the kattenberg papers 2005-2006 page · i never really have liked writing essays, myself. writing...

The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006 Page

The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006

Kattenberg Papers2005-2006

The Beginning, the End and Everything in Between


This year the theme to the The Kattenberg Papers is The Beginning, the End and Every-thing in Between. The student editors decided on this theme because they wanted to emphasizethe importance of writing and how it touches every aspect of our lives. This is the 24th volume ofthe anthology and it contains a wide variety of writings selected from the works of seventh, eighthand ninth grade students enrolled in the Middle School of the International School of Brussels.Given the international character of the school, the volume contains pieces written in French andEnglish as well as pieces from students who are learning English as a Second Language.

The members of the Middle School English Department are consistently impressed with thequality of the work produced by our Middle School students and the anthology is an opportunityfor students to showcase their talents. Since many of these writers are still learning and experi-menting with the craft, sometimes a reader may run across an awkward sentence or clumsy transi-tion and although these flaws could have been edited, we felt it more important to retain the au-thentic nature of our students’ writing.

I would like to express my gratitude to the members of the English, ESL and French De-partments for their assistance in promoting the publication. I must also thank our talented andcreative editorial/ production staff, for doing such an outstanding job. They include our fearlessninth graders Émilie Couture, Sam Baker, Cristina Wingerter and Francesca Löchen; our enthusi-astic eighth graders Sophia Lewis and Antonia Tjong and our industrious seventh graders HarryCross and Matthew Finney. They approached the project with enthusiasm and the anthology is acredit to their hard work. A special thanks to Émilie for working after-hours on the layout andÉmilie and Sam for editing the French pieces. I would also like to thank the students who submit-ted their work for publication. I appreciate the risks they have taken in allowing their peers cri-tique their thoughts. They should be commended for their effort. We hope you, the readers, shareour enthusiasm for this year’s entries in the 2005-2006 edition of The Kattenberg Papers. Thepieces that follow should certainly intrigue and delight you.

Finally I bid adieu as this year I am moving from Belgium and returning to the UnitedStates. I find this year’s theme fitting, as my time at ISB is coming to an end, but many of you arejust beginning the MS experience, while some are halfway through it. My time at the MS hasbeen wonderful and leaving will certainly be bittersweet. I thank all of the students, past and pre-sent, who have worked on Kattenberg Papers, either writing or editing because your enthusiasmfor the craft is inspiring and I will always cherish the memories of ISB that you have helped cre-ate. I hope writing will continue to be a part of your lives. Eldridge Cleaver may have said it best,“That is why I started to write...I had to find out who I am and what I want to be.” I do hopeworking on the Kattenberg Papers has helped you find out who you are and what you might wantto be. All the best for now and the future,

Sarah ThomasInternational School of BrusselsMiddle School English and JournalismJune 2006

The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006 Editorial/Production TeamFrancesca Löchen, Sophia Lewis, Cristina Wingerter, Harry Cross,

Sam Baker, Antonia Tjong, Mathew Finney & Émilie Couture

Cover artwork: Josine BlokBack page artwork: Jonathan Tsai (2003)


Table of Contents

Title Author Grade Page

EssaysThe Gentle Art of Essaying Samuel Baker 9th 5Just another day at Malagne… Jimmy De Jonge 9th 6Hopes and Fears for the Future Christopher Stromeyer 8th 8

Character SketchesCharacter Sketch Alexina Thielemans 9th 10The Unknown Sailor of Seas Drew Zaremba 9th 11

Explanation MythsWhy We have Snow Max Passler 7th 12How Trees Came Into Existence Ned Kelly 7th 13Game Alice Sudlow 8th 14

FictionThe Small Quiet Town Drew Zaremba 9th 15Gypsy Blood Is Best Served Cold Samuel Baker 9th 18The Seventh Bullet Erik Engberg 9th 21A Call for Help Alexina Thielemans 9th 25

PersonificationBabe the Baseball Ned Kelly 7th 27Kemal, a Candlestick’s Story Will de Ferranti 7th 28

JournalismFreedom of Speech? Jimmy de Jonge 9th 29

ESLUntitled Young Hyun Choi 8th 30

FrenchRédaction sur la couleur locale Catherine Laloux 8th 31La Couleur Locale: L’Inde Samuel Baker 9th 32La Cabane à Sucre Émilie Couture 9th 33Lisa mon Robot Victoria Strigini 9th 35


The Gentle Art of Essaying

When people leave school, they celebrate the end of many things: writing scientific re-ports, getting half the sleep they feel they should, doing painstaking research that turns out to beunnecessary anyway, finishing French homework in a mad panic on the bus… (Most of the cele-brants end up doing that sort of thing at university afterwards, though, but they like to imaginethat the work is over.) One reason for which students are particularly happy is that they need notwrite any more essays. (—or so they think. Those who plan to study English at university are, ofcourse, doomed, but most others, who think themselves free at last from that particular chore, tendto be a little disappointed....) Writing an essay is rarely enjoyable.

I never really have liked writing essays, myself. Writing an essay is not, in itself difficult,but the process is extremely long. Collecting my thoughts is not a problem — finding the thoughtsin the first place is. Finding arguments and reasons requires careful (and, more often than not, te-dious) consideration of the circumstances related to in the essay.

I don’t like “planning” my essays—deciding what each paragraph is about—becauseideas never arrive. I throw caution to the winds and plough on regardless, letting inspiration reachme with each new sentence (as is the case now). If I do think of a subject for the next paragraph, Irarely am able to remember it, and if I am, it is usually after I have already written the paragraph,and using it often involves getting rid of a sentence that I thought particularly effective and wellwritten, so I ignore it, making it useless anyway.

Finding inspiration does not apply only for individual sentences, though. Some time ago,I was trying (and failing utterly) to find a topic for an essay. I simply did not know what on earthto write about. I did find a topic, and managed to write a rough draft two pages long, but, aftertyping it, on the night before I was to give it in, I read it once and thought: “This is the worst es-say that I’ve ever read in my life!” I promptly threw it away and started again from scratch (andgot a reasonably good mark for it, actually).

Inspiration is not the only problem, though. In an essay that I wrote a few years ago, Ifound a good place to use a word that I remembered having learnt recently. Remembering theword proved difficult, however, so I looked in a thesaurus, hoping to find it. After half an hour offruitless search, it transpired that no such word existed and that it must have been thinking about adifferent one.

As previously mentioned, writing an essay is not really difficult, but can be time-consuming and annoying, if it is to be done with any relative success (which I do not claim to at-tain, but the process is still time-consuming and annoying). I am quite certain that just about eve-ryone feels like this—even English teachers (though they might not like to admit it).

By Samuel Baker


Just Another Day at Malagne

The sun was at its zenith. The day was at its hottest, burning over the backs of the slavestoiling in the well tended fields at Malagne, and where Flavia was standing, it was hotter still.

She was standing in front of a forge, aiding her friend and fellow slave Avitus in the shoe-ing of her master’s horses. She was entirely new to the business, normally being a house slavewho never did any farm labor or ironwork. However, Avitus’s helper had fallen ill, and fromamongst the other slaves, she had been chosen, as there were no farm hands to spare. After all,although she was new to the trade, it didn’t take a genius’s mind to keep operating a bellows.

Flavia hated her new job from the minute she first set foot in the smithy. Although shewas not lazy, she had a profound dislike for strenuous tasks such as this one. She preferred thequietness of the cookhouse, or even the work in the fields, as she was a native of Gaul with ahearty dislike for hot, closed spaces, despite the fact that it was pleasant enough with Avitus forcompany. However, such was her lot, and as a serva you didn’t get much job choice. The master,who was by himself a decent enough fellow, left all the sticky business of handling the slaves toGaius, his overseer, and every slave’s nightmare. One-eye, as the slaves called him in reference tothe eye he had lost during his army days, was by unanimous vote the most ruthless slavemasteralive. He was the one who had beaten Titus, Flavia’s best friend, to death, and enjoyed inflictingthe most painful punishments his evil mind could think up on the other caught runaways. Flaviahad long since sworn revenge for Titus’s death, and although she was only a simple serva, Flaviahad a determination about her stronger then that of most men, although she had learnt to bide hertime and wait for the opportune moment. Besides, if she did something, she’d have to get it rightin one go, as Gaius never gave up hunting you once he had begun, and all but a few of the slaveswere terrified of him.

‘Clink! Clink!’ said the hammer as it danced down upon the iron. Avitus’s forehead wasdripping with perspiration as he beat the final horseshoe into shape for his master’s brown cob.Another slave quickly lifted the horse’s foot, and with a few firm strokes, Avitus nailed the shoeonto the foot. Flavia sighed with relief, only one more horse and then they could take a break. Themaster had a rare quality for a Roman, he had some empathy. The slaves could take a thirty min-ute break at noon, and unhappy though Gaius was with it, orders were orders, although the masterinterfered very little in slave matters and the day to day running of the villa. Besides, it was also agood way to make sure every slave was present.

As she turned back to the bellows, Flavia uttered a quiet curse. Outside she could hearwell a sound she dreaded, the heavy stump of Gaius’s army boots, and no more then five secondslater his ugly, scarred face poked around the doorway. Gaius’s face was perhaps the ugliest part ofhim, battle scarred from the twenty years of army service. A missing eye was just the cherry onthe cake, as he also had most of one ear and a large chunk of nose missing. He had never beenpromoted during his entire career, but had stayed a powerful figure due to his ruthlessness andstrength.

“Hello, my little ones,” he leered at them, as he set the beaker and flask of cervesus (beer)he was carrying down on a disused anvil. Flavia cursed quietly, it would be some time before theycould begin to think about a break. Worse, when he was drunk, Gaius was even more ruthless, ifpossible. “What does we be doing today? Horseshoes? Oh, fun, lets just see we be doing it right,ya???” Since his arrival at Malagne three years ago, Gaius had always had a terrible Germanicaccent, as he was not a Roman by birth, but a Visigoth mercenary who had been accepted as aRoman citizen. He strode in his customary uncouth way to the anvil, reeking alcoholic fumes, asAvitus began pounding the mare’s second horseshoe into shape. He leaned casually against thefurnace wall, looking relaxed, but inwardly poised to strike at whoever the first of his victimsmight be.

They were well into their second task of the day, the repairing of the kettles and cooking


pots, when disaster struck. Avitus’s concentration slipped for a moment too long, and instead ofhitting the kettle in question head on, he struck it at an angle, making a nasty dent in the heatediron. Gaius pounced immediately. With a terrible crack the short whip he carried came down onAvitus’s shoulders as Gaius began ranting at him.

“Dolt! Imbecile! You are supposed to repair ze kettles, not ruin them! You thick mud-brain bunglepaws!!!” he spat as he laid on each stroke with customary vigorousness.

Flavia saw her chance. Grabbing the beer flagon, she brought it down onto Gaius’s headwith amazing ferocity. Gaius roared like a wounded bull, and drunkenly turned towards her.Flavia punched, putting all her hate behind the punch as it hit Gaius square on the nose. Dazedly,he staggered back, but even as he was doing so he pulled out his knife. Pulling himself upright, hesmiled as a lion would when it has finally cornered its prey.

Suddenly, a forge hammer flew through the air, and with a terrible crunch, it thudded intoGaius’s jawbone. He dropped the knife, his face frozen in a cross between a leer and a scream.The blow had sent him head-on into a collision course with the red-hot inside of the forge. Whatwas left of his mouth opened in a single soundless scream, and then he was reunited with his uglyancestors for eternity in the dark reaches of the underworld.

By Jimmy De Jonge


Hopes and Fears for the Future

The future is a topic that everyone thinks about every now and then. People wonder whatwill happen to them, their families and humankind in general in the future. They all have hopesthat they would like accomplished and fears they pray will never happen. Some of the events oraccomplishments that my generation and my children’s generation hope for include finding a curefor cancer, further exploring space, having more environmental power and putting an end to de-forestation. Every time there are hopes, of course, fears also exist. We think about the many yearsthat humankind might suffer if these fears become a reality. A nuclear war, the increase of pov-erty, global warming and the growth of terrorism are some of the events that my generation fears.Therefore, in order for the hopes to be achieved and for the fears not to be realized, humankindhas to put more money and effort into medicine, space exploration and environmental power. Ourgeneration also has to fight against poverty and deforestation and finding a way to prevent forglobal warming. Lastly the present and future governments have to try to make peace with othercountries to reduce the increase of terrorism attacks.

The people of the world hope during some stage of their lives that their desires and goalswill be accomplished. Some of the accomplishments that my generation holds may make in thefuture are to find a cure for cancer, exploration of space, environmental power and putting an endto deforestation. Cancer is the second leading cause of death in developed countries. My genera-tion hopes to see a cure for this terrible sickness that still kills so many people. An advantage forfinding a cure for cancer would be that many young people that could still bring a significantamount of knowledge to our world, would have a considerably better chance to survive. Theirfamilies and especially their children would still be able to learn many things from their elderswho currently would die of this disease. These family members would not have to mourn becauseof the demise of their loved ones. Another reason why a cure for cancer would be beneficial isthat governments, hospitals and individuals will save a considerable amount of money, since thetreatment of cancer is very expensive. Another hope that my generation has is the exploration ofspace. Now that some humans have been to space, there are many hopes to what space explora-tion can bring us. My generation hopes that, if we further explore space, we will find other livingbeings. We hope that these inhabitants of space creatures could teach us many things that theyhave accomplished. The knowledge we would get from them, would enhance our own develop-ment. Another benefit of exploring space is that we might some day land on other planets. Onthese planets we might find materials that do not exist on earth and that could be very useful forour society, especially for construction and medical purposes. A more environmental hope is thefurther construction of environmental power. It would be very beneficial for our society if moredams, windmills and solar panels could be constructed. This would enable us to use fossil fuels,like oil gas and coal, where a substitute has not been found yet. It would also be beneficial be-cause the gas released by the fossil fuels would stop creating acid rain which destroys trees anddamages our fresh water reserves. The final hope that my generation has is to put an end to defor-estation. Every year millions of acres of forest are destroyed, either to make space for the con-struction of houses, streets and farmland, or for the important business of selling wood. It wouldbe beneficial for our future because all the beautiful vegetation and the animals living in thoseforests could be preserved. Another positive impact of preserving the forests is that we need thesetrees to recycle our carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. If these trees are destroyed, we mighthave an excess of carbon dioxide that would lead to more people suffering from asthma. Howeverevery time there are dreams there are nightmares and every time there are hopes, fears exist.

Fears are harmful possibilities that haunt us because of their destructiveness. Some of theevents that my generation fears are a nuclear war, growth of poverty, global warming and thegrowth of terrorism. During the Cold war, the biggest fear on earth was a nuclear war betweenboth super powers, The U.S.S.R. and the U.S. had many nuclear weapons. My generation still has


the same fear, only this time it is because of Iran and North Korea. One negative consequenceabout a nuclear war is that millions and maybe even billions of people would die because of theforces of the explosions and its huge radioactivity. The second negative consequence is that theworld would never be the same; this would happen because many survivors would be unable tolive on an earth with radioactivity. Another fear that is becoming reality is the continuing increaseof poverty all over the world. This means that millions more human beings will suffer and eventu-ally die at an early age because of diseases and lack of food and/or water. One of the negativeconsequences about the increase of poverty is that more poor families will try to have more chil-dren to support them economically. This will lead to even more poverty, more illiterate peopleand less food for these people. A third fear is the environmental fear of global warming. For manyyears, scientists have been predicting that this would happen. Now it has started and a great fear isspreading about global warming’s consequences in the future. A negative event that might killmany people is that if global warming continues, the ice poles will continue to melt down. Thiswill cause the sea level to rise and to flood many low lying countries including parts of Belgium,most of the Netherlands and some of Spain. A second fear about global warming is the huge in-crease of hurricanes, typhoons and other tropical storms that kill tens of thousands of humansevery year. When global warming increases, the tropical storms will increase as well, resulting inthe death of many more people and destroying millions more homes. One last fear in the future isthe very deadly increase of terrorism. Today terrorism already kills thousands of people everyyear. If it continues to grow, there will be many more attacks and more people will die. Anotherconsequence is that governments will have to send more troops to try to eliminate the terrorists.This might result in the demise of innocent people. These fears will always be in our nightmaresand my generation can only hope that they will not be realized.

There are many hopes and many fears that our generation will probably have to encounterin the future. Some of the hopes are finding a cure for cancer, exploration of space, more environ-mental power and to put a stop to deforestation. The fears that our generation will have to battleagainst, are a nuclear war, increase of poverty, global warming and an increase of terrorism. Inorder to accomplish the hopes and let the fears pass, everyone, not only significant figures, willhave to try to improve and change the world so that our wishes will become true. In order for thehopes to be accomplished, my generation’s society has to put more pressure on the government toput more money into finding a cure for cancer, exploring space, banning deforestation. On theother hand for our fears not to happen, our society has to elect governments which will promotepeace all over the world. My generation also has to try to raise public awareness about povertyand global warming so that more people can help prevent these matters becoming a reality. Inorder for the future to be positive, everyone has to act now to eliminate the fears and accomplishthe hopes.

By Christopher Stromeyer


Character Sketch

Amber sat in the rain. It was almost midnight, her favorite time of the day. She got up;her long ebony hair soaked by the rain was plastered to her pallid face. Rain trickled down herdelicate cheeks to rest onto her cherry red lips. Gracefully she walked towards the lake, which layin the middle of the damp forest. Her long white gown swayed in the faint breeze, gently brushingagainst shrubs, which lay in her way. From a distance, she looked ghostlike with a faint glow toher. You could have mistaken her for an angel descending from the heavens.

Every night, Amber would come down here and whisper to her; the forgotten soul, whoseashes were scattered in this very place. The grave she had always wanted. Amber sobbed remem-bering that day where it had all ended.

She stayed there a few minutes before deciding to head back home. It was then that shesaw him. The mysterious guy she had seen so many days. He was standing by the lake, waiting.Amber called out to him, “Hey! You! What are you doing there?” Her voice was delicate and soft,with a slight hint of a Spanish accent.

He did not respond and neither did he move. His immobility was frightening. “Maybe Ishould go back”, Amber thought to herself. Just as she was about to turn around, a low huskyvoice called out to her. “Wait, come back.”

Sullenly, she turned around and made out the figure in the bushes. She recognized himbut wasn’t sure where she had seen him. She gazed at him with her large gray eyes. As though ina trance, she advanced towards him. There was something about him, which lured her to him.

Boldly, Amber said, “What are you doing here?”The boy grinned at her, mockingly and replied, “I believe the question is: what are you

doing here?”Amber hated being mocked. “How dare he mock me! Does he think I’m weak and can’t

stand up for myself?”“I always come here,” Amber retorted.He came forward and grabbed her arm. “Let go of me!” Amber shrieked trying to free

herself by punching and kicking him. She was frightened. “What is he going to do to me?”Suddenly his grasp on her arm loosened and she stumbled backwards, landing in the

moist grass. She looked up towards him and glared. He didn’t seem to care. All he did was standthere smiling down at her.

Hastily, Amber got up and started to run.By Alexina Thielemans


The Unknown Sailor of the Seas

He sat on the stone. It was a smooth flat stone, made of granite. It was unusual in theway that granite is usually jagged in its natural state. It was quite strange, a granite stone on thecoast of the Ocean. As I approached him, I was able to examine him. He looked very aged, per-haps because of the marble color of his hair, and the flabby parts of discolored skin. As I gotcloser, I noticed he had very strong legs that stuck out at an abnormal, twisted angle.

“Haye, it is a bertaful zing, ze ozean, no?” As he spoke, he startled me; I had no idea heknew of my presence. He then turned and faced me. “Haye, I do know you not, yis? Yis, I do not.” When I peered at his face, he shocked meby just staring. He had a gnarled face, with dozens of scars. His mouth was the only part of hisface that seemed ordinary, while his nose was very flat, as if some of it was chopped off; not bya knife, but more like a sword. However, his most malformed feature was his eyes, or his eye, Ishould say. His left eye was left as a brilliant, azure wonder, but his right had been replacedwith a sphere of polished tiger’s eye. [Tiger’s eye is a precious stone that looks not like a humaneye, but a cat’s eye, with the retina in a vertical line.] I gazed into his deathly eye of stone andwas caught in an abyss between pure terror, and wondrous beauty. “Come, come. You come to me houze, and we talk and eat zere, yis?” Still caught in thatstrange abyss, I could do nothing but bob my head up and down in agreement. As he jumpedoff his unnatural granite, I noticed he only had one good leg as well. While one was as muscu-lar as an elephant, the other was made of charred oak. As he hobbled along with his peg leg, Ifollowed him at a small distance. Occasionally, he would grunt, as though becoming wearyfrom his trip. As we walked along the sandy beaches of the disturbed sea, I noticed a small, hid-den wooden cabin overlooking the sea from a towering emerald hill. My teeth began to chatterin the bitter wind, and I gazed at the strange man once again. His clothes were simple: he bore asapphire tunic, matching the color of the sea, with a pair of commonplace moccasins to match.His only elaborate possession was his cane: a slim, half burnt piece of ash with a magnificentblack pearl embedded on the top. “By ze way, by what do zey call you?” he rasped, stopping suddenly. “My name is Martin,” I replied uneasily. “Zey call me…Poseidous.” As he uttered the peculiar name, the seas pacified, and thewind immediately became tranquil. As I took aware of my changing surroundings, it occurredto me that he was a sage, of whom no one knows about. With unnatural speed for an old man,he whirled around, and faced the western sea. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “I have de-feated you, Captain Odyzeus! May your kursed zhip zail on ze zea forever!!! From Earth’sreign over Hell’s heart, I laugh at zee!!” I was shocked to find him put such gallant passion intosuch words. Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching his pearl staff. I rushed over to see what thematter was. He spoke to me in an intensified voice that belonged neither to man nor beast, andsaid, “Of no one zpeak zis! My young friend, go! Fly like the heavens!”

By Drew Zaremba


Why We Have Snow

Ares, the God of War, was very irritated one afternoon. He had a habit of wearing his warsteel helmet to bed and the helmet rubbed against his scalp, causing a very strong case of dan-druff. Ares thought that it would go away in a few days, but it did not. He could not eat or drinkbecause the dry skin fell into his food and wine. He could not sleep, because his scalp was bleed-ing so badly that he was in pain and the blood stained his pillow. He could not take it anymore.He prayed that something could be done about his horrible condition.

Then suddenly, out of the sea, emerged Poseidon! Poseidon offered to wash the dandruffaway with his magical trident water. “I’m afraid of water,” said Ares, but Poseidon was deter-mined to wash the dandruff away, and soared after Ares, as he was flying away. They were highup in the sky at freezing temperatures, when suddenly, Poseidon aimed his trident at Ares’s scalp.A huge, powerful shot of water washed the dandruff from his head and into the clouds. Aresthanked him and said he was sorry that he had run away.

The dandruff in the clouds remained, clinging to the clouds and making them a heavy,full grey colour. That night, it was so cold up in the sky, that the pressure caused tiny particles ofthe grey cloud and dandruff to fall as tiny white flakes! When the cloud had disappeared, the dan-druff substance was high up in the sky and had spread all over the world.

Whenever the nights became cold, just as they did on the night that the first flakes wereformed, white flakes fall to the ground.

By Max Passler


How Trees Came Into Existence

In the beginning, the earth was dull with little animals and nutrients. The inhabitants of theearth were being exterminated slowly by the non-beneficial landscape created by Zeus. Zeusrealized this eventually, and stood up for his creation. He needed something to give the humansoxygen and nutrients. He came up with the idea and produced millions of trees for the humans.But who would place the trees onto the earth? Zeus then sent Hermes to wake his vulgar andravenous son, Glaucus, who had no job on Mount Olympus. Glaucus was fat, ugly and twenty-five feet tall. All Glaucus did all day was sleep and eat. Zeus told Glaucus to deliver the sack oftrees to earth. Glaucus glumly started the errand that his father told him.

On the way to earth, Glaucus was fiddling with the unknown objects that his father gavehim. He found them fascinating, and started to eat the sweet fruits and nuts off the trees. Glaucusadored the trees, and once he set foot on earth, he decided to keep the trees for himself. One of thehumans saw Glaucus with the trees and he asked, “What are those you are eating?” Glaucus saidwith a sinister smirk, “They’re trees with lots of sweet food, and you’re not getting any! You canjust die of hunger for all I care!” The human was furious and also was desperate for the food. Thehuman sprinted quickly to the village and called all the knights. He told them about the trees andwhat wonders the trees bring. The knights were intrigued, and put on their armor and grabbedtheir weapons to slay the giant for the precious trees.

There were ten knights in total, all equipped with either a sword or spear. This task wasvery hard, for Glaucus was very hard to slay because of his immortal father and mother. WhenGlaucus saw the humans charging aggressively at him, he picked up a tree and crushed thehumans with ease. The knights were absolutely slaughtered by Glaucus, who afterwards ate thehumans.

The next day, Glaucus stormed through the village looking for wine. He crashed open thegate to the vineyard, and stole a bundle of wine bottles and stuffed them in his sack. The ownercame out of his hut and scolded the giant and started throwing rocks at him. Glaucus snatchedhim and swallowed him whole. Glaucus was drunk and started to get drowsy during the night. Hefell into a long sleep. The humans found the chance to strike once again.

They quietly crept over to where Glaucus deeply slept . There was no point in trying to killGlaucus by using weapons, so they decided to dig a huge hole and bury him in it. But when thehumans came to Glaucus, the sack was empty and the trees were burned to use as a bonfire. Thehumans were extremely disappointed, but they still were filled with raging anger that burnedwithin them against Glaucus, who stole from them and killed their loved ones. They pushed himinto the hole they dug and buried him in dirt and mud.

When Zeus saw that his son had destroyed all of his trees, he sent Hermes to dig up hisdrunken and dazed son and bring him to Mount Olympus. Zeus was outraged and raginglybellowed at his son for destroying his creations that were worked on to the bones of his fingers.For a punishment he sent one of his servants to rip open Glaucus’ stomach and retrieve all of theseeds that Glaucus ate. Glaucus then had to plant the seeds all over the earth with the watchful eyeof his father.

That is how the trees came into existence.By Ned Kelly


Game

Silence. Black and white checkered silence. A pause. Then — a small blue-green planetwinked into existence with a tiny pop. Things began to move on the planet. The sun shone. Thegrass grew. Happy creatures prospered. Then the planet grew hard and silver. Small probes leftthe planet to circle the space around it. The creatures grew sad. A huge gray cloud began tosmother the planet. Waves of disease began to wipe the creatures out. Then, with a tremendousBANG, the entire planet disappeared.

There was a pause. Silence. Black and white checkered silence. Then — a deep, boomingvoice proclaimed, “Checkmate”.

By Alice Sudlow


The Small Quiet Town

My quiet little town. It has always been quiet here, in Austria. Nothing happening, alwaysquiet. Sometimes, too quiet. But when someone tries to stir up trouble, something bad happens.Consequently, no one tries to stir up trouble anymore. It’s always been that way, and it’ll remainthat way.

Our town isn’t the most glamorous of towns, but it’s not as bad as other towns, with dirtstreets, and farming as the only source of income. Oh no, we enjoy living in our quiet, beautifulmountain town. The inhabitants are like any other town of this time period; gossiping, afraid, anice people, but nothing really setting them apart from the world, other than the mountains theylive in. My dad works in a small organization he started himself, and he mines the mountains forcertain minerals. Recently he’s been quite successful, thanks to a late discovery of silver. No oneis quite sure why, but rumor has it that an old man who has lived here for a very long time is thecause of this silver. Of course, this is rubbish. How could silly old Mr. Strix generate preciousmetals to spring from the ground?! Besides, if it was him, why not gold instead of silver? Somepeople can be ever so silly…

Then again, he is rather odd. Just the other day, walking down the road, I saw him snarl-ing at birds. He then stared at me, revealing his pearly-white teeth. I turned my head away, spedup my pace, and I thought to myself Hmm, what a strange old man. Ol’ Strix has been in thistown for as long as anyone can remember, and that’s at least 80 years. He is rather tall, and whenhe speaks, he does so with a very heavy British accent, but it sounds like he is in his 40’s! Hisvoice is very clear and isn’t raspy, like most other men his age. He has marble-colored hair that isneatly combed the same way every single day, and has a large, straight moustache. Hardly any-one sees him during the day, for usually he walks into the forest in the early morning and comesback late at night. He is a very unusual man, perhaps too unusual for our quiet mountain town,but then again, he is silent enough to not cause trouble. At least, so far.

One night, right as I fell into my bed to do a little reading, a blackout occurred, and, natu-rally, all the people gathered into the main square. All in a group, the townspeople came togetherwith their candles, when some of them shrieked when Mr. Strix came running towards them. Al-though it was a surprising feat for his age, he kept on running, and shouted at the top of his lungs,“The mayor has been killed! The mayor has been killed!” Immediately, everyone scrambled andran after Mr. Strix, who beckoned the people to follow him. They arrived at my father’s mines,and we saw the mayor covered in a glimmering substance, only to find that it was blood. His legsappeared to be shorter from a distance, and we realized that they were torn off, and missing.There were huge marks on his upper arms, almost like bite marks. While everyone stared at himwith horrified looks, I took the opportunity to study Mr. Strix. He was standing casually, when hewiped his mouth with his sleeve. When his arm drew back, I spotted a blood stain. I then in-quired about it. “Sir, you are bleeding.” He then whirled around again with unnatural speed for hisage and spoke to me in a gruff voice, “Yes indeed, young lad, but I will be fine. Go on home andforget about this.” Yeah right, the mayor was a good man… I thought to myself while walkinghome. I then returned to my bed, to find the power had been restored. I lay in bed, thinking tomyself, Was Mr. Strix the perpetrator of this act? But then, I became realistic, and thought whywould Mr. Strix alert the people to his presence? Surely he would want a murder to have beenkept as discreet as possible.

Over the next few weeks, nothing as unordinary as the death of the mayor occurred again.Until Thursday night, nothing unusual happened at all. As a matter of fact, nothing weird hap-pened until the moon was out. That’s when I heard the scratching noise. And that’s when I sawMr. Strix dragging the claw of an animal through the streets Thursday night. The claw dug intothe concrete, making a noise like scratching on a whiteboard, that noise that makes you shudder.He was easy to spot, with the full moon shining brightly. Once again, I began to think about howunusual the old man was, and then I was able to catch a glimpse of his face. I immediately dove


back under my covers and hoped with my entire mind I would forget what I just saw.

His mouth was bloody, his teeth were fangs, and his entire head was covered in a mucus-like blood layer. Worst of all, his eyes. They bore ahead like two deep pits that never ended. Alldark and diseased around the edges of his eyes, he looked nothing like a human. Then, it hit me,as the moonlight shone into my room. He was a werewolf.

I darted my head out the window again and looked out into the streets, to find that he haddisappeared. But it all made sense. The full moon, the attack on the mayor, it all fit. Even whenhe said he had a bloody lip, he really was wiping off the blood of the mayor he had eaten. Whenhe told me to forget about it, he meant his bloody lip, that wasn’t even his blood at all! Oh, it wastoo horrible to be true! How could this happen to our quiet mountain town?! Usually when trou-ble is stirred up, the mischief that follows is resolved, but so far, there is no resolution! I must tellthe townspeople! But no, they would never believe me. Werewolves existing? In mountainTHIER quiet town? Never.

Then, there was a shivering howl that rang through the night. It was like when you’re tak-ing a hot shower and suddenly, your heater fails. The moon shone brightly, and it looked beauti-ful from a distance, with its massive craters visible. I realized then what I must do. I must killMr. Strix before he causes any more trouble. I must set the natural course of our town back intoplace, no matter what the cost. I was determined, and now, the only thing between Mr. Strix andme, was a silver bullet. This silver could only come from one place: My dad’s mines.

Following my discovery, I tended to avoid Mr. Strix, while meanwhile I never stoppedbadgering my dad for a small piece of silver, just a small bullet, on a small necklace. I told him itwas to be a present for a distant friend, but he wouldn’t buy it. I kept on trying, until a few weekslater, he told me I would have to wait just one more night. I was restless when I went to sleep thatnight, but during the night, I began to hear glass shattering, and loud crashes. I crept downstairsto find my house in ruins, and my father covered in blood in the same manner as the mayor was.At first I was too shocked to think at all, but then I realized that Mr. Strix knew I was on his case!Then suddenly, my father tried to speak to me, and said in staggering words, “Son, I want you tohave this,” as he spoke, he withdrew a small pistol, “To kill Mr. Strix. I’ve been on his case, likeyou have I see, and he knew I was attacking tonight. As a pre-emptive strike, he attacked me andtried to find the gun, but he failed. Fill my place tonight son, and get him.” I immediately calledthe local hospital, and as soon as I received confirmation that they were coming, I grabbed thegun, and hastily left the house.

Cautiously, I approached Mr. Strix’s house, and I withdrew my gun. Suddenly, withoutwarning, a massive gray beast lunged out of the door, and leaped at me. I tried to jump out of theway, but instead, his head collided with my legs. We both staggered back, dazed from the colli-sion, but the gun was still in my hand. He attacked my arm holding it, and almost bit off my handif I hadn’t yanked his tail. Howling in pain, the werewolf hopped back, and then, it did somethingvery abnormal. It stared at the moon, and I took the moment to aim at the wolf’s figure, when Igazed with astonishment at the night’s transformation. The night began to get darker, and darker,and I looked up at the moon, and a cloud passed over it, concealing the light from the night. Thewolf was now standing on two legs, and hair began to fall out. Underneath the hair was a layer ofclothes surrounding the body. The snout began to shrink as if it were clay being pressed by asculptor. The legs thickened, and the joints became straighter, and once the transformation wascomplete, Mr. Strix stood right where the werewolf was, with a small smirk across his face.

I raised my gun. “You killed the mayor. You almost killed my father. You will pay fordisturbing the peace of our town.”

He laughed, “You are too young to kill me. You do not understand what I am and what Ido. Kill me if you wish.”

For a moment I just wanted to kill him right then and there. But, I couldn’t just kill him. Ittakes complete determination to kill someone, and right now he was harmless Mr. Strix, not a sav-


age man-eating werewolf. I dropped my gun, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter, and satdown. He then walked over and picked up the gun.

“Young lad, you do not understand me. I don’t control myself when I transform. I, likeyou, believe in the good of the town. I thought I could control myself, but…it’s impossible.Goodbye, young lad,” he said solemnly.

He walked away from the city, the gun still in his hand, into the surrounding forest. I stillsat there, shocked from my strange encounter. Eventually, I got up, and walked home, hoping toforget it all, while deep down, I knew the town would resume its role of being small, and quiet.

By Drew Zaremba


Gypsy Blood is Best Served Cold

It was on a mercilessly serene day in late summer that Miss Ella Lyster joined the staff atLyttleton Hall. Heat seemed to emanate from every direction as the small black car trundledslowly, painfully, up the steep hill, and, having finally completed its ascent, deposited the womanand her trunk at the foot of the rusting wrought-iron gates before driving back to the village be-low. The woman who had come to murder Charles Augustus Lyttleton, the octogenarian owner ofthe Hall, pushed open the creaking gate and walked up the gravel drive. The Celestial Clockworkof Fate had been set in motion.

Ella had a slight acquaintance at the Hall, who had not seen her since her childhood. Theacquaintance, who greeted the new maid and ushered her into the house through a side-door,would remember for years to come the singularity of her appearance. Ella was small, but her erectfigure, quick, purposeful gait and determined, impassive face evinced the dominator—“la petitecaporale”. Her most striking characteristic, though, was her piercing eyes, clearer and purer thanthe sky. In the recesses of that ocular sky were two black thunderclouds, dark and ominous,bathed in green and brown mud.

Ella proved to be a diligent maid. She seemed the very paragon of good servantship. Shewas always seen working with an indefatigable energy and an ecclesiastical solemnity given toher by her black frock and black hair, dyed to contribute to the effect and tied into a neat bun.

Yet the maid’s domestic excellence only aggravated her master, a frail miser who seemedto cling on to his pitiful life for the sole purpose of degenerating those of others. The expression“as unkind as Charles Lyttleton” had been a component of the regional popular lexicon ever sincethe man in question had manifested that particular quality, but he did so especially to his newmaid.

Ella seemed not to have been made for subordination, and she gave a greater impressionof power than her master. He forced her to perform the most menial tasks available to his imagi-nation (which was, in that domain, extremely vast), but she bore them calmly and without anysign of complaint or dissatisfaction. As a matter of fact, the young woman never seemed to sufferat all.

Whereas Charles Lyttleton was in a continual state of bad health—every autumn, for in-stance, an incessant cold caused him to rub his rosy nose gently every few minutes, and only lefthim the following spring—Ella was always in perfect health, and brimming with an uncanny en-ergy.

One day, an approximate bimester after Ella’s arrival, the master had decided to hold aparty in order to celebrate his advance to nonagenarianism (not that many people thought that yetanother year of his existence was a thing worth celebrating).

At dawn on the day of the celebration, Ella, a simple wicker basket around her arm, madeher surreptitious way out of the house, heading for the woods behind it. When she returned, anhour or so later, the basket was filled with gnarled mushrooms with slightly purple-brown caps.

These rare mushrooms particular to the region, when left to boil for a few minutes, wouldproduce a transparent, slightly mushroom-tasting, poisonous liquid that would stop its victim’scardiac pulsations. It needn’t even be drunk; it simply had to touch the victim’s skin. The oldman’s doctors would blame his weak heart.

Ella immediately went to the kitchen. It was deserted, as planned. Hurriedly, she setsome water to boil in a pan and emptied the basket into it.

The few minutes having passed, she removed the pan from the fire. She then ran the poi-soned water through one of her master’s white silk handkerchiefs—she needed some form of filterthat she could burn so as to reduce the amount of incriminating evidence (besides, he had so many


that he wouldn’t notice its absence)—and into a funnel leading to a bottle of the master’s personalwine. At mealtimes, Charles Lyttleton always had a bottle or two of wine of greater quality thanthat of his guests, which, of course, they were not to know.

Several hours later, Ella was pacing the dark corridors of the house, deeply agitated.Charles Lyttleton had somehow disappeared. She had last seen him, through the keyhole of a doorleading to the entrance hall, greeting an elderly lady in a pale blue dress, but she had heard a sud-den noise and had turned around, startled. The noise, however, had been in another room, and Ellaquickly resumed her troubled activity, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.

Presently, reaching the old library door, Ella noticed that it was ajar. She looked throughthe crack and saw the old man with the elderly lady in the pale blue dress.

“Can anybody hear us?” asked the lady, sotto voce.“No, we’re completely alone,” answered Charles Lyttleton in the same tone. “What is it

that you wanted to tell me?”“Charles, I want to know the truth of the matter,” said his companion, determinedly.

“Living abroad for fifty years has meant that I haven’t had a chance to ask you until now. Whilstin India, Charles, I heard that you…” There was a pause. “I heard that you killed a child.”

“No, no… That isn’t at all how it went…” blurted out Charles Lyttleton hurriedly. “I wasdriving my green Bentley one evening, a few years after you left, when, all of a sudden, a littleblond boy—couldn’t have been over six or so—came running in front of me. I tried to stop intime, but it was too late.

“There was an inquest afterwards, and it was agreed, of course, that I couldn’t have doneanything about the boy, that it was clearly his fault. Still, the whole incident caused an awful fuss.I was terribly lucky to have been able to keep the whole incident quiet… The boy didn’t have anyparents, so no-one asked too many questions. I couldn’t have kept the car, though—it would haveattracted too much attention—I had to sell it…”

The old man cared more about the loss of his car than for that of a young life! Ella,appalled at her master’s heartlessness, which, it seemed, knew no bounds, went to the kitchen,where she waited. Presently, the butler entered.

“Is everything ready?” asked the latter, and, upon the receipt of an affirmative answer, leftthe kitchen. A few moments later, there was the sound of the guests making their collective wayto the dining-room.

Ella waited. When the wine was called for, she made sure that the bottle of poisonedwine was the one the content of which was to be poured into her master’s glass. The old manwould get a heart-attack, and no-one would suspect her. The plan was foolproof—unless…

Crash! Ella, at the door of the door of dining-room, looked in immediately, realising thatthe unless was a very relevant one indeed. On the ground lay the fragments of the broken bottleand glass, the contents soaking into the carpet and staining it blood-red.

The next morning, Ella was pacing her bedroom, barely succeeding in concealing her agi-tation. She had picked all the poisonous mushrooms the day before. Even if there were a few thatshe’d missed, they wouldn’t suffice for the man’s death. All of the poison was gone.

“All of it’s gone…” she told her bedroom furniture, sighing deeply—and then she smiled.

That evening, Ella descended the back staircase in high spirits. Reaching her master’sroom, she turned to make sure that she was alone. Then she knocked on the door, and, since, asexpected, there was no reply, she opened it and let herself in.

The late Charles Lyttleton lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Ella, wearing a pair of blackgloves, picked up the white silk handkerchief and left the room. She promptly went to her roomand threw the handkerchief, along with the gloves, into a fire that was crackling merrily in thefireplace. Soon, she realised with a sigh, she would grow to despise the whole concept of black…


The Celestial Clock struck twelve.

A few months later, Ella was sitting at the table in her bedroom. The autopsy had indeedshown heart failure. No more questions had been asked. Ella had wanted to leave, but the heir toLyttleton Hall, a certain Edward Lyttleton, having heard about her, had offered her a better postthere, which he saw as a way of thanking her for all that she had done for her old master.

Ella had changed greatly in those few months. She had lost that sense of purpose, thatenergy that she had had on that mercilessly serene day in late summer. Her ocular sky was nowcriss-crossed with a pattern of dreamy white clouds, and the black ones were no longer dark andominous, but warm and friendly. There was warm earth and grass in the fields below. Also, shehad stopped dying her hair. It was now a beautiful dark blond mass no longer tied back, but repos-ing freely on her shoulders and young face.

Presently, she sat, clad in a pale dress, a brooch of black stone at her breast, smiling ab-sentmindedly to herself and gazing into the distance. It occurred to her, quite suddenly, that theold man had known who she was all along... She sighed, and turned to look at a photograph in anold silver-gilt frame. It showed a pair of six-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, their dark blond hairglittering in the light.

By Samuel Baker


The Seventh Bullet

The sun was pounding. It beamed relentless from a vacant sky, slowing down the rhythm ofthe earth and life upon it. The only motion to be seen was that of the thin grey cloud of dust thathovered above the road. The cloud was torn apart again as a truck parked, giving it new energy. As it sunk, it settledupon everything that was exposed, every stone, every human face, upon the hoods of the severalvehicles that stood parked. The vehicles stood huddled together at the scene, passive.

Janòs scraped his knees on the gravel as he was thrust onto it by hands which he could not see.He gasped silently in pain, but the air he drew deep into his lungs was arid; he coughed forcefully,the sound becoming much more conspicuous in the silence of the scene than he had anticipated,ripping it apart. He attempted to withhold a second attack; however his throat was too botheredand objected.The cough shook him and felt far into his chest. The sudden sound triggered little commotion among the young men who sat on and below thekhaki coloured trucks. They wore formal uniforms, yet there was little other discipline to thescene. Someone passed around a vodka bottle, another lit a cigarette; the otherwise compulsorycamouflage jackets were tossed across doors that stood opened. The voices between them werelow, solemn. The dust caused Janòs’ eyes to water; a salt, emotionless tear fell onto his lips. It drew a moistline through the dirt on his face as it went. He stared blankly at the ground before him. It laid there mocking him, aware it could not as awhole be affected by the actions of any human. The ground became his enemy, as it poisoned theair along the ground to which he was forced; its absence of humanity was however inviting, itallowed something for him to concentrate on, an excuse to wall off reality, as one does on a soli-tary summer day. The wall was abruptly torn down by black boots, again stirring the dust. They belonged to ashort, sharp-nosed officer. His eyes where clear grey, his steps rapid and determined; clipped tohis belt was a holster containing a pistol. The black handle glistened. Janòs looked up andsquinted after him against the sun as he stepped across from the truck in which he had just ar-rived, and walked over to a tall man who stood resting on his rifle. They stood talking for a fewmoments. Their sober communication showed little evidence of what usually personifies two per-sons’ relationships; it was stripped of facial expressions and as many personal pronouns as waspossible. Janòs could not make out what they were saying, but they were clearly professional inexpressing determination of duty, a grave duty, commanded by higher forces, which they did notconceive of questioning. They were but marionettes, lending their thousands of index fingers to the will of those whocould ethically not use their own. Presently, the two men stirred, the second officer picking up his rifle as they moved across thestage. They approached a mid-aged man, who like Janòs and the others kneeled on the ground, hisbound hands resting on the back of his head. Janòs noted his heavy breaths, which rattled as hedrew them; his throat was very dry. His short beard had not seen maintenance for too long. He looked miserably to the officer, who gestured for him to turn around. So he did; the motionaround his spot caused the dust to rise around him. His face was shadowed from the sun. Janòs looked away from the scene that was evolving, gazed into the murky cathedral of tallpines that towered on the sides of the human-made scar that divided them. They stood perfectlymotionless, those who had the bad luck to end up on the side of a dust road on a burning day re-garding the humans with disgust, not wishing to interfere or become part of their business. The pines ignored the human world as long as it was possible for them. As the shot rang out,


the endless pines of Siberia did not stir, but returned a fierce whisper that echoed the explosion.

The troops had, with excessive and highly demonstrative force stormed the university classroomwhere Janòs and a group of his fellow students had gathered to talk. Janòs had been a leader oftheir little society. Just a few days ago he gave a speech to the masses on the streets. The companyconsisted of some of the more prominent students of the university. Janòs, essentially a boy in his late teens, was born of a working-class family. His parents weregenerally optimistic, content people; after all, they had argued, they were better off than many.The father had a permanent job, and Janòs, who had an older brother and two younger sisters, hadafter long years of work been admitted into the University of Budapest. His family was fully aware of the perils he challenged when he became one of the front figuresof the student’s movement there; they numbered in the thousands. He had a talent for speeches,furious speeches, in which he managed to rouse his spectators to rage against the giant regimeunder which they were chafed. Janòs was one of the major sparks that set off the firestorm that came. At the time of the arrest, Janòs did not even know that the army had entered the city. As it did,the revolution suddenly backfired; the embryo of a new state that was toppled over, the sceneplunged into turmoil. Within a few hours, Janòs found himself in a goods car on a train, along with hundreds of oth-ers that had been very rapidly arrested. He had had a trial; he was taken to KGB officials that con-firmed him from a list. “That’s him” were the only words that were uttered before he was takenaway.

To Janòs’s right were now three figures, kneeling in the same manner as him. He had not seenthem before he came to the dusty clearing. At the end of the line were two men; between Janòsand the two men, a few paces away was a young girl. Her brown locks concealed her face, whichfaced the ground. The man on the opposite end of the line was conspicuously agitated. His eyes were wide open,his whole body quivered. Janòs watched as the other man to his left turned his head towards him,spoke words of pointless comfort. A drop of sweat tickled Janòs cheeks, and he tried to rid himself of it by rubbing his faceagainst the shirt on his shoulder. The tiny freedom that came was soon dimmed by the fact thatsalt had crept through his brows and was now burning in his eyes; Janòs, attempting to resist thisnew enemy - one which was more at his level of combat - furiously rubbed his eyes against hisupper arms, then blinked hard. His eyes were better, for the moment. Sweat ran down his face andhis neck now. His head was throbbing. Looking to the left, the road was perfectly straight, penetrating the forest, reflecting the ruler ofa road architect hundreds of kilometres away; the pines loomed on either side. The road slopedgently upwards, in the distance coming to a summit and then sinking again. Atop the crest therewas a thin haze rising, which blurred the sky beyond it. From where they were, Janòs and theothers could only see the crest and not what was beyond it. Of course, as one would approach it,the road and the forest would continue to extend into relative infinity on the other side. But fromJanòs’s perspective, the other side could conceal just about anything. On the other side, the capi-talist army was marching. On the other side, there were open fields, with little villages, yet un-touched by the hammer and the industrial sickle, full of oblivious joy. The crest was the end of theforest, and also a place where the paved road began. On the other side of the crest was a little pa-vilion with lush, green gardens; amidst the green grass, in the shade of a great oak, was a coolhammock. There were little fountains spraying the air, and friends and family awaited there, readyto have a great party to celebrate life. His girl, a beautiful girl of a Russian family whose namewas Dasha, would be there too. “We haven’t seen you for such a long time!” they would say asthey welcomed him, the children running all about. “It’s been


a lot to do” he would admit, then say “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Someone would say “a hotone too!” and then a fat man who was his grandfather would call “all the better, we have all thedrinks you could ever imagine! How about some pineapple juice?” Then there were suddenly two voices, shouting at each other. One was a plea of mercy, theother one stern, unyielding. A shot rang out, followed by a short silence; then, two more shots in rapid succession. Again,silence sunk upon them like a thick sheet of agony. The echo came back from the darkness. Time slowed down to a crawl. There were now two to the right of Janòs, a middle-aged manand the girl. Janòs suppressed his headache, wet his dried throat, turned his head to her. “Are youHungarian?” he said, his voice low. She looked back, shook her head slowly; she could under-stand Hungarian. “Armenian” she responded in her own language. He opened his mouth to asksomething more, but was interrupted by the officer, who sounded more furious in his shout, whichechoed back soon, than what was natural even for the scene. Neither of the two, Janòs or the girlunderstood the meaning of the individual words he spoke, but that wasn’t necessary. The officer returned to his soldier, who stood ready by the next man. They looked at each otherbriefly, then at the man, who was looking up at them critically, obviously unaffected. This seemedto mock the two, who slightly too hurriedly told the man in Russian to turn. He did so, his facialexpression remaining intact. The solider lifted his rifle to his shoulder, pushed his chin to the sideof it in aim. He squinted through the sights. “I could have been your brother.” The sudden words took him aback, though he did not showit.Janòs, who was watching, could see how his eyes for a second lost focus, flickered away to theside and remained there, blank. Another second passed, he got himself together. The recoil jerked his shoulder as he fired; the man on the ground shook in a great spasm by theforce, then fell forward with a thud, motionless. The dust shot out around the spot where his bodymade its impact, curtained it from sight. Behind them a flock of small birds shot out from a tree,fled the noise and disappeared beyond the treetops. The cartridge rolled among the others on theground. The Armenian girl had turned around now. From her eyes, tears now fell. Her face was melan-cholic but not twisted; she wept silently. Janòs could now take a closer look at the solider. He was tall, but not largely built otherwise.His hair was messy, longer than the others’ that were generally shaved. His face was more humanthan that of the officer whose mouth and eyes were constantly flat. He could not have been manyyears older than Janòs himself.

Presently the soldier raised his rifle again. By now the tears flowed from the girl’s eyes. Aminuscule click; then silence. He swore silently, ransacked his pockets for spare bullets. The offi-cer did the same, found none. They had not taken two extra shots into account. They called to themen by the trucks, who found two extra bullets. A man, whose overused cigarette nonchalantlyhung nearly vertically from his mouth stood up and handed them to the soldier with the rifle. Ashe did, the first soldier said something to the other, who nodded, went away and then came backwith another two bullets. Half a minute had almost passed. The soldier’s hands trembled. He roughly shot the bulletsinto a socket, each producing a dull metallic cling as it jolted into place. Upon inserting the sec-ond bullet, he missed the socket, and he lunged to catch the bullet as it fell to the ground with aflash. He missed and bent over to pick it up, stood up again and completed the reload. From there, he aimed and fired very quickly. It took only a split second.

Somewhere a girl experienced her first kiss. Somewhere a teenager was getting a row for not cleaning up his room. Somewhere a mother was worrying for her daughter, who had been out with her friends allnight.


Somewhere, a boy was in despair because he had not achieved a B on a test. Somewhere else, relatives disappeared forever and it was taken for granted. In Siberia, men treated genuine death with nonchalance.

Janòs was alone now. The procedure suddenly sped up. The soldier had stepped up to him, andthe officer was behind. He gestured for him to turn, and Janòs’s knees burned as he did. Hisbound hands were resting behind him. Janòs did not think much. There was never any fear in his mind. His main concern was thesweat that again teased his eyes, the dust that dried his throat, and the sun, which bothered himtoo. Sun is like rain, he thought; it’s wonderful as long as it can be observed from a safe distance. He blinked hard, but did not manage to rid himself entirely of the salt this time. He blinkedagain, desperately now. This just seemed to stir more drops of sweat from his forehead andthrough his brows. Janòs resigned and kept his eyes shut. The pineapple juice delighted his body; the delightful company lit up his mind. Beyond thecrest there was no dust. There was pineapple juice. The pine trees of Siberia would never tell any human of the seventh shot. The seventh shot wasto them merely a temporary physical disturbing of the peace over which they reigned. Janòs did not hear the seventh shot.

By Erik Engberg


A Call for Help

I was on my way to Geometry when a lanky redheaded sophomore crashed into me, al-most making me fall over, and then scampered off without saying anything. Although the hallswere big and vacant it seemed as if it was inevitable for people to crash into me. It was the thirdtime today that someone crashed into me for no apparent reason. It appeared that I had some kindof invisibility switch, which seemed to constantly be on. Although it was my third week at mynew high school in New Hampshire, people didn’t speak, listen or pay attention to me.

Finally arriving in Mr. Cooper’s Geometry class, I settled down at the table in the cornernear the back of the room. I checked my watch, and, still having a few minutes left before the sec-ond bell would ring, I decided to check if Danielle had e-mailed me. We had been best friendssince the sixth grade when I still lived in Europe. When I got on my school account, I saw aboutfive e-mails from her and one from my mom. I tried to stifle the laughter which escaped from mythroat as I read Danielle’s funny e-mails. I was laughing so much that I didn’t notice the peopleentering the room and was abruptly brought back to the gloominess of my life as the bell drilledinto my ears.

Today, Mr. Cooper had decided to torture us by going on endlessly about the most point-less stuff ever. The air felt heavy and made me gag at the aftertaste of the disgusting doughy pizzathat I had eaten for lunch. My stomach churned in disgust. It had been my first meal in two weeksand I didn’t seem to be digesting properly. All eyes were on me as I knocked over my chair, ranout of the classroom, and headed to the girls’ room.

I dashed into one of the stalls, lifted the toilet seat and plunged my hand down my throat.Before I knew it, today’s lunch was flowing up my throat, out of my mouth and into the toilet.The stench, the taste, was so unbearable that I couldn’t stop throwing up. Time seemed to freezeas the disgusting fluids came out of my mouth and into the toilet, while splashing onto the seatand floor. I felt drained. My hands and face felt clammy. I grasped for air but all I could feel wasthe burning sensation and acrid taste in my mouth. My head started to turn and black spots ap-peared before my eyes. Colors swirled and blurred together. The sound of drums pounded in myhead. I had no more sense of time; everything was going in slow motion. I pressed myself againstthe door, struggling to open it. Clumsily, I tottered to the sink. I splashed my face and throat withice-cold water, trying to remove the disgusting gluey aftertaste I had in my mouth. As I lifted myhead up I gaped in horror for I did not recognize myself anymore. My once lively bright browneyes were bloodshot and dull. Huge bags had seeped under them emphasizing the whiteness ofmy normally reddish cheeks. My wavy brown hair was matted to my face with sweat. My tonguefelt like sandpaper. I was a ghost lost in a shadow.

As I exited the bathroom, I was blinded by the brightness of the hallway. Cautiously Iheaded back to my Geometry class. The second I pushed open the door I heard a shrill ringing. Atfirst I thought it was all in my head, but before I knew it, people were hurriedly pushing by me,impatient to get to their next class. The pounding of their feet, the noise of their voices, the shuf-fling of backpacks, all sound was amplified. Entering the class to gather my possessions, Mr.Cooper called me over to his desk. “Cheryl, I demand an explanation,” he said sternly. I stoodthere, staring at him. I didn’t have the force to speak. I opened my mouth but no sound came out.Mr. Cooper stared at me for several long seconds. His rigid expression turned to one of worry.“Are you feeling OK?”

I replied by feebly nodding my head and managed to say, “I probably ate something bad.”Then, I left the room.

By Study Hall, I was starting to feel better. I took my usual seat next to Tom and Carina.Tom was worrying me. He kept breathing very heavily as if something was closing in on him andthe air was running out. When I thought about it, it was all rather comical, and I started laughing.This guy with tight pants who was also at my table stared at me quizzically, as if wondering whaton earth I found so amusing. Carina muttered to me, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”


I stared at her in shock. My muscles felt tense and a ball started to well up in my throat.Tears were forming in my eyes. I suppressed them as hard as I could but the more I did the biggerthe ball got. I tried to breathe in deeply but that only worsened everything. To my horror I realizedI couldn’t breathe anymore. I gasped for air. Finally when I managed to breathe again I startedcoughing noisily and was sent out into the hall by my Study Hall teacher. Standing alone in thevast corridors, I cried silently. Don’t people know how much it hurts? Don’t people think I haveany feelings? I asked myself. I considered going back to the bathroom to throw up again. Afterall, that was the only time when I felt in control of my weight and emotions but I opted against itf o r I h a d b a r e l y a n y e n e r g y l e f t .

The rest of the day went by in a blur and I barely remember doing anything. All I rememberdoing is drifting from one class to another without any recollection of what we had done that day.Though what we had done in class was not my greatest of worries. Today after school, I would beparticipating in my first Cross Country meet.

School was over, and I exited the changing room, still anxious about the Cross Countrymeet. Normally I didn’t participate in the races because people assumed I wasn’t up to runninglong distance. I would be participating in a 2-mile race, which would be taking place at myschool. One of the seniors on the team warmed us up before the race started. Our coach didn’tshow up, supposedly he was sick, but I found this a very bad reason to not come and cheer us on.

I now stood next to Tom and this girl from one of the other schools. We waited behindthe starting line and prepared ourselves for the single. I must have been daydreaming becausewhen the whistle blew I jumped up in surprise and ended up leaving a few seconds after everyoneelse.

Once I was deep in the woods I lost sight of everyone else and I started to panic. Whichway do I go? How long have I been running? Where is everyone? Am I lost? I didn’t know whatto do. I strained my ears to find the slight noise of someone running, the sound of breathing, oreven the roar of the crowd, which had gathered here today. Nothing. All I could hear was my ownbreathing. I started to run blindly, tripping over a rock. Then I tripped over a twig before finallyslipping in mud. I let out a cry of despair. I felt lightheaded and feeble. Every step I took, everymove I made gradually brought me closer and closer to the ground. Finally, I collapsed. I didn’tcare anymore. I lay in the muddy forest. The tall looming trees which surrounded me, started toblur and distort. I didn’t care if I was never found. Oh how the ground felt comfortable under-neath me. I was drained and my eyelids felt heavy. Slowly, they started to close. My breathingslowed down. Then ever so slowly, I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I was in a white room. My head hurt. I couldn’t remember how I hadgotten here or what had happened. I squinted my eyes until they adjusted to the lighting. I lookedaround. I certainly wasn’t at home. I tried to lift my arms up but failed. They were somehowweighed down by something. Painfully, I turned my head, which seemed to weigh a ton. I sawtubes connected to my arms. Then a tall man in a white lab coat entered the room. His nametagread, Dr. Edmond Jones. He was followed by my mother, whose eyes were swollen from crying.“Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “why are you crying?”

She forced a smile and said, “I’m OK now, don’t worry, everything will be alright. You’llsee.” It appeared as if she was saying it more to reassure herself than me.

Then the doctor told her, “Mrs. Reeves, Cheryl has a right to know.” Dr. Jones then toldme that I was sick and would be staying at the hospital until I got better.

“But doctor, I’m not sick. I’m perfectly fine,” I retorted.He looked at me with a straight face. “Unfortunately, you are,” he said trying to sound

sympathetic. “Cheryl,” he started, then paused before saying, “you’re bulimic.”By Alexina Thielemans


Babe the Baseball

Hello! My name is Billy the bull….. At least I used to be a bull. Let me tell you the story ofmy life, which changes with sadness and with glee. I used to be a joyful bull named Billy, livingon a farm with plenty of food, water, family and friends. Then one day, the farmer pushed me andmy buddies into a truck where we were cramped and scared. We went to a place that had apungent smell to it. The farmer opened up the dark truck and brought us into the place that had aputrid smell. He pushed us roughly onto some sort of conveyer belt. And then it happened; asharp razor blade swung down from the ceiling and pierced into my jugular. I collapsed to thegrimy ground. Everything went black.

I awoke feeling dazed. I felt small and weak. I couldn’t feel my legs or anything else on mybody. I managed to have the strength to open my eyes and look around me. It was the samecreepy and smelly place. But this time, I was surrounded by white balls with red lines. I tried toget up from the conveyer belt but I wouldn’t budge. I knew that I was weak, but I couldn’t evenmove a fraction of an inch. That’s when I realized that I was one of those white balls! I started topanic. I sobbed on the conveyer belt for what seemed for forever until I finally reached the end ofthe moving death trap. A human tossed me into a brown bag with other white balls. They all hadthe same characteristics as I did; they could talk, they all were white with red lines, they all hadwriting on them which said, “Rawlings Official Major League Ball” and they all wereparalyzed like me. I eavesdropped on one of the balls and he said in a nervous tone, “They’vechanged us into what humans call baseballs. It’s a sport they play.”

A human picked up the bag we were in and threw us into another truck. I was stilltraumatized about trucks, after what happened. On the ride to wherever we were going, I realizedthat being a “baseball” was my afterlife. We stopped at a dome-shaped building and the humancontrolling the truck took us out and gave us to another human who took us quickly to a field thatwas shaped like a diamond. He took me out of the bag and carried me to a man with a red hat andred socks. Then the man yelled, “PLAY BALL!” and people started cheering. The man with thered socks held me in his sweaty hand. Then, a portly man with a white and black jersey and alarge stick walked up to a small, white, pentagon-shaped piece of the field. Humans around mechanted, “Babe Ruth, Babe Ruth!” continuously. I closed my eyes as suddenly the man who heldme softly just threw me in the air roughly into a soft human hand. Another man yelled, “STRIKEONE!” I had one of the most exhilarating times of my life. I was flying through the air even fasterthan I could run when I was a bull! The man threw me again, but this time, I was hit by the stick. Iwas soaring above everyone’s heads! I was higher than anything that I had ever seen! Then Istarted to fall in the air. I landed safely in a boy’s hands. The young human was jumping for joythe whole two-hour game. The human’s name was George. After the game, George took me downto the field and went up to the man who hit me with the stick. George asked the man, “Mr. Ruth,could I have your autograph, please?” The man replied, “Sure, Kid.” He took me and engravedwith ink, “Babe Ruth.” The man winked at George and gave me back to George. George smiledhappily and ran off. I now had a name! Babe. I think it’s better than Billy. George took me andput me near his bed and stared at me in amazement.

I’ve stayed here for a long time and watched George grow into an old man. He still holdsme like I was new. He has grandsons and granddaughters now, and they sometimes play with me.I now live my life happily with George and his family.

By Ned Kelly


Kemal, a Candlestick’s Story

This was like any other day as I was lying underground watching as the moisture levels riseand fall. I am proud of my colour and density. I am proud of myself and my kind. We are a veryshiny yellow substance. Suddenly, I feel a slight tugging in my side and someone is drilling me!

I am swiftly hoisted out of the earth and set upon a big aluminium platform with round rub-ber ornaments that turn making it move. How fascinating! I come to a big place that has hugewooden rectangular prisms on end with glass panes up and down. I heard from two micro-organisms that the surface was amazing and terrifying but I never thought they could be so right.

I was taken to a prism and unpacked from the vehicle to a small wooden slab on legs and afleshy pink fauna took a piece of metal and cuts off most of my body. The being then shaped meto look like a stick with handles at my middle, legs to the bottom and a disk at the top.

In the pink being's language, it calls me a candlestick; I am learning more of the “man’s”language every day. I was taken through the streets again in a carriage pulled by horses; we cometo a market (a place for trading goods). The world has many political borders and in those bor-ders are “countries.” This country is called Turkey, and I am in a traditional Turkish market.

A so-called German family who belongs to a religion called Judaism buys me. The onewho bought me is strongly built, he has brown hair and green eyes and his partner is slim withlong black hair with blue-grey eyes. I soon found out their names are Frieda and Dustin. Friedameaning peace and Dustin meaning noble fighter. They put me in their suitcase with many otherwealthy looking things made of my type of gold. We catch a big steam-powered carriage on spe-cially designed tracks back to a huge mansion with many gardens and forests. There, I am usedoccasionally but as time passes, it becomes less frequent and I become just a lucky heirloom, liv-ing the regular, dreary and tedious life of a household kerzenhalter.

Sixty human years pass and a new leader is rising from the people to help Germany win thewar, but I think he is a bad person and he threatens to kill all Jews because he thinks it is theLord’s Way. My family were taken to a scary-looking and deathly place called a concentrationcamp but somehow I feel it in my bones that it is a slaughterhouse for Jews.

My owners are called to the showers, which are lethal gas chambers or so claimed by a fewrocks. They rebel and attempt an escape over the wall; they have not forgotten me, their preciousartefact that keeps the family safe. There is a train passing and they grab on to the bottom of itand grasp for their lives, this is so exciting. We’ve been keeping on for hours and it is going totake a day and a half more until we get to France, without warning, the young boy drops me and Iam left falling to the tracks below. After that, I pass out of all knowing.

I awaken with no idea how long has passed, I see a newspaper flying by and it says “TheIce Age is Over!” and soon as I saw this I am swept up by tiny man and taken to a forge of somesort. I see a huge fire and realise what will happen to me, I will be melted. I am slowly broughtcloser to the fire, OH, IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! I am once again my liquid gold, but Isoon have the honour of being solidified to make a shrine for the goddess Aphrodite, I’m swellingto my top with pride.

Living still is a boring life until a grave robber comes along, steals me and offers my returnfor huge amounts of cash (Of course because I’m the best you can get!). We move around a lotand he treats me roughly but I'm not complaining I’m finally treated with the attention I need.The priests of the temple give in at the end he justly receives his $750,000,000.

The monks are predicting something bad, something very bad that will happen. They call itthe Apocalypse. I live out my boring life for the next eight years, I miss the grave robber, watch-ing people come and go can be so dull. I feel like there’s a hole in the planet without him.

One day, my feelings come true; a huge crack in the earth opens up and the ground is cav-ing in ever closer to me. I’m shaking wildly, my carved teeth are chattering, I can barely stay up-right I’m so full of fear. In one swift movement I tumble into the abyss. Whatever I said aboutbeing melted before, falling into the Earth’s core is a thousand times hotter. I’m dust.

By Will de Ferranti


Freedom of Speech? Or Freedom to Insult?

Freedom of speech, or freedom to insult? A question many can now ask themselves,especially in the recent outbreak of violence over 12 cartoons depicting and at times ridiculing theProphet Muhammad. I have quietly watched these protests grow, and can find nothing but disgustfor both the cartoonists, and the protestors.

In short, I believe that this needless violence over the cartoons should stop at once.I must say to the editor who commissioned them, Nice job. You wanted to see what the

limits of freedom of speech are? Next time, walk into Harlem in a KKK costume. THAT mightgive you a little first hand experience about the limits of freedom of speech.

The drawings themselves were nothing but stupid, and in my opinion designed toprovoke. One of them, the most controversial, depicted the prophet wearing a turban with theIslamic creed on it, whilst the turban was actually a bomb. Another showed him in heaven,shouting to a bunch of exploded suicide bombers; “STOP, STOP! We’ve run out of virgins!” inreference to the suicide bombers’ promised reward in heaven.

An interesting question would be: would this same newspaper print cartoons showingJesus as a homosexual lazy slob, instructing his apostles to become Christian priests and rape littleboys in churches? Or, taking freedom of speech even further, would it print cartoons showing theNazis as the good boys during WWII? I doubt it.

Ironically enough, some of the cartoons, whilst design to poke fun, are actually partiallyspeaking the truth. For example, one of the cartoons shows a nervous cartoonist looking fearfullybackwards whilst drawing the prophet, which all of the cartoonists certainly are doing now (thosethat haven’t yet gone into hiding). Another shows a seventh-grade boy labeled Muhammadsticking his tongue out and pointing at a board on which is written in Arabic, “Jyllands-Posten’sjournalists are a bunch of reactionary provocateurs”. Judging from what they’ve been doinglately, I’d certainly agree.

In the bigger picture, it seems, there are two types of Muslims. Type A is the kind thatjoins Al-Qaeda and thinks that everyone who isn’t them has to die. Type B is the kind thatprotests violently and burns Danish embassies, and then becomes deaf when other Muslims startsuicide-bombing each other (or was it Bush who bombed that mosque?). Amongst the non-Muslims we have the people who think that the only type of Muslim that exists is Type A, and thepeople who know both sides of the argument and are a little more in the support of peace. And thecartoonists? They’re simply the people who light a firecracker only to find out that it’s actually anuclear bomb.

By Jimmy de Jonge


Untitled

It was 25th of August in 2004. I was just a terrified and surprised boy who did not knowwhat to do in the middle of the campus in ISB. As it was the first time for me to live abroad andgo to an international school, the experience brought me huge changes. First, I have lived inKorea for most of my life- there were actually only Koreans living in my town. It was rare anduncommon to face foreigners with blond hair and blue eyes. In addition, my short English mademe more embarrassed as I got into the Middle School. They were all speaking English so fluentlythat I did not even notice that was English! For the first few weeks, I felt isolated from studentsjoking each other, while I was standing alone. I sometimes misunderstood teachers’ instruction,which made me blush.

However, that was just a common process that had gone past me to adapt to the MiddleSchool. As I learned English and made more and more friends, everything in the Middle Schoolseemed to be fine and I was fully satisfied with that. Of course, it would not have been possible ifit were not for the help of kind ISB students, who had helped me out in some difficult situations.Now, I even prefer ISB to my old school in Korea. Despite some difficulties and embarrassingmoments that I had to experience, they are just funny and good memories now that I can recalland smile. It really is a great opportunity to meet people from various countries and toexperience other countries’ cultures, which makes me feel like an international citizen in thecenter of the world.

By Young Hyun Choi


Rédaction sur la couleur locale

C’était un petit point sur les cartes. Parfois, il n’y figurait même pas. D’ailleurs, cela nechangeait rien. Ce petit village n’était presque rien, juste un point sur la garrigue où étaientperchés quelques hameaux avec au centre, une église entourée de petits artisans de toutes sortes.Entourant ce petit point, la garrigue s’étendait sur tout l’horizon, et le soleil, tapant le sol durcomme l’aurait fait une règle sur des doigts d’enfant, ne permettait à aucun être vivant une sortieau dehors sauf si cette personne était prête à assumer les conséquences de ses actes. Ce petit point,c’était St Auguste. St Auguste des Roses Blanches.

Pourtant, lorsque l’on regardait ce paysage calme et mystérieux, quelque chose n’était pasnormal, n’importe quel homme aurait pu le remarquer. Il y avait quelque chose qui mordaitviolemment la vue du terrain montagneux, quelque chose qui ne faisait partie de rien et quipourtant, y était. C’était le Château des Roses Blanches.

Ce château n’avait absolument rien en commun avec les châteaux en ruine des alentours,au contraire, c’était probablement le seul de Provence. Il ressemblait plutôt à l’un de ces châteauxde Paris, construit à la Versailles. Il avait d’ailleurs une longue histoire. Une histoire de peur et dejoie, de malaise et de bonheur. C’était typique de ce château, avec tous ces sentiments perdus aucours de l’histoire. Seul, St Auguste s’en souvenait, et lui, n’était pas près de les oublier.

Lui, c’était Auguste Befoin, son origine. Auguste Befoin avait d’ailleurs créé le village deSt Auguste. C’était un homme de foi qui avait été exilé par le Roy dans cette partie morte de laProvence, où il ne risquait pas de déclancher de révolution religieuse. Seulement, Auguste Befoinn’avait pas les moyens de s’acheter le moindre cabanon. Alors le Roy lui avait fait construire unchâteau, où il serrait éternel prisonnier. Mais à la fois s’il était un enfer humain, c’était aussi unparadis terrestre. C’était le seul endroit de cette Provence aux couleurs brunâtres et mortes, oùpoussait la rose. La Rose Blanche.

La Rose Blanche avait pris, au cours des années, la majuscule littéraire, et bien que laseule différence entre la rose blanche et La Rose Blanche fut dans l’esprit des villageois, leshabitants des villes voisines comprenaient que pour eux, la même différence était dans les mots‘espoir’ et ‘Espoir’. Car en fait, La Rose Blanche, c’était l’Espoir, l’Espoir de voir une vie sifragile, telle la gracieuse rose blanche, grandir.

Auguste Befoin était mort pendant le siècle passé.

Lors du Nouvel An, les villageois venaient en masse au Château des Roses Blanches. Lesfemmes, couvertes par des châles de laine multicolore, avançaient lentement le long de l’immensegouffre, criant à leurs nombreux garnements en culottes courtes de ne pas trop s’approcher dugouffre. Pourtant, les enfants, inconscients, continuaient à gambader.

Les oiseaux ne doivent pas être mis en cage.Une fois au Château des Roses Blanches, les hommes faisaient brûler un énorme tas de

sapins, morts au cours de l’année et qui, toute leur vie, avaient été les gardes fidèles aux alentoursde St Auguste. Et tandis que les femmes mettaient fougasses et endives autour de la marmite debouillabaisse, les marmots, allaient compter les Roses Blanches et les bourgeons à venir. Lors del’arrivée du maire, tout le monde était déjà là. Personne ne manquait à l’appel. Personne n’auraitjamais manqué à l’appel. Les Roses Blanches, c’était un Miracle, c’était L’Espoir, et puis, c’étaitleur culture, leur histoire à eux, et c’était une légende qui émerveillait les enfants. Pourquoil’arrêter ?

By Catherine Laloux


La Couleur Locale: L’Inde

Rechma s’inquiétait. C’était le jour du mariage de sa nièce, Pûjâ et sa s ur, la mère dePûjâ, lui avait téléphoné pour lui demander où elle était. Tout le monde était déjà là…sauf elle !La cérémonie allait commencer dans une heure, mais Rechma s’était égarée. Elle avait perdul’habitude de conduire jusqu’à la ferme près de Bombay, puisque c’était son mari qui conduisaitnormalement quand ils visitaient sa famille, mais il était malade et n’avait pas pu venir. Rechmasoupira, quitta l’autoroute et prit sa carte.

Ça faisait des semaines que Rechma attendait le mariage de Pûjâ, sa seule nièce. Elleavait revêtu son plus beau sari, acheté spécialement pour l’occasion. Son mari était tombé malade,mais elle avait décidé d’aller à Bombay toute seule…et maintenant elle le regrettait.

Rechma essaya de se situer sur la carte, mais il n’y avait aucun point de repère dans lesenvirons, seulement la campagne qui semblait s’étendre infiniment dans toutes les directions. Ellevoulut sortir et demander à quelqu’un où elle était, mais il n’y avait personne.

Son ventre grogna soudainement. Rechma n’avait pas mangé depuis plusieurs heures. Ellepensa aux currys, tandooris, naans, et autres mets succulents qu’elle savait que sa s ur, cuisinièreexperte, avait préparés. Essayant de ne pas y penser, elle regarda sa carte encore. Où pouvait-elle bien être ?

La femme décida que cela valait le risque de continuer. Elle conduisit encore pendant uncertain temps, puis s’arrêta. C’était inutile de continuer. Elle n’allait pas trouver la ferme.Soupirant, elle rebroussa chemin.

Après quelques minutes, Rechma réalisa que ce n’était pas la route par laquelle elle étaitallée. Elle s’était encore perdue ! Tout à coup, son téléphone portable sonna.

« Allô ? »« Rechma, Rechma ! » C’était sa s ur. « Rechma, mais où es-tu ? La cérémonie va

commencer dans quelques minutes ! »« Quelques minutes ! » Rechma regarda sa montre. Elle ne s’était pas rendue compte de

la quantité de temps qu’elle avait pris. « Oh non… »« Rechma ? »« Je me suis perdue. Je ne sais pas du tout où je suis. Je ne sais pas si, même si je retrouve

mon chemin, je pourrai vous rejoindre à temps… »Rechma tourna soudainement derrière un groupe de sals et vit la ferme de sa s ur. Une

foule de gens s’étaient groupés près d’une tente : ses tantes, ses oncles, ses frères, ses s urs, sescousins, ses cousines, ses neveux, ses nièces… Elle y était arrivée !

By Samuel Baker


La Cabane à Sucre

« Maman! J’trouve pas mes bottes! » cria la petite Chloé à sa maman. « Je veux mesbottes pour aller à la cabane à suc’ »

« Attend une minute ma chouette. Je finis de mettre la grenouillère de ton frère etj’arrive. » répondit sa mère, Nathalie Turcotte.

Les Turcotte étaient en train de se préparer pour la visite annuelle à la cabane à sucre.Comme toutes les années, le reste de la famille les attendait déjà tous depuis longtemps. Il fautdire qu’avec deux jeunes enfants il est très difficile d’être à l’heure partout où on va.

« Chloé j’suis pas capable de trouver tes bottes, fais juste mettre tes shoe-claques. De toutfaçon on va être en’dans tout le temps, il fait pas assez beau pour aller dehors. » dit StéphaneTurcotte.

« Papa c’est à maman que j’ai demandé d’m’aider pas à toi bon! » répondit Chloé à sonpère. Du haut de ses quatre ans et demi Chloé savait se qu’elle voulait et le faisait savoir.

« Chloé fais ce que papa te dit. On a pas l’temps de chercher tes bottes ce matin, on estdéjà en retard c’est pu l’temps de niaiser! » Mme Turcotte était au bord de la colère. Elle détestaitêtre en retard et récemment elle semblait souvent l’être.

« Bon, est-ce qu’on peut y aller maintenant? » demanda M. Turcotte. Tout comme safemme il commençait à s’énerver. Il ne s’attendait pas qu’avoir des enfants serait si difficile.

« J’pense que oui. Bon, vient-en Chloé on s’en va, » répondit Nathalie « Non, Chloé. C’estpas l’temps d’apporter toutes tes jouets avec toi, tu vas en perdre pis ensuite tu vas pleurer. »

La famille Turcotte put enfin prendre la route. Le voyage s’annonçait long, il y avait aumoins une heure de route entre la maison et la cabane à sucre sans oublier les possibles problèmesde trafic.

Après quarante-cinq minutes de route tout allait bien…jusqu’à ce que Chloé commence à seplaindre. C’est souvent ce qui arrive avec de jeunes enfants, il y a toujours quelque chose de pascorrect. Cette fois-ci elle avait tout simplement faim, sauf que quand on est sur une petite route decampagne près de rien c’est parfois difficile de trouver quelque chose à manger.

« Je veux de la poutine bon! J’ai faim pis j’suis tannée d’être dans l’auto. Maman, c’estquand qu’on arrive? Est où la cabane à suc’ j’la vois pas. » se plaignit la petit Chloé.

« Bientôt ma pinotte. Il faut juste arrêter pour prendre grand-maman pis ensuite on va êtrearrivé. » lui répondit sa mère.

« Quoi?! Il faut arrêter prendre ta mère? Tu m’l’avais pas dit. J’pensais qu’on allaitdirectement à cabane à sucre. C’est pas l’tour d’ta s ur c’t’année? » cria Stéphane.

« Oui j’t’avais prévenu. De toute façon son condo est en route. » lui répondit sa femme.Après quelques minutes de désaccord, Stéphane dût se résoudre : il allait devoir aller

chercher sa belle-mère. Il faut dire qu’il ne la portait pas exactement dans son c ur. À chaque foisqu’ils se voyaient ça tourne rapidement au vinaigre, Stéphane n’était pas capable de la supporteret elle n’avait toujours pas accepté que sa fille ait épousé Stéphane.

« Grand-maman va v’nir dans l’auto avec nous? Yay! » s’écria Chloé. Elle adorait toutsimplement sa grand-mère. D’après Mme Vachon, la seule bonne chose que Stéphane ait faite futde lui donner deux magnifiques petits-enfants. Chloé et Jérôme étaient des rayons de soleil danssa vie.

La grand-mère embarquée, la petite famille repartit en direction de la cabane à sucre avec déjàpresque deux heures de retard. Le reste de la famille était habituée; depuis que Chloé était née, lesTurcotte était toujours en retard. Donc avec un deuxième enfant, les choses ne s’amélioraient pasdu tout.

« Maman! Papa! Esse-que c’est là la cabane à suc’? J’vois plein d’chevals avec des autosattachées dessus, » hurla pratiquement Chloé. Aussitôt que sa mère lui avait dit tout ce qu’il y


avait autour de la cabane à sucre elle s’était mise à en parler tout le temps, tellement que tout lemonde avait arrêté de l’écouter.

« Bon, on est arrivé. Tout l’monde descend. Y faut s’dépêcher si on veut pouvoir manger etfinir à temps pour la tire, » annonça Nathalie.

Chloé sauta hors de la voiture et se mit à courir en direction de la grosse cabane. Tout lemonde la suivait de près. Et comme d’habitude, lorsqu’ils entrèrent tout le monde était déjà là.

By Émilie Couture


Mon Robot, Lisa

J’étais en train de regarder la télé en racontant comment s’était passée ma journée à Lisa.D’habitude elle discutait avec moi et elle me disait ce qu’elle avait fait d’intéressant en monabsence. Mais ce jour là, elle ne me répondait pas. Que se passait-il ?

« Lisa ! Mais réponds moi ! Qu’est-ce qu’il t’arrive ? Tu boudes ou quoi ? Il ne faut pasêtre aussi têtue ! »

Pendant une demi-heure je lui posai des questions, jusqu'à ce que je me rende comptequ’elle était tombée en panne. C’était l’horreur ! Comment est-ce que j’allais réviser mes leçonstoute seules ? Et qui allait laver mon linge et le repasser ? Qui allait faire mes commandes surInternet ? Qui allait nettoyer ma chambre ? Qui irait promener mon chien ? J’étais très en colère.Je ne comprenais pas pourquoi c’était arrivé, c’était trop injuste. De qui était-ce la faute ? Dufabricant ? J’allais l’appeler et lui dire ce que je pensais de ses robots si coûteux et garantis a vie !Je pris le téléphone et m’expliquai avec une technicienne qui pouvait, depuis son ordinateur,contrôler l’état de marche de Lisa. A ma grande surprise elle m’apprit que mon robot fonctionnaittout à fait bien. Mais alors, qu’arrivait-il à Lisa ? Etait-ce de ma faute ? Est-ce que je l’avaismaltraitée ? Tout ceci devait être arrivé à cause de moi. Elle avait tant travaillé alors que jem’étais relaxée.

Puis j’ai pensé à toutes les choses que l’on avait faites ensemble.« Ma chère Lisa, te souviens-tu du jour ou nous sommes allées au lac donner à manger

aux canards et aux oiseux ? De l’été que nous avons passé a la plage ; tout le monde nousregardait parce qu’ils n’avaient jamais vu un robot comme toi… S’il te plait, réponds-moi ! »

Mes larmes coulaient comme un ruisseau.« Ma Lisa, si tu te réveillais je te servirais et je ferais tout ce que tu voudrais. Je te le

promets ! »Tout d’un coup, Lisa ouvrit les yeux. Elle commença à bouger.« Lisa ! Tu remarches ! Mais qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ? »« Je vais bien et je suis d’accord que tu me serves ! »« Comment ? »« Tu dois me servir maintenant, c’est à ton tour. »Je pris Lisa dans mes bras car j’étais trop contente de la retrouver, elle, ma chère amie

fidèle.Depuis, je repasse, j’apprends mes leçons et je vais promener mon chien pendant que Lisa

se relaxe devant un bon film de robots.By Victoria Strigini

the kattenberg papers 2005-2006 page · i never really have liked writing essays, myself. writing...

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