Story of the Week
The Great War
My hand grips the hilt of my sword as if stuck to it with tree sap.
I know this is my chance. The little flicker of light in a dark tunnel. The light I had always yearned to see. It’s happening – everything I’d dreamed of being sewn together, creating a pattern of my soul. The creases of my palm sting, the hilt of the sword like thorns ripping into my skin. My army is waiting for me. I feel trapped. It is as if ivy grows over my figure, slowly crushing my body. My stomach should be bursting with anticipation but all I feel is a sense of dread creeping up my chest.
As a little girl, I imagined the day I would fight in a great war for my kingdom. All I’ve ever wanted to do is follow in my mother’s footsteps. To die for my kingdom. The orphanage of my youth meant nothing to me – I knew I was destined to become a legend. The knight that would save our country would be martyred beautifully. Like a rose finally losing its last petal.
But as I stand here, all I can think about is him.
He is my light. And he is the only thing stopping me from my dream. The need to hear his laugh every morning and every night. The want to completely immerse myself in his embrace. His voice is as sweet as fresh honey. His dimples, cheekbones and smile are imprinted on my heart like a red wax stamp.
But it’s too late. I’m about to start a war.
With a raise of my fist, the horns blow. It has begun. I lift my head as we run in. I try not to look for him on the other side of the battlefield. But how can I not? He is right there. Front and centre, looking like perfection, as he stabs my men in front of my eyes. I make eye contact with him as I take another man down and he grins. His eyes are full of hatred as he stares into my soul.
He is the love of my life.
About the Author
Alyssa Bevan, age 15
I have always loved writing, and I want to write a book series one day when I am older.
Leviathan
I was falling. Down to the bottom. The reason? Envy
In resentment and in jealousy I had been shunned. Out of Heaven. Out of my home.
I was a follower of someone whose talents were unappreciated. He had a vision. A vision the others did not want. There was a great war. Apparently, I was on the wrong side. The losing side.
His name was Lucifer.
I was called Nathaivel, Angle of Generosity.
I followed because he promised a kind world. One where Lucifer would generously give up anything to those in need. I was exhilarated by the idea.
But after the war ended, I was reversed. My name was now Leviathan. A Prince of Hell. A Fallen Angel. One of Seven. A spirit of Envy. I was holy once. I tried to fight off the unholy essence called Envy, but it consumed me. It took over me and my actions. I was no longer who I was.
My punishment: to rule hell with the other ‘traitors’.
However, the worst thing was the change in my appearance. I had been an angel, with respect, dignity, and generosity. Now I have many forms. But I cannot change or pick them at will. I am a primordial sea serpent. A dragon. A snake. A crocodile. A whale-like creature.
When I landed I looked around. Darkness slowly covered the room as the hole in the heavens started closing. I had all eternity here. I kept my eyes shut.
About the Author
Zachary Chua, age 12
The Car
The smell of burnt petrol stung my nostrils as I walked closer. I began to panic when I saw it. A mess of blood and bones left to die in the middle of the road. There was nothing I could do; he was too far gone.
Then, I heard a phone ringing. It rang louder and louder like it was urging me to pick it up. I walked over to where it lay on the road, not daring to take my eyes off of it
‘Hello?’ I answered. Silence. ‘Hello?’ I asked again. A faint voice came through the speaker, ‘You’re next.’ I screamed and dropped the phone.
Headlights appeared at the end of the street.
About the Author
Alby Stanton, age 13
In a Town Called Nothing
In a small town called Nothing, Texas, there are more rumours about the old Chuck-E-Cheese than the population of this town. They’re horrifying stories of murder and lost souls possessing the animatronics. I heard a story about a kid called Alex. He was invited to his friend’s birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese, and while he was watching the animatronics perform when he caught a figure in the corner of his eye. It was a golden Chuck-E-Cheese mascot gesturing him to follow it. Alex followed it down the corridor and into the empty supply closet. The golden mascot started dancing, but then it raised a knife over Alex’s head and…
That’s where the story ends. Rumour has it that Alex never came out of that supply closet and is still haunting the pizzeria to this day.
About the Author
Beckett McMahon, age 13
The Mysterious Building
The wind sounded like a mad dog barking, and rain pelted down like daggers. Lightning lit up the sky, and the cracking of thunder filled the air. I continued to dash along, kicking up mini water behind me. I needed to go. The cold city air penetrated my skin as I tore through the city. I noticed the weird formation of the smashed glass windows. The uneven, sharp edges looked like a shark’s row of teeth. But I continued to run, I was almost there. Finally, I stopped. The towering building loomed over me. I began to knock on the door, but it slowly screeched open. I slowly entered the building cautiously. My eyes were glued to the enigmatic emptiness inside the building. I waited at the door for a few minutes, and suddenly, a shady figure appeared.
About The Author
Jesse Phan, age 12.
What Some People Think
The siren sounds. I grip the grass-covered ball in my mud-covered hands. The roaring crowd is, for once, silent.
Some people think I’m no good at football.
I was born in the city but moved house constantly. That didn’t matter to me though. I always found something to do when I was bored. So many things changed. Stepparents, schools, houses. But one thing that always stayed the same during those challenging, stressful, joyful years was football.
The boys at my school have always doubted my skills. This is my chance to prove them wrong.
With a flare of wrath, I kick the ball.
I won the game. But the real trophy for my efforts is the look on the boys’ faces. I grin. I always knew I would prove them wrong.
Pocket Watch
‘Did you get it?’ she whispered, as her brother slithered back out the window.
Landing steadily on the lawn, like a cat, he grinned from beneath his cap and pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat. Shaking it open, he showed her the pocket watch. The sun caught the gold and made it shine like it was a gift from the sun itself.
‘You really think I would’ve come back out again if I hadn’t got it?’ he grinned and placed the heavy object into his sister’s outstretched hands.
She drew breath as she felt the weight of its cold, hard worth. She gave it back to her brother, and he wrapped it neatly back up in the handkerchief before returning it to the spot in his waistcoat.
‘Oi, what’re you rats doing down there?’
Looking up, the two saw a policeman, easily identifiable in his head-to-toe blue. They grinned at one another.
‘Now, for the fun part.’ The boy, already on top of the stone wall, grabbed his sister’s hand and helped her over it.
The manor house was on the corner of two main streets, and so when a young boy, closely followed by a young girl, appeared over the wall belonging to a well-known Lord and Lady, there were many eyes to see. But the people were far too busy and important to care for a few street rats weaving away from a policeman – in fact, it was quite a regular occurrence on the streets, and so very few gave them a second thought.
The brother and sister pushed passed people and market stalls, and ran across the roads, weaving between horses and carts and very few motorcars.
Once they were sure the policeman and his baton were caught up elsewhere, they slowed down, ready to take the usual route home. They wound through street after street, before the streets became alleys, and the alleys became the waterfront.
It stank of fish and smoke and unclean men, but the two of them had grown up on the smell and it was less of a burden to breathe the dank air. They climbed over a stack of fishing crates and came to a quieter part of the river, where the taverns were less frequent and the men less familiar.
Eventually, they climbed the brick wall to an empty factory. Like the smoggy sky, the factory was filled with black smoke, making it the perfect place for squatters. Inside, they walked along the plank walkway they had built between the sludge of old arsenic products and holes in the floor.
When they reached their part of the factory, a corner with a semi-solid roof and straw mattresses on the floor, the boy fished out the pocket watch once again. The two admired its splendour in the fading light of day.
About the Author
Louise Baldric, age 15
Louise is an avid reader and writer from Perth, Western Australia. She has never previously been published but is very excited to share her work with others.
One Cold Morning
The smell of condensed water coming from my window woke me. Lying in bed felt comfy, but there was no point in staying there as the cold had slipped under my blanket and was now circling my bare feet.
I popped on my stripey winter socks. All the heat that my feet produced got trapped inside the woolly layers and remained there. A cold, wet dribble dangled on the tip of my nose. I wiped it away.
As I walked out of my room and into the kitchen, I hoped that the smell of hot coffee would greet me; a sign that my mum was already up and awake, making breakfast. But that didn’t happen, so I pulled out the metal beaker from the kitchen cupboard and placed it under the icy water of the running tap before resting it on the stove.
As the water for the coffee slowly gurgled and boiled, I ran to the bathroom and began braiding my hair in front of the foggy mirror. Then I layered myself with jumpers. Never before had I experienced such coldness. The magnetic thermometer stuck to the fridge confirmed how chilly the house was; its red liquid marking the first seven numbers on its line.
But, outside, sunshine poured onto the windows and the flowers sparkled in the morning dew. And even though the trees were leafless and naked, the atmosphere made me feel warmer inside. With a smile on my face I concentrated on making the coffee.
About the Author
Diana Biondini, age 14
I was born in Italy and moved to Australia when I was 5. I have always enjoyed writing and illustrating my books. I base my stories both on experiences that I have had and also on my imagination. My love for literature has always motivated me, and continues to do so.