Lower Secondary Category
First Place
Life-Changing
By Emma Horak
The sun has only just started to bleed through the window a little when they come. The men trudge
in, their large bellies showing proudly, their faces puffing with aggression. How easy it would be
escape, to strike one, hear the clutter as he fell, to run, run past them, run away. Yet still, I wait
patiently for them to cuff me, to bring me shakily to my feet, let the sun pierce my eyes, smoulder
my skin. I rub sleep out of my lashes.
One of the guards, a large man of around mid-thirties, pushes me in the small of my back, sends
me sprawling like some sort of domino, before pushing past, guffawing and high-fiving his
companions.
Pigs.
I pull myself up, hastily, clench my hands into fists. Yet I don’t strike. I’m so close to finally being
free and I’m not going to let a bunch of uppity, snot-faced prison guards stand between me and that
one shot at a better life. So I brush myself off, and walk past them quickly, not letting out a sound,
save my own, excited breathing. One yells, and they all run huffily to keep up with my pace.
That’s right. Run, piggies, run.
***
The judge is male. He sits there, proudly, on his little throne, staring down at the rest of us sorry
humans, gloating. I twitch in my seat, focus my eyes into his watery-blue ones.
“Zara Nyx… Case 1 736 497… Birth-date…” He pauses, looks down to the sheet in front of him,
furrowing those caterpillar brows.
“…13th of October, 2087… Parents: Andallin Phyffer and Roye Nyx-“
Why don’t they just get on with it? For God’s sake, it’s not that hard to decide our fate. They’ve
handled these sorts of cases so many times.
I smile. Fire back my own little jibe.
Yes, but you see, we’re different. Only the crazy ones confess.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I feel myself shuffle over on my seat a little.
It means that they’re scared.
Good.
The voice retreats and I plant my elbows on the cold, harsh wooden table, before cradling my head
in them, acting like I’m listening intently, using exaggerated nods and wide eyes. One councillor
notices me, glares, and like that, it’s going around the room like wildfire. Narrowed eyes. The
mouthing of nasty words. Some even go as far as flicking their ring finger off their thumb: An old
symbol reserved for those that are devil-spawn. When I had just been imprisoned, I had felt a little
pang of shame, and guilt at their childish behaviour. But I’m a selfish human, and without the
powers of selflessness, I soon grew used to it. Expected it, even.
I ignore their immature jab at offense.
“I have looked over your case many times over the past couple of months, and based on your
history-“
Dark, gloomy and ghastly.
“And the offense-“
Beautifully rotten.
The judge pauses in his seat, mouth forming the word.
What will it be, pig? Lock us away for life, or go under the knife?
“I find no solution other than to undergo a ‘Biological operation’”.
I squeeze my fists, pinching my face in the process. It is all I can do to stop me from doing a little
dance on the table right there and then. The relief is immense, and is quickly replaced by raw,
kicking excitement. When the men come to cuff me, I don’t say anything snarky. I simply give them
my hands, as well as my life.
***
On the way to the Institute, I allow a smile to come bursting out, to take over my features. My
dream has come true. Finally, I will have another shot at life. My brain whirs in earnest, as the voice
comes out to play again.
Yay! Way to go, sister… We showed that judge. Nice acting, by the way.
It was too easy.
So, what do you want your look to be?
Something special. I always did want my hair long… And blonde. Definitely blonde.
It will compliment your eyes, alright.
Nah, my eyes will be green.
Ooh, special…
Oh, we’ll be the prettiest girls in Perth.
You said it, girl.
Any regrets?
Heh, none whatsoever.
It all came good in the end, right?
Absolutely.
The voice fades, and as I concentrate on the whir of the engine, the SkyCart lifts, and zooms away,
letting the city blur together. It reminds me of a painting I did when I was younger… Maybe eight or
nine. It was of our family, in art class, and I had held onto it for so long. Long after Lilah had
bumped me over the head with it. Long after Andallin had attempted to burn it. Long after Roye had
hit me with it, had told me the comparison between his daughter and the potato face on the canvas.
I shake my head.
It’s all gone now…
But it won’t be until I am knocked out by the beautiful anaesthetic, it won’t be until I touch my new
face, twirl my glamorous hair.
The guards around me watch intently. I decide to keep going with the whole act, just in case.
“What’s the matter? Never seen a psychopath, before?” I ask, lightly, bringing my eyebrows up.
They all look away, guiltily, and I grin. The idiots that the Government give us, the flawless
bloodline. It only taints us as a nation.
Finally, there is a whir, as the great metal bird majestically lands on the Hover-Pad, and unhinges
its door. I shakily get to my feet, and stretch the cramps out of my legs.
“Come” A guard commands, and I do as he asks, skipping slightly in my step as we walk off the airship, and reach the welcoming doors of the Institute. I’ve only been here once, before.
It was during a class expedition, and we got to see what happened to the baddies of our society.
First, they crowded us around the windows, where a ‘Newbie’, as they’re called, was being taught
Career IT, or something. She had startling blue eyes, as if they could zap you, and hair so
shockingly blonde that it looked like it had been bleached within an inch of its life. When we arrived,
the main doctor spoke her little speech, set out the rules, and such, yet all the while, I could feel
eyes on me. I looked up, and of course, there she was. Beautiful, elegant, with a look of curiosity
splayed over her features. She abandoned her mentor-who scowled severely at the interruptionand wandered over to the window, placing her hands on the thin glass that kept our two worlds
apart. I smiled, curious at the sight of her glassy eyes, her shaking body. What was such a pretty
girl doing here?
And as the tour-guide chirruped at me sharply to move on, I couldn’t help but start to think if maybe
this, this bleached white facility, with its bright lights and amnesia-driven people, was the way out.
***
“Name?”
The words are sharp, like knife-edge.
“Zara Nyx” I blandly respond. I have no patience for these kinds of people, stuck in their little
worlds, pretending to be the captain, or master.
“Date ‘a birth?”
As I answer the questions, sitting in front of a little cubicle, I fidget, letting my hands find each other,
letting my fingers slide into an iron grip. A drip of sweat pools down my face, as I check my options.
So close, almost there. Come on, come on, come on!
“Birthplace?”
HURRY UP, PLEEEEEAAAASSSEEE…
“Ok, Ms Nyx…Here is you” A lady states in a bored, clipped tone, and brings up an electronic slide
that whirs and glows in her hands. It shows a very depressed girl, tired from years of countless
abuse, with tattered black hair cropped short and watery blue eyes. Funny, how that won’t be me
for much longer.
“So… First we shall make an incision here…” She points at my temple.
I’m sure she expects me to squirm about like a worm in my seat, but I sit, quietly, taking it all in.
“And then here, to reduce swelling, we shall…”
Let’s just get on with it, shall we?
“All the while, you will be under heavy anaesthetic…”
Blahblahblah.
The lady finally finishes, and looks up at me dopey-eyed. I return the favour.
“If I could get you to sit here, we’ll just get your paper-work sorted”.
I follow her glumly to sit in a bleached white room, quite like the one from all those years ago.
There are no windows. Or artwork of any type. In here, there is nothing to conjure ‘homey-styled’
features. Just what I need. I slink into a seat, feeling the cold linoleum seep into my feet, tingling
my nerves. Looking around, there is nothing to do except twiddle your thumbs, and wait for the
news. I twist my head towards any noise, any feature, anything, but all is scarce. I slump a bit
more, try to calm my nerves.
Nearly there.
I know, I know!
Let’s see what kind of fun we’ll have in our new bodies!
Oh, you won’t be coming with me.
What? The voice is confused. What happened to sister’s to the end?
New body. New mind. I won’t have to put up with your nonsense.
You can’t get rid of meA thin man with a pencil moustache arrives, along with a couple other people. He looks important,
carries his weight like the world depends on it.
You can’t stop me! I fire back, trying to calm down.
YOU CAN’T GET RID OF ME! I’M A PART OF YOU! WE ARE ONE!
You thought wrong.
NO!
I wince. I’m so close to being free, but this voice, this person, is stopping me, a seatbelt restraining
me. All my life, this thing had control over me. And while it liked the killing, it didn’t know my motive.
I am so close to being free. Yet still, this abominable disease tries desperately to gain the control it
has lusted over for years. And in panic, I lash out, jumping off my chair and holding it as a weapon
with arms that are not my own, anymore. The doctors look at me, puzzled.
“Ms Nyx” The important doctor begins, “Please cal-“
“NO!” A voice not my own strangles out, and run at the doctors, as in control of my body as a
puppet. They cry out, try to dodge my attack, lay their arms on me.
“DON’T TOUCH!!!”
They restrain me; push me in different directions, and finally, a sharp prick in my arm. Then,
pleasure, in the form of liquid gold running through my veins. I utter a cry, and the lights go out.
***
She lay on the operation table, a fine specimen to study. As Doctor Jorj Graham prepared the
instruments, laying them out in the correct places, and sweating under the artificial light, the
secretary came in. Jorj cursed under his breath. He hated the woman, her helpless doe-eyes, her
zombie-like attention-span.
“So” He asked her for the millionth time as a way to break the ice, a feat that should have been
reserved for the Titanic in his opinion. “What did this one do?”
The secretary shuffled on her feet, clearly uncomfortable.
“Kilt her parents, sir” She said in flawed English after a pause. Shuffle-shuffle. “Kilt them with a
knife, and then turnt herself in. Said she was sorry and ready for the price”.
Dr Jorj Graham frowned slightly. Turned herself in? Who on God’s red Earth would do that?
Obviously there is more to Zara Nyx than meets the eye.
But she won’t be Zara Nyx anymore, His conscience whispered as he got ready for the surgery, not
in your hands.
He clasped his gloved hands together to cover his confusion.
“Ready, Doc?” One of his little minions asked.
Jorj shrugged, and made the first incision.
The end.
Lower Secondary Category
Second Place
Clyde Platters PI
By Danah Blache
I had just finished my last days of PI school and I was ready for a juicy case to sink my teeth into.
My new establishment, I so rightly called “Platters, PI,” was an apartment I rented three floors
above a nice little laundry place. I spotted a note on my door as I bought up my boxes. It was
labelled ‘For Mister Clyde Platters.” So, it became apparent that the news of my detective skills had
travelled around like wildfire. I am well known for role in the case of the missing cat.
The whole town was relying on me to find Mitzy and after three days of investigating, I sort-of found
her. It was revealed that Mr Hellington didn’t kidnap Mitzy and hold her for ransom, but found her
behind a trashcan digging for food. Still, I kept my eye on Mr Hellington, and to this day I still get
suspicious every time I see him. Even after thirteen years, he could have easily been the culprit to
many more cases that I had received. Still I made the newspapers front page, headlined Crazy Boy
Attacks Old Man on Search for Cat or something.
I opened the letter, whilst thinking of the daring mysteries I had come across. The words were
written real pretty, and were as curvy as the bottom of Wallowa boat. I deduced that they were
scribed by a woman.
Dear Detective Platters,
I am Miss Don-Bleu and we urgently need your help. One of my ladies at the Rusted Jazz has
gone missing and we’d like you to use your skills to find her. Meet me after the show in my room on
Thursday so we can talk face-to-face.
Ms. Monique Don-Bloom
Of course my theory was proved correct, as per usual. But my, my, what a stroke of luck. Missy
Don-bleu was said to be the prettiest little lady in all of New York and now she assigned my first
case. If I play this one right, everyone will know me as the detective that solved Missy Don-Bleu’s
mystery (and also I might have a shot with her). I didn’t want to keep Missy Don-Bloom waiting for
me, so I decided to head down to the Rusted Jazz, a well-known bar that was not only place where
some Big Apple’s most notorious gangsters ate, but for its fetching gals at the daily shows and
singers.
*
Only after a short stroll past 49th and Lex, I was in the presence of the familiar smell of cigarettes,
whiskey and the sweet perfume of the dancing ladies. I positioned myself nearer to the front and
ordered a rum and Coke, without the Coke. The daily show was just finishing and the ladies giggled
as some of those crooks whistled and acted like animals.
Once all of the people had settled down, I began to make my way to Missy Don-Bloom’s dressing
room, but was halted by two men.
“Oi, sonny,” the larger man with the flaming crimson hair grunted, tightly clenching onto my
shoulder, “what do you want with Missy Don-Bloom?”
“Err,” I began, a tad bit startled by his sudden movement. I cleared my throat and spoke clearer. “I
am Detective Clyde Platters. Miss Don-Bloom made an appointment with me.”
“I-I think so,” Jenny said, wiping her streaks of mascara that had ran down her cheeks. “One man
was Irish from the way he spoke to his friend, who had a big horseshoe moustache.”
I held out my letter and only showed the ruffians her signature.
The henchmen of Ricky von Koolkomp! They fit the description perfectly, and protecting Missy
Don-Bloom must have been a ruse! Jenny must have realised this too and was expecting them to
come after the witness.
“Alright,” the second, larger man with the bristling moustache replied. They then stepped out of my
way and let me walk pass.
I knocked on the door of her dressing room and waited for an answer. The door seemed to have
opened by itself, and I stick my head in the see Missy Don-Bloom applying make-up to her face.
She finished whilst I stood awkwardly watching near the door. I removed my coat and FEDORA,
and then lit a cigarette. Missy Don-Bloom, who hadn’t noticed me since I entered the room, spoke
to me suddenly.
“Put that away,” she said, her voice sounding very mellifluous. “I hate smoking. The boys outside
worked for Ricky von Koolerkomp and Ricky cares a great deal about my safety.”
I was shocked to hear that a criminal as dangerous as the gangster Ricky von Koolerkomp would
hang around here, but I remembered I saw him sitting by himself enjoying the show. I obediently
binned my butt, before deciding to see why she needed my assistance. “Why did you call me here
today, ma’am?”
She stopped applying make-up and turned towards me. She began her explanation. “As written in
the letter, one of my best girl is missing. Her name is Lola de Petal. I don’t know what has
happened to her and I’m so worried about her! I’ll play you anything!”
I scratched my chin and wondered if I looked like a real detective. “All right, madam, I’ll see what I
can do.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Platters!” she lunged at me and squeezed me tightly. I could feel my cheeks
burning.
“I have to go now, Jenny,” I frowned, standing up and heading towards the door.
“Wait a moment, Mr Platters,” Jenny suddenly exclaimed. “The van had a little righting on the
bumper. Like a company logo. It said something like Jake’s Butcher, the Best in the Bronx!”
I went quiet for a bit. My brain didn’t seem to realise what had happened. “YES!” I leapt through the
air. “I know where she is!”
Then I promptly ran out of the door and back to my headquarters to find my car keys. I had it all
figured out. I would go to Jake’s farm, which faced bankruptcy seven days ago according to the
newspapers and was now abandoned, rescue Lola de Petal, bring her back and face off against
Ricky von Koolerkomp away gaining me pounds and pounds worth of reputation. I grabbed my
keys and rushed into my 1940 Ford Coup driving straight to the old warehouse. It was getting dark
by the time I arrived, and I heard some noise towards the back of the building, thanks to my acute
sense of hearing. Kicking the door down like a colossal badass, I called, “Lola!”
Some dried out sounds came from my right, and I saw a girl that was tied up, her obvious beauty
dampened drastically from the dirt. I rushed over to her and deduced she was the missing girl
I heaved her up and placed her in the car. I sliced the ropes and we were on the road to confront
Ricky. I tried to ask her questions but her voice was dry due to dehydration. So, I decided to tell her
the whole story of how I, the hero, came to her rescue. Nearer to the end I began to speak louder,
because Lola was falling asleep. “So, I came over to the warehouse! Now we are going to confront
that scum and send you back to Missy Don-Bloom!”
After a mound of thank yous from Missy Don-Bloom, I was ready to begin my real work. The actual
question was where to begin? I had no leads as of then. But, it was as though God wanted me to
succeed, one of the show girls creaked open here dressing room and called me over in hushed
tones. I was a bit dumbfounded as to why this girl would be so worried, but quickly slipped into her
room.
Lola suddenly snapped open her eyes, which were filled with terror. She tried to say something, but
her voice was still parched. I didn’t understand what was wrong with sending her kidnapper away
when it suddenly hit me. Ricky wasn’t the kidnapper.
“You are Clyde Platters, the private eye that Madam Don-Bloom called over, right?” she asked
desperately, checking the door constantly as if she was expected the notorious gangster Ricky von
Koolerkomp to barge. “I’m Jenny Sunflowers.”
I was already in her room as Missy Don-Bloom walked in.
“Yes,” I answered proudly. “Clyde Platters, PI, 12 Atlantic Avenue above Chang’s Dry Cleaning.”
“Ok,” she said, her eyes still lingering at the doorway. “I have some information about Lola.”
*
“You surprised me, Mr Platters,” she said, putting a hand on her heart. “Do you have any news of
what happened to Lola?”
I smiled and flicked my cigarette into the trash. “You know exactly what happened to Lola de Petal,
Monique. Seeing as you are the one who kid-napped her.”
My eyes brightened dramatically and Jenny began to explain. “It was after the show and the boys
were going crazy for us, especially Lola. Lola was becoming the star attraction, even passing Missy
Don-Bloom! Anyways, I was in this room when I heard a muffled scream. I walked out real slow. No
one answered and I went outside to investigate. Lola was being forced into a truck. I was so
scared, I just froze!”
Missy Don-Bloom frowned slightly, thinking that I attempting a bad joke. “I have no idea what you
are talking about, Clyde.”
These details were very valuable and I tried to calm Jenny down. “Did you see anything that might
be of importance?”
She was still acting as if she did not know what I was talking about so I kept talking. “I’ll fill you in,
then. Everyone knows you are a pretty face, but you also have a temper and want to be the best.
“You can drop the act,” I said triumphantly. “The police know about it now. All of your henchman
has been captured.”
The audience adored you but soon, Lola took your spotlight. Men wanted to see her. You couldn’t
take that. So you had her kidnapped.”
Missy Don-Bloom let out a small grin. “I’ll admit to that.”
“No, no,” I continued. “We know everything.”
The smile slipped away from Missy Don-Bloom’s perfect face.
“Yes,” I said confidently. “On the way back from the ride to Jake’s Butcher, the warehouse you
used, I was wondering why every girl was scared of you. That led me to think as to why Ricky von
Koolerkomp, a dangerous gangster, who is also wanted, would sit by himself. Yet you had two
guards body checking everyone who came near your room. You are the boss gangster and Ricky
was just a front man. That is why the girls were scared and why you were more protected than a
well-known gangster that many people wanted dead. But why would you hire me?”
Missy Don-Bloom was defeated and she was looking down in a confounded state. She slowly
craned her head up and looked me right in the eyes. “Those stupid men immediately realised that
Lola was missing, and so did the girls. I shut them up, but I needed to tell the men that Lola had
been kidnapped and that I was hiring a detective to find her. I thought of you and how you tried to
pin a missing cat on an old man from years ago. So I was going to waste this dumbass’s time for a
while, until everything was normal again. But I underestimated you. I wouldn’t have guessed you an
imbecile could have figured it out. But you did.”
Missy Don-Bloom was taken away and the Rusted Jazz closed down shortly afterwards. The girls
are happy now and I got the reputation as I had hoped. Platters PI began to hire other private
investigators and soon, we were well known as the place to go to find answers. That’s our slogan
by the way. I found some young boys and even mentored people like Bo Dietl who later found his
own company (mine is better, though).
The end.
Lower Secondary Category
Third Place
Cyberspace
By Katherine Magpily
It’s still there. A round sphere emitting a bluish-white light. Not enough to be considered truly blue,
yet too much to be considered white. In this brief reprieve from this day’s duties, I stare at it. The
surface is constantly moving, creating swirls that are barely detectable unless you focus. This is the
heart of Cyberspace, the world invisible to humans, materialising when the Internet was invented.
This sphere is at the very core of this universe–ever-present, infallible, and the one thing we fully
depend on. It powers all of us, pushing us to where we need to be, ensuring the Internet never
fails.
Click, click, click. My band signals that my Counterpart has connected to the Internet. Counterparts
are our human opposites. Whatever they do on the Internet, we carry out, ensuring that all remains
well in the human world. A hologram of an ‘f’ on a blue background is projected by my band. This
means that I am to report to the Facebook Station. I slide into a free compartment on the tube,
selecting my destination. I arrive there in a few milliseconds.
Facebook Station is a large, expansive room with screens dotting the walls and tables. Every
Internet-Self is stationed at a screen, carrying out the commands given to them through their band.
I scan the room, finding a spare screen, tapping it quickly. Open. Connect. My band projects three
commands, one after the other. Friend request affirmed to #00564 (Trudie). Status changed to
‘Summer break was the AWESOMEST’. 564 photos uploaded to new album ‘2014-15 Summer’. I
keep up effortlessly, my senses made for the job. #00902 (Helen) posted on wall ‘Tnx for gr8
summer. we had so much fun!!!!!!!’ Reply given ‘summer was fun bcos of u. ILY <3’. The friendship
between the two girls make me smile. #00902 is two screens away from me. She catches my eye
and mouths jokingly, “Thanks for great summer.” Her Counterpart–my Counterpart’s best friend–
had just logged out, signalled by the blank blue screen. #00902 slides to a compartment in the
tube, shooting off to another part of the Internet. While my Counterpart is just browsing Facebook,
only making the occasional comment, I let part of my mind wander, looking around at the other
Internet-Selves. Most of them are like me, but some had been assigned Counterparts who had the
urge to post every five seconds. The Internet-Selves looked ready to fall and collapse.
Ding! A compartment arrives on my row, and out steps #60666. My Counterpart and her
Counterpart have the weirdest relationship. A few years back, they were best friends, I suppose.
#00902’s Counterpart, my Counterpart and her Counterpart were really close. At least based on
their Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr and every other social media posts. Then things changed.
#60666’s Counterpart started leaving comments that were mildly nasty. Things like, ‘ur dress
wasn’t as pretty as mine, but you looked gorge’ and ‘how dare u ruin my party with ur dancing!!
LOL kidding’. It didn’t seem bad at first. Just the joking relationship between people who knew each
other’s boundaries and understood each other’s humour. Then things spiralled downward, as
swiftly and as dangerously as a whirlpool. ‘best party eva cos Lara’s not here!! :D’ and ‘u really
need to delete ur fb’ were recent things she posted. My Counterpart’s been ignoring it for the most
part. #60666 loads her Counterpart’s most recent comment, and it appears on my screen. ‘#60666
(Madison) commented on #45067’s (Matt) wall ugh Lara the freak is so annoying wish she would
just kill herself.’ #45067 is a mutual friend, so this comment will be seen by my Counterpart soon.
#00125 (Lara) logged out. My screen blinks into blue. I see #60666 wince.
My band clicks again, this time projecting a ’t’ on a blue background. Tumblr station. My favourite.
My Counterpart usually posts and reblogs deep and meaningful quotes about life. She occasionally
blogs about ships. Not ships as in ones out at sea, but two people’s names merged together. Her
favourites are Conniel and Everlark. I don’t know what either of them mean, but at least it’s not
hurting anybody. I hope. Today, she writes, ‘Why fit in when you were born to stand out?’ She then
likes a number of sloth pictures and reblogs an interview on the Oscars. Post 890 liked. Post 876
liked. Comment added ‘so true…’ Post 873 liked. Post 865 reblogged.’ Everything appears normal,
so far. About a half hour later, an Internet-Self connects into the screen beside mine. It’s #40444.
Her Counterpart is #60666’s Counterpart’s best friend. Best friend isn’t the right word, though. I
think minion is a better term. #40444’s Counterpart is always just going along with what #60666’s
Counterpart is saying or doing on the Internet. #40444 (Mauve) commented ‘ur blog is so stupid
and gross. can u not use tumblr anymore’ I look over at #40444 and she avoids my gaze. At least
we still have morals here. A command is projected by my band. #00125 posted ‘The saddest thing
in the world isn’t when people judge you. It’s when you start believing what they say.’
What those girls are saying to my Counterpart are not right. I know that. That’s why I’m going to the
Head Office to bring the issue to light. The connection is busy with numerous tubes, full of InternetSelves with issues about a range of things. Once the tube clicks into the drop off zone and opens, I
slide out and slide through the doorway of the Head Office. The Head Office is a tall building,
higher than what I can see. Levels are continually added, as more purposes for the Internet are
found, and more departments need to be created. Search Engine, Social Media, Information,
Website Identity…these are only a few of the departments. I join the queue at the front desk.
Internet-Selves are naturally fast, and soon I am at the front. “What is the problem?” the Internet
Receptionist asks.
“My Counterpart has been the victim of several negative comments on Social Media. Is that the
department I need to go to?” I reply.
The Receptionist frowns. “Usually, yes. But we have recently added a new department that is more
suitable to your issue today.”
“Can you please direct me to it?”
“Of course. It is level #456789643.”
I thank him, and move towards the tubes in the building. I slide into one, and press 4-5-6-7-8-9-6-43, shooting up towards my destination. The tube breathes open, revealing the department name.
Cyberbullying. I slide toward the front desk for this department. The Receptionist looks up, and
mutters sadly, “Another one.” To me, he asks, “Victim name, time and date of latest incident,
mediums used by persecutor, and other information deemed relevant please.”
I answer, “Lara Whitecross, 13.45, 27.1.15, Facebook and Tumblr for today, occurring for at least
three years.”
He taps the data it into his screen. “Proceed to Room 3.”
The door of Room 3 appears like every other door in the corridor. White, with a silver number inlaid
into the material. It slides open when I step in front of it. Another desk. With another man behind it,
also tapping a screen. “Come in,” he says. “You are?”
“#00125. I’m here to report an incident on the Internet. My Counterpart has been insulted multiple
times over the past three years, but the worst has happened this month. I regret not coming
sooner.”
He taps the screen, and the familiar sound of it shutting down echoes in the room. “This
department was built to deal with these type of issues. What your Counterpart has been going
through is called Cyberbullying, hence the name of the department. This used to happen sparingly,
and was addressed by the Social Media department. We used to only have to delete posts that
were negative, or change the regulations, or add the ‘report’ function. Lately, there has been an
influx of incidents of Cyberbullying, so much that we have had to build a new department for it.”
He pauses, seemingly looking for affirmation that I am listening, so I nod.
He continues, “We carry out the tasks I just listed out, but given the drastic measures that humans
resort to…we have also built that door,” gesturing to a simple black door behind him. Given that
this room is fully white, it stands out, a spot in an almost spotless room. It seems unwanted, but
necessary. “We now also let Internet-Selves see their Counterparts in the Human World, if we think
it is needed. For your case, I think it is.”
He stands up, so I rise too, sliding towards a bluish-white door behind him. It is one the same wall
as the black door, but on the right side, instead of the left. The bluish-white door slides open.
“Tap in your number and your Counterpart’s name, please, then step through the doorway.”
I do as he asks, and the feeling is no different to riding through the tubes in the Internet. Until I pass
through a wall. I assume it is the barrier between the human and Internet worlds. I could feel myself
passing through, and suddenly everything felt more solid. It was almost suffocating. When
everything ceases to be a blur of colours, I find myself in a small room. There’s a girl crying on her
bed. I realise it’s Lara.
“Lara!” I call. She doesn’t respond. Obviously, she can’t detect me. Her laptop is open on the bed.
She can’t do anything because I’m not in the Internet World to carry out her commands. I look on
the screen, and her Instagram page is up. Under her photograph is a comment: srsly who do u
think u r? ur dress is so baggy it’s so ugly lol. I wince. How could people be so cruel? I know she
can’t hear me but I say anyway, “Don’t listen to them Lara! You’re beautiful as you are. The haters?
Well, they’re going to hate, but that doesn’t matter!” I speak and plead, knowing that she can’t hear
me. She looks around the room, and reaches toward her bedside table. Draws out a scarf. It’s hot
pink, threaded with sequins that glint like stars. She caresses it carefully, and curves one end
toward the middle. Slips it through by an inch. Passes it through the opposite side. Loops it twice
around. Passes it through the smaller hole. Pulls it snug. Ties the scarf on one of the beams of her
four poster bed. My mumbles have changed to, “No. No. No. No! No! No! No!” The loop hangs over
a metre and a half above the floor. She stands. Slips her head through it. And steps off the bed.
I’m pulled back by some force. I find myself on the floor in the white room. seeing the black shoes
of the the Internet-Self who sent me to the Human World against the white floor.
“You knew that would happen, didn’t you?” I whisper.
His expression is grave. “Knowing is too strong a word. But it has happened multiple times over the
past year. We send you over if you come to us. Give you three hours to see what will happen. At
the end of the three hours, if they are still in possession of life, you come back and we tell you that
there is a high likelihood of what you just witnessed happening. If in the time you are there, and
they come to the same decision as your Counterpart…then we tell you what I just have and…”
“And what?”
“You find out what the black door is for.”
He slides toward the black door, and I follow him. “State your number, and please step through.”
“#00125.”
Once I step through I cease to exist.
The end.