Short Story Competition 2021

Forget Me Knot by Madeline DeLeon

“This is a story of dying.”

I crunch my nose. I crunch my brows even more. Pouting my lips, I loosened my hold on my blue and yellow company-issued pen. Riverview Assisted Care: The Next Best Place to Home.

“Ethel, that’s just plain morbid!” I protest, lifting my head up to her as she lay in bed, frail and stick-thin, but with eyes still glittering of so much wisdom and mischief.

“Oh, do shut up and write!” Ethel waves a trembling hand to dismiss me, her delicate wrist with a red ribbon tied around.

I shrug, focusing once again on company-issued notepad as I scribbled the introductory line my ninety-two-year-old client wanted me to write. I am supposed to be on a twenty-minute tea break, after being on my feet for six hours, with all the assisted showers, medication rounds, falls reports and doctor referrals. But I am here, writing Ethel’s thoughts because she could not hold a pen anymore. They were thoughts she wanted her son to read, thoughts she wanted to share before she was gone, thoughts she wanted to be never forgotten. She told me once that she was afraid. Death is a cliché, Ethel will say to everyone. It was leaving without a trace that petrified her.

“... of dying,” I repeat, murmuring loudly for her to hear, while putting a dramatic full-stop at the end of the sentence.

“This is a story about my friend, Dottie,” Ethel dictates, her voice never faltering.

Ah. Ethel’s beloved former roommate, Dottie. Dottie passed away in a hospital three weeks ago. Dottie was eighty-eight years old. She died in the Intensive Care Unit, attached to a ventilator that breathed for her; a dialysis machine that cleaned her blood for her; a feeding tube up her nose lodged to her stomach that fed her; a multitude of venous accesses that kept her blood pressure stable and her diabetes in control. She had all the company of eight machines, four faded-white walls and a cold bed.

Dottie died alone.

“Ethel, are you su ...”

Ethel cuts me off, obstinate as ever. She dictates in a loud booming voice, one that’s hard to believe that comes from such a petite elderly lady, “Dottie and I used to tie knots on each other’s wrists. You see, Dottie’s memories started fading - from forgetting where her glasses were - everyone forgets where they put their glasses, you know - to forgetting that she was not on the toilet. Then she will have moments where she was very frightened by not remembering anything at all. It was as if she was losing herself.”

Ethel sighed. It was soft and reminiscent. Her shoulders slump, her pale lips downcast and her eyes wandering the bare, creamy popcorn walls of her room, as if waiting for it to speak testaments of the rhythms of time that went by.

The nursing home residents have a rhythm of their own. Time here is tracked from a two-hour visit from a loved one for sharing meals to an announcement of the birth of another grandchild. Time here is ephemeral filled with transitions from soft food to pureed ones; textures and thickness to match their susceptibility to aspiration. Time here is reversed, measured by changes from underwear to pull-ups then to diapers. It is a dreaded adaptation. The lack of urinary control is equals the loss of independence.

“At night, sometimes, Dottie will scream. She would wake up and she’s unfamiliar with where she was or what time it was. Most of all, she was unfamiliar of … me.”

The hurt from Ethel’s voice is palpable. I take a breath, the smell of Deep Heat invading my senses, crashing through my heart. Ethel has been mourning long before Dottie passed away. It came in as a sad song, soft and low, a lonely lullaby that slowed to an end, down to the last note. Dottie has not only been her roommate, or friend.

Dottie has been Ethel’s family and Ethel has been Dottie’s – when their own families have had families, crammed up for time for soccer practice, birthday parties and never-ending work ambitions. Here in the nursing home, the residents make a world of their own. Dottie and Ethel went to bingo and checkers together. They sang off-key and laugh-snorted during Frank Sinatra sing-alongs. They would attend Christmas cookie decoration classes together and ate their fill before they even decorated.

But they were together too, in those moments of gloom. I recall that time when Ethel cried, when her daughter informed her of a third miscarriage. They basked in the sunlight of the nursing home’s vast garden, under the shade of a tree. Ethel and Dottie sat on their wheelie walkers, facing each other, and holding hands tightly. Dottie handed her friend tissues and Ethel blew her nose, wiped her tears, and tucked the used tissues promptly inside the sleeves of her cardigan.

“So, when she was a state that she remembered everything, we decided that we’ll tie a red ribbon or even just a red yarn on each other’s wrists. We thought that it was a constant, a little something for us that would remind ourselves of each other, of a certain reality.” Ethel reminisced, lifting her hand and turning her trembling wrists slowly as she appreciated the bright crimson ribbon.

I watch Ethel. She sits in the bed by the window. In the bright spring sunlight, her hair is snowy. Her head is in constant motion as if disagreeing with sentiments no-one else can hear or even perhaps the ruminations of her thinking, pondering over a lifetime that draws to a close – especially a close friend she has considered family, has drawn close already. On her dresser stands many photographs – a black and white wedding portrait, an old Christmas photo of her when her children were still young, a picture of her holding her first miracle grandchild, and a photo of her and Dottie when they first met and became roommates. My eyes flick between that photo, Ethel, and that empty bed next to her. Somehow, I understand why people call time a thief. It steals so much, just slowly, barely noticeable, until the last grain falls from that hourglass.

My thoughts are interrupted by a light, joyous chuckle. Ethel was smiling, staring far off, seeming to recall a funny event.

“Do you remember that night when you couldn’t find me?” Ethel asked although I know she knows that I will never forget that incident.

“Yes, Ethel. I remember!” I answer with a mock huff. I suppose we are just chatting now. I put down the pen and paper and leaned towards Ethel.

“The look on your faces!” Ethel chortled. She puts her hand in her mouth in such a demure and modest manner.

He laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite her elder years. It came to my ears as a tickle and bounce. It does not take a long time for me to join in such generous mirth.

Ethel tells me the story, as she wiped tears from the sides of her eyes. She did not have to tell me, but I let her.

I know what transpired.

It was a cold winter’s night. The residents had a Christmas-in-July-themed party in the hall where they

decorated Christmas trees, opened presents, sang Christmas carols, and had a nice sticky date pudding for dessert. After the festivities, the nurses have returned the residents back to their rooms. On midnight rounds, we peek into each room to make sure the residents were safe and still in their beds. As we made our way from room to room, we saw the residents were sleeping peacefully, tired from the excitement of the party.

When we got to Ethel and Dottie’s room, we find Dottie in bed, but Ethel was nowhere to be found. My heart dropped to my stomach. Ethel’s bed was nearest to the door while Dottie’s bed was on the far side of the room.

I asked Dottie where Ethel was, but Dottie simply shrugged. I figured I would not get much information from Dottie. She has not been lucid for a while, even during the Christmas party. I ran to the bathroom while the other nurse ran outside to see if Ethel decided to have a stroll with her wheelie-walker. Finding the bathroom empty, I started to run towards the door to alert our shift coordinator. That was when I noticed a pile of blankets all over the floor, between the two beds. I saw the mountain of blankets move and I shrieked in surprise.

There was Ethel, on the floor, between two beds, all tangled up in a heavy doona and colourful crocheted throws. I rushed to Ethel as I call out for my co-worker.

“What were you doing, Ethel?!” I reprimanded her like I was her mother.

My co-worker and I managed to get Ethel up from the floor and assisted her back to bed. We tried examining her to make sure she had no injuries, however, Ethel kept swatting our hands and trying to get up.

“Ethel, stay still!”

“Cover her up! She is cold!” Ethel said as she shoved the blankets to my arms.

“What do you mean?” the other nurse asked.

“Dottie said is cold! Oh, for goodness’s sake! Will you please just cover her?!” Ethel was very insistent.

My co-worker and I looked at each other astounded. Here was this elderly lady who has Parkinson’s, who could not walk without a mobility aid, who had to get help with every daily living task including going for a shower and toileting. But as soon as her roommate said she was cold, Ethel was figured out by any means to come to her friend’s aid. The only thing that registered in Ethel’s brain was that she needed to help. After all, time and time again, Ethel said Dottie was not just a friend. She was family.

“It’s very lucky you didn’t fracture anything, Ethel,” I say.

“Oh, I was fine,” Ethel shrugs. It could easily have not been fine. Plenty of our elderly patients with fractured neck of femurs who go to hospital for surgery never come back the same. Sometimes, they never come back at all.

My phone alarm blares intrusively into our conversation. I look at the time. It was time to go back to work. Ethel seems to understand. She nods quietly.

I stand and approach Ethel. She smiles at me with those weary eyes that hold so much wisdom. Her wrinkles extend and multiply from the corners of her mouth up to her eyes. I squeeze her soft, quivering hands, noticing that the red ribbon on her wrist has come lose. I re-do the knot and pulled on the ribbon slightly tighter, so it does not come undone.

“I was wrong,” Ethel whispers.

“Oh?” Her excited whisper jars from my thoughts of another rinse-repeat afternoon of the minutiae of my

residents’ care plans on specific transfer methods, toileting needs every two hours and less, diet requirements for meals, and shower assists.

“This isn’t a story about dying,” Ethel beams.

“It isn’t?”

“This is a story about friendship and family!”

I match her bright smile and say, “Glad to hear, Ethel.”

“And Carrie?”

“Yes?”

Ethel grins, much as a spring flower opens. It comes from deep inside to light and spread into every part of her.

Ethel says softly but surely, “You are family, too.”

And just like that, I know that what I do is never just rinse-repeat. It is part of a story, one that cannot be forgotten.

The Un-Funny Moment Club by Katisha Lindee

You know how sometimes a thing is funny just because your brain is too tired to understand that whatever you are laughing about is actually not funny at all? Pretty quickly, the un-funny thing gets funnier because of how unfunny it actually is. Then it becomes a gut-wrenching, bellylaughing, roll-around-on-the-floor type of downward spiral and only the people who were there, actually understand.

In the aftermath, you might try to explain to an outsider but through the spluttering and giggling you can’t even get the words out because you are still laughing so hard about the un-funny thing. When you finally manage to tell the story, they look at you like you came from a different planet. If they are polite, they might chuckle a little bit to make you feel better and if they aren’t … well, they just give you a blank stare. Very quickly it becomes time to talk about something else.

It’s like a secret club; the initiation ceremony was the un-funny moment and if you weren’t there, you are forever excluded.

I think that maybe life is the same; sometimes you have to be “part of the club” to truly understand. The best bit is that when you find yourself in a sticky situation, those people become like family.

When I arrive at basic training, I am herded off the bus and yelled at because I am carrying my suitcase wrong.

“In your left hand! Left hand recruit! Don’t you know your left from your right? Switch your brain on, recruit, you’re in the army now!”

I swear that I used to know my left from my right, I’m a capable adult after all. But in the heat of this moment, I’m suddenly ambidextrous and completely uncoordinated at the same time. I don’t have time to wonder why it’s so important to carry my suitcase in my left hand, I’m just trying to keep my head above the figurative waters.

We are sent to get our PT (physical training) gear from a room that is full of boxes. Someone in front of me has accidentally grabbed an entire bag of socks and is juggling them alongside his t-shirts.

“I said two pairs of socks recruit,” my Corporal yells as his eagle-eyes catch the mistake, “not the whole packet.

What do you think you’re doing stealing the Queen’s socks!”

We are hurried to the bathrooms and most people ended up with clothing in the wrong sizes. As if we don’t look odd enough already (I mean seriously, who wears bike pants and athletic shorts at the same time) half the platoon is swimming in pants so large they look like old parachutes and the other half are bursting at the seams. It’s not a good look and while we might be too scared to laugh, it’s still funny!

And just like that, there’s a club. Just like that, we have all been initiated by an experience that no one back home is going to truly understand. Just like that, we have become a family.

The next few days are crazy. Everything is unfamiliar. Nothing makes sense. Why can’t I walk on the gravel?

Who cares which side of my towel pokes towards the front when I go to the bathroom? Why are leftover snacks from the plane trip considered contraband? And when am I supposed to find a quiet minute to pee?

The experience becomes all consuming and I feel completely separated from the life I’m used to. It’s almost like been permanently changed and at night I lie in my sleeping bag, repeating the mantra; “It won’t last forever. It won’t last forever. It won’t last forever.”

Funnily enough, I’m not feeling this way because my experience has been negative. I’m actually adapting to a military lifestyle surprisingly well. I get yelled at all the time, but everyone’s getting yelled at and my enthusiasm - albeit vastly uneducated enthusiasm - is starting to score me major brownie points with my staff.

As we move onto weapons, I learn quickly and find that the safety drills come to me quite naturally. Stripping and reassembling my rifle gives me a real kick - it’s like a big jigsaw puzzle or an adult K’NEX project. I’m a kinaesthetic learner, so pulling things apart and figuring out how they work is just cementing the new knowledge more firmly into my brain. Plus, I feel like a legitimate badass when my hands are covered in oil and old carbon and there is a partially disassembled rifle lying in front of me.

It’s tough, but I’m actually loving it.

My little basic training family are making things easier too. It only takes a matter of hours for us to learn that if we don’t have each other’s backs, we are all going down. I fix someone’s crooked collar while they straighten my name badge and together we get through parade without a major reprimand for being improperly dressed. I’d be in so much more trouble if it wasn’t for these people.

Week one ends on a high for me. I’m nailing this thing. Nothing is going to stop me.

Monday morning is fitness assessment day. I’ve passed the assessment multiple times before but physical fitness has never been my strongest area. I can do sit-ups or squats for days but pushups are my personal demon. I’m tall, skinny and have always lacked upper body strength which makes it very difficult for me to maintain correct form.

My worst fear in coming to basic training was that I would fail my fitness assessment and be shipped right back home again. I’m absolutely determined this isn’t going to happen. Not today.

The pushups are always first. Typical. All around me, people are cracking out thirty, forty, even fifty pushups in

the two-minute time slot. All I am required to manage is eight. Eight pushups. I can do that. Of course I can. I go all the way down and press back up again.

“Don’t count that one, lane five, not maintaining a straight body,” I hear one of the Physical Training Instructors (PTIs) say.

I’m in lane five.

Oh well, that’s ok. The next one will be better. I lower and press back up again. “Lane five,” the PTI is watching me more closely now, “don’t count that one, not maintaining a straight body.”

I keep lowering and pushing back up again, doing my absolute best to keep my body straight and my hips and shoulders in line. But each time, my best effort is rejected. I keep pushing but I know that I’ve failed. If I couldn’t do it when I was fresh, I can’t do it now that I’m starting to get tired. Finally I stand up and my score is recorded as zero.

Zero. The word rattles around in my head like a single marble in an empty glass jar. There’s no room for anything else and I bomb out on other aspects of my my test too. I’m shattered.

“It was a bad day”, I convince myself. “They won’t send me home just because of a handful of imperfect pushups.”

Several days later, I’m given the chance to re-test and every fibre of my being is determined to pass. My run improves dramatically but my pushup score is still exactly zero. It turns out that gaining upper body strength is not something that happens in three days, regardless of how much you want it. My staff are super encouraging, they tell me they want to keep me but the final decision lies with the “big-wigs” and the painful reality is that I still didn’t pass.

That evening, my Corporal tells me that I’m being sent home.

In that moment - when my worst fear comes true and my high-achieving nature is being crushed beneath the reality of failure - I need my family. I need people who will understand.

Our phones were taken away from us on day one, so I can’t call my “real” family back home. Right now, I’m not actually sure if I want too. My family are my favourite people on planet earth. Honestly, I tell them anything, trust them with everything and love them with my whole heart. But they aren’t part of this club. No matter what I tell them, they will never quite understand what it feels like to be at basic training. And that’s ok, because right now, they are not the family I need. Just like - sometimes - I’m not the family they need.

My parents have a family who understand what it’s like being trapped overseas during a global pandemic. My brother has a family who lived and worked alongside him on a floating hospital ship in Papua New Guinea and my sister-in-law has a family who knows the struggles and joys of being married. I don’t know these things. I don’t understand these things because I’ve never been part of that “club”. We share so much. But we can’t share everything, that’s not how the world works.

It’s not because any of us did anything wrong. In fact, I think it’s because so many people have done something right! It took me a week to learn what my room-mates’ first names were but from day one, we were there for each other.

So as I’m grieving for my postponed army dreams, I am also celebrating the rightness of being surrounded by a new family who understands me in this moment. These people have had my back when things were going well, but - more importantly - they still have my back when my dreams are crumbling.

To me, that’s what family is all about.

And I don’t just have one family now. I have many.

20 Years Have Passed by Eleanor Barker

Mother,

20 years have passed. Our Earth is dying…

The ocean teases us with her playful waves. The sky deceives us with her blue smiles. The wind humiliates us with her freedom. We are running out of oxygen, suffocating, drowning, and desperately gasping air as we sink further below the surface. I stand here alone on our island, our home, and our ancestry. Our Earth is screaming at us – crying - we have failed her. We were blind to her pain and deaf to her silent screams. Now we must pay the heavy price.

I was 3 years old.

I remember the soft sand beneath my innocent newborn feet as I trotted across our island - our home. I remember the fresh air as it played with my delicate hair, swirling it around in endless games. I remember the trees that gave us our playground, challenging us with a never-ending maze of branches and fun. I remember your stories. I remember you telling me - with your sweet voice - how each grain holds a story, a memory of the past. You said that those who pass on to the next life leave behind a grain; one grain that holds everything. Our stories lay beneath our feet, washing away into the bottomless oceans where they lay dormant for generations - never being retold. I remember you telling me how my future lay past the horizon, unseen but always there - watching as I grew.

I was 7 years old.

Your hand was my only source of warmth as we walked around our favourite lagoon. I held on so tight as if you were a lighthouse and I was a forgotten ship, travelling the endless oceans in search of land and your guiding light. I thought if I let go, I may sink into the ocean and be swept away from you forever into the infinite sands below the surface. You told me we were safe. You told me nothing could hurt us. You told me you loved me. You held me as if you were gasping for air, and I was your only source of oxygen. You never let me go. You sheltered me from the truth of our world. The truth of humanity. I was naïve, inexperienced, young.

I was 10 years old when humanity raged.

Our hands reached - reaching for a life raft in a storming ocean in the only hope to save us. Our fists raised up - raised above our heads. We protested. We fought. We marched down endless streets. Day and night we rose banners; each unfolded with facts and warnings of the dangers that were inevitable. We listened to the scientists - our climate was changing, and we had evidence. The icebergs were melting by the years. The oceans were rising by the months. The trees were dying by the days. And we were ignored. Thousands upon thousands of us rallied together to spit our facts into the smug faces of deaf politicians, and corrupt governments. Our megaphones boomed. We screamed. We shouted. We used every last breath we had in the fight for our Earth – our home. But they smothered their polluted hands over our open mouths and forced us into silence. They silenced us, Mother. We are background noise, washed away in the sea of ruin. A sea controlled by politics and governments who abused our ancient Earth’s resources. Their morals are broken. Their hearts are shattered. And now our Earth is destroyed.

I was 15 years old when you took your last breaths.

You warned them and they acted as if you were irrelevant. You were right and they did not listen. Now we must pay. Pay with our home. Pay with our culture. Pay with our future. The oceans have become a raging torrent, a hurricane, a flood, earthing destruction and death in its wake. It is too late now. Our lagoon gnaws at our shorelines, chewing the roots of our breadfruit trees and swallowing our seawalls while crunching down upon our islands shattered bones. The climate is changing. Our Earth is changing. Our home is changing. Our island is sinking below the surface and our buildings crumbling to the ground. She is devouring all trace of us, of our existence. She gave us a chance to thrive, and we destroyed it; we have destroyed her. She is burning out like a fire with no heat, no fuel, and no oxygen. You warned them with your dying breaths, and they did not listen.

Mother, I am 20 years old, and I have news.

I am not sure what to do - I write to you for guidance. Please mother, save us. Save me. Save the generations to come. I found a light within my heart – she has your sandy eyes. I was stupid, mother. I became paralysed by my love for my little shining light – it blinded me from our Earth’s pain and deafened me from her silent screams. Mother, I did not realise what I had done until it was too late. I felt as if I was drowning – inches below the surface – the moment I brought another innocent life into this dying world. I could not breathe. I could not move. I could not speak. I feel empty now. Her little shining light will succumb to the darkness our generations have created.

Mother, please help me. I beg you. I am weak. My grain will soon wash away into the ocean and lay side by side with yours. We will watch helplessly as my little baby becomes rootless with only a passport to call home.

We were drowning. We have lost our homelands. Now we are climate refugees.

We fought - we fought until we could no longer breathe.

We fought for 20 years…

The Girl in The Room by Caitlin Allan

Rose was surrounded by dust and darkness. Only the tiniest shard of light broke through the dirty glass window.

Just enough light that Rose could see the complicated web spiders had created for what seemed an eternity.

What was once, her home had become Rose’s prison. Day after day she grew crazier, losing track of time.

The only thing to comfort her was her locket. As she grabbed for it and patted around her chest to feel it she realized it was missing, her memory was foggy, she couldn’t recall how long ago it had been lost. The thought of it missing allowed despair to creep in once again and settle a little deeper inside. Rose constantly questioned herself rambling ‘Why me? What did I do to deserve this punishment? How long must I endure?’ Almost every day Rose woke up and hoped to be saved. She expected the sound of horse’s hooves on the cobblestone path along with a rescue carriage coming to knock down the door and save her from this despair. In reality, Rose knew the truth was that she was forgotten and she feared all hope was lost.

Another long and lonely day had dragged by. As the moon light shone upon her pale face, Rose got

comfortable on her makeshift bed of dusty, ragged blankets, closed her eyes and prayed for her nightmare to end.

After hours when her tormented mind had drifted comfortably away she suddenly woke to a loud, unfamiliar noise that made her jump in fright. Rose quickly hauled a trunk over to the tiny ceiling window to stand on it for a better view. She scrambled up as best as she could and stood on her tippy toes. A huge metal object with wheels sat loud and roaring beside two others all vibrating in a weird way. Written on the side ‘Renovations are us’. What did this even mean? What were these machines? Suddenly everything stopped and was silent and still. Doors opened and big men stepped out wearing brightly coloured vests and helmets. They had tools and ladders. Maybe this was the day my prayers have been answered; she thought this could be the day I’m finally saved!

They broke down the front entrance door and headed inside; the men went in empty handed and came out with furniture. They made a pile of her family’s things, her favourite chandelier, her family portrait, the old grandfather clock from the living room and the dining table. She didn’t know why they were here or what they were doing but her excitement took over. Rose banged on the door and yelled for help hoping someone would hear her cries and

set her free. At last she heard the men approaching. Their voices were confused and troubled. She could hear a conversation between them but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. She stood back, clenched her jaw and braced herself as the bolts of the doors came unhinged. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

The door smashed down and dust clouded her vision for a moment. ‘I’m here’ she screamed, but the men walked straight through her like she was nothing but thin air.

They looked around the small room and gathered more furniture. As they shifted the old trunk from the

window, one of the men dropped his end sending it crashing to the floor. The lid cracked open and revealed its contents. The men stood shocked and pale. One man screamed and fell backward landing heavily on the floor.

Rose ran over to see inside. A chill ran down her spine as she looked upon a dusty skeleton. A skeleton in girl’s clothes, a skeleton with an open locket wrapped around its bony fingers. Rose tilted her head and instantly recognized the image of her. She felt sick as the memory of her death came flooding back to her…

My Family by Evie Clay

There are SO many reasons why my family is the best. They feed me, play with me, and pat my soft black fur when I desire it. I repay them with my presence, and my soothing purrs.

I am Teresa the cat and I live with the Reed family. There are four Reeds - Jim, Susan, Amy and Sophie. Sophie is my favourite human. She is the youngest in the family at the age of nine. She has cascading brown hair and calm blue eyes. Sophie is kind, bestows the best cuddles, and, most importantly, lets me sleep in her cosy bed.

Jim is forty-two with curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a luxurious leather bag perfect to curl up on. He is the one who brought me to this family. He pats me often, but he doesn’t appreciate it when I announce that morning has arrived with my exquisite cat concerto. That is why he is only my second favourite.

Susan and Amy are tied in third because their patting hands are permanently attached to rectangular black things that put light on their faces. Amy is twelve and has the same curly hair as Jim. Susan is a tall forty year old and even though she snaps ‘Shoo! Go outside!’ to me far too often, she lets me sit on her lap when she has her cup of tea in the evening.

My family sounds amazing, doesn’t it? Well they used to be, until everything changed. Sophie disappeared a few months ago and I don’t know if she is coming back. I’ll tell you the story of her departure.

Last summer Sophie stopped going to school. This was fabulous because I got cuddles all day… NOT! Susan wouldn’t let me near her! Her snapping almost turned into feline abuse. I lost my pats and my cuddles and my rightful spot on Sophie’s bed. Even one Saturday when it was pouring rain, I was STILL banished from the house.

I couldn’t go on a lizard hunt, chase butterflies or climb trees in that weather. It was maddening and I needed answers, so I snuck a peek into Sophie’s room. She was lying in bed under her spotty doona. She was clutching her adorable cat plush that resembles me. Jim and Susan were in the kitchen. They looked troubled, whispering and occasionally glancing into Sophie’s sombre room.

Sunday came with the boredom of more rain and me outside, staring in. Again, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for the next day.

On Wednesday, Sophie vanished. I don’t know what happened but her bed was unoccupied. Jim and Susan were weeping. Amy didn’t go to school. Four days later Sophie had still not returned. The rest of the family put on their nicest clothes and neatened their hair. They left with a huge bouquet of sunflowers, which I know are Sophie’s favourite.

I sat at the door and watched them go, wondering if Sophie would be home to cuddle me again soon.

Nana Attack! by Bella-Rose Potter

Today was the day, I had been waiting for this moment my whole life. Today is life changing. Just kidding! Hi, I’m Jake and I’m currently hiding under my bed, dreading school tomorrow. I started writing this yesterday, that’s why it’s all exciting and stuff at the start. Yesterday was life changing, but in a bad way. Yeah, maybe I should explain…

At my school we have 700 kids. Every Friday we have a whole school assembly. Pretty much all the older kids think assemblies are the most boring thing. So naturally, as a year 6, I dread the Friday mornings when 700 kids (and 1000 psycho preps) are forced into a tiny hall for one incredibly painful hour. However yesterday, I was looking forward to assembly. Never in a million years would I have expected to be looking forward to an assembly.

Anyway, we have this thing where every week, a class will do a dance to a famous song. Today was the day that my class 6B were going to do a performance. I was so ready.

I had remembered my lines, practised my moves, and spent about half an hour reminding my parents and my Nana (she was visiting for week) to pretend not to know me, and to not be embarrassing. Trust me, parents are unpredictable. Though, Nana on the other hand is unpredictable and super out-there! Luckily, she had a face painting job to attend to, I just hope that it could go for half an hour longer.

Our theme for the dance is the 80’s. It’s going to be super cool. We all divided into three groups of six, then we chose a song and a costume, before making up a dance. Our song is Walking on Sunshine. As I walked onto stage, I could see everyone staring at me. Yup, you guessed it, we had to go first. I could see my Mum and Dad, I sighed with relief. Nana wasn’t there yet. I got into my dance position and felt my costume digging into my side. My 80’s wig was all itchy. Funny how I never noticed that before. The music started. The lights beamed down on me. I rose and started to dance. All was going well. It must have looked pretty good, all six of us doing the same moves at the same time. Kids were cheering, yelling and clapping. The song was almost over, when disaster struck!

I saw Nana dressed in a fairy costume from her face painting job. I watched in dismay as she waddled along the aisle of classes. Just as the song ended, she reached me. She struggled up onto the stage to find me. As she came closer, I tried to hide. No luck. She grabbed me proudly by the arm and gave me a big hug, and a massive slobbery kiss! Everyone (even the teachers) started howling with laughter. I will never, ever live this down. Hibernation, here I come.

My Family by Lachlan Wheadon

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My Family by Isla Quinn

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Korbin visits the Museum by Korbin Culver

I went to the big red building. There was a big spider on the outside and it looked so sharpy and I was so scared.

My Gandy and Gammy (Grandad and Grandma) took me inside and there was soooo many bugs to look at. I like bugs. There was allll different types of bugs. And I love diggers. There was lots of working mans in their diggers outside the museum for long time.

In one part, the floor could move and it was fast. I lost my toy and poked myself because it was moving so fast.

My Gandy helped me on the floor and we laughed and laughed.

I like the Museum, it is full of lots of things like olden day soldiers. I like going there with my gandparents’ and I am going to take my Mummy and brother Jakey one day soon too. Jake is a baby and I hope he likes bugs like me so we can go to the museum.

The end