The Jetty Jump

I felt as if my heartbeat is loud enough for everyone to hear. Where has my excitement gone? It was all gone in seconds, conveniently taking away my courage as well.

Thump, thump. I grasped the grass beside me.

Thump, thump. I breathed in the air sharply.

Thump, thump. I heard muffled voices.

My eyes shot open.


My body is numb and dazed. Cold and frozen. Shaking and quavering. I stood upon the towering cliff. My every breath cutted my nose and throat. The muffled, echoed shouts and excited screams came from the the deep pit.

The place I’m going to leap into

The darkness I’m going to stumble into.

The silence I’m going to fall into.

Then, I looked down. It was a mistake. My heart jumped out of my mouth as the flowing, beautiful but fearful river came into sight. Standing on the edge, with rocks and grass around my feet, I can see my shaking feet in my blue and grey water shoes. And even farther away, down, down, down, into the dark river. The muffled laughs and screams seems to be teasing me, daring me to jump in there. I looked back at the long queue behind me, with people laughing and chatting excitedly.


Thump, thump. There’s no turning back now.

Thump, thump. I squeezed my orange life jacket tightly.

Thump, thump. Don’t. Look. Down.

Thump, thump. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Thump, thump.


Then, I jumped.


Did I… Jump? I screamed silently.

The wind ruffled my hair in the wet helmet.

It blew through my life jacket and onto my face.

It swooshed into my shoes and through my body.

It was unbelievable. I didn’t dare open my eyes


I can feel the air flowing around me.

I can hear soothing sounds of the wind by my ears.

I can taste the tiny droplets of water in the air.

I can smell the fresh water of the river.


It all ended in seconds.

A silent splash. A sudden chill. A bizarre silence. An incredible ambience.


Thump, thump. The icy cold water trickled and seeped through me as I went underwater.

Thump, thump. Sinking and sinking…

Thump, thump. Pressure pressing on me, I can feel myself floating upwards.


Faster and faster, I burst through the surface.

Catching for breath, I breathed like never before.

Nothing else mattered at that time.

I broke through the surface.

I broke through my fear.

I took the risk.

I did it. I jumped.



I beamed.

Eight Parts High School, Three Parts College and Everything In Between

I lay awake for a few minutes, then my curtain quivers, and a beam of light from the streetlamp outside shines onto my bedside table. The keys to the gym gleam maliciously in the light. Like they are beckoning me.

Suddenly I have an impulse. I get out of bed and pull on my graffitied-on leather jacket and a pair of paint-splattered jeans and my combat boots over my Rolling Stones nightshirt.

I pack a bag of art supplies, my flashlight, and dump the keys to the gym in there, too. I slide my favorite black sparkly beanie over my head.

Then I do something really impulsive and really, really stupid. I creep down the stairs, careful not to wake my aunt, mom or dad, and grab the keys to my mom’s colorful, paint stained, very graffitied-on black Mini Cooper.

I get in the driver’s seat, turn the key, reverse down the driveway and drive away.

All without a license.

The car’s clock reads 12:36 am, 36 minutes past midnight.

Stupid? You bet.

I needed to finish the decorating.

I get to the school, and the gates open for me. The security guard stops me, but I show him my pass, and say I’m here to make the final changes on the gym for prom tomorrow. He lets me pass.

After I finish the decorating, I walk out of the gym, down the dark hallway, walking not towards the exit, but to the Art room instead.

Just a quick check, I think, heading in the direction of my painting.

But where my painting should be, there is a blank space on the wall.

I gasp.

The painting is gone.

It’s been ages since I left the school, and I’m tucked back into bed, but I can’t sleep. I’d looked everywhere I could think of - the places I could have subconsciously brought my painting, the places where it could have fallen down, the places where someone might have put it. I checked the Art room, the floor around my IGCSE platform, the gym, the teachers’ lounge, the cafeteria, the only open lockers, almost all of the classrooms, the exam hall, the theater, the Eco-Garden and even the school parking lot. But the painting is nowhere to be found. It’s like it just disappeared off the face of the Earth.

My alarm clock reads 1:50 am and I yawn. I’m exhausted. I turn over and am just starting to drift off when my phone rings.

I groan and grab it from it’s place on my bedside table, but shriek and drop it when I see who’s calling.

It’s Harper. Ms. Brunswick.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

I can’t let Harper know that I’ve lost the painting. Not only will she decide not to give me the scholarship, but she also won’t accept me if I submit my portfolio the long way!!!!

But if I don’t answer, she might get suspicious and call my parents instead. Then I’ll have to tell them the truth about the painting and then they’ll tell Harper.

So I pick up the phone and put on a fake smile. “Hi Ms. Brunswick.” I say.

“Hi Val. I know it’s a little early your time, but I just had to call to let you know that I have booked a flight to Sydney. I’m coming to see your painting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” I squeak.

“Yes, tomorrow.” Harper says. “Is something wrong?”

I swallow my nausea.

“Nope, everything’s fine. Everything’s great!” I say. I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound uneasy or fake. Which OF COURSE IT DOES. I LOST THE PAINTING!!!!!

Harper pauses. “That’s good. I’ve called your parents and they helped me find a good hotel downtown. I leave Paris tonight, and if your painting is as Frida says it is, then you’re flying back with me to see the college. You’ll spend two weeks in the dorms, going to the classes, living like a student there. You will also meet the president of the board, and he and I will offer you the scholarship. You’ll fly back to Sydney for your last year of high school, then after you graduate, you will fly back to Paris to attend the college for the entirety of your university years. This will all be paid for. That is, if you still want the scholarship.”

“Of course I do!” I say.

Harper laughs, and I can tell she’s smiling too. “Great. I can’t wait to meet you in person.”

“Me too!” I smile, but my eyes are wide and my palms are sweaty.

She hangs up.

This is bad. This is so very bad.

I only have one day to find the painting and get it to Harper before I lose the scholarship. I could always paint another one, but something tells me that I couldn’t recreate this painting if I tried. It wouldn’t capture the same emotion as it did.

***

Friday morning dawns bright and early. Too early, if you ask me. I wake up, feeling fresh and totally energized. Then suddenly, all the events of the night come crashing down onto me like an avalanche. BOOM. I pretty much broke the law driving to school without a licence. BOOM. I lost the best painting I’ve ever painted. BOOM. There’s no time to paint another one (and if I did it wouldn’t be the same.). BOOM. Harper is flying into Sydney TOMORROW.

Isn’t it funny how my life works out like that? One minute everything’s all prom dresses and boyfriends and scholarships and the next thing you know you are at the bottom again.

ARGH.

My mom comes into my room and sees that I’m already awake.

“How’s my almost Paris College of Art girl?” she smiles, kisses me on top of my head and ruffles my (already messy) black-and-purple locks. Fiona comes in behind her, taking advantage of the open door. Her calm blue eyes meet my own, and she stares at me like she knows I’m hiding something.

Mom notices that I seem a little on edge.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she asks.

“Nothing, Mom.” I say carefully.

She brushes off my response. “Did Ms. Brunswick call you about being here in Sydney tomorrow?”

I hold my breath. “She did,” I say VERY CAREFULLY.

My mom smiles. “I can’t wait to see this painting of yours. From what your art teacher told me, it really is a masterpiece.”

“Yeah, a masterpiece… ” I say, my voice trailing off.

***

I can hardly concentrate at school all day. All I can think about is the missing painting. MY missing painting.

Serenity noticed something was wrong about halfway through homeroom.

“Val, what happened?” she asked, turning around to face me.

I tell her. “So you see, when I finished decorating the gym at around 1 am-”

She cuts me off. “You snuck into school at 1 am?!”

I bristle. “Midnight, actually. And I didn’t SNEAK into school. I HAD permission.” I know Serenity is not a big fan of rule breaking.

Serenity nods like she gets it. “Continue.”

“So after I decorated the gym, I went to go check on my painting - just a REALLY QUICK CHECK. And it just wasn’t there.”

Serenity frowns. “It must have been.”

“No,” I insist, “I KNOW it wasn’t there. Someone took it.”

Serenity blinks. “What evidence do you have that shows someone took it?” she asked.

“I just know!” I huff, not in the mood for Serenity’s very formal speeches. “Someone took it and Ms. Brunswick called me last night and told me she is coming to Sydney TOMORROW.”

Serenity’s eyes go wide. “What about your scholarship?”

“I don’t know, okay?!” I say, sighing. This really was worse than I thought.

Suddenly, something clicks. Serenity sits up a little straighter like she had just thought of something.

“Val,” she says, her voice faint. “I think there’s something you should know.”

Mulia

The sky is especially stormy today, and it doesn’t seem good. I climb up the stairs three at a time. My breath is running out, as well as my time. I know it’s dangerous to continue but all the thought do is swirl around me, and I keep going up. I imagine her face. I smile. ‘One more floor,” I gasp. Then the world becomes black. Too black.

It was when I was five. My mom pursed her lips the whole day, and she loitered around the big telephone that you might’ve seen in the movies, the one that makes ringing noises as you wheel the numbers around. At about 4 o’clock sharp, mom picked up her coat, picked me up and we walked to a big brick building. My mom ushered me to sit down on a seat next to an old woman who was sniffling and told me to wait just a moment while she talks to someone. It felt like forever to wait for her. The people at the desks gave me some candy. Later mom came out, her face red and teary. She snatched my hand, dragged me to an empty room named 892, and kneeled down in front of me. She told me to forgive her over and over again. She told me that she would miss me very much and rushed outside, leaving me alone in the dark. I don’t quite remember what happened afterwards but when I woke up I was lying on a big blue bed and next to me was a rather plump nurse named Maria. She had a warm smile, but it wasn't as warms as mom’s. She cared for me all day, and sang lullabies at night. But all that did not seem to help me forget mom. My mom had lied to me. She didn’t miss me. She never came for a visit or dropped by to check. That was when I knew that there was nobody beside me. I was alone.

For the first few days in the asylum, I refused to eat anything. Maria brought me food but everytime she did I kicked it away and screamed and wriggled. She sighed and called the big man with glasses. His stare was like ice. He took some notes. Then they closed the heavy metal door and stomped outside together. I heard the keys jiggle as they locked the door and again I would feel lonely. I did not know if time was going or it has stopped. I didn’t listen too carefully when the man and the nurses talked about me outside my room, and I never bothered to look through the tiny crack inside the closet that lead to the room across mine. It always had no lights on.

A day after my 7th birthday, I heard a light turn on. It was from my closet. I scattered across the room and saw her. She was beautiful. Her brown curls that made her hair look like one of those princesses you might see in fairy tales, her ocean blue eyes, and her pink dress, I thought she was beautiful. She seemed to be shouting at the maid, but when the maid got out I saw her crying. “Hello?” I called as I tried to squeeze myself into the hole. It didn’t work. The girl lifted her head up, looked at me, then screamed. “Ghost!” The maids rushed in and I quickly hid back in my room. I could not hear what they were saying, but when I heard the door close I tried again. “I’m not a ghost.” This time she didn’t scream. “I know.” she said calmly. “My name is Mulia Renon.”. “Hi.” I stammered. It felt weird to talk to someone again. We were silent for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “If I said my name, you have to tell me your name too!” she rolled her eyes.

I thought. I thought really hard. It was unbelievable. “I think I forgot.” Then I cried. “I forgot my name!” I laughed. Then I sobbed again. Mulia was silent. “Sorry.” she said.

We talked every day. We stayed there and talked until that day. That day everything changed. 

There were flames. Flames everywhere. I didn’t know how, or why. But there was one thing for sure; I was going to die. All around me was fire, and the smoke was unbearable. I held my breath.

“Help!” called a faint voice followed by coughs. There was only one person I could think of. “Mulia!”

The world became dimmer. Then it disappeared.

I take several deep breaths outside the door. My hands touch the wooden doorway. It feels like it’s made of ice. The sky gets darker and a drop of rain lands on my shoulder. I turn the doorknob. It’s unlocked. A beam of light, somehow close to the one in my closet when I first saw her shine from the inside. I open the door to greet whoever will be in there.

Gems

I’ve always loved Autumn mornings, the wind whispering in your ear, the beautiful shade of the remaining leaves. And the birds. The cold though, is not as welcome, other than the fact that school closes till the time spring comes. Sadly, I don’t love Autumn anymore.

Jade was my prized possession. She truly was a gem. I loved her more than I loved Autumn.

Another reason I loved Fall because that was when I was born. My birthday falls on October the 21st. I got Jade six years back for my 6th birthday. She was a beautiful thing, with short soft fur, with a white belly and a light, golden brown back. Although she had a white face, on her left eye, she had a puddle of light brown, like a panda’s eyes. She was also reasonably big for a beagle, because she was a mixed breed, with Great Dane blood. She understood every trick like it was her own language, so long as she got her treats She was a loyal dog, who would always listen, no matter what.

Right in front of my house, there is a beautiful park, encircled by a road, which showcases all of the pretty seasons. The tall trees, laden with little blossoms and unripe fruits during Spring, turn into big umbrellas, perfect for sitting under to read or to take a little napping, in Summer. During Autumn, the trees are an explosion of Red, Yellow, and Orange, and during winter, they look delicate and dainty, like a princess would.

For my 11th birthday, exactly a year ago, I got a Frisbee. it wasn’t like an ordinary frisbee, it was like a ring, and through the box, it was called the Aerial Frisbee. It was really cool.

I called all my friends, Maddy, Grace, and even Kate. We all, including Jade, went down to the park carefully, and suddenly, I felt a pang of guilt surge through me, telling me I shouldn’t have brought Jade. You could call it the Angel's warning, or the Devil's contentment, but I just brushed it off, like a fly that came and sat on my shoulder.

Mom and Dad brought down their iPhones and took lots of photos to treasure as memories. We were so happy. I was smiling and thinking to myself when I heard Grace yell “ Jess, catch!”

I jumped up to reach for it but it was too high. Encapsulated in my own thoughts, I ran on to get the frisbee, not realizing grass turning into gravel. I pick the frisbee up and turn around, realizing there was a truck, virtually on top of me. Fear had paralyzed me, and it was not physically possible to run back to the safety of the grass. I hastily crouch down and hug myself, forming a ball. I look over to my parents, pale with fright, running over, but feeling helpless. I see a flash of light brown, run headfirst, and hitting me so hard, and with such force, that I toppled over, and I have no other choice than to roll down to the other side of the sidewalk. Time slows down, I look back at Jade, seeing no pain, no fear, just pure happiness, and longing for me to reach into my pocket and toss her another treat. Little did that innocent, adorable selfless dog know. She did not know that the rules of life and death also applied to her.

I turn away quickly, knowing I can’t bear to watch this, I press my hands over my ears, believing that time will go back and I would never have come down to the park in the first place. I know, that even if I didn’t get hit by a truck, I would still die. I would be incomplete. I was a human without a laughter, happiness, smiles. A human without a soul. A big part of me would have gone with Jade to doggy heaven.

That was not the last place I saw Jade, no. I saw her many more times, every night once I fell into a deep, restless sleep. She also doesn’t come alone, she comes with many more dogs, probably her friends in heaven. Those were some of the rare nights, I would smile in my sleep, and not wake up in the middle of the night and cry myself back to sleep.


Jade was the last dog I’ve had since, and the only dog I will ever have had. Now I understand why people say that “ Dogs are man’s best friend.” Jade was like a best friend. A family member. I love Jade.

One, Two, Three, Four

It became routine. Sitting down, taking out a book, escaping to an alternate reality. It kept me sane. It kept everything from reaching me, I was so far away, safe in another world.


But this time, having forgotten my book, I just sat in silence, taking bites of my food every now and then. My throat felt tight and parched. I refused to look up, to join the conversation. I just couldn’t.


One.


One sentence, that was all it took.


“She has no right to do that!” Came the complaint. The rest nodded, agreeing.


I wanted to choke. They’re back at it again. Those words, aimed like a gun and shot straight through the heart. I shut my eyes. I wanted it all to be over. The words came out of my mouth, littered with disgust.


“Have you been… nice?” I asked them.


Did I regret what I just said? I don’t know.


All I knew was that it wasn’t fair. They couldn’t treat people like this.


I didn’t want to see their stares, fixed upon my face. I didn’t want them to see how they affected me.


Two.


Two words, that was all it took.


“Of course!” Came the reply, shocked that I would ever doubt it.


It was closing in. The walls of my prison cell, the hands around my neck, ready to strangle the life out of me, the waves, towering above my tiny raft on the endless sea. I was in an interrogation room. Everything - anything that I did, getting up, leaving, staying silent - could be used against me.


Please, I begged, trying to find the little voice in my heart who I knew would guide me. Please, talk to me. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say. Who I’m supposed to be.


They all turned to me, suddenly, unexpectedly. “You were talking to her. What did she say?”


Such an innocent question, but my hands were shaking with anger, fear, I don’t know what. I hid them inside the sleeves of my sweater. It was so easy to give the wrong answer.


I wanted them to open their eyes, so I could open mine. I felt like an old vase. People used to see me as beautiful, but now I was cracked, and broken, and used. My once intricate patterns were faded and my bright colours gone.


I couldn’t face this anymore.


Three.


Three questions, that was all it took.


“How could you ask that kind of thing? Don’t you think she’s in the wrong too? Don’t you care?” They were on the offense now, their narrow gazes pinning me to the back of my chair.


I wanted to scream. They had never asked me this before. I wanted all of this to be over. I wanted to get up and walk away, but the questions were like iron handcuffs, weighing me down, forcing me to stay.


I cared. I cared so, so much. I couldn’t stop. I cared so much that it was killing me.


But I kept my head down.


Four.


Four actions.


Stand. Look. Blink. Run.


I stood. I looked at them, all looking back at me. I blinked, to clear the haze over my eyes. And then I ran.


I wished, I wished so hard for a hand to reach out to me, like they always did in the books I read everyday. I wanted to clasp it, and let it pull me back. But everything around me is shifting, it changes, little by little with time passing, through every sentence, word, question or action. I couldn’t trust what I saw, I couldn’t trust what I believed. And I have no book with me.


I counted.


One.


Two.


Three.


Four.

Broken Worlds

My life changed the moment he crashed through the window.

I was just chilling, practicing my powers, and then, from nowhere, a boy on a dragon, (or a giant, dark-scaled lizard with wings, from what I saw,) crashed through the window. Well, I couldn’t say I wasn’t surprised by that, after all, I had had a lot of crazy things happen to me this week. But, by far, this was probably the craziest. Oh, and I forgot a proper introduction. I’m Kate. And, just to sum up everything, I’m somewhat of an abnormality.

Well, when I saw this dark haired boy with green eyes and his huge dragon crash through my back window, my fight or flight response was full fight. I didn’t want to, but I would defend myself if I had to. My mind was full of questions. Why was he here? What was with the dragon? Who is he? Where does he come from? and I’d probably have thought of a million more if he hadn’t got up, moaned a little bit, and collapsed on the floor.

All cautiousness gone, I ran forward, and he moaned in pain. He touched his hand to his side, and suddenly it slid off, revealing his coat, soaked with blood. I gasped softly and rushed to his aid. My first thought was, Call 911, Kate! but I remained calm, and attended to his wounds myself. I lifted the blood-soaked coat off, revealing an arrowhead. I widened my eyes, unable to believe what I saw.

But I snapped to my senses a moment later, and proceeded to pull it out. Super inconveniently, the scaly lizard (A.K.A Dragon,) decided to protect this boy, and I was forced to deal with him first. Turns out, dragons, like cats, love catnip, so when I threw the pot at it, it sniffed it gingerly, and then started to roll on it. At least this bought me time… I thought with a sigh, thinking about how long it took me to grow it. Then I focused on the real task at hand, the boy. He groaned in agony as I pulled the arrowhead out sharply. Then he passed out.

The boy was delirious for the remaining time of my attending to his wound.

He slipped out of his coma a couple of times, but I think what he saw was too much for him to take, because he just passed out again. I lay him gently near the window, on a couple of pillows, with his dragon curling protectively, but drunkenly around him. As I lay on my bed, I watched the ceiling fan go around an around, and, as I slowly drifted off, I wondered if this, all of this, was just a dream, and when I opened my eyes next, I would be in my bed, without a hole in my window, and no boy and his dragon sleeping peacefully in sight.

It was no dream.

I was jolted from my sleep by something hot, very hot, and also the smell of smoke. I sat up with a jolt, and there was that dragon, with a very guilty look on its face. And guess what? My bedside table is on fire. I put it out with some nearby water (I was expecting this. Like, who would keep a dragon in their house and not?), and saw that the boy was sitting up in his makeshift pillow bed. He was zoned out, just staring into space (Like, wait, dude, my bedside table was just on fire and you just sit there?).

“Hey...” I said cautiously. He reacted so suddenly I jumped. He got up, and slid backward, against the corner of the wall. His hand reached for his pocket, and he realized that he was unarmed. He struggled to his feet, for a couple of seconds, though. He fell to the ground with a groan, clutching his side. His dragon (Who knew?) purred in concern.

All distrust gone. I rushed toward him, and I looked at the bandages in a hurry. Ugh. I thought. He’s opened up that wound again. I un-bandaged the wound and healed it quickly (using magic, duh.). His eyes widened in surprise, and he slid away from me as soon as I wrapped the bandages back on his now partially healed wound (I can’t fully heal things yet.) and his dragon padded his way back towards him nuzzling his shoulder, and then gently placing its head in his lap.

“Who are you?”

The boy, who looked about 17 years old, looked at me accusingly. I answered with a fiery tone with another question, “Who are you?” and then, in a softer, more gentle voice, “I’m Kate, and I’m not here to harm you.” He didn’t seem convinced, but he let me take a look at his bandages one more time before sitting with his dragon and murmuring softly to it. There was a pause for around 30 seconds, really awkward silence.

“Okay, I have told you who I am, now tell me who you are, and why you’re here,” I say in a calm voice

“I don’t even know you, why would I give you my identity?” Says the boy suspiciously.

“It’s just your name! Plus, I have the right to know, without me healing you, you may be dead or still seriously injured” I say, getting slightly annoyed.

“Just tell me,” I say feeling a little calmer. He should have shown some more respect considering I have been helping him, and he knows it because I said so, but then again he just woke up from a coma.

“I don’t trust people easily, and I hope you are who you say you are, but I owe you for helping me, even though you had no idea who I was and what my intentions were, so thanks,” He said looking straight into my eyes.

“Where I come from, I always need to be alert for suspicion, which speaking of which I have a lot of explaining to do,” He said looking down blushing for a bit “Sorry for being such a jerk.”

“It’s alright,” I said soothingly.

“Well, here’s how the story starts…”

The Girl in the Park

She would never bring anything with her. No phone, book or pen & pad in her hands. Not even an umbrella in the rain or extra gloves in the winter. She would simply walk to the bench, every day, and sit herself down at precisely 4:45 pm. And then she would wait. Simple as that. Wait. Just gaze out into the distance with her back straight and hands calmly folded on her knees. She never even looked away from the horizon, as if had she turned away for a second she would miss whatever she was looking for.

1 hour later, at precisely 5:45 pm, she would rise from the bench and go back the way she came. Straight past the mothers calling to their children to put away their frisbees. Straight past the owners pocketing their phones and tugging their dogs out the park entrance. She’d take a right out the park, take another right, go up the tiny hill with the mansions and walk back up 6th street.

Every day she repeated this meticulous routine to the T. Not one thing changed on any given day. She came 7 days a week, 365 days a year. No matter how hard the rain fell, how deep the snow went, how hot the sun beat down, how full or empty the park was. Every single day she came and she waited for exactly one hour before returning home; just to come back again 24 hours later.

But the thing that puzzled me most was the face she wore each day as she sat down on the bench. A mask of neutral. Even the most skilled readers of expression and body language would not be able to determine a thing about this magenta-clad girl. Well, up until April 23rd that is. That day her eyes were red when she sat down. That day she hunched her shoulders and peeked over them once in awhile to check that no one was around. That day she came at 4:45 pm and left long after the sun had dipped below the horizon. That was the day she spent the hours in the park tears bursting from her eyes like water from a dam.






I never returned to the park after that.

Freedom

I twirl around, watching my skirt whirl around me in perfect pinwheels. I throw my hands up, breathing in the crisp air. The meadow spins around me, and I laugh out loud. My boots crush flowers below my feet, and I jump up and down, squealing like a child, relishing the cool breeze whipping my hair around my face. I pick up some dirt and smear it across my cheeks in two large streaks, like my brother Luke does in the army. It feels good to let go of everything. To forget all my duties and responsibilities. Laughing, I scoop up handfuls of soil and dump it in my hair. I catch a glimpse of Luke from the corner of my eye watching me strangely. I bound over to him and clasp his hands.

"Brother! It's glorious! We can do anything!"
"Anything?"
"Anything!"
He promptly picks up a ball of mud, winds up his arm, and hurls it at me. It splatters across my patterned skirt. I gasp. "Luke! Mother will be furious! This will never wash out!" I pretend to be irritated, but secretly, I don't care. It's wonderful to forget everything and have fun with my brother.

But my mother has left her mark on me. All her rules and regulations are fiercely drilled into my mind. The longer I stay with her, the more she worms her way into my mind. She will break me. My walls will crumble, and she will slowly poison my heart. I came here to escape. Not to think about her.

I look at him, my brother, gathering another mud ball. His blonde hair matted, the twinkle in his eyes, the mischievous smile playing on his lips. Soon he will be going back to the front, and I may never see him again. My older brother, my one sibling, my hope for escaping mother. I run towards him and tackle him, screaming deviously. We topple over, and roll around in the earth before we realize quite what we're doing.
"Anna. That is not the proper way for a lady to behave." He says in a mock aristocratic voice, mocking mother. In response, I pick up a clump of dirt and dump it on his face. He sputters and sits straight up, coughing. Laughing, I tousle his hair and lie down next to him, looking up at the sky.

“Do you ever wonder why mother is how she is?"
He lazily looks over at me, thinking about his reply. "The thing about mother is that she wasn’t always like this. Losing father made her very protective.” I give him a look. “So much so that she’s become frightened of losing people.” he continues, despite my snort.

“She may be frightened, but she’s still a controlling witch.” I say, raising my voice.
“Anna!” He scolds me, but his voice shakes with unexpressed mirth. He knows I’m right. I roll my eyes in response. He stands up, brushing his slacks, before offering me a hand. I wrinkle my nose, as if disgusted, and stand up. He laughs. "Anna, that’s quite a temper you have." I stick my tongue out at him and he laughs. Suddenly, he tips his head up to the endless stretch of blue sky, dotted with white clouds and he yells: "You can't tell me what to do!" I look at him, bewildered. He gives me an encouraging look. "Go ahead. It's strangely liberating."

"You don't control me. You have NO POWER OVER ME, MOTHER." I laugh out loud. We take turns screaming to the sky, setting ourselves free.
"We are too strong to be held down!” Luke shouts, the veins on his neck bulging. The image of us slides into my mind. We look like dishevelled muddy maniacs, yelling at the sky. Mother would hate it. But I love it.
"I will do great things!" At the indignance in my voice, Luke tips his head back and laughs. Feeling empowered, I continue. "My freedom is near! I can nearly taste it, mother. You can try - and try you will - to stop me. But I’m already gone."

freedom is the oxygen of the soul

- Moshe Dayan

                                                                by: Millie Alchin

I watched her fall

I watched her fall.

The branches snapping. The leaves shaking. The shriek. She lands. And it all went to fast. And all of a sudden Mum is sobbing, crying out “Summer, Summer” and Dad is staring and my big, brave, bold sister Ciara’s eyes are filling with tears and they are all crying out “Summer, Summer” And I stare. I watch them move forward to the closed eyes. Bright blonde hair fallen neatly, framing her face. Garland of flowers still neatly fitted onto her head. Chest rising and falling. No noise. Not a sound.

The ambulance was loud. Mum and Ciara and Dad were loud. The nurses were loud. Summer and I stayed deadly silent. I sat by her and tears poured out and gushed down my cheeks and dripped onto her pretty pale face but neither of us moved. And neither of us talked.

Then there was the stretcher. The mask fitted to her face and bandages everywhere and shouting doctors and nurses and rushing into the hospital and a teddy bear flung into my arms. The rainbow tye-dye dress whipped off her skinny body and a white hospital gown slapped on. Attached to machines and more bandages. Still I don’t make a sound. Neither does Summer.

Mum and Dad stayed by her side. Ciara threw a screaming fit and wailed, howling for hours that she just had to stay. I sat quietly by the bed and looked at her closed lids and pictured the sparkling blue eyes behind the eyelids. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek and swept her wispy hair out of her face. Later on at night I am lying in a strange, hard hotel bed still holding the teddy bear and listening to brave, strong, Ciara, who never cries, weeping to herself. I don’t make a sound. I pretend the bear is Summer and wrap my arms carefully around its waist, imagining soft rainbow cotton and long hair in my arms.

It all went too fast. I am back at school ,Math is happening and we are doing times tables. Normally, I like it but now I am sitting quietly and thinking about Summer. Mum is broken and sat at the dining table and held her coffee, bringing it up to her mouth, but never taking a sip. Dad is rushing to work and not talking and I hear him whispering her name. Today I will see Summer. We will drive for an hour in Dad’s big black car and I will not talk and Ciara will cry and Mum and Dad will silently think about Summer.

The visit went quickly. Mum and Dad talked to Summer but that’s silly because she can’t hear. Summer could understand me. She knew me. I sat silently by Summer and looked at her pale face and pretty red baby lips and brushed her hair carefully with a comb I brought from home.

My birthday is in a few weeks, and I will be 7, but I won’t get older until Summer gets better. I sit at school and Mrs Robinson and the lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume and the other councillor lady try and make me say things and I don’t, because I don’t like the lady’s perfume and I am too busy thinking about Summer. So I stay silent.
When we visit her today, the doctor and the nice nurse are saying things to Mum and Dad that are not making sense to me. So I sit by Summer, and think about her playing dolls with me and how she would always make up such funny stories and sometimes I laughed and made the dolls dance and twirl around the room. I cry more I think about it. I want to whisper to her, laugh with her again. When it is time to leave, I hold onto her hand, and I don’t want to let go.

Today I do more therapy. The lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shows me flashcards of things I love, and tells me that if I say the words she will give me some candy. I don’t get any candy. But that doesn’t matter, because on the trip to see Summer I swipe some Mentos off the receptionist’s desk and store them safely away in my pocket. When we get inside, I open a Mentos and put it under Summer’s pillow. I whisper to her that when she wakes up, she can eat it. All that moves is her wispy blonde hair, swaying in the wind of the open window. Mum and Dad aren’t crying anymore but they do bring her presents. I saw a dress she was getting and wanted it but Mum said not unless I talked. So I didn’t get the dress.

I will be 7 soon. 5 years without making a sound. They know I’m not deaf because I can hear myself cry, and hear them beg me to just move my mouth. I think about Summer in class today, and picture the way her long legs would move so swiftly and smoothly up the branches of the trees. I think about how she would spring up and her legs would entwine the branches, and she’d almost walk up the thick wooden trunk. But I stop thinking when I get to the part where the branch is so thin, and she is balancing on her toes, and she squints in concentration, and suddenly, her foot slips and the branch snaps and... Mrs Robinson asks me why I’m crying and I say nothing and leave the room. I hear hushed voices saying that next year I will be in the “special class” Special is nice when you think of Summer. Special is not nice when you think of me.

Today when we saw Summer, it was the same as usual. It’s funny that you can’t see the pain that was painted on her face when she was falling. She can’t see the pain that is painted on my heart. Today we read Geronimo Stilton in class, and it was easy and boring but Mrs Robinson doesn’t know that. When it was my turn to read I dropped the book and walked back to the carpet, and sat down and wiped tears out of my eyes. Mum is drinking her coffee, but she is still broken. Ciara said Summer was a bad baby in her tummy and made her hurt a lot, and when she came out Summer wasn’t living very well. Ciara said that all Summer ever caused was pain. But that’s not true, because Summer is warm and friendly and inviting, and Winter is what gives you pain and sadness and makes you cold.

We did a worksheet where we described what the 4 seasons felt like. I thought Summer was nice, but she still won’t wake up so she is cold. When the receptionist said hello to me today, I wanted to scream because she still doesn’t understand that I won’t say it back.

When we saw Summer today, I told her in my head that I am praying for her and that God will save her. Mum says Summer is not dead. Mum says Summer is in a coma. They seem the same to me. All I want to do is say her name but I can’t. Everyone is talking, whispering, laughing, shouting, yelling, giggling, screaming, and I am silent. Silent like night-time when it is me and the stars. But if I look at them for too long they fall and Summer’s face appears on them and instead of warning her that the branch is too small, I watch her fall. I watch the stars fall. I watch Mum fall, onto the bed, into the chair, deeper into herself. Withdrawn into her own miserable face. Thinking about Summer.

I got mad when we got home. I threw my dolls across the room and I didn’t eat dinner and I scribbled on the walls with all my coloured textas. I made a rainbow with them. And at the end of the rainbow was me. Screaming. Shouting. Yelling. Summer. Summer. Summer. When you come back Mum will come back and Dad will come back and Ciara will come back and Summer I will talk for you if that’s what you want.

Today in hospital Summer was on life support. Dad got a coffee and Mum got a painkiller and Ciara and I got a juice and I threw it on the floor but wouldn’t say why. Mum will not cuddle me or keep me safe like she used to. Dad will not laugh at my funny faces. Ciara will not look at me with friendly adoring eyes and Summer will not wake up. I will talk for Summer. I want to talk for Summer. All I can think about it Summer. In bed I cry because I can’t say a word.

In school the people say “Crybaby” to me again and it makes me cry harder. They whisper it in my ear and they write it on my books and they etch it onto the side of the red plastic slide. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shouts at them when I silently show her the words written in messy handwriting on my books. She “did not realise such young innocent minds could commit such acts of cruelty to a poor child like me” Cry baby isn’t cruelty. Cry baby is true. I think about Mum the whole day and imagine her soft white arms wrapping around me, her long dark hair falling neatly over my head and shrouding me in a safe warm cocoon of nothing-ever-matters.

When I get home I open my arms to Mum but she sags onto a couch and says that we are getting into the car to see Summer. I silently struggle with her and try to wrap my arms around her waist but Mum is broken and I am broken and mad and I want to make noise for Summer but instead I throw my arms in the air and scratch the car windows and doors and this time when I see Summer I don’t cry for her cold body I stare at it and wish that she’d just. Wake. Up.
I’m a crybaby but I don’t talk
I love Summer so much that she hurts me.
The only thing in my twisted mind is Mad.

Angry at Summer and Mum and Dad and Ciara and all the ladies and Mrs Robinson and the people and the tree and the math and the tears and me and my stupid mouth and in my head it replays over and over and over again as I watch her fall.
We see Summer again today. It has been 3 weeks. 3 weeks since she climbed the tree. 3 weeks since I watched her fall. Just another 3 weeks of silence. Unbearable silence. If I could sing, laugh out loud, talk, even whisper for her it would be anything. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume has given up on me. I won’t talk for anyone. I am too busy thinking about Summer, frozen, her hair getting lighter. Forgetting the sound of her voice. I stroke Summer’s cheek and softly brush her hair and watch as Ciara whispers to her. I cry like a baby because I watched her fall.
“Cry baby Cry baby” Is the taunting jeer that greets me when I enter school. “Summer, Summer” Is the awful whisper that greets me when I get home. If I could drag Mum and Dad out of their own skins they would see Ciara and I, struggling through each day. But no. All they see is Summer. All I see is Summer. Falling. In the back of my mind. And all of a sudden I can’t stand it. The silence makes me sick. If I could talk. If I could say a word for her. Anything. Anything. She won’t be able to hear. It will be silly. And I am Mad. Mad everyday. Textas and Barbies and Teddies and clothes thrown across the room with despair.
Mad walks into school everyday and glares and the people. Mad walks home and straight past unloving parents. Mad stares at Summer and despises her. Mad stares at Summer and loves her too much.
Today when we see her Mum and Dad cry for the first time in a long time. The nurses say things I can’t understand. Something triggers Ciara’s tears and I can’t understand it. I glare at the nurse in frustration. Next week is my birthday. I stay silent. 5 years in silence.
Everyday is the same. Mad follows the routine and watches Ciara beg Mum to go out to the store and buy us dinner. Mad watches Summer drop from the tree and Mad goes to therapy and Mad feels tears welling up in her eyes. Mad feels sick when Mad thinks of the silence. Mad remembers her birthday. 2 days. Mad visits Summer. Mad numbs the pain. Mad wishes for love.
1 day. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume tells Mum that I am not getting enough attention. Mum is dreaming, floating through her mind with Summer, a dreamland where she is awake and everything is back to normal. I am not turning 7 until Summer wakes up. I am not doing work until Summer wakes up. I will talk for Summer, I tell myself every time I see her. Everytime I see her, I watch the branches snapping and her arms flailing and her hair whirling and every time I see her I stay silent. I am angry. I throw things across the hospital ward. The nurses struggle with my flailing arms and legs, trying to get a hold of me before I hurt people. But watching Mum and Dad so lovingly care for Summer sends me into a spiral of fury. I can’t stop it. I keep shoving Summer out of my mind as a fire burns in the bottom of my tummy. I don’t know why. I can’t tell why. The anger makes me sick and exhausted and tomorrow is my birthday and Mum and Dad are holding Summer so carefully and I am Hungry and Sad and Mad and Angry and there is nothing they can do to stop me. My insides rage, monster, caged, fire, terror. Mad is a monster and Mad feels sick and Angry and is so tired and a little string of vomit spurts out of Mad’s mouth but still Mad stays silent when all Mad wants to do is wail and Mad has lost control and can’t feel Mad’s legs. and.
Name: Sarah Allen Drew
Maiden name: Christie
Age: 46

History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Post Traumatic Anxiety Disorder
Anorexia Nervosa

Physical: No

Medication: tricyclic antidepressants
Type: trazodonetrazodone, venlafaxine, lorazepam



Name: Flynn Maximilian Drew
Age: 47

History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Bipolar 2 disorder

Physical: No

Medication: Mood stabilizers
Type: divalproex sodium,  lamotrigine


“Parents with problems make kids with problems” They made me sit on this dirty yellow couch. They pushed me down when I stood up. They whisper to themselves. Something on the paper. I was thrown into an x-ray. They said they looked at my head. The man with the white coat counted down from 10. The man in the white coat told me to think of ice-cream. I don’t like ice-cream. I think about Summer. Lying there. Where is Mum? Where is Dad?
“Anorexia”
“No wonder she’s so skinny”
“That doesn’t make sense”
“No not the kid, it’s the mum that’s got it”
“A wonder they’re not divorced”
“She’s not in a special school?”
“What medication?”
“Hasn’t been taken”
“They’re unstable”
“Accountant”
“Lawyer”
“Unfit parents”
“Poor kid and awful for a teenager to have to go through.”
“So why doesn’t she talk?”
Snippets of conversation are all I hear. I don’t feel anything. Again and again. Summer falls. Dropping. Terror.
Summer could make me laugh. Summer was all I trusted. I promised her I would speak for her.
“Come on, just one word. Pleeeease.”
I shake my head.
“I know you can talk”
I smile.
She smiles.
“You can’t be 7 without talking.”
I shake my head.
“On your birthday, you will speak.”
I shake my head.
“Do it for me. Please. On your birthday. It will be amazing. One word. Pleeease.”
I nod. I’ll try.
She smiles. I want more of that smile. I’ll do it for her. I’ll talk. I’ll say so many things. As long as I get to see Summer smile.
Tomorrow is my birthday. The doctors are still talking. Mum and Dad are not there. Ciara is not there. I am thinking about what Summer said and I am a crybaby again with tears dripping from my eyes. I hear them saying that a normal family wouldn’t be so deeply affected by this. They would be worried, of course. But they would go to work, stay hopeful. They would talk normally. I want to tell them about Mum. About her Sister. If they knew they wouldn’t be so mean. I want to tell them what Dad said about his Dad. He said he doesn’t drink beer like the other Dads do because of Grandpa. Grandpa I’ve never met. I bet they’re talking about that he doesn’t drink beer. Summer always asked him why he didn’t. I have to talk. I have to explain. Mouth opens. Mouth closes. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
The man in the white coat comes up to me. He opens his mouth. Words come out. Deep, slow voice. Thinks i’m stupid. He grabs my hand, still talking. The words blow over me. Mad was a person who went to school and came home and wanted to scream. Crybaby was the girl who had a handle in her eyes, one touch and the tears would fall out. Summer’s girl was happy and wanted so desperately to talk for her. But I am not Summer’s girl and I am not Crybaby and I am not Mad. My heart is skipping beats. The man in the white coat is taking me to find Mum and Dad. Mum and Dad who I will hug and they will kiss me. Dad’s strong hairy arms will wrap around me and keep me close. Mum’s soft red lips will brush the top of my head. Mum and Dad who don’t care about me. The man in the white coat is steering me through a door. In a disgusting grey walled lift. Bright blue floor. Pale yellow walls. Youth ward. Summer. Summer. They’re taking me to Summer.
They’re taking me to Summer. To see Summer. I have to talk to her I have to I have to. The words are tumbling around in my head. Ranting raging screaming shouting. Swirling through my blood. Turning it from blue to the pale blonde of Summer’s hair. Tingling my bones. Snapping my veins. Bursting from my heart. It hurts. The pain. Summer is there. Her eyes are shut. Her hair is lying around her. Ugly white hospital gown. Ghostly pale. Veins and arteries sticking out from her veins. Chest rising and falling.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The life support machine shows her heart is steady. The X-ray shows my heart is steady. My head isn’t. If she leaves I have no one. Mad will come out and take over. Cry baby will come out and invade. Summer’s girl will slowly wither away. I will be trapped. In the centre of my heart. Sinking away into nothing. It’s all too much. Mad and Cry baby will not take over. I will. I will. I can. I can for Summer. My heart beat is mounting, climbing. Mum and dad are talking, Ciara is talking. The man in the white coat and the nurses are tending to Summer. Something inside of me is climbing up my throat. Grasping at the flesh. Stinging and stinging. I have to keep my mouth shut. Shut. Shut. Scratching at my teeth. It’s screaming in my ears. My skin is burning up. I am burning alive. The fire. Something is hurting me. There is a monster. Help. I need help. Help. The swim teacher said to cry for help. My mouth opens.
“Summer” The words explode from my mouth with the force of a tornado.
“Summer. Summer. Summer” Suddenly I can’t stop. She has to hear. Mum and Dad are staring. I am screaming her name. My lungs exploding from the effort. My voice is ringing in my ears. Violet’s voice. Violet. Violet. I am Violet. I am Violet and Violet can talk.
“Summer.” The longest scream. The loudest shout.
I am paralysed. Summer’s eyes are open. Staring. Staring at me. Her mouth is moving.
“Violet.” Summer says.

And I explode.

 by: Heidi Foster

Thought I had lost her

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.  A mane of fiery red curls illuminated my otherwise dull face. I clutched the dressing table tightly, trying my hardest to keep the tears in and locked my gaze on my green eyes.  Like emeralds, my mom used to say.  Reminds me of your father, she’d add.  I searched for their spark, that light, that sheen. I looked away, too scared to admit that I may have lost them.

Light streamed in through the tiny windows forming irregular patterns on my dressing table, as it made its way through all the mess and clutter of my bedroom. It seemed silly. Dressing up and gathering together when you were about to say goodbye to someone forever, someone who couldn't even say it back to you. But, I didn't question the tradition when I slipped on the simple black dress that my Aunt Jenna had got me. I had never worn a dress before. I had never seen my sister wear a dress either but I had seen her wear many mini skirts. “My sister used to dress like me. We were quite the tomboy pair!” I remembered with a tiny chuckle that stopped almost as quickly as it started, recollecting how she was now. How much we had changed.

I pulled my curly red locks into a messy but elegant bun with a few loose strands falling on my face but not too much that it got into my eyes. Just the way my mum liked it. I looked into the mirror again. There was something missing. I picked up a glistening emerald and silver necklace from my dressing table. My mum had got it for me a year ago for my twelfth birthday. It was my first piece of jewellery. Mum always said the stones matched my eyes, which she loved. It was one of the only feature I shared with my sister. She looked the exact opposite of me otherwise.

I still remembered the day Mum gave it to me. Like it was yesterday.
“Hello!”
I remember hearing her cheerful voice suddenly.... I rubbed my eyes groggily and sat up and she swooped down to give me a hug whispering “Happy Birthday”.
 I squeezed her back, grinning happily into the hug as I remembered the date.
“Look, I have to leave for a meeting but I’ll be back by 12:00, and,” she paused. “I have got a surprise for you during lunch.” She smiled coyly.
She walked out of my room before I could realise that she had slipped a velvet box into my hands while hugging me.

I was stunned by the beauty of the item inside of it.

I snapped back to reality when I heard the closing of our gates; Our guests were starting to arrive.

I slowly made my way out of my room, down the stairs and through our front door into our gigantic backyard. When I walked into the open, I felt a spill of warmth on my shoulders. It was a sunny day with a gorgeous blue, cloudless sky. Birds chirping and leaves rustling in the autumn wind, it truly was a perfect day. Not one meant for a funeral. If my dad was here, I could just imagine him insisting on going to the park to play. I walked around without any destination noticing many people had arrived and yet, according to my watch, there were still 15 minutes until the ceremony officially started.

“Hi Ally darling,” I heard out of the blue. I spun around to see who it was. It was my neighbour Mrs. Johnson. She had a fake smile plastered on her face and there were tears of pity swimming in her already watery eyes. Before I could react to her greeting, she wrapped me in a bone crushing hug.

“It is so good to see you! How have you been coping my dear?” She rambled on.

If she actually felt bad, why didn’t she come over the week after the accident? She lived only a minute away! There was a moment of silence, I didn’t know what to say.

“Oh! How insensitive of me to ask. You must be feeling absolutely terrible. But it will be okay, won’t it. You have still got that lovely sister of yours. Athena, isn’t it? I promise you will be just fine”, She rushed, realising her mistake, then letting go of me. She carefully patted me on the shoulder making me feel like some fragile object that would break any second. She smelled strongly of too much floral perfume and the fumes were getting to me. I just smiled uncomfortably.


Out of the corner of my eye, I could just make out my sister greeting and welcoming people, just feeding off all the pity. It is like this whole thing didn’t affect her at all. I thought maybe this would bring us closer, that maybe she would just this once actually reach out to me but, if anything, she was just more distant and independent.

I noticed that our backyard was slowly starting to fill up with guests so thinking on my feet, I said, “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, may I lead you to your seats. The ceremony is about to start and I wouldn’t want the both of you to have to settle for bad seats because of me holding you up.” I put on the most angelic smile I could muster quickly leading them to their seats and hurried to mine so that I wouldn’t have to deal with any more annoying, fake pity.

“Are you okay?” I heard a quiet voice beside me once I was seated. It was my Aunt Jenna, one of the few people who understood what I was going through and actually cared. I had lost my parents, but she had lost her only sister and unlike my relationship with Athena, the 2 of them were always super close.

I didn’t bother putting on a fake smile or hiding anything so I just shrugged. She took her seat beside me and fortunately, didn’t question me any further.

I stared at the 2 caskets in front of me as the priest requested everybody to sit down and then quickly took his place at the podium.

“Welcome. Today, we are gathered here to celebrate the life of two amazing people who have recently met an unfortunate and untimely death. Now I won’t pretend that I knew Fred and Georgia Andrews very well but from the few short conversations that I had with them at church, I could already tell that their hearts were filled with goodness and love. Now, for a few words from their youngest daughter, Alexis.”

There was a quiet, polite ring of applause. I self consciously walked up to the podium. I started to get really nervous. My palms were clammy and my heart was racing.

“Hi everyone.” I started awkwardly. Gaining a bit more confidence after seeing the reassuring gesture aunt Jenna made, I continued. “Firstly, I would like to thank all of you for taking the time to come here today. It really means a lot. I won’t be saying much since I have never really been very good with my words and there are not enough words to describe how I feel at this moment but, one thing I would like to say is that I couldn’t have ever asked for a better family than mine, better parents than mine.” I corrected hastily, my eyes stopping on my sister for a split second. Her eyes were glued to me like she was trying to read or analyse me, but still expressionless. “As the priest said, I am proud of them because I know they were good people with kind hearts and they were the most loving and supportive parents ever. I still remember how every day when I came back from school, my mom took 10 minutes without fail to ask me how my day went and other school gossip which we loved laughing about together, and, on weekends, I remember how my dad used to come swimming with me and we used to have so much fun playing around in the pool and having water fights. And I promise, that no matter what, I will never stop trying to make you proud”, I said looking up now addressing my late parents directly. “I love you, I miss you!” I whispered the last sentence, a few tears escaping my eyes. I hurried back to my seat slightly embarrassed about how emotional I became. The priest took his place back at the podium .

“Thank you dear”, a bit teary eyed himself while he looked directly at me. “Would anyone else like to say anything?” He asked to the crowd in general.

I expected my sister to get up as there as few moments of silence passed. I assumed everyone thought the same thing as I did, but Athena failed to get up. Finally, my aunt Jenna got up and walked to the podium. I couldn’t focus on anything she said as I glared in rage at my sister. She hadn’t even bothered to say anything. Not even the littlest speech. It was like she didn’t even care!

After what seemed like forever, the ceremony ended and guests slowly started to get up and leave, first leaving flowers to show respect in front of both caskets and then saying quick goodbyes to me, my aunt and uncle and my sister. I was so driven by rage at my sister, but I managed to keep it in control saying goodbye to each of the guests and thanked them. A few lingered as some of our close family and friends were staying for lunch. I snapped out out of my thoughts as I saw my sister all of a sudden turn and walk purposefully in my direction.

“Nice speech you had there” her piercing green eyes staring into mine. This was the first time we had such direct eye contact since the night of the accident when we had woken up in the hospital and spent the whole night crying together after hearing the news about our parents. She had forgotten all about it the next day but I still remembered how her touch and comfort felt. Just like how we used to be, the closest of friends.

I thought about her comment, I was not sure whether it was a compliment, that she actually liked my speech, or an insult, because my speech was too short. After a moment of hesitation, I decided it was the latter.

“Well at least I made a speech!” I shouted exasperated, gaining the attention of everyone around us.

Her eyes narrowed and squinted as though she was confused by what I said which got me riled up. My eyes were flashing with the fire of rage unlike their usual calm selves. She didn’t make an attempt to respond so I continued.

“You didn’t even bother to say anything! You act like you don’t care, don’t care about anything. You think you are cool when you act like you have no feelings, but you are not. I thought maybe this accident would knock some sense into you, but nothing. You are supposed to be the older sister. You are supposed to take care of me.” My voice cracked as I banged on my chest for emphasis.

She just shifted uncomfortably in place, not looking at me directly.

“You are supposed to be there when I need you but you never are. And I know, I know you care, but you are just too afraid to show it. Do I mean nothing to you? What happened in 9th grade, huh? Your friends are more important than family now?” I asked rhetorically.

I could see the hurt in her eyes at my bluntness. Before she could defend herself, I continued my rampage.

“They think having a baby sister is lame. You know what, in a way they are right. You are lame. And not because of you have a sister. No, not because of me, but because of you.” I spit out spitefully.

“You try to go around acting like someone you are not. News flash. You do have a younger sister and your parents are dead.” I said but it hurt inside since this was the first time I said it aloud. We were in truth, orphans. The guests were even more shocked now.

 “You have pushed your sister away and you don’t have any true friends so that you now have no one. You have no one to confide in or go to when you feel down. No one who you can trust or is willing to trust you. You have destroyed all your relationships. You have no one,” I ended my screaming bout as I started to lose my voice. My sister looked like she had just been slapped in the face. Everyone was staring at the two of us, wide eyed.

I was shocked by my outburst that contradicted my usual calm self. All this while I had thought I was scared of her? Overwhelmed and scared by everyone’s gazes, I did the most cowardly thing I could.

I ran away.

I zipped across our huge backyard, through the front door, up the stairs and finally ran into my room and slammed the door, panting with tears once again streaming down my face. Damn my emotionalness.

I fell on my bed and just sat there sobbing like I had nothing better to do in my life. I don't know exactly how I looked at this point but I have a pretty good idea. An emotional, pathetic useless little ball of misery. I sobbed quietly into my knees.

I had been in my room for about 10 minutes when I heard the turn of my door knob. I was so emotionally tired that I really didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I didn’t getting up to lock the door before whoever could come in. I sat up expecting it to be Aunt Jenna, but I was surprised when I saw a pair of eyes identical to mine peer in.

“Can I come in?” She asked quietly. I was so shocked that at first I didn’t know how to respond. It would be the first time she had come into my room in 5 years. I don’t even think she knew how it looked!

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice her cautiously opening the door.

“I never said yes,” I said scathingly, but with no feeling behind it as I found the strength to glare at her but still not looking at her eyes.

“Yeah, but you know me and you know I wouldn’t have listened anyway”, she replied cockily with a smirk but I could see the worry and caution in her eyes as she approached me. I moved to hog the bed so that she wouldn’t sit down.

“Do I know you?” I questioned without thinking, wishing I could take that back but I continued anyway. I was done with holding it all in. I looked up from my bed, my expression unreadable as I asked again.

“Do I know anything about you at all? I don’t think I do. We have barely held a conversation longer than 2 minutes and everytime I try to figure out just a tiny bit about you, you close up and never let me in. You say this is the real you but you are the only one who believes that! Everyone expects me to know you and to knock sense back into you but how can I do that if you had none in the first place!” I ended my rageful rant standing up so I matched her level. My eyes pierced into hers like daggers challenging her to defend.

“I…. I” , she stammered. I watched her close her eyes and take a deep breath as her fists were clenched in nervousness. Although why she was nervous, I didn’t know. She took a deep breath and continued.

“I don’t know what got into me. I thought that if I just acted like I didn’t care, then, then just maybe, people would think that I didn’t feel pain, hurt, sadness or even happiness, and I didn’t want to feel them either. It was too much for me and I thought I could close myself from these emotions but it was to no avail. The truth is, when I started 9th grade, I was bullied. Bullied for being a nerd, being a tomboy and being ‘innocent’”, she rambled using her hand to gesture quotation marks. “I tried to act tougher and fit in, thinking they would stop, and they did, but I was no happier because I wasn’t myself.”, she paused, looking at me.

“Why didn’t you tell anybody, mum and dad would have helped you for sure. Or a teacher or even me!” I questioned sharply both concerned and annoyed.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone. I thought I could handle it on my own but I couldn’t! I put up this stupid act and I left you alone. I am sorry, I promise that I will try my hardest to mend whatever I destroyed between us. I love you Ally, even though I may not act like it I do. I am so sorry”, she said through sobs. I shuffled a bit as she collapsed on the bed in tears. I had never seen her so emotional. Even when we had been friends, she was always the strong one.

I was shocked by the new revelations. I was angry at her for being so stupid and not telling anyone, but on the other hand, I couldn’t exactly blame her for what she did. I had heard high school was bad, and being bullied for who you are is awful. My heart melted for her and even though I was the younger sister I felt protective.

I carefully went in for a hug. It was super awkward and, for a few moments she didn’t respond. I started to pull back but then she clutched me like her life depended on it. We stayed in this position for at least ten minutes and although there was an awkward tension in the air, it felt oddly comfortable, especially considering we hadn’t shared many hugs in the past.

A while later, we finally made our way back out. I noticed the relief flooding back into the people who had watched our fight. They must have assumed we had made peace, with the lack of noise, but everyone knew better than to approach us.

The priest broke the silence in as he said, “I request everyone to take a seat again as we read the ‘Last Will and Testament of Georgia Lucy Andrews and Fred James Andrews”.

They had written a will? It sounded like they knew they were going to die!?
“It was an accident”, I chided myself quietly

I took my seat once again but this time, when I turned to my right, I saw not my Aunt but my sister’s blank face.,As I took a second look, I could see her biting her full lips nervously and clutching the arms of her chair tight.

The priest began, he went on to say a bunch of things I didn’t understand such as this share and that investment etc… And several names I couldn’t place.

“Finally, again to our lovely daughters, Athena Marie Andrews and Alexis Rose Andrews, we also leave a letter of guidance which we hope they read and listen closely to. And that is all” The priest concluded. He held up the envelope with the ‘letter of guidance’ curiously and beckoned to the 2 of us. We looked at each other as we slowly rose and walked to receive the letter. I tiptoed as I reached for the letter.

I gripped it tightly as if my life depended on it and turned to face Athena. I then looked at my Aunt and nodded my head towards the house, and she nodded back in understanding.

No communication needed, we raced up the stairs eager to hear what our parents wanted to say to us.

Dear Ally and Athy,

If you are reading this, it means we are dead. We are so sorry honey, we really are. We wish we could be there with you both, that we could tell you that it is all going to be okay, but we can’t. We want to remind you that just because we are dead it doesn’t mean we are truly gone. We will always be with you in your heart. Remember us whenever you feel low, it will be just like we are with you.

Before we say goodbye, we wanted to give you our last piece of advice. This world is huge and dangerous, it will hit you hard, but unlike a lot of people you girls have a weapon. Your biggest asset while facing this world is each other! Remember this and even in the times when it seems like there is no escape, you can find your way out with help. You will always be there to support each other and love each other. I was lucky like you both, but your father was not. He had to face the world alone but you two, you don’t have to do that. You only have each other left but also you will have always have each other. Remember this and find strength in each other because, even though it seems like having a sibling is a nuisance now, you will see how it is a gift when you are older.

We can’t express how proud we are of you! Watching you grow into two beautiful young women has been the best journey of our life. You both have been the sparkling gems among the thousands of rocks we have had to walk on in life. At such a young age, you have already accomplished so much and, after our death, probably gone through so much. We love you no matter what and wish you the best of luck, hoping that you take our advice to heart..

Love,
Mum and Dad.

I took a few moments to take in all of the information in. It seemed unrealistic, it hadn’t hit me that I had no real family except Athy left. She was all I had and that scared me, before I realised that I was all she had too, and that there was no way she would leave me again. At least, I hoped not. I ever so slightly lifted my head so that my eyes met hers. I stared into the eyes that were a reflection of my own and clutched the ornament hanging from my neck that shared the same colour, I knew that even though our future was uncertain, I had someone, which was more than most people had.

I thought I had lost her but maybe I didn’t. Maybe I still had someone to love.

by: Khushi Raju

Could that be enough?

I am a Picasso painting. Different and a little strange. The world thinks a Picasso Painting is beautiful, but for some reason, I’m not. The mantra I’ve had since we learnt about Picasso in 6th grade art replays through my head as I shuffle in the plastic seat on the edge of the field. It’s still hard to believe I’m here.

  

When Adam brought home the sign up sheet, my parents were ecstatic. Naturally, I seized the opportunity and brought home one of my own. Got the signature, picked up a uniform and here I am. One step closer to being more like my brother.

  

The electrical scoreboard changes to say “TRACK AND FIELD RUN”. Adam taps my shoulder and I stuffed the pen I was doodling w6ith into my shorts pocket and walked with him toward the track. 

“Excited Zo?” Adam asks.

“A bit nervous,” I admit. “You?”

I take one last look at my parents standing on the bleachers, their necks craned above the other parents to get a good look at the tracks. I know they’re really here to watch Adam but once in awhile their gazes flicker to me. If this is how Adam feels every day, I’d love to be him. Through the gaps in the wide steps, I see a colourful banner rippling in the wind. The art exhibition banner is perfectly in my field of view. reminding me of the missed chance to showcase the painting I was so proud of, and for what? To be more like my perfect twin brother. 

“RUNNERS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!” 

I try to mirror the awkward position Adam is hunched over in. Butterflies began to grow restless in the pit of my stomach. 

“Ready...”

I study the track laid out ahead of me.

“Set…”

I look over at Adam who is muttering silent words. Planning his course or singing a Christmas song. You never know with that kid. 

“Go!”

   

I run as soon as the flags go down, but I’m already falling behind. Adam sprints past me and runs toward the first hurdle. He stretches his legs and leaps over it, while I pause and take a slow, clumsy step over it. He gracefully slides beneath the second hurdle, but I crawl on all fours. Seeing him do this race almost effortlessly makes my chest feel heavy, but I try to swallow it down and keep my eyes on the finish. The final obstacle, a skipping rope, lies in a knot at the end of the track. It’s emerald green. The colour of my favourite shirt and the base for so many of paintings, especially watercolours. Stupidly, I` think it’s the universe trying to send me a message. But all that tells me is that I’ve been watching too many episodes of Once Upon A Time. The rest of the ropes are the same colour... and the rest of the ropes are already in the air. Over, under, over, under and they’re all down again. 

Blood rushes through my cheeks as I fumble with the tangles in the rope. Cheers ripple across the crowds, telling me that at least one runner has made past the finish line. Cheer after cheer, clap after clap until I am left standing alone in the middle of the lanes. I really feel like a Picasso painting now. Hanging in a museum with thousands of pairs of eyes boring into me. My legs feel like jelly, but I jog off the track with my head down. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see sad smiles and a few chuckles aimed at me as I continue to the bleachers. My parents nor Adam are there to confront me. Instead, they’re standing in all their pride and glory at the podium, oblivious to me, their daughter dying of humiliation in the bleachers. 

     

My feet scrape against the shiny silver metal and I feel warm tears sting my eyes. I shouldn't be here and I know it. I was never expecting to win but I should have known that I couldn't do it. I tried my best to be the best person I could be, and from what I knew, that was the female version of Adam. Adam got good grades; I studied all night for each of my tests. Adam was popular in school and amongst adults; I made a special effort to look nice at every event my family and I went to. Adam was good at sports; I signed up for this stupid sports event. People even said Adam had a nice face; I looked like a lizard and we were supposed to be twins!  And now I had humiliated myself in front of so many people and they couldn’t care less. I try again to look for my parents and I feel even more regret when I see them staring at me from next to the podium. Fake smiles and laser eyes. 

After what seems like forever, Adam, his friend and a girl whose name I think is Jenna step onto the podium. My parent’s chests are puffed out with pride when they embrace him, making their way to the bleachers practically skipping. His gold medal gleams against his chest.

“Hey, Zo. How’d it go?” Adam asks, taking advantage of the rhyme.

“Just fine,” I reply, hoping the brains he uses to get straight A’s to understand my sarcastic tone. 

Using one ear, I hear the conversation my parents are having with some other mums and dad’s come to an end.

“Zoya.” My father’s deep voice sends a shiver down my spine. 

He looks more humiliated then I do, it breaks my heart. Not because I disappointed him, though, but because even changing who I am wasn’t enough for him. For anybody, really.

“How come you didn’t finish the race?”

“Sorry.” I simply mumble in reply.

I look up just to see my mother gracefully climb up toward us. Her heels clang against the metal, creating an eerie sound worthy of the moment. 

She says, “You didn’t have to win Zoya, just try.”

Read: Finish the race and win. Possibly come second to let your brother get gold. I 

look back down at my toes.

“Zoya.” My mother's repeated more sternly.

I feel my anger and humiliation rise up in me.

“I said I’m sorry,” I say through clenched teeth, but my anger doesn’t compute. “You wanted to me to try right? I did, I tried. But I failed and now you’re mad at me?”

“Zo, they aren’t mad. No one is.” Adam steps in.

I want to give him a tight slap right now. Maybe I will after I’m done with my parents.

“He’s right, Zoya. And besides, we never asked you to sign up.” My father says.

“You. You didn’t ask me to sign up? You seriously believe that.” I laugh sadly. “You just want me to be like Adam. So smart, so polite, so popular, so athletic. I tried to be like Adam, but just because we’re twins does NOT MEAN WE ARE THE SAME PERSON!”

My mother looks taken aback and my father mirrors her expression. Adam nervously fiddles with his thermos cap. 

I turn away from them and bend down to get a sip of water. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the art banner being taken off the school entrance. If my memory serves me correct, the exhibition is over and the art department must be cleaning up now... I turn around to face my parents again, and they are staring at me, fuming. Without a word of explanation, I trudge down the bleachers. 

 “Zoya! Where do you think you’re going?” My mother calls in a shrill voice.

“Leaving you to celebrate with your perfect son!”

I make my way through the maze of people, lunchboxes and sports bags. The other spectators are too busy watching the next event to notice. The fence isn't that far way from our spot and all it takes is a smile at the volunteer to get out of the field. The walk towards the school building is slow. I take my time to enjoy the mostly silent atmosphere and also to make sure that the building is fully empty. Like I expected, I hear no footsteps approaching from behind me. 

As I walked into the first hallway filled with artwork, the overwhelming smell of oil and acrylic paint wafted up my nose. It wasn’t the most pleasant of smells, but better than the stench of teenage body odour that normally filled the school walls. I recognise some of the art hanging in elaborate frames. Jack’s abstract collage, Anya’s peacock watercolour. I also happen to recognise the lady standing at the end of the hallway pulling frames off the wall. My art teacher Mrs Tampa. Instinctively, I shove myself against a wall, as quiet as possible. 

“Tale as old as time. True as it can be…” She sang to herself as she worked. 

Mrs Tampa was the human version of a Disney princess. Kind and happy, and always singing some classic Disney song. She had rich chocolate skin and hazel eyes that resembled a paint palette. The edge of a gold frame digs into my neck, but I try not to make a sound until she walks into one of the empty classrooms. But Mrs Tampa still has 20 paintings left to take down, some of which are right next to me. 

“Zoya?” she said, eyes widened in surprise.

“Um…yeah?” I reply awkwardly, stepping away from the wall.

“How come you weren’t at the exhibition today?” She says, cutting right to the chase.

I notice a small hint of disappointment in her voice and I try to cover my sports uniform and wipe the sweat from my hairline- but it was obvious where I’d been.

“Sorry, Mrs Tampa. I’m just here to collect my painting.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying something awkward. 

She puts her palm up and unhooks a painting from behind her. “The Troubled Heart”. 

Somebody put a simple wooden frame around the canvas. In the dim light of the hallway, you can barely tell the blues, greys, blacks and that one spot of red. Mrs Tampa hands the painting over to me, a small smile dancing on her lips. 

“How come you were at the sports event?” She asks, knowing me well enough to know that I don’t do sports. 

“My brother was going, so I guess I, um, kinda decided to tag along, I guess…” I reply hesitantly. 

“Well, I’m sorry you missed the exhibition. Did you win anything?” she asks.

“No. But my brother-”

“Zoya.” she interrupts. “You’re art was beautiful. So many people complimented it, it was one of the stars.”

“Thank you, but-”

“Zoya.” She interrupts again. “Adam’s piece didn’t even make it to the exhibition.”

Mrs Tampa is one of my favourite teachers. She understands my love of art and always helped me nurture it. She didn’t care what I averaged in Math or Science, she cared about what I loved to do. But she didn’t know that what I loved to do wasn’t enough. What she didn’t know was that art was just art.

“You are a very talented young lady. Your brother is talented too. You’re just, different.” 

I look up at Mrs Tampa, frowning. Talented, I think. Humph. 

“Think about that.” She says before knotting up her burgundy scarf. “Also. Reflection is due on Tuesday!” She adds as she walks into a classroom filled with art. 

The wood of the frame grows cold in my hands as I turn around and exit the hallway. I can hear cheers and shouts in the field, fists rising above the green wire fence. 

I don’t want to walk back, so I try again to walk as slowly as possible. Mrs Tampa was right when she said Adam wasn’t selected, but it didn’t matter when you saw how many things he was picked for. I was regretting going in now to collect my art, dreading the look on my parent's face. I hold the canvas out in front of me. Studying the grey background, blue waves and red lily floating on the sea. The volunteer who let me out earlier is now standing at the gate as a few families dribble out of the stadium. They laugh and smile, most of them cradling medals in their palms. Among them are my parents. I pause in my tracks, which is hard considering the almost unbearable smell of sweat floating around me. My mother’s perfectly manicured nails are wrapped around the strap of my duffel. She turns head to the left and the right, probably looking for me, but she misses me by an inch. 

“Hey Zo.” 

I spin around to see a grinning Adam looking straight at me. My gaze flickers once more to the gleaming gold circle bouncing on his chest.

“We’ve been looking for you. Where you been?”

The canvas and frame in my hand, tagged with the exhibition logo answer his question for me.

“You’re art got into the exhibition!” he exclaims, sounding like a proud father. 

“Course’ my art got in, doofus.” I replied snarkily, but what I really want to say is “I know right! I can't believe people actually thought it was good!”

He frowns at me for a second, then opens his mouth to call for my parents. ”Mom! I found Zoya!” 

I quickly slap my hand over his mouth, my eyes widened in fear. He says something, but it's too muffled to make out. 

“Adam, wait. I’m sorry.” I say shyly as I remove my hand from his face.

“For what?”

“For humiliating you. And myself. And Mom and Dad. I just wanted to be more like you.” The words pour out of my lips like water. 

“What? Why would you want to be more like me?”

I make a face at him that says ‘seriously dude’, but before I can say more my mom rushes towards the two of us with my dad in tow. 

“Zoya! Where have you been?” they both say, exasperated.

I don’t reply. My mother's gaze flicks towards the back of the wooden frame and her eyebrows rise a few centimetres.

“I went to get my art.”

“Art?” my father asks.

“ Zoya’s art got hand picked for the art exhibition at school!” Adam jumps in.

Out of the corner of my eyes I flash him a glare. But still, I look towards my parents, hoping they congratulate me or make some kind of compliment. No matter how small. That would make my day, possibly even my year. Of course, they say nothing.

“Let’s just go home.” I murmur.

The parking lot is crammed with people. As I wait for a couple of cars to pass, I tilt the canvas back and study my painting. If you squint hard enough, you can see the layers of charcoal and paint. I worked for months on the same painting, aiming to achieve perfection. But this time it wasn't for Adam, my parents or my confidence. It was because I loved to do it.

“It really is a good painting Zo. I wish I could do that.” Adam says.

I smile over my shoulder at him. I shouldn't hate him. I know I shouldn’t. He is not the one who’s been making me compare myself to him for all these years, but he’s the reason for it. 

“I spent days doing this Adam. But they only see the medals you win.”

They only see gold if it’s a hung on a piece of fabric. Once more, I tilt the canvas away from my body. I really am proud of his painting and it almost takes away all the anger and humiliation I feel. 

“You’re art was beautiful. So many people complimented it, it was one of the stars.” was what Mrs Tampa has said to me and suddenly, I know why the athletes that stand on the podium are always wearing big smiles. 

The feeling of joy and realisation must have shown on my lips as Adam smiles and lifts his medal off his head. My head spins towards him as he reaches out and hangs the green and blue ribbon with the gold disc on the corner of the frame.

“It really is a good painting Zo. Also, I call shotgun!” he calls as he crosses the parking lot and jumping into the front seat. 

I am a Picasso painting. Different and a little strange. The world thinks a Picasso Painting is beautiful. But I’m beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I could be too. 

by: Raniyah Basheer