Jamie

• Brooke Cowley, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2013

Five years old Jamie sat on the porch. He carved a spaceship out of old TV boxes and masking tape, decorating the outside with highlighters and coloured paper. Running around his back yard, wrapped in cardboard, all he wanted was to save the world.

Jamie's mother would just shake her head and laugh.

"Jamie, don't be silly. Things like that just don't happen."

Fifteen years old, Jamie sat in his room, the newest and coolest pair of kicks on his feet, they'd cost a full months pay. His guitar sat across his lap as he strummed chords, creating perfect synchronism with his lyrics. Pants down low, hair gelled to the side and no shirt he strutted to the lounge room, full of teenage testosterone, all he wanted was to be famous.

Jamie's mother would just shake her head and laugh.

"Jamie, don't be silly things like that just don't happen."

Twenty five years old Jamie sat in the hospital. His head in his hands he choked back the sobs. The way she was going, it was getting harder for her to breathe. Walking into the dank hospital room Jamie saw his mother. Her face was pale and sharp, arms thin and bony. There was no life there. She wouldn't ever see her grandchildren, she probably wouldn't see the next day. On his knees in that hospital room, full of desperation all he wanted was for her to live.

Jamie's mother shook her head and managed a strangled laugh.

"Jamie, don't be silly things like that just don't happen."