Friends

Caroline and Simon were friends. They were the best of friends, and they endured hardships together, such as the Great Twinkie Shortage of 2009, and the Summer of Eating Healthy. It was during their weekly Scrabble game in the local park that Simon announced that he would be turning eight the next day.
"Are you, really?" exclaimed Caroline, playing CONIFER for 87 points.
"I am, indeed!" smiled Simon, who then countered Caroline's pine tree with ESCARGOT for 88 points.
"That's old," said Caroline, tallying up their points.
"Oh my," said Simon, twisting his top hat nervously, "We seem to have tied."
"I like ties best," said Caroline, who wrote down their scores in her little blue book where she kept a record of their fifty-three games of Scrabble with fifty-two draws and one crossed-out game that they did not refer to, ever.
"Are we going to have a party?" she asked, demurely.
Simon nodded gravely. "Of course, and we're invited. We must be sure to give ourselves presents that we would like."
"Aunt Marigold always gives books that we've read," said Caroline, "Last year, she gave me Oliver Twist, and asked me whether I could identify. I think I rather feel more like Holden Caulfield."
"Last year, she bought me a piano, eventhough I already have two." said Simon.
"Presents are so annoying," said Caroline.
Simon packed up the Scrabble set, and opened the car door for Caroline.
"Oh, thank you," said Caroline.
Simon drove back to the house, making a careful turn around the gate and parking neatly in the lot.

"That was a splendid game," said Caroline, "I wish everyday was like today."
"Would you like a little refreshment? I have some cucumber sandwiches prepared."
"Oh, marvelous!" cried Caroline, "I just happen to have a fine bottle of strawberry wine with me here, too! We must have a picnic."
"By the poolside!" agreed Simon, enthusiastically.
The chlorinated water rippled attractively as they sat beneath their striped umbrella munching their tea.
"Have you heard of the murders downtown? It's dreadful business," said Simon.
"Oh my, yes, a family of four, and their children so young!" sighed Caroline, "Have they found the dastardly criminal yet?"
"No, they haven't, which makes it all the more worrisome. But enough about gloom and despair!" He raised his glass with his pudgy hand. "To Nine Years of Life!"
Caroline toasted him, and took a sip. She giggled and leaned in closer to Simon.

"Let's play a game," she said.
"What game?" asked Simon. The wine was beginning to tell, and he felt pleasantly light-headed.
"Tag, you're it!" squealed Caroline as she pushed Simon off his deckchair and rushed into the house.
Simon giggled violently as his cane and top hat were left forgotten on the floor.
Inside the house was silent. Simon's shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. He heard a muffled giggle coming from the dining room. He peeked 'round the door and spied a whirl of ribbons and lace.
"I see you!" Simon gave chase.
A chair toppled, and the Persian rugs were rumpled. Caroline had a nasty bruise on her elbow where she had bumped it against the potted orchids, and Simon's shirt had come untucked. The pool had turned a mild pink where the wine and spilled, and one of Monet's had fallen off the wall.
The front door opened.
"Simon! Caroline!" said his mother, aghast, "The house is a mess! I thought you knew better than this!" She took off her gloves and sat. "I'll have to call the cleaners! Everyone will know! We'll be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood!"
Caroline and Simon stood there with their heads bowed and silent, listening to their mother murmur portents of doom and punishment and ruined reputations.
Caroline nudged Simon. "That was worth it," she mouthed.
Simon smiled.

Delicious

The sun was beginning to rise in the morning air, and Michael could smell the dew-laden grass around him. Perching on an outcrop over a valley, he watched the sun break past the wispy clouds. It was beautiful. The sheep baaed behind him. Michael looked at it carefully. It was an ordinary sheep, but its eyes seemed oddly intelligent. The sheep moved closer to him. The sun was up now, and the show was over, so Michael began his trek home. It would be almost time for breakfast. What would Mother have in store for him? Pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup? Crispy cereal with fresh strawberries and milk? A crunchy waffle, with a heavenly scoop of vanilla ice-cream? A savoury sandwich with a cool glass of orange juice? Michael licked his lips in anticipation.

He tried to whistle as he walked, but failed miserably. The sheep followed. Michael stopped and looked at it.
"Stop following me," said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep. It butted his calf.
"I don't have anything to eat," said Michael.
"Baa," said the sheep.
"Go away!" Michael plodded off.

The sheep continued to follow him. Michael chose to ignore it. Suddenly, the sheep grabbed hold of his jeans.
"Hey!" said Michael, "Leave me alone!"
"Baa," said the sheep, munching on a mouthful of denim.
"Those were my second best pair of jeans!" said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep.
The two watched each other, the boy and the sheep.
The sheep leapt for his throat.
Michael's scream turned into strangled burbles.
"Baa," said the sheep.
Breakfast was served.

Futility

Once upon a time, there were three apples.
Jeremy had bought them at the store and had brought them home.
After placing the apples on the counter, Jeremy smiled and said, “I’m going to eat you tomorrow.”
Then Jeremy laughed and went to bed.

The three apples were frightened.
Said the first apple, “Jeremy’s going to eat us tomorrow! We’re all going to die.”
The second apple said, “Don’t worry, he can’t eat all of us.”
Then the third apple said, “But he’ll eat one of us.”
The first apple said, “We should escape.”
Then there was silence.

In the morning, Jeremy woke up and smelled the fresh air.
He hummed while he brushed his teeth, and sang in the shower.
The apples were waiting as he approached them.

“Hello Apples!” said Jeremy.
“Hello Jeremy,” said the apples.
“We’ve decided,” said the first apple, “that you may eat me first.”
“Okay,” said Jeremy, and he ate the first apple.

The other apples were horrified.
Jeremy went to college.
“He was the best apple an apple could know,” said the second apple.
“He’ll never be an apple tree now,” said the third apple.
“We should escape,” said the second apple.
Then there was silence.

When Jeremy came back, the two remaining apples were still on the counter.
He whistled as he walked, and gave a little hop, skip, and jump every now and then.

“You can eat me next,” said the third apple.
“Nah,” said Jeremy, “I’ll eat this one instead,” and he ate the second apple.
“Why did you do that?” the third apple asked, “She wanted to be an apple tree with deep, strong roots, with branches big and sturdy, with leaves that would shine in the sunlight. The song of the wind would wrap around her, and the birds of the air would sing with delight.”
Jeremy shrugged and went to sleep.

“I am the last apple,” said the third apple.
Then there was silence.

When Jeremy woke up the next morning, the third apple asked, “Are you going to eat me now?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy, and he picked up the third apple.
“Why?” asked the third apple, “Why do you have to eat me?”
“Because you are just an apple,” said Jeremy, and he ate the third apple.
Then there was silence, as there was no one left to remember the third apple.

Nancy the Rabbit

When the sun shined, Nancy the Rabbit loved to come out and play where it was warm. She rolled in the grasses and flowers of the field, and played many rabbity games with her brothers and sisters. One day, while the rabbits played Catch the Tail, a shadow loomed over their friendly meadow. The rabbits quickly abandoned their playtime and ran to hide. But it was too late! Bang Bang! went Farmer Johnson's shotgun. Soon, one, two, three little rabbits lay in bloody lumps on the ground. Farmer Johnson scooped up the rabbits and put them in his worn burlap sack. His fingers were old, and they trembled with hunger. As he felt the supple flesh of the rabbits, he thought of how it would ever be enough to feed his family. The rabbits were young - it wouldn't be enough. Someone would have to go hungry again. He sighed, and straightened his aching back, looking at the setting sun. Perhaps there would be something else on the way home. As he plodded home, weary and silent, thinking of his youngest son, the one who would smile and clutch his legs as he entered the house, Father and Mother Rabbit came out of their hole. They stood by the remnants of their children in the fading grass and fallen leaves, and as the last rays of the sun illuminated their faces with bloody light, their whiskers quivered. Then it was dark.

In a Hurry

Dear Jane,

You must forgive my hurried writing as I compose this message; it has been a while since you last wrote yesterday, and I have not yet found the time to write a detailed reply to your question: "When are we going 2 the movies?" because as such, I am simply inundated with requests and calls from loved ones and friends and family to attend a variety of gatherings and events from parties to book-reading clubs to gardening socials where all the women wear gloves, dress in white and talk with a most educated accent, much like how you are imagining my voice as you read this letter in your hand, and to get back to the focal point of this message, you asked, "When are we going 2 the movies?", and in that simple question, (I do wonder where you found the time to misspell to as 2, it's quite obscene, really), you seemed to imply that, one, you are going to the movies, two, I am going to the movies, and three, we are going to the movies together, and while I certainly think very highly of you, as mother always agrees with me when I say that Young Jane definitely has a head on those shoulders, I, forgive me, do not recall an invitation to the movies with you, unless it was that dreadful pink envelope with the stains all around the flap and the beautiful typography announcing, Elliot Tan, genius of the modern world and person universally adored, though it could have been shorter - really my memory has been quite unforgiving these past days and there have been times where while talking on one subject segue onto another quite naturally and then after can never really remember what I had been talking about not quite five minutes earlier - but the point is, I threw away that letter after admiring my name, throwing it away because it was pink, because it was stained, but mainly because of the too many hearts adorning my name that made it look like it came from a princess castle filled with five year olds in fairy suits all smiling and giggling and pointing their little wands about as beaming mothers stand back and take photographs so that they too, can smile and giggle and point with their friends, who will go home to their loved ones and think 'if only I had a child as adorable as Mrs. So-and-so's' and frankly, I abhor the idea that I would enjoy receiving a gaudy purple puke-worthy envelope, and I refuse to be taken advantage of in that dreadful manner, as I once was when I was a little child, with my baby photos being displayed about in Places of Prominence, like the top of the cupboard or on the fridge where they would cover my painstakingly drawn stick figures of Mom, Dad, my brother, and I all holding hands in a pretty garden underneath a rainbow and blue skies, much like the rainbow that could be over my head and yours, and thus I say to you Jane, I really don't think it's going to work out between us, and perhaps we should be just friends, actually it might be better if you don't call again, or even message me, because my phone is just about out of space and I might have to do something drastic, like a large man saying no, I really couldn't have another one, and then taking the last doughnut off the plate, finishing it off, and suddenly violently vomiting all over the place, excreting the metaphorical doughnuts that are actually your seventy-two-hundred messages sent to me since that week where we met and talked and laughed together about that thing that isn't really as funny now as it was then, when we were young and carefree, and unburdened with the sorrow that is now creeping upon your flesh, thinking oh God, he really doesn't like me, he really doesn't, and the raging delight that controls every eager movement of my pen, and the truth is, Jane, yes, you did come on too strong, as one of my older friends said to his bottle of vodka, so, adieu, and in the future I wish you happiness and unicorns and daydreams of what could have been Something.

Elliot

The Parade

A narrative essay, starting with a predetermined sentence.

---

She was thrown forward as the bus screeched to a halt. As she recovered from the shock she looked around her... Where was this place? People around her were rummaging through bags and reaching for cameras. She breathed on the dirty glass and wiped it with her sleeve.

There was a huge parade of people coming down the street. It sounded like there was possibly more than one marching band, trumpets and accordions lent their voices to the murmuring crowd. Alongside the street, befuddled shopkeepers and their customers were exiting the shops and gaping at the stream of human bodies.

Red, blue, green, and yellow! a mish-mash of colours adorned the parade as liberal amounts of confetti were sprayed around. The people swirled around the bus. The bus doors were opened, and a man strode up the steps.

"There she is!" he said, once he'd seen her. He poked his head out of the bus. "We've got her!"

She rose trembling from her seat, clutching her bag tightly.

"Me? What's... what's happening?"

"Alyssa Everdeen? Congratulations." he grabbed her hands and pulled her out past the stunned bus driver.

The noise was even louder outside. As she emerged, people started screaming.

"Alyssa! We love you!" "Congratulations!"

A woman yelled at her, "I wanna be just like you, Alyssa!"

The crowd was hysterical, their voices hoarse. Alyssa basked in their adoration.

A crown was placed upon her forehead, she was adorned with flowers. A shadow fell, and she gasped to see a huge blimp flying overhead. Her name was printed on it.

"Quickly!" said the man, " we mustn't be late."

"Late for what?" she asked, not wanting to leave the people.

Her people. They loved her, and she loved them.

She tried to resist, but he pulled her away from them.

"No! Let me stay!" Her tiara threatened to topple.

Smiling faces whirled past, a shopkeeper shook her hand and gave her a watermelon, his words muffled by the crowd. People kept bumping into her, yearning for her touch.

"Bless my daughter, Alyssa!"

"Save the pandas!"

"Only you can do it!"

The man led her up a beautiful white float, pulled by six golden horses. Standing on top, was her dream man. He turned and smiled at her with those pretty teeth and took her hands. Alyssa blushed. He knelt at her feet and said, "Alyssa, will you marry me?"

Alyssa didn't know it was possible to have her face turn that red.

"I don't know what to say..." she said.

"Don't say anything," he said. "Just say yes."

She looked into his deep blue eyes and handsome features. The surrounding crowd broke out into a chant, "Kiss her! Kiss her!", she nodded her head... and fell off her chair.

The people around her looked at her curiously.

"Are you okay?" one tubby boy asked.

She burst into tears. "I just had the most wonderful dream."

Alyssa sobbed all the way off the bus and back home, consoling herself with a large tub of ice-cream and her favourite movie. As she nodded off, she heard familiar strains of music beginning to play. She smiled.

Delicious Cake

One of the goals for English Class months and months ago was to write introductions for the 6 ways: 1) Describing the Surroundings, 2) Describing a Character, 3) Opening with the Main Conflict, 4) Starting with a Dialogue, 5) Starting with a Dramatic Statement, 6) Starting with a Flashback.

There were three themes.
I picked: "Write an incident when your best friend betrayed you." (Don't ask) We could write different introductory stories, but I decided to be clever *cough* and write it so that whilst you could take each introduction separately, reading them in order would give you a story.

This is what I wrote.

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1) The cake sat on the table, seeming so out of place in the dreary room. The pallid grey walls, the mold growing on leaky taps and the unwashed dishes only accented the contrast with the bright, colourful, oh-so-edible cake. If you had entered the room, you would have smelled it immediately. Chocolate. Good, rich chocolate smells, wafting out the door, down the hallway, permeating the entire house. Such a cake had not been seen in this room for many years. Why was it there? A finger reached out towards it, hesitantly.

2) Mark was not a typical student. In addition to regularly outperforming his classmates at everything, his favourite hobby was to bake cakes. Mark was not rich - his parents had divorced when he was five, and his father, the breadwinner of the family, had left he and his mother to fend for themselves. Purchasing ingredients for cakes was hard, and that meant he had to scrimp and save every penny to enter the Annual Bake Sale at his school. This year, Mark knew he would win. The cake he had baked had no rival.

3) She opened the door gently.
"Mark? Are you home?" she said.
No reply. She sniffed. What was that smell? Something... something delicious. She drifted down the hallway, as if in a trance, dropping her bag and keys in her march to the kitchen. She ignored the sign Mark had left there - MOM, DO NO EAT - and reached out a finger to touch the glistening surface of the cake. She tasted it. Chocolate. Her favourite. Mmmph. The cake disappeared in an animalistic frenzy of gluttony, using both hands to cream the cake into her gaping mouth.
"Mom?" A sound reached her brain. It couldn't be...
"I'm home!"

4) "Oh God, what have you done!? That was mine! Didn't you see my sign?" Mark's anger was palpable.
She cowered beneath him, traces of cake and plate littering the floor.
"I didn't know! I couldn't think!" she said.
"I don't need your excuses! You were the only true parent - the only true friend I had. You betrayed me!" he spat.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please forgive me!" she pleaded.
Mark's wild roving eyes landed on a butcher knife.

5) An unearthly wail pierced the air. A shriek of pain, of guilt, of the last gasping breaths of a creature. Mrs. Gumbo got up from her gardening. She peered at the rundown terrace house next door, trying to glance in the dirty windows. The door opened and a figure stepped out.
"Mark?" she said, recognizing him. "What was that?
Then she saw the blood, the butcher knife clenched between white fingers. She raised her hands to her mouth and began to scream.

6) In retrospect, I never should have killed her. She was my mother, the only true friend in a world of idiots and bullies. But I had to. She had eaten it - my cake! - like an animal. I just did what I would do to any other animal. Put it down. I couldn't control myself. I can remember it like it was yesterday...