FOBISIA Short Story Competition

Gavin Donnelly

Head of English, British International School Ho Chi Minh City

Last term we announced the winners of the 2021-22 FOBISIA Short Story Competition hosted by BIS Ho Chi Minh City. In this edition of The FOBISIAN we are delighted to share the winning short stories written around the theme of ‘Memories’ with you.

School’s Name: North London Collegiate School Jeju Student’s Name: David Kwon Category: Year 3 & 4 Organising Teacher’s Name: Ms. Meghan Peters Organising Teacher’s Email Address: mpeters@nlcsjeju.kr

YEARS 3&4 WINNER

The Memory Café

When you walk into the Memory Café, chimes tinkle to announce your entrance. A smiling waiter guides you to your table and hands you a menu. All kinds of tea are available, but they are not normal tea. No rooibos or chamomile here. The teabags have a secret. They are infused with memories.

Sad Memory tea is matcha-green and has an achingly numbing taste. Many people take it with a spoonful of tears, so there is a tinge of salt to the aftertaste. Happy Memory tea is shimmering lavender, which you can slurp down like a carnival slushie. It tastes like fluffy clouds of cotton candy. Once you swallow, it makes you giggle, like an invisible hand tickling your tummy. Angry Memory tea is dark blue. It’s a spicy tea that tastes like sour cherries and pepper. Some people order painful memories - why, we don’t know. Burning a furious red, the painful memories explode in your mouth, like spiky cacti flowers, and they prickle your throat when you swallow. They come in small espresso cups, and you have to suck it in with a straw, because painful memories are hard to bear and you have to drink slowly, in little sips, to relive them.

The Memory Café only appears to people that need it the most. A girl whose dog just died can walk in and have a cup of happy memories. A man who hates his job can drink a Sad Tea and realise that actually, his job isn’t as terrible as when he peed in the swimming pool and his whole class laughed at him. There are important people sitting in the corners, sipping painful memories when

they are at the brink of huge decisions; a politician who is about to declare war, drinks a painful memory that shows him the horrors of violence. He calls the war off, remembering what it was like to be a helpless boy, bruised by thugs.

At the end of your life, the Memory Café appears one final time, to offer you a special drink. The All-Powerful-Teabag creates a personal memory movie of your life. Nobody has ever lived to tell the tale, but legend says that this rare blend has a fizzy taste when you start to drink it, like a tiny spark at the tip of your tongue. It then fills the rest of your body, before exploding into a weird and wonderful flavour. They say it tastes like all the bitterness and sweetness in your life. People who had a good life can enjoy a delightful cup of tea, while people who were mean to others must drink tea tasting like stinky blue cheese. Then you see all your memories, from the moment you stepped into the Memory Café just now, to the moment when you were just a tiny baby, not even born yet. So be careful with your choices, because memories are all you can take to the other side.

Struggling to push back any tears, I vainly tried to ignore the paper crane gazing at me. I quickened my pace, determined that I wasn’t going to let a dead tree see me cry. Seeing that it could still keep up, I increased my speed even more and made a run for it. Down the hill I ran, past the fields of barley and across tarred roads. I dodged pedestrians jay-walking, slipping in and out of the busy roads filled with honking cars and flashy bikes.

Towering buildings became trees, cars became bushes and abruptly, instead of the deafening sound of honking cars and the never-ending chatter of people, a pleasant sound of murmuring waves wafted through my senses as I took in my surroundings. A blanket of sand engulfed my legs and I could feel every grain of sand between my toes.

School’s Name: Prince of Wales International (Primary) School, Penang Student’s Name: Rae En Cheng Category: Year 5 & 6 Organising Teacher’s Name: Claire Boyle Organising Teacher’s Email Address: c.boyle@powiis.org

YEARS 5&6 WINNER

Memories

I glared at the hovering paper crane behind me. “Why won’t you leave me alone?!” I groaned desperately. It only stared vastly back, flickering in and out of a heat wave. The smoldering sun blazed on my back as I trudged along the brittle road. Glancing back, I anticipated to see the crane gone but it continued to shadow me. I sighed and continued walking. Ever since the accident happened all I can think about is her.

It happened one stormy night when we were driving up the west coast. The sea below churned and quarreled with the rocks, causing a strong gust of wind to push us off course. I never saw her again.

Banshing the lingering thought of the crane, I slowly walked downwards, across the sand, soaking up the soaring breeze as it lifted the trees, causing them to dance wildly.

Instantaneously, a flash of blue and silver caught my eye, I peered around slowly. Ambivalent eyes rested on a rusty swing with peeling white paint, revealing shimmers of silver. Perching birds fled at the sound of my footsteps as I sat cautiously on the bygone figure. The swing rattled and wheezed, having not been sat on for years. I gently began a rhythm and soon the melody of waves were accompanied by the beat of the swing creaking back and forth. Memories filled my half-conscious mind of the times I shared with her. When I fell from a swing and she brushed away my tears, (I was always very soft), her smooth voice when she read to me, the time when she built me my first swing and how she stood up to the bullies at school. It was like being wrapped up in a blanket, the most unimaginable and magical, weaved from the bittersweet memories of the past. A rustling of paper pulled me back to reality where the crane lay on my lap unmoving.

Taking in a deep breath, a wave of warmness and fulfillment curdled knowingly in my stomach. I delicately placed the crane on an awaiting riptide and walked away, the sound of flowing waves rippling, leading the paper crane home.

School’s Name: International School of Penang (Uplands) Student’s Name: Yoonsong (Elizabeth) Choi Category: Secondary Organising Teacher’s Name: Ms. Kerry Organising Teacher’s Email Address: skerry@uplands.org

Secondary WINNER

Our Street

This was our street, Paula and I’s. It was narrow and lined with rough cobblestone blocks that had cracks and were crumbling in some places. Cramped tightly together were swollen brick houses and if you walked only a few meters ahead, numerous corner shops littered the land. Its ragged neon billboards would flicker on and off sporadically through the night, infringing on the night’s darkness before retreating again. There was little greenery except for an oddly placed oak tree that loomed over the dusty path. It would surrender its leaves to us every fall, its brittle foliage crinkling and crunching under our weight as we dived into them each morning. We learned to ride our first bikes on this street. They were silver with gold stripes and glittery pink streamers that Paula’s sister helped attach so that they formed delicate ringlets that danced with the wind when we raced each other home from school. On rainy days, we would speed through puddles, purposely trying to splash each other until our mothers called us in for dinner. Hair plastered to our foreheads, mud staining the bottoms of our pants, and completely soaked to the bone, I still remember our mothers’ chastising tones that rang throughout the neighborhood as they took in our bedraggled states.

Every Thursday, we waited on the tight steps of our houses, keeping an ear out for the tinkling of the melody that signified the old man and his ice cream truck that he would

haul around town, attracting the attention of ecstatic children that tugged relentlessly on the hands of their exasperated parents until they yielded. As soon as we caught wind of the soft tune, we would bolt up and follow the saccharine aroma of sugar and artificial flavoring that pervaded the air, clutching the coins we had collected throughout the week closely to our chests.

Captivated, we would watch the shovel dip into the container and glide smoothly across the semi-melted ice cream. 1 scoop, 2 scoops, not too cold so that we would have to nurse a brain freeze later but also not too warm so that it would immediately melt under the unforgiving afternoon sun; just perfect. Once we obtained our precious snack we would settle ourselves on the playground swings as sweat glistened on our foreheads, drinking in the scent of mellow vanilla and savoring the cold dessert that dissolved on our tongues.

In a flash, the ice cream would vanish from our hands, nothing left as evidence of its previous existence except for the sticky residue left behind on our palms and dripping down our chins onto the front of our shirts. Then, gripping the ropes of our swings, we would soar, ascending towards the sky while air whistled through our ears. “Higher, higher!” we would yell, getting closer and closer to the stars of tomorrow.

Paula used to say that she envied my hair. That she wished to have my long, pin-straight locks that fell flat on my back. However, I didn’t see the appeal. I thought it was limp and stubborn, never listening to combs and always falling out of rubber bands in annoying wisps. In my eyes,Paula’s hair was beautiful. Neither completely straight nor completely curly, an in-between that was so uniquely distinct in a sea of ordinary.

Memories are fickle. Sometimes they are painful, sometimes they invoke joy, sometimes they are so minuscule not even you can understand its significance. Some are best remembered with others where you can laugh and cry, commemorating, reminiscing. Some are so treasured it feels like a violation to share it out in the open, as if you are broadcasting your most private and intimate moments for everyone to see. But we must remember, for time moves on and our memories will become the only testament in capturing our sorrows, our triumphs, our fears, and our flaws.

Though our faces have been changed by time and we now all walk different paths, let’s yell together, “Higher, higher!” soaring through the air once more, reaching, hoping, yearning for the warm embrace of yesterday, for shiny bikes, for air that smells of vanilla, for our street of comfort.

Gummy grins, plastic dolls. Higher! Yellow clouds, flushed cheeks. Higher! Growing up, growing apart, unspoken farewells. Alone. Faltering, hesitating, then plummeting from the pages of our memories.

If your students enjoyed last year's Short Story Competitons, then please take a look a this years events, open to students from years 3-13. All the posters are on the following pages: