Goosebumps

• Beatrice Drumore, Grade 9, St Anne's School
• Short Story
• 2011

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

Have you ever heard the saying that goose bumps are people walking over your grave? Monica lay silently on the cold, hard ground. The goosebumps running up and down her arms were the only movements she made. As she lay silently, her mind began to wander back to the events of the past few hours.
When she had woken up that morning, she had felt the familiar tingles that had rippled across her skin. She shivered slightly, cuddling her once warm blanket, but all warmth had left. A small breeze wisped through the blanket as she climbed out of the bed, placing her freezing feet onto the freezing floor. The old clock on the wall chimed twice as she changed quietly then tiptoed down the carpeted stairs, jumping lightly over the loose ones.
Once in the kitchen, Monica poured herself a bowl of cereal, sprinkling a tiny spoonful of sugar over the top. She ate in silence, occasionally glancing nervously at the stairs. As she finished the sugary milk, she placed the empty bowl in the cluttered sink and tiptoed back up the stairs. When she ran back down again, her foot hit the last step. It creaked loudly and she froze.
The whole house seemed to pause for a moment then resumed as Monica sighed quietly to herself and continued out the front door. Tiny rays of sunlight were just appearing over the distant hills as she clambered onto her old bicycle, setting a steady pace along the quiet road. As she rode, signs of awakening were evident. Early workers driving by, the postman and the newspaper boy waved at her as she continued on her steady course to the top of Thornton Point.
The name was appropriate, she thought as she dismounted and dropped the bicycle into the nearby bushes. Thorns crowded along the narrow path and it became steeper and more littered with scrubs. Monica struggled slowly up the hillside, tripping and stumbling while pulling inch long thorns out of her scratched and bleeding hands.
By the time she reached the top, it was nearly 5’am and a beautiful sunrise was appearing right in front of her tired eyes. Pulling out the camera she had brought, she was soon clicking wildly. As she took the breathtaking images, she unknowingly walked closer to the edge of the steep hill.
There was a steep plunge above raging waters and as Monica took pictures of the now glowing, vibrant colours, she heard a sound behind her. As she turned, she tripped on a rock and fell backwards. A few seconds passed where she flailed wildly then screamed.
A park ranger walking briefly through the dense scrub thought he heard a cry, but dismissed it as a nearby bird.
Monica woke with a splitting headache. As she glanced around, she gasped. She was lying on a narrow four-foot ledge, two metres below the edge of the cliff. She tried standing and winced. Her left leg had a massive cut down the middle and her ankle felt badly sprained. She hobbled upright then glanced up at the top of the cliff.
Her father was six foot, she realised as she pondered. Reaching her hands up, she was just able of place the palms of her hands on the hard edge. Heaving a few times while bemoaning her painful leg, she was just able to pull herself up enough to wriggle forward.
Monica lay on the cold ground shivering once again. As she lay, the sun peeked out from over the edge, bathing her in light, dispersing the goosebumps and spreading warmth.