In The Mist

• Etienne Roumanoff, Grade 6, Neutral Bay Public School
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

I don’t know how I got there, I think I was asleep and someone or something whisked me away to a place of magnificent beauty. The sound of birds chirping filled my ears,and I opened my eyes. I was so confused about where I was. How did I get here? Where am I? My mind questioned, which was probably really dumb because my mind answers those questions, but in this case every single part of me was perplexed by this circumstance. Mist. Mist swirled around me and I smiled. I liked mist. It was mysterious. You never knew what could come out of the twisting nothingness and when it did, it was exciting and scary all at once and that was what made it great. And suddenly, I jumped up, and started running, I did not know why, but it was possibly an instinct. Perhaps the sixth sense, an overpowering impulse, I have no idea. Who could be chasing me? I wondered as I ran, leaping over rocks, appearing ahead of me, and then I saw it, a small cave, overgrown with leaves. It had just an adequate entrance for me, but not for my pursuer.
I trudged in, tired and weary. I heard the slow trickle of a stream as it bubbled its way to a pond. Filled with the desire to have water, I scrambled towards the sound, I came out through the other side of the carven into a clearing in a wood. The water’s sound had cleared my eyes and mind, as if a cloud of fog was coating them in a thick layer. For the first time, in what seemed like forever, I saw what had led me here.
Before me was a small pond, its water was crystal clear, so inviting. Around it stood walls of rich brown soil, as stable as rock. Upon the earth was a fresh layer of lush green moss. A ray of sunlight shone down on the pond, showering a shimmer of heavenly sunshine into the . Without this glimmer of light the room of trees would be darkness, only darkness. Nothing else. Nothing, not even a feeble opening. The trees surrounded the pool and grew in the light and with the water. As the water lapped at my feet, I thought of how I got here. It didn’t matter then, but I guess it does now.
‘If I can feel this water against my feet, then this can’t be a dream.’ I thought. Then a rushing whizz of wind came and I was back, back at home in my own bed with my own doona, and my own room, nothing was real, except for the water, a yellow stain made its way through the thickness of the doona and I realised what had happened...