Contest Story

I blearily opened my eyes and stretched. Sunlight streamed through the window and I watched as two squirrels quarreled, no doubt over a nut, on the branch of our nearby willow tree. It was pretty old considering how long my family has stayed here, in Sanely Hicks number six. Generations and generations back, it was. Even as I look up at the yellow, cobwebbed ceiling, I remember how hard I persuaded my parents to move into a new house. I still do, in fact. The spiders and the centipedes give me the creeps. Even the school is horrible. I used to be in a lovely boarding school, far, far away from here, it was, but then my mother decided she missed me a lot (she didn’t have a job, so it was pretty boring for her when she was alone, and I don’t blame her – I wouldn’t like to be locked up in a almost-breaking-down house with creepy crawlies all over the place) and she brought me back to a horrible day school with loads of stuck-up children. If there’s one thing I hate, its stuck-up people. Oh right, with the exception of insects, of course. I shuddered. Thinking of insects itself, gave me mad imaginations of a large furry spider lurking underneath my bed, to grab my foot when I placed it on the ground, pulling me under to swallow me up with its large pincers.

Etch… the horribly creepy feeling of it all. Trying hard not to think of spiders, I placed my feet on the grey tiled ground and walked (rather quickly, I must admit) to the toilet. After I brushed and took a quick bath (trying not to look around; often I found millipede’s hiding in the corners), I went and carefully opened the door to the balcony of my room. I liked to do this, especially in the morning, since it all made me feel better. If I went over right to the green railings and stood up on them (holding the wall next to them for balance), I felt I could fly, with my silvery hair blowing back because of the cold breezy morning wind. I knew it was terribly dangerous, for one tip or error in balance and I would fall to my ultimate death. The house was enormous, indeed, many people said it was a mansion (though for a fact I know it isn’t; the inside is smaller than the outside), and my room was on the third floor which was the highest floor, in level with the old willow tree. I would say it was an addiction that I did it every time, though I guess many people wouldn’t understand that. Like, for once, I tried to stop doing it (long story, shortened; I was caught once for doing it and was scolded terribly), I felt dry, dry like an apple which had never been dipped into water. So, I just had to feel the strength of flying. That was the only one thing I loved of the house; it gave me the magic to fly. Not real flying (like the birds and the bees), of course, but the feel of flying. The feeling that you can do anything without trying. The feeling of the cool air whipping your face and not reminding you of the homework left undone, of the cleaning chores to do, of the horrid school that awaits you.

I leant against the railings, looking down. The greenery of the lawn still amazes me; how can a terrible structure of a house have such beautiful meadows? I watched as the gardener was plucking weeds far below. I saw the dog, Jukere, chasing its tail as usual, and I stifled a smile. I still wondered why my great grandfather named him that and couldn’t help but think again what a lovely old fool he was. The dog, I meant. My grand father wasn’t a fool at all; in fact he was one of the great professors of Harvard University and is currently living somewhere in Russia. He has three wives (one was an Egyptian queen whose name was Yeterkra; and I am guessing that’s where my great granddad mixed up the name of the terrier) and that still amazes me. He had retired, however, after thirteen years of teaching in Harvard and decided that he wanted a quiet life, so he boarded a plane and settled in Russia. He used to live here in Wisconcin but that was when he was just a “lass” as the cook, Mrs. Landry, says. She had been hired by my great granddad’s dad, so she is really old. Actually, you needn’t need a family history info to know that; by looking at her face you could tell. But, I don’t judge by appearances; she’s a great cook. Well, anyway, great grandpa’s dog, however, stayed here and so he is still staying here. It did a back flip and I grinned. I didn’t try and go on top of the railings, for the nosey gardener, Mr. Ravel, was there and boy, oh, boy if there ever was a guy for a ratting out stuff, it was him. I would have called him a gossip maker and he was more like an old lady than a jolly man – judging by his personality.

I watched as the gardener walked away to the farther side, finishing his duty with the weed plucking. I placed my bare foot on the ledge of the railings and heaved myself up, holding firmly on the wall. As you might know, a wall is pretty rough, I don’t know what to call it, but it has the roughness of dry paint so sometimes, the white stuff comes on your hands. So, if you don’t hold properly you might slip, and I’ve always cautioned myself because of this.
I tried balancing myself. But suddenly, I lost my grip on the left wall and though my nails scrabbled against it helplessly, I couldn’t regain myself, and my hand went forward like yours would if you were about to fall.
And when one side of my body twisted to the side, my right hand just sort of… slipped against the wall, the paint coming off on my hands too. And I went careening down… to most certainly, my death.