Stephen Mack , Year 11
The Drowning D o g I have always had a weak heart. Ever since I was young, I have been easily perturbed by the most unstartling of things and was often prone to bouts of panic. In addition to all of this, I also possessed an incessant stutter for which I was mocked and derided, and despite the patient efforts of a speech therapist, it seemed intent on continuing to plague my existence. In short, my temperament was incurably ill-suited to human society, and it was for this reason that I kept away from the world, shying from school and social gatherings and preferring to spend my time alone in the forest by our house. It wasn’t a dense forest, but the trees provided sufficient cover for me to play by the river undiscovered. By the time I had finished my first year of school, the forest had very much become a kind of sanctuary and a place of innate fantasy into which I confided all my secrets and inner musings. I knew every tree and every stone and could safely navigate my way through the brush, even on dark nights, through sheer force of memory. There was always a sense of calm and security there, and if I closed my eyes and let my reveries guide me, the forest seemed eternal; the same roots always writhed beneath my feet, the rough caress of the bark felt familiar on soft hands. The creek rippled gently, and birds nested their young in whispered song. This was a place where all was right with the world. As I grew older, my old corner of the woods ceased to interest me as it once did, and I expanded my territory at a very gradual rate, exploring further downstream where the ground was flat, and the trees weren’t quite so many. About half a mile down, there was a grassy clearing where the stream had become wide enough to skip stones and go fishing, and there was an old wooden bridge I was fascinated by. It was a peculiar sight; a monument of man existing where I believed no-one to have gone before. But it was isolated and dilapidated and otherwise unclaimed, so I soon accepted it as my own: another landmark to fill a mundane world of fantasy. My fixation on this object only grew, and I became curious about the opposite bank and wanted to explore more of this
Co n n o r Mago utis - Year 10
uninhabited world. I once tried this, only to retreat after a rotting wooden board nearly gave way beneath my feet. I hence deemed the bridge unsuited to crossings. There was one boy who came to frequent the land across the bridge. He couldn’t have been much older than me, perhaps one or two years. Even for his age, he was quite tall and strong, and although his blond hair and blue eyes indicated a certain innocence, I was always wary of him. His confidence frightened me. He was always eager to greet me, and twice proposed the audacious suggestion that we play together, but my resolute timidity was my only reply. I cannot tell you why I was compelled to silently spurn him in this manner. In truth, I was always quite lonely and lived as somewhat of a pariah due to my stutter; had I the conviction, perhaps we would have become close friends, and I much happier for it. Nevertheless, I opted to retain the river’s breadth between us, perhaps due to the fear that he too would reject me. Perhaps I was blinded by some form of envy for his easy smile and gentle swagger. He was intensely likeable, and I hated him for it. His approach was relentless, however, and conceive my horror upon finding him fishing atop that wooden bridge; the same bridge that I was unable to cross. I deemed that place no longer safe and ceased my regular visitations.
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