dear Olive,

Thank you so much for your letter, I really liked it. What are your favourite sports? I play football every Wednesday for my club "The Rovers". I'm thirteen years old. Blonde hair, light blue eyes and lots of freckles. What do you like to do?

Write soon. Jock

I peer down at his most recent letter

Dear Olive,

Everyone of my friends is angry about the vote. My parents voted 'yes'. I don't know anyone who voted 'no'. People say the ballot must of been rigged. Everyone's angry about their freedom being stolen. I don't know what there is to complain about... doesn't worry me, but then again, I'm not much of a historian. Oh I bet they will just forget soon enough.

Write soon.

Jock Clyde McCredie

I decide to reply. I pick up my pen and write in purple swirly writing.

Dear Jock,

Things are getting hectic here too. I hear the riots outside every night, and I wish people could just get along. How is the project you were doing for school, or have you finished that now? School has been quite hard, with all my homework I have been doing.

Write soon.

Olive Eve Smith

I look at the picture Jock sent me last year. I see a friendly smiling face, bright blue eyes shimmering like the deep blue ocean. Hair wild, thin, untamed in the ferocious wind. In his hands is the photo of me. We are together in the photo. I pin it up on my board. Outside, all the policemen are trying to calm the riot and I wonder if I, Olive Smith, will ever get to meet Jock Clyde McCredie.

The sun glints from the window into my eyes. It is bright, yet a cold breeze creeps around my shoulders and makes the hairs prickle upwards on my spine. Roars of pain fill my ears—voices shouting, "I want my freedom" blare louder than Rose's music, which is roaring like lions from the speakers. I kick the bed, then lay my head on my pillow and try to rest. Suddenly the door handle twists and in barges my Mum and my Dad. Mums tense hands hold a letter, a letter addressed to me. A letter with a Scottish stamp.

"What on earth is this?" my mum screams at the top of her lungs, shaking the white piece of paper. A letter from Jock.

"I, I, I," I stutter. I thump my hands against the bed, quickly standing up. "I was writing to someone in Scotland, we had to do it at school last year for World Wide Term," I say quickly.

"I can not believe this, my own daughter wanting to write to someone in Scotland! I mean Scotland?" I hear my mother mumbling under her breath.

I'm so confused and angry. "But, but, but," I start to say, but mum interrupts me, her hoodie covering her eyes and her pimples.

"That's enough. I've heard enough from you today young lady!" My mum is so red and angry, she suddenly starts ripping up the letter Jock sent me! Even dad looks shocked!

"Nooo," I scream, but they've already shut the door. I'm left in my room crying. How can they just make assumptions like that? They don't even know the nice friendly guy that he is. Hot angry tears roll down the side of my cheek, like pencils rolling off my desk, hot like dragons breath. I bury my head under my pillow and try to erase what just happened with my eraser.

I am angry, sad and confused. How can my parents just walk straight into my room and heave all my favourite hobbies out in a quick whip flash. There's only one way to get me writing back to Jock. And it might just work. I've had an idea that I would have to STOP writing to Jock and obey my parents orders so my parents will be happy, not angry. Once I know that my parents are back to normal and all the riots have finally stopped, I will try to persuade them that Scotland is a good country. In the mean time I will be taking some trips to my school library. This is no Wizard of Oz plan, where she runs away. No, no, no, this is just a simple and sweet idea that will hopefully, just hopefully, might work.

I start writing the final letter to Jock for the meantime.

To Jock,

I'm sorry to say but my parents have just discovered that I have been writing to you all this time and are VERY angry. I do not know why they are being so stupid! I've had an idea that I will try to persuade them to think you're okay, and a really nice person. But for it to function properly I will need to obey their orders and not write to you after this. So please don't write to me in the next few weeks or I may not be able to write to you again!

Hold on tight Jock!

Olive Eve Smith

### One week later

The sun is shining, birds are singing sweetly. London seems happy today, wearing a big fat smile. The streets are silent. Well apart from the beeping horns of cars and traffic. It is silent. There have been no silly riots at all. Today is the day, I think, today is the day. My brain is nearly bursting from all the ideas I've crammed inside it. I've planned my own speech inside my cranium and yes, I think it is good. The glass of water is beside me. My hands are sweating ferociously, jaw clenched shut, eyes steady on the door, and here I go.

I open the chipped handle of my bedroom and take a deep breath.

I walk into the lounge. My parents are sitting on the couch watching the news. I clear my throat nervously. Her dad looks up. "Olive?"

"I... I wanted to talk to you about... um... Scotland."

Her Mum scowls at the TV but doesn't look at me.

"See," I hurry on, "I read about it at school, and we did kind of steal their country, a long, long time ago, or at least, there was this rock that we put under our throne, and—"

"Olive, enough," Dad says. "That's old history. I don't want to talk about it."

"But we used to live in Scotland, and we were happy."

"Then they booted us out!" Mum snarls, glaring at me.

"That's not exactly fair," Dad says. "You were the one who wanted to leave."

"How could I do anything else? There were horrible riots!"

"But," I say. "Everything's calmed down now. They're going to make a new treaty. So we're okay now, right?"

Mum opens her mouth, but then purses shut it again.

"She does have a point, love," Dad says. "Is there really any harm in her writing to her friend again? They're just kids."

"Hmmmmmmm, I'll think about it."

### Later that night

"Olive we have been been thinking," I hear my mother saying in a hushed tone.

This is a bit strange I think.

"It was a bit wrong of us to stop you writing to Jock."

A bit wrong? I think.

"You were much happier when you were writing to Jock," I hear my father say.

Finally they know what I'm talking about.

"You can carry on writing to Jock, and anyway it's not that big a deal," Mum says, but there is now a slight smile painted on her lips. "Scotland is a nice country and you have been writing to Jock for a very long time, so your father and I have been planning a family trip to Scotland next week."

"It does not really matter if you're from another country or not." Dad smiles. "What really matters is that you and Jock are friends and deserve to see each other."

I don't hear much else, because all I can think about is that I'm finally going to meet Jock!

### Today

The car is packed, the sun is shining and everyone is happy. Even Rose has taken her headphones off, finally. Dad's in the car. Mum's made an effort and me, well you can say that right now I'm the happiest girl in the world. I am ready. Jock Clyde McCredie, here I come!

## About Franki Tellick

Once upon a time in a school named Heaton, was a twelve year old girl named Franki Tellick...

Whoops wrong story.

My name is Franki Tellick and I was chosen to be in the Heaton extension writing programme. Writing to me is like water to you or butter to bread, ink to pens, seconds to clocks.

Writing means quite a lot to me.

The ten weeks of extension class have involved wonderful writing. My story started off like a plant with one idea. Placing a seed in the soil, covering it with dirt, waiting and waiting, surviving through harsh weather, and yes turning into a wonderful flower. And that is all the process of change (our analogy theme). I hope you enjoyed my story.

#  Life, or an Explanation of Such.

## by Ben Baillie-Gee

A falling sensation. A feeling like flying through the sky, a bird. Then a horrible noise of breaking bone, flesh and sinew tearing, and then black. Then he woke up. And then there was white. Solid blocks of white all around. That was when he realised. His mind had taken a while to process it. He was dead.

There was just one problem now. No, not being dead, he had done that himself, but it was simply the fact that he was in heaven. He honestly hadn't expected that. Then, as the white cleared away, he saw heaven for what it was.

A kingdom.

At the centre was a magnificent spire, topped with gold and marble. This was where God lived, he guessed. This is going to take a while to get my head around, he thought. Circling the spire were wonderful white houses with preened green bushes. Everything was a sickening sort of pastel colour. Something was wrong. He needed darkness to work. Then, outside that district, were small houses, not as impressive as the other ones, but still nice enough. It was now he realised what was bothering him. There were no shadows. It made everything look alien to him, like he was a bug who had just landed on a fastidiously clean windscreen. And outside those small houses was where he was standing. Apartment blocks, drab but clean, with no defining features. Already he knew. He was going to hate it here.

* * *

That was ten years ago. Now he was surrounded by lavish gold towers, with flags hanging down the sides of the walls, his eyes assaulted with cleanliness. He had, of course, been in the citadel before, when he had been meeting with archangel Hepitaziah for a... business deal... but that had been on happier terms. Not flanked by angels. He looked around at the strangely blank faces of the creatures who had captured him. Their wings curved into talons, togas strangely misshapen—simply white blocks with no shape or form. It was like being hit with a flashbang, a lot of white with no blacks or greys. The voice hit him like a bucket of ice cold water. "A disappointment," it said.

So that was what he was, was he? A disappointment? That was the best he could do? He was losing touch. What had happened to the days when he had merely been another scavenger looking for a bit of pay for a scrap of marblr? But he had always known it could not last. Known that time and time again he would be pushed around by his superiors, that someone would be above him. And so he had risen to the top, used skills from his previous... job. And just like on Earth, it had not lasted. But what was he doing here? He had fully expected to have simply been thrown back to his old life and told to comply. And yet he was here—the citadel. And then he realised—he was being sent back. Back to Earth.

Oh. Um..... Yay?

This was what he would get, he pondered, if he were to go back. This is what he'd get; Bricks. Red. Blue. CONCRETE! THIS was what he was he was wishing for.

He was back. Home turf. He was dancing and laughing like an idiot, but he didn't care. And it was better than what he had before—white. Forever. He would have lived forever, but have nothing to live for. It was what he had waited for years, to finally be able to go home—just for ten days, and then he would die. Either from his own mechanisms, or from an accident, or the angels would simply come down and kill him. For mercy, apparently—didn't want any of God's precious little subjects to get any ideas. Earth... and yet, no. He would not give up. He smiled. He was sent to piss the world off.

* * *

### 10 days of exile remaining

Time ticked on—he could feel it. And now there was a time limit? Ten days. He had ten days left. All the pain inside his head was amplified by the shock of living, but he honestly couldn't have possibly cared less. This was home, although it wasn't exactly an ideal homecoming. Heaven had been all white, but he hadn't remembered Earth being all black.

He walked for a bit, breathing in smells and sounds for the first time. There is no type of sound or smell vaguely like it. Humans were never meant to smell smells, or hear sounds like this. There is literally no word to describe it. It is the smell of all human suffering, all the torture, all the sick things we've done to each other, all turned into one awful, horrible, all-encompassing mix of death. He tried to put it out of his mind, but it was impossible, overwhelming his senses, his whole being. He tried to think, to block it out, and, eventually, he did. But it was still there, like the numb pain of an amputee, gnawing at him. Then he walked a bit more, his head throbbing.

### 9 days of exile remaining

The smell still remained, boring into his head, but it was less noticeable now. He kept on walking. The trees around him loomed over, casting unnatural shadows on his face, making his features look sharp and twisted, the look of the darkness so unusual now. He only had nine days left. From a wild guess, he was in England somewhere. There was no other place like England. It had an aura of melancholy unlike any other. It all felt natural to him though, his mind so used to the monotony caused by those years in the shadowless place.

After a long time, his mind starting to get used to the red tinge of the sky, the dead animals lying around. Then he saw people, other people, alive like him, his fellow people. They were hiding in crumbling brickwork, chewing wood, in the hope it would taste like food. They had no campfires, sitting out in the cold. Fire would not work, he gave a grim smile, what's that old saying? When Hell freezes over... the darkness comes to Earth.

He found a settlement. Now he knew where he was. This used to be his bloody home. His bloody home! He recognised those buildings, even after the years. It was full of what he had bloody-mindedly thought of as his fellow people. These were not his people. These kids had less than nothing. Because people with nothing can still dream of something. They were starving, dying. Tiny children with their eyes wide open and ribs showing. But the sights were not enough. He heard someone. A sound.

"Are you one of us?" it asked. "Are you on our side?"

For a moment, he struggled to find words. "Uh... no."

The boy looked stunned. "So... whose side are you on?"

The words formed on his tongue before he had a chance to think about them. "I'm... I'm, on my own."

"Oh. Good. Because mummy said that it was God who did this. But she died ages ago. She was nice." And then he ran off.

"WAIT!, WAIT!" He shouted. "What's your name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I never leave someone without knowing their name!"

He said, surprised, "I... I don't know what my name is."

And as the boy walked off, he realised he knew that face—the boy's lank hair, and the grey eyes just like his own. Now he knew what God had done. This boy was robbed of his innocence. God had turned his back on this world. Stopped caring about the people and now cared only about his precious order. But the disgust he'd expected was mingled with something else. Cold, pure hatred. He had to show God. Show him that anything he could throw at him, he could deal with.

Is God a man? Or do we simply hope that so that we have a face to hate, or love, or believe? Is this what he felt, was it hatred, or something more primal? He felt inferior. But he knew. He was higher than God.

### 8 days of exile remaining

There was nothing to eat, but he didn't care. He could survive. It's surprising how humans have managed to adapt to conditions, either simply through sheer dogged determination, or by natural instinct. It defies what we think, and that is a good thing. Life was hard, but success was his only option. Failure was not. He had noticed something. A similarity. God and him. They were both confined. Trapped by tradition. So he had come up with a new name, one forged by his hatred. He was Hel. He would walk the Earth for the rest of his days of exile. He would come to see the human mind at its darkest, but for now, he just walked, with no destination, but a new sense of purpose in his heart.

He came across another settlement, even worse than the first. This one was corrupt. He walked around and talked to those who hadn't died, caught between the falling angel and the rising ape. But those capable of speech created a car-crash-like mortifying picture. Their leader had betrayed them to the wastes. Hel offered to help them for free, but with the pressing urgency of the dying, they begged Hel for food, and that was when the simple pampered little rebel from up high finally became Hel, the second devil. Something inside his head broke, and now all that mattered was justice. No fate, no guidance. It wasn't God who had starved those children raw, nor bad luck that had driven these people to the cutting edge of their lives. Not gods, but just men. And then everything stopped, and Hel was running through shapes and sounds that made no difference. He would find him—the betrayer. He would find the rebel leader, and he would destroy him.

It seemed like days, even years, trudging through the wasteland in search of revenge, the days merging together and swimming before his eyes. He felt like his last days were slipping away, but none of it mattered now.

Then he found the leader, just a frail old man, with sunken eyes and no choice but to betray them. Hel did not care. The man had made people suffer, and that was enough for Hel to do anything to him.

The man barely put up any fight, just raising his hands. Hel knocked them aside and his arms pounded up and down, knuckles covered in what was either the man's blood or his own, he didn't care at all, all Hel wanted to do was punish the old man for everything he had done. Hel wanted him to feel the pain those people had felt, the pain the man had created. He had left innocents out to the elements for his own selfish gain and it was Hel's duty to make God see what he had done. The man's breathing became more and shallow.

The red mist faded away and Hel looked at what he had done, his arms covered in blood. He staggered left and right, trying to figure out what had just happened to him, what change had come over him. And then he collapsed. He had become what he had been waiting for, an angel of revenge, and he hated himself for it.

Days passed, but he didn't care. He wanted to die. But then welcoming arms came to his aid. An old woman, wrinkles deep set in her face, eyes full of sorrow as she carried him off. He got a strange feeling, like he knew her, from some past time. She had the boy's eyes.

### 5 days of exile remaining

The sky went from red, to black, to red as the day passed on, storm clouds endlessly ravaging the sky. He had been taken to a derelict hospital, crammed with the dead and dying in the middle of a city full of suffering. As he emerged, he wandered the streets, he pondered how he had come to this. Beggars in sodden rags rattled cans hopefully as he walked, grasping at his plain brown coat.

This was not what he planned—he no longer had a plan. He'd been chewed up, spit out, and thrown out of his home, off his throne. It was hard to believe that once, he'd been the kingpin of crime in Heaven, leading what he thought was a righteous crusade, while all these men and women had suffered. And God had thought them just cracks in the wall of his castle of glass. Hel was part of something he could barely fathom, and he loved it. Because his righteous crusade had led him down the same path as his enemy. He would not sink to God's level. God would have to rise to his.

He was going to kill God.

### 4 days of exile remaining

He had planned. Oh yes, he had planned. Here was his one shot. One chance. Good or evil. But he could not change. This was his path. Once for good, once for revenge, once for blood, and now, once for the love of those who had cared for and helped him. He would revenge himself upon his creator, a Frankenstein, a demon, an angel of death. He knew what he had to do. The people around him comforted and fed him, and tried to steer him off his path, but it was decided. He had to do it—for them. They would never understand. He was doing it for them, and it was decided.

After a time, he slept. His dreams were full of friends he barely remembered, remnants from a time of peace long past; before any death crossed his path, before fate laid its heavy hand on his shoulder, before he died, and before he was brought back. A boy who was once his own. This was for them. This was for chaos. Mankind cannot live without chaos, it is what keeps humans human, order and justice cannot exist without flow breaking. He was ready.

### 3 days of exile remaining

Hel had prepared for this, bent his mind to his will for this purpose—to go back, to fulfil that self made prophecy he had sworn to not so long ago. All the cockiness, all the heroics gone. Just Hel.

### 2 days of exile remaining

This was his final chance to redeem himself. He thought back, back to the exceptional luck he'd had. The people who'd helped him, guided him, to where he was now. The old woman who had cared for him, the boy who raised more questions than answers. He thought of the family he did not know, the wonderings that would never come to a close, and he thought of the love people had shown in the most dire of situations. And he had hope.

### 1 day of exile remaining

This was it, the end of the road. Judgement day. After a day of having people trying to talk him out of it, he was sick of it. He went to sleep early, a fitful, restless sleep, full of visions of monstrous acts; raising flags on bodies painted red with blood, the lives of those he touched corrupted, his hands turning into claws, ripping at everything he touched. Then, drenched with cold sweat, he woke, and realised he had nothing left to lose.

### None

The days were up. Best believe it would all go well, because the other option was unbearable. He was ready. The little old lady who had fed him placed the bucket in front of him. He dunked his head under it, feeling his lungs burn, his chest constrict, and then, a falling sensation.

He was dead, again. It was not the numb shock of a simple death, but the sharp pang of justice about to be served.

"HERE I AM!" he bellowed, the noise of it ringing in his ears. "HERE I AM!"

He knew that God had made them watch. He saw the looks on their faces. A look of... admiration, almost. His palms slick with sweat, he ran through the shadowless streets, screaming out. People followed him. They put down what they were doing and followed him. Or, no. Not him, they followed the idea he stood for. The hatred. His chest swooped. They would be able to do it. Their presence created darkness where they walked. Shadows flowed out from his feet, his hands, his followers. The power of reality. The ability to bring darkness to light.

"COME TO ME!" He screamed.

His men chanted back at him, "COME TO US!"

It was too easy. He walked into the citadel, the darkness snapping at his heels. The men following him showed that an angel, no matter what they said, is no match for a human.

"FIGHT ME! YOU CREATED A HELL, AND NOW THIS IS REVENGE!" The battle raged around him, but it no longer mattered.

"FIGHT ME, COWARD!" His voice was as strong as his adversaries. It was not an order, but written in stone, the sound of the suffering he had seen and endured rang out in every word he spoke, and slowly, God came to him.

This was it.

It was no great show off between two equal adversaries, it was not a turtle and rabbit race. He looked around. There were swathes of angels everywhere. It was simple suicide should he attack now.

So he did.

He ran straight at them, his hands tearing at friend and foe alike. The rage of all his failures, the weakness of his choices, the reason he had made them—they fuelled his rage, amplified by the sight of the cause of his suffering in front of him.

God sat in a throne of gold, staring imperiously down at the battle, like a child watching a mildly interesting television show. Hel's eyes glossed red, and he snarled like a dog, running, screaming, but when he got there, God was gone.

Oh, right. He could teleport.

Hel looked down and saw the metal sticking out of his chest. 'Oh.'

And then, suddenly, a great clarity hit him—Hel was alive. Not the illusion before, but really alive. And then he saw them, his daughter, his friends and family. The memories came black in a flood—kissing under an apple tree, smoking a roll-up outside the bar, laughing (oh god, how long had it been since he had done that?), a bundle of cloth with a little hand sticking out of it, blowing out his candles at a birthday (how old was he now?), and he reached out to those memories, and they welcomed him in.

* * *

To this day, he was unsure exactly what had happened. He knew that he had gone back. Back to the past—back to before this all happened. He didn't know how. Somehow, anyway.

Many, many years later, he would write a book. He would tell a story about a god and a reluctant devil. And he would call it a fantasy. And that would be a lie. It would be an autobiography, and no-one would know. But there is always truth in even the most far fetched of legends. Time will water them down, and eventually, it would become known as life, or an explanation of such. And it would end with a footnote, written in tiny letters.

This is the—END.

## About Ben Baillie-Gee

Ben was born in Wellington (not the boot) and has a habit of making extremely morbid stories. He has a way of waffling on, being obsessive compulsive, and generally just being a massive prick. He likes Terry Pratchett & Art Spiegelman, but almost nothing else. Why do you need to know this anyway? If he finds stalkers in his neighbourhood he will call the cops.

# The Thing with the Dudes with the Wings

## by Laouena Le Louër

The thing with Heaven—or that I've found anyway—is that when you've lived there all your life it can become quite boring, especially the constant, whole-hearted kindness; the gut-wrenching innocence; and the awful, ever-present goody-two-shoes mentality. All of it there, all day and all night. I hated it all. Then I got kicked out, temporarily anyway. It's drab here on Earth. The colours are washed out and ugly—littered with shadows. But, I have to hand it to those humans: great food.

* * *

Lewis sat in the scruffy café, leaning into his chair, moulding into its hunched, gnarled frame. All arms and legs, he gulped down the last of his coffee. He liked his coffee black, liked staring into its murky depths. Or deep they would be, if it didn't cost $7.50 for a reasonable sized drink. Standing, he pulled on his jacket (leather, of course, leather was something worth its high price) and set out. Lewis left the café that day with a purpose. To find a job, or residence—both preferably. He came back to the café later that day with neither.

* * *

I was defeated. If I didn't find something soon, I'd be at the homeless shelter for the night. I shuddered at the thought. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for free accommodation, especially for those in need, but the only one nearby I managed to locate solely on the smell. As I went over this in my head, a small convenience store caught my attention. I walked in, and was pleasantly surprised. It was actually quite okay. It could even be described as alright—if you were feeling generous.

* * *

Lakshman, a shopkeeper, tiredly looked to the clock, then the door, as a person walked in. Tall but well built, the stranger looked around, and then to Lakshman. "You don't happen to have a job opening, or a spare room, do you?"

"If you take a shift for eight hours a night then you can have a room upstairs," Lakshman answered after a pause.

"When do I start?"

"Now." Lakshman stepped out from behind the till. "Follow me."

* * *

I've been on Earth for a couple of weeks now. I guess it's okay. I work in the shop at night, and sometimes my 'mentor', Adeodatus, takes me out and tries to 'make me a better person' or 'scrub away the taint that pollutes my mind'. He's an uptight, 500-year-old catholic, and he was rather pleased when he found himself in Heaven. To be fair, if he's ever bitter or ill-tempered, I can almost sympathise—he was probably pretty disappointed when he found out I was his job, until I do one 'proper' good deed anyway. Then I'm outta here.

* * *

It was a normal morning, just like any other, so why Adeodatus expected Lewis to arrive on time, not even God knows. Racing to a café of his mentor's choosing, Lewis jumped off of his motorbike (all he could afford with the meagre allowance given to him from Heaven) and speed walked (keeping it classy) to Adeodatus' table.

"You're late."

"Not by my watch."

"You're not wearing one."

"Shhh. Don't tell God."

A woman glanced over to them, confused. Had he been younger and more spritely, Adeodatus would surely have kicked Lewis, but instead gave a him a glare, paused, and forced and awkward laugh. "You need to learn compassion, sympathy."

"I sympathise for a lot of things. Rats, for example. All that hatred for just hanging out in people's walls." Lewis mockingly stared into the distance.

"I'm taking you to a rescue dog's home, to assist them for the day."

"Ooh, goodie!"

* * *

I'm so glad that I got to spend the day cleaning up canine faeces while Adeodatus watched me! My compassion levels are astounding! I'll be a wonderful person in no time at this rate. Lakshman understands the things better than that old codger will. He can have my place in heaven any day.

* * *

It was that same eventful day when Lewis slowed to a halt outside 'the shop'. Through the (unintentionally) tinted windows he made out two figures. One, Lakshman, stood frozen behind the counter, arms in the air – the other, well, they had a gun in one hand, the other hand outstretched towards Lakshman and the till.

Without faltering, Lewis slowly stepped off of his motorbike, leaving the engine to rev softly. He crept up to the door with all the silence of the rats he so loved, and then, in one swift movement, he barged through the door, charging at the imposter—knowing he would certainly be hit. His interruption gave Lakshman the chance to pull out the gun which Lewis knew he kept under the counter – previously just too far out of reach for Lakshman to have grabbed quickly.

A shot fired. No, two. The harsh sound of tearing flesh could not be heard over the deafening bang that had preceded it. The thief didn't need to hear it—no, feeling it was more than enough. With blood pouring from his foot, he stumbled to the ground and dropped the gun, which shot across the floor. Lakshman followed it with his eyes. Away from the thief it drifted, until it collided with something soft and it slowed to a halt. Lewis lay in a heap, his wings unfolded and crumpled as they lay over him. The thief, delirious with the pain in his foot, would not remember this, but Lakshman did.

Lewis was not a heavy man, and carrying him upstairs proved to be of no real difficulty. Lakshman was a wholly down-to-earth man, and would consult Lewis on the matter of his (oh, so tiny) secret later, but his friend's life was of much greater importance. It was unlikely he would bleed out—not once bandaged—the problem was all in about how to go about the bandaging. Lewis had been shot in the wing of all places. Wings were not Lakshman's department. Winged people, even less so. This was going through his mind when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from his friend. At first, he thought is was the thief, or one of his friends, but no. As Lakshman looked up, terrified, he was greeted by an older man, who was staring worriedly at Lewis. Then, Lakshman passed out. One minute, Lakshman had been fine, completely normal, the next, gone, out like a light. Completely odd.

Adeodatus leaned over Lewis, looked to his precious heavens, and sighed. It was not a sad sigh, as was to be expected. He sighed as though Lewis' wound was simply tedious—to him perhaps it was. Either way, he lifted Lewis up, chanted something under his breath, then disappeared. Both of them did.

* * *

Waking up back in Heaven again was odd. It was both relieving and a shame—I was beginning to like Earth quite a bit. I was in a bed, lying awkwardly on my side. I found out why when I shifted slightly. My wings were at an awkward angle so that the right one stuck out fully. Also, it had a small hole in it. Right by the bone, too. Through it shone the white glow of this forsaken dimension, which contrasted greatly with the black and grey of my wings.

A few days later, I was brought back into the court that had sent me to Earth in the first place.

"Lewis Owen Riley, you have been brought before the court today following your time on Earth, and your committing of one good deed. The choice presented to you is of this, return to Heaven, and to your previous life in The Greater Kingdom, or, stay on Earth till you see fit, living the life of a regular human, or joining the SRU – Special Recovery Unit. Your decision must be filed by the end of the day, or the choice will be made for you."

You might not believe me, but I stayed on Earth.

## About Laouena Le Louër

Hey, I'm Laouena Le Louër, thirteen years old. I enjoy lots of things such as swimming, hockey, (brackets—gotta love brackets) surfing and art – but most of all reading, writing and music. Mainly music. I love Fall Out Boy. Other obsessions of mine include Dan Howell and Phil Lester, among other YouTube personalities.

In my story, the change is seen in the main character, Lewis, who begins the story as grumpy, troublesome, and, dare I say it, a bit of a man-child. After various experiences on Earth (not all of them documented in the story—use your imagination) he becomes a more empathetic (if only slightly) individual (although whether this is down to his mentor, or just life experience, is up for argument). I chose this change because as well as allowing for some (relative) humour, I also find psychological change, and changes in beliefs or personality, to be very interesting (especially from a writer's perspective). Whether or not I wrote enough about it is up to the reader to decide, but either way, I certainly enjoyed writing it.

# Miss Popular

## by Madi Cooper

I jump out of my seat, knocking over a glass of water. "We're moving?" I say, shocked.

"Yes honey," Mum says and I look at her tired face.

"Dad?" I say wanting him to explain. "I can surf there, can't I? And come back and visit Chelsea, can't I?"

"Ellie..." I know that tone. It's the 'you're too young to understand' voice. I know now that I will never visit, or surf.

"There is a job opening in New York for another branch of the company," Dad continues. "I want to take it. It's the job I have wanted for ages. Hun, I thought you would be happy," he says quietly.

"Happy?" I splutter. "Do you even know me at all?" I rush out of the room and out the front door.

I slam the door behind me. Flakes of paint flutter off the door. And then I run. Down the garden path and into the street. Past the small cottages, painted in chipping pastel shades to a place where nothing bothers me—where I can be free and not worry about anything—I run to the beach.

The crystal clear water beckons me, but I didn't bring my board. Instead, I sit on the golden sand, the setting sun warm on my back. No one is around and I cannot stop the tears spilling down my face. All I think about is the move, how I will have to leave everything I love behind me. A blonde sheet of my hair falls across my face. I'm so caught up in my thoughts I don't hear soft footsteps behind me. I don't hear anyone until a voice says, "Ellie, is that you?"

I turn and see the small figure of a girl. My best friend Chelsea. I do not even have to say anything for her to wrap me in a hug. Her bouncy curls tickle my face.

"We're moving," I say before bursting into tears again. And then I explain. I am losing everything. Surfing, the beach, and most importantly my bright, bubbly, best friend. She looks at me sadly, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"I'm so, so sorry," Chelsea whispers. I stand up slowly and step away. I look around. This could be one of the last times I look at her. She won't be able to visit and neither will I. Our families are not poor, but not exactly rich.

I look at her. She is quite small for thirteen. Her copper curls hang on her shoulders and her skin is rather pale for someone who lives and breathes surfing and the beach. She is wearing a floral singlet and plain denim shorts. As usual on her feet are her faded turquoise high tops.

A sudden PING! breaks the silence. Chelsea fumbles in her shorts' pocket. She pulls out her phone. She checks the screen. "Sorry. Mum wants me home for dinner. See you at school. Gotta go!"

"All good," I reply even though it wasn't. And just like that she disappears into the sunset. I start the walk back home.

The next day I wake up to the sounds of the birds chirping. It is decided. We are moving next week. And I decide to enjoy the beach while I can. I will live through it.

The last time I see Chelsea is the day before we leave. We surf all day and when the sun begins to set we head back to my house and sit in our tree house eating greasy fish and chips out of the newspaper. We are snuggled amongst furry blankets and cushions. All over the walls are the pictures we've drawn, the summers we've had. Plus the home-made pom pom rug we made only a few weeks ago and the fairy lights we stole from Chelsea's Mum's Christmas decorations. It feels warm and welcoming in here. It feels like home. But tomorrow it will no longer be home.

* * *

Before I know it I am in a car to the city. And then I am starting school. We arrive a week before the new term starts. Straight away, pulling up to our new apartment, I feel homesick. It's all too shiny and new. Dad's new work supplied all the basic furniture and they chose a black and white colour scheme. It feels wrong, but Mum and Dad love it.

At least my room is how I like it. I get the biggest room. I think Mum and Dad feel sorry for me. The view from my window is amazing. Everything else feels strange. My room is empty. We didn't bring much furniture, just a few special items and all of our personal things.

The one thing I did really want to bring was my bed. I got to bring it in the end, with a lot of begging and pleading. It is my Grandma's old bed from when she was a girl. She is gone now. It is a white iron bed and worth heaps of money. It sits along the window with my plain white bedspread, a turquoise throw and a pile of pastel coloured cushions. I have my desk on the other wall with a billion pictures of Chelsea and I and the beach plus the calendar Chelsea gave me last Christmas stuck above it. My home-made bunting hangs across the wall above my bed. A wardrobe is on one of the empty walls and on the other empty side an old paisley print yellow and white armchair. But even with my stuff in it, it still doesn't feel like home. I miss the beach. And Chelsea.

* * *

On the first day of school I stare at myself for a while in the mirror. I see a girl with jagged blonde hair sitting on my shoulders. I see a pair of bright blue eyes and two long tanned arms. I feel scared. Will they like me? Will I fit in? All these thoughts rush through my mind like a river and I begin to panic. But then I shake it off head down to breakfast.

* * *

As soon as I walk into the school, I see people everywhere. My old school was small. Everyone knew everyone. But here I don't know anyone. I realise how different this is going to be. I don't know where the office is and now I'm walking around in circles wondering where on earth to go. I am about to ask someone, but then a smiling girl wearing a beret and bright red lipstick says, "Lost?"

"Yup!" I say with a half-hearted laugh. She smiles.

"I am Indie," she says brightly.

"Ellie," I reply.

"Come on. I will show you around." She grabs my arm.

That's when I see her. By her, I mean a girl with flowing blonde hair, a very short cheetah print skirt and a black cropped t-shirt. Straight away, from the looks I see people giving her, I know she is Miss Popular. Her icy blue eyes lock with mine. She marches over in very expensive looking ankle boots. Behind her trails a glossy haired girl. I suddenly feel shy in a lacy white top, rolled up jeans and old Converse.

"You," Miss Popular says. "Must be new. Come with me"

"But I..." I try and say about Indie showing me around. She seems to know what I mean.

"You don't wanna hang with weirdos like that," she says to me but in a voice loud enough for Indie to hear. "Come on hang with us. I am Amber btws." She links her arm through mine.

"I am Ellie," I say. I suddenly feel bad for Indie. But I still can't believe my luck. I am with the most popular girl in school. And looking back at Indie and her bright red lips with a beret and her Doc Martens paired with a red vintage dress makes me think she is a little strange. I see a sad look on her face.

* * *

Life with Amber, aka Miss Popular, is great. I get to sit at her table. She is eighth grade and fourteen years old. I am seventh grade, so I feel honoured. I go to her house after school. It is like a mansion. Maybe the city isn't so bad after all. I miss is surfing, but most importantly Chelsea. Chelsea and her bright, bubbly personality and her crazy corkscrew curls.

With Amber I feel like I always have to impress her. And she can be mean. The thing is, everyone follows her around like a puppy. She has started making me become mean too. Nothing major—just telling me to comment loudly on the state of Tessa's hair or how fat Lara is—but I try to shake it off. I am not being mean am I? Just having a bit of fun. The only part I feel uncomfortable about is when Amber comments on Indie's clothes. One time, she was wearing an oversized fur coat with a black rolled up leather pants and jelly shoes. And of course lipstick. Not red but green.

I have to admit it was a little strange but what Amber said was really mean.

"Have you seen Indie's clothes today?" she had stated loudly to me and her other friend Chloe by the hall. "It looks like she got them from a thrift shop. Oh wait she probably did. Last thing I heard she was living in a house the size of my bedroom. Or was it a cardboard box?!"

Amber had cackled loudly. I laughed half heartedly. I thought I was safe from Indie until I saw the edge of a fur coat disappear around the side of a building. I had tried to shake it off though. She is pretty weird, isn't she?

* * *

Everything is great until a month after I started school. During lunch, while I am in the bathroom, I hear something I wish I had never heard. I am just about to flush when I hear a shrill voice pierce the air.

"Brilliant plan," Amber's back-up, Chloe says.

"I know," replies Amber. "Ellie will never know. She is so gullible. She believes everything I say. AND SHE BELIEVES I LIKE HER!!" She squeals with laughter.

There is a pause. I cannot believe it. I have been betrayed? I peer through the crack in my door. Amber is applying a layer of lip gloss.

"She can do all my dirty work! Plus help get Mrs Montenburg fired. Can you believe she gave me a D...?" Ambers voice trails away as they walk out. I feel like I have been punched. Punched so hard I can't stop the tears spilling from my eyes. That's when I realise that popularity isn't everything.

* * *

The next day I walk into school, I spot Amber immediately. Her mouth drops open. "What are you wearing!?" she hisses.

"Clothes," I say simply. This is my plan—wearing Indie-style clothes. Clothes that involve red lipstick, Doc Martens and a fur coat I found in Mum's wardrobe.

"You have a chance with me and you blow it?" Amber screeches. Suddenly a bunch of people crowd around her. "You are humiliating me. People think I gave you these clothes. Aghhhhhhh!" She moans. "You will regret this!" She marches off, Chloe in tow. I laugh. But my work isn't done. I have a certain someone I needed to talk to.

I find Indie in the library. I take a deep breath then explain. About how I got popularity into my head and believed everything Amber says. And about my mistake. She doesn't look up. "There is no reason why I should be friends with you," she finally says. "But I will be anyway. You know I once fell in her trap."

My mouth drops open. "That's how I become a social outcast. I realised her plan, but it was too late. I never liked dressing like that anyway," Indie says. "It was so not what I wore."

I start to laugh. And laugh and laugh. Indie joins in too. Moving wasn't too bad. Yeah, I miss Chelsea and surfing but I'll survive. I realise now friendship is more important than anything. Even popularity.

## About Madi Cooper

Hi, I am Madi and I am twelve years old. I love crafts, speeches (I know!), reading, chocolate, sushi and writing!!! In my spare time I love dancing, playing hockey, listening to music, photography and playing the guitar. I have a pet cat named Nelly and a sister nicknamed Godfrey (don't ask). Writing is something I really love. I spend more time ripping up my writing then actually sharing with to other people.

I wrote this story about moving away from things you love and starting a new school because, to many kids, it feels scary going into a new school knowing no one and moving away from things you like and friends you love. I hope you enjoy this story as it is my first properly published one.

# On the Inside

## by Lauren Young

### Diary Entry #1

12-03-2014 (7:22pm)

Over a hundred pairs of eyes singed holes into my skin as the prison guard escorted me firmly past cell after cell. The clicking of our shoes on the vinyl floor against the incriminating silence was nothing short of eerie.

"Not very welcoming here are they?" I chuckled in a pathetic attempt to appear casual, to break the ice. The guard said nothing, just set his chiselled jaw and increased his stride. Okay then, I guess he isn't either, I thought. I scampered to keep up with his gargantuan steps. The hallway was a depressing grey. A slim window was located high up on the opposite wall where hundreds of vertical steel bars blurred together. The bars stretched along my right to the end of the hallway to where two guards stood, both brandishing guns. A hand reached through one of the many bars and gripped me, digging blackened fingernails in. I jumped, yanking away from him. I looked back and saw the inmate with a manic grin on his face, his eyes blazing. I shivered.

The guard jerked to a stop and turned to face an empty cell—my new home. He reached past his heavily armoured torso to pluck a set of keys from his belt and inserted them into the lock. The guard hurled me into the small room and by the time I regained my balance, the metal barred door had already clanged shut behind me.

"Your schedule is on the desk, and so is the rule handbook," said the guard, his face as hard as the steel bars that he was talking through. "You have today to adjust, but you join your rotation tomorrow." Then he was gone.

I slowly turned towards the room. On the left wall was a bed, wrapped in grey bedsheets. A metre away from that, against the far wall, was a desk and a chair, both bolted to the floor. The last piece of furniture in the room was a toilet in the far right corner, a waist high concrete wall shielding it from view of the hallway. There was a window at the top of the far wall, protected by bars. My suitcase lay on the bed, most of the things in it originally confiscated. All that was left was some singlets, underwear, a comb and a pencil (not much use now that the sudoku book that went with it no longer existed). The bed squeaked as I sank on to it. My initial numbness morphed into shock and fear. I looked down at my orange jumpsuit, at the small grey room surrounding me. I was a prisoner.

A Copy of the Schedule:

Monday: Wake up at 6:30am. Breakfast at 7:00am. Exercise at 8:00-9:00am. Lunch at 12:00am. Building courses at 3:00-4:30pm. Dinner at 6:00. Lights out at 8:30pm.

Tuesday: Same as Monday with Team trainings from 8:00-9:00am (basketball, soccer, or touch rugby—I think all the other sports were too dangerous).

Wednesday: Same as Monday with manual labour at 3:00-4:30pm.

Thursday: Same as Monday with classes at 3:00-4:30pm.

Friday: Same as Wednesday.

Saturday: Same as Monday with extra Exercise from 3:00-4:00pm and Laundry from 4:00-4:30pm, and no TV time.

Sunday: Same as Saturday with Club Tournaments (Teams coming in to play the prison teams) at 3:00-4:30pm.

Fun, huh? Not. Well, If I think that's bad, then I probably won't be able to cope with abiding by the prison rules—here's a copy of the handbook:

Christchurch Men's Prison Rule Handbook:

No prisoner may disobey any of the guards, teachers, coaches or written schedules and rules.

Prisoners are allowed only these instructed items:

\- 7 orange prison uniforms

\- 2 white singlets

\- 7 pairs of underwear

\- 7 pairs of white socks

\- 1 pair of sneakers/boots

\- 1 toothbrush

\- 1 tube of toothpaste

\- 1 roll of toilet paper

\- 1 razor

\- 1 mirror

\- 1 bar of soap

\- 3 library books per week

\- 1 diary/ journal

\- Other approved reading material

\- 1 letter writing pad

\- 1 pencil

\- 1 comb

\- 1 block of chocolate or 1 packet of cigarettes each week

There is one hour of TV time per day (excepting Saturday), at 5:00pm, and no longer.

If any prisoner disobeys their superiors, is late for their schedule, uses abusive language, severely hurts another prisoner or guard, lies, makes an attempt to escape or acts badly in any other way, the Christchurch Men's Prison holds the right to punish the perpetrator as severely as seen fit.

As I read that last rule, I couldn't suppress the cold shiver that delicately crawled up my spine. Creepy.

Anyway, my name is Nick Mann. This is my diary, and I will be writing about my experiences in—oh man, I can't even write the word—I suppose it's ironic given that us prisoners are supposed to be an unyielding lot. Though not me, I can tell you that much.

### Diary Entry #2

12-03-2014 (8:19pm)

Just before, when I was lying on my bed reading, a voice called to me through the bars, a brittle voice that sounded as if it had been worn down to the bone.

"Hey you! You, kid. What's your name?"

"Ummm... Nick." I sat up, listening hard. "Who's talking?"

"My name's Jordan. I'm in the cell next to yours, and I thought I'd just welcome you to the Hole. I didn't think anyone else would." I felt ludicrous having a conversation with a man I couldn't see, a disembodied voice.

"The Hole?" I asked.

"Oh, it's what we call this place. Mainly because it's dark, and you can't reach the light. You can see it, you just can't reach it. No one has escaped the Hole in forty years."

The bed cried in protest as I lay back down. "Nice." I muttered.

"Cheer up mate, you sound pretty down. It's only prison!" Jordan said, chuckling at his own, apparently hilarious, joke. "What are you in here for anyway?"

I swallowed. "Umm, not much, just, you know, shoplifting, and um, stuff..." My voice trailed off.

"Suuure... Well, gotta go kid, got a lot on my plate." Jordan snorted derisively. "By the way, has anyone told you that you look a lot like Harry Potter?"

More than once, I thought as I rolled over on the grey bed, to face the even greyer wall. I am eighteen years old, have charcoal black hair, green eyes and glasses, although not round like The Chosen One's. My lanky frame certainly does not help my case. I am a nerd, the only serious one out of my family: my mum Scarlett and younger brother Olly, who are both overwhelmingly optimistic. I had led an ordinary life as a lowly New World employee, a sudoku expert and a terrible liar. Yet I achieved a great milestone just now: I lied. Because what I said to Jordan was not true. I wasn't imprisoned because I shoplifted. I was imprisoned for murder.

### Diary Entry #3

13-03-2014 (7:00pm)

Man, prison is hard! Between laps of the yard and endless discipline training from 'The Sergeant', a fifty year old wannabe, this whole prison thing has left me exhausted. My body feels leaden as I lie on my bed.

Anyway, when I went to sleep last night, I didn't expect to be woken at 2:00am by screeching sirens and bright white search lights. I was still asleep when we were lined up in the hallway for role call. Apparently, someone had tried to escape over the wall, but it turned out that what the guard had seen was only a bird. After a thorough inspection of our cells, the guards sent us back to our beds, only to be woken up four and a half hours later, by a very persistent bell. We were handcuffed and marched into the mess hall, a large room with picnic tables scattered around the room and a food counter on the front wall. The room was filled with a consistent buzzing chatter as the menacing prisoners stepped forwards to receive their breakfast. When it was my turn, I most certainly was not impressed with the spew-like culinary disappointment that was sloshed onto my plate.

I turned around and paused, caught in a moment of fleeting hesitation—where to sit? I slowly walked down the aisle, nervously surveying the room for a suitable table. I could feel the air become more dense as I received a curious glance from every prisoner in turn. The first table on my left was fully occupied by a group of burly looking men, all very interested in me. All the other tables were full, except for two. One on my right, was inhabited by an old skinny, rodent like man who was quivering appropriately and quietly muttering to himself. The other was taken by a guy not far from my age—my best bet.

I stopped hovering and made a relieved beeline to his table at the far right when the man on the end of the table to my left stuck out his booted foot, tripping me up. My tray went soaring and my chin smashed onto the cold stone floor, sending a crack of pain shooting up my jaw. The room went silent instantly. I sucked in a breath and felt like I was shrinking in contrast to the frightening men looming above me, all staring. I gulped, my heart going for a mad sprint. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man who tripped me stood up and held out his hand, grinning expectantly. He looked about thirty, was extremely well-built, had a short, blonde buzz cut, and malicious green eyes. I looked up at his chunky, sweaty hand.

"Truce kid? You'll be safe here if ya stick with me," he said in an American drawl, dripping with arrogance. "You wouldn't wanna be on me bad side..." He raised an eyebrow. A sudden flash of anger surged through me. Who does he think he is, threatening me? You see, at the time I didn't realise how dangerous my next move would be. I ignored him. I hauled myself to my feet and picked up my empty tray, confidently aware of his outraged expression. I walked to my table, amongst aghast whispers, and sat down across from the boy.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" I questioned.

He chuckled, intently poking at his food with a plastic fork. His voice was strangely familiar. "Well, I don't mind, but I'm not sure I can say the same for Mason over there." He jerked his head towards the man who had tripped me up, and I looked over his shoulder. Mason's whole table were giving me looks so dirty that I could almost see the grime radiating off them. I shuddered.

"What's his problem?" I asked, amongst the newly restored background noise.

"No one really knows," he replied, shrugging. "He moved to Christchurch for construction work on the rebuild and for some reason had something against his boss. He ended up shattering his skull with a sledgehammer while at work. But the scary thing is, when he was in court, he pleaded guilty. He was proud of what he did." Jordan shook his head in disgust. "I was charged with manslaughter after driving drunk, but at least I wasn't proud of it. He was. Again, no idea why. But what I do know is how stupid that was to make him your enemy." Ice infiltrated my veins. He looked up. "Hey, relax, you look like you're about to have a heart attack!" I loosened my posture as the enormity of what I'd just done flooded back to me. I cracked a weak smile.

"I'm Nick by the way." I said, offering my hand.

"Jordan", he replied, shaking my hand.

My sudden understanding dawned upon my face. "Ohhhh! From the cell next to mine right?"

He winked. "That's me."

He was short and muscular, with a mop of brown curly hair and dark brown eyes. It felt good to finally be able put a face to the name I had heard yesterday.

"But I gotta say," he said. "What you did was pretty brave. Most of us just keep to ourselves round here. There are two clear groups, Mason's group, and the rest of us."

"Yeah well, I'm pretty sure I've eliminated my chances of joining Mason's group." I said dejectedly, staring at my empty tray. My stomach complained.

"Aw, no worries mate, just stick with me. I'll show you the ropes." And for the first time since I came to the Hole, I smiled.

### Diary Entry #4

14-03-2014 (7:15pm)

Well. Prison. It's my third day, and it still hasn't gotten any easier. Wherever I go, I feel like I need to watch my back, stick to the rules. Today is Sunday, so we had sports tournaments (I joined soccer and despised every minute of it). Though we were allowed one hour of TV time today, which was an extra chance to escape dismal reality. We were lined up as usual, looking like a row of barbaric carrots. The concept was basic, you were given a choice of four programmes, and whichever one you chose, there was a room for each programme. Jordan was lined up in front of me, and as we trailed down the corridor, he whispered at me to choose the same programme as him. We came out of the cell block and entered the corridor leading off the cafeteria, then were stopped in front of four identical doors. A guard stepped up in front of us, a young guard, his face speckled with acne.

"You have four choices," the guard said, "and four only. Your choices are: Sloths: The Documentary, First World War Stories, Antiques Roadshow and CSI New York." Yes! I thought. You see, my love for CSI is undeniable. It was an obvious choice!

"Antiques Roadshow? Jordan, are you serious!? This was not the obvious choice!"

"Sssh!" whispered Jordan. "Calm down Nick, I'm not crazy, this was a strategic move!"

"It was?" I questioned. "What about watching Antiques Roadshow in a deserted room is strategic!?" Jordan and I sat in a bare room, featuring nothing but a television on the front wall, and rows of plastic chairs facing the TV. The walls were painted a light cream colour, and the carpet was grey. There was literally nothing more than that. No windows, no tables. Nothing. There was only one other person in the room, and it was the same rat-like man from the cafeteria, who Jordan told me was called Fergus. He was currently talking to the TV.

"Well, as you said, this isn't the obvious choice," Jordan said, indicating the television. "And Mason and his idiots are definitely going to go for the obvious choice—CSI New York. See? Strategy." He pointed to his brain. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the TV—the TV that was screening Antiques Roadshow.

### Diary Entry #5

15-03-2014 (7:10pm)

I must say, I am gradually getting used to life here at the Hole. Gradually. Today was a normal day, with building courses from 3:00-4:30pm. I hated it, given that I am not a big fan of anything involving the word physical. We were pushing wheelbarrows full of bricks from one end of the building shed to the other when a guard entered the shed and requested that I follow him. He handcuffed me (hardly necessary) and took me through the grey halls to a part of the prison that I had never been to before. We crossed the exercise yard and went through a heavy metal door to the room beyond.

The room had two windows on both the right and left walls, surprisingly without bars. But even stranger than that was the four windows on the front wall, looking not outside, but in to another room. Each window featured a desk attached to the wall, a chair, and a phone hanging on the wall next to it, all of which was mirrored on the other side of the window. But most surprising of all was the person sitting on the other side of the left window—my mum.

My mum is called Scarlett Mann, and is thirty eight years old. My dad, Ryan, died after Olly was born, so it was always just her, my brother and I. My brother Olly is seven years old, so I was always the "Man of the House". We got by with mum's terrible cooking, and were bound by our love and her never-failing optimism. We were a close family, that's why we were all so deeply affected by the incident. That's why mum was admitted into hospital with shock after it happened. That's why I was so surprised to see her.

"Mum?" I could hear the quake in my voice, feel the lump in my throat.

"She has come to see you," the guard said. "You may talk to her for ten minutes only."

"How?" I said, my voice barely audible. The guard chuckled.

"You have to pick up the phone," he said condescendingly as he undid my handcuffs. I slowly walked over to the window and sat down in the chair. Mum looked as she always did, only tired, more weary. She was a young mother, with flawless skin and sparkling eyes. She wore a tight purple dress that accentuated her figure and red-brown hair. Her eyes were sparkly green, like mine, and outlined by layers of thick eye make-up (as usual). I picked up the phone. She smiled and picked up the other one.

"Hi Nick," she said. "I've missed you so much."

"I know," I replied, looking into her comforting eyes. "I've missed you too." I hadn't truly realised how much until now. "How are you feeling? You look better."

"I am. The hospital discharged me yesterday."

"That's great," I said, forcing a smile.

"Oh Nick. You seem so different now."

"Well, you know what they say," I muttered. "Prison changes a man."

She smiled, feebly. "I miss the old you. I miss the old times, when it was just you me and Olly..." She choked on the words.

"I know. Me too. Have the police found anything new?" An image flashed through my mind, an image of detectives, police tape and evidence cards, standing in what used to be our home.

"No," she said. "But I won't give up until they do. It wasn't your fault Nick. I know that. You loved your brother as much as I did." Her voice weakened, but she continued talking. "I will get you out of here Nick. I promise." I nodded, worried that if I tried to speak, words would be replaced with tears. I distantly heard the guard tell me that our time was up. I stared into my mum's beautiful eyes, so familiar, her promise laced between them.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you too." Click. The guard had disconnected us and I felt like the separation went further than just the phone line.

### Diary Entry #6

16-03-2014 (9:45pm)

I can't sleep. I am writing this by the moonlight that is streaming through my window. My dreams have been infiltrated by images of fire, smoke and charred ruins. I can't stop thinking about the incident. You see, my brother Olly, is dead. I killed him.

At least that's what the police say. A month ago, my mum left to work a late shift after we had all eaten dinner, leaving Olly and I in the house alone. The minute mum pulled out of the driveway, I checked on Olly (sound asleep in bed) and left for the local park. It was Guy Fawkes the previous night, and I wanted to get some pictures of the fireworks for my photography college application. When I was there, a homeless man approached me brandishing a cigarette and waved it in front of my camera.

"Dy'have a lighta?" He asked rudely. I had brought one in case I decided to set off some fireworks of my own, so I let the man use it. Before I left, I asked our neighbour to keep an eye on Olly, but by the time she saw what was happening, it was too late.

I captured some great photos at the park, but when I returned home, our house was nothing but charred ruins. In those few minutes that I was out of the house, it burned. Right down to the ground. The firemen said that there wasn't much evidence, but when they inspected my lighter which I had given to the homeless man, they confirmed that it had been used recently—which it had. Since I was the only other one in the house, I didn't have an alibi, and I left right before it burned down, the jury deemed me guilty. Guilty of killing my brother.

Even though I know it wasn't my fault, I still think that if I hadn't left Olly alone in the house, maybe he would still be alive. But no matter what the court say, I am innocent. Innocent. Even I have trouble believing it, after all that's happened. But today, seeing the sincerity in my mum's eyes, seeing her belief in me, has given me new hope.

### Diary Entry #7

18-03-2014 (7:01pm)

Sorry I didn't write yesterday. I didn't really have anything to write about, and just wasn't in the mood.

Huh. I just realised, I am treating this diary like a person. The way I write, makes it seem like am writing to someone, not just for my own sanity. I suppose it makes sense, given that life's tough here in the Hole, and Jordan's my only friend.

Though I should be grateful that I have Jordan. Today in Exercise, a man got angry at Mason and accused him of cheating in basketball. Jordan and I watched on as Mason approached the man and swung a punch at his face, but missed. The man started to back away, apologising profusely, but that wasn't enough for Mason. By then, a circle had formed around the two men, the basketball game forgotten. One of Mason's gang latched onto the man and held him as Mason started to beat him. It looked as if he was going to kill him. And of course, stupid me, had to say something. I approached the circle, ignoring Jordan's indignant protests. The guards weren't doing anything to stop Mason, just watching silently from the corners of the concrete yard.

"Come on Mason, he's had enough." As soon as the words left my mouth, the jeers and cries stopped. Mason's friend dumped the beaten man on the ground as Mason himself turned his death glare on me. It only then occurred to me that he was twice my size, age and also very fired up.

"Punch the guard." Jordan hissed urgently in my ear.

"What!?" I said, aware the Mason had started crossing the yard towards me.

"Punch the guard, and they'll take you away to punish you—then you can escape Mason. Trust me, he'll kill you. Go!" Then my trusty friend Adrenaline kicked in. I sprinted to the nearest guard without thinking. Then I punched him. Right in the face. He shouted and grabbed me, dragging me through the gate with no regard for the well-being of my poor elbow. I looked back and saw Mason scowling at me, and Jordan smirking in the corner.

### Diary Entry #8

01-04-2014 (7:20pm)

I must say, these past two weeks have been very eventful indeed. After my punching episode the guard took me to the Sergeant where I received a strict lecture, and was locked in the Punishment Room for twenty-four hours without food. The Punishment Room was in the same corridor as the TV rooms, and had nothing in it, no bed, no windows, not even any carpet. I was bored out of my mind.

Anyway, when I got out, the first meal that I ate gave me food poisoning. I know, I haven't had very good luck these past two weeks. I spent one week and five days in the Prison Hospital. On the plus side, I successfully avoided Mason's wrath, and hoped that he would have calmed down a bit by the time I got out. I haven't had time to check yet, as I only got out yesterday.

Jordan was allowed to visit me while I was sick, and I was surprised to find that he had a black eye and bruises up his arms.

"What happened!?" I cried upon seeing his rainbow coloured arms. I propped myself up on my elbows.

"Honestly Nick, you can't seriously expect Mason to leave me alone after I helped you escape him? He was looking forward to beating you up, you know!" He seemed surprisingly light-hearted.

"But why would you do that for me?" I cried.

"Well, lots of reasons. Number one, you're my mate. Number two, no offence, but I am way stronger than you. And judging by the way you punched that guard, a way better fighter. I had much more of a chance against him than you ever had. And number three, I'm not going to lie, I wanted an excuse to have a go at him. I've been waiting for a while now." He grinned, ticking off the options on his fingers.

"You wanted a chance to have a go at him? Umm... why? He'd annihilate you!" Jordan feigned innocent shock.

"You have no faith in me do you? Sheesh, some friend!" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Anyway, all I'm gonna say is that I gave him a run for his money!" He grinned, a mischievous smile with glittering eyes.

"What!" I said. "Did you hurt him?" He leaned back in his chair beside my bed and shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not."

I shook my head and laughed openly. "Man, you're insane!"

He nodded proudly. "Yep!"

Though I didn't get anything more out of Jordan, I soon found out for myself. When I went back to my normal routine, I was sitting down for lunch in the cafeteria, and I looked across the room. To my surprise I saw Mason scowling at me as usual, but with bruises spread across his face. He looked even worse than Jordan! I slid my tray down on the table and stared at Jordan in awe.

"Did you do that to him?" I whispered. He laughed.

"What can I say? I'm a maverick!"

### Diary Entry #9

02-04-2014 (6:20am)

CRASH! Rustle... Rustle... I looked up from my sudoku. There was someone in the house. I got up off the couch and started sneaking towards where the consistent rustling was coming from. I walked into mum's bedroom—the noise was coming from her wardrobe. I reached for the handle... and out burst Olly.

He was wearing one of mum's dresses and a pair of her high heels, making him seem even younger than the four years that he was. He had a mischievous grin on his face, and his green eyes blazed, framed by sandy- brown hair. He laughed and lurched towards me, burying himself in my arms.

Then he stiffened. He drew away from me, his eyes wide with fear.

"What's wrong Olly?" My voice was distant, as if underwater. He shook his head slowly.

"No! No!" he was shaking now, crying. He started screaming, a haunting, petrified wail. I reached out for him but I couldn't touch him, no matter how hard I tried. Suddenly, the bedroom burst into flames, red hot, guzzling everything in sight. The fire blazed around Olly.

"Don't do this to me Nick!" He was terrified, reaching out for me, I was shouting, crying for my brother. "Nick!" he screamed, as he disappeared among the flames.

And then I woke up, sweating, with tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Olly..." I sobbed, my throat burning, my heart aching, agony. I lay down and cried and cried, until I could cry no more.

### Diary Entry #10

04-04-2014 (7:30pm)

Today during lunch, a guard came to fetch me, telling me that there was someone waiting to talk to me on the phone. He led me to a small room with four telephones and showed me to the phone on the left. I sat down and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Nick?" It was Mum, and she was sobbing.

"Mum? What's wrong?"

"Nick, I just want you to know that whatever happens, I love you so much, just as much as I loved Olly. Okay?" She was crying hysterically now.

"What's this—"

"Okay?" she insisted.

"Okay, Mum, I know. Now what's wrong?"

"I did..." she sniffed. "I did it..." she trailed off, crying.

"You did what?" My blood started to pulse.

"I killed Olly! I was thinking, and I remembered, I left the gas stove from dinner on when I went to work! It must have burned the house!" Silence. I didn't know what to say.

"It's okay Mum, it was an accident."

"I know." She had stopped crying now and sniffed. "But don't worry, it'll be okay."

"Of course it will be. Are you alright?"

"Yes, but," she sniffed again, "I've got to go now. Things to sort out... I love you Nick"

"I love you too." Click. I put down the phone. I was in shock. My world was falling out from underneath me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

### Diary Entry #11

05-04-2014 (7:15pm)

Today was a normal day. Food, exercise, Building. Normal. But I have had one thought weighing on my mind—Mum. Do I report her or not? Life's just not fair, it's either a life in the Hole, or a life in freedom while my Mum lives in prison.

But I've made a decision. No. I'm not going to report my Mum. I love her too much.

I remember when she said she would get me out. "I promise," she'd said. It doesn't seem like that's ever going to happen, now we know the truth about what actually happened. But what really matters to me is the fact that she tried. It's the thought that counts, right?

### Diary Entry #12

08-04-2014 (8:00pm)

This morning at breakfast, two guards came in and escorted me out of my cell, gentler than usual. Before I left, Jordan saluted to me.

"In case we never meet again. Trust me it happens, people get taken away and never come back." He smiled. I saluted.

"May we meet again."

The guards handcuffed me and took me to the Office, the same place I was taken when I was admitted into the Hole. To my great surprise, my Mum stood next to the counter. In handcuffs. My heart skipped a beat.

"Mum! What..." my voice faltered. The policewoman next to my Mum started to speak.

"Nick, your mother has provided recent evidence to us concerning your brother's murder, and we now have reason to believe that you were wrongly accused. Your mother has now been charged with manslaughter. We are on our way to admit her into the Christchurch Women's Prison, but she insisted she be allowed to talk to you before you were released. You are allowed ten minutes to talk." I nodded, stunned. The police woman showed us into a room with a table and chairs, and even better, a window. The window looked out over green fields, with the snow-capped Southern Alps behind, framed by clear blue sky. Light gushed through the window, making me squint. We sat down at the table.

"What did you do, Mum?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I reported myself," she replied, gently smiling.

"But, why? You'll go to prison!"

"Honestly Nick," she said taking my hands across the table, "you can't believe that I would leave my son in prison when I should be in his place? Anyway, I'm not too concerned about prison. I'm more worried about the fact that I killed my own son..." her voice faltered, a silent tear sliding down her cheek. My heart ached to see her in such pain.

"Hey, hey, Mum, you didn't kill Olly," I soothed. "It was an accident, and accidents are what make us human. You can't think that it was your fault."

"How can't I?" she said, the tears flowing now. "I mean, my baby boy's gone!"

"I know, but there's nothing we can do about that now. You know what Dr Seuss once said? Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened. Olly made the world a better place and we should count ourselves lucky that we even got to know him."

She laughed, a sniffly, teary laugh. "Since when did you become so philosophical? You're right, though. Oh, I love you, Nick."

I looked out the window, at the picturesque view into which I would soon be stepping. I could almost smell the crisp air, hear the birds' sweet songs. I then looked into my mum's emerald eyes, the eyes that had provided me comfort for as long as I could remember.

"I love you too, Mum," I said. "And I will visit you every single day, no exceptions. I promise."

## About Lauren Young

Hi, my name is Lauren and I am thirteen years old. I am a year-eight student at Heaton Intermediate and enjoy sport, music and writing.

For me, change means entering unfamiliar territory that steals everything that you know and leaves you helpless. Change is about learning to adapt to a situation that you have been unwillingly thrown into. When I wrote this story, I kept these factors in mind and tried to put my main character, Nick, in a position that he would have to struggle to cope with. I decided to write about this type of change because I know that it is one of the few extreme changes that really puts every other first-world problem into perspective. I had a lot of fun writing this story and really hope you enjoy reading it!

# The End of Humanity

## By Leon Meier

"Are you sure you want to do this? This decision will be the difference between life and death," asked Simon Stapleton.

"We have no choice, the fate of humanity rests on us, and this child," John reminded him.

"Wait! We should grab the notepad we made with the instructions on how to save humanity."

"How silly of me. Okay, done. Setting freeze to one hundred years, I hope this works."

### Abandoned Warehouse, Washington DC, one hundred years later:

Root Stapleton woke up, surrounded by a weird abandoned warehouse and covered in shrapnel and rubble. "Where am I? What is this place? It looks like a broken down warehouse. Where is everyone?"

But somehow he knew that no one was there and may never be. He sat up, something bounced off his chest. Only a notepad, nothing special, but I may as well look, he thought. Root picked up the pad and flipped it open, but the words were smudged and impossible to read. Wow it looks like this is a hundred years old! he thought. Now I am determined and when I get determined there is nothing stopping me.

"I need some kind of interpreter to make something of this," he muttered

One hundred kilometres away, unknown exact location:

"Yes Mistress, the world is in ruins and that idiot Simon Stapleton is dead, along with his son, just as you asked," quivered Jax Busch.

A dark voice that reeked of death responded. To the by-passer it would have sounded like a thunderstorm, if there were any by-passers left. "You imbecile! That kid Root was the key to me being queen of the world. He would be my witness and say to the council that I nearly saved humanity. Then his father would be blamed for the havoc," she screamed.

"Yes, Mistress. I will obey you for you will be queen of the earth, and under it." Jax shivered. Even the thought of the mistress being queen sent a cold death feeling down his spine.

### Abandoned Warehouse, Washington DC:

Root Stapleton sat thinking practically about the scenario after the initial shock was over. The conclusion he came to was that he had been frozen in carbonite before it was proved effective, so that now, which back then was the future, he could do something that would have been futile in the past, but now would have a sporting chance of success. The only road block he came to was how did the notepad get smudged when it was in his carbon isolation chamber. Whoever had tried to conceal it was only able to smudge the notepad and was not as brilliant as Root James Stapleton. Now that I have estimated this particular scenario, he thought, some recreational activity is in order. So then he went on to do his version of recreational activity which is climbing things and thinking about things, in this case about how to get the notepad into its original form. So he went on thinking for who knows how long, meanwhile...

### Evil Lair, one hundred kilometres away:

"I got new boots. What do you think, minion?" boasted the evil mistress, Desdemona.

"They are perfect, Mistress, just like you," responded Jax Busch even though he knew it wasn't true. The mistress had killed many servants before him who had said they were merely satisfactory. He knew one, Orion Blackwood, one of his best friends who was trying to get himself fired because he wanted to join the other side, the Stapletons.

"Mistress, what is your next brilliant plan to be queen of the world, now that I stupidly killed that kid Root?"

"I would expect no more of a mere servant to think that the kid Root is actually dead. Root was frozen in carbonite by his idiot father so that he could live through it and possibly hope to stop me, which in fact is impossible with my new discovery of the colony underneath the earth's crust, and of course the other thing," Desdemona said this so matter of factly that with her tone a little kid would feel silly not understanding.

"Yes, how could I forget the other thing, I am sorry I wasted your time, Mistress."

### Abandoned Warehouse, Washington DC:

Root Stapleton had finished thinking about how to get the notepad back to its original form and now was thinking how to put this plan into action. There is obviously a mastermind behind this almost as brilliant as me, he thought. He needed to find a weapon and fast because whatever destroyed this building was some kind of organism, unless? No, that thought was impossible, but since a super mind such as mine came up with the idea then it may be possible, but not to someone of lesser IQ (aka everyone, since my IQ is 210).

Nevertheless he kept on trying to say to himself that it was impossible, but his mind kept on saying, yes it is barely possible and just like in chess he should cover all possible bases so that he could not be fooled.

Okay what can I use for a weapon in this dump? Root thought, then looked around and saw a weird light blue, green and yellow crowbar which he chose to wield for the time being.

"This metal stick will have to do," he grunted. Then suddenly he spotted something jumping at him and thought, this is just like me to get into these situations. Then everything went dark.

### Evil Lair, one hundred kilometres away:

"Mistress, I am sorry to bother you again, but with your superior knowledge of everything, you surely know where the kid Root is?" asked Jax.

"Right at this moment he is being captured by my minions of the dark and being brought here. Oh, and I have found out more about the other thing. Come and see, would you?" Desdemona said. With that Jax followed the mistress to where she would show him her new learning of 'the other thing'. The place was, of course, the colony under the earth's crust which she named after herself: Desdemona city.

"Mistress, may I please open my eyes to see your beauty yet again, and of course the new learnings," Jax asked.

"I will be extremely magnanimous and let you look at my extraordinary beauty because obviously you are selfish and want to have me for yourself. You are lucky that I let you live with the selfish ego that you have," Desdemona said. But of course Jax knew that it was the necessary to flatter the mistress if he wanted to learn the new secret about the other thing so eventually he might be able to earn money without being beaten and abused.

"Mistress, I forget the ritual to get into the great Desdemona city you discovered," he said. Of course he remembered the ritual, but if he let on to that she would surely kill him for he knew too much in her opinion.

"So your memory is short and you can't even remember the ritual to access Desdemona city. Here, let me show you, imbecile." With that she went on to do the ritual which was three circles each on a point five meter radius larger than the last starting at about one meter. After that, she stood in the middle and chanted Desdemona ten times, slowly rising and holding a blade of grass up.

"Mistress, now that the ritual is done, should we go inside and observe the new aspect you discovered about the other thing?" questioned Jax, for when they were safely inside the city they could use the proper name for the other thing. Magic.

### In a Bag, Who Knows Where:

Root Stapleton situated himself. Okay, so I'm in a bag being carried somewhere. Probably to just where the enemy is. Perfect. He thought this last bit ironically. Then, wow, even in times of stress I am still being ironic.

He knew that his only escape was to somehow get the crowbar out of this creature's hand and into the bag so it got ripped open. But sadly, he thought, even though my genius brain is extremely complicated and efficient my athletic ability is very ineffective in all athletic scenarios.

Suddenly the bag and that thing which was carrying him disappeared, or rather, he appeared somewhere else and saw a deformed person standing above him, if you could even call it a person, mutant sounded better. But next to it there was a very small human who said, "Mistress w-w-who is that person?"

The mutant responded, "Please I just explained it to you, you ignorant fool. This is that kid Root. Now you have seen, be gone Root."

He was back in the sack with no recollection whatsoever about what just happened.

### Evil lair, seventy kilometres away:

"Mistress, that is one of your best discoveries about magic so far. What brilliant name have you called it?" Jax asked. He knew she would call it something like 'Desdemona tele', but he needed to know for sure if he didn't want to be struck with the eternal torture spell again. He was still recovering from the last one.

"You are an ignorant, imbecile, fool, and many other words to describe stupidity. You are lucky I am in a good mood right now and will only use the eternal torture spell for an hour, instead of a day. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?" Desdemona screamed.

"Mistress, please forgive me for what I did." Jax pleaded. He had no idea what he had done and felt like using the eternal torture spell on her right now, but he knew the longest he could cast it for was a minute and after that she would kill him.

"I can tell that you don't know what it is that you did, and that you think I am gorgeous by your tone of voice. By the way, what you did was compliment a monstrosity, which was the name of the spell, the Stapleton tele. But for your compliment I will spare you of fifty-nine of those sixty minutes that you would be tortured for," Desdemona stated.

Jax was only shocked. Stapleton? That is the name of the enemy. Why would you make a spell the name of the enemy? But he had time for questions later. All he had to focus on was getting all of the feeling out of his body. I need to get my master ànima into the atoms of the air and out of my body to lose all feeling, he thought (ànimas are the only thing that is in protons, neutrons and electrons and a master ànima is a particularly strong one that holds your personality while your brain holds your memory), but I am only a novice at projecting my ànima so I can only hold it out for about fifteen seconds, the rest I'll have to endure. Then he braced for impact

### In a Bag, Who Knows Where:

Root Stapleton had been thinking on how he possibly got into this bag and how to get out. He had come up with a plan of what to do when he reached the Evil Lair. It was simple for his brain but too complicated for words.

Now, I just have to wait to get there and then I can put my plan into action, he thought. However, assuming that the thing carrying him was not human he had to plan for the enemy having an army of these. Suddenly he felt the hard bump of the bag hitting the floor and saw an opening in the bag and saw a mutant face that seemed strangely familiar, but he didn't know from where. Then he heard a quivering voice in the background that said, "Mistress, he is here. Mistress, how did that kid Root get here so fast?"

Then something clicked in Root's brain and he remembered all of this. The mutant, the short stumpy bearded servant and both their voices. Then the mutant said, "I will put him under the eternal torture spell so he doesn't interrupt me."

Spell? But magic doesn't exist. Are they insane? he asked himself. Then his theory was proven wrong when an immense amount of pain spread throughout his body and it felt like someone was crushing his lungs and brain. He collapsed.

### Evil Lair, two meters away:

"M-m-mistress," Jax stuttered, "what if he knows how to project his ànima into nearby atoms and resists the pain to kill us?"

"FOOL! He probably doesn't know that magic exists or about ànimas, so he won't even think about a way to save himself from the eternal torture spell let alone a way to defeat I, Desdemona," Desdemona boasted.

Jax thought that it was probable that Root didn't know about any magic or of the underground colony, but it was better to be safe than sorry. So, for the first time since he started working for Desdemona, Jax took initiative by going to where that kid Root was and casting a parallelization spell. He sacrificed all his magic to keep the spell going—until he got another refill from Desdemona. It will be worth it if his magic got a boost from the citizens of the colony, which would cause a reaction inside him to make him have infinite magic and the ability to refill others. I will be like the mistress if that happens, he thought.

### Evil Lair, where Root is:

How can I see nothing but also feel nothing and not sense any of my body's natural functions, like breathing? I can't feel any limbs or anything. The only way this could happen is if my brain left my body but was still functional, which is impossible, Root Stapleton thought. But then he realised that he had no memories and the only way he could remember is if he was constantly thinking about the memory, which is his thought. Then he was suddenly back in his body and had no recollection of what happened.

I must have passed out, he thought, but why am I not in unbearable pain and why can't I move anything, not even my eyes or my tongue?

But of course what he had done was project his ànima into a nearby atom until the pain in his body stopped. Then he noticed that there was the stumpy bearded person lying unconscious in front of him. He looked worse than dead. He looked like all of the blood had drained out of him. The worst part was, he was looking right at Root with wide open eyes. What did that imbecile do to me? I feel like I am paralysed, he thought, but then the most amazing thing happened. The stumpy guy actually got up, said something that sounded like "Okay" then did some kind of dance and Root was free.

"The mistress requires your presence, and I suggest you come because the mistress, and me for that matter, have the power to kill you. But the mistress is being extremely magnanimous and will let you live, on her conditions of course. So come," the stumpy man said, then added, "idiot."

### Evil Lair, where Jax is:

Jax Busch felt an incredible power surge through him. This must be the residents of the colony gifting me stronger magic. And then he heard, if heard is the right word, someone else's thoughts in his head.

<Ah, minion so you have finally been gifted full magical power, but even with that you are still my inferior.>

Mistress is that you? he thought

<Yes, of course it's me you imbecile. Now bring that kid Root here, or I will take away your magic.>

Okay, he thought, but first I will need to take him out of the parallelization form.

<I thought you did something like that because I sensed you were drained of magic. Now go.>

"Okay," Jax said.

<You don't need to say it, you know. Just think it.>

"The mistress requires your presence, and I suggest you come because the mistress, and me for that matter, have the power to kill you but the mistress is being extremely magnanimous and will let you live, on her conditions of course. So come," Jax threatened, then added, "idiot."

He felt terrible saying this but he didn't let it show on his face. Surprisingly, Root came with him. On the way, he asked Jax, "What is your name, might I ask?"

Jax just stood there, open mouthed at how much confidence Root said this with. We are in an evil lair where he just discovered magic and got unwillingly tortured, Jax thought, but he asks what my name is? He must be up to something. But of course Jax was courteous and responded, "My name is Jax Busch, undying servant of the great mistress Desdemona."

Root seemed satisfied with this answer and willingly told the mistress everything about what he had been planning while Jax just stood in shock, wondering how powerful the mistress must have been to make him do that.

### Evil Lair, where Root is:

Root Stapleton asked the short man what his name was, and it turned out to be Jax Busch. Just as he expected, a Busch working for the mutant, whose name was Desdemona. Then suddenly he felt a rush of something through his body and knew instantly that it was the magic that Jax and Desdemona had been using.

<So you have the magic too huh? I expected you would pick it up quicker. Never mind, at least I can read your thoughts now so I know everything you tell me will be true.>

Desdemona, he thought.

<Yes, it is, so what...?> But then her thoughts were cut off abruptly in his head, for he blocked her out using sheer willpower—and maybe some magic—so that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't get in his head.

That is weird, Root thought, she was cut short before I blocked her out.

Soon enough, he was in Desdemona's office and told her about his fake cover up plan. "I was planning to somehow get a sword and kill you by murdering you in your sleep," Root lied, but he knew that she wouldn't know he was because with her ego, she wouldn't have considered that someone else could come up with a genius plan like he thought he had.

"So," Desdemona said, "you think you could do that? If you do, you are mistaken. Oh, and by the way, the notepad your idiot father left for you got smudged by my magnificent magical powers so that you don't know how to stop me from ruling humanity. I have no idea how somebody could be against that delightful eventuality." Desdemona chuckled like this was the funniest thing in the world, then unexpectedly, she said, "Oh, and I know that is not your plan. If you think you can fool me then you are mistaken. Have a nice day!"

With that, Root was in a cage with some sort of creature looking at him. Actually, lots of them. They were small goblin-like creatures with pointy ears and pale green skin. Their limbs were slender and they looked like they had never seen the sun in their lives.

"Hello," Root said, "Are you magical creatures or something?"

"Oh, we are the magical creatures of under the earths crust. Our species used to be human but our ancestors found a source of magic and were drawn to it. This gave them negative and positive effects. Their children looked more and more different as time went on and with that more and more magical. Now you may be wondering how I am speaking to you right now when we obviously have never talked to an actual human, until we made a magical bridge to Desdemona's mind, which unfortunately gave her magical powers without the consequences. Then we made a bridge to you, which was surprisingly easy for a human and then we found out why. You are a Stapleton and your father is Simon, the human who came closest to becoming magical since our ancestors. Now we hope you can defeat the mistress and save us from her enslavement. I will leave you to rest. You have to take out the mistress. Goodnight."

Root was asleep the moment the creature finished talking.

### Evil Lair, five hours later:

Root Stapleton woke up to the sound of pattering feet. It must be the creatures of this city, he thought. Now it feels like a good time to put my plan into action, so I may as well do so.

And with that he went on to summon up all the strength he could. With his superior knowledge of physics, even with his small strength he was able to break through the bars. He then unblocked Desdemona for a split second so he could read her thoughts and work out where she was (which had been taught to him by those creatures) and then instantly blocked her again so that nothing went wrong. By doing this, he figured out that she was exactly one hundred and twelve meters away.

Soon enough, Root was only ten meters from where Desdemona was and he thought he could hear the sounds of her sleeping, but he wasn't completely sure. Okay, all I need to do is to sneak in there, and initiate my plan, he thought. Just then he heard a rattle and suddenly he was in another cage with Desdemona staring at him with regarding eyes.

"Well, well, well," she said "This is all you can do? I expected better from Simon Stapleton's son. I was hoping for a better challenge for me, but I guess I was mistaken."

"Well, I still think that the creatures of the colony are a lot more powerful than you, and so am I. How about we have a little chat to them so that you can prove to them that killing little kids is what you like to do. Go ahead," Root said. He knew very well that she would do it to support her ego and to supposedly 'prove' that she was better than them. His theory was proven when Desdemona said, "As a matter of fact I will go and show them what I will do to them if they ever try to cross my brilliance," then "Minion! Come with me to the colony to show them what I do to whoever tries to cross me," she called.

In a matter of minutes, they were in the colony and she was ranting about how he tried to trick her and failed. "Now it is time to show you what I do to anyone who even thinks about crossing me," Desdemona threatened.

"Actually Desdemona, I don't think so. You see, I had planned this whole thing and with the help of my friend Jax here have managed to defeat you," Root boasted.

"No you didn't. You're just trying to mess with my head. You aren't actually going to beat me, isn't that right, Jax?" Desdemona shivered.

"Oh, so now you use my proper name? I am tired of this abuse you have been giving me and now you will be stopped, Desdemona," Jax sneered.

"Now, Mistress, is it? You didn't hunt me, Root the hunter, I hunted you," Root exclaimed and with that he and Jax combined, their magic being fuelled by the creatures, put the eternal torture spell on Desdemona, for, like it says, eternity and made sure that she didn't transfer her master ànima by putting a magical barrier around her so that she would be in that state forever.

"Wow, I can't believe we did it. I mean, the mistress was very powerful and I thought that she would never be defeated. That is why I joined her and ironically here I am, helping to defeat her. Funny really isn't it?' Jax asked.

"Yes, it is very humorous isn't it. Now there is one last thing I would like to do before we go on to live a life in a new society," Root said, then asked the creatures "Can you somehow rebuild the earth with magic, I am fairly new at this."

"Yes, there is a way, but we had too few magical beings to do it before. Now with you two we might be able to do it," said the same creature that had talked to Root earlier. Even with this new hope, they were exhausted and needed to rest.

After a few days went by, they were able to start rebuilding the earth, starting with one particular abandoned warehouse where they went on to live and establish the rules of their new civilisation.

## About Leon Meier

I am Leon, an eleven year old boy who lives in New Zealand and has very loving parents. I grew up loving books and got my first book read to me when I was born! I have taken inspiration for 'The End Of Humanity' from a large number of books that I have enjoyed reading. This is my first published book and I hope to make many more in the future for you to read, hope you enjoyed my book :)

# Curiosity

## by Mia Porteous

Winter pushed through her body. Going a couple houses seemed miles in harsh blizzard weather. Maria pushed the doorbell. She already imagined Randall's mother, Mrs Biggs, welcoming her with the melting coco that floated over her taste buds. Instead, Randall came and said, with a very quiet yet stern voice, "What do you want? I'm busy."

"Hello to you too," she snipped at her friend. "Not even a look at my new skirt? Higher than the knee, it is. Nearly got detention."

"I don't have time for this at all any more!" He glared and slammed the door.

"What?" she squealed, but the door had shut and she was just talking to herself. Bubbling emotions burst through her veins, secrets and memories shared with her friend. He'd pushed her back in such a hurry. Nothing like that had happened before. No matter what she'd said, he'd always listened. She decided to give Randall the chance to turn over a new leaf.

Maria's books piled in her locker. She kept them neat and organised, as usual. She would see Randall in second period. She would ask him what had happened. Maria walked up to Randall in physics with a stern look on her face.

"What?" he said. "Did I do something wrong? You look so much like a depressed little girl." He laughed at his own joke.

"Ha ha," she said with a sarcastic tone. "What was wrong with me? You seemed so angry. You shut the door on me yesterday! In the freezing cold!"

"I had business to do, Okay?" And with that Randall looked away without another word. He gave Maria the cold shoulder all day. She had no idea what was going on, but now she was determined to find out.

Last period and her plan was set up. She decided she would follow Randall after school. The past few weeks, he'd been saying he had something to do that afternoon, but he would never tell her what it was.

She left school. Hiding, shifting and slowly creeping, she followed him toward the mystery destination. As she walked, her foot went smoothly down, leaving an aching crunch to echo along the banged up street. Randall swished around, giving her only a split-second to hide, but eventually he turned back and lit a cigarette. Maria gasped. Broken up houses dashed past and the deeper she went the more her doubt grew. He strolled up a driveway, which would have left Maria exposed out in the open, so she waited. He walked under a plank and into the bush. She carried on her trek.

She felt puzzled, further on, as a broken garage finally appeared to be his destination. She was more intrigued. Maria tilted her head, wondering why he had taken an hour to come here, but her question was soon answered. Many men were gathered. Tall and strong, yet still rough and hard. Plastic bags filled with powder were being loaded into boxes, and even without smell, the appearance was obvious. Tears rolled down Maria's cheeks, flushed with anger. How oblivious her nature was. She backed up against the wall, letting all her anger go. Her attention wandered away from the many men packing cocaine.

Eventually, one of the men turned and saw the crying girl. He grabbed her by the arm, shoving her into the garage. Randall was shocked to see Maria. Her anger raged as the men held her tight. They forced her into the cane chair beside the table and tied her hands. Then they stepped back and looked at her, laughing in fits. Her heart was in pain. With secrets came lies and a one way trust system was not going to work any more.

Randall turned and looked away, too embarrassed to admit this was all his fault. He wondered why he even started working with the gang. He was too afraid to see them laughing at her. He left the room. His face was cupped in his sweaty palms.

With Randall gone, hysterics fought their way out of her. Raging, she toppled the chair sideways, cracking open her skull on the concrete.

Memories floated past. She'd known her friend since she was born. Exactly sixteen years of friendship wasted on drugs. In her mind, she heard laughter passing through her, making it harder to reassemble what had happened. Peeking out of her mind in the deep black, there was a slice of light. It reached down and down and carried Maria's soul up, leaving her body to stay in the jet black dark of death. Into the white, she flew, her tears wiped away in the wind; leaving loss behind. Awaiting her at the golden spiked high metal gates, was a man in a dark shadowed coat. He stood out against the bright white. He greeted her and clicked his finger, opening the gates. Then everything turned, crumbling grounds split open. Maria fell down onto blood red sand.

"Is this Hell?" Maria wondered, confusion smashing into her brain. A deep tone set the beat as the man slowly stroked words out. "Curiosity is a power, but in the blink of an eye, you can lose it and everything else." And with that Maria set on a journey to find her curiosity and use it to the fullest, in the right way.

## About Mia Porteous

My name is Mia and I'm eleven. The type of change in my story is about when you can lose a friend who you personally trusted the most. I chose this change because the way it can hurt someone so emotionally that there are different ways to interpret it. I want people to ask questions after my story.

#  Sailing Away from Comfort

## by Jesse Holmes

It is now that I realise how hopeless my situation is. I look around the small and confined wagon, leading me further and further away from home, to see two soldiers sitting opposite me. Father is on my left. Up front, two soldiers guide the wagon across the hilly dirt road. However have I ended up here? I keep asking myself that same question. It was only yesterday morning that I was safe, living in the small secluded town of Marbury on the south-east coast of England. It was a cloudless sunrise and promised a beautiful day. My Father and I were sleeping peacefully, until there was a loud, continuous knock on the door.

I remember hearing my Father yell, "Who the hell knocks at this time of morning?" After he walked past my room, I peeked around the door frame to see him clear his throat and answer the door. Standing on our doorstep was a man wearing a red coat and a strange looking hat. He had claimed to be a British soldier. He looked young, maybe only a few years older than me. Father had looked at him worriedly, "How can we help?"

The man had glared back blankly, "Under orders, sir. We have been told to notify everyone of the current threat. Marbury and several other towns along the coast have been deemed too vulnerable to Napoleon Bonaparte and the deadly force that follows him, and must be evacuated with utmost haste."

I didn't have enough time to see my Father's reaction. By then, I was away from the door and had raced towards my bedroom window. Sure enough, scattered on the streets were my neighbours—the friendly people that I had known, bonded and lived with for years, packing and leaving. Through the chaos I had seen soldiers directing them. The red coats were unmistakable.

I was tired. I crawled right back into my bedding when Father rustled me out of my half-sleep.

"Finn," he had said, "You must get up at once".

I had turned to look at him. "I know Father, I heard you talking with that man outside, about how we must leave at once, about how we are in danger of Napoleon, and look out the window, Father, everyone on the street is leaving. But I must wonder, where will we go?" I rarely talked to him in this childish way, as I recently celebrated my fifteenth birthday and considered myself quite mature.

He had slowed me down. "Son, I will think of something."

Father had sat like that for a few minutes. He hadn't said a word and hadn't averted his gaze from the window. I had assumed he was deep in thought. I didn't dare say a thing as I had realised that his next decision would probably have a huge impact on the rest of my life. In those few minutes, I had also realised I was about to leave behind so much of what was close to me. My home, my friends and my belongings. This deeply saddened me.

Father's next words had woken me from my thoughts. "Finn, we're going to London." There was a short pause as the reality sank in.

"What?" I had exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. The thought of living in the city of royalty, the city of the rich, the capital of the British Empire couldn't be described with words.

"But Father, where will we stay? Who do you know that lives there?

His look worried me. "I have a friend there, a good friend who lives there, she'll take let us stay with her"

"Who is is this friend, Father? Do I know her? Are you close?"

"Stop, Finn," he had said, slowly and painfully.

I was even more worried. My Father had not left Marbury since my mother died, over seven years ago. If this friend of his was more than a friend, I might have looked at my Father in a completely new light.

Somehow, Father had managed to find a horse. I didn't know how or where he found it, but I stood before it then. The few hours he was out had been be the perfect time to choose what was important enough to take and to say a heartfelt goodbye to the things I would be leaving behind. Sitting behind Father on a horse from God-knew-where, I believed I had chosen the right things to take. I realized that my fate was no longer in my hands.

I think it may have been a few hours after our departure that we saw them. They were distant, but it was quite obvious who they were. It was the way they had held themselves and the standout red coats. They were soldiers. Father didn't know what to think at first. He told me that if they did stop us, I was to go along with his story. How we were uncle and nephew, from the town we had stayed the previous night at—I still can't remember the name, that was always going to be a problem—about how we were planning on staying two or three days in a nearby forest. I can't remember the name of the forest either, but still, Father convinced me that our story would hold.

Sure enough, the soldiers had stopped us. There were a lot of them, about six men in all. They had a wagon and two horses. One man on each horse, two men in the back of the wagon and two in the front, one guiding the horse. One of the men riding the horses trotted over and loomed above us. He had seemed to be in charge. He asked who we were and what we were doing. Father told them our made up story. I still wonder why we made up a story. We could have told truth. It wouldn't have mattered and we may have been on our way.

The man turned to me, obviously seeing if I would back up Father's story. I said to him what Father had told me to say, our made up story.

He was looking straight at me, trying to intimidate me. What I wasn't to know, is that the next few sentences to come out of his mouth would change my life dramatically.

The officer said that the navy was short of men, that he was under orders from his superiors to recruit anyone that looked capable to sail, work and fight for King and Country.

Apparently I fitted their categories. I didn't even have time to think. Father had attempted to shield me. He pleaded with tears in his eyes, "Please, sir, you can't take him, he's only twelve years of age."

I knew that was a lie. A lie to protect me. The officer looked back with a blank, unchanged expression. Father's pleads had not made this man care at all about recruiting a fifteen year old in to the Royal Navy. "He sure as hell doesn't look younger than fourteen, and besides, we are permitted to recruit unwilling men forcefully."

Father had looked utterly defeated. I'd never seen him like this. He rarely gave in to things, but he didn't have any say. He turned and looked at me mournfully. "I'm so sorry, son, I'm so sorry." Tears started to rolling down his face, I hugged him.

I saw the officer snap at some of the men, then the officer's horse and the other began galloping in the direction we should have been heading.

I could guess what the man yelled at the other soldiers because two of them started walking towards Father and I. They quite roughly got us off the horses and had pushed us into the wagon.

So here I am, in my small hell, in a wagon full of senseless soldiers who are forcing Father and I to fight in the deadly Royal Navy against the French at sea. I no longer have any control over what I do. I'm trapped by the very people who are meant to protect us.

It's been on my mind for a while now, but I have resisted asking. Before I know it, I say, "Where are we going?"

The man in front looks back slowly, "We're headed to Portsmouth, boy."

Portsmouth. I've heard of the place but I've never been there. What I do know is that it is in the opposite direction of London. I'm riding in the opposite direction of my Father's friend. Away from a life I have control over. I am riding in the opposite direction of safety.

I become extremely tired as the wagon carrying me and Father rides into a bustling square. Apparently it's like this everyday, commotion, noise and eager shopkeepers. I was only used to small amounts of this, only when I went to the Sunday market with Father. The ride to Southampton was a long and tiring one, which I never wish to repeat. Sometimes, I think of what went wrong and what I had done to deserve this. I still can't answer those two demanding questions.

The next few hours go in what feels like seconds. I barely remember the wagon stopping in front of a tall, authoritative building. Father and I are ordered to get off and are escorted into the building. Different men looked me over to see if I am muscular, fit and able to sail. Apparently I am, because the next thing I know, my Father and I are bundled straight back into the wagon. But this time, we are headed in a different direction.

As I stand here, on the docks of Southampton, before many ships of all different sizes, with hyped men rushing around carrying cloth, timber and tools, I'm quite terrified and upset. Only minutes ago, I'd been told that I would be split from my Father, perhaps for the rest of my life. He's needed on HMS Pilgrim for his knowledge in medicine. I'm not needed there. I am, instead, going to be placed on HMS Warrior. A humongous, apparently unsinkable Man of War, famed for its countless victories across the English Channel. I will be away from Father, away from his protection, and even closer to hardship and pain onboard one of the most famed ships in the Royal Navy.

I'm escorted to a small, wooden door by a buff looking sailor. He opens it, "This is where you'll be staying, make some friends."

He pushes me in the room, knocking the breath out of me as I fall to the ground. He closes the door behind me.

I stand up, bewildered, sinking into these new surroundings. The room is small, that's for sure. It mainly consists of chests and coats, with a porthole to my front.

I notice that on my left, where there should be a wall, instead it stretches out to become another room, lined with folded hammocks. More importantly, one of those hammocks is unfolded and tied to the wall. Sitting in it is a boy staring straight at me.

"Who the hell are you?" His Scottish accent is unmistakable.

He looks quite similar to me. With the same brown hair and hazel eyes, some people might have mistaken us for brothers.

I answer his question with the truth. "My name is Finn. I don't have a clue what I'm doing here. I was told by Mr Fitzgerald that I would be working for Mister Pooley, the Master Gunnery Sergeant. I'm not sure where should I be or what I should be doing."

He steps onto the floor and outstretches his hand, looking for a handshake.

I grasp his hand. His attitude towards me has changed dramatically. From hostility to a smiling face. "Well, Finn, if you're going to be working for Mister Pooley, you're in the right place. The name's John, there's three other boys that also work for Mister Pooley. There's me, David, Jonathan, Alan and now you. Take my advice and try to not get on Alan's bad side. He's short-tempered and can be rough. David and Jonathan are really friendly and helpful. You'll like 'em. Anyway, we all sleep here. Mr Pooley sleeps in his cabin," he points to a small wooden door on the other side of the room, "through there. Mister Pooley is nice enough. He's generally quiet, but not so if the grog has got to him, if you don't call him sir, or if he's in close proximity to a Frenchman. The others will all be on deck somewhere. I'll introduce you to them. Follow me."

"Okay then." I know that it's going to take a long time to learn the ropes, literally.

I follow John out of the room. He turns left, going in the direction I came. It's an airy, wooden hallway. He starts to talk. "When the ship's docked, nothing much goes on, as you can see."

He points to a group of cheery seamen, gathered around a barrel, playing cards and laughing heartily. Everyone seems to be generally enjoying themselves.

"But when we're on open water," John continues, "you are going to have to a fit into a gruelling, unpleasant routine. You're also going to need to learn how to, for example, climb the rigging with speed, know what someone's saying when they shout at you to spar the yardarm or lower the mizzenmast, and you're also going to need to learn to tie ropes and swing a short sword. Do you know how to do any of this?"

We continue walking, climbing stairs and avoiding all of the commotion.

"Well I can climb trees, but not with speed. I know what a mizzenmast is, I can tie shoelaces and I can slice bread," I say awkwardly, but humorously.

John stares at me as if I am a lunatic and then starts laughing and laughing, "You sure do have a lot to learn, don't you?"

John and I clamber up a last, small flight of stairs and step onto the main deck.

As my eyes adjust to the outside, I am again blown away by the commotion and the true beauty and magnificence of the sailing vessel. John interrupts my moment of admiration by elbowing me in the side and pointing to the deck above us. "Look here, Finn, that's Captain Braithwaite."

I look to where he's pointing and see a stout, authoritative figure, dressed in the strangest attire that I had ever seen. Standing at his sides are a few other strangely dressed men. I do recognise one of them as Mr Fitzgerald. He was the man who had selected me to work for Mister Pooley not even an hour ago.

John points to another man on the quarterdeck. "See the man on the third from the left?"

I follow his instructions. "I do."

"That's him, that's Mister Pooley."

To be truthful, I am quite surprised. From what John had told me, I had gathered that the Master Gunnery Sergeant was a quiet, unspoken man, but this does not show in his appearance. He seems brash and noisy. John quickly reassures me that he is quite the opposite and that I will be in for countless other surprises during my time here.

One of those surprises is the fact that I have somehow managed to slip into the harsh routine that John had warned me about. After five months on board HMS Warrior, I have started to become quite used to a sailor's life. I can now operate the mid-sails, tie ropes, climb rigging, and wake up at the crack of dawn. I can truly say that I have managed to fit into life at sea, all thanks to the helpful guidance of John.

John had introduced me to David, Jonathan and Alan on my first night onboard.

David and Jonathan were kind enough. They returned my greetings with smiles, but not so in Alan's case. I had said hello to him, but he had just stared at me blankly. John had warned me of Alan's problems, so I had decided to avoid him for the time being. As it happened, David, Jonathan, Alan were also Scottish. Over the next few weeks I had gotten used to their accents, talking non-stop in my ears for a large amount of that time. I had met Mister Pooley on my second day. He had been gruff when we had first met, constantly reminding me of how inexperienced I was, but as I became more and more skilled at seamanship, he began to soften up. Now we get along fine and often he is kind to me. Mister Pooley reminds me of Father. A lot. I do hope I can see him again, but the chances of that happening are slight.

Enjoying life on board HMS Warrior comes to an abrupt halt on one harsh, scalding day. I feel the glaring heat of the sun mercilessly beating down on my sweating neck. I am working the mid-sails with John, far above deck, laughing at his terrible jokes. My roaring laughter is cut short as soon as I hear the sound of the lookout, in the top sails, bellowing out on the top of his voice, "sail on the horizon!"

The blood drains from my face as I notice that everyone is muttering that the ship is French. I hear that it's called La Courageux. My breathing stops. The only thing I notice is John muttering under his increased breathing, "Bloody hell."

John and I, along with the every other man on board this ship, hasten towards our assigned positions. We've been through this drill plenty of times. I am supposed to reach the main cannon deck and receive orders from Mr Pooley. Just as I begin to descend down the rigging I see the probable danger that awaits. Was I seriously meant to fight? I'm fifteen years of age!

What a sight on deck! Hundreds of men dashing in different directions carrying weapons and tools. And the cacophony of battle preparation.

John catches up with me as I head below deck. I stop him in his exasperated tracks.

"Are we genuinely about to fight the French?" The thought of fighting other people to the death frightens me beyond measure.

"Well, it's most likely, Finn. It is a French ship after all." John notices how terrified I am and attempts to calm me down. "If it's worth anything, Finn, I'm just as scared as you."

He then sprints toward the cannon deck, leaving me afraid and bewildered. I could never take another man's life. It just wasn't the kind of person I was. I swore that I would not harm anyone onboard the French ship.

As soon as I hear the first, deafening explosion, I run as fast as my weakened legs can carry me. Not even John's pleas for me to come back can stop me. I'm absolutely terrified.

When I'm as far away as possible, I stop, seeing where I can hide. Lying in the centre of the corridor are two large, crumpled folds of cloth, providing me with perfect cover. I lay the two folds of cloth on the ground and burrow my way into my hidey-hole. I doubt anyone will notice me. I am tucked up in the most unused parts of the ship, the cloth storage. No-one will find me down here, waiting out the battle. Hopefully.

As the hours keep passing by, so does my patience. I'm becoming more and more agitated. I'm worried if we may be losing this endless battle, I'm worried if the ship could be going down and I'm worried to see if John is okay.

My patience dissolves. I attempt to leave my canopy of cloth, but hours on end of tranquil limbs will take it's toll. After several failed attempts, I manage to hoist my body upright. My limbs feel lifeless and my body must be thinking that I'm carrying an anchor on my back. This truly will be a considerable problem if I am forced to defend myself. I turn sluggishly towards the door, now in search of John.

I don't know why, exactly, but I assume that John will be on deck—trying to help in any way he can. I've learned over the months that I have known him, that he's the kind of person who will do that. Now, I want to help him.

I continue on my journey topside, going up several flights of dark, gloomy wooden stairs. On what I assume is the fourth flight of stairs, a tall, lean man halts my swift journey upwards. He begins to talk to me in a friendly manner, "Over 'ere boy, take this."

He lays an elegant short sword in my filthy hands. "That blade better be stained with French blood before this battle's end."

The sailor dashes past me, heading for the lower levels.

As I admire the blade, but then I think back to my thoughts hours before, about how I swore that I would never harm a soul on board the enemy ship. I throw the sword to the ground defiantly. I will not be compelled to fight.

The sight I see when I burst onto deck is one that damages my mind. I'll never forget it. A bloody array of dead bodies, fire and men fighting to the death. The cacophony of gurgled screams, the clashing of swords and the thunder of gunshots. This is a sight powerful enough to turn a grown man insane. The effect on a boy of fifteen years is catastrophic.

It is too much for me to handle. I burst into tears.

Through hazed vision I manage to spot John, his happy face now sorrowful. He looks hurt, perhaps gravely so. He is just far enough from the thick of battle. He seems safe, but has a nasty shoulder wound.

I begin on my unstoppable sprint towards my best friend. I hate everything taking place on this ship. I hate the destruction, the noise and the pointless loss of human life. This hate somehow energises my sprint through the chaos around me.

The sight of a Frenchman strolling over to John and plunging a sword into his chest is enough to send me over the edge. My sprint becomes more and more powerful as he withdraws the bloodstained blade from John's chest.

I stop abruptly as the Frenchman slowly turns to me. I am metres away from John as he gradually starts to fade. The only thing blocking me from reaching my friend is a sick, evil grin belonging to vile Frenchman, now staring straight into my eyes.

He begins a maniacal sprint towards me. Me, an innocent British boy that shouldn't even be here. I grasp the pistol belonging to the dead man at my side. Just the sight of the insane Frenchman, piteous enough to take the life of a boy, and desiring to take the life of another, is enough to make myself willingly take aim at his pompous head... and pull the trigger.

# Lorelei

## by Maddie Flynn

Sunlight drifted meaninglessly throughout the unusually dormant camp. Lorelei quickly lowered her eyes as a line of grim faced soldiers stomped past her. Despite the sun, a shiver ran down her spine as her mind formed images of the swastikas adorning their uniforms.

She walked toward the prisoners' block as fast as her energy-starved body would allow. She had been beautiful once, but her grey, scrawny face now held hollow eyes and lines of worry.

The wailing of a new prisoner greeted her as she reached the entrance to the prisoners' block. She felt pity for the grieving woman whose children seemed to have been taken from her, but Lorelei was not surprised when two soldiers stepped in front of the woman and began beating her.

She ran towards the woman, who lay helplessly on the ground as the soldiers kicked her, but was pushed—not roughly—out of the way by another soldier, who threw himself between the woman and her abusers. A chain of curses came from the mouths of the two men, but they left the woman and walked away angrily.

Lorelei was not alone in her surprise. She had not seen this soldier before. It was clear from the expressions on the faces of those around her that they hadn't either. The soldier, seeming to realise what he had done, flicked his head towards the broken woman on the ground and spat viciously in her direction before speeding out of the prisoners' block.

Slowly, Lorelei moved closer to the woman.

"What is your name?" Lorelei asked in a soft German voice. Perhaps it would have been expected of Lorelei to ask if the woman was hurt, but the bruises forming on her cheeks had already answered that question.

"H-Heidi," the woman stuttered in response.

"My name is Lorelei. Here," she said, reaching her hands around Heidi. "Let me help you up."

Lorelei, with the help of another woman nearby, moved Heidi onto a sack—the closest thing they had to a mattress—so that she could rest. Lorelei found a place beside Heidi and lay down to sleep.

The morning air was crisp, but plagued by the ever present smells of death and disease. Lorelei and other woman moved quietly through the camp to the place prisoners gathered for roll call.

On her way, she was stopped by the soldier who had saved Heidi the day before. Despite the rough way he grabbed her arm, she wasn't afraid of him.

"Yesterday, you almost threw yourself on those soldiers. Unless you have a death wish, don't do anything like that again," the soldier said quickly. He let Lorelei's arm go and moved swiftly away from the migrating group of prisoners. Heidi, who had been walking alongside Lorelei until that moment, raised her eyebrows, questioning. Lorelei shrugged her shoulders in response.

Throughout roll call, Lorelei couldn't shake the odd feeling her encounter with the soldier had given her. He was a Nazi, and she was a Jew, so why was he warning her not to do something dangerous?

Lorelei and Heidi had been assigned to work in an off-site area of the camp, owned by a German company. The conditions in these sorts of labour sites were rough, as prisoners were forced to work endlessly in the factories or farms or coal mines, with no reward. Often, Lorelei had witnessed prisoners being shot for slacking off.

Her day passed slowly as always, and she was ecstatic to finally collapse on a sleeping sack as soon as she reached the prisoners block. Heidi, who was still recovering from her beating, was also quite relieved to be able to rest.

Despite her exhaustion, Lorelei could not find sleep. Her mind kept wandering back to the morning, and the strange soldier who had warned her not to endanger her life. She decided to walk around the entrance to the prisoners block in a vain attempt to get some air that was slightly less stale than what she was currently breathing.

It turned out that the guard on duty that night was the one who was causing her all this confusion. They made eye contact, and held it for what seemed to Lorelei like an awfully long time, until the soldier reached out his hand to offer Lorelei a cigarette.

"Uh, no, no thank you," Lorelei said, stumbling over her words. The soldier nodded and pulled his hand back.

"You don't look too good. What's bothering you?" He asked her.

"I, uh, couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

Lorelei's heart pounded at this question. Should she ask him why he was being kind to her, tell him that he was the reason she wasn't sleeping? Then Lorelei laughed at herself, she was beginning to sound like a girl following a suitor.

"I keep thinking about what you said to me. Why did you say it?" She finally replied.

"Just want you to look out for yourself, is all." Lorelei's face must have still looked confused, because he laughed and continued speaking. "I'm not like the other soldiers, you must have noticed that. Anyway, that can't be why you're not sleeping. Keep talking."

Lorelei muttered some reply about her family, from whom she had been separated from upon arrival at the camp. Of course, thinking about her family did make her feel upset, but she had months ago accepted that she would probably never see them again.

After saying she had decided to go back to sleep, Lorelei quietly wandered over to her sleeping sack and lay down to rest.

Sleep came instantly.

The next morning Lorelei awoke beside a moaning Heidi. Her eyes were bleak and her skin was pale, and Lorelei knew what was wrong.

Recently, an illness had swept through the camp that had killed several people and left many more very sick. Lorelei had caught it, but near the end of the epidemic. She was treated by one of the prisoners who had been a nurse before the war.

Lorelei knew that remnants of the disease could still be in the camp, and that must have been how Heidi picked it up. Whether it had been something she touched or ate or breathed in, Lorelei knew she needed help.

Roll call was soon, and Heidi had to be there. If she wasn't and was found lying in the prisoners' block, she would surely be killed. Lorelei struggled to hold her up, but luckily they were not assigned any work that day. It did happen occasionally, and the prisoners who were spared the work were always very pleased.

Lorelei led Heidi back to the prisoners' block and lay her down. She then left Heidi to find someone who could help her. She would not let Heidi become so sick she died, even if it meant having to bribe a soldier into helping her. The thought of doing something to please a soldier made her sick, but she would do it for Heidi.

Not long after she had left Heidi, she ran into the soldier she had almost taken a liking to. Literally. In Lorelei's mad dash to find a nurse or doctor, she rammed straight into his chest.

"I...I'm sorry, sir," Lorelei mumbled quickly.

"Don't be. What are you running like mad around the camp for?" he asked in a joking manner, instead of the inquisitive and scolding manner another soldier would have likely given her.

"It's Heidi. She has fallen ill, and I need to find a nurse, a doctor, any—" she might have continued her rush of words, had the soldier not stopped her there.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll send someone to help her. Meanwhile, come with me, I have news for you." Lorelei was surprised and completely confused. What could he possibly have to tell her?

He led her into a small room that held a desk in the middle of the far wall and a filing cabinet that had been pushed into one of the corners behind the desk. A chair was sat behind the desk, and the soldier seated himself there.

"This is my office," he said. "I brought you here because I have news of your family."

Lorelei heard her own jaw drop to the ground. He had what? News of her family? This couldn't be true! A soldier was helping her, and bringing her news of her loved ones.

"Don't look so shocked. I have news, but it isn't all good. Your mother and father," he looked away, then forced himself to meet her imploring gaze. "I'm sorry, but your sister lives. She is being held in another camp. I-I'm sorry," he spoke the last two words quietly, as if he was ashamed.

"Thank you, thank you so much for telling me, sir," somehow, Lorelei had already known this, but to have it confirmed meant she could properly grieve.

"Please, Lorelei, stop calling me sir. Call me Franz," he said. Lorelei looked at him surprised, she hadn't thought he knew her name. Perhaps I have a file in one of his cabinets, she thought jokingly to herself.

"You...know my name?"

"I, uh, yes, I asked around," he answered.

"Oh, okay. Well, I think I should go and make sure Heidi is okay." Lorelei said by way of goodbye, then left Franz sitting alone in his office.

Heidi wasn't at the prisoners' block when Lorelei arrived back, but she later learned that was because a nurse had come and taken her to the sick room. Lorelei had just wandered around the camp trying to find something to look at that wasn't dead or broken.

She had seen Franz once, but he swiftly turned his head away from her and looked elsewhere. Odd, Lorelei thought. Although if Franz was avoiding her, she could understand why. He must have realised what he had done, helping two Jews in three days, even asking one of them to call him by his first name. Her next thought struck her like a tidal wave, and she realised that she actually didn't want Franz to ignore her.

The next day, Heidi's medicine had obviously done it job. She was already on the mend, and was well enough to go to work. The girls were both sent out to one of the factories, and had to work eight hours until they were bone weary and could go back to the camp.

Lorelei saw Franz when she arrived, turning a corner not far from her. She left Heidi and rushed towards him. He had stopped walking and she called out to him. When she got closer, she realised that he wasn't alone.

"What do you want?" Franz asked her sternly, with a look on his face that resembled a scowl.

"I, uh, nothing," Lorelei said, stumbling over her words.

"Good. Now get away from me, pig!" His words hit Lorelei like a punch to the gut. She was too shocked to move, so she stayed standing where she was.

"Do I need to tell you twice?" Franz spat. He then moved to close the distance between them, spat on her, and slapped her, hard, on the face.

When Lorelei lined up for roll call, a purple-blue bruise had spread its way across her cheek. She saw Franz, and he turned away.

Despite her physical and emotional pain, Lorelei had not shed one tear. Instead, she had felt only anger, and aside from a few sharp remarks towards Heidi, she had kept it contained. Now, seeing Franz, she badly wanted to let it out.

Roll call seemed to drag on for a long time, but the prisoners were finally let go to do their numerous jobs. Lorelei had never imagined that she would be relieved to go to the factory where she now seemed to be a permanent worker, but being so close to Franz had made her skin crawl, and she couldn't wait to get away from him.

This continued for about two weeks. Lorelei continued to avoid Franz, but as the bruise faded from her face, so did her anger. She now felt sorry for Franz, because she was beginning to understand why he had done it.

The other soldiers treated Franz like he was weak. They all had short tempers and tendencies to lash out on the prisoners whenever they felt like it, but Franz didn't. Lorelei could understand him wanting to prove to them that he was tougher than they thought, but Lorelei didn't understand why she had to be his proof.

One night, Franz was patrolling the area near Lorelei's block. Whether he had done this intentionally or not, Lorelei had no idea. She was sitting outside the building she normally slept in, propped up by the wooden wall, when Franz approached her carefully.

"Lorelei?" he asked.

"What do you want?" she replied coldly.

"Would you come to my office with me?"

"Will you hit me if I don't?" she snapped, but she still got up from the ground and began walking in the direction of his office. They arrived at the door leading to his office and entered quickly. Franz sat behind the desk and Lorelei took a seat in front of him.

"I'm sorry," he stated.

"I know," she replied, earning a surprised look from Franz.

"I shouldn't have done it, but the other soldiers, they think I'm weak. Dirt on their shoes. I—" he was about to continue, but was interrupted by his companion.

"Don't make excuses Franz. I understand what you are saying, but I would prefer for you to simply apologise and accept your wrongdoing," Lorelei was surprised by the authority in her mad rush of words, and it was almost as if she were not speaking to a Nazi soldier, but rather scolding a younger sibling.

Franz did not look surprised at all, his face showed only signs of regret and shame. He moved swiftly towards Lorelei, closing the distance between them. "I'm sorry, and I mean it. Lorelei, I-I have missed you."

Lorelei was again surprised. The impossible situation of her conversing with a Nazi had just grown even more impossible. Franz had said he missed her, and she realised with a shocking force that she had missed him, too.

The next few weeks, Lorelei and Franz continued to grow closer. Both aware of the danger any form of relationship between them could bring, they had decided to meet secretly at night. It was inevitable that someone would notice.

That was exactly what happened. It wasn't long before Heidi, who had long ago become Lorelei's closest friend in the camp, asked her where she went at night. Lorelei struggled to avoid truth, but she broke down and told Heidi eventually. Heidi's reaction was exactly what Lorelei had thought it would be—confused, angry, and disappointed.

"How could you even think of a soldier like that? They killed your parents! My babies! Lorelei, oh Lorelei," Heidi had said. Lorelei was so ashamed of herself, knowing how wrong it was to feel this way.

It was three days after telling Heidi that it happened. Lorelei had been walking around the camp aimlessly until she heard commotion. In one of the common areas, a soldier was kicking at a prisoner on the ground. Lorelei tried to move closer, to help, but she couldn't see who the soldier was screaming at, and, as horrible as it sounded, Lorelei didn't want to risk her life for someone she possibly didn't know.

The soldier went quiet, and peered down at the person laying on the ground. Lorelei still couldn't get a good view of who it was, but she saw the spit connect with the soldier's face.

Instead of hitting her, the soldier stood up slowly and pointed a finger at another soldier.

Franz.

The soldier barked for Franz to come to him. He did so reluctantly, but he still had not seen Lorelei. Suddenly, the soldier lifted his head and spoke to the small crowd that had gathered around.

"This, this, scum here has done the unspeakable. She has wronged a Nazi soldier, and she will die along with every other Jew. My brother," he said, patting Franz on the back, "will take the honour of shooting her dead."

Gasps rang out through the crowd, but Lorelei remained silent and frozen. Franz looked his brother in the eye for a few moments, before turning towards the prisoner and raising his pistol. Lorelei lurched forward, finally pushing through the crowd. She only just caught the last words the prisoner spoke.

"She will never forgive you," Heidi said.

Franz pulled the trigger.

Instantly, the shock of what he had done shone on his face, visible to anyone close enough. His brother gave him a questioning look, and Franz wiped the expression clean. Lorelei collapsed beside her friend and cradled the now dead Heidi in her arms. She looked at Franz with eyes colder than ice.

Franz was pulled away from the scene by the soldier Lorelei assumed to be Franz's brother, although Franz had never mentioned him before. Her face was covered in tears, and her throat dried out as she screamed for her lost friend.

Heidi had gone completely cold by the time Lorelei was dragged roughly away by soldiers later that night. Lorelei had somehow managed to never cry herself to sleep before—unlike so many other prisoners who did every night—but that night, Lorelei wept until she could weep no more. Then she slept.

It took weeks for Lorelei to bring herself to face Franz again, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not convince herself that she hated him. In a way, she understood that he had done it for the same reason he had slapped her, but it reminded her of the fact that he was a Nazi, and that their relationship was wrong.

Eventually, they did speak and Lorelei forgave him for his actions. They began their routine of late night visits, but Lorelei had a sinking feeling that it could never be the same again, but she could never remove the weight of Heidi's death from Franz's shoulder.

It was coming, Lorelei knew, the question about Heidi's last words. She hadn't said to Franz that she had told Heidi, but she knew she had to eventually. She wanted to avoid the anger in his eyes, or, even worse, the disappointment. It had been an unspoken agreement between the two of them not to tell anyone.

Surprisingly, when Franz asked, and Lorelei answered, he wasn't angry or disappointed. He wasn't shocked, he just seemed to already know, like he was asking for confirmation. Lorelei supposed that there wasn't much else 'she will never forgive you' could mean.

One night, when Lorelei was eating some food Franz had stolen for her in his office, there was a knock on the door. This had never happened before, and she thought that they should have planned for this. It just wasn't like any soldier at the camp to visit Franz.

Franz looked at her wearily, and pointed underneath his desk. Lorelei understood what this gesture meant. Quickly, but quietly, she scooted herself under it.

Franz stood up and opened the door. A man stood in front of it, smiling enthusiastically.

"Hello, brother, would you mind sparing a minute of your time to enjoy my company?" Lorelei knew the voice. He was the soldier who had ordered Franz to kill Heidi.

It took Lorelei all of her strength not to propel herself out from under the desk and at the soldier.

"Of course, brother," Franz replied. There it was again—brother. Were they brothers? Lorelei hadn't asked Franz, but she supposed that if he had wanted her to know he would have said something.

She heard and saw Franz pull out the chair behind the desk and sit down. His feet sat right in front of her face, and her body was crunched in an awkward, uncomfortable position. Franz's brother sat in front of the desk, and Lorelei felt the soldier's hands thump on top of the desk.

"Having a snack, Franz?" the soldier asked. Lorelei's expression twisted into one of horror, she had left the plate of food she was eating on the table! Surely she would be found out now.

"I, uh, yes, I was hungry," Franz muttered, stumbling over his words.

"Were you, now?" the soldier questioned, and Franz visibly froze. No no no! Lorelei thought. She heard a chair scrape against the ground, and listened to the footsteps of the soldier as he rounded the desk. He now stood closer to Franz, and closer to Lorelei. Without thinking, she silently pushed herself further into the depths of Franz's desk.

In a menacing voice, the soldier asked Franz if there was something he wanted to tell him. Lorelei was shocked. Had this soldier seen them together?

"I—no, why do you ask?"

The soldier's posture and voice relaxed. "You seem different these days, Franz. When we were boys, you always needed protecting. Now, now, you don't. What is it? I thought now, after becoming a soldier, you would need even more protecting. But it seems you have found a way to protect yourself," he said, and Lorelei suddenly felt like she was intruding on something personal.

"I have, mein lieber Bruder, I have," Franz said, using an endearment that his brother would not have heard since they left their home to become soldiers.

Lorelei was scared to approach Franz again. She still felt like she had heard things she shouldn't have, but she was curious to find out what Franz had meant when he said he had found a way to protect himself.

That night, as she was slipping silently around the camp towards Franz's office, a wave of joy hit her. Whispers of the Allies ending the war were roaming the camp, and she thought that, perhaps, one day she wouldn't need to worry whether or not she was seen with Franz.

When she pushed open the door to his office and entered, she did not see the man watching her from the shadows.

"It is so good to see you, Lorelei," Franz said.

"As it is you. Franz, something has been on the edge of my mind recently. I cannot shake the curiosity to know what it was you had meant when you said you had found a way to protect yourself," Lorelei said in a gush a words. Franz took her hands and looked into her eyes.

"Oh, Lorelei. Must you be so silly? I was talking about you, of course! Whenever I feel alone, or whenever I feel like I can't take one more step in this horrid place, I think of you, and me, and us, surviving, together. Maybe one day we can be together," Franz replied, putting a large smile on Lorelei's face.

"Franz! You are so lovely. I—" Lorelei spoke, but was interrupted by the sound of a lock being opened. She looked worriedly from the door to Franz, but it was too late. Several soldiers burst into the small, now crowded, office, Franz's brother leading the pack.

"What is this, Franz? How dare you have dealings with a Jewish girl? She is a pig! Me, and others, have watched you for weeks, and it was not until tonight that we were certain. Yes, Franz, she is a pig, and she shall die!" He shouted at Franz, as three other soldiers hauled Lorelei away from Franz.

It was the next day when Lorelei was dragged out of the camp. Rough cloth scratched her closed eyelids as menacing hands shoved her body forward. She had been pulled away from the pleas of her beloved Franz; as if he thought he could save her now.

German words were thrown into her ears like grenades. The soldiers were eager now, she could smell the excitement seeping from them.

They reached a location that seemed to satisfy the soldiers. She was ordered to remain where she was, and as the soldiers walked a small distance away from her, she heard the unslinging of their rifles.

In her last moments, she thought of her Mama and her Papa, her younger sister Angeline, and a book that lay unfinished on her bedside table back home. She prayed quietly to a god she was now unsure of, but mostly she thought of Franz, and her indescribable love for him, and his infinite love for her. She remembered the last words he had said to her, before she had been pulled away from his office. Ich liebe dich, Lorelei.

"I love you, Lorelei."

So as the soldiers aimed their guns, and the bullets pierced her skin, she spoke her very last words.

Ich liebe dich, auch.

I love you, too.

## About Maddie Flynn

My name's Maddie, and I am currently thirteen years old. I have a wide variety of interests, and writing has always been a prominent one. As a primary student, I was lucky to have many opportunities to write narratives, and, although the times for narrative writing seems mostly over, I will always grab the chance to write one.

The class we did with Beaulah was an excellent excuse to write this story, which was mainly inspired by my love for reading books about the period of time when World War II took place. The relationship conveyed between the two characters is my way of exerting the fact that religion (or race, or hair colour, or interests... you get the picture) in no way, shape, or form should affect the way you feel about someone.

I do hope you enjoyed reading my story.

# Goblins

## by Oliver Garrett

A boy woke up in a dark room. Who am I? Where am I? He didn't remember anything. He saw a women leaning over him, sobbing. "Hello?" He got up off the bed. The crying stopped almost immediately, and the lady stared at him as if he were a monster.

"Do you know who I am? Where am I?" the boy said. The lady still stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.

"Who am I? What's Happening? What's wrong with me?" the boy cried.

"Who am I? I can't remember a thing!" the boy sobbed. "I can't remember a thing!"

He backed himself against the corner breathing heavily. The women walked towards him, and smiled a warm, loving smile. The boy paused, then breathed in sharply. He knew who he was. he looked at the women. "Mum?"

He stumbled over to the bed and lay down. "When? What? Ho..."

The boy suddenly closed his eyes, for the second time.

### Year 2451

The siren was screaming a warning, echoing inside the huge, vast glass dome. The goblins. They had arrived. The noise was high pitched, like an olden day police car siren. A boy was watching from the inside of his block, up high in a skyscraper. He watched one of the men handling a machine gun topple over, and the little green scrawny creatures engulf him, tearing him apart. One of the goblins took his gun and started shooting randomly, ripping glass to shreds.

"Nasty things, aren't they?"

The boy looked up at Alex and sniffed.

"Don't worry Rael. I will keep you safe." She rustled the boy's hair. Rael kept quiet.

Alex and Rael were both armed now. The goblins had managed to make their way up the building. About one thousand times as many goblins had come compared to last time. There were billions of them. The whole city was splattered with green. Alex heard the goblins screeches as they made their way up the steps.

"Rael, stay behind me!" she growled. The poor boy was only eleven.

Five more floors until the goblins had made it up. Alex listened. Three. Two.

"Mum..." said Rael.

A huge banging noise came from behind the door. Rael shrieked, and Alex toppled over backwards. One of the goblins must have pushed ahead. With her steel pole raised, Alex approached the door. Then they burst in, just as some of the fog lifted from outside the city dome. Alex was engulfed, the goblins had fallen all over her. They were everywhere, tearing up paper, battering the walls down, smashing the glass windows, but one of them had seen the fog. The goblins barked to his comrades. Rael knew, if they didn't have the fog as a cover, the council would shut perhaps a sixth of them down—and sure enough, they scuttled away. One of them seemed reluctant. He snarled, and snatched Alex's steel pole. He brought it up with both his hands and slammed it down on Alex's leg.

"NO!" Rael had seen what happened and he threw a half-smashed vase at the goblin, the pieces smashing into the wall. Too late. Rael fell on the floor. "Mum? Are you Okay? What should I do?"

Alex was whimpering, holding her leg. There were scratches all over her face. Rael didn't know what to do. "Should I take you to the hospital? Can you walk?"

The city lived inside a huge glass dome, separating the citizens houses from the dull, grey fog. It gave a sort of hellish look, as there was no sun, only the glowing lights that the city hosted. The city was huge, and had a sort of mysterious look to it, as if you were in a gigantic civilization inside a cavern.

Soon after the attack, Rael and Alex realised that all the money in the safe had been taken. They had nothing. When the goblins broke in, the safe had probably been ripped open by the goblins incredible strength, and the money had most likely been ripped to pieces. Alex was sitting in a wheelchair, and Rael was pushing her out the door now. Rael pressed the down button on the elevator, but he already knew that something had messed with it before he pressed the button. The ride must have been horrible for Alex, thumping down the stairs like an oversized elephant. Some medics were rushing up the stairs, but Rael waved them past. "She's fine. There are people up there dying."

Once they had made it down to street level, they headed for the council building. The council could assign them a new house, although it wouldn't be safe, at all. Most likely it would be a house that was trashed and the owners were killed. The walk to the hospital took about an hour. Alex commanded Rael not to run. She felt sorry for Rael, having to push her in a wheelchair halfway across the city. When they turned the last corner, the line made both of them feel sick. The injured were everywhere. If they were going to wait that long it would take at least sixteen or seventeen hours. Rael moaned and slumped to the ground.

"We are not waiting that long," Alex said.

Already people had gathered behind them, all of them much more hurt than Alex. Some of them were getting carried, some of them were getting dragged along by their sons or daughters.

The youngest patient was about two months old. "Lets go. We don't need the hospital as much as these people."

"We could join the black market," Rael had spoken. "If we seek help from the council, they would give us a house that would serve no protection from the goblins, and even if we just have the house for a little amount of time, and then if we want to go to the black market, the council will be questioning us. If we go into debt, we'd never be able to pay it back. Everything we own would be taken."

Alex sighed. "There are so many dangerous people in the black market. Plus, we'd still need food and water. How are we going to get that? If anyone finds out that we are involved with the black market, we'd be banished. The goblins would get us before they even reached the city." Alex hesitated. She moaned and slumped back in her chair. "Maybe you're right. The best option probably would be the black market. We'd have to stay away from the dark side of it though, where the real goods are sold. But it would be safe, much more safe than assigning a house from the street. The black market is underground, and would be safe from the goblins." Alex looked really tired.

"Come on, We're going home. You're too tired. It's been a big day. You're going to bed." Rael felt good about being the older person, looking after Alex, until he saw her weakly smiling. Just then Rael realized that they had no house. His head was spinning. So much had happened in one day. What happened to the days when Rael could do whatever he wanted? Where did they go? What happened to the times when everyday he played football at his school? Not military school, as they do now. Real school. Where did his normal life go? Where was it hiding? It was too much to think about for poor Rael.

Alex had led them to an old friend of hers, Mazey; someone who was once involved in the black market; someone who could help them. She had once told Alex how to enter the black market. Mazey had a tunnel from her place. Rael's legs were aching, pushing Alex along. Of course, Alex had tried to walk, only to end up on the ground again, holding her leg. In the house there was no sign of Mazey.

"Goblins," Alex said. She was grimacing. "This way, Rael. Pull that bookshelf out of the way and open the hatch. Turn it clockwise about one hundred and twenty degrees."

Rael did as he was told. Sure enough, after a bit of twisting, the hatch came open, and he saw a dirt stairway cascading down into the darkness. Rael looked down, and suddenly he didn't feel so sure about his idea. Imagine if there was a goblin hiding down there? He tried to put the thought out of his mind. "Alex, there are more stairs."

"It's Okay, It doesn't go down as far as it looks." Alex said. And she was right. But not in a good way. It only went about ten metres down, people could easily hear them from above ground if they raised their voices. The end of the staircase branched out into a dully lit room, with a window on the secure door. They noticed other passageways, they must have branched down from other people's houses. Rael peered through it. Through the door there were two people holding plasma guns, arguing with each other.

Rael knocked. They both turned with surprised looks on their faces, and barged right in. One of them grabbed Rael, and the other one snatched Alex from her wheelchair. "If any one of you moves, we will shoot you in the eyeball," the one holding Rael said. "Both of you."

Rael slowly turned to Alex with a frightened look on his face. The guards carried them through a dark corridor, then a large room, perhaps the size of two basketball courts. It was well lit, and they saw people smirking as they were carried past. There were stalls set up everywhere, selling everything that you could think of. There were clothes, food, even a sweet shop. In Rael's opinion, the place looked amazing. The dirt walls in contrast with the cheap but effective yellow lights have a really nice effect. There were stretches of rope lined across the room, Rael assumed that that was how they dry towels and clothes. There were people of all ages there. He saw a gang of kids hanging around the sweetshop. Rael thought that they were about his age. There were cabins carved into the wall over the left side, they had windows and working lights. Inside, the floors were completely made of blankets and mattresses. The guards brought them through into a large hallway, with lots of doors branching out to rooms. Finally, they turned at a door and went in. Rael saw lots of people there, all of them slouched on couches with bottles in their hands. This must be the living quarters. They were drunk and laughing, and there was a pool table in the middle. It looked like a bar. The guards ferociously pulled them over to the bartender, and declared, "These people are spies. They were spying on us through the west entry. I recommend them being locked up and forced to work in the sewing factory. You had a big rant about that before, didn't you?"

"No! That's not true!" Rael shouted.

"You want to have your eye blown out, boy? Have you ever been shot by one of these? I can tell you, it's not pretty! Now shut your face!" The guard was poking the barrel of the gun into one of Rael's eyes.

"Don't shoot, he's just a boy!" Alex cried.

"Calm down, Edgar. Everyone calm down!" The bartender stood up.

"You too, woman!" The guard smacked her with the end of his gun. A crowd had gathered around them, hearing the commotion and shouting out things like, "Spies?!?! Kill them! I want them DEAD!" and "Give 'em a month in the pit, that'll sort 'em." All around them, the crowd was cheering and laughing at them, yelling insults.

"SILENCE!" the bartender screamed.

The crowd ranted on.

"SILENCE! The next person who talks will have no leisure time for a week!" The bartender screamed, smashing his fist down on the table. A hush fell over the small crowd. "Spies you say?" The bartender smirked. "Speak boy, what do you want to say?"

"We are not spies." Rael swallowed.

"Best argument ever!" Someone from the crowd blurted out. A few people laughed, but he received a fist to the face.

"Rolt, you just bought yourself a week without leisure time." The bartender said calmly. Someone rushed off in order to alert the management team. Rolt looked regretful.

"Sorry, boy. Speak."

"We got attacked by the goblins, above ground. Our whole block got destroyed, and they broke into our safe so we don't have any money. All we need is a safe home, and we decided to come here."

"I understand, but you are still intruding in our territory."

A few people smirked about the bartenders mocking tone, like he was talking to a three year old.

"We just want a safe place to live!" Rael looked scared.

The bartender paused. "I agree. You do need a safe place to live. Put 'em in the strap house. No goblins will get you there. Do you want me to show you what happened to the last spies who we strapped? You'll love it."

The crowd all around them were cheering and yelling insults at them.

"No! We're not spies! I promise!" Rael screamed, as the guards started pulling them away.

Rael glanced over at Alex. The guard had a hand over her mouth. Rael could tell she was trying to yell something out to the bartender, to get him to change his mind. That's why she didn't try and help Rael out. She couldn't even speak. Alex's voice was muffled and she was squirming angrily in the guards strong grip, getting nowhere. The other guard looked around, and loosened his grip on Rael to look at the amusing sight. Seizing the chance, Rael swung around and knocked Alex's guard square on the forehead. Alex kicked out with her back foot and the guard, shocked by the boy's hit, crumpled. Immediately, Alex ran screaming to the bartender, "Mazey! We know Mazey!"

Some guards had seen what had happened, and they all sprinted towards Alex and Rael, tackled them and sent them flying. Before Rael could get up, a needle came down and slung him into oblivion.

* * *

Rael woke up in a room. Alex was awake, and the bartender was standing up inspecting them, eyeing them suspiciously.

"You say you're a friend of Mazey's? What happened to her then? Why did she suddenly stop working at the black market? She was one of the only outside links we had."

"Goblins."

The bartender grimaced

"Alex, what's happening?" Rael said.

"I'm not sure yet. We might get away."

"Note that she said 'might'. We are still thinking about it." The bartender said.

"But we are just normal people wanting a home! Why do you want to lock us up and treat us like goblins?" Rael said.

"We don't know that. As soon as you get any evidence that we are doing anything bad, which we aren't, you could send the evidence to the council and the military school would have their first real training exercise."

Alex looked glum.

"I'm going to talk to the chief. I'll come back later." The bartender walked out and bolted the door from the outside.

A few seconds passed, then Rael said; "How did the world become this horrible, Alex? Why are there goblins, built to destroy and kill? Why can't we just come together internationally, and work to help save the world? Why is the world like this, Alex? Why did Kytle bomb us?"

Alex sighed a long, sad sigh. "When I was your age, I used to live in Australia. I lived there until I was about twenty six, and your father came with me. We moved to Vorche-walton, and lived there for a while. About four years later we..."

"I know. You've told me. There was a world war. Dad got killed and the whole southern hemisphere got blown up by VV-CARBON 40's." Rael had interrupted her mid-sentence. "I want to know why there are goblins. I want to know why we can't come together as a nation and help."

"The goblins were creatures created in a laboratory. They are immune to plasma radiation so they could travel to the southern hemisphere and retrieve everything we wanted. But soon they realized that we couldn't reach them down there, so they didn't come back up. In the northern hemisphere the people were getting worried, so they sent up some drones to finish them. That was humanity's second big mistake. They underestimated the power of the goblins that they created, and in about one month they were back on their feet." Alex paused, as the light in the room flickered. For a second it went pitch black, then it flashed back on.

Alex continued. "The goblins were angry at what we had done to them, so they took what they needed from the southern hemisphere, and they travelled up to the north. You were nine when they started travelling up, Rael. First of all they targeted the poorly developed countries, like Westernborg, and they dominated. From there they sent a DK-2000 plasma bomb to Kytle, and Kytle, being the strongest developed country, and the only country allied with Westernborg, thought that the other countries had bombed them. So they fog bombed almost every other country in the north, to show how strong they were. To show why they shouldn't mess with Kylte ever again. That was when the fog settled in."

Rael sucked in breath. He remembered that day. He remembered that time when everybody was rushing around the city, everybody moved to the city's main building. It was horrible. Being pulled around here and there with no idea what was happening.

"Rael, we were lucky. As soon as the council had heard about the goblins moving up to attack the north, they built an electric glass sphere across the city, so nobody could get in. About a week after that, the fog settled in. The fog was horrible. It was so thick it blotted out the sun, and provided a cover for the goblins who started attacking two years later. Now no other country trusts each other."

Rael stayed silent. Humanity really stuffed up. We got given big brains, we used big brains, and we screwed the world into a paper ball with our big brains. Fifteen years. Fifteen years it took, for people to rain hell down on themselves. Soon the whole population will be wiped out. Everything that once happened, will be forgotten. Earth will become an empty planet, and would take billions and billions of years for any life form to settle on it again. Suddenly, interrupting Rael's thoughts, the bartender strode in. "Here, have this. you must be be extremely thirsty." The bartender handed both of them a drink, and took one himself. Rael drank up. The bartender stood up and walked out. "I'm sorry. I didn't have a say." He closed the door.

Alex put the glass to her mouth, and suddenly, as if she just got an electric shock, Alex jolted and the glass smashed on the floor. A worried expression mixed with shock crossed her face. She quickly glanced at Rael's glass, to see it was empty. It was. "Rael, you're the bravest boy I've ever met. I love you forever." There were tears in Alex's eyes.

"Mum, what's happening?"

"You took the drink." Alex hugged him. There were tears streaming down her face.

Rael suddenly realized the bartender had spiked the drink. "Oh..."

Rael said shortly. Alex was hugging him, weeping on his shoulder. The glasses had smashed on the floor. Rael smiled an unsure dopey smile, and said "Whoops..."

Alex gave a weak, forced smile through her tears. Then Rael burst into tears.

"Mum... I feel sleepy..." Rael lay down on the bed. "You're the best mum ever. I love you." Rael said. Then he went to sleep.

# The Human Child

## by Jaz Tufau

This time, I wander throughout the outskirts of the Northern Forest.

Breathe. The musty air moves silently along with the light breeze. Inhale. Take in the shifting mist. A sharp turn to my left, a slow, deadly glance over my right shoulder. You can do this, Toni. Our eyes are magnetic. She stares blankly at me, startled, too frightened to escape. I crouch. My fingers trace the dark soil and I let my hand linger at the roots of my favourite tree. Exhale. I lift my hand, so close to her, she is nearly in my reach. Her eyes shoot to look in another direction, tail furiously thumping the dirt.

"Toni!"

I stand, my toes curling in annoyance. Coal has his bow and arrow drawn. He shoots. I breathe stiffly as he merely hits the ground a few millimetres from the striped cat. I know it was a warning, a warning that worked. Hints of black and white flash between ferns and forestry as she darts away. I growl, low and fierce. He replies with a smug snarl, showing the white teeth he is known for.

"Toni, his Holiness, King Alexander, wants you alongside him as we attack the humans."

"Tell him his daughter has better things to do. Tell him to make his favourite warrior less rude to our fellow creatures."

"But I am told it 'tis why he likes me at his feet."

"Yet another humble slave that he uses like a toy. I will not come. Now leave me be. A princess needs her space."

I flash a small smile before flattening out my algae skirt and darting towards my tree. My nails dig into the bark as I crawl upwards, reaching a thick branch and letting a playful rumble rattle the leaves. I giggle as I prance to the nearest tree, then, reaching a new height, and I soar to the next. Coal is close behind me. He had dropped his weapons on a dry patch before leaving to catch me. I laugh happily, adrenaline pumping as we play chase like we did when we were children.

"Come now Toni, we must leave," he says when we finally give up, resting in the cradle of a withering kowhai tree. I wipe a wisp of course blue hair back behind my ear, outlining the pointed shape and then drop my hand to my lap.

Coal has been my friend since the light days—when Mother was alive and humans still called us fairy tales. But we grew up. Well, he did. Mother was slain by the humans, creating an everlasting war between our people. Coal had to grow up and fight. I stayed at the swamp with the other grieving water nymphs.

"Did you not hear me before? I shall not leave." I answer, travelling off in imagination.

We hear sobs. For a moment, I think it is my niece, Laura, who has gotten lost again. But I realise it is much too delicate and forlorn to be her, or any other nymph child—or adult to be honest.

I brush a yellow flower off my shoulder and swoop down from the tree. Coal is already ahead of me, cautious and intrigued. The quiet crying becomes clearer as we reached the patch of open land where we had been an hour ago. I see a Land Nymph, small and frail, crouching next to Coal's weapon bag.

"Hey!" He lunges forward, grabbing back the precious seaweed bag he had left behind.

"Oh." I lift a shaking hand towards the Land Nymph, pointing out the blood mixing with the blades of grass. I then knew what it is. A human. Animals' blood is not red like that, having taken on a blue quality and evolved to protect them from the radiation. These forever shifting humans need no such protection.

"Help, please." The blond hair glints in the cold light as she turns her head. A crying face, blue eyes and a quivering lip. The human is only ten yonders old, her pressed leaf dress falling half off her shoulder. I see Coal hold his best dagger—made of the hardest stone from the bottom of the swamp—in front of him as he creeps hesitantly towards the creature. Her eyes widen in fear.

"NO! Please no! I, I read about you... You are nice creatures—calm and soothing—and are known for healing!"

Coal stands straight. "About us?"

"Yes. The lonesome Nymph princess and the brave young warrior. Narna told me."

I blink, amazed at what she said. How could she know?

### Flashback—Year 3002

I am only seven yonders. Mother has taken me for a walk down Evergreen Path. A rustle in the bush, heavy breathing to our right. Mother swoops low, grabbing a piece of sharp stone. A scream. My scream. Two humans walk out of the bush, rusted swords in their hands...

"Toni!" Coal says. He has the dagger pressed to her cheek and the sobs are much louder.

"Stop scaring the poor beast; the others will hear her pathetic crying." I choose my words carefully, not wanting to appear weak. Inhale. It's only then I see what the girl had done: she'd tried to touch Coal's weapons. I can't help but show my teeth. Once, I did the same with Father's knife. Unforgivable. No, snap out of it, Tori. I keep remembering being her age, a free juvenile roaming the forests. Well, I wasn't alone like her, and I wasn't human either.

"Let's go." It is a blank tone that comes out, not really sounding like me. And I don't really feel as though I am walking away, more like drifting, a ghost of myself. "Coal. Let's go, bring it with us."

He is in shock, staring. "It needs to be dealt with."

I sit down onto a fallen log. I'm drying up. I reach into my satchel, pulling out a small rashun of water and pour it over my head. I gasp in relief. I retrieve yet another item from the bag: a stone from our people.

### Flashback

"Here my darling, if you ever find a place that needs peace, offer this. Everyone knows what this means." Mother walks me down the due east path.

I wipe any trace of dust off the oval pendant. It's a smooth, flat surface—a mixture of blues and turquoise colours drawn into the centre. There is a rustle of foliage and an old human woman emerges. She is scowling, her gaze darting between Coal, still holding the child, and me. Then she sees the gleaming stone in my hand and straight away her expression changes. She smiles warmly.

"Come here, Clementine."

Coal's grip on the child slackens and the girl runs to the old woman, crying, "Narna."

Coal shifts to stand protectively behind me.

"A princess?" the old woman asks. I shyly nod, feeling Coal tense behind me. "I must tell you a story then. Your mother, yes?"

I shoot a puzzled look at Clementine, playing with the strands of Narna's dress, then looked back at her.

"The men who killed your mother were not humans." She pauses, inspecting my reaction carefully. Coal sits next to me. "Indeed it was a humans scream—my own daughter's—as the Land Nymphs attacked our village, as well as any paths in the east. Clementine and I were the only survivors, running away from where we were picking melonberries. You haven't seen Land Nymphs in how long?"

I gasp. "Ten years."

"They have evolved to look like us. They feed on our infants, dress in our leftover clothing. They kill anyone and feed on their blood. They use our weapons, but one thing many don't see is the teeth, white as twilight, two points on either side. That's the only thing you may notice—except in friends who have been resuscitated into one of them."

Clementine wipes her bleeding hand on Narna's dress and sleepily sits down.

"In fact," Narna draws a sword and points it at Coal, "you have been travelling with a Land Nymph yourself."

I stand, realising our stupidity. "Don't lie to me. I could—we could've killed you. Don't you dare lie now."

I turn, looking up at Coal, who has grappled to his feet at the old ladies statement.

"I don't believe you!" I begin to shout, "You try turn us against our own kind!? I knew I shouldn't have trusted you, I knew you would try."

My face burns red, my chest heaves and my knuckles are white as I clenched my fist. I look to the sky. "Tlaloc, my brother. God of the almighty rain. Wash out my sins and be rid of the humans who have done wrong. Let your rain run... RED."

I am innocent. They did this. I turn slowly toward the old lady—tell Coal to carry them along with us as prisoners. Hide Narna's screams but spare the child; she will make a good slave. I start walking, wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, tracing the gills on each side of my face. We travel to the lake of Eden, the human's first person. I sit down in the mud and look at Clementine, staring at me. "Come child."

Clementine looks scared but soon curiously nudged out of Coal's grip, kneeling next to me.

I grin, sly and smooth like steel. "This is the water where Eden first drank, no?"

She slowly nods.

"The sun will dry it out some day. The children of him will dry out too. So look child, quickly, see one of the last of your kind."

Clementine glances at me in fear, tears dripping down her cheeks. I nod, looking at myself in the water as well. I see beauty, of course, but it does not look like me. The same green eyes, the same pale lips, the same tan skin, the same matted blue hair. But not the same me. I'm deep in thought, wishing for the time of the Kowhai tree to come back—wishing not to hear those sobs—but I am soon to be queen and I must do as I was taught.

I grip the girl's wrist and stand. Her muscles flex into action and I do as I instructed. Coal has become quiet since the lady's remark, but what else do you do when someone lies about you being a vile trick?

We step into the clearing of our home swamp not an hour later, but Coal won't move.

"Sorry Toni, I... I need to go," he stutters.

He drops Narna onto the ground, her pale face drooped with the curves and sags. He has killed her.

"Hey!" I turn but he's already gone, merely a shadow in the distance. I look to the sky. Tlaloc has not heard me.

"Toni, my princess we must go!" My father stands in the water with a smile on his face. He is in his armour, plated steel stolen from a nearby village.

My mouth curves upwards as he pulls me into a warm embrace.

"Ah. Congratulations on our first kill. And the other one?"

"To be a slave. The kill wasn't—"

"Planned? Yes I know, it never is... except for today, of course. Take the girl to the southern accommodation. She will fit in well with the poor and orphaned."

Clementine's bottom lip quivers, her eyes big, confusion and struggle fixed into her gaze.

"You killed Narna?" the girl whispers hoarsely as I guide her to the smallest cave.

"No, no, of course not."

She turns, an annoyed look on her face.

"Well... yes... but no. Coal wasn't trying—well I—ugh, yes."

Clementine picks up a stone and throws it at the nearest tree. "No!!" She screams and collapses next to the swamp.

"Shh. The elders will hear... you're lucky Father accepted you."

I practically drag her to the cave. Not the southern one, which is at full capacity, but instead to the one with the kitchen hands—making sure Gord is alright with her sleeping among them.

"Fine. I shall abide. Her name?" Gord looks up from the dead fish, the other girls frozen as well.

"Clementine."

"Helga?" Gord corrects. "How beautiful."

Clementine just sits there looking small. She looks as though she wants to be just another rock of the wall. "Helga?" she whimpers. Clementine—no—Helga wipes a stand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear, giving me a look that screams "No". I search for a space to look, my eyes resting upon the uniform they must wear. I take one of them, the smallest, off a twig hook and hand it to 'Helga'.

"I must be gone to see off Father," I say to no-one in particular. "Do you know where Coal is?"

An uncomfortable exchange of looks passes between the nymphs.

"Darling, you don't know, do you?" Gord shakes her head. "Killed, by a human."

My face clouded with confusion, I run to the graves, letting out a muffled cry as I cup my hand over my mouth. Fresh soil lies, shifting strangely, at the foot of a tombstone marked with the words, "Coal Cardon, the best warrior to walk the battlefields."

"It was this morning, just after you'd left. He was caught off guard." Gord had followed me out. A sudden understanding flushed through my mind. Coal wasn't killed by a human.

### Flashback

They have evolved to look like us. Feed on our infants. Dress in our clothes. They can take the form of any dead corpse.

"Arrghh!" I screech, face red.

It starts to rain, slowly at first but then runs off the tombstones, like tears down a widow's cheek. Stand. Breathe. The sun hides behind a tree, a quiet giggle as the water trickles through the wet soil. Inhale. It was all a deception, right from the start. Now we are about to make our final attack, to wipe out humanity forever. No. I shake my head. I can't let it happen. I will win this, I will save the humans. I would save the race that walked on this earth first. You can do this, Toni. So I run.

The kitchen hands give me a quick bow as I zip past. I don't pay much attention to Clementine, sinking into the furthest corner.

The army has already left. Astonishment becomes an even deeper desire. I thought about Clementine's fear, shown so deeply in her eyes. I think of my father, only a few kilometres from the place where the human race will end. I find a small river, the perfect opening for one water nymph to fit through.

I fly through the air, diving into the swamp of our ancestors. Slipping through the small creek, I flip and slide through the sleek water. I feel the rain droplets create ripples throughout the murky green water. The algae dress slips off my body, revealing my protective scales, the colours of vibrant greens and blues taken from the skies and the grass.

Soon, I can hear the shouts and commands of the Water Nymph King.

"Father!" I yell. "Stop the attack! You don't—Just stop!"

I am out of breath as I emerged from the forest onto a dirt path. Father is at the front of the army of hundreds. He is stopped, confused and slightly disturbed. Then he laughs, a thundering boom.

"Don't be daft, darling. Third battalion, continue ahead. Second and First, go south. Try and get a good look at our prey."

"No," I countermand. "Third, Second and First go back to home base. You can't attack them." And then I told him what Narna said. About Coal and the Land Nymphs and the dead body.

But the army was already gone, not listening to the princess. Father laughed again, this time in annoyance, thinking how stupid I was.

His giggle turned into a face of rage at my insistence, mouth open, eyes of steel. "They killed your mother, and you want to save them? You saw what they've done. You took the first kill."

"No, I didn't." Tears fill my eyes. One single drop falls to the ground, a small fern sprouting where it lands. "It was Coal. Well, a Land Nymph wearing his face. I do not lie."

Anger drives me. A hard cold slap across his right cheek, and already I see tell-tale signs of bruising. "You do not deserve to be the king if all you want is war. I know what happened to Mother. You don't deserve to be my father." With that, I run in the direction of the village, a trail of newly uncovered ferns behind me.

I see flames. Screams. Innocent faces burnt and killed. The smell of death lies thick upon the air. I see a child, only about three, running in fear, squealing and sobbing as her dress catches fire. An old man croaks on the ground, coughing and spluttering before death gave him a way out.

"No. No." I crouched to the ground, holding my chest, smoke dripping into my eyes as the tears rolled continuously. The king's soldiers walked past, wearing protective masks. My gills flapped in protest at the lack of air.

"No," I scream, watching the warriors slaughter a lady and baby heartlessly. I gasp. Someone has grabbed me and brought me into a weird cave, cubed, with a rusty triangle on top.

A lady, skinny and old, stands in front of me, a look of utter terror across her face.

"But... you. No. Stay. Away. Leave me alone." Her eyes spark with anger and fear entwined. Frozen. White pastel face. Bloodshot eyes. She looks disturbing. A wound in her left leg, dirt already clogging into the gash. She stepped back once again, cringing at the pain.

"I... I can help you. You need to sit down," I stutter. I can try. Show Father that talking and peace is the way. I look back. I can't see much behind the door; I just hear the screams and cries that ring in my ears. Clear your thoughts, little Toni.

What?

"Mum?" I murmur. That's her. I remember her voice, soft and sweet. Calm, but alert. I don't care about the confusion on the old lady's face. I just heard my dead mother. Toni, now. This lady is the leader of the village, help her. Save them. It is echoing through the room now, more harsh, the tone lower.

"Okay, okay. Lady, sit down." I had to shut out my thoughts, even my mother's words. I couldn't save the others right now, but one was enough, one was a chance. One was the only way.

"No. You delusional creature! Get away from me!" she shrieks, a sudden fear kicked into her blood vessels. She starts whooping and walloping, like a live turkey on thanksgiving. She is crying, hysterically. She looks like someone's parent, who's had a sudden cramp on the disco floor. I groan. Sorry Mum.

To my left is a cooking thing. I've seen one at an abandoned site before—more rusted than this one. Gingo. (A human word, confusing, but satisfactory.) A pan, big and bulky. It would be hazardous and heavy to hold. I edged over to it, one eye on the lady who has now started yelling "We were going to have peas with our tea tonight! PEAS!"

I swipe the pan. My shoulder clicks at the sudden weight and I nearly drop the thing as I shuffle over to the psychotic woman. Sweaty palms. White knuckles. I positioned myself and swung, stopping the lady in her tracks as I hit her in the head. She flops to the ground.

"Okay, okay. Pulse? Slow but still going." I crouch next to her.

"No no stop! I'm innocent," comes a voice from outside. "Please, we have mo—"

I hear a gruelling sword slash. A thumap as the body drops to the ground.

You couldn't have TRIED to reason with her? Mother's tone is sharp.

"Ugh." Rags and towels and knives and string. I sew her up quickly. The wound is clean. I finish just in time, as she wakes again.

"Eeek!" she squeals, jumping to her feet, but falling once again. "Ow..."

She sees her leg. "Why?"

"Peace."

"Yeah..." she eyes me curiously. "And ouch, my head!"

"Your fault for not shutting up." I shrugged. I stand, then help her do the same. She puts her arm around my neck and starts hobbling to the door.

"What are you doing?" I pull back.

"Not letting all my children die, I hope."

Understanding, I start to walk slowly.

I first smell the death. It hangs around like a cloak on a winter night. The air is bitter, cold and lifeless and the birds have ceased their song. Bodies everywhere. The spirits are not at rest. You can hear their ghostly chatter. Father is next to a large tent, holding a woman in his arms. "I bet you saw her. I bet you saw my Anny die."

He had his back to us, but his sobbing is easy to make out. My father is broken. The lady is dead. He is broken.

"Father. Let her rest," I say. "I told you... you did this."

He turns, tear stains on his armour. He drops the girl carelessly and stumbles over dead bodies and to where we stand. It is quite a sight, really. The strongest man I know, seems to have his pride and happiness engulfed by the fires.

"Is that the woman who killed your mother, huh?" He has a slight slur to his voice.

"You know this isn't right, Alexander. You want to believe it but you cannot." I sigh. He is hopeless. All morals shattered. He knows it too. Crumbling to the ground like ash and crying and yelping and hugging a dead child. He is hysterical. My father and the stupidest thing alive. "Take me with you," he weeps.

"No, Father, No!"

The lady holds me back as the great king presses a sword to his throat and slice. Finished. My cries are muffled as I hold a hand to my mouth. Squealing, I can't catch my breath.

"Is it safe?" I ask.

"Yes, I think so."

"Mum? Are you in here?"

The soldiers have run, no idea of what to do now their commander lies lifeless. The grass shuffles next to my feet and a man is flung to the side as a small portion of the ground is lifted and out come dozens of people and children and animals.

"You don't think we were that stupid did you?" The lady exhales.

I can't believe it. It makes me even more emotional. I run as soon as they see me, in fright, as I think I will be slaughtered. I tell my tribe everything, and soon we will sign a treaty. I will live in the main cave with Clementine. After two weeks, the leader of the humans and I planned my Father's funeral. He is buried on the border of our two lands, and both villages attended. Breathe. My father's face is smiling as he returns to his wife.

## About Jaz Tufau

Jaz Tufau was born in little Christchurch... how original. She probably should've taken up the debate class, not extension writing due to her continuous—as Miss Just says—waffling on. Jaz enjoys authors like... really good ones. Apart from the fact that she can never remember the author's name; Jaz can't put down a book easily. Jaz has tried to write a full on novel once, but it may have ended up with mother getting annoyed with sheets of paper littered around the place. Congratulations, you have reached the end of an author bio written in third person by the actual person who this is about.

# Witless War

## By Henry Harrison

"Okay, I'll meet you there at 2pm this weekend... see ya, Archie... bye." Toby placed the phone back down on it's dock. "That's everyone, Mum!"

"Oh, that's great darling!"

Toby turned away from his mother as an evil grin crossed his face. "War has begun," he muttered under his breath.

### The big day:

It was twelve past five in the morning of Toby's birthday and he was ready for anything. Toby's swampy green eyes were wide open. Every few seconds Toby would tilt his head so that he could read the time from his clock next to him. "Nearly there," he thought to himself as his alarm drew near. "Ooh, thirteen past!" Toby was more excited for the day ahead than he believed possible.

By early afternoon, Toby was ready for the best day of his life. Everyone was getting prepped and smack talk was being thrown all over the place. "Prepare to get wrecked!" Logan yelled.

"Pffft, no..." Max replied determinedly.

"Okay boys this is how this is going to go. Toby, Aidan and Max are going down to the far end of Granddad's field. Logan, Liam and Archie are going to stay here. We want a nice, clean fight boys," Toby's mum announced.

Toby's grandad leaned in close and whispered, "Never mind that rubbish guys, we want it nice 'n dirty!"

"GO TEAM ROCKET RANGERS!" Toby shouted.

"Naaah, team purple potatoes, man," Archie murmured to himself.

"3... 2... 1... Go!"

Everyone cheered as they ran to take cover in the 'battlefield' and got ready for a riot. Toby regrouped with his team and prepared to pounce on the enemies. "We'll show them, boys," he said in his darkest voice, "Sooner or later they'll come crawling to us for mercy." With that that they start running away from their shelter with no sense of what was coming...

The climax was upon them. The teams were about to meet at the centre of the farm.

"Team talk!" Aidan called. Everyone gathered together with their poker faces at the ready. "I have a plan of attack. We all know that there flag is up in the secluded flower patch, behind the rose bushes. So, Toby, I want you to go on the right wing and try to capture the flag. Me and Max will have your back." Aidan turned to face Max. "Max, the two of us will go straight ahead and—"

"DUCK!" Max cried as a foam bullet flew over head.

"You know what to do, boys!" Aidan cried as he sprinted for cover with Max.

"Roll in. I repeat, roll in," Archie shouted to his team mates. The trio ducked and dived their way to the opponents flag without thinking to leave one person behind to guard their flag. Toby ran over to the bush a few meters away from him. He popped up his head and shot Archie square in the head.

"Man down!" Logan cried. Archie hobbled over to the restoration centre with Liam as Toby's mum ran over and gave him a small ice pack and a nice, refreshing, glass of lemonade.

"Thank you, Mrs Jones," Archie murmured as he rubbed the ice pack on his head.

"Are you sure you're Okay?" Mrs Jones asked.

"Yes..." Archie said, whilst rolling his eyes.

Meanwhile, in the midst of the action, Toby lay in the long grass spying on Liam. He decided to go for it. He pulled his gun up and loaded. Liam quickly turned around to see his last painless second. Toby pulled the trigger. A foam bullet flew through the air and plonked Liam on his upper arm. Liam crashed to the ground, clutching his arm. Toby mercilessly continued walking towards the flag as Liam cried out in pain.

Only one thing stood between him and victory; and that thing was Logan. Toby trooped on with his gun at the ready. As he approached the small space with the flag, he saw Max and Logan facing each other off at point blank. They both had their backs to Toby. Max had the gun wedged between Logan's shoulder blades.

"G'night, pal..." Max said as he pulled the trigger. Logan fell to the ground. Max turned to face Toby. A massive grin spread across both of their faces. They walked over to the flag and picked it up in unison. Victory was theirs. They raised it as high as they could, a tremendous 1.5 feet off the ground, and yelled in victorious triumph. The war was over and they had won.

## About Henry Harrison

My name is Henry Harrison and I'm twelve years old. I enjoy playing tackle and touch rugby, running and swimming. My story is about a very hyper and dramatic group of eight-year-olds who have a passion for emphasizing everything. I decided to write this story as it's a very different style of writing to me, and that it seemed unique.

# In an Instant

## by Bailey Peterson

### Thursday afternoon, seventeen days before:

I watch the clock on the wall among the colourful posters, letting the continuous ticking drown out the droning monotone of Mrs Porter. I will the hands to move faster, for three o'clock to come nearer. I glare at the time, two forty five. A whole quarter of an hour to go. I sigh.

Resting my elbows on the desk I etch 'school sux' into the blue wood with the compass that I'm supposed to be calculating radius's with. While Mrs Porter has her back turned, the hum of noise slowly begins to rise. Notes are passed, aeroplanes flown, books are read and the old bat still doesn't seem to notice! The bell rings. FREEDOM!!!

* * *

After hearing Dad's voice, I quickly stumble into the lounge and flop among the blue and green couch cushions. My eyes flick to Dad. A huge grin is plastered across his cheeks and I swear it's going to split his face in two. He hasn't smiled like this since his birthday in January. I give him a strange look, trying to remember today's occasion. My mind is blank. Confused, I go through all the events on the calendar till I reach July 2nd—today—still nothing.

"What's up?" I ask, eyebrows raised. My brain is still working hard to unlock memories.

"Well," he sits down on the black leather couch across from me with his fingers laced together in his lap, leaving me in suspense, "today's my night off! So we're going out for dinner!"

Oh that's right. Dad finally persuaded his boss to let him take a break. We've been planning this for weeks! My head stops churning.

"Awesome!" I cry as Dad's contagious grin creeps across my face.

* * *

I finally settle for a simple midnight blue dress, plain, short sleeves, no frills, just how I like it. I slip it on and search for my white shoes amongst the cluttered chaos on the floor. Squinting, I peer into the abyss that's the space under my bed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sparkly flats. After a matter of minutes I triumphantly pluck the pair out from under the small wooden bookshelf in the corner. Once they're on, I escort myself to the mirror. My brown eyes shining, my curly hair brushed, I'm ready. I dash downstairs.

* * *

Small woolly sheep heads perk up as we pass, our tyres bumping along the quiet gravel road. Rocks flick up at the sides of the car like tiny skeleton hands clawing at the new paintwork, tearing at the silver body, trying to pull it into the earth. My seven year old sister, Ariana, sits next to me. She bobs her straight blonde head to the radio and laughs as I join in. Soon enough, the whole car's surging with excitement, music blaring through the doors.

A pair of wooden birds perch on the high iron gates of the restaurant. I look up at them and take in the intricate patterning of their carved feathers. Beyond the open gates sits a small squat building, its door painted black. About ten small wooden tables sit in the front yard of the restaurant, surrounded by chairs. As we walk in the gates, I am astounded to find more carved animals resting, perching and standing in the spaces. The grass is dotted with statues of a walrus, a cat, a dog, and two medium sized giraffes. In the cherry tree, a wooden monkey hangs onto the floral branches. We stop in our tracks. My family gawks at them. Mum's mouth hangs open and Dad's eyes widen as they take in the beautiful wooden zoo.

The sign above the door reads 'Sawdust Bar and Restaurant'. We walk in and are greeted by sweet, salty and delicious smells of gourmet foods. Dad confirms our booking and we are led back outside by a waitress dressed in a smart white frock and black apron. She hands us a menu each as we sit down and then strolls off.

"Wow," Mum exclaims. "Isn't this place amazing! Oh Darren thank you!"

"You're welcome. When I booked us a table online I didn't expect it to be so beautiful," Dad replies, laughing.

My eyes search the dishes on the menu: gourmet burgers, pizza, salads and platters.

"Can I get a half Pepperoni pizza please?" I ask.

"Yeah, and can I get chicken nuggets?" Ariana asks with a smile.

"No. Come on guys, you can share a platter or something. You won't be able to finish if you get a plate to yourselves," Mum replies staunchly.

"Mum," my younger sister whines, drawing out the word. "Please? I hate sharing with Zoey!"

I give her look, urging her to stop. She ignores me and continues. "Mum, come on, why not? I'm extra hungry so I'll be able to finish it."

Dad sits, looking worried, next to Mum. Both of us are fully aware of how unpredictable she can be.

"Fine," Ariana spits, turning to me. "What do you want?"

"I said before, pepperoni pizza," I snarl back. Mum glares.

"See she never wants what I want!" My sister replies, raising her voice.

I look around, people have started to stare. I want to sink into the wooden chair. I take a deep breath. "Okay, I'll have chicken nuggets." I roll my eyes as I mumble the words.

"No! I'm not sharing anything with you!" Ariana shouts, she's treading on thin ice now.

"Fine, if you two don't want to share, you don't have to. We'll just go home and have dinner there," Mum snarls and with that she grabs her leather purse and storms out through the gates. Dad trails along like a lost puppy.

"Your fault." Ariana whispers. I run through the gates, leaving the crowd of eyes behind.

I watch Mum's hands on the wheel, her long thin fingers clamped over it tight. I can only see the back of her head, yet I know that her features are twisted into a face that shows a mixture of anger, determination and sadness. She lifts one hand off the steering wheel to brush some 'fly-away' hair from her face. She quickly replaces it and turns the corner sharply. A strange calm washes over me. Perhaps it's just relief at the silence after many minutes of yelling. Outside the window, row upon row of cherry blossom trees line the country road. Flurries of pink petals dance on the wind. Ariana sits beside me, Mum drives, and Dad sit quietly in the passenger seat.

"Okay," Mum says calmly, but I can tell that she is just trying to hold herself back from screaming. "What went wrong today?"

"We fought in the restaurant." I sigh.

"And why did you fight in the restaurant?" Dad adds quietly.

"Because Ariana didn't want to share a plate." I reply, rolling my eyes, Dad catches me in the rear-view mirror and glares.

"Can't you children just behave for once? We go out for once in how long? And you two can't even behave yourselves for five minutes! Give me a break, come on!" Mum screams.

I nearly jump out of my seat. Dad attempts fruitlessly to calm her down. Mum's hands shake her muscles tense as the car bounces on the gravel track. "I'm sick of it," she cries, stomping hard on the accelerator. Our bodies jolt forward as the car lurches uneasily.

"We drive twenty kilometres to this place and you guys can't even behave?" she shouts, shaking her head. "Can't believe it, I honestly can't believe it." Although her voice softens her foot doesn't. She turns her head to face me. "I'm so embarrassed." She almost whispers the words.

Bad move.

Dad yells as the car lurches forward. Something smashes into the bonnet and we all scream. Hot pain sears through my shoulder as the seat belt tears the skin.

"Help!" I shriek, tears streaming down my face. I utter the word once more, silence returns my plea.

Hot salty tears rain down my cheeks as I pry the seatbelt strap out of my bleeding shoulder. It hurts, oh how it hurts. When I finally pull it out I turn to Ariana, there is no blood. Her eyes are closed tightly and to my relief she's breathing steadily.

"Hey are you okay?" I ask softly. When she doesn't reply I repeat myself. She stirs and looks up at me.

"Yeah," she whispers. "Mum, Dad?"

I start to shake. They both look okay, Mum is pale. Her eyes are wide and her short dark hair is covering half her face. Dad looks okay too, apart from shaken and stunned.

"Yeah we're alright," Mum replies, squeezing my hand.

I try the door. To my surprise, it opens easily. I step out, my arm bleeding badly, and assess the degree of the damage.

"Hey!" Mum calls, "Come here, Hun."

I stumble back into the beaten up car. She winds a strip of cloth from her shirt around my shoulder. I thank her. A pink cherry tree has smashed through the bonnet leaving the metal twisted and gnarled. Mum calls a tow truck and a taxi.

The taxi is impeccably clean. The driver is bald and he wears an ordinary black and white suit. I wince when I buckle my seatbelt, the pain makes my eyes water. Being typical Ariana, my sister digs into the pocket on the passenger seat for sweets. Sure enough, she triumphantly pulls out four wrapped mints. She hands one to Mum, Dad, me and then keeps one for herself. Mum sits in between Ariana and I. She squeezes my hand and gives me a reassuring look. Dad sits in the passenger seat and he talks casually to the driver. I watch out the back window as the tow truck pulls the twisted car away from the barely damaged flowering tree. I close my eyes and let uneasy sleep take over my sore throbbing body.

### Thursday evening, seventeen days to go:

I wake to find myself being carried to our house in Dad's arms. Soon enough, I find myself laughing. He hasn't done this since I was four!

Once we're inside, Mum undoes the make-do bandage and replaces it with a real one.

"Hey hun, take these." She hands me some painkillers and sends me up to bed to rest.

### Thursday night, seventeen days to go:

I open my eyes and hear the sound of mumbling conversation downstairs. I get up and scramble to the lounge, holding my arm tenderly. The door is shut. "Can I come in?" I ask.

"Yeah you sure can," Dad replies.

I plonk myself down on the couch next to Ariana and my parents.

"Okay so I've been thinking," Mum begins. "That crash that we had today, it could've killed us all and really what have achieved in our lives? What would have happened if we'd died? Yeah they might have an extra news article for one day but after that, nothing. We'd be forgotten. I've realised today that life is too short to be a stay-at-home-mum. That I need to put myself out there and do something," she says. "I'm going to go online and see if there's any volunteer work somewhere meaningful."

Shocked, Dad just stares, dumbfounded. I feel myself frown as her fingers tap away on the keys of the laptop.

"Mum... but isn't living with two kids good enough for you? How is Dad gonna be able to look after us? He can't even make toast!" I argue.

Mum just glares at me. Dad smiles.

Boy, it's going to be hard work to change her mind. She's stubborn as stone! I think, sighing. Hopefully it's just a one of Mum's fleeting thoughts that fortunately she never follows up on. Mentally, I cross my fingers. Head down, I stumble into the kitchen. I make myself a dinner of a peanut butter sandwich and apple juice and take it up to my bedroom.

### Friday morning, sixteen days to go:

"Hey we're in the paper!" Dad exclaims over breakfast. "Family of Four, Victims of Cherry Tree Crash," he reads in his best news presenter's voice.

"Alright, that's quite enough. We don't need to hear about what some crazy journalist thinks of my driving." Mum laughs.

After my cereal I do my usual school routine of brushing my hair, getting dressed and packing my bag. Once Ariana is ready, we walk to school together, chatting and laughing.

### Friday evening, sixteen days to go:

"I found something on the web today," Mum says excitedly. "United Nations Relief and Works Agency is looking for volunteers to help work in Gaza! This is it! This is my opportunity!"

"Mum, no!" I squeal. "You can't, you can't be serious! You'll get killed! You will! Mum." I look her dead in the eyes. "No, I couldn't bear to lose you." My eyes fill with tears.

"But hun, I didn't study for four years to become a nurse for nothing! Now I can use those skills I learned to help others!" she replies, a brief smile crossing her lips.

"Are you sure?" Dad asks. "Natalia, have you not seen the danger and devastation over there?"

"Yeah, but I could help. I could finally do something meaningful with my life!"

And that is it. Dad knows there was no changing Mum's mind now, and so do I. I watch Dad's face as Mum clicks, 'Yes I'd LOVE to be a volunteer in Gaza'. He is horrified.

"That's it," Mum laughs. "I'm going to Gaza on Wednesday next week!"

### Sunday evening, fourteen days to go:

"Mum you can't go!" I protest. "You can't just leave us here! Dad can't even look after us!" When I get no response I change my approach. "What, so we don't get a say? We don't get to have any opinion whether you go to a war zone where you could quite possibly die?!" I am furious.

"Look, you don't need to worry. I'll be fine!" Mum shrugs and continues folding the washing. "You three will just need to hang in there until I get back okay? Plus I'm sure I can show your father a few meals that he can 'create' for you kids between now and Wednesday."

I stomp up the carpeted stairs to my room. That night, I cry myself to sleep.

### Wednesday midday, eleven days to go:

Mum gathers together her passport, purse and one extra bag. That's all that she's allowed to take. We sit down on the uncomfortable airport seats and wait as she gets her ticket. I then realise that this could be the last I ever see of my own mother. She may be killed in Gaza and I will never be able to talk to her again. My eyes well up with tears and a lump begins to form in my throat.

"Mum, you can't go," I say, hysterical. "You can't just leave us. What if you don't come back? What if we never see you again. I need you, we need you, please?" I beg. "Please?"

She simply shakes her head and it's set in stone, we have no chance. We hug and kiss her goodbye countless times, tears streaming uncontrollably down all of our faces.

"I love you so, so much," I tell Mum so many times that it becomes just a muffle of tears and sounds. We cry, we cry for one another and we cry for ourselves and we don't stop. She boards the terminal and I scream, one last determined attempt to get her back, to change her mind. She doesn't. I love her and I can't let her go.

### Wednesday night, four days to go:

I can't sleep. The thoughts in my head to powerful to be overthrown by such a thing. My brain won't rest. It's too stuck on the fact that I may possibly never get to see my mother again. I am worried sick, I couldn't bear to lose her.

### Sunday morning

She's gone. It's all over the news, 'Aid Agency Attacked to Prevent Help Getting to Victims.' Her name is on the list, right up the top: Natalia Andrews. I scream and throw the paper away as if it would erase her name from the thousands of casualties. Nothing has ever hurt like this; no pain has ever been worse. I change my mind, grab the newspaper and tear it in two.

"No!" I shriek. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no! They lied, They lied, Mum is not dead, they lied, they lied!"

I scream hysterically. The tears flow, I let them, the constant pour lasts all day. I cry until I have nothing left, until I am simply a shell, a wreck of emotion. This is all my fault.

### Sunday evening

Ariana and I lie, arms around each other. We are quiet. I can hear Dad sobbing. He is not the only one. The house pretty much radiates unhappiness and gloom. He is wrecked, broken beyond repair. My sister buries her face in my hair, trying to block out the sounds of his sadness. I wish I could cry, but I have no more tears left. Behind my eyes, I see my Mum's death over and over again. She screams as her limbs are blown in all directions. There is blood, so much blood, and it's not all hers either. She lies still, parts of her body spread everywhere. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid the unbearable thought from my mind and replace it with something else.

### Monday morning, eight days after:

This was all my fault, I killed her. I killed her, I killed her, I killed her. Those three words spiral in my brain, a repetitive pattern of realisation. Her blood is splattered on the ground because of me. Her limbs scattered, because of me. I killed her, I let her go. She never would have thought of Gaza if we hadn't crashed, if I hadn't fought with Ariana at the restaurant. I swallow down my tears. I don't deserve to cry—to relieve myself of my pain—I am a murderer; I deserve to die.

I snatch the small red and white bottle off the window sill and empty its contents into my hand. I grasp the white pills tightly. I think of Mum. This is the only way to repay her. I have only one friend at school and she might not even miss me anyway. What if this is the door to seeing Mum again? What if heaven is real?

Then I think of Dad.

No.

I broke him. I broke his heart and I can't do it again. If he loses me too, he certainly won't cope, then who'd look after Ariana? If I take all of Dad's medication then I'll be dead. I don't think I want to die yet. All of these thoughts churn in my brain. No, I definitely don't want to die yet. My decision is final. I slowly, so as not to make a sound, pour the pills back into the bottle and place it back on the windowsill. I look in the mirror, horrified that I ever would have wanted to end my life. I stalk into my room.

### Monday midday, two weeks after:

I walk through the overly decorated corridor with my black backpack slung loosely over my good shoulder.

The other kids stare at me. I hate the looks they give me, all sympathy and pity, like they know how I feel and what I'm going through. I glare at them and march on, past the countless staring eyes. Mrs Porter barely gives me any work to do, like that'll rid the pain in my heart. After class I look for Sophie, my best friend. She runs up to me and hugs me tightly.

"Hey," she whispers softly in my ear.

"Hi," I reply back.

"I missed you," she says. We don't speak of Mum and I'm glad of it. Once we reach my gate she waves me goodbye and runs off.

### Monday evening, two weeks after:

Dad smiles at me when I walk in the dining room. I marvel at the dinner that he's prepared. The table is laid with wedges, beef sausages, salad and cake. Ariana and I take our seats and I bite into the burnt potato wedges. Dad is a horrible cook. This is probably the first real meal he's tried to make. Us girls both smile at him.

"You better enjoy this dinner, it took me all day to make!" He laughs. I laugh too.

"Hey," Dad's face softens. "You know, it's not your fault. There is nothing we could have done that would have changed your mother's mind."

I hug him. I believe him.

## About Bailey Peterson

Hello there,

My name is Bailey Peterson and I was born in Christchurch thirteen years ago.

I enjoy distance running, sport, the company of friends, family outings and fruit salad. I have two pets, a dog called Teddy and a cat called Coco.

The main change that I included in my story is the loss of a loved one. I chose this change to show you, as the reader, how the characters chose to deal with this. This is not something that everyone reacts the same to, so it gave me some variety on how I could choose the way the characters coped. The inspiration for my story came practically out of nowhere, perhaps from the books I've read, movies I've seen or maybe I simply concocted it out of my own thoughts. It started off small and grew and grew each idea flowing to the next.

I hope you enjoyed my story.:)

#  The Price of Popularity

## by Ella Tucker

The short, black sequin skirt was figure hugging and showed off my tiny frame perfectly. I sighed. It hurts to be pretty. This skirt was definitely worth the five hundred dollars I bought it for.

"Poppy, we're going to Grandpa's in an hour," Mum yelled from the kitchen.

"I'm going to a party at Mikayla's in an hour. I'll see Grandpa another time," I yelled back from my room.

I turned around, looking in the mirror and admiring how good this skirt looked on me. I bounced into my en-suite and got out my make-up kit and straighteners.

* * *

After the party, I hopped out of my pink Lamborghini (complete with the numberplate fabulous) and grabbed my black leather Louis Vuitton handbag. I walked back into our two storey suburban town house.

"How was Mikayla's party?" asked Mum.

"Great, my whole grade was there," I replied pulling off my black stilettos.

"Were they now?" asked Mum, looking at my stilettos.

"Yeah," I said smiling at them.

"Poppy, you've got to stop spending money on clothes and shoes and put it towards your future," Mum said seriously.

"It's the money Dad sent me!" I said, raising my voice.

"Your father left three years ago. I'm surprised he still sends you money," Mum said.

I stormed up the stairs into my bedroom. Pink walls, king size bed, en-suite with double shower. I was the most popular girl at school. Everyone copied my fashion and latest trends and it was all thanks to my dad.

He left my mum three years ago and moved to New York. Every week he sends me a couple of hundred dollars and a gift from him and his girlfriend. My dad is the boss of a massive technology company right in the heart of New York city, earning millions every year.

* * *

The sun shone brightly through a slit in my curtain, lighting up the room with the Californian blue skies. I turned over and looked at my alarm clock. Six a.m. Better get up.

I powdered on some blusher, eye shadow and added mascara, eyeliner and my favourite lip gloss: bright red cosmetics. I then sprayed myself with Chanel No. 5 perfume. I chose to wear black leather pants and a hot pink Michael Kors top, complete with Kim Kardashian heels.

"Bacon and eggs," I told Amelia, our housekeeper, as she rushed around in the kitchen. She set a fancy plate full of bacon and eggs down in front of me.

"Salt and pepper," I said ushering her away. She scurried into the butlers pantry and came back out with salt and pepper shakers.

"Poppy, you have got to go. You're going to be late for your algebra test this morning," said Mum, not even looking up from her phone.

Mum works as a personal assistant for a fashion designer, but that fashion designer isn't famous and doesn't earn much money, so we only live in a two story suburban town house with a pool outside.

I grabbed my school bag and got in my car to go to school.

"Bye love," Mum yelled from the front door and then slammed it shut with a bang.

As I pulled up into 'my' car park at school, all the nerds and average kids scurried away like little rats and my friends, Imogen and Mia, and my boyfriend, Josh, came to meet me.

Josh leaned over and gave me a kiss while Imogen grabbed my bags and textbooks. She stumbled with the weight and looked at me, confusion on her face.

"Mum is making me do extra algebra classes to improve my maths and I have a test today. It's so boring! I'd much rather be going shopping for clothes and shoes. Although Mum said I have to put my studies first. I don't give a stuff about schoolwork though," I babbled.

"Come on, we've got English in five minutes and we better start heading over," said Mia, ushering me towards the classroom.

I gave Josh a kiss, waved goodbye to Imogen and hurried off with Mia.

* * *

"Could Poppy Cooper please make her way over to the office, that's Poppy Cooper," the office intercom bleared out around the school.

"Poppy..." Mr Hayes said nodding towards the door.

I got my bags and made my way over to the office. I was unsure why they'd called me, but anything beat English class with dull old Mr Hayes.

I entered the office and got handed the phone. To my surprise, Mum was on the other end, sniffing and whimpering.

"Mum, what's wrong?" I asked, feeling panic rising inside of me.

"Just come home, honey," Mum sniffled into the phone and then she hung up.

"I have to go. It's a family emergency," I said to the office lady and ran outside to my car. I drove straight home.

It was only then that I started realising what had happened. There were recent photos of Grandad around the house and Mum was crying on the couch. I didn't want to think it, but I had no choice.

"It was lung cancer," Mum whispered after a while. "He'd had it for a few months, but I didn't want you to worry so I didn't tell you and now he... he... he's..." Mum cried even more. Soon she'd have no water left in her at all.

I flopped on the couch and cried too. Mum moved over and sat next to me.

"It's just you and me now, pal," she said. She was trying to stay strong strong but she couldn't. She began shaking.

"When?" I asked teary-eyed.

"Last night, but I only found out a few hours ago," she said.

I got up and ran upstairs. I turned on my TV, and watched an episode of Fashion Police. It cheered me up a bit, as Joan Rivers was one of my most favourite people on earth, but even Joan couldn't make me smile.

Mum and I watched a marathon of Fashion Police and ate popcorn, Granddad's favourite food. I knew all I could do was grieve and get used to the fact that he was gone.

As the days went on I started to stay with Mum a bit more. Not going shopping as much, or hanging out with Imogen, Mia or Josh as much. It was just us two and that's how it would always be.

* * *

The phone was practically blaring as I woke up that Sunday. I picked it up and Mia said, "Hey, Poppy. I'm having a party tonight if you wanted to come. Everyone from school is coming and it's gonna rock!"

"Mia, I'm not coming. I'm going bowling and shopping with Mum. Sorry," I answered, interrupting her.

"Poppy, this is 'the' party of the year. You have to come or you'll lose all your popularity, and 'the' lunch table and Josh, Imogen and myself."

"Sorry Mia. Even if I lose everything, I will always put Mum first. I'm sure I'll make heaps new friends that like me for myself, so you can tell Josh and Imogen."

"You are so forbidden to talk to us again and are not our friend any more, so never talk to me again!" Mia shouted into the phone. I slammed the phone down on the receiver.

Next day at school I parked my car in the normal parking area and walked into school alone.

During the day I made a new friend, Bella, who I didn't know even existed a week ago. She is a better friend than Imogen and Mia could ever have been. She likes me for me, not because I'm pretty or was popular.

## About Ella Tucker

My name is Ella Tucker and I am twelve years old. I like to swim, play netball and I love to dance.

My change is about loss and popularity.

I chose to write about popularity because in movies there are a lot of popular girls that believe in nothing but popularity. I wanted to warn school children about the prices of popularity and that it is good to be different. I had always wanted to write a story like this and jumped at the opportunity.

###

Thank you for reading this anthology. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave a review at your favourite retailer.

Thanks!

Beaulah Pragg & Fran Atkinson- Editors

# About the Editor:

### Beaulah Pragg

Beaulah works for the library learning centre, as well as teaching creative writing and independent publishing. She is a founding member of the Christchurch Writers' Guild, a free and accessible space for new writers to find encouragement and support.

You can find out more or contact her through her website: www.beaulahpragg.com

# Other titles by Beaulah Pragg:

Chronicles of Tyria: The Silver Hawk

* * *

Home: 2017 – Group Two – Heaton Extension Writers Anthology

Home: 2017 – Group One – Heaton Extension Writers Anthology

Courage: 2015 – Year Eight – Heaton Extension Writers Anthology

Courage: 2015 – Year Seven – Heaton Extension Writers Anthology

Chatham Islands War

2013 – Home School Writers Anthology

2012 – Home School Writers Anthology
