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NOTES:

YOUNG WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED

Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.

This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.

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"Flawed"

by Katurah Reeve (14 yrs) - Lincoln, Lincolnshire, UK
(Ages given are at time of entering the competition)
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Katurah Reeve: "My main passions in life are reading, writing and playing piano. i absolutely love losing myself in books and i find it breath-taking how words on a page can take me on adventures to places i can only dream of and allow me to journey through numerous character's minds and one day i want to be able to achieve such a thing with my writings. i hope to have a piece of work published and to extend my short story into a novel. my mum always used to say, " Give Katurah a pen and a piece of paper and she will be content." and personally, i feel this is a very true statement. besides writing and reading, music is a major part in my life and so playing and listening to it have also helped influence a few short pieces of work. i love to swim and go on walks through the countryside and enjoy having my family around me."
 

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

This was a bit of a mystery to all the judges. It couldn't really be called a short story, because it had no beginning and no end, didn't tell us any of the essentials (who, what, where, why, how), and left me feeling it was more of an exercise in evocative writing and the use of adjectives than a story as such. In a nutshell, all we find out is that someone who is in pain comes to an old haunt, where a woman finds him and tells him to run. I felt I may have dropped in on a short piece taken directly from a much longer one, possibly a book? When I started reading my response was, "great start!" But as I read on I realised I was never going to be told who this was, what their pain was, etc, so what I'd thought was a good beginning actually wasn't a beginning at all, sadly - because I liked the intro.

Technically the writing itself (phrasing and word use, grammar, punctuation, paragraphing, etc) is very good, if it were meted out in small doses and sprinkled through an actual story, but taken as a whole the intensity of description becomes overwhelming, and leads nowhere. However, the writer's skill with word use is generally excellent, and the narrative voice has excellent resonance; had this been a properly structured story (beginning, middle, end) it would have garnered far more points.

NB: As you had not sent a digital file, I needed to type the story out, and I have tried to copy-type exactly as the story appears on the paper manuscript you sent, including all typos and errors. This is because all the other stories were simply transposed from their digital files in order to preserve their original presentation, so I needed to achieve something similar with yours. I hope that I have done a good representation!
 

THE STORY:

I breathe deeply, filling my nostrils with the strong scent of wet wood and dead leaves. The smell was once my closest friend. It had allowed me to be filled, offering up no boundaries, my endless supply of comfort if I were ever in need.

Reluctantly, I exhale; the memory is released. To me, the sweet aroma of autumn used to mean warm evenings by the fire, family closeness and home. Now the putrid stink serves only as a reminded that normal life has deserted me, all that I have ever loved is dead and the ragged remnants of my happiness are now decaying.

I draw in again, almost angrily, desperate to bring back the memory. My nose crumples as the stench and the disappointment floods in. Nothing is as it was. My surroundings and me have been stained since that oppressive day. Even my own autumnal friend has turned to a loathsome odour; one I no longer wish to inhale.

I lower my heavy head and sigh. Inattentively, I let my legs lead the way. In an earnest pursuit of solace, they begin trudging along the famililar path toward the lake, my refuge.

The lake, too, had once been a friend. She had been my secret place and my confidant. When feeling lonely or troubled I would visit her and spend my day staring out across her silvery water, allowing time to wash over me. I would let her crisp breeze soothe my troubled throughts, breathing out my burdens as I did the air. I seek her comfort once again but know, deep down, I will not find it.

My hunt for sanctuary continues. The ribbons of grass crunch beneath my bare feet as I tread and the frozen dewdrops glisten as they emulate what little light appears in the space overhead. My toes are cold and crimson; they begin to ache. I care not but simply traipse onward, ignoring the chills running through my scarcely covered body. The coarse wind slaps my skin and flurries in and out of my ears, making them burn. Determined, I press on.

The air is layered in a frigid mist, made from the difference between inside and out. I fumble through it until the outline of the water finally comes into sight. My greying sundress, mud-clad and worn, shreds further on fallen twigs. Broken and scattered, they rise form the ground like bony, arthritic fingers, each of them wrinkled and decrepit. I keep walking, longing to reach my destination, thinking intently on my past as I step further into the gloom.

I look up and see it is necessary to stop. Unfortunately, I am still discomforted by my surroundings. Nonetheless, I carefully seat myself on the hardened ground at the water's edge. I watch languidly as the mist hovers and swirls above the silky blackness thereof. The whole mass changes shape but in denseness, remains the same. Its body engulfs everything it touches, swallowing it into a thick swirl of confusion.

Taking my eyes briefly off the lake, I see that I am encircled by thick forest. It seems more sinister than I remember it. No longer are the entrwined branches a warm embrace, instead sneering faces, claws and ominous creatures stare menacingly at me and wait to grab if I make too sudden a movement.

Dissatisfied by the lack of endearment, I return my sight to the water and remain motionless, no longer aware of the bitter wind biting at my back. As I stare mechanically into nothingness, my thoughts flicker back of their own accord, wanting to recount what is now a dreary nightmare, forever caged in my mind.

Shafts of yellow and white burn through the haze as the rising sun bleeds into the darkness. It steadily melts the lake's surface into a golden pool o flight. The ice, floating sheets of tgrey glass, shifts and cracks like simultaneous gunshots. The sound snaps me out of my daze as it echoes through the lofty wood that crowds around me.

Extended branches of oak and pine drip like blots of ink, raining down from a poised quill onto a vast piece of parchment. I listen intently to the gnetle pitter-patter of the wtaer drops, them being the only thing that remains constant, unchanging and free. They make dainty, pinprick patterns in the frosted blanket that smothers the ground.

Something registers: twigs snapping a short distance away. However, I do not look round to see what approaches me. Instead I find myself buried behind dirty hands. They clasp my poignant face and my scrawny knees tuck themselves tightly up to my chest.

I begin to weep uncontrollably. I know the cause behind my excessive sobs but it pains me to think of it. My subconscious takes over, blocking out the world. Becoming deaf, dumb and blind, it no longer wants to feel what it already knows is tearing me apart.

The crunching of leaves grows nearer. Consecutive. Steady. Unaware, I continue to lapse to and fro- fantasy to reality. I leak into the reverie I was forced to create but am greeted by a gaunt face; one I still yearn to forget. It haunts my every thought, seeping in through the loose folds of my clouded mind.

I jolt in sudden shock as ice-cold fingers clinch my left shoulder. My stomach tightens as the tremor runs through me. My thoughts come flooding back and the cold environment closes around me once again. I hastily recompose myself and begin to lift my head, desperately trying not to give the impression that I fear what lies before me.

Starting at the feet and cautiously progressing upwards, I take in her facade. I note the ruby, velvet cloak with heavy hood that ties elegantly around her long neck. It envelops a black satin gown that slips, snakelike, along her slender body. Taking a quick, crisp breath, I finally allow my sullen gaze to meet her vivid emerald eyes. Eyes so piercing they could see to the very depths of your soul. I bharely manage to suppress a gulp.

She stands above me with a distinct auro of supremacy. Fiery red hair tumbles freely down her straight back. The lush locks, p-erfectly framing her beatific face. Her stark, porcelain skin is such a contrast to the world around her.

She speaks. Short, sharp and loud. Her exasperation fills me. Just one, bleak word escapes her painted lips. It resonates in my head.

Run.
 

Copyright (c) 2009 by Katurah Reeve - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!

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