Keeping The Stories Alive

• Isabella Foster, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2018

Creeping along the edge of a building, I scan the zone for both foodstuffs and the rebels. They’re around every corner, taking our food and torturing our small camp groups. I need to be here for my brother, Alfie. Mum is now gone and I’m all he has left.

A noise above me fractures the silence. Spotting a window ahead of me, I sprint towards it and quickly slide myself inside. A musty but comforting smell fills my nostrils. I walk over to a table and pick up a rectangular shaped object. It is lighter than I expect and I almost drop it. Dusting it off, small gold embossed words shine in the dim light. Thumbing through the pages, memories of my mum teaching us to read fill me with overwhelming sadness. I no longer care about the rebels or food; my priority is this book and getting back to camp to show it to Alfie.

Skidding through the narrow doorway back at the camp, fifteen heads swivel towards me. Remembering what I was supposed to get, a lump forms in my throat as the leader marches over and wrenches me into a corner. Her hot breath creeps over my neck as she hisses “Food, you stupid little girl. I asked you to get food, not some silly book”. Protesting I get myself away to my corner.

I squeeze in next to Alfie and kiss the top of his head. He snuggles under my arm and smiles questioningly up at me.

“What’s that?”

“Hansel and Gretel. By the Brothers Grimm.”

Reading the story felt magical, the words rolling off my tongue. I felt the words spiral above me. Muscles that seemed forever tense, relaxed a little, eyebrows unfurrowed, a smile reappeared.

“And they all lived in great happiness and were never hungry again.” I close the book, look around and realise that I had been reading to many children. They are asleep now, dreaming of sweet dreams.

Alfie is also asleep. As I lift him into my arms, he stirs a bit and rubs his eyes.

“That was a really good story,” he whispers sleepily into my shoulder.

Hugging him closer, we walk towards our room and I tell him about the book place. I slide him onto my mattress after shoving the door closed and lock it, two sliding locks and a padlock, just in case. We all sleep. Deeply and sweetly.

The next day I wake to Alfie shaking me awake.

“LiLi, can you take me to the story place today.”

Sleepily I nod and agree. Before I know it, Alfie’s sweaty little hold clings to me as I pull him along the back streets and alleyways of the crumbling town.

Pulling him through the same window, I watch his eyes close as he inhales the calming scent of dusty paper and ink. I see the delight and happiness shining on his face. I’m so glad I brought him here. He will keep the stories alive.