November 2023
Short Story Contest:
—– Choose Your Setting —–
A just-for-fun short story contest for young writers, ages 9-15.
Congratulations to our Winners!
Ages 9 to 10:
‘The First Heir’ by Ailith – USA
Ages 11 to 12:
‘Ambush’ by Orla Wierenga – New Zealand
Ages 13 to 15:
‘Elderberry Mead During A Milatary Coup’ by Little Ladia (who likes berries and cream) – New Zealand
Honourable Mentions:
‘Missing Crown’ by Asher Smith – Age 10
‘The Last Time I Listen to My Uncle’ by Ruby Bo Garea – Age 11
‘No Vikings Today, Try Again Later’ by Meg Bales – Age 13
Winning Entry (Ages 9-10):
The First Heir
© Ailith – Age 9, USA
Setting: Medieval Throne Room
Once upon a time in a beautiful castle a queen gave birth to her and the king’s first heir, a girl…
“My Lord, may I enter?” a lady called through the door.
“That depends on who you are,” the king called back.
“It is Elise, Queen Amice’s lady-In-waiting,” the lady said.
“Oh! Come in, come in!” he called.
“Yes, your majesty,” Elise said. She opened the door. “My lord, the queen requests that you come and see your daughter. She was born just a few minutes ago.”
“What!” the king said. He rushed out the door and down the hallway. He stopped at a light blue door which said, there is always light. “Amice, may I come in?” he asked.
“Yes,” the queen said.
The king stepped in. “Amice, you look tired,” the king said in concern.
“I am fine,” the queen answered. Then she added, “Come look at your daughter.”
The king obliged and walked over to the four-poster bed. Inside, snug as a rabbit warren, lay his wife, her golden hair braided in a fish tale braid. As for the baby, she lay with her large blue eyes wide. She had golden fuzz already growing on her head. “That baby is blessed to have such a wonderful mother, therefore let us name her Enwin, which means blessed,” the king said…
One night when Enwin was nineteen, her mother came into her bedroom and whispered, “Enwin, your father and I are going to help King Peridot over the mountains drive off invaders. You must stay here and rule the kingdom.”
“Mother, why can you not stay? Enwin asked.
“Your father needs a strong companion,” her mother answered. Then she left.
The next morning the king and queen set of with six hundred thousand men, leaving nine hundred to protect the kingdom.
As Enwin walked back to the castle with two knights, she noticed a brown heap near the side of the road. “Captain Jonah, what is that?” she asked the knight on her right.
“I know not,” the knight replied. Walking over to the heap, he said with astonishment, “A young boy of about nine years, my majesty.”
Upon hearing this, she ran over, taking off her cloak and wrapping him up in it. Then she handed the boy to the other guard, a large burly man. When they reached the castle and had gone inside, Enwin unwrapped her cloak from him. Then she took a cloth and began rubbing his face to take some of the dirt off. To her surprise it was not all dirt. The boy had brown skin! All the rubbing and the warm air from the fire that was close by awoke the child. Sitting up, he cried, “Where am I?!”
“In the hall of King Sebastian,” Enwin replied.
“What!” the boy cried, jumping up he tried to make a bow, but so hungry and tired was he that he fell and began to cry.
“Boy,” Enwin said, “What is your name? Who are your parents? Where is your home?”
“My name,” the boy answered, “is Walter Wolfsan. My parents were Bertha and Octasion. They died when the raiders destroyed our home. We lived near King Peridot’s castle.”
“Well, Walter,” Enwin said. “I shall send you with Captain Jonah to get washed up, and at noon come to the great hall where we will eat.”
“Yes, majesty,” Walter whispered, then ducking his head he turned and left the room with Jonah.
The princess hurried to her room where she put on a dark blue velvet dress, then she braided her hair and hurried to the great hall. Just as she had sat down the kitchen door opened and a steaming bowl of soup appeared. Close behind the soup followed a tossed salad, then muffins.
Then from another door Jonah and Walter appeared. Walter had his hair slicked to the side, and he wore a white satin shirt and black cotton pants. He took one look at the soup and nearly ran across the room.
Later, the princess called a meeting in the throne room. “I am here to discuss the need of a helper for me,” Enwin began. “And I think I already know who it should be. I think that Captain Jonah and Walter Wolfsan should help. As I already have Levi and Simon the sages to counsel me, I think I will be in good hands. Council dismissed!”
The next day two men came to the throne room. One said that his money had been stolen by the other man. The other man said that it was his money. Walter stepped forward and spoke. “If you cannot decide, then the princess shall keep it.”
The first man at once said “I was wrong. It is his.”
“Good,” said Enwin, “then the case is closed.”
Just then a man rushed in. “Enwin!” he cried. Then he rushed to her feet and taking her pale hand in his ruddy hand, he said, “Enwin, it is me, Marcus.”
“Marcus!” she cried. Leaping up she wrapped him in a bearhug. Marcus was a young man that had been stolen a year ago by raiders. He also had been engaged to her. “How did you get away!” she cried.
“Your parents found me, and they are at this moment passing through the gates,” he replied.
“Oh!” Enwin cried.
Just then the king and queen burst in. The king rushed to Marcus and asked, “Did you tell her?”
“No,” said Marcus.
“Well,” the queen said, “tell her!”
Marcus turned to face her and said, “We are to be married tonight!” and they were.
Winning Entry (Ages 11-12):
Ambush
© Orla Wierenga – Age 12, New Zealand
Setting: Viking Village
Astrid breathed into her icy hands. The snow glistened on the mountains like crystal; and the village was still and frozen. Bjorn poked his curl-laden head out the window and looked at the ground. He frowned, and called to Astrid.
‘There’s no snow! Astrid!’
Astrid smiled. Bjorn was convinced that it was going to snow- and every morning it didn’t he was very angry. ‘Yes, Bjorn-bear, it’ll come soon. In time for the celebrations. Don’t worry.’
Bjorn’s face contorted into a frown. ‘What celebrations? Astrid, what if it doesn’t snow!’
The door swung open, cutting off his rampage, and Ivar, their grandfather, stepped outside.
‘Fresh this morning, hey, Astrid! What about some onions? Bjorn will help me make knäckebröd.’ Bjorn grinned, Astrid nodded, and then she ran toward the forest, where there were often wild onions.
The forest was dark and ominous- it always was. The ground was slippery, and she hung onto the tree branches for support. She looked up at the dark foliage and wondered when it would snow. There would be no harvesting onions then- so she decided to get extra. Stooping down to reach a small cluster under the roots of a particularly large tree; she noticed a piece of bronze, glinting as it caught the gaze of a sharp stream of sunlight. After gathering the onions, she picked it up. It was a brooch, which were often made of bronze or silver, and it carried a symbol she had not seen before. It certainly wasn’t the sign of her tribe.
Later, she showed it to Ivar.
‘Tsk tsk tsk, Astrid, that’s not good. Where did you say you found it?’
For the first time since Ivar had returned from his voyages a month ago he looked grim.
‘In the forest. Just outside the boundary of oak trees. It was loosely placed in the roots of a pine. A big one,’ replied Astrid.
Ivar’s expression changed dramatically. ‘Good, missy, that’s very good. Now, I’m assuming you want to know what tribe this is?’ Astrid nodded.
‘Wægmunding. One of the most feared tribes in the whole region of us Vikings. This brooch is one worn by a warrior- if you had found this inside our territory it would mean certain ambushment. But if they are outside, they are hesitant, worried. It means we have some time. Now be a good girl and go fetch Sighvatur for me.’
Astrid swallowed. Sighvatur was highly respected- he was their chief- and she had only talked properly to him a few times.
His house was nestled in the rocks at the foot of the mountains. The path was steep, and as she ran her legs throbbed in time with her ragged breathing. Sighvatur was outside, talking animatedly to a stout lady with fire-red hair- his wife, Hilda. She thrust a loaf of bread at him and retreated angrily down the path. Astrid sidetracked her nervously, and Hilda looked surprised to see her. She turned her great, armoured bulk to Astrid for a second.
‘Girly, you be careful, hear? He’s not in a good mood.’
Astrid nodded automatically, not really believing Hilda. The chief’s wife was known for her tantrums. Not Sighvatur. He had an even temper.
‘Astrid! Nice to see you! Now, what’s important enough to bring you here on this sunny day?’
Astrid smiled nervously. ‘Ivar sends for you. Err, urgently. If that’s okay. He wants to talk to you.’
Sighvatur frowned, stroking his beard. ‘I’ll be there soon. Run home and tell him I’m coming, all right? Oh, and if you see Hilda tell her to come home.’
Astrid turned to face the stony path once again. She could see the village, down a little way, and the forest beyond it. The little dots that were people moved around quickly, running between the houses. She ran down, and by the time she reached the bottom she was considerably tired. Ivar was already running to reach her.
‘Astrid! Oh, you do look tired! Sorry, sorry my girl. Here, sit down. Is Sighvatur coming? We have had other reports as well, so we are all on alert. They’re definitely planning an attack for the next few days. The boys are down by the stream hauling trees. It’s the best way, we figured, to block their progress.’
Astrid swallowed. ‘Sighvatur is coming. Have you seen Hilda? He says she has to come home.’ Ivar grinned-
‘Good luck with that! She’s by the forest, organising the defence. The latest reports are that they have discovered an abandoned camp. Definitely Wægmunding. Once you’ve eaten- don’t worry, Bjorn made sure to leave you some knäckebröd- run over to Gunhild’s place. The most helpful thing you can do right now is look after the children. It’s crazy over there.’
Astrid woke in the middle of the night. The door creaked back and forth, and she saw Gunhild standing at the pit-fire, stoking it.
‘Gunhild,’ she hissed.
‘What! Oh, Astrid. Here, let’s not wake the others up. Come outside,’ and she strode out the door. The stars twinkled brightly and Astrid could still see people moving about in the distance. A horn blew, and the people swapped places with some others. Suddenly, an archer sprinted out of the forest. Most of the workers fell in quick succession, and those who remained were shot down before they reached the tent.
Gunihld was firm-
‘Astrid. Go. Back to the house, wake them up, and take Bjorn up the mountains. Quick. Odin be with you, girl.’
Sweat trickled down her back as she lugged a pack up the mountain. Bjorn crouched down by a boulder, squinting at the village.
‘Oh, Astrid. Look how many warriors there are!’ said Bjorn, for once looking nervous.
‘It’s ok, it’s ok. Don’t worry.’ Astrid murmured, more to convince herself.
‘Keep going, Bjorn.’
In the morning all was still. Peeking over the top of their blankets, on their vantage spot half-way up the mountain, Astrid and Bjorn surveyed the damage.
‘Look, Astrid. Snow.’
Winning Entry (Ages 13-15):
Elderberry Mead During A Military Coup
© Little Ladia (who likes berries and cream) – Age 15, New Zealand
Setting: Medieval Throne Room
Ho Ho Ho. The king looks upon his delicious people, very pleased with all the very positive improvements he has made to his country in a long reign. Yes. His three daughters are married off to faraway kings in order to establish strong political alliances, his healthy son is waiting patiently to take over the throne and no one is trying to assassinate anybody at the moment. Indeed, the country is flourishing in a very happy medieval period of peace.
But, if you are to look at any cheap book of European history, you will no doubt notice that peace and harmony in the Medieval era is very rare and short-lived. Don’t expect this story to be any different. For just as the king decides to give his caterer some work coordinating a banquet in celebration of the three day anniversary of court tranquillity in which No One Has Tried To Organise A Military Coup In Order To Usurp The Throne, a visibly puffed and hyperventilating squire bursts into the throne room.
“My ever so highly esteemed Lord, my very very honourable King,” he pants, collapsing to the stone floor in a very proper, if not hurried, show of bowing and scraping closer to the velveted pedestal, “someone has organised a military coup in order to usurp the throne!”
While the royal minstrels strike up an antiquated version of Beethoven’s symphony no 5 in C minor, the king springs to his feet like an old king springing to his feet. He is an old king, after all, springing to his feet.
“What? How!” the words tear from his lips. “Who has dared to commit such a vile act? Speak, my boy, withhold no information from me, all is at stake!”
“Sir Dereck, my liege,” the squire sniffles, caressing the king’s soft kid-leather poulaines. “He calls himself Dereck the Destroyer, Doer of Destructive Deeds, Deliverer of Damnation, Defender of Democracy!”
At these words, the throne-room shakes with the metaphorical boom of Impending Doom. The jester shudders with fear, his teeth clattering. He mimes falling to the ground in a petrified faint. He gets up again. He sprints around, silently screaming, tearing out his hair. He finishes in a shivering ball on the ground, and after a moment rises to bow at the ensuing applause.
“Bravo, bravo, my jester,” the king laughs and smiles and claps his hands together in innocent pleasure at his jokester’s theatrical acts. Then he remembers the Impending Doom and the grin evaporates from his face, leaving a shrivelled, skin-coloured plum in its wake.
“Enough!” he snaps. “Now we must act! Dereck must be stopped! Royal advisors: advise.”
And they do.
“Your magnificent majesty, from the overflowing supply of information we have received from this here kiddo,” begins Gerald the Wise, gesturing at the now slightly less grovelling squire with a finger gnarled with wisdom, “I believe we can all agree that Sir Dereck has organised a military coup in order to usurp the throne.”
The king nods sagely, caressing his beard in a very thoughtful way. The other advisors do the same. The room fills with the pleasant odour of deep and wise thoughts.
“I agree with Gerald the Wise,” agrees Gerard the Slightly Less Wise But Still Very Wise.
“I agree with both of you,” continues Gerhald the Tries Very Hard To Be As Wise As Gerald The Wise And Sometimes Does But Mostly Fails.
“Well, all three of you are quite wise,” comments Gerharld. His name is just Gerharld. He is just Gerharld.
The king smiles calmly at his advisors, “You are all very useful. Very useful indeed.” He pauses, turns to the squire, then back to the quartet of old men, all aged with wisdom. “So useful in fact that I think, based on your outstanding advice, that you three alone should be the first to face the military coup that is clamouring outside the throne room doors at this very instant.” He turns to the rest of his entourage. “Do you agree?”
The court is silent. Then Sir Keith turns to Lady Pauline beside him.
“You know what? I think I do.”
Lady Pauline nods. “Actually, so do I.” She turns to Lady Germaine, “Do you?”
Lady Germaine nods in assent and soon the court is filled with little polite sounds and gestures in the affirmative. No one really agrees. In fact everyone quite likes the royal advisors.
The king is pleased. “Y’all a great bunch.” Then he hikes up his royal robes, revealing a thin, mismatched pair of dirty socks and hairy, skinny calves. “Mighty and brave men and women, citizens of this powerful country, it is time…” he pauses for emphasis, “for you to fulfil your honourable destinies. Draw your swords, (or maces or lances or military scythes or Turkish longbows or boomerangs or bazookas or Big Berthas,)…” again he pauses, but this time for breath, “and fight valiantly for the preservation of your very esteemed and distinguished ruler and king.”
He nods, and within a minute has skedaddled off in the direction of his fortified bedchambers, leaving another slightly confused silence in his wake.
In truth, the king feels a very light touch of guilt at this unfortunate turn of events, but, after all, he is the king, and kings are to be protected at all costs. He fancies his life to be like a very complicated game of chess, in a kingly court full of intrigue and scheming traitors, minus, of course, the words ‘complicated’, ‘intrigue’, and ‘scheming’.
Now safely up in his grandiose chambers and humming a cheery tune, the king seizes a goblet of elderberry mead and plops himself comfortably onto his heavily cushioned window seat. He coquettishly crosses his legs at the knobbly ankles and peers pleasantly down at the throne room below, waiting patiently to cheer on the absolute blood-bath that is to ensue.
Honourable Mention:
Missing Crown
© Asher Smith – Age 10, New Zealand
Setting: Smuggler’s Cave
Once upon a time there was a boy named John. He lived with his mum and dad. One day he was walking down the street and he saw a poster of a crown. It read: “MISSING: KING’S CROWN. REWARD!!” John was surprised he had never heard of a crown being stolen. Just then someone came out of the store.
“Hello John” said Jackson, John’s friend. “You see the news about the crown?” “Yes” said John “it must be annoying for the King since he was named King yesterday.”
Half an hour later John and Jackson were walking down the country track that led to Jackson’s house. John was walking backwards and he suddenly stepped on a piece of paper and slipped. He tried to right himself but tripped over a rock and went head over heels into the head high grass. “Are you okay?” called Jackson. John didn’t answer, “John! Are you okay?” John didn’t answer but came out. “Um Jackson I’ve kind of found a cave…” “What! Where?” replied Jackson. “Just come!” “All right I’m coming,” said Jackson. John led Jackson to the cave. “Wow how did you find it?”
Honourable Mention:
The Last Time I Listen to My Uncle
© Ruby Bo Garea – Age 11, New Zealand
Setting: Smuggler’s Cave
The torch blazed in my hand as I crept through the cave, stumbling on the occasional rock. The cave walls were rough as sandpaper, and sharp, too. I kept cutting my fingers, leaving some of the rocks speckled with red. The only light was the warm orange glow of my torch flame. The treasure can’t be too far away, I think to myself. It has to be here somewhere.
Suddenly, about 20 rocks skidded off a cliff into a black pit. I had nearly followed them, but I quickly regained my balance. I felt embarrassed for not noticing the edge. I held the torch out over the gap, and saw that it was about the length of a good sized school bus, and so deep I couldn’t see the bottom. Carefully, I grabbed a small rock off the cave floor, and chucked it into the pit. It felt like forever before I heard the soft ‘clunk’ of it hitting the ground. This thing was deep.
Reaching into my backpack, I searched for the long rope I’d brought. It had a sharp grappling-hook-type thing that helped it grab onto rough surfaces, and there were lots of cracks and divots in the ground, so when I threw my rope across, it immediately got stuck on the other side. I tugged at it hard, as hard as I could, and it stayed put. I found a little overhanging part in the cave, the perfect size to tie my rope. I did a double knot. Now came the terrifying part.
Honourable Mention:
No Vikings Today, Try Again Later
© Meg Bales – Age 13, United States of America
Setting: Viking Village
Emily was bored until she saw the dragons.
Her parents had dragged her off to some cute little “Viking” village for spring vacation, with the promise of “it’ll be fun!”
They checked into the hotel late in the afternoon, with no dragons in sight. Then, apparently overnight, the dragons arrived.
Emily and her parents stepped out of the elevator the next morning to see a blue dragon about the size of a pony inspecting the decorative axes on the lobby wall. One of the front desk guys was arguing with it in vain, as it was completely absorbed in the axes and didn’t seem to hear him.
“Try shooing it with a broom!” the other desk guy shouted. The dragon turned to him with a wounded expression.
“Whatever do you mean?” it asked with a British accent. Both desk guys dropped everything and ran away screaming. The dragon watched them go, puzzled. It turned to Emily and her parents. “What was that all about?”
“A good book makes you want to live in the story. A great book gives you no choice.“
– Unknown
Honourable Mention:
Missing Crown
© Asher Smith – Age 10, New Zealand
Once upon a time there was a boy named John. He lived with his mum and dad. One day he was walking down the street and he saw a poster of a crown. It read: “MISSING: KING’S CROWN. REWARD!!” John was surprised he had never heard of a crown being stolen. Just then someone came out of the store.
“Hello John” said Jackson, John’s friend. “You see the news about the crown?” “Yes” said John “it must be annoying for the King since he was named King yesterday.”
Half an hour later John and Jackson were walking down the country track that led to Jackson’s house. John was walking backwards and he suddenly stepped on a piece of paper and slipped. He tried to right himself but tripped over a rock and went head over heels into the head high grass. “Are you okay?” called Jackson. John didn’t answer, “John! Are you okay?” John didn’t answer but came out. “Um Jackson I’ve kind of found a cave…” “What! Where?” replied Jackson. “Just come!” “All right I’m coming,” said Jackson. John led Jackson to the cave. “Wow how did you find it?”
“Well I was wandering around the grass trying to get out and I found it.”
“Well let’s explore it,” said Jackson.
“But we’ll have to be careful we don’t know what’s inside the cave,” said John. “Of course, we’ll be careful but we’ve got a cave to explore.”
Five minutes later the two boys were lost. “I hope that we’ll be able to get out, this cave is giving me the creeps” whispered John. “I’m sure we will” said Jackson, although he sounded uncertain. Suddenly John stopped and Jackson bumped into him “Ow! Why did you stop?” John didn’t answer but pointed to something that made Jackson just stare.
“It’s…it’s…”Jackson trailed off, the crown! Suddenly John heard a gruff voice say “What are you doing here?” John and Jackson spun around and they saw something that made Jackson’s blood run cold. A man that looked about six foot tall was standing behind them.
Half an hour later John and Jackson were locked in a small six by six-foot room with almost no furniture except for a small table and two chairs. “I can’t believe we’re locked in here!” stormed John, pacing in circles “My mum and dad will be waiting for me and if I don’t get out of here, they’ll get worried.” Jackson wasn’t listening to John, suddenly he jumped up “John! I think I know how to get out of here” “How?” asked John. “Sit down and I’ll fill you in on my plan of action. So, I think if you were to hide beside the door and I stood in front of it and then if I banged on the door the smuggler might come to the door and open the door and then I could annoy him and if he tries to get me you can hit him on the head with the chair and if you knock him out, we can lock him in the room and we’re home free!” “Um Jackson” asked John “how do we know that he’s a smuggler?” “I saw nuclear bombs in the room that we came to first. Okay let’s get this plan together.”
First John positioned himself behind one of the chairs and Jackson stood in front of the door. “Hey Smuggler!” yelled Jackson “Come here.” Jackson and John heard footsteps coming towards the door. “What is it? said the smuggler. “You are a little…Caterpillar” said Jackson “What! No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are” “No I’m not!” “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” “NO, I’M NOT!” “Yes, you are.” said Jackson cheekily. That was when the smuggler blew “NO I’M NOT!” The smuggler burst into the room and walked over to the chairs where John jumped up and knocked the smuggler down. “Let’s get out of here” John yelled. The boys ran out of the room and Jackson grabbed the crown as they ran past. The boys sprinted out of the cave entrance. They ran the fastest they had ever ran down the path and arrived at Jackson’s house. “Quick! Get inside.” Jackson yelled. John ran inside, Jackson in hot pursuit. “Mum! Dad!” Jackson called. “Call the police now!!” Jackson’s mum grabbed the phone just as they saw Rocky their Rockweiller chasing the Smuggler down the path.
“You boys have a lot of explaining to do” Mum said while dialling the police.
Honourable Mention:
The Last Time I Listen to My Uncle
© Ruby Bo Garea – Age 11, New Zealand
The torch blazed in my hand as I crept through the cave, stumbling on the occasional rock. The cave walls were rough as sandpaper, and sharp, too. I kept cutting my fingers, leaving some of the rocks speckled with red. The only light was the warm orange glow of my torch flame. The treasure can’t be too far away, I think to myself. It has to be here somewhere.
Suddenly, about 20 rocks skidded off a cliff into a black pit. I had nearly followed them, but I quickly regained my balance. I felt embarrassed for not noticing the edge. I held the torch out over the gap, and saw that it was about the length of a good sized school bus, and so deep I couldn’t see the bottom. Carefully, I grabbed a small rock off the cave floor, and chucked it into the pit. It felt like forever before I heard the soft ‘clunk’ of it hitting the ground. This thing was deep.
Reaching into my backpack, I searched for the long rope I’d brought. It had a sharp grappling-hook-type thing that helped it grab onto rough surfaces, and there were lots of cracks and divots in the ground, so when I threw my rope across, it immediately got stuck on the other side. I tugged at it hard, as hard as I could, and it stayed put. I found a little overhanging part in the cave, the perfect size to tie my rope. I did a double knot. Now came the terrifying part.
Have you ever tried to tightrope over a giant gap in a dark cave? I doubt it. Well, just to tell you kids, DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME! I told myself about a thousand times: Just one foot in front of the other. It was petrifying. By far the scariest thing I’d ever done in my life. It took less than a minute. I was so scared that I rushed across in one go. I stumbled on the other side, grazing my knee badly. Blood dripped onto the rocky floor. Ripping open my pack, I pulled out my miniature first-aid kit. 4 minutes and 21 seconds later, my knee was wrapped in thick, white bandages.
Continuing through the tunnel, it got darker and darker, so dark that even my torch only cast a feeble glow in front of me, and soon I had one arm out by my side, feeling for the walls, while my other one gripped onto the torch. Tripping almost always now, I started talking to myself. “Ok, this is fine. I’ll find the treasure, give it back to Uncle Kowski, and everything will be fine. Just keep going. You got this.”
In case you’re wondering, Uncle Kowski claimed he’d found smuggler’s gold in this very cave, before parts of it collapsed, leaving a small, child-sized hole that only me, his 12 yr old niece could fit through. So I continued along the dank tunnel, until I slammed into a massive stone wall. And I was at the bottom of it. I’d left my rope over at the gap, as a tightrope, so I knew I’d have to climb it without one.
The stone was slippery. So. Very. Slippery. It was a real struggle. I would get like 4 feet up, then see no options to climb higher, and fall back down to the ground. “Okay.” I told myself. “This is hard, but you can do it.” Again, I pulled myself up, gripping onto the rock so hard my knuckles turned white. My legs ached. Step by step, I climbed higher and higher up the cliff, asking myself why on Earth Uncle Kowski didn’t take the gold when he found it. Then I wondered – what do you do with gold? Can you put it in a bank account? How much is it worth to sell anyway?
I was halfway up then, and getting clearly sidetracked by my thoughts, and that was a mistake. My balance failed me, and my body wobbled dangerously. Gripping on tightly to the stone wall with both hands, I clung on for dear life, using all my strength to hold on. Finally, I was safe again, and had stopped wobbling. I shoved my wandering thoughts away and continued up the vertical wall.
When I reached the top, it felt amazing. There was another long, dark tunnel ahead, “Of course there is”, I thought. I’d left my torch behind when climbing the wall, to pick up on the way out, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was the fact that I had made it. I had survived. Although, now I could barely see anything. But I plodded on, and when I turned the corner, there was a small, round bag there, covered in dirt and grime. It was filled with golden coins! I picked it up wearily, and saw that there was a long chain coiled next to the bag. Well, that was weird… but useful.
Grabbing the gold, and the chain, I started back down the tunnel. Now I had a chain to replace my rope, the gold, and a torch waiting for me at the bottom. It was all going to be fine. Completely and utterly fine. I had survived. I had done it.
Then, as I was walking back to the rock wall, I heard a low, deep, growl…
The end.
Honourable Mention:
No Vikings Today, Try Again Later
© Meg Bales – Age 13, United States of America
Emily was bored until she saw the dragons.
Her parents had dragged her off to some cute little “Viking” village for spring vacation, with the promise of “it’ll be fun!”
They checked into the hotel late in the afternoon, with no dragons in sight. Then, apparently overnight, the dragons arrived.
Emily and her parents stepped out of the elevator the next morning to see a blue dragon about the size of a pony inspecting the decorative axes on the lobby wall. One of the front desk guys was arguing with it in vain, as it was completely absorbed in the axes and didn’t seem to hear him.
“Try shooing it with a broom!” the other desk guy shouted. The dragon turned to him with a wounded expression.
“Whatever do you mean?” it asked with a British accent. Both desk guys dropped everything and ran away screaming. The dragon watched them go, puzzled. It turned to Emily and her parents. “What was that all about?”
“What are you doing here?” Emily retorted. The dragon drew itself up majestically.
“I,” it said with great dignity, “am a Professor of Human Culture at the Dragonston University of Science. One of my Honors Students has asked me why Vikings wear fuzzy hats with horns and wings attached, and our textbooks do not say. Therefore we are on a research expedition to Earth to find out why. We haven’t found any Vikings to ask so far, but we have found plenty of other facts about them.”
Emily blinked. “Uh, you…do know that Vikings didn’t actually have horns on their hats, right? That’s just something operas added to make their Viking costumes look cooler.” The dragon looked at her askance.
“Nonsense. We will just keep searching for a Viking to ask.” The dragon turned around and stalked out the door like an offended cat.
Emily looked at her parents. “We? As in there’s more of them?”
Emily’s parents looked at each other. “Perhaps we’d better have a look at the situation,” Emily’s father suggested.
Outside it was chaos. Dragons ranging in size from cat-sized to elephant-sized were investigating everything that would hold still long enough, and quite a few things that wouldn’t. Six or so goat-sized dragons were trying on souvenir Viking helmets, to the alarm of all bystanders, one car-sized one was doing its level best to get into the Viking Museum, two cat-sized dragons were bounding in and out of any and all open windows, notepads in claw, and two or three horse-sized ones were being denied access to the McDonalds.
Emily watched in confusion as the blue dragon from the lobby attempted to copy down a sign.
“It says ‘hottle this way’,” it reported to a Labrador-sized purple dragon with a notebook and a pencil.
“Is there an illustration or more directions to tell you how to hottle?” the purple dragon asked, scribbling furiously.
“No, but–“
“This one says to ‘Muck Donald’s,” one of the dragons being denied access to the McDonalds reported excitedly.
“Who is Donald and where’s his thing that we’re supposed to muck?” the purple dragon asked, confused.
“No, no, that’s the name of the restaurant,” Emily explained, walking up to them. The purple dragon and the blue dragon looked at her.
“Oh. That makes much more sense,” the purple dragon said, writing even faster.
“And that word is ‘hotel’. It’s telling you that there is a hotel this direction.”
“Ah,” said the blue dragon. “Of course. I was just about to say that myself.”
“Also, if you want Viking facts, you should try the public library,” Emily told them. “This isn’t going to help very much. There are no actual Vikings here.”
“But this is a Viking village!” the blue dragon sputtered.
“No Vikings?” the purple dragon asked, interested. “Do tell.”
“Vikings aren’t around anymore. They lived a long time ago. The library can tell you much more than I can about that, though.”
“You mean humans have libraries too?” the purple dragon asked. It turned to the blue dragon. “I knew they’d have libraries!”
“Bah,” the blue dragon said, spreading its wings dramatically.
“The library is that building over there,” Emily told the purple dragon, pointing. The purple dragon flapped into the air.
“THERE’S A LIBRARY!” it announced at the top of its lungs. All dragons within earshot stopped what they were doing. One of the ones trying to get into the McDonalds got hit over the head with a broom.
“THE HUMANS HAVE A LIBRARY! IT’S THAT BUILDING OVER THERE!” The purple dragon pointed.
All the dragons except the two talking to Emily promptly forgot about everything else and stampeded to the library. The blue dragon rolled its eyes and followed.
The purple dragon landed. “Thank you for telling us about the human library. We would still be confused and wrong without you. Is there anything we could do for you in return?”
“Could we take a picture together?” Emily asked. Her friends were going to freak out if she showed them a selfie with a dragon.
“Of course!” the purple dragon said enthusiastically. Emily’s mother took a picture of them together.
“This should go on Instagram,” she decided.
“Thank you again!” said the purple dragon, before dashing off to the library.
“You were right, Dad,” Emily said thoughtfully as she watched it go. “This was fun.”
The end