Typhoon 23: June 1999
Fiction

© Island School, 20 Borrett Road, Hong Kong

Tango

In a swirl of blue gingham and yah ta-tah‘s she went down the street, in grand sweeping motions and spinning with flourish - it was a passionate tango to all those who saw. The old man gripped his black-jack and glanced at me - ”What the hell is she doing?•
She halted abruptly and I reached to take her arm - but a sudden back and forth whip of the head, a kick of the leg and she was dancing again.
”I think she‘s doing... the tango?• I watched in uncertainty: first day on the job, under my father‘s scrutiny and I‘ve got to deal with this.
The old man was taking me on an evening patrol, showing me through the slums: ”You‘ve got to watch out for these no-good-marauding-jungle-dancing-crumb-snatching coloured folks,• he said, striding down the street with a mastered swagger. Rounding the corner, we saw a black woman sat on the front stoop, shelling butter beans and unabashedly swigging a bottle of Madeira. She paid no attention to us and continued to watch the setting sun - the raw hues that streaked the sky, fast fading into soft light that filtered the air and mingled with the fragrant trees. Gazing at the blurred contours of the distant hills, humming, and shelling the beans with deft fingers, she was oblivious to my father‘s fixed glare. He approached her, clearing his throat with authority.
”Where‘s that wine from?•
She studied him amusedly. ”The grapes of Madeira Island.•
His nostrils flared at the audacity of her reply - and I watched his moustache twitch as I have a million times as a kid. The yellow - now white - hairs bristling together, always a sign that I had it coming. He‘s broken my rib, busted my eye, split my lip; sometimes he‘d get out the belt. Stinging welts down my legs and I‘d have to wear pants for weeks.
”...I imagine it‘s real beautiful there, black grapes growing all ripe and juicy in the vineyards, planted in hills as deep as volcanoes...•
I found myself listening with interest. Her voice had a comforting musicality, light and rich, like rain falling on earth. He interrupted her musings.
”Don‘t sass me nigger. You coloured don‘t often drink fine wine. I figure you‘ve lifted that off some rich folks - what‘s your name?• He ominously flipped open a little book and took out a pen.
”Sadie Jefferson.•
”Jefferson eh? Name sounds familiar, you got any relatives in jail?•
”We‘re honest people,• she said, simply. ”...But the Jeffersons do have one weakness... we can‘t resist a good tango. You ever tango before?•
I saw his lip twitch with a rhythmic tic. ”Sir, I don‘t think this young woman has done anything wrong - let‘s just finish up with this neighbourhood.•
”Kid, you ain‘t never gonna make a high rank like me if you gonna weasel your way out of duty like this. You may be my flesh and blood but I ain‘t giving credit to a spineless idiot with no sense of duty.•
I wanted to say it wasn‘t about courage or duty. It was about him being a mean sonovabitch; it was about him looking to take away someone‘s dignity; it was about him and the way he pushed the air out all around him, and sort of took it all up whenever he walked into a place. But I kept my mouth shut, just standing there, feeling the anger, the heat on the inside of my skin.
He turned to me and said, ”Let‘s take this drunken bitch down to the station.•
She looked at me for the first time, and I felt embarrassed - I wanted to melt into sky, cling to the earth, get away from this, from my father. I nodded my head, and she understood that there was no point arguing.
The old man was impatient. ”Move it along nigger woman - why don‘t you tango there for us?•
She threw her head back and laughed, long deep laughter that loosened my body, and she stood up, gingerly placing the beans and wine under the porch. We stood still, watching her - my father glowering, his moustache still twitching. I imagined it jumping right off his face, ripping his skin off with it. I studied her, her calmness, her wonderful unfazed attitude toward the old man‘s hostility. Neither of us expected her next move. At first I thought she was trying to run away - but then her movements were too slow, too graceful - and I saw she was dancing. It started slowly, her eyes closed, completely absorbed in it, and then I could almost hear the music kick in as she was parading down the avenue. Beneath the arch of oaks dripping with Spanish moss she was a slight figure under the shadow of the trees. She stirred the sleepy twilight air of the evening and infused it with passion and rhythm.
I suppressed an urge to applaud her - and waited for my father‘s reaction. He was shocked at first, and this quickly metamorphosed into anger.
”She‘s crazier than I thought,• he muttered.
We walked to the station behind her, and she tangoed the whole way, never missing a step. I don‘t know why the old man didn‘t stop her. Maybe some part of him inside enjoyed it, enjoyed this candid display of enthusiasm and courage and beauty. Maybe some part of him feels regret, feels guilt. But it is too late for him, he‘s too brittle to try and bend another way. When we arrived at the station she was put in a cell.
I didn‘t sleep that night. I could barely lie still, thinking about all the shit he has put me through. I wanted to fly at him, to lash out, spitting and slashing, leaving marks dark and deep. He always said he‘d helped me to build character - but never have I felt more hollow - more like just a piece of clay for him to squash between his fat fingers.
The next morning I got up - determined to release Sadie Jefferson. My father had already left the house, unlike normally when he would lecture me over breakfast. With a mouthful of greasy sausage, egg yolk on the edge of his lips, he‘d talk and chew, telling me why his views on society, politics and me, were completely, without a doubt, correct. Then with a self-satisfied gulp of his bloody Mary and a loud belch, he‘d throw his napkin down and leave. I have his routine memorised. I sit there wishing he would choke. All I can do it sit there and think - just die already, you don‘t even know me.
That morning, I had a strange feeling that he had purposely left early, something that he had to do, and I rushed down to the station. Instinct told me to check her cell - but Sadie was not in there. I entered his office- ”Where is she?!•
”Don‘t you ever burst into my office - •
He stopped short, seeing the hostility in my face.
He got up and in two brisk strides he was next to me, and his fist came up hard and fast and he winded me. I gasped and knelt down, trying to catch a breath.
”That‘s better.• And he threw a file at his feet next to me, and walked out of the office.
I opened it. It was a scheduled session at the courthouse: a summons to convict Sadie Jefferson of having a mental disorder, not fit to be in society and suggesting she be immediately transferred to an asylum in a nearby county. I sat in shock: the session was going on at that very moment. That sonovabitch knows she‘s not insane, I thought; he is doing it out of pure spite and cruelty - he‘s the psychotic one. I crumpled it up and went to find him.
He was sat outside the station doorway, having a cigarette.
”What the hell is this?•
I threw the crumpled paper in his lap.
”That crazy niggerwoman deserves to be locked away somewhere. She ain‘t right in the head, son. Did you see the way she danced down the street last night? It‘s a danger to society to have kooks like that running around. It‘s my god-given duty to do what‘s right.•
”Your God-given duty?• I almost smiled at his self righteous crap.
”You‘re just a sick old bastard.• I muttered it, hoping he could hear.
He was silent. I glanced sideways and tensed, watching to see if he would move for me again. He took a knife out of his pocket and began cleaning his fingernails. I had visions of my taking that knife and stabbing him to pieces, ripping through his flesh as he ripped through mine everyday. I felt hot tears rising and turned away from him.
”If you walk away, you‘re even more pathetic then I thought you were.•
Just then a light rain began to fall, the small cool drops pattering and soaking into the rich dark earth. I felt like I should have been enraged, that I should have rushed at him and given back every bruise, every smash of the fist. He sat wiping the rain from his face, and I looked at his hands. Wrinkled and leathery, and trembling ever so slightly. Suddenly, I felt sad watching him, this bitter, violent old man. I don‘t want to be like him.
”You never even knew me, dad.•
I threw my badge on the ground.
I wandered around that night, up and down the avenues, feeling lost yet free. Passing a new stand I saw the evening paper, hot off the press, and was elated by what it said.

TANGO IS NO SIGN OF INSANITY, Lunacy Commission declares.

I walked down a familiar looking street and saw Sadie again, sat on the front stoop; she saw me from afar and grinned.
”It was such a fine evening, I was wondering - would you care to dance?•
She smiled and plucked a rose from a nearby bush, setting it between her teeth. And it was a passionate tango to all those who saw.

Ying Yue Li (Year 12 Fiction: Winner)

Black and White

”There‘s nothing whiter than an insurance agent‘s shirt when he starts out on his morning rounds,• my Fourth Aunt, now long gone, was fond of saying.
”Or blacker than his heart when he examines the fine print of your claim,• Sixth Uncle, her husband, would chime in right on cue.
Both would chuckle, their faces creasing into a mass of wrinkles and sparkling eyes as they relived old victories.
What triggered their merriment? Well, one must go back more than forty years. Uncle and Auntie were farmers in Sai Kung District in the early ‘50s. This was a time when Sai Kung town was little more than a fishing village with its own fleet and Hiram‘s Highway was still a jeep track.
They had a farm then in Tui Min Hoi, just across from the town. There were no housing estates in those days and Gurkhas were still running penetration patrols into the hills of the district, which ran up around Starling Inlet to the border at Sha Tau Kok. The Sai Kung villagers were a tough old bunch who had fought the Japanese and largely kept their independence from the British Administration. Nonetheless, they knew a bit about the world and were receptive to the odd new idea.
Enter one Catalyst Wong, insurance agent supreme. Self-named as being a man who could really make things happen. Venturing into the great unknown, as Sai Kung was to a city dweller in those far off days, young Wong went door-to-door selling buildings‘ and contents‘ insurance to one farmer after another. His major selling point was to assure all his clients that the insurance company was really just like a charitable tong or tso which would pay out a claim immediately on application. ”It‘s all here, in black and white,• he would cry enthusiastically. ”Have no fear, just sign or plonk your thumbprint on the dotted line.•
Such was the persuasive power of young Wong‘s sales technique that, before long, he became known as ”Mr. Black and White•. But, as the English say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Round about ‘53 there was a bad typhoon which struck Tui Min Hoi particularly hard, flattening many of the agricultural dwellings.
Uncle promptly called up ”Mr. Black and White•, who arrived with a loss adjuster to survey the disaster scene. Both were sympathetic to the point of unctuousness but pointed out, repeatedly, that ”pre-existing defects and lack of regular maintenance void the policy.• Reference was made to extremely fine print on the back of an annex to the policy which appeared to exclude every cause known to man or god.
”Of course,• crowed the young Wong triumphantly, ”your third party cover is still available and your no claims bonus intact. Was any third party injured?• Uncle and Auntie both shook their head disconsolately. His point made, Mr. Black and White moved to leave.
Now the kitchen of the old village house was a bit untidy, with several doors, and he mistook the exit. Instead of coming out into the vegetable patch, he entered the refuse disposal room by mistake. Here dwelt Ah Choi, a 200-cattie sow of uncertain character and formidable temper.
In a trice, young Wong came screaming out pursued by Ah Choi in a fit of pique. This time, he chose correctly and man and pig raced away at a pace which many a race horse owner would envy.
To cut short a tale of woe, the odd couple cut a swathe of destruction through Tui Min Hoi. Wong thought the pig was mad. Villagers thought them both so. Doors were slammed in their faces until fate led them to a tea shack down by the waterfront, where the Rural Committee had assembled to discuss arrangements for the forthcoming Tin Hau Festival. Man and pig collided with hot tea and steaming dim sum cages in a most satisfactory manner. Practically everyone was scalded or singed and young Wong barely escaped with his life.
In fact, he owed it entirely to Auntie who, arriving breathless, explained to the fuming Rural Committee members that they were covered by third party indemnity and would be compensated. There it was, ”in black and white•. Young Wong was obliged to fill out claim forms and approve them on the spot, together with a handsome ex-gratia payment to Uncle and Auntie for causing injury to valuable livestock.
After this, no more was seen of Mr. Black and White but his legend lives on and his reputation is assured as the man who made known the benefits of third party insurance to the benighted villagers of Sai Kung. A true pioneer in his own way.

Edmund Dowding

The Meaning of Life

In a lonely village, which most people did not know of, or had even heard of, there should have been a paradise. It should have been a village which was nurtured in the embrace of nature - a village where cloudless blue skies and endless green fields were not uncommon sights. Yet the discovery of coal there had forever changed the fate of the village and its people. The discovery of coal had led to pollution, disease, and suffering. It had taken away nature‘s paradise and exchanged it for a bitter coal mine, a place where almost every single man, woman and child of the village worked arduously under inhumane conditions.
The sky was still dark and the stars had long been blocked out by the thick layer of coal dust. It was the beginning of another day in endless labour. On a road of cobblestones walked a girl. She could not yet make out the black ground in front of her, or even the flat limitless horizon in the distance. The bitter north wind blew in great gusts like a storm at sea. It swept over miles of marshes and bare earth, carrying along with it the cold and darkness. This land had once brought joy and harvest to the people, but now there was nothing left. The cobbled road just ran on and on, through a sea of swirling black shadows. While she walked on the road, she could see the village where she had been born and lived for her whole life. She could sense the limitless spaces around her that bore all the untold sufferings of the people. Her coffee brown hair that had been tied back in a bun had been whipped open by the gale which had lashed itself into a fury and seemed to be blowing death and destruction to the whole world. The girl, perhaps about fifteen or sixteen, wore a pair of miner‘s trousers and a coarse linen jacket. A blue cap had been pulled over her head to keep her hair in place, but unfortunately it was not very useful, for it was much too big. It was difficult to tie her hair in place again, because the icy wind had made her hands numb and useless. She, like all the other people, had suffered the same ill fate of working in the coal mine. But soon her fate would be changed forever.
Soon, she could make out a dim crimson flame in the distance. She knew she had arrived at the coal mine because it always had a fire burning as a signal light for the workers. The monstrous coal mine had swallowed and gulped down so many men and soaked up their flesh and blood. She was deafened by the cacophony of rumbling carts and cages, hammer blows and high- pitched ringing of bells. As she walked closer and closer, she could see the loading and unloading of cages that sent people into the fathomless coal pits.
The girl picked up her lamp at the entrance of the coal pit and clipped it to her belt. She stepped into the cage and within a few seconds it had dropped her to the bottom of the pit, where she stepped off and began her day of work. She could barely make out the dark shapes with the faint glimmer of her lamp, but she did not need to, for she knew every bulging rock and every bump off by heart. The shafts got colder and wetter as she went further and further down. She often stepped into pools of water and churned up disgusting layers of mud. The girl followed the other people and disappeared into the shafts. Her job was to pull along tubs full of coal along the shafts. This job was only done by children because they were a form of cheap labour and were small and agile and able to crawl along narrow shafts. The girl was already considered very old for the job. The air got warmer as the shafts got narrower and the ventilation got worse. The heat increased and the air became suffocating, as if it was as heavy as lead.
Marie, as the girl was called, like all other children of the village toiled almost fourteen hours a day dragging along tubs full of coal in stifling air. Their bones creaked and their eyes were blinded by sweat. They crouched down in a cramped position, not able to lift their heads or stretch their bodies. And so they worked on and on until almost midnight. When they went home, they were all extremely tired and hungry. But all that did not matter to Marie anymore, because she was to be married to the owner of the coal mine who was a member of the despised bourgeoisie class. The only reason she chose to marry him was because he threatened to put her father in jail because of the debts he owed him. He had said that if Marie married him, he would forget about the debts. And so she agreed, for the sake of her father. She hated this man with her whole heart and she knew that she would have died from shame. The villagers would have blamed her for marrying someone of the bourgeoisie class to become rich herself.
And so the wedding day arrived. There Marie stood, smothered in a white dress and veil. From the stained glass windows translucent rays cast into the comers of the church. There were no guests invited - only the village priest. Shaking in hate, shame and despair, she destroyed her own life by marrying the one man that people had hated so much. This man was indescribably ugly. His hair was a tar black and his nose was crooked. On his face, pitted with smallpox and outlined with dirty moles, he had a pair of beady eyes and a constantly twitching mouth. He was almost thirty years older than Marie and had been looking for a wife for years. Now he finally married Marie, not out of love, but to use as a slave, for he could make her work in the coal mine without paying her any wages. Slowly, they walked out of the church and into the crowd that insulted and spat at them. Marie hung her head down shamefully and silently accepted all the villagers‘ insults, but she did not blame them. How would they know of her pains and troubles?
Almost three months had passed now, in which Marie had been constantly beaten, abused and locked up by her husband. But she had endured everything until a week before, when her only remaining relative, her beloved father, had passed away. She had cried her eyes out and refused all food for three days. She blamed herself for not being able to save her father, but despite all this, her husband began to neglect her even more. What was more was that he always beat her in the back or stomach where it was not visible to other people. On top of all this, the coal mine had just collapsed a month before. It had left fifty dead and the rest jobless and starving. But her husband remained completely unsympathetic and refused to give any of the villagers their wages. Everyone raged in fury and started banging on his door, threatening to burn his house down. Marie could hear the shouts of anger and the cries of pain. She could see that the people‘s eyes were full of suffering and their faces were full of wrinkles worn by worry and insecurity. Marie was furious as well, and had tried to steal bread to give to the villagers, but every time her husband found out, and beat her half to death. As everyone‘s rage reached boiling point, Marie wanted more and more to kill her husband - and finally it happened.
Night had fallen. Marie sat waiting for her husband, her eyes filled with hatred and wrath. Slowly, the door creaked open - the moment that she had anticipated had arrived. Marie shrunk back into the shadows of the room and saw her husband appear. He seemed huge and dark against the background of the soft illuminating light coming from the oil lamp. He was swaying on his feet and she could smell the scent of whisky on his breath. Evidently, he was drunk. Marie edged her way stealthily towards her husband and felt for the knife she had laid on the table. She gripped the knife and lifted her arm. Just as she was about to aim the knife at her husband, she hesitated and dropped it. The knife made a sharp ringing sound as it dropped on the floor, which made her husband turn and stumble towards her. He leapt forward and grabbed hold of her arm. His teeth were barred as if he was snarling at her. Suddenly, she hesitated no longer. Picking up the knife on the floor she raised her arm and with one blow she plunged it into her husband‘s chest. It was only then that she realised what she had done. Her husband‘s head hit the floor with a thud and his shirt was stained with blood. She trembled as she retreated into the corner of the room. What had she done? Killed a living soul, a human being? She crouched in the dark corner, weeping silently and constantly praying for God to forgive her unforgivable crime. Now and then she lifted the hem of her dress and wiped her eyes. But then, she lifted her head and remembered why she had killed her husband in the first place - to help the starving villagers. And that was exactly what she was going to do. So finding the key to her husband‘s safe, she opened it and dragged out all the money - the money that had been made so mercilessly from the sweat and blood of the villagers. Now everyone would get what rightfully belonged to them.
With her hands still trembling, she hurried down the cobbled road. It was inexplicably quiet. Everything around seemed frozen in the deep sleep of the night. She could see almost nothing. Running faster and faster she reached the gloomy houses of the people. At every house she knocked on the door and shouted to the people to tell them that the cruel owner of the coal mine was finally dead! Now they would be able to claim back their wages. Her brave voice echoed through the night, passing each and every house. Her words could be heard everywhere - they were words that would echo forever. Then, as she knew that her job was done, she stood still, content for a moment, and then walked off - off to the police station to admit to her crimes.
A month passed. Everyone in the village had found out what had happened to her. They no longer insulted or humiliated her: instead, they treated her as a heroine.
It was the day that Marie was to be hanged. A warm rain, as gentle as beads, fell as she was led out to the gallows. The rain got heavier, and the raindrops fell like bullets onto the ground. Marie watched the other criminals being hanged one by one, but when it came to her turn, the rope broke. She lowered her head and prepared for her death when she heard a cry, a familiar cry. Suddenly, another voice sounded out, and another, soon the whole crowd was shouting. Marie lifted her head and realised that everyone from her village had come. They were shouting at the guards to let her go. She saw in the crowd all the people she had known since childhood, all the people who had loved and cared for her. It took a long time for the men to get the ropes ready again.
Just as she was about to be blindfolded and hanged the villagers started to storm onto the wooden stand she was standing on. Suddenly, Marie yelled out, ”Wait!• The whole crowd was silenced and waited for her to speak. ”My people,• she called out. ”Please, everyone, you do not need to stop me from being hanged. I killed a human being and so I in turn must be punished. Yet I do not regret a single thing that I have done. Everyone must find a meaning of life; everyone must do something worth while in their life. My happiness and contentment cannot be described simply by words, for I know that although you all have only received the least of what you should deserve, it is the beginning of hope. And that, my people, is the meaning of my life - to give everyone back what rightfully belongs to them and to teach them that they should not be oppressed by other people. It does not matter if I die, as long as the meaning of my life lives.• Those were her final words. Two men blindfolded her and fastened her neck to the coarse rope. She looked round one more time and before she died she felt her life being pulled out of her body by the rope. When they took her body down, a faint smile still played upon her lips. Her deep blue eyes were still open, as if she was yearning to see the temporary, if not permanent, happiness she had brought to the people.
When spring arrived the memory of the coal mine had vanished from the village.
The village‘s paradise was returning. Although the villagers were still poor and struggling, all around there were signs of hope. Many people had started to grow crops again. The birds began twittering again and fresh breezes began to sweep over the frozen landscape as if they were giving it life. The sound of rushing water became audible across the once silent and lonely land. Where the monstrous coal mine that had claimed so many lives used to be, there were now only dewy green grasses rippling under the sun and bright yellow daffodils nodding their heads. What Marie gave the people was not simply their wages. She had given them the most important thing: she had taught them to claim what belonged to them and to stand up against the oppression that had made them suffer so much. Marie had given them the true meaning of life.

LiXia (Year 8 Fiction: Winner)

Bubble-Gum

Ashley pressed her sweaty palms together. The sun beat down on the dirt path, making her t- shirt drip and her feet squelch in her sneakers.
”There you are! I‘ve been looking all over for you! Are we going in or not?• She spun around. There was Lily, loudly cracking her gum and beaming at Ashley.
”Yeah, I guess so...• she replied. Her glance wandered to the 7 Eleven window where the bright fluorescent lights illuminated the store.
”Look, if you don‘t want to do this, I...• Lily began.
”No, it‘s okay. But you have to go in first.• She wondered how Lily could be so relaxed, so casual about the whole thing. Before she could dwell anymore on the thought, however, Lily grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the shop. After a few feet, Ashley‘s legs began to behave themselves and she was able to walk slowly, if not calmly, into the 7 Eleven.
The glass doors slid open in front of Lily as she pulled her friend past the bubble gum machines and into the air-conditioned store.
”I told you, if you want to chicken out, it‘s fine with me. It just means that I get the whole pack.•
”No, no, it‘s okay....really, it is.• Ashley was really about to wet her pants, but she couldn‘t tell that to Lily.
”Fine. You get the gum and I‘ll make sure no-one‘s looking.•
”But......• Before Ashley could say anything, the other girl had marched off, leaving her in the middle of the toiletries aisle. She looked around, remembering the numerous times she had been there before. Why was it so different now? Her palms began to get itchy and the air-con started to chill her, making it even more difficult to think straight. It‘s just a pack of gum she assured herself They can‘t send me to jail for that, right? Already, she had made her way to the candy section, and was trying to look innocent while rifling through a box of Bubble Yum. Finally she thought, pulling out a piece of strawberry. I wonder if Lily‘s still here? If she‘s gone, I‘ll just eat the whole pack. It‘ll serve her right for making me get it.
Stuffing the pink wrapper into her pocket, she slowly made her way towards the checkout counter. An overweight woman with brown, stringy hair sat on the stool, reading Martha Stewart Living. As Ashley approached, she saw the woman bore a tag saying ”Hi, I‘m Beth and I‘ll be happy to serve you•. On it were three smiley-face stickers, faded and beginning to peel off.
”Hi, honey,• the clerk said, lifting her face from the magazine. ”Anything I can help you with?• Ashley began to sweat. Where was Lily? What was she supposed to do?
”Ummm, yeah, well I was looking for some pens, but it doesn‘t....• Already she was inching towards the door, ready to make a dash for it as soon as the woman attacked.
”We‘ve got pens,• she said, motioning to a rack of biros near the end of the aisle. ”You need them for school or do you want some of those fancy ones the kids like nowadays? The pens we‘ve got...•
”No, really, it‘s okay. I left my money at home anyway...•
Just then, Lily walked in. Without giving a glance at Beth, she motioned to me and said, ”Come on - are you finished yet? My dad‘s picking us up soon.•
Although Beth didn‘t notice, she shot me a questioning look and I winked back. We both made a bee-line for the door and only stopped when we had gotten outside. I pulled the gum out of my pocket and handed it to Lily, who in turn ripped open the packet. She pulled out a stick and unwrapped it , then shrieked with alarm, ”You dummy! I told you to get grape!•

Kate Riley

Two Dragons

Pete was mixing a scotch and soda for an elderly American lady when someone he thought he recognized walked in. He could not see him properly at first, as the crowd obscured his view. But he could see that he was tall, forty-something with a graying beard and round-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a brown waterproof jacket.
When the scotch and soda was ready, the lady took it graciously. Pete then watched the man as he shuffled sideways through the crowd and over to the bar. It was then that he could put a name to the face. It was Mr. Lewis, his old teacher.
”Mr. Lewis - what a pleasant surprise!• said Pete with a smile. ”What a small world it is. So how are things at school? It must‘ve changed over three years. Something to drink?•
Mr. Lewis looked grim. He didn‘t reply immediately. Instead he sighed deeply, and said: ”I knew you would be here Peter. I found out where you work by calling your mother. I have something important to discuss.•
Pete was intrigued. It would have to be important for Mr. Lewis to have bothered calling his mother, then coming all the way down to Wan Chai. It was an hour‘s drive from Mr. Lewis‘ home in Sai Kung. And Pete knew that Mr. Lewis didn‘t make a trip like that unless he really needed to.
”Fire away, then. I‘m all ears,• said Pete, wiping down the bar.
”I can‘t talk about it here. It‘s a bit of a sensitive matter.• He had a tense, hunted look on his face, and was leaning right forward across the bar so that he would be audible to Pete, but not too conspicuous. ”It‘s about your friend Percy.•
Pete looked confused. ”Do you mean...Percy Tang?•
”Yes. But keep your voice down when you say that name, Pete. It‘s become a bit of a taboo in some areas of society.•
”Sorry Mr. Lewis. What‘s he been up to?• Pete asked, a frown creasing his pleasant, open face. ”I know we were good mates at school - but I haven‘t seen him since the Leaver‘s Party. He went to university in Vienna to do a degree in Fine Art, and I haven‘t heard from him since.•
”I really can‘t talk about it here, Pete,• said Mr. Lewis softly. He reached inside his jacket and produced a small envelope from an inner pocket. ”Take this and read it at home,• he said, discreetly sliding the envelope across the bar. ”Then give me a call.•
With that, Mr. Lewis pulled his way back through the crowd and out the door. Pete looked down at the envelope before tucking it into his trouser pocket. He couldn‘t wait to open it.

****

Pete‘s shift officially ended at four, but before he left he had to count the money in the till, and then wait for Frank and the morning crew to take over. Two waiters and three waitresses operated the same hours as Pete. The morning crew had less waiting staff, but a couple more kitchen assistants to help Frank with the Sunday breakfasts usually arrived around six. The little kitchen was only really put to use on Sunday mornings, because at other times it was just used for storage. Frank and his assistants had gained the bar the reputation of serving the best breakfast in town.
When Frank arrived, there were still a few people in the bar. A Swedish couple, perhaps jet- lagged from a recent flight, sat at a table in the corner with a bottle of red wine. There were several drunkards, all young westerners, slumped across the tables and sliding to the floor. With his jacket over his shoulder, Pete surveyed the scene.
”I‘ll leave you the task of kicking them out, Frank,• he said as he left.
Pete walked quickly home. He hadn‘t forgotten the envelope, tucked into his trouser pocket.
It had been raining, and murky puddles lined the shallow concrete ditch between the curb and the tarmac. There were still cars on the road, and more often than not they shot through these puddles, dissecting them into a dirty spray that drenched any unfortunate passer-by from the knee downwards.
As he walked home, Pete looked up at the many neon signs hanging right over the road. They displayed names like Hot Lips Bar‘ and The Neptune‘. And their garish light - red, green and orange - created curious reflections on the ripples of disturbed puddles.
Pete unlocked his front door and immediately walked over to the sofa. He sat down with a thump, and after gathering his thoughts he reached for the envelope. On the front, his name was written in blue biro.
After ripping it open, he discovered a single sheet of file paper, folded perfectly to fit the envelope. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and then began to read:

Peter,

The police, or rather the newly-formed Anti-Triad Operations Bureau, has been in contact with the headmaster of the school, regarding Percy Tang. They believe that he is now heavily involved with the operations conducted by his father, the infamous Tai Lo, Mr. Tang Man Kit.

They tell us that it is even possible that his father has put him in control of the new branches of their gang in Vienna and other Austrian cities, Zurich, Lucerne, Venice and unknown locations in Slovenia. It is estimated that their sect, now apparently known as Yi Loon, Two Dragons, has membership numbering in the thousands, perhaps ten thousand or more. They already have strongholds in Auckland, Sydney, San Francisco, New York, Vancouver, Toronto, London, Manchester, Paris and many Asian cities - as well as their base here in Hong Kong. They direct all kinds of organised crime, including smuggling of drugs, cars and other goods, but the nature of their criminal operations varies according to the city or country where the base is located.

The reason that I am contacting you about this is that the A.T.O.B. is looking for someone who knew Percy well, as Mr. Tang Senior is apparently almost invisible outside his own circle. Although they don‘t like to ask for direct help from the public, they believe that the only way to crack the Yi Loon gang is through Percy. So they contacted the school, as they know that Percy had attended it. And the headmaster asked me to get in touch with you - as I taught both you and Percy in your last year, three years ago. I know that you will probably be the best chance for this operation, as you seemed to spend more time with Percy than anyone else. Please call me and let me know where you stand. Then we can contact the A.T.O.B. The A.T.O.B. stipulated that I must get word to you in a most inconspicuous manner, and this is rather a lot of information for a phone call, so I decided to write it down. And naturally, you MUST NOT tell ANYONE about what‘s going on. My phone number is written below. Please memorize it, and then destroy this letter.

Best regards,

John Lewis

Pete re-read the letter before carefully folding it along the creases and slipping it back into its envelope. Poor old Lewis, he thought. How wrong could someone be. He had always thought Pete was such a loser, failing all his exams and ending up working in a bar. He had never understood why Pete and Percy, brilliant A* Percy, should be such good friends. Lewis was a decent old guy, Pete thought, but he didn‘t know anything about friendship or loyalty. Now Lewis had made a big mistake.
Pity it would have to end this way.
Pete kicked off his shoes and went through to his bedroom. There, in front of the mirror, he slowly took off his shirt. It was the best design Percy had ever done, he thought, as he looked at the tattoo on his chest. He remembered the night, after the Leavers‘ Party, when they had gone down to Wan Chai to get it done. Two dragons, intertwined, from his collarbone to his navel.
Slowly, he reached for his mobile phone...

Chris Wilkins (Year 10 Fiction: Winner)

The Prince Who Lived in a Suitcase

Once a pond a dime, I knew a prince. He lived in my building on the sixty third floor. I lived on the nineteenth. I met him on the lift one day, on the way to school. He was tall and dark, but too skinny to be called handsome.
”Hello, my name is Jay.•
”My name‘s Traksalovasink. Prince Traksalovasink to be exact,• he proclaimed proudly.
That was my first conversation with him, if you can call it that. His face was chiselled. He had smooth tanned skin, black bushy hair and a square jaw. He had a rather strange dress code for a prince. He wore faded jeans cut off at the knees and a Hawaiian shirt with paint splotches (or was it jam?). He also wore flip-flops. But I just assumed that princes dressed like that, although I was rather disappointed. I expected princes to be gallant figures (who had brown hair) with swords on galloping steeds. After all, I was seven.
I asked what kind of kingdom he had. He said he owned the kingdom of suitcases and that he lived in one himself. His lady lived in a carpet-bag. I didn‘t believe him. I was seven, but I wasn‘t that daft. He told me to come over after school.
I took the lift but there was no button for the sixty third floor. I had to walk up the stairs from the sixty-second floor.
”Hello!• a voice cried.
”Who is that?•
”Over he-umph-ooh!•
”In the suitcase?•
”Yes, can you open it for me?•
I opened it and the prince tumbled out - just like that! He was rather messed up and one of his shoes was missing.
”It‘s my wife,• he sighed.
”The carpet-bag?•
”No, no, no, no. The carpet bag is just her way of travelling between the two worlds.•
Even though there was no one around he leaned closer to me and starting whispering.
”You see, every person who believes in magic can enter my world through their favourite bag.•
As soon as I got home I got my Mickey Mouse travelling bag and somehow, squished myself in. It was really stuffy at first, but it gradually became cooler. Soon I found myself in a meadow. With my prince, of course. Standing over us was a lady shaking a hazel stick. She looked pretty mad. Her chestnut curls were everywhere. She had a tiny blue crown on her head. All her clothes held a tint of blue.
”I won‘t have my husband bounding around to suit his every whim in those disgraceful clothes!•
”Calm down, we have a guest.•
”I told you not to bring any humans or any other souvenirs.•
The prince winked at me and mouthed, Just a moment‘. Soon enough the princess returned and looked me over. I supposed she decided that I was all right. She took me to her palace, introduced me to her in-laws, gave me dancing lessons and took me horse riding.
We did some gricking as well. Gricking was quite an unusual sport. Everyone, including the king and queen, had to wear sneakers.
The servants made a 100m strip of mud. First all the contestants ran after a mechanical rabbit for 300 meters (The posh ladies tripped because they refused to change and wore fancy dresses), ran for the dirty strip and rolled in the mud for the 100m stretch to reach the finish line. Nobody got safely to the finish line. Everyone was a mess. After a dip in the lake the day ended with jokes, food and dancing.
It was getting rather late and I decided that I‘d better go home. The prince guided me to a pond. I dived down to the bottom and found myself in my bag again. I felt awfully cramped.
After that I went to the kingdom of suitcases quite frequently. I had many wonderful adventures. I met the Glass Suitcase who sat on a wall and advised her to scatter around some mattresses. I saw the Great Pile of Duffel Bags and went to the Name Tag Studios. I also helped get rid of the Cut, Snip and Crush Factory.
But as the years went by, my visits grew further and further apart. The prince‘s suitcase was taken away by garbage men. We moved away. Then one day I stopped going or even thinking about my friends altogether. The day I turned thirteen, I stopped believing in magic. Once I tried to get into my bag, when I was thirteen. It didn‘t work. This year, for old time‘s sake, I went to my old building. I pressed the 62 floor and got off. I looked for the well-worn familiar steps but there were none. I asked the security. There never had been a 63rd floor.
But I have a photo. A photo taken at the entrance of their flat in the building. And I can just make out the sign on the door; 63C‘.

Jay Kim

The Decision

”Would Ben Taylor and Steven Carter please report to the principal‘s office immediately!• The principal‘s secretary‘s voice boomed on the large speaker in the top corner of our classroom.
”Okay, you two. Off to his office at once!• our history teacher, Mrs. Bishop, said to me and Ben.
”Hope you haven‘t done anything bad!• she teased.
This brought a few giggles from our class. I walked slowly to the door of our classroom, with Ben just behind me, and turned the doorknob. I looked back at my class. I could see lots of people whispering to each other, no doubt about us. I stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind me and Ben. We walked in silence down the long corridor filled with lockers. I heard footsteps behind me and when I looked back, I saw David Kerr walking a few metres behind me. Now I knew for sure what this was about and I knew what I had to do. I thought back to how this had all started....

It was a Friday afternoon. I had maths as my last lesson and it was going awfully slowly. Mr. Clark, my maths teacher, was writing on the board about multiplying fractions. I did not understand a word of what he was saying so I didn‘t bother listening. If there was one thing I hated about school most, it was maths. This was probably because I never understood it and did not enjoy it at all. I looked at the clock on the wall. Two thirty!? That meant that there was another forty minutes of maths. I sunk my head into my hands and started to think about the week end. My thought was interrupted by a voice. ”Is there a problem Mr. Carter?• It was Mr. Clark.
”Oh no!• I said.
”Well then, you will probably be able to answer the question on the board,• Mr. Clark said. I looked at the board and seeing what was on it, I sat there with my mouth open in silence. After about ten seconds in this pose, the whole class burst out laughing and even Mr. Clark couldn‘t stop a grin forming on his face. ”Maybe someone could help Mr. Carter here with this question,• Mr. Clark said. Numerous hands shot up and Mr. Clark chose one of them. ”The answer is ten over sixteen,• Stephanie Mitchell replied with a huge grin on her face. Stephanie was a teacher‘s pet. She would always be the one who would take this paper down to another teacher and get that teacher some coffee. I quite genuinely hated her. Mr. Clark carried on talking and I tried to pay attention for the rest of the lesson and I think that I learnt more in that one lesson than I had for two months. I was quite proud of myself.
The bell for home-time rang loudly above my head and along with the other twenty-eight members of my class, I started packing up my bag to go home, at a tremendous rate. It was a Friday and we wanted to get home for the week-end. Mr. Clark was trying to tell us our homework for the week-end but it was only getting through to some people. ”Goodbye class!• Mr. Clark said to us but this was more or less drowned out by the commotion of us trying to rush out the door. In the end, we all made it to the hallway without being harmed, surprisingly. As usual, we rushed out of school into the grass playground along with the other nine-hundred and seventy students attending the school.
I saw Ben walking alone and I caught up with him. ”Hey, Ben!• I shouted and he turned around.
”Oh, hi Steve. How‘s it goin‘?” he said. Ben and I have been best friends for years and we‘ve been through a lot together.
”Fine I guess,• I replied. I waited till we walked past David Kerr and his two mates before I whispered, ”Actually, I‘m not that fine. I got beaten up by David and his two mates again.•
”Oh, man, not again! They‘re always picking on you,• Ben said with sympathy. David Kerr is more or less the school bully and generally in the recent weeks he has been picking on me. ”How‘s your day been?• I asked Ben, trying to change the subject.
”You know you should do something about this,• Ben said, ignoring me.
”Yeah, I know but I mean if I tell anyone, that will just make him pick on me even more.•
”I suppose.• We walked in silence for the next couple of minutes and we were walking beside a road. After a while, Ben spoke up, ”What are you doing this Saturday?• he asked.
”Nothing much,• I replied.
”Well do you want to come over some time?•
”Sure, that would be cool,• I said, cheering up a bit.
”Nice car!• Ben said, turning my attention to the road. Driving toward us at a fast speed was a silver Mercedes Benz which looked brand new. I only had a few seconds to admire the sight for, before I knew it, Ben had grabbed hold of my school bag and heaved me toward the road, right into the path of the car! Usually he would pull back on the bag pulling me back to safety and give me a great shock, but this time, it all went horribly wrong. As he pulled the bag back, my arms slipped out of the straps and I kept on falling forward, with the car still rushing towards me. The next second was filled with the realization that I was in trouble then the fear of being badly hurt or even.....dead! The car‘s radiator hit me with tremendous force as I felt an excruciating pain in my ribs. The next part seemed to go in slow motion as I flew several feet through the air and saw the ground rushing towards me. For a brief moment, I felt a sharp pain in my left arm, and then I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in a bed with lots of people surrounding me. Most of them were doctors and nurses but I recognised my parents and my little sister. Also, I noticed my arm was in a cast. ”He‘s awake!• my mum said with joy and reached down to hug me. Everyone was extremely happy to see me awaken and made a big fuss over me for the next couple of minutes. ”What happened to me?• I asked, a bit confused.
Everyone had an even more confused look. ”We thought you could tell us that,• my dad replied.
”Well I remember finishing school on Friday, but I don‘t remember anything after that,• I said, getting more confused. ”Well someone made a 999‘ call and an ambulance found you lying on the road. It seems you were hit by a car,• one of the many doctors said.
”I honestly don‘t remember.•
After about an hour of waiting around and taking some tests, a detective came in. He said his name was Detective Wilcox. ”We think that someone might have pushed you, Steven,• he said. I listened in horror. Somebody pushed me? ”We found two sets of fingerprints. One belonging to Ben Taylor which were on your bag, so we think that they are irrelevant, but we also found another set of fingerprints, belonging to David Kerr. These were on the back of your shirt so he is our prime suspect. I trust you know both of them. Don‘t worry though. The punishment would probably just be expulsion, not going to jail. But are you sure you don‘t remember what happened?•
”Yes. I‘m sure,• I said.
”Well if you do remember anything, call me at this number.• With this, he handed me a card.
”Okay, thank you officer,• my mum said, and with this, the detective left.
Later that day, the doctors said I was well enough to leave and that afternoon, I went home with my family. It was Sunday and it was good to be back home. I stayed home and didn‘t go to Ben‘s house, though I phoned him and told him that I was okay. That night I had a delicious dinner of roast beef and went to bed. That night, I had dreams about the day before and walking down a road with someone and being pushed onto the road in front of a car. All these pictures were vague and I could not make out a face. The memory played back again and again, each time adding more. It was terrible. Then I saw it. A face. One which I recognised. It was......it was Ben‘s face!
”Steven, time to get up for school!• my mum shouted to me from somewhere downstairs in the house. This woke me instantly. I stretched and reluctantly got out of bed. I still remembered what had happened last night. I had to do something about it. I got changed and brushed my teeth. I didn‘t feel like breakfast that morning. ”Are you all right honey?• my mum asked as I entered the kitchen
”Yeah, I‘m fine mum,• I said and smiled.
The bell rang for short break. The kids at my school all piled into the playground and started playing games or just hanging out with their friends. I saw Ben talking with some guys so I ran over to him, ”Hey Ben!• I shouted.
”Steve! Are you okay man?•
”Yeah, I‘m fine. Listen Ben. Can I talk with you in private?•
”Sure.• We walked over to a corner of the playground where we stopped.
”Do you know what happened to me on Friday?• I asked him.
”Yeah. I saw David Kerr push you onto the road. I‘m the only eye-witness there is. The car was a hit and run,• he said.
”You were the only eye witness,• I said. ”I know that you pushed me and people are going to find out.•
Ben looked at me in horror. None of us made a move until he said, ”You know if you say that David did it, this would all blow over. Think about it. All the evidence is pointing to him and you hate him anyway. If you tell on me then this whole situation would get very complicated.• He let this sink in. I thought about this. Everything he said was true. This would be an easy way out. But how could I do that? As much as I hated David Kerr, it was evil. ”C‘mon man, do it for me!• Steve urged, and with this, he walked off. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. The bell ran for the end of break. It was history next.
So here I am walking to the principal‘s office. We three enter the waiting room and the secretary tells us to go right in. In there is Mr. Coomb, our principal and Detective Wilcox. ”Take a seat,• he tells all of us. I sit down and wait.
”Do you remember anything?• the detective asks me.
I don‘t know what to do. So I just let the word out - ”Yes.•
”What?• he asks eagerly.
”I was pushed,• I say.
”By whom?• he asks. Ben glares at me. Everyone is looking at me now. One word will decide someone‘s fate and I‘ve made a decision.
”David.•

Michael Sherry (Year 7 Fiction: Winner)

The Man and the Monkey

He walked slowly; deliberately. With him he had a caged monkey. He swung the cage back and forth as he walked along the cobbled streets. Back and forth, back and forth. And he smiled, serenely. People passing stopped to stare at the man for he was rather odd. He wore baggy overalls, an old bowling hat and some ancient leather shoes. But it wasn‘t only his clothes.. it was him. He had eyes that were as black as slate and they looked upon you with knowledge. His mouth was wide and it was filled with gold-plated teeth, making for a glistening grin. With its carefully painted features it was a face that looked as if it had been sculpted by some surreal artist. He was unusual.

He stopped abruptly, upsetting his normal pace and making onlookers even more fascinated. He placed the monkey on the sidewalk and sat down beside it. Still smiling, he opened the cage and the monkey leapt out. People were suddenly drawn to him like a magnet. The children pulled at their mothers‘ hands, straining to get closer to the man with the little monkey. He beckoned them closer with his hands and allowed them to feel the monkey but as he did so he never said a word. He just smiled.

Gradually mothers whisked their children away as the afternoon sun became a heavy blanket over the town.... but the man still sat there stroking the monkey and letting onlookers admire his gentle touch that the monkey seemed to enjoy so much. People were obviously bewildered and couldn‘t stop staring at his slender hands, his continuous smile, electric eyes and, of course, his monkey. One man bent down and placed a five dollar bill into the monkey‘s cage. The man nodded and smiled his appreciation. As soon as that man had moved from the crowd the monkey immediately jumped up and dragged the note from the cage and hopped back to his master. The man took the money from the monkey. He smoothed it out on the ground, making sure all the creases had gone, like a child who had kept his Easter egg paper. The man then rolled it up... carefully, neatly. The spectators watched with great interest at the habits of this small, queer man. When he finished rolling up the note he gave it back to the monkey who leapt into the now fifteen-strong audience.

As the monkey wandered through the crowd, he would circle people twice and look them over three times. The person being looked at would nervously laugh and wait until the monkey moved on. The monkey took an instant liking to a small red headed boy who was thin with empty eyes. The others in the crowd had not ventured close to the child as he was dirty, but his eyes danced as he watched the little monkey circle him... It was almost as if no one ever took notice of him. The monkey jumped onto the boy and he squealed with delight. The monkey sat on his shoulder, running his paw through the boy‘s hair. The boy‘s small bony face lit up as the crowd‘s attention started to focus on him. People of all ages were looking at him and smiling. He felt happy.

The funny man was still sitting smiling. Even though the attention had moved from him to the boy, he still smiled. The monkey dropped the rolled up note into the boy‘s front pocket as he hopped back to his owner, making the boy shriek with elation. The crowd that had swelled in the cool dusk light turned its attention back to the old man who sat cradling the monkey. The monkey was jabbering away and the man beamed around at the inquisitive spectators drawn to the odd couple. As the day moved, the man had not altered his plastered smile. It seemed that even if the sun hadn‘t risen that day, he would still be smiling. He wasn‘t from the area. He looked as if he had just stepped out of some long lost fairy tale: he was the aged good wizard. The children who gathered around him seemed to sense his aura and found him most intriguing.

As the crowd grew hungry, it started dispersing in various directions. Soon only five or six people still watched with fascination his amazingly crafted hands. His hands would glide all around the monkey and stroke it in a calming, pleasing way. Eventually those people drifted away and for a while the man sat still with the monkey asleep in his lap. He gazed out at the people who all seemed so busy. Women in black ran to get on the bus, men who strolled along with their brief cases as if they owned the world, children impatiently whining about when they would get home and teenagers who ambled across the streets in large groups shouting and laughing.

The man sighed. With his graceful hands he tenderly placed the monkey back into his cage. He got up slowly and carefully lifted the cage so as not to awaken the monkey. He walked slowly, deliberately, a man with his caged monkey. He swung the cage back and forth as he walked along the cobbled streets. Back and forth, back and forth. And he smiled, serenely.

Mikala Tai (Year 11 Fiction: Winner)

Sforzando

”Alexi? I don‘t hear anything!•

A small, pasty boy, with a last starving look at the children outside, reluctantly lowered himself from the barred window sill and shuffled back to his carelessly discarded violin, which lay on the bed.

As he picked up the instrument, a shudder racked his body at the feeling of the tensed, thin strings beneath his fingers. The bow was lifted as though it were massive, and laboriously, he began to play.

With the Grieg that sighed into the room, one would be shocked to find that the producer was in fact, a nine year old child. The music swirled before diffusing through the cold apartment, warming the corners it touched. In the kitchen his mother stopped slicing the carrots and closed her eyes, allowing the semiquavers to tickle her face into a smile. Yet in his room, the tiny musician‘s face was transfixed in a scowl, his little eyebrows furrowed to the extent that they were almost one.

The sweet passion conveyed in the melody was totally beyond Alexi‘s control. He wanted fury and rage and hatred and injustice to come screeching out harshly, and yet his arms would not let it happen. It was as if some supernatural puppeteer had taken control of him, and was channelling through his fragile body. The bittersweet melody was enough to make one cry, and Alexi did. But not because of the music.

”Oh Nola! He‘s incredible! You must be so proud. I mean, to be able to play like that - and at his age? Incredible!•

”I never thought I‘d witness a miracle - and yet, after today.....•

”Excellent performance - astounding, darling.•

Nola pushed her way through the usual crowd of gushing admirers and let herself into Alexi‘s changing room. As she closed the door behind her, the humble smile of appreciation vanished from her face, and was replaced with a blank stare.

”What was that?•

Alexi cowered in the chair, and tried desperately to become one with the peeling wall.

”You weren‘t concentrating enough - mistakes everywhere! Even before you‘d reached the second movement! How on earth do you expect to get anywhere playing like that? And stop crying - you‘ll mess up your new shirt.•

”Sorry Mama.•

”You did it on purpose, didn‘t you? You did it so that people won‘t come and listen to you again, so you can stop practising. Well, forget it! It‘s not going to work. In fact, as punishment, I want you to practise an extra hour every day from now on. I never want to hear you play like that again. Ever! You understand? Do you think I bought you this violin for nothing? It cost me almost three months‘ wages!•

”Yes Mama.•

Nola sighed, and sat down next to her son on the bed.

”God has given you a very special gift, Alexi. He made you different from everyone else. You are a very, very special boy, Alexi. I love you, and don‘t want to see this gift go to waste. It would be a sin. God would not forgive you for that Alexi.•

As Nola rose and left the room, the all too familiar silent tears started to sting Alexi‘s cheeks. He absent-mindedly picked up his bow and slowly, one by one, started to snap the delicate horse hair strings off, until he realised what he was doing and quickly swept the pile down the side of the bed. Struggling with his frustration, Alexi tensed to try and stop the tears – Normal boys of my age don‘t cry,‘ he thought to himself. But after all, he was different – special...

Standing behind the partially closed door, Nola stopped and turned back to see her little boy. Peering through the crack, she felt like a criminal, stealing Alexi‘s secrets and spying into his world. Her heart ached as the tears started to fall from his eyes. She hadn‘t meant to upset him, but why didn‘t he understand? Couldn‘t he see that she only wanted the best for him? Why did he continually insist on abusing his talent – treat it as if it were a curse? If it were such a thing, how she wished that she had been cursed as a child – or even now. To be able to produce something so beautiful with so little effort – to be able to arouse the deepest emotions by simply moving your arms. What a thrill that must be! Feeling her own tears well, and not wanting them to spill where she could be seen, she carefully shut the door, making sure that she turned the handle gently so as not to make a sound.

”No, I‘m sorry - thank-you very much for the invitation Silvie, but Alexi has to stay home and practise today. Maybe some other time. Apologise to Richard for him - next week perhaps.•

”Practise!• she mouthed, ushering Alexi away with a wave of her hand.

With a jaded stare, he turned and left his mother to hang up the receiver. A minute later, Vivaldi‘s Winter‘ chilled the house. Nola sat back in her arm chair with a satisfied smile and rocked gently to the furious melody. Next week,‘ Nola thought to herself. I guess he needs some time with his friends.‘ And with that, in a decisive act of generosity, she picked up the receiver and rang Silvie back.

When Alexi was told about his play date, he couldn‘t help but grin ridiculously at the news. He hadn‘t been allowed to play with friends for a long time now - mainly due to his concert schedule, so this was a totally unexpected surprise. He dashed upstairs and struggled to slip his shoes on, realising that he‘d have to undo the laces in order to do so. Hurry‘ he thought to himself. There was so little time left in the day already. Tying shoes wasted precious free minutes. He flew down the staircase, and dared even to give a little impatient tug as his mother seized his hand. Richie‘s house! He hadn‘t been there in ages. There was a wonderfully big back garden with a slide and a swing, and he had the best toys! And best of all, Richie didn‘t know a thing about music.

”So, what d‘ya wanna do?•
Alexi shrugged his shoulders - ”I dunno.•

”We could go and see my horse - maybe mum will let us go for a ride.•

”I don‘t like horses,• came the rapid reply.

”How bout playing back garden?•

Alexi smiled and jumped up, and the two boys - without having to say a word - immediately started running, with the mutual agreement to a race, in that mystical way that children can do in utter silence. Laughing, they screeched past Silvie - curled up quite peacefully in the living room. She smiled at the boys as they fought over who got the higher swing. Such a shame that he doesn‘t come over more often she thought to herself, but she dared not do anything about it.

Pull back, legs tucked, push out, legs straight. Again and again, Alexi pumped his arms - with the inexplicable need to get as high as he could. ”You‘re not getting high enough• a voice said in his head. ”Go higher Alexi - you‘re not trying hard enough.• So harder he pulled and higher he flew, but it just didn‘t seem good enough. It was as if his metronome would not accelerate to a faster tempo! Frustrated with his baffling compulsion he started to reach dizzying angles - where he was almost horizontal to the ground.

”Hey Alexi - look what I can do!•

A red blur flashed past him on his right as he swung forward. He strained his neck to turn and see what had happened. A grinning Richie stood triumphantly a few feet in front of his swaying seat, hands on his hips and the king of the playground.

”Can‘t you hurt yourself doing that?• Alexi inquired.

”Yeah - but only if you want to, silly. It‘s really fun - try it!•

Alexi pumped higher still.

”In a minute maybe.•

”Where is he!? Where is my boy? What have you done to him. Oh my God, oh my poor child.•

Nola‘s heart dropped into her stomach when she had heard the news. She had arrived just a moment after the ambulance itself drove in.

”Nola, Alexi has had a bad fall - don‘t worry. He‘s not going to die or anything near that serious, but he‘s quite badly injured. You‘d best go to the hospital right away.• Silvie‘s hesitant and masked words ran through her head over and over, echoing against the caverns of her imagination – conjuring up frightful, gruesome images.

As she burst through the emergency ward doors, she was almost immediately grabbed by the arm and forcibly guided to the exit again: ”I‘m sorry Madam, you are not allowed in here – this is the emergency room. I must ask you to leave at once.•

Emergency room. Even when said in the patronizing manner one would address a three year-old with, the words still managed to strike a discord of terror within her.

”I‘m his mother for God‘s sake,• she managed to cry in her hysteria, as she wrenched her arm from the nurse‘s grasp.

Pushing open the doors of the theatre again, Nola set eyes upon her son. A strangled gasp – barely audible, escaped from Nola‘s lips. Lying on the solid slab of metal - his face the same colour as the starched sheets that covered him, Alexi was being attended to by several doctors. His left arm was distorted into a peculiar V‘ shape - the white bone clearly exposed. Somehow his fragile limb had managed to reverse itself so that it was bent backwards upon the elbow joint. The hushed murmurs of the doctors were too much for Nola.

”What happened to my child?• she whispered, with jaw and fists tightly clenched in an effort to regain some control.

A hand was placed gently of her shoulder and she spun around to confront her consoler.

”I am so sorry, Nola!• Silvie said. ”I was watching them play - but they had done it so many times - I didn‘t know he would fall. I mean, the swing isn‘t that high off the ground, and Richie jumps off it all the time. I think Alexi was just trying to copy him, and he managed it fine - several times! But then after his third jump, it looked as if he just refused to put out his feet to land - and he jumped so early. I was sure he knew what he was doing - I can‘t understand it. Oh Nola, I am so sorry!•

Turning to face her child again, she watched, stunned, as the doctors hurriedly, and yet far too calmly tried desperately to mend her broken son.

”Alexi, can you hear me? Alexi, I‘d like you to move your fingers, can you do that for me? Alexi, try hard, please. Alexi?ŒŒNo movement in the left arm doctor.•

With a soft thud, Alexi‘s mother fainted onto the sterile tiles.

Lying on the operating table, Alexi watched his mother with vacant eyes. A light waltz drifted through his head, and he swirled with it – finding that the giddy feeling that accompanied it was strangely pleasant. He lips curled into a curious grin as he marvelled again at how little it hurt. Fear had prevented him from landing too hard the first few times, but had he known it would be this easy, he would have managed it in one jump.

Ellen Sherry

The Right Decision

”I‘m sorry, I really am.•
”Yeah ok,• said John.•
”Are you gonna be ok?• I said.
”Well, yeah I guess. But why do you want it this way? •
He had asked the question I dreaded.
”I don‘t know,• was all I could manage. I felt as though I was being pushed under the giant waves of a stormy ocean and if I didn‘t surface soon, I was going to suffocate from the lack of oxygen and space.
”Because it‘s what I want. I‘m sorry. I truly don‘t mean to hurt you,• I said. My voice sounded like it would crack like a piece of sharp, clear glass.
”Are you sure this is what you want? It‘s not the kind of thing you can really change your mind about.•
”Yeah, I know. I‘m sorry, it‘s just - • I felt like I was in a box and all the sides were closing in on me. I could feel the warm, wet air being pushed against me.
”It‘s just what?• he asked. I sensed the tension in his voice rising. I had to give him a reason, but how could I when I couldn‘t even find one for myself? All I knew was that I had to do it and I did. A sense of relief hit me when I thought, I had done it.‘ I had told him.
But how was I to explain this to him? It had been a mistake. I had to make this decision. I knew it was not what he wanted, but it was my decision.
”I‘m sorry, I just had to do it - tell you, I mean.• I tried to sound confident, as though I was sure.
”You expect me to accept that?•
”I‘m sorry.•
”Yeah I know you‘re sorry. You‘ve said it a hundred times! But being sorry won‘t solve anything.•
”I know.• I felt like I was gonna break down into tears. I prayed that he would hang up or someone at the party would need the phone.
”I really hate doing this to you.•
”Then why do it?• he said hastily. I began to cry. Kirsty mouthed, ”It‘s all right,• and handed me a drink. I gulped it down holding on to the back of a chair. I felt dizzy. I hoped he wouldn‘t hear me crying.
”Sorry, that was out of line,• he said.
”No, I deserved it.• After a silence that seemed to last a life time I managed to stammer out, ”Look, do you think we can be friends?•
”I don‘t know.• I had to get off the phone. The silence felt like it was piercing me.
”Look I got to go. I‘ll talk to you soon. OK? I‘m really sorry.•
”Yeah sure.•
”You gonna be OK?• I asked.
”Yeah, don‘t worry about me. You‘ve got bigger problems.•
”Yeah. OK, thanks. Bye,• and he put down the phone. I felt like I would be ill. I walked through the door and into the party. The loud music banged against my head and the smoke stung my eyes.
”I need a drink.•
”Here finish mine. It‘ll be ok,• said Kirsty.
”Thanks, do you think it was the right thing to do?• I asked. Kirsty‘s eyes were already red from the alcohol and I could see she was about to be ill. She turned around and ran through the doors and into the bathroom. I went after her. As I entered the bathroom I could see that it had already been used. Tissues and cups lay strewn on the floor and puddles of water, which had formed in funny shapes, took up most of the space.
When Kirsty was done, Lizzie and I took her into the bedroom. She lay down and passed out. I went back out into the party. It was dark and warm. I could feel someone brush past me. I moved for the closest chair and sat down. As soon as I shut my eyes Lizzie came over and sat next to me.
”Kirsty wants you.•
”OK - I‘m coming.• As I got up, a wave of heat and exhaustion hit me. I tripped and fell. Lizzie pulled me up and helped me into the bedroom.
Kirsty was lying on the floor, amongst heaps of clothes, bags and magazines.
”Heya. What‘s the matter?• I said. Kirsty looked up at me.
”I‘m sorry, you‘re probably having the worst night of your life,• she said. I laughed.
”I‘ll be fine.• The idea that some time in the near future I might be looking back on this night, remembering every little detail, made me shudder.
”Well, for what it‘s worth, I reckon you did what you had to do. It would have been wrong if you hadn‘t told him. It was your decision. I think you made the right one.•
”Thanks. Well I‘d better take you home now.• I helped Kirsty stand up and walk to the elevator.
In the taxi I had time to think. I felt terrible. I felt guilty. But why should I? I was the one who was going have to live with the decision I had made. Yet, I knew I had just lost someone who should have been a part of my life. Was it the right decision? How can I ever speak to him again? All I know was that it was my decision. I had to make it. I was going to keep this baby.

Alice R Rogers

Lost Paradise

The loud music was too much for me, the forced beat pumping into the back of my head. I bought my diet coke and left straight away. I needed quiet, the beach, the sand and the cool salty wind, my heaven in hell. I‘m a bit of a romantic, see.

As I lay on the deserted beach watching the sea gulls, I thought I saw movement on the rocks out of the corner of my eye. The rocks were always so still and dead, so I put on my new sarong, picked up my MD and walked along the shore. As I peered through searching eyes, I saw what looked like a human head appear above the rock. I was curious, as usual. I just had to know. I climbed the rocks and scanned the cliff face: nothing. But then I saw a flicker of light from somewhere. I‘d been to the rocks before, but never this far in. Before, the rocks had always looked so dull, but now it was as if they possessed a million hidden secrets.

That night at my Gran‘s holiday house, the more I thought about it, the more I was determined I‘d seen something. So far, I was having a relaxing, yet boring holiday. The town I was staying in with my Gran was OAP heaven. I was yearning for a bit of excitement! Although I loved the beach I was jumping inside at the thought of something new. Full of wonder I packed a rucksack, ready for an early morning departure, of ”exploring gear,• including of course my precious MD.

As I walked along towards the rocks the next morning I started to have doubts as to whether I‘d actually seen something or was just playing along with my imagination. There was also the possibility that I had just seen a cat or something, or a lone walker. But there was no walk along those rocks, just a dead end. And on the spur of the moment, it had all seemed so mysterious.

Climbing far into the mountainous rocks the sun was growing higher in the sky and I wished I had a hat. About eleven o‘clock I noticed I‘d come about as far in as I could. I glanced across a tiny beach and headed towards what looked like a pile of wood for a rest. But as I approached the object I gasped: I knew it was what I‘d seen moving around the rocks.

The battered body was lying face down, as black as the night. As I turned it over the dead face stared up at me, as shrivelled as if it had never come in contact with the sun before. My heart skipped a beat as I realized what I was doing. I leaped away, screaming violently and falling, crawling along the ground. I felt a shadow fall over me and turned over. I stared up in to the half blocked sun, and the pale face of a young black man, completely naked, petrified.

Lydia Heavyside (Year 9 Fiction: Winner)

All is Not What it Seems

The wind blew cold as Chloe stood at the foot of Montgomly Manor. Gusts of wind encircled her, blowing her hair to and fro. A tingle travelled up her spine as she stared up at the gloomy old house. The carriage that had delivered her here to Montgomly Manor from London had long gone back along the narrow strip of road.

She stared out along the road just in time to see the faint outline of the carriage disappear through the huge wrought iron gates and out of her life. She strode up the long marble stairs to about a foot from the door. Chloe stood rooted to the spot. Her eyes travelled up the lonely, old house. For some reason she had a very strange feeling about this house. Chloe was about to take another look at the desolate house when the giant oak door creaked and then slowly opened. A lady stood in the doorway. She had a hard, serious face, with frosty slate-coloured eyes, thin, pale lips and white streaked hair that was mounted on her head in a tight neat bun. A long plaid dress exaggerated her elegant features.

”Walk this way.• She motioned through the doorway to a large beautiful room. Green and blue tapestries hung from the wails leading up to a grand marble staircase. ”I am Lady Montgomley ... your aunt,• the lady announced in a voice that did not contain any emotion. ”Your room is on the second floor,• she continued. ”You may go anywhere in the manor except the nursery, on the floor below your room, do you understand?•

Chloe was about to ask why but was stopped when her aunt, without a word started walking up the stairs. By the time they reached the first floor Chloe‘s arms began to ache. The second floor was as elegant as the entrance area. Portraits of animals and bright oriental lamps led the way along the narrow corridor. It was so beautiful Chloe could hardly believe it was real. Her aunt stopped at the second last door on the landing and removed a set of jingling keys from her pocket. Finally the door was opened and Chloe was led inside. The room, like the other parts of the manor that Chloe had seen, was beautiful, like something out of a picture book.

Chloe was still gazing gleefully at her room when she heard the door close. She spun around to see the door only left slightly open and the sound of crisp footsteps fade off into the distance. Chloe raised her suitcase onto the bed, opened it, and began examining her belongings. Among them lay Elise. Elise had been her mother‘s doll. Chloe had never known her mother as she had died giving birth and Chloe‘s father had also passed away from typhoid when she was three. Since then she had lived with uncles, aunts, anyone who would take her in.

She placed Elise next to a clock on her bedside cabinet. It was a very old clock, she thought. Working? It must be working. She looked at it carefully. Quarter past four. Chloe suddenly felt a tidal wave of sadness overcome her. She closed her eyes and focused on her parents, but no matter how she tried she could not reminisce a picture of them. Chloe sadly slumped back onto her bed. It was no use: they were gone and they were not coming back. Chloe tearfully stared at the clock. She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting into a deep, restless sleep. At ten o‘clock the clock on her bedside cabinet began to chime. Her eyes flickered open and, not noticing how dry her mouth felt or the mangled position she lay in, she forced herself out of bed and wandered sleepily out into the hall.

All the lamps had been blown out except the last two on the landing. Their flickering light mesmerised Chloe, who continued to wander aimlessly towards them. As she neared the lamps, a thick fog overwhelmed the narrow corridor, seeping out from the walls and floorboards. Chloe stared out into the hazy, blurred expanse. It smelled of smoke and ashes, Chloe concluded, as she inhaled the misty air. As she reached the end of the corridor the mist suddenly dispersed, fleeing back into the walls from which it seemed to have come and within what seemed a blink of an eye it was clear again. Chloe continued down a short flight of stairs.

At the bottom she gazed out along a narrow corridor. All the lamps were lit on this floor and flickered in the most eerie way as if leading her along.

It looked as though no-one had been in this part of the house for many years. White drapes covered the various items she encountered on her way. On a wall a draped portrait hung: she pulled the sheet off cautiously. It was covered in a thick layer of dust. She rubbed it hard with the drape to reveal the picture of a little boy: she particularly noticed the face of a boy. Tears were streaming down his face, which had a look of sheer horror on it. Shivering Chloe, returned the painting to the wall and replaced the drape. She found herself wondering who was the boy? and why did he look so terrified and alone?

Suddenly the lamps went dim. Chloe spun around and began to dash along the dark corridor. To her absolute horror, Chloe thought she heard footsteps following her. It was a sound that brought her heart into her mouth - the rapid thud of footsteps. Chloe froze and looked quickly behind her. But there was nothing there. She ran harder into the darkness but the footsteps pursued her. Ghostly, heavy footsteps, creaking along the floorboards. She looked behind her: again, nothing. But the footsteps continued to grow louder and louder, and Chloe knew they must be getting closer. Chloe could now heard them at their loudest. Sweat poured down her forehead and her heart was thudding so hard she could no longer hear it. She dashed up the short flight of stairs, the sound of the footsteps still ringing in her ears. All of a sudden the footsteps stopped. Chloe looked around their was now an eerie silence along the hall. Still unsure, she walked hastily the rest of the way. Chloe was half way along the landing when she felt something slithery against her legs. She looked down and could hardly contain a scream. Tens, hundreds, thousands of snakes, slithering everywhere! Three started up her leg, hissing and spitting fiercely. One had coiled itself all the way up her leg. More and more began to appear, slithering out of the floorboards, worming their way through the windows. All the doors began to open: piles of snakes emerged all hissing hungrily.

At this point Chloe staggered back. Snakes had reached as far up as her chest. They pinned her down against a wall and then the weight of them got too much for her as she slid down onto the floor. Within seconds Chloe was so covered in snakes that they were crushing and suffocating her. Chloe could almost feel the life being drained from her as she lay motionless on the floor. Then out of nowhere the sun began to rise. This terrified the snakes and they fled the moment they saw the light. Within what seemed a minute Chloe was alone. She staggered to her feet and headed towards her room. Opening the door to her room, she slid cautiously into bed.

The night was now over and she had a new day to face.

Rachael Kwan

Poetry
Fiction
Non-Fiction
The whole magazine as a single page

Visitors since 22nd June 1999:

Created on an Acorn RiscPC by Island School English Department on 22nd June 1999.

Typhoon 23: June 1999 Fiction

Poetry Fiction Non-Fiction The whole magazine as a single page

Typhoon 23: June 1999
Fiction

Poetry
Fiction
Non-Fiction
The whole magazine as a single page