Upper Primary Category
First Place
The Perfect Story
By Tristan Nel
“Jack! Time to wake up!” shouted his mother, “you said you’d start your story today.”
Groaning, Jack forced his eyes to open. He vaguely remembered promising his mother, in a
moment of weakness, to write a story for the Tim Winton competition. Besides, those chocolates
had been delicious.
After a while he mustered enough energy to drag his body to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He
stared into the reflection of his dark brown eyes, searching for a story idea. Obviously, it didn’t
answer. (What? Sorry Harry Potter fans, but reflections don’t talk in this story.) He had blond
stringy hair that always looked like bed-head no matter how much product he put into it. His face
was freckled and he had a long skinny body.
He settled down at his desk and immediately began planning his story. What name should he give
his main character? After a few minutes an idea struck him. “Ow!” muttered Jack, rubbing his
head in pain. Jack – that’s the perfect name for a story character. It showed he was reliable,
handsome and strong. You would know by the sound of that name, that its owner would be there
to lend a hand and run from the monster when necessary.
He began…
Jack the Valiant knight, stood at the top of the hill, staring down at the desolate wasteland that lay
beneath. Although he could not believe what he was seeing, in his mind he already knew what had
caused this. Fire-drakes! (a fancy word for dragon). In the far distance, he could see that beast.
With a savage roar, it leapt high into the air and for the first time, Jack saw the full size of this
magnificent creature. Its red scales blotted out the sun and shone speckles of crimson onto the
grass below. Its name was, “Ummm…!” thought Jack to himself. He had to think of an awe
crushing, ferocious name, that readers would respect. Its name was Jack!
A burst of flame shot out its maw, which Jack the Valiant barely dodged. He knew that if Jack the
dragon hit his armour, it would fuse instantaneously and he would be helpless. Drawing his sword,
Jack yelled and ran forward. The dragon was the most fearsome thing, Jack had ever had the
displeasure of being attacked by. Its claws were like swords, its tail like a whip and it’s fiery breath,
like, well…like fiery breath.
Jack swang his fabled sword, the Exjackibor and with a final ounce of energy, plunged it into the
beasts stomach. Jack screamed his pain to the heavens and shot a torment of flames into the sky
as it swung round its shield of silver steel to protect itself from the barrage of… “Wait, that’s not
right! Who’s winning again?” asked Jack to himself.
Shouting in frustration, Jack leapt from his chair, grabbed the paper, got a paper cut, scrunched his
story up and missed the wastepaper bin, all in the space of five clumsy seconds. Jack could not
understand at all what had gone wrong with his perfect story. How had he ever been able to mix
up the characters in such a way. One was a knight and one was a dragon, there was nothing
similar between the two that he could think of. Jack couldn’t understand it. (This may explain why
Jack continues to get D’s in writing.)
Sighing he closed the door behind him as he left the room. During the day he returned often to his
desk, but could not think of any story that he thought would win him the competition. First he
thought of a quest for a magic ring, but that would never become popular. Then he thought of a
young wizard at a magic school, but thought that was just plain silly. What could he do!
“Jack! It’s movie time.”
Relieved and grateful for the distracting break and silently congratulating whoever decided to invent
the family tradition of Saturday movie night, he soon became engrossed in Return of the Jedi.
“No! Don’t shoot that baby E-wok!” sobbed Jacks mother. Sighing, Jack went to get his emotional
parents some tissues, as they sobbed about the E-wok, who was desperately nudging his dead
mother, urging her to wake up. Watching it, Jack kept thinking to himself, “I could do that better,”
and “They shouldn’t have done that.” And that was when he got his big idea.
Bleep, Bleep, Bleep, Bleep!
“Sir, they have hit our general thruster nuclear power source!”
Captain Jack stared through the glass of his F-1 shuttle galactic cruiser. He was in combat with
Vorps – A band of smugglers, warriors and more all packed into one. Yep, the Vorps were the
perfect bounty hunters for anyone who was trying to do something with little if any, notice from the
space police. Jack stared into the inky blackness of space and watched ship after ship fail to bring
down the Vorps command ship until suddenly, “Sir, they’ve hit our emergency boosters. We have
no power, I repeat no power.” Lights began flashing as the crew of Jacks spacecraft ran to the
emergency pods.
Five minutes later, Jack landed on an unknown planet in the Jackodium sector. As he touched foot
on the planets surface he spotted something a few metres away that was glistening red. As he
came closer he realised that it was just a hunk of meat.
Abruptly, with a sudden jerk, Jack found himself dangling in the air by a set of vines. In the space
of a few seconds he was surrounded by fuzzy brown creatures with spears and…
“That seems a lot like Star Wars, “ remarked Jacks mother loudly, that was the problem with her,
you never knew if she was reading over your shoulder till she talked.
“Aah!” shouted Jack, “Don’t scare me like that mum!”
“Sorry Jack, it’s just that it seems like copyright and all.”
“It does?” asked Jack doubtfully, quickly reading it through.
“Yeah, I mean you have the E-woks and everything.”
“Not again!” said Jack, quickly rising from his chair, scrunching up the paper, managing to get
another paper cut and for once, getting the paper in the bin.
“Yes!” shouted Jack, punching the air in victory of his shot.
“Ow,” said his mother. Oh and he also managed to punch his mother in the nose.
Jack couldn’t get any sleep till long past twelve, partly because of the story being due in three days,
but mostly because of his incredibly sore bottom. When he did manage to get to sleep his dreams
consisted of his mother forcing vegetables down his throat and him writing his story. Sometimes
vice-versa. When he awoke from these nightmares he had an idea. Whoever said the story had to
be for eleven year olds, just because it was written by one.
“Ha ha ha!” laughed mister carrot at Jacks stupid dance moves. Jack the tomato was known all
through Pumpkin valley as the worst dancer ever. Seeing as he was rubbish at the more popular
dances like ballet and even worse at the other ones, Jack had tried to see if he could gain respect
by inventing his own dance. He named it Gangam Grape, apparently it would never catch on.
The reason for his bad dance style was because when he was little and growing up in Watermelon
Town, a tragedy had happened. His parents had been killed by…
“Wait,” said Jack to himself, “Shouldn’t a six year old story have no violence whatsoever?” After
pondering this question for a while, (You have to remember that after five years, facts become hard
to remember.) Jack decided that six year olds shouldn’t be aloud to read sad stories and so gently
picked up the paper and placed it into the bin as to avoid a third paper cut and show off his poor
throwing skills.
For the rest of the day Jack had a party at his friends house and by the time he got back home he
was way to tired to do anything other than read a book. By the time his head hit the pillow that
night, he realised something. Tomorrow was Monday. The story was due by Tuesday. He had
one day left!
The next day Jack had school but he still spent every free moment of his time thinking about what
his story should be about. “Jack, what do you think the answer is?” asked Mrs Nell.
“Jack and the giant peach” answered Jack in a daze.
“Yes, good job Jack,” said Mrs Nell. “That was one of Roald Dahl’s books. I’m glad you’ve been
listening.”
“R-I-III-N-GG” went the siren signalling the end of the day.
“Class dismissed, “shouted the teacher over the ruckus that had started the moment the siren had
sounded. On the car ride home Jack barely talked. He was thinking about what he should write
his story on. When they got home his mother noticed his mood and asked, “Aren’t you going to
write your story?”
“No,” answered Jack, “I don’t want to anymore. All I wanted was to write the perfect story.”
“Okay, I just though you’d want to write it,” answered his mother.
Later that night Jack thought about what he had said. “The perfect story,” he kept repeating to
himself.
At three in the morning Jacks dad came into the kitchen to have his breakfast, (His work took a
while to get to) and was startled to find Jack asleep on the kitchen table. All he could see through
the mop of Jacks hair was the story title: The Perfect Story.
Later that week when the results were released The Perfect Story came second place to a story
called Jack the Jolly Pirate.
The end.
Upper Primary Category
Second Place
I Thought I knew
By Jethro Mack
They told me it would be an adventure. A chance to serve my country. An opportunity to see the
world.
They were wrong.
Barely twenty. So young and eager to join. When I received the letter saying I was suitable for the
force, my chest swelled to twice its normal size.
When we departed our homeland, the streets were lined with joyous faces. Cheering voices. White
ribbons like parting kisses, thrown back and forth. It was like we had won the war just standing
there.
The journey was not as splendid as I had anticipated.
I had been wrong.
Hard training was to prepare us for the war that lay ahead. So we could kill a Turk or Hun without a
second glance.
We were wrong. So very wrong.
Our landing on the shore seemed mighty. We were confident the enemy would retreat at the sight
of our force. Proud and tall, oblivious to the hell about to be unleashed upon us. We thought we
knew what to expect.
We were wrong. So very, very wrong.
The devil turned his gaze to us, and my heart turned to lead.
Men running, screaming, and lying motionless, bathed in scarlet, and in the deepest of dreams.
Sudden. Bloody. Brutal.
The birds of hell whizz past heads, whispering into ears each time; you're next, you're next, you're
next.
In the days that follow the flies are the only ones celebrating. Constantly bombarding us with their
sharp little mouths and buzzing insults.
I thought I knew what war was.
I was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
The end.
Upper Primary Category
Third Place
The Runaways
By Lola Hill
Australia was my only option. I had to leave. I just had to.
People are supposed to try to protect their family, no matter what, and even though the Fischer’s
weren’t my real family, they had saved my life, so then it was time to return the favour.
Me being orphaned at the young age of five, I was immediately passed over to my only living
relatives, my Father’s cousin Maude, even though her family were German, and mine Jewish. I
was to pretend I was their daughter, but I didn’t look anything like them, with my dark hair and
whatnot.
Maude and her husband, Christoffer, had a two-year-old daughter named Heidi who was, a little
bit odd, as she didn’t like the colour green, spicy food, or loud noises, and everything had to be
perfect. As the years went by, the Fischer parents found it hard to communicate with their
daughter, but that’s where I came in. Heidi would talk about everything to me, as long as I wasn’t
wearing anything green. And before we knew it, we were as close as sisters, which was why it
pained me so much to leave her behind, when a man with a square moustache, an oily part, and
a sharp attitude rose to power.
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR:
Some people were with Hitler. Others weren’t . The Fischers were a few of those others.
So much was running through my mind as I through down the poor areas of Munich that I had to
stop and lean against a splintering wooden pole. The plan was to… to… to what? I needed to get
to Australia, but I didn’t know how. I probably should’ve thought it through before I escaped.
All I taken with me was two slices of bread, my broken comb, a fragment of glass, and a small
flask of water, wrapped in a cloth. It wasn’t much, but if I had taken any more, the Fischers
wouldn’t have enough to sustain themselves.
“Here we go,” I whispered quietly into the darkness, “this is it.”
“A twelve-year-old girl, out and off into the world to save her fake family…”
“Alone…” That word made me shiver, and I saw my life flash through my eyes…
My parents and I, celebrating my last birthday with them.
My pale, malnourished, trembling hand holding onto the governess’s, standing at the menacing
door where new life began.
My first Christmas with the Fischer’s, crammed around at their small table, which was only meant
to fit two, eating watery pea soup, and no presents for poor children.
A peculiar conversation with Heidi, about what would happen if we poured Maude’s cabbage soup
in Christoffer’s shoes, as he was deathly allergic to cabbage.
And last night, packing, good-byeing, leaving, crying.
I stopped thinking and stood up. A feeling flooded through me. Courage..? Fear..? Maybe a
mixture of the two?
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR:
Sometimes life is tough, but you never know when a miracle is just around the corner…
Picture this:
You are running down a road, when you stop underneath a tree, an apple tree. You are trying to
capture your breath, when you notice that parallel to you, there is an abandoned field, and at the
far right corner of the field, sits a small, dusty barn.
This was my miracle.
A place to finally settle down in and gather up my thoughts.
I climbed over the rotting wooden fence, and sprinted along the dried field, not wanting to be
caught in someone else’s property, even if it was abandoned…
When I reached the barn, a pressed an ear onto the hot, wooden, double-doors, to listen if
anyone was inside.
One minute passed…
Two…
There was no noise from within, apart from a slight rustling from hay, probably from rats, which I
could deal with.
I carefully placed my hand against the splintering wood, and pushed, but the door was jammed.
What else should I have expected? So I shoved, and stumbled inside when it swung open.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see dusty platforms up above, smelly hay bales
cluttered in a corner, and a faeces covered floor, probably from cows or horses, that were now
long forgotten.
“Ist da jemand?” I whispered into the darkness, “Is anyone there?
There was no reply, unless you count the scuttling noise from the rats I heard before. I sighed.
“Welcome to your new home,” I muttered to myself, as I climbed the ladder that lead up to one of
the few wooden platforms. I figured these were best to sleep on, because if anyone came in, I
would be fairly hidden from their view.
There was hay strewn over the platform, so I bundled them all together. With no blanket or pillow,
I knew I was in for a rough night.
I listed all the people in my head who had helped me to where I was:
•
Maude Fischer
•
Christoffer Fischer
•
Heidi Fischer
“Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou”, I murmured quietly, as I nodded off into a light sleep.
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR:
I thought I was alone that night, so when I saw him, I got a bit of a shock.
I woke up with a jolt, and sat upright. The mild scuffling was now quite loud. And either I was
going crazy, or I could hear whispering. I whipped my head around to the sound, emerging from a
hay bale.
I crept toward it, and slowly shuffled some of the hay aside, when a fair-haired head popped up
from the other side.
As you would imagine, I got quite a bit of a shock, and I shrieked.
“Ruhig sein!!!” The boy yelped with fingers in his ears. “Be quiet!!!”
“You gave me the shock of my life!!!” I choked, quite angry and confused.
The boy smiled. “My name’s Friedrich, but you can call me Fritz. Fritz Muller that is. What’s
yours?”
I didn’t think I should tell him my name.
“But he looks so nice”, I thought.
“Hey, come on, you can tell me. Do I look like a Nazi to you?!”
I sighed. “My name is Pia…”
“Pia… That’s a nice name. Hey! If you don’t mind me asking, are you Jewish?”
“Yes… I had to run away from my German family, or else the Nazis might have found out and…
taken them away.”
“Wow… I just ran away because my parents agree with Hitler, but my best friend is Jewish. I don’t
see what everyone else sees in him. I hate Hitler.”
I started to tear up. “I needed to get away, but I realised I don’t have a plan… I think… I think I
might die.”
Fritz looked concerned, and then a grin crept onto his face.
“But I have a plan,” he said.
“Huh?” I sniffed
“Come here”, I wandered over to the hay bale to which he was indicating, and peered over. A pile
of wood stood before me.
“It’s not much,” Fritz confessed, scratching the back of his neck, “but it will be. I’m going to build a
boat. My Onkel Garron agreed into helping me. I’ve got supplies and everything. I’m going to sail
to Australia. We’re going to sail to Australia!”
Fritz’s plan seemed pretty good, better than mine anyway. Well I didn’t have a plan, but was it a
good idea to go with a stranger I had just met? What if he actually was with Hitler and his Nazis,
and decided to kill me along the way? But if I stayed in Germany, there was a good chance I
would be sniffed out, then killed by the Nazis. It was a 50/50 chance.
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR
Most people will tend to stick to the safe route. But in life, if you want to do something, you
are going to need to take risks…
“I’ll go,” I said.
“Great! Well, we need to build the boat, and at about the time it done, my Onkel Garron will come
for us in his truck, and then drive us to Hamburg. When the time is right and he won’t get caught,
of course. And then from then onwards, it will be up to us. You and I, Pia. You and I. ”
“Wow! His family have enough money for a truck?” I thought. I would have to be wary of this Fritzanyone who was as rich as that would have the power to do anything. As soon as I was safe in
Australia, I would abandon him.
Fritz hesitated before he next spoke. “Can you… Can you swim?
“No.”
The boy laughed. That makes us both.
He smiled at me. “You don’t smile much, do you?”
“I was never taught to…”
There was a long silence, as if it was mocking us. I was grateful when Fritz broke the ice.
“Well, better get started on this boat. It won’t build itself,” he sighed, picking up a hammer and a
handful of nails.
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR:
WE STAYED IN THAT BARN FOR ALMOST THREE MONTHS. AND STEADILY ALONG WITH
THOSE MONTHS CAME THE COMPLETION OF OUR BOAT, AND ONKEL GARRON.
When the knock on the barn door arrived, we knew who it was straight away. We got our slightly
misshapen boat (which we had named Wind Geblasen- Wind Blown) And lay it down in the back
of Onkel Garron’s truck, and covered it with drop sheets.
Onkel Garron was a man who believed in family and tobacco. His hair was greying, and his bright
blue, German eyes were deeply sunken into his skin. Fritz got a pat on the back when the uncle
saw me, and he whispered: “I’ve always known you’d be good with the girls,” and winked, in
return making both of us blush with embarrassment.
As Fritz and I sat huddled in the back seat, which smelled like cigarettes and bread, I began to
think. I thought of a new life, and how I would be safe, maybe even start my own family.
It took us a few days to get to Hamburg.
Onkel Garron and Fritz had found a small beach to set off from.
We packed all our things onto our boat, and with hugs, thankyous and goodbyes, Fritz and I were
off.
As crisp day turned into freezing night, I lay under my blankets, and thought of everyone who had
helped me so far:
•
Maude Fischer
•
Christoffer Fischer
•
Heidi Fischer
•
Onkel Garron
“Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou…” I murmured, until I was asleep.
A NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR:
I realised that a personality like Fritz’s really grows on you. I loved that boy. He didn’t
deserve to die the way he did.
I woke up in the middle of that night, that still makes me sob to this very day. The waves were
whipping over the sides of our boat, and filling it up. It started to violently start thrashing in the
water, and then I realised- we were sinking.
I turned to Fritz and shook him as hard as I dared.
“Fritz! Fritz! We’re sinking Fritz! We need to do something! Fritz, please! Wakeup!
“Not now Pia,” Fritz replied, obviously in his sleep.
I turned my head left and right, frantically searching for something to do. I then knelt down, and
started scooping the icy water with my hands, but it wasn’t working.
“Fritz! Wakeup Fritz! Now, please!” I numb hands threw water onto him, and he woke up in a
daze.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re sinking! Help me!” but I spoke to soon, and the boat flipped upside down, and we thrown
into the icy blackness.
I knew we hadn’t built it properly.
In the water I couldn’t see anything, and I could feel my arms and legs start to feel heavy, I
screamed, but no sound came out, just bubbles. Just when I thought I was a goner, my hand
banged against a plank of wood. I grasped it in my trembling hands, and pulled myself up.
I lay coughing and sputtering on that piece of wood. I was safe. I was going to live.
“We’re alive Fritz!” but he wasn’t there. I stared at the rippling water, trying to catch a glimpse of
him, of anything. His hands, his bright blonde hair…
And then I saw one hand. One pale, freezing cold hand, Sinking in the water under the plank of
wood. I grabbed it, and tried to yank his body up, but he was very heavy, with his wet clothes.
I only managed to get his head above water. He was shivering crazily. And his eyelids were
slowly closing.
“Pia…”
“Fritz, don’t worry! I can save you, if you just help me, I can pull you up, and we’ll make it to
Australia. We’re going to make it to Australia, Fritz!” Tears started to well up in my eyes.
Fritz shook his head, and stuttered out a “no.”
“Pia…”
I was losing grip on him.
“Pia, I. I lo-“
He slipped out of my grip, and he sank.
I watched his blonde head go under.
It killed me to watch him go, and knowing there was nothing I could do.
I cried and cried.
“I love you too…”
I listed all the people in my head who had helped me get this far:
•
Maude Fischer
•
Christoffer Fischer
•
Heidi Fischer
•
Onkel Garron
•
Fritz Muller
I would get to Australia, not just for me, but for all of them too. No matter what.
The end.