The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006 - International School of Brussels

Transcription

The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006
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Kattenberg Papers
2005-2006
The Beginning, the End and Everything in Between
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This year the theme to the The Kattenberg Papers is The Beginning, the End and Everything in Between. The student editors decided on this theme because they wanted to emphasize
the importance of writing and how it touches every aspect of our lives. This is the 24th volume of
the anthology and it contains a wide variety of writings selected from the works of seventh, eighth
and 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 and
English 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 the
quality of the work produced by our Middle School students and the anthology is an opportunity
for students to showcase their talents. Since many of these writers are still learning and experimenting with the craft, sometimes a reader may run across an awkward sentence or clumsy transition and although these flaws could have been edited, we felt it more important to retain the authentic nature of our students’ writing.
I would like to express my gratitude to the members of the English, ESL and French Departments for their assistance in promoting the publication. I must also thank our talented and
creative editorial/ production staff, for doing such an outstanding job. They include our fearless
ninth graders Émilie Couture, Sam Baker, Cristina Wingerter and Francesca Löchen; our enthusiastic eighth graders Sophia Lewis and Antonia Tjong and our industrious seventh graders Harry
Cross and Matthew Finney. They approached the project with enthusiasm and the anthology is a
credit to their hard work. A special thanks to Émilie for working after-hours on the layout and
Émilie and Sam for editing the French pieces. I would also like to thank the students who submitted their work for publication. I appreciate the risks they have taken in allowing their peers critique their thoughts. They should be commended for their effort. We hope you, the readers, share
our enthusiasm for this year’s entries in the 2005-2006 edition of The Kattenberg Papers. The
pieces that follow should certainly intrigue and delight you.
Finally I bid adieu as this year I am moving from Belgium and returning to the United
States. I find this year’s theme fitting, as my time at ISB is coming to an end, but many of you are
just beginning the MS experience, while some are halfway through it. My time at the MS has
been wonderful and leaving will certainly be bittersweet. I thank all of the students, past and present, who have worked on Kattenberg Papers, either writing or editing because your enthusiasm
for the craft is inspiring and I will always cherish the memories of ISB that you have helped create. 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 hope
working on the Kattenberg Papers has helped you find out who you are and what you might want
to be. All the best for now and the future,
Sarah Thomas
International School of Brussels
Middle School English and Journalism
June 2006
The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006 Editorial/Production Team
Francesca Löchen, Sophia Lewis, Cristina Wingerter, Harry Cross,
Sam Baker, Antonia Tjong, Mathew Finney & Émilie Couture
Cover artwork: Josine Blok
Back page artwork: Jonathan Tsai (2003)
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Table of Contents
Title
Author
Grade
Page
Essays
The Gentle Art of Essaying
Just another day at Malagne…
Hopes and Fears for the Future
Samuel Baker
9th
Jimmy De Jonge
9th
Christopher Stromeyer 8th
Character Sketches
Character Sketch
The Unknown Sailor of Seas
Alexina Thielemans
Drew Zaremba
9th
9th
10
11
Explanation Myths
Why We have Snow
How Trees Came Into Existence
Game
Max Passler
Ned Kelly
Alice Sudlow
7th
7th
8th
12
13
14
Fiction
The Small Quiet Town
Gypsy Blood Is Best Served Cold
The Seventh Bullet
A Call for Help
Drew Zaremba
Samuel Baker
Erik Engberg
Alexina Thielemans
9th
9th
9th
9th
15
18
21
25
Personification
Babe the Baseball
Kemal, a Candlestick’s Story
Ned Kelly
Will de Ferranti
7th
7th
27
28
Journalism
Freedom of Speech?
Jimmy de Jonge
9th
29
ESL
Untitled
Young Hyun Choi
8th
30
French
Rédaction sur la couleur locale
La Couleur Locale: L’Inde
La Cabane à Sucre
Lisa mon Robot
Catherine Laloux
Samuel Baker
Émilie Couture
Victoria Strigini
8th
9th
9th
9th
31
32
33
35
5
6
8
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The Gentle Art of Essaying
When people leave school, they celebrate the end of many things: writing scientific reports, getting half the sleep they feel they should, doing painstaking research that turns out to be
unnecessary anyway, finishing French homework in a mad panic on the bus… (Most of the celebrants end up doing that sort of thing at university afterwards, though, but they like to imagine
that the work is over.) One reason for which students are particularly happy is that they need not
write any more essays. (—or so they think. Those who plan to study English at university are, of
course, doomed, but most others, who think themselves free at last from that particular chore, tend
to 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 thoughts
in the first place is. Finding arguments and reasons requires careful (and, more often than not, tedious) consideration of the circumstances related to in the essay.
I don’t like “planning” my essays—deciding what each paragraph is about—because
ideas never arrive. I throw caution to the winds and plough on regardless, letting inspiration reach
me with each new sentence (as is the case now). If I do think of a subject for the next paragraph, I
rarely 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 well
written, 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 earth
to write about. I did find a topic, and managed to write a rough draft two pages long, but, after
typing it, on the night before I was to give it in, I read it once and thought: “This is the worst essay that I’ve ever read in my life!” I promptly threw it away and started again from scratch (and
got a reasonably good mark for it, actually).
Inspiration is not the only problem, though. In an essay that I wrote a few years ago, I
found a good place to use a word that I remembered having learnt recently. Remembering the
word proved difficult, however, so I looked in a thesaurus, hoping to find it. After half an hour of
fruitless search, it transpired that no such word existed and that it must have been thinking about a
different one.
As previously mentioned, writing an essay is not really difficult, but can be timeconsuming and annoying, if it is to be done with any relative success (which I do not claim to attain, but the process is still time-consuming and annoying). I am quite certain that just about everyone feels like this—even English teachers (though they might not like to admit it).
By Samuel Baker
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Just Another Day at Malagne
The sun was at its zenith. The day was at its hottest, burning over the backs of the slaves
toiling 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 shoeing of her master’s horses. She was entirely new to the business, normally being a house slave
who never did any farm labor or ironwork. However, Avitus’s helper had fallen ill, and from
amongst 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 she
was not lazy, she had a profound dislike for strenuous tasks such as this one. She preferred the
quietness of the cookhouse, or even the work in the fields, as she was a native of Gaul with a
hearty dislike for hot, closed spaces, despite the fact that it was pleasant enough with Avitus for
company. 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 to
Gaius, his overseer, and every slave’s nightmare. One-eye, as the slaves called him in reference to
the eye he had lost during his army days, was by unanimous vote the most ruthless slavemaster
alive. He was the one who had beaten Titus, Flavia’s best friend, to death, and enjoyed inflicting
the most painful punishments his evil mind could think up on the other caught runaways. Flavia
had long since sworn revenge for Titus’s death, and although she was only a simple serva, Flavia
had a determination about her stronger then that of most men, although she had learnt to bide her
time and wait for the opportune moment. Besides, if she did something, she’d have to get it right
in one go, as Gaius never gave up hunting you once he had begun, and all but a few of the slaves
were terrified of him.
‘Clink! Clink!’ said the hammer as it danced down upon the iron. Avitus’s forehead was
dripping 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 shoe
onto the foot. Flavia sighed with relief, only one more horse and then they could take a break. The
master had a rare quality for a Roman, he had some empathy. The slaves could take a thirty minute break at noon, and unhappy though Gaius was with it, orders were orders, although the master
interfered very little in slave matters and the day to day running of the villa. Besides, it was also a
good way to make sure every slave was present.
As she turned back to the bellows, Flavia uttered a quiet curse. Outside she could hear
well a sound she dreaded, the heavy stump of Gaius’s army boots, and no more then five seconds
later his ugly, scarred face poked around the doorway. Gaius’s face was perhaps the ugliest part of
him, battle scarred from the twenty years of army service. A missing eye was just the cherry on
the cake, as he also had most of one ear and a large chunk of nose missing. He had never been
promoted during his entire career, but had stayed a powerful figure due to his ruthlessness and
strength.
“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 they
could begin to think about a break. Worse, when he was drunk, Gaius was even more ruthless, if
possible. “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 Germanic
accent, as he was not a Roman by birth, but a Visigoth mercenary who had been accepted as a
Roman citizen. He strode in his customary uncouth way to the anvil, reeking alcoholic fumes, as
Avitus began pounding the mare’s second horseshoe into shape. He leaned casually against the
furnace wall, looking relaxed, but inwardly poised to strike at whoever the first of his victims
might be.
They were well into their second task of the day, the repairing of the kettles and cooking
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pots, when disaster struck. Avitus’s concentration slipped for a moment too long, and instead of
hitting the kettle in question head on, he struck it at an angle, making a nasty dent in the heated
iron. Gaius pounced immediately. With a terrible crack the short whip he carried came down on
Avitus’s shoulders as Gaius began ranting at him.
“Dolt! Imbecile! You are supposed to repair ze kettles, not ruin them! You thick mudbrain 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 head
with 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, he
smiled 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 into
Gaius’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. What
was left of his mouth opened in a single soundless scream, and then he was reunited with his ugly
ancestors for eternity in the dark reaches of the underworld.
By Jimmy De Jonge
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Hopes and Fears for the Future
The future is a topic that everyone thinks about every now and then. People wonder what
will happen to them, their families and humankind in general in the future. They all have hopes
that they would like accomplished and fears they pray will never happen. Some of the events or
accomplishments that my generation and my children’s generation hope for include finding a cure
for cancer, further exploring space, having more environmental power and putting an end to deforestation. Every time there are hopes, of course, fears also exist. We think about the many years
that humankind might suffer if these fears become a reality. A nuclear war, the increase of poverty, 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, humankind
has to put more money and effort into medicine, space exploration and environmental power. Our
generation also has to fight against poverty and deforestation and finding a way to prevent for
global warming. Lastly the present and future governments have to try to make peace with other
countries to reduce the increase of terrorism attacks.
The people of the world hope during some stage of their lives that their desires and goals
will be accomplished. Some of the accomplishments that my generation holds may make in the
future are to find a cure for cancer, exploration of space, environmental power and putting an end
to deforestation. Cancer is the second leading cause of death in developed countries. My generation hopes to see a cure for this terrible sickness that still kills so many people. An advantage for
finding a cure for cancer would be that many young people that could still bring a significant
amount of knowledge to our world, would have a considerably better chance to survive. Their
families and especially their children would still be able to learn many things from their elders
who currently would die of this disease. These family members would not have to mourn because
of the demise of their loved ones. Another reason why a cure for cancer would be beneficial is
that governments, hospitals and individuals will save a considerable amount of money, since the
treatment of cancer is very expensive. Another hope that my generation has is the exploration of
space. Now that some humans have been to space, there are many hopes to what space exploration can bring us. My generation hopes that, if we further explore space, we will find other living
beings. We hope that these inhabitants of space creatures could teach us many things that they
have accomplished. The knowledge we would get from them, would enhance our own development. Another benefit of exploring space is that we might some day land on other planets. On
these planets we might find materials that do not exist on earth and that could be very useful for
our society, especially for construction and medical purposes. A more environmental hope is the
further construction of environmental power. It would be very beneficial for our society if more
dams, 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 because the gas released by the fossil fuels would stop creating acid rain which destroys trees and
damages our fresh water reserves. The final hope that my generation has is to put an end to deforestation. Every year millions of acres of forest are destroyed, either to make space for the construction of houses, streets and farmland, or for the important business of selling wood. It would
be beneficial for our future because all the beautiful vegetation and the animals living in those
forests could be preserved. Another positive impact of preserving the forests is that we need these
trees to recycle our carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. If these trees are destroyed, we might
have an excess of carbon dioxide that would lead to more people suffering from asthma. However
every 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 the
events that my generation fears are a nuclear war, growth of poverty, global warming and the
growth of terrorism. During the Cold war, the biggest fear on earth was a nuclear war between
both super powers, The U.S.S.R. and the U.S. had many nuclear weapons. My generation still has
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the same fear, only this time it is because of Iran and North Korea. One negative consequence
about a nuclear war is that millions and maybe even billions of people would die because of the
forces of the explosions and its huge radioactivity. The second negative consequence is that the
world would never be the same; this would happen because many survivors would be unable to
live on an earth with radioactivity. Another fear that is becoming reality is the continuing increase
of poverty all over the world. This means that millions more human beings will suffer and eventually die at an early age because of diseases and lack of food and/or water. One of the negative
consequences about the increase of poverty is that more poor families will try to have more children to support them economically. This will lead to even more poverty, more illiterate people
and less food for these people. A third fear is the environmental fear of global warming. For many
years, scientists have been predicting that this would happen. Now it has started and a great fear is
spreading about global warming’s consequences in the future. A negative event that might kill
many people is that if global warming continues, the ice poles will continue to melt down. This
will 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 increase of hurricanes, typhoons and other tropical storms that kill tens of thousands of humans
every year. When global warming increases, the tropical storms will increase as well, resulting in
the death of many more people and destroying millions more homes. One last fear in the future is
the very deadly increase of terrorism. Today terrorism already kills thousands of people every
year. If it continues to grow, there will be many more attacks and more people will die. Another
consequence 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 nightmares
and 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 encounter
in the future. Some of the hopes are finding a cure for cancer, exploration of space, more environmental power and to put a stop to deforestation. The fears that our generation will have to battle
against, are a nuclear war, increase of poverty, global warming and an increase of terrorism. In
order to accomplish the hopes and let the fears pass, everyone, not only significant figures, will
have to try to improve and change the world so that our wishes will become true. In order for the
hopes to be accomplished, my generation’s society has to put more pressure on the government to
put more money into finding a cure for cancer, exploring space, banning deforestation. On the
other hand for our fears not to happen, our society has to elect governments which will promote
peace all over the world. My generation also has to try to raise public awareness about poverty
and global warming so that more people can help prevent these matters becoming a reality. In
order for the future to be positive, everyone has to act now to eliminate the fears and accomplish
the hopes.
By Christopher Stromeyer
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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 her
delicate cheeks to rest onto her cherry red lips. Gracefully she walked towards the lake, which lay
in the middle of the damp forest. Her long white gown swayed in the faint breeze, gently brushing
against shrubs, which lay in her way. From a distance, she looked ghostlike with a faint glow to
her. 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, whose
ashes were scattered in this very place. The grave she had always wanted. Amber sobbed remembering that day where it had all ended.
She stayed there a few minutes before deciding to head back home. It was then that she
saw 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 I
should go back”, Amber thought to herself. Just as she was about to turn around, a low husky
voice called out to her. “Wait, come back.”
Sullenly, she turned around and made out the figure in the bushes. She recognized him
but wasn’t sure where she had seen him. She gazed at him with her large gray eyes. As though in
a 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 stand
there smiling down at her.
Hastily, Amber got up and started to run.
By Alexina Thielemans
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The Unknown Sailor of the Seas
He sat on the stone. It was a smooth flat stone, made of granite. It was unusual in the
way that granite is usually jagged in its natural state. It was quite strange, a granite stone on the
coast of the Ocean. As I approached him, I was able to examine him. He looked very aged, perhaps because of the marble color of his hair, and the flabby parts of discolored skin. As I got
closer, 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 he
knew 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 me
by just staring. He had a gnarled face, with dozens of scars. His mouth was the only part of his
face that seemed ordinary, while his nose was very flat, as if some of it was chopped off; not by
a knife, but more like a sword. However, his most malformed feature was his eyes, or his eye, I
should say. His left eye was left as a brilliant, azure wonder, but his right had been replaced
with a sphere of polished tiger’s eye. [Tiger’s eye is a precious stone that looks not like a human
eye, but a cat’s eye, with the retina in a vertical line.] I gazed into his deathly eye of stone and
was 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 that
strange abyss, I could do nothing but bob my head up and down in agreement. As he jumped
off his unnatural granite, I noticed he only had one good leg as well. While one was as muscular as an elephant, the other was made of charred oak. As he hobbled along with his peg leg, I
followed him at a small distance. Occasionally, he would grunt, as though becoming weary
from his trip. As we walked along the sandy beaches of the disturbed sea, I noticed a small, hidden wooden cabin overlooking the sea from a towering emerald hill. My teeth began to chatter
in the bitter wind, and I gazed at the strange man once again. His clothes were simple: he bore a
sapphire 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 magnificent
black 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 the
wind immediately became tranquil. As I took aware of my changing surroundings, it occurred
to 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 defeated you, Captain Odyzeus! May your kursed zhip zail on ze zea forever!!! From Earth’s
reign over Hell’s heart, I laugh at zee!!” I was shocked to find him put such gallant passion into
such words. Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching his pearl staff. I rushed over to see what the
matter was. He spoke to me in an intensified voice that belonged neither to man nor beast, and
said, “Of no one zpeak zis! My young friend, go! Fly like the heavens!”
By Drew Zaremba
Page 12
Why We Have Snow
Ares, the God of War, was very irritated one afternoon. He had a habit of wearing his war
steel helmet to bed and the helmet rubbed against his scalp, causing a very strong case of dandruff. Ares thought that it would go away in a few days, but it did not. He could not eat or drink
because the dry skin fell into his food and wine. He could not sleep, because his scalp was bleeding 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 dandruff
away with his magical trident water. “I’m afraid of water,” said Ares, but Poseidon was determined to wash the dandruff away, and soared after Ares, as he was flying away. They were high
up 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. Ares
thanked 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 of
the grey cloud and dandruff to fall as tiny white flakes! When the cloud had disappeared, the dandruff 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 were
formed, white flakes fall to the ground.
By Max Passler
Page 13
How Trees Came Into Existence
In the beginning, the earth was dull with little animals and nutrients. The inhabitants of the
earth were being exterminated slowly by the non-beneficial landscape created by Zeus. Zeus
realized this eventually, and stood up for his creation. He needed something to give the humans
oxygen 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 and
ravenous son, Glaucus, who had no job on Mount Olympus. Glaucus was fat, ugly and twentyfive feet tall. All Glaucus did all day was sleep and eat. Zeus told Glaucus to deliver the sack of
trees 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 gave
him. He found them fascinating, and started to eat the sweet fruits and nuts off the trees. Glaucus
adored the trees, and once he set foot on earth, he decided to keep the trees for himself. One of the
humans saw Glaucus with the trees and he asked, “What are those you are eating?” Glaucus said
with a sinister smirk, “They’re trees with lots of sweet food, and you’re not getting any! You can
just die of hunger for all I care!” The human was furious and also was desperate for the food. The
human sprinted quickly to the village and called all the knights. He told them about the trees and
what wonders the trees bring. The knights were intrigued, and put on their armor and grabbed
their 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 was
very hard, for Glaucus was very hard to slay because of his immortal father and mother. When
Glaucus saw the humans charging aggressively at him, he picked up a tree and crushed the
humans with ease. The knights were absolutely slaughtered by Glaucus, who afterwards ate the
humans.
The next day, Glaucus stormed through the village looking for wine. He crashed open the
gate to the vineyard, and stole a bundle of wine bottles and stuffed them in his sack. The owner
came out of his hut and scolded the giant and started throwing rocks at him. Glaucus snatched
him and swallowed him whole. Glaucus was drunk and started to get drowsy during the night. He
fell 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 kill
Glaucus by using weapons, so they decided to dig a huge hole and bury him in it. But when the
humans came to Glaucus, the sack was empty and the trees were burned to use as a bonfire. The
humans were extremely disappointed, but they still were filled with raging anger that burned
within them against Glaucus, who stole from them and killed their loved ones. They pushed him
into 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 his
drunken and dazed son and bring him to Mount Olympus. Zeus was outraged and ragingly
bellowed 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 the
seeds that Glaucus ate. Glaucus then had to plant the seeds all over the earth with the watchful eye
of his father.
That is how the trees came into existence.
By Ned Kelly
Page 14
Game
Silence. Black and white checkered silence. A pause. Then — a small blue-green planet
winked into existence with a tiny pop. Things began to move on the planet. The sun shone. The
grass grew. Happy creatures prospered. Then the planet grew hard and silver. Small probes left
the planet to circle the space around it. The creatures grew sad. A huge gray cloud began to
smother the planet. Waves of disease began to wipe the creatures out. Then, with a tremendous
BANG, the entire planet disappeared.
There was a pause. Silence. Black and white checkered silence. Then — a deep, booming
voice proclaimed, “Checkmate”.
By Alice Sudlow
Page 15
The Small Quiet Town
My quiet little town. It has always been quiet here, in Austria. Nothing happening, always
quiet. 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 remain
that way.
Our town isn’t the most glamorous of towns, but it’s not as bad as other towns, with dirt
streets, and farming as the only source of income. Oh no, we enjoy living in our quiet, beautiful
mountain town. The inhabitants are like any other town of this time period; gossiping, afraid, a
nice people, but nothing really setting them apart from the world, other than the mountains they
live in. My dad works in a small organization he started himself, and he mines the mountains for
certain minerals. Recently he’s been quite successful, thanks to a late discovery of silver. No one
is quite sure why, but rumor has it that an old man who has lived here for a very long time is the
cause of this silver. Of course, this is rubbish. How could silly old Mr. Strix generate precious
metals to spring from the ground?! Besides, if it was him, why not gold instead of silver? Some
people can be ever so silly…
Then again, he is rather odd. Just the other day, walking down the road, I saw him snarling at birds. He then stared at me, revealing his pearly-white teeth. I turned my head away, sped
up my pace, and I thought to myself Hmm, what a strange old man. Ol’ Strix has been in this
town for as long as anyone can remember, and that’s at least 80 years. He is rather tall, and when
he speaks, he does so with a very heavy British accent, but it sounds like he is in his 40’s! His
voice is very clear and isn’t raspy, like most other men his age. He has marble-colored hair that is
neatly combed the same way every single day, and has a large, straight moustache. Hardly anyone sees him during the day, for usually he walks into the forest in the early morning and comes
back 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, naturally, all the people gathered into the main square. All in a group, the townspeople came together
with their candles, when some of them shrieked when Mr. Strix came running towards them. Although 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 and
ran 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 legs
appeared 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 him
with horrified looks, I took the opportunity to study Mr. Strix. He was standing casually, when he
wiped his mouth with his sleeve. When his arm drew back, I spotted a blood stain. I then inquired about it. “Sir, you are bleeding.” He then whirled around again with unnatural speed for his
age and spoke to me in a gruff voice, “Yes indeed, young lad, but I will be fine. Go on home and
forget about this.” Yeah right, the mayor was a good man… I thought to myself while walking
home. I then returned to my bed, to find the power had been restored. I lay in bed, thinking to
myself, Was Mr. Strix the perpetrator of this act? But then, I became realistic, and thought why
would Mr. Strix alert the people to his presence? Surely he would want a murder to have been
kept 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 happened until the moon was out. That’s when I heard the scratching noise. And that’s when I saw
Mr. Strix dragging the claw of an animal through the streets Thursday night. The claw dug into
the 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 how
unusual the old man was, and then I was able to catch a glimpse of his face. I immediately dove
Page 16
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 mucuslike blood layer. Worst of all, his eyes. They bore ahead like two deep pits that never ended. All
dark 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 had
disappeared. But it all made sense. The full moon, the attack on the mayor, it all fit. Even when
he said he had a bloody lip, he really was wiping off the blood of the mayor he had eaten. When
he told me to forget about it, he meant his bloody lip, that wasn’t even his blood at all! Oh, it was
too horrible to be true! How could this happen to our quiet mountain town?! Usually when trouble is stirred up, the mischief that follows is resolved, but so far, there is no resolution! I must tell
the townspeople! But no, they would never believe me. Werewolves existing? In mountain
THIER quiet town? Never.
Then, there was a shivering howl that rang through the night. It was like when you’re taking a hot shower and suddenly, your heater fails. The moon shone brightly, and it looked beautiful from a distance, with its massive craters visible. I realized then what I must do. I must kill
Mr. Strix before he causes any more trouble. I must set the natural course of our town back into
place, no matter what the cost. I was determined, and now, the only thing between Mr. Strix and
me, 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 stopped
badgering my dad for a small piece of silver, just a small bullet, on a small necklace. I told him it
was to be a present for a distant friend, but he wouldn’t buy it. I kept on trying, until a few weeks
later, he told me I would have to wait just one more night. I was restless when I went to sleep that
night, but during the night, I began to hear glass shattering, and loud crashes. I crept downstairs
to 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 to
have this,” as he spoke, he withdrew a small pistol, “To kill Mr. Strix. I’ve been on his case, like
you have I see, and he knew I was attacking tonight. As a pre-emptive strike, he attacked me and
tried to find the gun, but he failed. Fill my place tonight son, and get him.” I immediately called
the local hospital, and as soon as I received confirmation that they were coming, I grabbed the
gun, and hastily left the house.
Cautiously, I approached Mr. Strix’s house, and I withdrew my gun. Suddenly, without
warning, a massive gray beast lunged out of the door, and leaped at me. I tried to jump out of the
way, but instead, his head collided with my legs. We both staggered back, dazed from the collision, but the gun was still in my hand. He attacked my arm holding it, and almost bit off my hand
if I hadn’t yanked his tail. Howling in pain, the werewolf hopped back, and then, it did something
very abnormal. It stared at the moon, and I took the moment to aim at the wolf’s figure, when I
gazed 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. The
wolf was now standing on two legs, and hair began to fall out. Underneath the hair was a layer of
clothes surrounding the body. The snout began to shrink as if it were clay being pressed by a
sculptor. The legs thickened, and the joints became straighter, and once the transformation was
complete, 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 for
disturbing the peace of our town.”
He laughed, “You are too young to kill me. You do not understand what I am and what I
do. 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. It
takes complete determination to kill someone, and right now he was harmless Mr. Strix, not a sav-
Page 17
age man-eating werewolf. I dropped my gun, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter, and sat
down. 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, like
you, 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 still
sat there, shocked from my strange encounter. Eventually, I got up, and walked home, hoping to
forget it all, while deep down, I knew the town would resume its role of being small, and quiet.
By Drew Zaremba
Page 18
Gypsy Blood is Best Served Cold
It was on a mercilessly serene day in late summer that Miss Ella Lyster joined the staff at
Lyttleton Hall. Heat seemed to emanate from every direction as the small black car trundled
slowly, painfully, up the steep hill, and, having finally completed its ascent, deposited the woman
and her trunk at the foot of the rusting wrought-iron gates before driving back to the village below. The woman who had come to murder Charles Augustus Lyttleton, the octogenarian owner of
the Hall, pushed open the creaking gate and walked up the gravel drive. The Celestial Clockwork
of Fate had been set in motion.
Ella had a slight acquaintance at the Hall, who had not seen her since her childhood. The
acquaintance, 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 erect
figure, quick, purposeful gait and determined, impassive face evinced the dominator—“la petite
caporale”. Her most striking characteristic, though, was her piercing eyes, clearer and purer than
the 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. She
was always seen working with an indefatigable energy and an ecclesiastical solemnity given to
her 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 seemed
to 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 since
the man in question had manifested that particular quality, but he did so especially to his new
maid.
Ella seemed not to have been made for subordination, and she gave a greater impression
of power than her master. He forced her to perform the most menial tasks available to his imagination (which was, in that domain, extremely vast), but she bore them calmly and without any
sign of complaint or dissatisfaction. As a matter of fact, the young woman never seemed to suffer
at all.
Whereas Charles Lyttleton was in a continual state of bad health—every autumn, for instance, an incessant cold caused him to rub his rosy nose gently every few minutes, and only left
him the following spring—Ella was always in perfect health, and brimming with an uncanny energy.
One day, an approximate bimester after Ella’s arrival, the master had decided to hold a
party in order to celebrate his advance to nonagenarianism (not that many people thought that yet
another 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, made
her surreptitious way out of the house, heading for the woods behind it. When she returned, an
hour 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, would
produce a transparent, slightly mushroom-tasting, poisonous liquid that would stop its victim’s
cardiac pulsations. It needn’t even be drunk; it simply had to touch the victim’s skin. The old
man’s doctors would blame his weak heart.
Ella immediately went to the kitchen. It was deserted, as planned. Hurriedly, she set
some 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 poisoned water through one of her master’s white silk handkerchiefs—she needed some form of filter
that she could burn so as to reduce the amount of incriminating evidence (besides, he had so many
Page 19
that he wouldn’t notice its absence)—and into a funnel leading to a bottle of the master’s personal
wine. At mealtimes, Charles Lyttleton always had a bottle or two of wine of greater quality than
that 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 door
leading to the entrance hall, greeting an elderly lady in a pale blue dress, but she had heard a sudden noise and had turned around, startled. The noise, however, had been in another room, and Ella
quickly 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 through
the 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. Whilst
in 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 was
driving my green Bentley one evening, a few years after you left, when, all of a sudden, a little
blond boy—couldn’t have been over six or so—came running in front of me. I tried to stop in
time, but it was too late.
“There was an inquest afterwards, and it was agreed, of course, that I couldn’t have done
anything 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 any
parents, so no-one asked too many questions. I couldn’t have kept the car, though—it would have
attracted 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, left
the kitchen. A few moments later, there was the sound of the guests making their collective way
to the dining-room.
Ella waited. When the wine was called for, she made sure that the bottle of poisoned
wine was the one the content of which was to be poured into her master’s glass. The old man
would 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 that
the unless was a very relevant one indeed. On the ground lay the fragments of the broken bottle
and 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 agitation. She had picked all the poisonous mushrooms the day before. Even if there were a few that
she’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’s
room, she turned to make sure that she was alone. Then she knocked on the door, and, since, as
expected, 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 black
gloves, picked up the white silk handkerchief and left the room. She promptly went to her room
and threw the handkerchief, along with the gloves, into a fire that was crackling merrily in the
fireplace. Soon, she realised with a sigh, she would grow to despise the whole concept of black…
Page 20
The Celestial Clock struck twelve.
A few months later, Ella was sitting at the table in her bedroom. The autopsy had indeed
shown heart failure. No more questions had been asked. Ella had wanted to leave, but the heir to
Lyttleton Hall, a certain Edward Lyttleton, having heard about her, had offered her a better post
there, 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, that
energy that she had had on that mercilessly serene day in late summer. Her ocular sky was now
criss-crossed with a pattern of dreamy white clouds, and the black ones were no longer dark and
ominous, but warm and friendly. There was warm earth and grass in the fields below. Also, she
had stopped dying her hair. It was now a beautiful dark blond mass no longer tied back, but reposing freely on her shoulders and young face.
Presently, she sat, clad in a pale dress, a brooch of black stone at her breast, smiling absentmindedly to herself and gazing into the distance. It occurred to her, quite suddenly, that the
old man had known who she was all along... She sighed, and turned to look at a photograph in an
old silver-gilt frame. It showed a pair of six-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, their dark blond hair
glittering in the light.
By Samuel Baker
Page 21
The Seventh Bullet
The sun was pounding. It beamed relentless from a vacant sky, slowing down the rhythm of
the earth and life upon it. The only motion to be seen was that of the thin grey cloud of dust that
hovered above the road.
The cloud was torn apart again as a truck parked, giving it new energy. As it sunk, it settled
upon everything that was exposed, every stone, every human face, upon the hoods of the several
vehicles 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 bothered
and 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 the
khaki coloured trucks. They wore formal uniforms, yet there was little other discipline to the
scene. Someone passed around a vodka bottle, another lit a cigarette; the otherwise compulsory
camouflage jackets were tossed across doors that stood opened. The voices between them were
low, solemn.
The dust caused Janòs’ eyes to water; a salt, emotionless tear fell onto his lips. It drew a moist
line 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 a
whole be affected by the actions of any human. The ground became his enemy, as it poisoned the
air along the ground to which he was forced; its absence of humanity was however inviting, it
allowed something for him to concentrate on, an excuse to wall off reality, as one does on a solitary summer day.
The wall was abruptly torn down by black boots, again stirring the dust. They belonged to a
short, sharp-nosed officer. His eyes where clear grey, his steps rapid and determined; clipped to
his belt was a holster containing a pistol. The black handle glistened. Janòs looked up and
squinted after him against the sun as he stepped across from the truck in which he had just arrived, and walked over to a tall man who stood resting on his rifle. They stood talking for a few
moments. Their sober communication showed little evidence of what usually personifies two persons’ relationships; it was stripped of facial expressions and as many personal pronouns as was
possible. Janòs could not make out what they were saying, but they were clearly professional in
expressing determination of duty, a grave duty, commanded by higher forces, which they did not
conceive of questioning.
They were but marionettes, lending their thousands of index fingers to the will of those who
could ethically not use their own.
Presently, the two men stirred, the second officer picking up his rifle as they moved across the
stage. They approached a mid-aged man, who like Janòs and the others kneeled on the ground, his
bound hands resting on the back of his head. Janòs noted his heavy breaths, which rattled as he
drew 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 motion
around 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 tall
pines that towered on the sides of the human-made scar that divided them. They stood perfectly
motionless, those who had the bad luck to end up on the side of a dust road on a burning day regarding 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,
Page 22
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 classroom
where Janòs and a group of his fellow students had gathered to talk. Janòs had been a leader of
their little society. Just a few days ago he gave a speech to the masses on the streets. The company
consisted 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 were
generally 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, had
after 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 figures
of 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 regime
under 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 scene
plunged into turmoil.
Within a few hours, Janòs found himself in a goods car on a train, along with hundreds of others that had been very rapidly arrested. He had had a trial; he was taken to KGB officials that confirmed him from a list. “That’s him” were the only words that were uttered before he was taken
away.
To Janòs’s right were now three figures, kneeling in the same manner as him. He had not seen
them before he came to the dusty clearing. At the end of the line were two men; between Janòs
and the two men, a few paces away was a young girl. Her brown locks concealed her face, which
faced 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 face
against the shirt on his shoulder. The tiny freedom that came was soon dimmed by the fact that
salt had crept through his brows and was now burning in his eyes; Janòs, attempting to resist this
new enemy - one which was more at his level of combat - furiously rubbed his eyes against his
upper arms, then blinked hard. His eyes were better, for the moment. Sweat ran down his face and
his neck now. His head was throbbing.
Looking to the left, the road was perfectly straight, penetrating the forest, reflecting the ruler of
a road architect hundreds of kilometres away; the pines loomed on either side. The road sloped
gently upwards, in the distance coming to a summit and then sinking again. Atop the crest there
was a thin haze rising, which blurred the sky beyond it. From where they were, Janòs and the
others 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 from
Janòs’s perspective, the other side could conceal just about anything. On the other side, the capitalist army was marching. On the other side, there were open fields, with little villages, yet untouched by the hammer and the industrial sickle, full of oblivious joy. The crest was the end of the
forest, and also a place where the paved road began. On the other side of the crest was a little pavilion with lush, green gardens; amidst the green grass, in the shade of a great oak, was a cool
hammock. There were little fountains spraying the air, and friends and family awaited there, ready
to have a great party to celebrate life. His girl, a beautiful girl of a Russian family whose name
was Dasha, would be there too. “We haven’t seen you for such a long time!” they would say as
they welcomed him, the children running all about. “It’s been
Page 23
a lot to do” he would admit, then say “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Someone would say “a hot
one too!” and then a fat man who was his grandfather would call “all the better, we have all the
drinks 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, the
other 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 man
and the girl. Janòs suppressed his headache, wet his dried throat, turned his head to her. “Are you
Hungarian?” he said, his voice low. She looked back, shook her head slowly; she could understand Hungarian. “Armenian” she responded in her own language. He opened his mouth to ask
something more, but was interrupted by the officer, who sounded more furious in his shout, which
echoed back soon, than what was natural even for the scene. Neither of the two, Janòs or the girl
understood 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 other
briefly, then at the man, who was looking up at them critically, obviously unaffected. This seemed
to mock the two, who slightly too hurriedly told the man in Russian to turn. He did so, his facial
expression remaining intact. The solider lifted his rifle to his shoulder, pushed his chin to the side
of it in aim. He squinted through the sights.
“I could have been your brother.” The sudden words took him aback, though he did not show
it.
Janòs, who was watching, could see how his eyes for a second lost focus, flickered away to the
side 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 the
force, then fell forward with a thud, motionless. The dust shot out around the spot where his body
made 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 the
ground.
The Armenian girl had turned around now. From her eyes, tears now fell. Her face was melancholic 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 human
than that of the officer whose mouth and eyes were constantly flat. He could not have been many
years older than Janòs himself.
Presently the soldier raised his rifle again. By now the tears flowed from the girl’s eyes. A
minuscule click; then silence. He swore silently, ransacked his pockets for spare bullets. The officer did the same, found none. They had not taken two extra shots into account. They called to the
men by the trucks, who found two extra bullets. A man, whose overused cigarette nonchalantly
hung nearly vertically from his mouth stood up and handed them to the soldier with the rifle. As
he did, the first soldier said something to the other, who nodded, went away and then came back
with another two bullets.
Half a minute had almost passed. The soldier’s hands trembled. He roughly shot the bullets
into a socket, each producing a dull metallic cling as it jolted into place. Upon inserting the second bullet, he missed the socket, and he lunged to catch the bullet as it fell to the ground with a
flash. 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 all
night.
Page 24
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, and
the officer was behind. He gestured for him to turn, and Janòs’s knees burned as he did. His
bound hands were resting behind him.
Janòs did not think much. There was never any fear in his mind. His main concern was the
sweat that again teased his eyes, the dust that dried his throat, and the sun, which bothered him
too. 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 blinked
again, desperately now. This just seemed to stir more drops of sweat from his forehead and
through his brows. Janòs resigned and kept his eyes shut.
The pineapple juice delighted his body; the delightful company lit up his mind. Beyond the
crest 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 was
to them merely a temporary physical disturbing of the peace over which they reigned.
Janòs did not hear the seventh shot.
By Erik Engberg
Page 25
A Call for Help
I was on my way to Geometry when a lanky redheaded sophomore crashed into me, almost making me fall over, and then scampered off without saying anything. Although the halls
were big and vacant it seemed as if it was inevitable for people to crash into me. It was the third
time today that someone crashed into me for no apparent reason. It appeared that I had some kind
of invisibility switch, which seemed to constantly be on. Although it was my third week at my
new 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 corner
near the back of the room. I checked my watch, and, still having a few minutes left before the second bell would ring, I decided to check if Danielle had e-mailed me. We had been best friends
since the sixth grade when I still lived in Europe. When I got on my school account, I saw about
five e-mails from her and one from my mom. I tried to stifle the laughter which escaped from my
throat as I read Danielle’s funny e-mails. I was laughing so much that I didn’t notice the people
entering the room and was abruptly brought back to the gloominess of my life as the bell drilled
into my ears.
Today, Mr. Cooper had decided to torture us by going on endlessly about the most pointless stuff ever. The air felt heavy and made me gag at the aftertaste of the disgusting doughy pizza
that I had eaten for lunch. My stomach churned in disgust. It had been my first meal in two weeks
and I didn’t seem to be digesting properly. All eyes were on me as I knocked over my chair, ran
out 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 freeze
as the disgusting fluids came out of my mouth and into the toilet, while splashing onto the seat
and floor. I felt drained. My hands and face felt clammy. I grasped for air but all I could feel was
the burning sensation and acrid taste in my mouth. My head started to turn and black spots appeared before my eyes. Colors swirled and blurred together. The sound of drums pounded in my
head. I had no more sense of time; everything was going in slow motion. I pressed myself against
the door, struggling to open it. Clumsily, I tottered to the sink. I splashed my face and throat with
ice-cold water, trying to remove the disgusting gluey aftertaste I had in my mouth. As I lifted my
head up I gaped in horror for I did not recognize myself anymore. My once lively bright brown
eyes were bloodshot and dull. Huge bags had seeped under them emphasizing the whiteness of
my normally reddish cheeks. My wavy brown hair was matted to my face with sweat. My tongue
felt 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 I
headed back to my Geometry class. The second I pushed open the door I heard a shrill ringing. At
first 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 shuffling 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 stood
there, 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 and
the 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 what
on earth I found so amusing. Carina muttered to me, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”
Page 26
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 bigger
the ball got. I tried to breathe in deeply but that only worsened everything. To my horror I realized
I couldn’t breathe anymore. I gasped for air. Finally when I managed to breathe again I started
coughing noisily and was sent out into the hall by my Study Hall teacher. Standing alone in the
vast corridors, I cried silently. Don’t people know how much it hurts? Don’t people think I have
any feelings? I asked myself. I considered going back to the bathroom to throw up again. After
all, that was the only time when I felt in control of my weight and emotions but I opted against it
f 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 remember
doing 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 be
participating in my first Cross Country meet.
School was over, and I exited the changing room, still anxious about the Cross Country
meet. Normally I didn’t participate in the races because people assumed I wasn’t up to running
long distance. I would be participating in a 2-mile race, which would be taking place at my
school. One of the seniors on the team warmed us up before the race started. Our coach didn’t
show 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 behind
the starting line and prepared ourselves for the single. I must have been daydreaming because
when the whistle blew I jumped up in surprise and ended up leaving a few seconds after everyone
else.
Once I was deep in the woods I lost sight of everyone else and I started to panic. Which
way do I go? How long have I been running? Where is everyone? Am I lost? I didn’t know what
to do. I strained my ears to find the slight noise of someone running, the sound of breathing, or
even the roar of the crowd, which had gathered here today. Nothing. All I could hear was my own
breathing. I started to run blindly, tripping over a rock. Then I tripped over a twig before finally
slipping in mud. I let out a cry of despair. I felt lightheaded and feeble. Every step I took, every
move I made gradually brought me closer and closer to the ground. Finally, I collapsed. I didn’t
care anymore. I lay in the muddy forest. The tall looming trees which surrounded me, started to
blur and distort. I didn’t care if I was never found. Oh how the ground felt comfortable underneath me. I was drained and my eyelids felt heavy. Slowly, they started to close. My breathing
slowed 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 had
gotten here or what had happened. I squinted my eyes until they adjusted to the lighting. I looked
around. I certainly wasn’t at home. I tried to lift my arms up but failed. They were somehow
weighed down by something. Painfully, I turned my head, which seemed to weigh a ton. I saw
tubes connected to my arms. Then a tall man in a white lab coat entered the room. His nametag
read, 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’ll
see.” 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 told
me 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
Page 27
Babe the Baseball
Hello! My name is Billy the bull….. At least I used to be a bull. Let me tell you the story of
my life, which changes with sadness and with glee. I used to be a joyful bull named Billy, living
on a farm with plenty of food, water, family and friends. Then one day, the farmer pushed me and
my buddies into a truck where we were cramped and scared. We went to a place that had a
pungent smell to it. The farmer opened up the dark truck and brought us into the place that had a
putrid smell. He pushed us roughly onto some sort of conveyer belt. And then it happened; a
sharp razor blade swung down from the ceiling and pierced into my jugular. I collapsed to the
grimy ground. Everything went black.
I awoke feeling dazed. I felt small and weak. I couldn’t feel my legs or anything else on my
body. I managed to have the strength to open my eyes and look around me. It was the same
creepy and smelly place. But this time, I was surrounded by white balls with red lines. I tried to
get up from the conveyer belt but I wouldn’t budge. I knew that I was weak, but I couldn’t even
move a fraction of an inch. That’s when I realized that I was one of those white balls! I started to
panic. I sobbed on the conveyer belt for what seemed for forever until I finally reached the end of
the moving death trap. A human tossed me into a brown bag with other white balls. They all had
the same characteristics as I did; they could talk, they all were white with red lines, they all had
writing on them which said,
“Rawlings Official Major League Ball” and they all were
paralyzed like me. I eavesdropped on one of the balls and he said in a nervous tone, “They’ve
changed 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 still
traumatized about trucks, after what happened. On the ride to wherever we were going, I realized
that being a “baseball” was my afterlife. We stopped at a dome-shaped building and the human
controlling the truck took us out and gave us to another human who took us quickly to a field that
was shaped like a diamond. He took me out of the bag and carried me to a man with a red hat and
red socks. Then the man yelled, “PLAY BALL!” and people started cheering. The man with the
red socks held me in his sweaty hand. Then, a portly man with a white and black jersey and a
large stick walked up to a small, white, pentagon-shaped piece of the field. Humans around me
chanted, “Babe Ruth, Babe Ruth!” continuously. I closed my eyes as suddenly the man who held
me softly just threw me in the air roughly into a soft human hand. Another man yelled, “STRIKE
ONE!” I had one of the most exhilarating times of my life. I was flying through the air even faster
than I could run when I was a bull! The man threw me again, but this time, I was hit by the stick. I
was soaring above everyone’s heads! I was higher than anything that I had ever seen! Then I
started to fall in the air. I landed safely in a boy’s hands. The young human was jumping for joy
the whole two-hour game. The human’s name was George. After the game, George took me down
to 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 engraved
with ink, “Babe Ruth.” The man winked at George and gave me back to George. George smiled
happily and ran off. I now had a name! Babe. I think it’s better than Billy. George took me and
put 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 holds
me 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
Page 28
Kemal, a Candlestick’s Story
This was like any other day as I was lying underground watching as the moisture levels rise
and fall. I am proud of my colour and density. I am proud of myself and my kind. We are a very
shiny 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 rubber ornaments that turn making it move. How fascinating! I come to a big place that has huge
wooden rectangular prisms on end with glass panes up and down. I heard from two microorganisms 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 a
fleshy pink fauna took a piece of metal and cuts off most of my body. The being then shaped me
to 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 come
to a market (a place for trading goods). The world has many political borders and in those borders 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 one
who bought me is strongly built, he has brown hair and green eyes and his partner is slim with
long black hair with blue-grey eyes. I soon found out their names are Frieda and Dustin. Frieda
meaning peace and Dustin meaning noble fighter. They put me in their suitcase with many other
wealthy looking things made of my type of gold. We catch a big steam-powered carriage on specially designed tracks back to a huge mansion with many gardens and forests. There, I am used
occasionally but as time passes, it becomes less frequent and I become just a lucky heirloom, living 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 the
war, but I think he is a bad person and he threatens to kill all Jews because he thinks it is the
Lord’s Way. My family were taken to a scary-looking and deathly place called a concentration
camp 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 few
rocks. They rebel and attempt an escape over the wall; they have not forgotten me, their precious
artefact that keeps the family safe. There is a train passing and they grab on to the bottom of it
and grasp for their lives, this is so exciting. We’ve been keeping on for hours and it is going to
take a day and a half more until we get to France, without warning, the young boy drops me and I
am 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 “The
Ice Age is Over!” and soon as I saw this I am swept up by tiny man and taken to a forge of some
sort. I see a huge fire and realise what will happen to me, I will be melted. I am slowly brought
closer to the fire, OH, IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! I am once again my liquid gold, but I
soon have the honour of being solidified to make a shrine for the goddess Aphrodite, I’m swelling
to my top with pride.
Living still is a boring life until a grave robber comes along, steals me and offers my return
for huge amounts of cash (Of course because I’m the best you can get!). We move around a lot
and 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 it
the Apocalypse. I live out my boring life for the next eight years, I miss the grave robber, watching 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 caving in ever closer to me. I’m shaking wildly, my carved teeth are chattering, I can barely stay upright I’m so full of fear. In one swift movement I tumble into the abyss. Whatever I said about
being melted before, falling into the Earth’s core is a thousand times hotter. I’m dust.
By Will de Ferranti
Page 29
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 the
Prophet Muhammad. I have quietly watched these protests grow, and can find nothing but disgust
for 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 might
give 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 to
provoke. One of them, the most controversial, depicted the prophet wearing a turban with the
Islamic 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!” in
reference to the suicide bombers’ promised reward in heaven.
An interesting question would be: would this same newspaper print cartoons showing
Jesus as a homosexual lazy slob, instructing his apostles to become Christian priests and rape little
boys in churches? Or, taking freedom of speech even further, would it print cartoons showing the
Nazis as the good boys during WWII? I doubt it.
Ironically enough, some of the cartoons, whilst design to poke fun, are actually partially
speaking the truth. For example, one of the cartoons shows a nervous cartoonist looking fearfully
backwards whilst drawing the prophet, which all of the cartoonists certainly are doing now (those
that haven’t yet gone into hiding). Another shows a seventh-grade boy labeled Muhammad
sticking his tongue out and pointing at a board on which is written in Arabic, “Jyllands-Posten’s
journalists are a bunch of reactionary provocateurs”. Judging from what they’ve been doing
lately, I’d certainly agree.
In the bigger picture, it seems, there are two types of Muslims. Type A is the kind that
joins Al-Qaeda and thinks that everyone who isn’t them has to die. Type B is the kind that
protests violently and burns Danish embassies, and then becomes deaf when other Muslims start
suicide-bombing each other (or was it Bush who bombed that mosque?). Amongst the nonMuslims we have the people who think that the only type of Muslim that exists is Type A, and the
people who know both sides of the argument and are a little more in the support of peace. And the
cartoonists? They’re simply the people who light a firecracker only to find out that it’s actually a
nuclear bomb.
By Jimmy de Jonge
Page 30
Untitled
It was 25th of August in 2004. I was just a terrified and surprised boy who did not know
what to do in the middle of the campus in ISB. As it was the first time for me to live abroad and
go to an international school, the experience brought me huge changes. First, I have lived in
Korea for most of my life- there were actually only Koreans living in my town. It was rare and
uncommon to face foreigners with blond hair and blue eyes. In addition, my short English made
me more embarrassed as I got into the Middle School. They were all speaking English so fluently
that I did not even notice that was English! For the first few weeks, I felt isolated from students
joking 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 Middle
School. As I learned English and made more and more friends, everything in the Middle School
seemed to be fine and I was fully satisfied with that. Of course, it would not have been possible if
it 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 embarrassing
moments that I had to experience, they are just funny and good memories now that I can recall
and smile. It really is a great opportunity to meet people from various countries and to
experience other countries’ cultures, which makes me feel like an international citizen in the
center of the world.
By Young Hyun Choi
Page 31
Rédaction sur la couleur locale
C’était un petit point sur les cartes. Parfois, il n’y figurait même pas. D’ailleurs, cela ne
changeait rien. Ce petit village n’était presque rien, juste un point sur la garrigue où étaient
perchés 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 dur
comme l’aurait fait une règle sur des doigts d’enfant, ne permettait à aucun être vivant une sortie
au 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 pas
normal, n’importe quel homme aurait pu le remarquer. Il y avait quelque chose qui mordait
violemment la vue du terrain montagneux, quelque chose qui ne faisait partie de rien et qui
pourtant, 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 châteaux
de Paris, construit à la Versailles. Il avait d’ailleurs une longue histoire. Une histoire de peur et de
joie, de malaise et de bonheur. C’était typique de ce château, avec tous ces sentiments perdus au
cours 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 de
St Auguste. C’était un homme de foi qui avait été exilé par le Roy dans cette partie morte de la
Provence, où il ne risquait pas de déclancher de révolution religieuse. Seulement, Auguste Befoin
n’avait pas les moyens de s’acheter le moindre cabanon. Alors le Roy lui avait fait construire un
château, où il serrait éternel prisonnier. Mais à la fois s’il était un enfer humain, c’était aussi un
paradis terrestre. C’était le seul endroit de cette Provence aux couleurs brunâtres et mortes, où
poussait la rose. La Rose Blanche.
La Rose Blanche avait pris, au cours des années, la majuscule littéraire, et bien que la
seule différence entre la rose blanche et La Rose Blanche fut dans l’esprit des villageois, les
habitants 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 si
fragile, 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. Les
femmes, couvertes par des châles de laine multicolore, avançaient lentement le long de l’immense
gouffre, criant à leurs nombreux garnements en culottes courtes de ne pas trop s’approcher du
gouffre. 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 alentours
de St Auguste. Et tandis que les femmes mettaient fougasses et endives autour de la marmite de
bouillabaisse, les marmots, allaient compter les Roses Blanches et les bourgeons à venir. Lors de
l’arrivée du maire, tout le monde était déjà là. Personne ne manquait à l’appel. Personne n’aurait
jamais manqué à l’appel. Les Roses Blanches, c’était un Miracle, c’était L’Espoir, et puis, c’était
leur culture, leur histoire à eux, et c’était une légende qui émerveillait les enfants. Pourquoi
l’arrêter ?
By Catherine Laloux
Page 32
La Couleur Locale: L’Inde
Rechma s’inquiétait. C’était le jour du mariage de sa nièce, Pûjâ et sa s ur, la mère de
Pûjâ, 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 perdu
l’habitude de conduire jusqu’à la ferme près de Bombay, puisque c’était son mari qui conduisait
normalement quand ils visitaient sa famille, mais il était malade et n’avait pas pu venir. Rechma
soupira, quitta l’autoroute et prit sa carte.
Ça faisait des semaines que Rechma attendait le mariage de Pûjâ, sa seule nièce. Elle
avait 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 les
environs, seulement la campagne qui semblait s’étendre infiniment dans toutes les directions. Elle
voulut 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. Elle
pensa aux currys, tandooris, naans, et autres mets succulents qu’elle savait que sa s ur, cuisinière
experte, avait préparés. Essayant de ne pas y penser, elle regarda sa carte encore. Où pouvaitelle bien être ?
La femme décida que cela valait le risque de continuer. Elle conduisit encore pendant un
certain 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 était
allée. 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, ses
cousins, ses cousines, ses neveux, ses nièces… Elle y était arrivée !
By Samuel Baker
Page 33
La Cabane à Sucre
« Maman! J’trouve pas mes bottes! » cria la petite Chloé à sa maman. « Je veux mes
bottes pour aller à la cabane à suc’ »
« Attend une minute ma chouette. Je finis de mettre la grenouillère de ton frère et
j’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 faut
dire 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 tout
façon on va être en’dans tout le temps, il fait pas assez beau pour aller dehors. » dit Stéphane
Turcotte.
« Papa c’est à maman que j’ai demandé d’m’aider pas à toi bon! » répondit Chloé à son
père. 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 est
déjà en retard c’est pu l’temps de niaiser! » Mme Turcotte était au bord de la colère. Elle détestait
être en retard et récemment elle semblait souvent l’être.
« Bon, est-ce qu’on peut y aller maintenant? » demanda M. Turcotte. Tout comme sa
femme 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’est
pas 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 au
moins une heure de route entre la maison et la cabane à sucre sans oublier les possibles problèmes
de trafic.
Après quarante-cinq minutes de route tout allait bien…jusqu’à ce que Chloé commence à se
plaindre. C’est souvent ce qui arrive avec de jeunes enfants, il y a toujours quelque chose de pas
correct. Cette fois-ci elle avait tout simplement faim, sauf que quand on est sur une petite route de
campagne 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’est
quand 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 être
arrivé. » lui répondit sa mère.
« Quoi?! Il faut arrêter prendre ta mère? Tu m’l’avais pas dit. J’pensais qu’on allait
directement 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 fois
qu’ils se voyaient ça tourne rapidement au vinaigre, Stéphane n’était pas capable de la supporter
et 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 tout
simplement sa grand-mère. D’après Mme Vachon, la seule bonne chose que Stéphane ait faite fut
de lui donner deux magnifiques petits-enfants. Chloé et Jérôme étaient des rayons de soleil dans
sa vie.
La grand-mère embarquée, la petite famille repartit en direction de la cabane à sucre avec déjà
presque deux heures de retard. Le reste de la famille était habituée; depuis que Chloé était née, les
Turcotte était toujours en retard. Donc avec un deuxième enfant, les choses ne s’amélioraient pas
du tout.
« Maman! Papa! Esse-que c’est là la cabane à suc’? J’vois plein d’chevals avec des autos
attachées dessus, » hurla pratiquement Chloé. Aussitôt que sa mère lui avait dit tout ce qu’il y
Page 34
avait autour de la cabane à sucre elle s’était mise à en parler tout le temps, tellement que tout le
monde avait arrêté de l’écouter.
« Bon, on est arrivé. Tout l’monde descend. Y faut s’dépêcher si on veut pouvoir manger et
finir 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 le
monde la suivait de près. Et comme d’habitude, lorsqu’ils entrèrent tout le monde était déjà là.
By Émilie Couture
Page 35
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 mon
absence. 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 pas
être aussi têtue ! »
Pendant une demi-heure je lui posai des questions, jusqu'à ce que je me rende compte
qu’elle était tombée en panne. C’était l’horreur ! Comment est-ce que j’allais réviser mes leçons
toute seules ? Et qui allait laver mon linge et le repasser ? Qui allait faire mes commandes sur
Internet ? 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 ? Du
fabricant ? 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 fonctionnait
tout à fait bien. Mais alors, qu’arrivait-il à Lisa ? Etait-ce de ma faute ? Est-ce que je l’avais
maltraitée ? Tout ceci devait être arrivé à cause de moi. Elle avait tant travaillé alors que je
m’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 nous
regardait 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
Page 36

The Kattenberg Papers 2005-2006 - International School of Brussels

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