STORY-WRITING SHOWCASE
Welcome to the Online Showcase of Secondary Wakakirri Story-Writing!
What is Story-Writing?
A short story competition open to all students in Australia. Maximum of 500 words for primary school students and 1000 words for secondary students.
If you would like to know more about Wakakirri Story-Writing, you can read all the rules and details here.
2008 Story-Writing Finalists and Winners
Below you will find a list of the secondary finalists. You can read the stories by clicking on the story title.
St Patrick's Parish Secondary School (NSW) – ‘White Room’ by Lauren Eager - First Place Winner
Hurlstone Agricultural High School (NSW) – ‘La Petite Mort’ by Israaq Khan - Second Place Winner and Winner of the Originality Award
Launceston Church Grammar (TAS) – ‘Summer In St Mary's’ by Alice Bassett - Third Place Winner
St Patrick's Parish Secondary School (NSW)
‘White Room’ by Lauren Eager
I hear noise, not sure where. It’s probably everywhere and nowhere. Who
can tell? Who knows where sound is. It probably sleeps in a room called
silence, trapped there. When it wakes it wakes with a thunderous clash of
sound. Maybe that’s what I’m hearing; the cry of sound, the weeping noise
of it just trying to be heard. I can hear it; its calling out for Peyton.
For me.
My head is full of cotton, stuffy and light. I can’t see. My eyes won’t
open. I tell them to open but they are stubborn things. I tell my hands to
open, but they do not hear me. What’s wrong with me? I scream to anyone
who’ll listen to help. I can’t breathe, I’m heaving for air, for breath
but I don’t get any. Bile rises up my throat; a strong acidic taste that I
spew everywhere. I feel weak and helpless like a new born babe. That’s it!
I yell to myself. Pull yourself together. I try again to open my eyes;
they slowly cave into my will and open.
My eyes burn through not opening them in God knows how long. I look around
to find where I am. I’m in a white room. The white is like fire to my eyes
as a look around. There is a black door and that’s it. Black door in a
white room. I don’t think that this door belongs here. I believe that
somewhere a black room is missing its door. Maybe they switched the doors
for a laugh? Or maybe they switched the door because they felt like it? I
don’t know. The door was made by a talented hand. I tell my legs to move;
it’s a struggle of wills but eventually I win. I walk to the door, feet
tingling and muscles cramping. I lay my hand on the door. It feels chilly
and smooth under my hand. I feel tiny engravings of flowers with little
bees in them. I can almost hear the bees buzzing along to get nectar for
their colony. I sigh; I don’t know what to do. The back door is
comforting. It doesn’t belong in this white room, and neither do I. Maybe
I should go through the door, to where I don’t know.
My hand starts tapping on the door and my feet start tapping on the floor.
I don’t know why my hand and feet are being so disobedient. The beat they
make however reminds me of something, something important. I cannot put my
finger on it. It seems that when I think I’ve got it, it floats away like
a forgotten dream. I start to hum a song I don’t know. Does it mean I know
the song? I don’t know. Is some force controlling my thoughts? Oh! I
remember now! I remember what the beating sounds like. It sounds like the
beating of a heart; the beating of my heart.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here; it seems like an eternity has passed
since I had open my eyes. I lean against the black door, so comforting and
peaceful. It fills me with strength and a sense of being. My eyes feel
heavy; I can’t feel my limbs at all. I could’ve just fallen asleep then
and there, but something won’t let me. Something was saying don’t fall
asleep, though the something wasn’t talking. How is that so? If it doesn’t
speak how come I’m hearing it? Maybe it’s a feeling? Maybe it is the door?
I don’t know but I do know that I should trust it.
“Wake up, PLEASE WAKE UP!!”
I jerk awake. DAMN! How stupid of me! I fell asleep; I wasn’t supposed to
do that. That voice however sounded familiar. It woke me up. Hmm…the voice
sounded like a woman, like my mother.
“Mum? I squeak. I try harder. “MUM!!”
I get up slowly and start to race around the room, my heart is pounding
and throat rugged and sore. I keep on yelling and screaming. My stomach is
in knots and my head is giving me such excruciating pain. I keep on
hollering, yelling and screaming, I start to kick and punch the door.
“Let me in! I want to go home I don’t want to stay here!” I sob as I
collapse to the ground. I just want to go home, just to go home. I start
mumbling and pleading to the door, I’m getting angry I start making
threats. I hear something. Squeak…… the door slowly opens. I jumped up;
race to the door, stop for a second to say goodbye to the white room with
a black door then go through the door.
I feel heaving and sore all over. I hear voices; one of them sounds like
my mother. I try to open my eyes; they obey me without any hassle but my
eyes sting and burn. How long have I been asleep? I feel wet and soggy and
freezing. Bile rises in my throat. I throw up. Doesn’t this seem like déjà
vu? I bet when I look around I will be in a white room with a black door.
I slowly turn my head and look up. I see a clear summer sky showing colour
and life. I sit up slowly, I feel dizzy and sick. In front of me is my
mother and some guys in dark blue uniforms.
“Honey? Are you alright?” asks mother.
I nod. I have something on my mouth; it’s an oxygen mask. To the side of
me was the pool.
Hurlstone Agricultural High School (NSW)
‘La Petite Mort’ by Israaq Khan
It was Autumn in France. The wind whipped ferociously at the trees, and the leaves turned slowly from red to orange to yellow to brown, and then they would fall gracefully from the trees. The sun, partially obscured by grey clouds, would put in a feeble appearance every so often, but apart from that, there was nothing at all to keep me warm.
I walked silently through the leaves, taking care not to be seen. There was a figurative hole in my chest, that ached badly from the pain of losing someone. Sometimes, the pain would be so much that I would simply curl up into a ball and cry for hours. I did no know where I was going. I just knew that I had to get away from my past. I was dressed up in a moth eaten coat. Damn those moths! And I was wearing an old hat that concealed most of my face. No one would know who or what I was. That was good, because I didn’t fancy getting eaten. It was on this day that I was to meet my saviour.
I trudged on and on until I came to a wide mountain range. The sight would have been stunning, if I had cared to look. There was a deep valley underneath and I headed straight to it. As I walked, I pondered how I felt. There was a phrase for how I felt but I just couldn’t remember it. I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice when I bumped into a tall figure.
“Sorry Monsieur!”, I mumbled.
“It is quite alright, Mademoiselle”, he replied in a throaty voice. I looked up and saw what was unmistakably a beetle. He had long black shiny wings, 6 black legs and a horn for a nose. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, with a monocle and a walking stick which he would occasionally tap on the ground to emphasise certain syllables of his speech. “But you lady bugs ought to take more care!”, he continued. How did he know I was a lady bug?
I simply looked at him, and he stared back at me with thoughtful caring eyes.
“What is wrong?”, he asked, tapping his walking stick.
“It’s kind of a long story”, I mumbled.
“Well, we ‘ave all of the time in the world”, he replied with a hint of laughter. “Tell me what is wrong”, he urged me, “and per’aps I can ‘elp you”.
“Fine.”, I replied, “My parents... My parents have perished in a terrible fire! I was simply out playing on the beach nearby, and then when I went back home, there was only the charcoal remains of my house”. And as I told him my worries and grief and sadness, it felt as if a burden had eased. When I finally stopped crying, I felt a bit better.
“Ah, I see”, he said, smiling widely.
“And then”, I continued, “I have been wandering through France”.
“Ah, well you should wander no more, my dear lady. Come and live with me”, he offered.
“I’m sorry”, I replied, “I simply cannot trust anyone I have only just met”.
“I’m sure this might help. I am very well read and you can trust well read people, because villainous people are too busy cooking up villainous schemes to ever have any time to read books”, he said. “And I know exactly how you feel”.
And then, in French, he uttered one phrase that was exactly how I felt. I gasped, and was shocked that he would know such a phrase, as it was seldom used, and only the most well-read insects, such as me, would know such a phrase. He held out a gloved hand for me to take. I stared at the hand, pondering whether I should or should not go with this stranger. I did not even know his name, yet he was kind and generous and well-read and he seemed to know everything about me.
I grasped his hand firmly in mine and together we walked towards the sunset that illuminated the mountains with a purple glow. It was such a beautiful sight that I could now fully appreciate. But I did not appreciate it as much as I appreciated knowing that there was something to describe how I felt. I remembered him uttering the phrase – a phrase that describes how you feel like a part of you has died. And indeed, I did feel like a part of me had died.
But there is another meaning for this phrase, in this story, and that meaning is that the story is over: La petite mort.
Launceston Church Grammar (TAS)
‘Summer in St Mary's’ by Alice Bassett
The water poured out of that tap, halfheartedly. It’s been like this for months, thought Clementina. She stood stooped over with her big blue bucket, waiting for it to fill.
“There is hardly enough water to fill Geraldine and Gertrude’s trough anymore,” Clementina muttered to Sparky, her three-legged Kelpie.
The grass was moist with the fresh morning dew and the ground was soft and muddy. Clementina yawned as she trudged towards the paddock that was home to her two alpacas. As she approached the field, the two alpacas trotted over to greet her with their usual snuffling and snorting.
Clementina’s alpacas were her pride and joy. She had named them Geraldine and Gertrude after her great-grandmothers. The family often took them to shows and mostly, they returned home with lovely bright blue ribbons.
“Morning girls’” said Clementina with false cheeriness. Gertrude snuffled with delight as Clementina affectionately stroked her.
The water sloshed into the trough, barely filling it a quarter of the way. The alpacas quickly slurped up what little water there was. By the time Gertrude licked up the remnants, Clementina was already back with the second delivery. Now that water was so scarce in St Marys, it had to be limited at Clementina’s hobby farm. Liquid gold, her father had been calling it!
“That’s all for now girls,” she informed them. With Sparky at her heels, Clementina made her way back to the farmhouse for a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast. The local newspaper was on the kitchen table, the head line read: Local Water Supplies Dried Up.
“No kidding! Those farmers think they can just use all our water to irrigate their crops. I mean, what are we suppose to drink?” Clementina said gloomily.
“Now Clemmie, I don’t want my favourite daughter getting her knickers in a twist over something we can’t do anything about,” boomed Harold McCarthy as he strode into the room.
“But Dad, it’s just not fair! I hate this drought! The only thing to be happy about is the tiny smidge of rain we had last night. There must be something we can do!” exclaimed Clementina.
“I’m afraid not Chook, not unless we have torrential rains tomorrow. According to the government, crops are much more important than safe and plentiful drinking water for country towns,” explained Mr. McCarthy.
The rest of Clementina’s Saturday morning was spent lying on her bed with her journal,
thinking of ways to solve the water problem. Rain dances, protesting and building a large pipe that runs from Launceston to St Marys were some of the ideas that she could think of.
“Oh Sparky, there has to be something we can do. The water is only going to get less and less. Soon it will become dirty and unsafe to drink as well.” Clementina sighed as she scratched behind Sparky’s black, pointed ears. Maybe the best thing to do right now is to hope that it resolves itself, thought Clementina. She leaned over her bed and grabbed her English homework, a series of sonnets.
Life continued at the McCarthy household as usual for the next few months, but with one exception: the water. Clementina’s predictions had been correct, the water was so scarce now that showers were only permitted twice a week, gardens were no longer able to be watered and water was only used for drinking. Now the water came out of the tap in a browny-yellow trickle. Authorities claimed it was still safe to drink but Clementina and her father thought otherwise.
“If I drink too much of this stuff it’s going to make us sick! Forget liquid gold, it’s more like liquid rubbish!” joked Mr. McCarthy.
“Dad, this is serious matter,” said Clementina in a matter-of-fact tone as she headed out the door to feed Geraldine and Gertrude.
As Clementina approached the yellowed paddock, her jaw dropped and a choking sensation overcame her throat. Gertrude lay in a stiff and crumpled heap in the corner, near the feeding trough. Clementina dropped the bag of feed and rushed over, blinded by her tears. She could see it was too late; Gertrude had died during the night. Her once shiny black coat now seemed dull and her glassy eyes stared off into the unknown. Clementina collapsed next to her beloved pet and cried. She cried for not only Gertrude, but for memory of her mother who had died the year before of melanoma. She stayed sobbing and heaving for what seemed like eternity until Geraldine trotted over and licked her ear. Clementina sat up and stared lovingly at her remaining alpaca. Soon her despair turned to blood boiling anger.
“The water, that’s what must have caused Gertrude to die! I’m not going to let this happen without a fight. I owe it to Gertrude,” muttered Clementina. With new determination, she hoisted herself up and strode back to the house.
Her tears had stopped flowing and had become dried on her cheeks. “Clemmie, what’s the matter Chook?” inquired her Dad.
“Gertrude’s dead!” Clementina forced out.
“How? Are you sure?” said a surprised Mr. McCarthy
“Yes Dad, I’m sure. She got sick from the water,” said Clementina as she walked out of
the room.
For the next few hours Clementina planned her attack. She wrote letter after letter to newspapers, the council, the government and the Prime Minister. Her father made colourful fliers advertising a protest march through the streets of Hobart and posted them all around St Mary’s.
“We’re all set Chook,” said Mr. McCarthy.
“Yeah Dad, the farmers will never see it coming. We’ll win, just you wait and see.”
