Sunday Times Independent Secondary School of the Year 2010-11
Short Short Stories 2010 | An Anthology of Creative Writing by Students in UIV, LIV and UIII
This anthology contains some of the very best responses. There are, as we hoped, a wide range of ideas, genres and styles, reflecting the different and considerable talents in the School. The best short stories create, almost before readers realise they have begun to engage with them, a vivid impression of a character, place or moment with great economy and skill.
The Bank | By Shani
“Muuuuuuuuuum! You said we were going to the park!” a nearby six year old shrieked whilst hitting a small toy car against his mother.
It was Saturday morning at the bank and, as expected, people of all ages were in the waiting room. I'd recently won £150 in a radio competition and had come to make the deposit into my account. Being only fifteen, I sat there thrilled to have some extra money to spend. So thrilled that I hadn't noticed how long I'd been sitting in the same suede chair – forty-five minutes.
I stood up and looked around to see how many other people there were before me. Luckily, it was only three and so I quickly took the same seat, more than happy to spend another twenty minutes or so in a comfortable brown suede chair feeling more excited than ever. Once I saw the time, I whipped out my phone in such a quick motion that it flew out of my hand and gently hit the foot of a woman who I hadn't noticed before. No emotion came upon her face as I came to apologise to her and take my phone. I'd wanted to call my extremely organised mother and tell her that I wouldn't be back in time to taste one of her famous muffins. As she was a Virgo, she planned everything in advance and hated when her plans went wrong, so she would be furious if I had no explanation for missing out.
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I seriously didn't mean for my phone to hit your foot. I'm just clumsy! Sorry! Are you okay?” I said, sounding ridiculous. As I continued to apologise to the woman in a hysterical manner, she looked extremely pained but said nothing. No acknowledgement of my apologies whatsoever. I decided it was best to leave her be and walk back to my chair, my face crimson with embarrassment.
Five minutes later, my turn had finally arrived and I deposited the cheque. Turning around to leave, I suddenly realised that the bank had now become empty and just the woman and I were left.
“I'm, done. So you're next. I mean sorry, that must have sounded rude to you. What I meant to say was would you like to go in?” I blabbered to her again.
Suddenly, five men heavily equipped with guns burst into the bank, smashing the windows as they came, as if my speaking to the woman had pulled a trigger. I froze, then looked at the woman who looked even more pained than before.
“GET ON THE FLOOR, PEOPLE,” the leader of the thugs shouted. I immediately did as he said and waited for the woman to do so but she just sat as she had, except now a tear was falling down her cheek.
“Now give us the money or the bomb on that woman goes off, and you all die,” the leader said, holding his gun up to scare the cashiers and me. Lying on the floor, I now understood everything.
Crocodile Tears | By Daisy
Pain. Waves of agony, washing over me in shades of grey. My consciousness flickers. Focus. I open one reptilian eye.
I am tethered to a white bench, surrounded by Beings in white coats, their flat fleshy faces shining scarlet in the Egyptian sun. The buzz of silver instruments and the hum of voices throb inside my skull. Other creatures stir weakly in the cages lining the white walls, but they are mere lizards by comparison. My superior size and intelligence mean I am undeniably the Boss.
Still, I feel the last of the river's strength seeping from my bones. As if on cue, a Being strolls over and fills my trough. I look down at the wriggling dust and wrinkle my snout. I hunger only for Meat. I survey her meaningfully and snap my jaws.
At once one of the males rushes over and throws himself at me. Once, I would have dispatched him effortlessly, but my leaden limbs weigh me down. All I can do is thrash my tail as a cold prick sends me floating into oblivion.
Beings' stench reeks in my nostrils as I struggle awake. Lights are popping in my eyes.
I am in the cold darkness covered in filth. Beneath me the floor jolts and judders like the sea. Through a narrow gap in the wall, the sky rolls by with abnormal speed. I am in the belly of the Beast. And I am not alone.
A bedraggled assortment of creatures huddles in one corner. A zebra, its fur matted and stained, two skeletal antelopes and a young lion. He sees me and lets out a half-hearted roar. I snarl menacingly and snap my jaws together. He retreats quickly. Ha! I am still the Boss.
The vehicle shudders to a halt. Sweet sunlight dapples the soiled floor.
Then a shadow blocks out the sun. The female Being cradles her weapon. Her eyes are blazing ice. She chatters disrespectfully and I let out a growl as she points the gun towards me. She flinches. Reaching for a strip of leather tucked into her belt, she advances slowly. I feint at her left, and feel the whip's sting, white-hot on my shoulder.
Snarling, I search for another way out. The female is driving me back, back against the wall, but I will not be dominated. I fix her with my hypnotising yellow stare. Something stirs in the depths of her cold eyes. Frost, melting in the heat of an African summer.
For one moment we are gazing directly into each others' souls. For one split second, I hesitate, and so does she. A tear glimmers on my snout.
Then I explode into her, claws and teeth and jaws lunging for her throat. I am Death, unstoppable, inevitable. No one can stand in my path. Her blood flows across the parched grass, which drinks it up greedily.
The sun is warm on my back as I scuttle over the savannah towards my river. I am the Boss.
Ha!
Dancing in the Distance | By Georgia
The frost crunched under my frozen footsteps, muffling the sound of my teeth chattering in my cold mouth. My faltering breath hung in the air in a misting cloud; I closed my eyes and stood still, letting the cold envelop me.
I've always been walking in circles. My life is like a path, already set and waiting to be walked on, leading from the beginning to the end. Round and round I walk, never knowing where I am going, but always coming back to the same place, always with the will to carry on, to end up somewhere different. And once in a while my path gets rugged, or branches off on a longer, more difficult route, one that is set in a mask of hope and possibility, and one that reveals itself only once it is too late. Like now. And once I am on that path, there is nothing more to do but wait until it takes me back to the beginning.
I pulled my coat closer to me, hugging my frail frame. I could feel the cold penetrating my body, but I had to keep moving, to wait for them to come. I had been here for hours, waiting and waiting. A cold, bleak landscape stretched out around me, surrounding me. The car had driven off a long time ago, leaving me here. I could still hear the echoing laughs and feel the warmth of people around me. My mouth stretched into a painful smile as I felt a hand close around my neck.
Running. I was running, my feet beating against the hard ground, an unsteady rhythm as my heart raced. I turned around to look at my pursuers, dark shapes framed against a white background. My breathing sped up, my pace quickened as I tried desperately to distance myself from them.
My path had veered, turning sharply, twisting as I tried to keep up with it, round and round, taunting and teasing me. I had come this far, the beginning must be near. It would be waiting for me, around the next corner, hiding behind a bend, a silhouette in the distance, dancing on the horizon.
Goldilocks … and the Third Degree Burn | By Daisy C
One day when Goldilocks was on her early morning jog, sh e was pondering how hungry she was feeling. She had previously disregarded the ‘Porridge Café' and was beginning to wish she hadn't. She could suddenly smell warm, syrupy porridge and had to sit down for a minute, in fear that she was hallucinating.
Then Goldilocks saw the three bears leaving their house and realised what that meant: porridge. She quickly darted across the road and slipped in through the back door.
Goldilocks knew the way to the microwave from her previous visit to the house. Last time they hadn't pressed charges, although they had threatened they would, next time. Goldilocks promised herself that this time she would eat three spoonfuls of porridge and leave through the back door; this way they shouldn't notice she'd been.
She made her way through the hallway and to the kitchen. She pulled at the microwave door, but it wouldn't open – it hadn't finished cooking. There were only three minutes to go, but the bears would be back by then. She gave the door a sharp tug …
The three bears heard a loud explosion and ran. Father Bear reached its source first. He was pretty sure it was their house, but most houses look similar once exploded. Black debris covered the floor and a couple of beams stood intact – this was the remainder of the once beautiful family home. He began to think what an awful decision Mother Bear had made by having the cottage thatched. He was about to start an argument when he saw a fire engine and ambulance heading towards them. He sighed and sat down.
The paramedics came out quickly, carrying a charred young woman on a stretcher. Mother Bear covered Baby Bear's eyes protectively as the woman was carried out into the ambulance. The three bears travelled with her in silence.
The hospital was only just around the corner and they quickly whisked her off to an operating room. The three bears sat down, waiting for some news.
The news came some hours later. The Bears, Goldilocks, two policemen and a surgeon sat in a dimly lit office. The Bears were told the story of how the girl had broken in, opened the microwave before it was ready and exploded the house. The surgeon went on to explain that she had suffered third degree burns and would need plastic surgery. She was now bandaged head to toe to cover the scars.
The officers said they could take her to court and make her pay for the damage or they could let her off again. Father Bear told the officer what he had told Goldilocks last time – that they would press charges.
Goldilocks and her family are now the poorest family in town, and every day, when Goldilocks looks in the mirror as she leaves the house for her early morning jog, she is reminded of the moral of this story: DON'T OPEN THE MICROWAVE UNTIL THE PORRIDGE HAS FINISHED COOKING!
It's Too Late | By Anxin
I watched helplessly as tears fell down her face, her eyes wide with fear. It was all too much and I turned away quickly, walking off in the other direction. The pain on her face had made me realize just what I had done. I was worse than a liar, a murderer, a criminal. I was a traitor.
It wasn't intentional. I didn't want to do this to her, but I was too selfish to stop. Bullying her was the only way I could be accepted, and so I jumped at the chance. I had no idea how guilty I would feel, or how miserable it was being popular. The people I had idolized and thought so ‘cool' turned out to be cold-hearted and cruel. But I was in too deep. And there was no way out.
As I turned the corner, two young children caught my eye. I watched enviously as they played on the swings. They were so carefree and young, their chubby faces filled with joy, their thoughts pure and untainted. I smiled faintly as I thought what my friendship had been like with Isabel. But the smile left as quickly as it came when I thought about what it was like now. It had been torn into pieces, stamped on, and left in the dust. And it was my fault.
I stared at the children once again, jealous of their happiness. I was just about to leave when another child came over, covered head to toe with designer clothing. I saw her push one of the children to the ground, and then extend her hand to the prettier of the two, like an invitation. I expected the child to accept – I would have done. But to my surprise she turned away, instead helping up the child on the ground. I felt a surge of disgust for myself. Was I so bad that a child's morals were better than mine? No, I decided. It was time to change things, starting with Isabel.
I turned away and started to run towards the train station that I knew she always went to. A huge sense of relief washed through me as I approached the station, catching sight of her familiar yellow school bag among the huge crowd of people waiting on the platform. I was finally going to do the right thing.
“Isabel!” I shouted, slowing down as I neared her.
A small smile grew on my face as she turned around, but it soon changed into a look of horror. Tears gathered in my eyes as she let out a cry and fell, seemingly in slow motion. A collective gasp went around the crowd and I started to sob helplessly. I heard one last scream as the train screeched to a halt, and then it was silent.
I waited for her to suddenly pop up and go, “I'm alright!” or jump out from behind me, laughing. But nothing happened. And slowly, I started to realize. I was too late.
Remember, Remember | By Anna
I stepped over, off the cliff, down into the happiness of death below. I was so glad; I knew it would be the end, no more medicine, no more women in blue gowns trying to kill me. Dying really didn't feel like anything; it was just as though the lights were suddenly turned off, as if you were being put to bed for the very last time. Death was peaceful, quiet, until I opened my eyes to a bright, manufactured light, and more murderous women in blue dresses. They told me that I, ‘Had a big fall,' and I, ‘Bumped my head.' Unfortunately, I was not dead; I was sitting in a hospital bed, with persistent little tubes poking me wherever they could. At first, I didn't remember anything: my name, where I lived, whether I had any children … But then, to my despair, it all came flooding back. Then I remembered, the telegram, the cliff, supposed death, life again. Then I remembered everything, every single detail; at that time I wished I didn't, but now I do.
****
Now I can't remember anything, nothing at all; as hard as I try nothing comes back. There is a big boulder in my mind blocking any memories. I wake up forgetting who I was the day before and I have to be prompted when asked my name. My life is rather boring really; nobody is ever willing to sit down and talk to me. They all think I'm mad, though there is one man, a lovely man who stays with me all the time. He tries to help me to remember, but there is no use in trying, I am an old woman who depends on other people to remember when to wash and when to brush my teeth. They say I have dementia. I think dementia sounds rather funny: it sounds like the name of a confused, befuddled duck. Well, I am like that but I don't think I am quite the duck part at the moment. I think that there must be some way to remember.
I remember trying to jump off a cliff, but why? Why did I do that? The saddest thing is that I will die soon and die oblivious to my life. I will die forgetting.
The place I stay in, they call it ‘The Home'. It is full of people like me, old and doddery, weak from rheumatism and withered from the pain and reality of life. It is really rather depressing because one day after another, another bed is emptied then occupied again. One day you recognise someone and the next he is gone … dead.
The man who helps me, he believes that I can do it. He reads me this story over and over again. I don't know the title, or maybe I do I just cannot remember it. It is a beautiful story though; about a beautiful girl, and love and betrayal and hope. He tells me it over and over again, but I never get bored, either because I forget or I just love the story so much.
The doctors at the home say he's crazy, that I'll never remember. They say he is wasting his time. But even if I don't remember, the best times of this life that I forget have probably been spent with him telling me the story. We sit in the garden, with our backs to the sun, the melodious birds singing as a chorus in the trees above, and he starts reading to me. His voice is mellow and soft and he reads to me with a certain emotion, but I do not know which as nothing in my body is working as well as it should nowadays. He is caring and bright and inspiring, even for a wizened woman like me he is inspiring. He makes me laugh; a few years ago I had forgotten what it was to laugh, but all I know now is that I love him, not in a romantic way, just in a friendly way. He has helped me rebuild my life.
A few years ago I was thinking of going to Switzerland to have something called Euthanasia. I have no relatives who care for me, so I thought why keep on living if there was no life I could remember to live for? I was very close to going. I had filled in all the forms, scrawled my signature in all the little boxes … but then he came, he saved me, he taught me how to enjoy this ‘life' to the full. I am eternally grateful to him. He is now starting to teach me the piano. I can play … roppicks, no maybe it's chopsticks … yes that's the one, chopsticks.
I was looking through my wardrobe yesterday, looking for my reading glasses; I always lose those things whenever I want them. I was rummaging around in the bottom of that dark chasm of a wardrobe when I found an old piece of paper, almost as ancient as me, at the bottom in a little nook of my closet. I was told by a woman it was a telegram. Of course I can't really remember what a telegram is but I will tell you what it read:
Young George Killed In Battle
I have no idea what it means; it can't be mine; I don't remember anything. Who is George?
The Waves | By Emily
The sea was hissing wildly, like an angered snake. White foam erupted when waves crashed against the rocks. The sky was a dull grey with flecks of blues and greens like a bird's wing. The cold was sharp and intense and clawed at your skin like nails.
But the children didn't care. The beach sounded like a playground, an assortment of gleeful yelps and shrieks with every dive and jump.
Ella, her doll Polly and older brother Ben were sitting to the side of the children, building sandcastles. They were only a few years younger than the others but were not confident swimmers and had been given severe instructions by their parents that they were not to go near the water. They envied the others who were having such fun trying to stay upright on their surfboards and playing in the waves.
Ben suddenly jumped up and, to the astonishment of Ella, knocked over their sandcastle empire in a swift motion.
“This isn't fair. I think that it's about time that we had some of our own fun. I dare you to get on that surfboard over there and copy what he's doing,” he said whilst pointing to Zac who was precariously balancing on his board whilst trying to ride the waves.
Ella immediately dismissed the idea, saying that it was stupid because she could hardly swim. However, Ben seized the opportunity and threatened her by saying that if she didn't do it, he would tell their mother that it was her who ate all the cookies last weekend.
Fear of being found out as the cookie monster swept over Ella's eyes and Ben knew that he had cornered her. She tentatively stood up and dragged the surfboard into the water. She lay down on her chest and before she could conjure up a plan to get her out of the sticky situation, she felt a firm push of her brother's hand and she was swept away.
The waves were not slow and calm as they had looked from a distance but were pounding and choppy. She struggled to keep hold of the board and, with each great wave, saltwater stung her eyes, scratched at her nose and gushed into her mouth. Ella felt like she had entered one of her childish nightmares.
Some of the children on the beach had spotted the tiny figure floating steadily into the open water and shouted things like, “Ella, stop! Turn around.” Some of the braver ones had even tried to swim after her in a vain rescue attempt. Ella did not know how much longer she could hold on and in that lapse of concentration she was pushed off the board. She grabbed feebly at the air, but the water showed no mercy and continued to pull her down.
The children stood gawping, praying that Ella would re-emerge, and, as if on cue, Polly floated serenely back onto the shore.
War Story | By Oriane
It had been four years since I had last seen my father. I remember his laughing face, happiness radiating from every inch of him. I remember thinking that whatever happened, he would always be there for me, even when I was grown up and a doctor, like him.
I remember the day when I had walked in front of a passing car, and he had pulled me back.
I had been eight when I last saw my father. I am twelve now. It was at the train station, he in his smart khaki uniform, and me in my best blue frock.
I remember feeling proud of him, proud that my father was doing his bit for England and not thinking that this might well be the last time I saw him. It was a happy time back then, not so much now. Those were the days when, for your birthday, your mother would bake just about the biggest chocolate-fudge cake you had ever seen, not a small, dry, sugarless fairy cake that used up two weeks' rations, when we had a roast every Sunday and most days in between, not something that you we lucky to have every three or four months. But the war made you appreciate what you'd got, lucky or otherwise.
We had always been quite well off, even with six mouths to feed. Dad had a job at the local hospital and mum did volunteer work for the Red Cross. She used to be a V.A.D, a voluntary aid detachment and would tell all about it, from the weekly inspections to overnight duty on the wards. She was Nurse Brown then, Nurse Langley now. I loved to hear her stories, to try and picture myself doing all that she did. I've wanted to be a doctor since I was four, when my Grandma died.
Dad was always sending letters, twice a week, though they arrived three months later. It was when the letters stopped that we first knew something was wrong. Then the telegrams started. You can't even start to imagine the emotions welling up inside you when you see the little yellow envelope clutched in the hand of an army official. I wanted to scream, “You've got it all wrong! How could this have happened!” But this is war and anything can happen, anything from miracles to disaster. Because if one side loses, then the other has got to win.
