Published writing

They had been wandering through the desert for what seemed like an eternity. Even the melancholy keening of the wind had blown itself out and was nothing but a lamenting sigh. Umbrielle struggled to keep her attention focused. Anything could be a threat, but the endless sharp rocks and beige sand made it difficult to focus. After what might as well have been a thousand years in their eternal, interminable wandering, a dark shape resolved itself on the horizon. As it came into view, her eyes and brain struggled to come to terms with what she was seeing. Surely, surely, there was no way something so huge could be… “The Claudian Wall,” TItus murmured. It was so tall, it seemed to touch the heavens. It was so wide, Umbrielle couldn’t see the end of it in either direction. It seemed almost insurmountable. Appius froze. “It isn’t Iunius third, is it?” “I think it is,” his brother replied, “why?” “Because… that was the day Papa wanted all the wall guards withdrawn to the northern frontier.” Titus cursed. “Who will unlock the gate for us then?” “I will,” Umbrielle replied. “But you see, only our father has the key.” Titus pointed out. Umbrielle rolled her eyes and pulled a hairpin out of her pocket. “Your father is an idiot. I know for a fact lock-picking was already around in his time, so he should’ve considered the possibility. “He… he won’t be happy about this when he finds out,” murmured Appius. “His problem, not mine.” Within three minutes, they were across to the other side of the wall, where… “What on earth is that?” Umbrielle asked, mildly disgusted. “It’s the Grosso Topo Warrior! The most fearsome beast in all the armies of-” “It’s a morbidly obese rat” “It’s faster than it looks!” “It looks as if a snail could outrun it!” Appius was cowering behind Titus in an attempt to get out of the thing’s sight. It was terrifying in the way a gigantic cockroach was terrifying, but not a “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES” type of terrifying. Its fur was a dull grey, its claws an indeterminite shade of off-white. Its own personal miasma hovered around it, taking up practically the entire bridge. On the whole, she was slightly disappointed. Her mother would hardly be impressed by the story that it had taken three people to vanquish this oversized punching bag- Umbrielle paused. The beast’s eyes, glowing scarlet embers, glittered with intelligence. It stood up, raising its massive sword, and Umbrielle quickly realised she had misjudged it… AUTHOR'S NOTE: The social challenge takes too much context to explain here. I'm sorry - I didn't get much time for writing...

Intrigue floated by in the evening air. It was after dark and the Vatican Museums had shut their doors. Luckily, Umbrielle had discovered a disused service entrance. So, smiling to herself and crouched behind a stack of mouldering crates, she lifted her hand towards the door. Nondescript metal and adorned with a scratched sign reading ‘Solo Dipendenti - Vietato l’Accesso,’ it was hardly an auspicious portal to the biggest moment of her ten years of life. However, the smallest things can prophesy greater ones to come. Umbrielle turned the handle and caught a brief glimpse of the room beyond - stone statues, stone-faced museum guards, mice skittering across the floor - before she felt the strange sensation of being pulled through the door. It closed with a bang of finality. Hanging low in the sky like a shield ready for battle, the russet sun bathed the sky in a bloody red light which soon faded into oppressive grey. Not a single trace of life existed, and nothing blocked the mournful wailing of the wind across the flat plain except for the jagged, rocks which protruded from the ground like broken teeth. And the statues. Chipped marble figures petrified in dramatic poses as they slowly weathered away. There was something tragic about their luminous white forms which, over the aeons, had slowly been coated in a thin grey dust from the windswept plains. Umbrielle blinked. She turned around, but the ‘Vietato l’Accesso’ door was gone. Perhaps rule-following does have its advantages, she mused. Then she quickly pushed away the thought. There were no other living things in sight - the only way out was to make her own rules. The sun had almost entirely disappeared below the horizon, staining the plain a harsh red. In a few minutes it would be completely gone. Umbrielle tried to find a way out. She wanted to return to the Vatican Museums before the sun had completely set to give enough time to plunder them. As it began to dip closer to the horizon, however, it was only her iron will which kept her from panicking. That was when she noticed the rock. It was indistinguishable from the other jagged shapes around her except for by the faint writing etched into its surface. You have entered the glorious Empire of the Renatus and therefore must abide by these three laws: You are currently in Nusquam Territory. As for all territories, you must abide by its laws. You may pass between territories freely, however you may never leave the Empire. The Emperor is always right. Always. As decreed by Emperor A. Claudius Portens Certus, first year of the glorious Empire of the Renatus. Well, that was very comforting. It was completely dark now, a curtain of blackness punctured by thousands of watchful eyes. Umbrielle had never seen stars so bright before. They- Something was moving. A flicker, in the corner of her vision. It was moving towards her, slowly, cautiously. Soon, the dark shape resolved itself into two figures, but she quickly realised they were not human… On the left stood one of the warrior statues from earlier, dust-streaked marble and adorned with a plumed marble helmet which looked about three sizes too large. His face looked somehow rough, inexpertly carved, with a nose like some kind of small, squishy vegetable. On the right was a statue of a boy who only looked a few years older than her, with a round marble face. He was dressed in a tunic which seemed three sizes too large. And they were both moving, as naturally and fluidly as a human might move. “Halt!” Yelled the one on the left. (Actually, what he yelled was “Fermati!” Umbrielle was lucky she spoke Italian.) “I am Titus Claudius Fortis, son of Emperor Aulus Claudius Portens Certus! Who goes there?”

Mr. Edgar Spears gave the lanky, dark-haired girl in front of him a look of terror surpassing even the one he usually gave to children. How he had ended up in the teaching profession no-one really knew. However, it was obvious to even the most sceptical of his career path that without this particular student, Unfortunately, for the past year and a half he had been attempting to teach Umbrielle Carbone. It wasn’t that Umbrielle wasn’t intelligent - she displayed ample cunning and deviousness, and was usually at the top of the class. It wasn’t that Umbrielle was lazy - she had laser focus and iron discipline when it came to achieving her goals. No, Mr. Spears was sure that Umbrielle would be a fine student if she wasn’t so damned determined to be wicked! She had no qualms about demonstrating her malevolent intentions, and when pressed, admitted that she tried to break the rules. Like today, for example. “M-Miss Carbone,” Mr Spears stammered, “what d-do you think you’re doing?” “Tying your hands up,” she said calmly, moving on to his legs. By the time Umbrielle was three weeks into kindergarten, students had already been banned from bringing rope into school. That couldn’t stop her. Last week it had been grass, the week before that skipping ropes, and today it was her hair ribbon. Mr Spears was distinctly familiar with the differences between them all at this point in his career - how they chafed, how quickly they would cut off his circulation. “But h-how am I supposed to get out of the cupboard if my hands are tied?” “I can’t be expected to think of everything, can I?” “I… I can’t just spend the break in a cupboard! I have duties as a teacher at this school…” She shrugged, face betraying almost no emotion. “Your problem, not mine.” * * * Thomas ‘Big T’ Tucker and William ‘Billy’ Gregory were, in their opinions, the kings of the school. At twelve years old they were both tall and hulking for their age, with big mouths and bigger fists. Yes, they were kings of the school - and they wanted everyone to know it. “Hey kid!” Billy yelled at a passing child who couldn’t have been more than five years old, “Gimme your lunch or I’ll give you a wedgie. Ain’t that right, Big T?” “That’s right,” said the other boy, licking his lips in anticipation. The little boy looked up at them, wide-eyed, hands trembling slightly. He clutched a brown paper bag tightly to his chest which Billy made a teasing swipe at. “Mmm. Smells like… meatloaf.” A thin girl with dark hair pulled back in a braid walked up to them. She was only in year four, so Big T turned up his nose at her, but she didn’t seem perturbed. “Emily Hansen told me to ask you why you didn’t meet her in the staffroom this break.” Billy could almost see the gears ticking in his head. Emily Hansen hadn’t asked him to meet her in the staffroom. Big T mightn’t have been the brightest, but he knew that. However, he also knew that Emily Hansen was the prettiest girl in school. “She said she’d only wait five more minutes.” The pipsqueak (she had to be at least an inch shorter than him) checked her watch. “You’d better hurry.” That was the icing on the cake for Big T, and he was off like a flash. Billy didn’t really care. T had bunked off without him before, and Billy was perfectly capable of tormenting the small fries by himself. “Now, you little twerp,” he said, “gimme that meatloaf.” The pipsqueak was still standing there. “Whadda you want, kid? Scram!” “Mr Spears wanted to see you on the soccer pitch about your track performance last week. I think there may have been some kind of reward involved.” His eyes lit up. If there was anything he loved more than beating stuff out of people, it was when they just gave it to him. He rushed off as well. “I’m not going to take your meatloaf,” she said to the boy, “but you are going to give me your money.” He burst into tears. * * * Mr. Spears was just opening the staff meeting - only slightly late, he’d only been calling for help five minutes before a cleaner opened the closet - when Thomas Tucker burst into the staffroom. “I’m so sorry I was late,” he said, “I guess I just forgot…” he trailed off as he saw the eyes of every teacher in the school upon him and his face grew very red. “Mr Tucker, what are you doing?” Asked Ms Euston, the vice principal, with a frown on her characteristically pinched face. “I, uh… nothing?” His face was florid with the anger and embarrassment coursing through him. “Mr Tucker, I think a detention may be in order if you don’t explain what you are doing here, now. I should think-” At that moment, however, a cream pie came sailing in from the upper window and caught Ms Euston squarely in the face. She gaped, looking something akin to the abominable snowman. Mr Spears found himself similarly treated a few seconds later. There was no point deliberating over what had happened. “Umbrielle Carbone! Was that you?” “Yes.” “Why on earth would you do something like that? Now we’re all covered in whipped cream!” She shrugged, letting another pie fly into the face of the principal. “Your problem, not mine.” * * * Umbrielle walked through the wrought-iron school gates with her typical proud posture, but as soon as she caught sight of the tall, tight-lipped woman standing on the street corner she began to slouch slightly. Throwing her bag into the 1968 Volkswagen Beetle (her mother had a bizarre infatuation with antique cars), she slumped into the passenger seat. “How was your day?” Her mother asked in an indifferent term. “Fine. I threw cream pies at all the teachers. I shut Mr Spears in the closet again.” Her mother didn’t reply, her disappointment palpable. After all, Umbrielle had done it three weeks in a row. “I stole a kindergartener’s money.” Her mother’s eyes gleamed avariciously. “How much?” “Three pounds fifty pence. He cried.” “I don’t care if he cried! Your mother is the leader of an international crime syndicate and at ten years old you can only steal small change from babies? Umbrielle Carbone, you are such a disappointment!” She hung her head in shame. “Try harder!” * * * “Where are you going?” Umbrielle asked. It was late evening, the sun already almost below the horizon, and yet her mother was dressed in a stylish travelling coat with abalone buttons and trimmed with ermine. (Umbrielle herself, of course, was dressed in a plain grey dress. The only adjustment her wardrobe had had in the past three years was when she had hacked off all the frills. Of course, her mother was a very busy woman - it wasn’t her fault she had forgotten to buy more.) “To Palermo.” Umbrielle didn’t remember her mother talking about going to Sicily at any point. So she dared another question. “Why are you going to Palermo?” “Because my cartel has an important smuggling operation this week and I don’t trust Antonio Esposito not to mess it up like he did last time. And on the subject of hopeless incompetence, don’t ask me to bring you with me. You’ll only get in the way - you couldn’t take candy from a baby if its mother was looking the other way!” With that, her mother walked out the door, closing it with a bang of finality. Without even a goodbye. Umbrielle sat there for a few moments, stunned, before the gears began to whir in her mind. She needed to do something big. The perfect crime, something even her mother would be impressed with. Regardless of what she said often and loudly, Umbrielle did like to think of everything, and she was sure she could plot a worthy heist. After all, the Louvre was only sixty pounds and a three-and-a-half hour train ride away… * * * Intrigue floated by in the Parisian air. It was after dark and the Louvre had shut its doors. Luckily, Umbrielle had discovered a disused service entrance. So, smiling to herself and crouched behind a stack of mouldering crates, she lifted her hand towards the door. Nondescript metal and adorned with a scratched sign reading ‘Employés Selument, Entrée Interdite,’ it was hardly an auspicious portal to the biggest moment of her ten years of life. However, the smallest things can prophesy greater ones to come. Umbrielle turned the handle and saw…

Week 1: The Ordinary Anyone who walked down Threnody Crescent experienced the tingling feeling of foreboding which indicated that this street did not welcome strangers. In the early morning fog, the gargoyles which lurked on the garden walls seemed to watch the rare jogger or occasional car which rumbled down the street. Lanterns on wrought-iron poles lent the mist a bloodstained cast. The gabled roofs, bay windows and towers made the street seem like some kind of fairytale, an anachronism which didn’t belong even in the city’s historic Mountebank District. Threnody Crescent was… different. Despite the hour, flickers of activity could be detected in the street. Atop the stone tower which adorned her house, a young woman could be seen with a telescope, scribbling furiously in a notebook about planetary conjunctions. Occasionally, dark tresses of hair swinging wildly, she swivelled the telescope around to peer into the third-storey window of the house across the street. In the garden next door, a hunched, elderly man puttered around his garden in a pointed nightcap and a faded dressing gown embroidered with stars. Gripping a wickedly sharp pair of secateurs, he hacked away at the monstrous, spiny hawthorn bushes which encircled his yard. They had been meticulously groomed into abstracted topiary monsters. His lawn was also perfect, a sea of fly agaric, lilac bonnets, death caps and jack o'lantern mushrooms which wove together in a glowing sea of toxic fungus. He was murmuring under his breath in an irate manner. As the sun rose above the horizon and the mist cleared to an onyx, overcast sky, the inhabitants of Threnody Crescent set about their typical Saturday activities. Madam Delaney had pitched a fortune teller’s tent in her front yard and every so often one of her neighbours would trickle in - often across Mr Spinner’s painstakingly cultivated lawn, causing chaos as his beloved toadstools were trampled. “I’ve lived on this street for twenty-seven years, and if you young’uns think you can mess with my lawn then you’ve got another thing coming!” Loretta Faye had briefly alighted from her tower to collect her alchemy equipment, and amidst a column of smoke and the glass phials housing her strange concoctions, she continued to watch her neighbours with her eyes narrowed. She paid careful attention to the boy across the street - her arch-nemesis, Corbin du Deuil. They had both lived in the street for all of their fourteen years and had been enemies for as long as either could remember. Even Madam Delaney had no premonition of how their lives would be turned upside down by what happened next. A car pulled into the street. That in itself was not unusual. What was strange was that it stopped in front of the empty house. A woman with coily black hair and dark skin pulled a small girl out of the backseat. A tall man with hazel eyes and an elderly woman exited next. They walked up to the front door and pulled out a key. Week 2: The (Extra) Ordinary “I heard the empty house has a buyer,” Loretta muttered. She always enjoyed hearing - and spreading - rumours, but Corbin could tell her heart wasn’t in it because at that moment she was locked in an arm wrestle with him. He was winning. It didn’t help that she appeared to be trying to eavesdrop on the people who were sitting on a park bench slightly down the street. “I wonder what the new neighbours will be like,” said Corbin’s mother brightly. “Maybe they’ll have children. Won’t that be nice, Corbin, Loretta?” Neither of them answered, locked in fierce combat. “Well, whoever they are, they’d better know their way around a lawnmower,” growled Mr Spinner, “because frankly there are too many people on this street who’ve absolutely let theirs go. And I hope they don’t touch my lawn. If they touch my lawn…” Loretta snorted, and her hand slipped to the side slightly. Seizing his opportunity, Corbin pushed it into the table with razor focus. She made a face at him and turned to stare at the adults with an overtly indifferent air. “I wouldn’t have bought that house,” came the received pronunciation marking Lady Caeleste, a somewhat entitled woman who lived down the street, “I mean, just look at those tiles. I hope they have some taste at least.” “I hope they keep their curtains open,” Loretta remarked. “There’s only so much you can do with a pair of binoculars if they don’t open the curtains…” “Yes, Loretta,” Corbin deadpanned. “I do hope they go out of their way to indulge your compulsive nosiness.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You obviously don’t find it too difficult.” ***** “Come on Molly, let’s go on a walk now,” cooed Gramma Dearborn. The toddler obediently came and took her hand. “I’ll join you,” said Mrs Dearborn. “I still have some cookies to sell.” Mr Dearborn joined as well, and they all walked down the street, Molly swinging between her parents’ hands and occasionally stopping to pick a flower. The sunset paved the whole street golden, and Gramma Dearborn reflected on how lucky they were to have found such a nice house. She watched with satisfaction as her daughter-in-law flitted from door to door. The one next door was unanswered, but across the street a stooped, elderly man opened his door and squinted suspiciously. “To raise funds for the RSPCA,” she said cheerily. “What kind of cookies?” He asked grumpily. “Chocolate chip.” “Fine,” he said, handing over some coins and grabbing a cookie, “because your husband looks after his lawn.” Yes, that was her Quentin all right. Gramma smiled contentedly. The next door revealed a dark-haired girl with wide hazel eyes. “Cookie? To raise funds for the RSPCA.” Gramma missed the response because she was busy watching the geese which flocked across the sky. A cookie changed hands, and they set off down the street once again, basking in a warm, contented glow. ***** “Oh, Loretta, I’m so sorry not everyone lets you spy on them with your telescope while they’re trying to go about their business,” Corbin drawled. “Shut up.” “Oh, Loretta, I’m so sorry that I somehow let you kidnap me and now I’m making too much noise for your comfort.” “You should be more careful when you’re just walking down the street minding your own business. Terrible things can happen that way, you know,” she answered peevishly. She was annoyed because the Dearborns didn’t have the ‘dignity’ to always keep their curtains open and stand in front of the windows. He was annoyed because when you’re casually walking under a streetlamp, you don’t expect to suddenly find yourself hanging upside down in a net. Even if it was on Loretta’s side of the road. “Ah, good, they’re walking down the street.” She muttered. After a few minutes, a knock sounded at the door, Corbin was still tied up, but he could hear what was being said downstairs pretty easily. “Cookie?” Came Mrs Dearborn’s voice. “To raise funds for the RSPCA.” “How do I know this isn’t embezzlement fraud?” “Why would I…” “Fake charity scams accounted for over $400,000 losses in Australia last year.” “We aren’t in Australia…” “Oh, well. I like cookies.” Loretta came back upstairs chewing on a chocolate chip cookie. Corbin could smell it. He sighed. There really was something strange about those neighbours. Were they scammers? It seemed reasonable enough.

My favourite thing about Young Writers Club is the fact that it is an inclusive and friendly space. I really appreciate the feeling of community that I get from the fortnightly sessions despite not being able to directly communicate with anyone besides Susan and Alicia. I do feel like my confidence has increased a lot over the past two years and the motto of 'there is no wrong way to write' has encouraged me to write the way I want to rather than the way I think I should. My favourite term in 2022 was Term 4 but my overall favourite terms were Terms 2 & 3 in 2021 (detective stories and fantasy). My suggestions for themes in future terms are: Science fiction would be an interesting genre to explore. Some specific ideas might be to have a futuristic setting focusing on a specific technology which exists in the future, or a story focusing on alien life. Fantasy is one that I think could be revisited. A different approach to the fantasy world might be either setting stories in an alternate version of the real world. Alternatively, we could do high fantasy. This seems similar to the fantasy we have already done, but the focus is different. Many stories from Term 3 had titles like 'Back to the South' or 'Lost in Zog' where a character's main focus was on returning to where they had come from, whereas in a completely high fantasy setting these characters would have different goals. I also have a suggestion for the website. It would be really helpful to me (and probably others as well) if you could type in italics or bold text. Either ctrl/command I or B could work or you could type with underscores/asterisks. Sorry if there is a way to do this and I just haven't found it yet! I have two miscellaneous suggestions. The first is that I think it would be fun for Susan and Alicia to do a story. I really enjoyed Term 2 2021 where they modelled and example story and would like to see that again. My last suggestion is that Young Writers Club should add the infrastructure for feedback. Like many other Young Writers, I select 'anyone' and I also try to read all the submissions. I think that being able to hear everyone's positive thoughts (and constructive criticism) could be really beneficial to the club. I'm not a programmer, but I think that there are a few ways this could be achieved. Anyone who enters an email has their writing linked. Potentially, feedback could be given to an author rather than to a specific piece of writing using this feature. As you need an email address to sign up for the club in the first place, no-one will miss out because they don't have one. Alternatively, you could create a 'feedback' task each week and if you wanted to you could just signpost who each piece of feedback was directed at. Or there could be a 'Give Feedback' function on each submission. Like with the writing submitted, Alicia and Susan could read it over before everyone saw it so that no-one could use this for harmful comments. Thanks so much to everyone who is a part of this club. I especially thank Susan and Alicia and anyone behind the scenes for facilitating it every fortnight!

“Hello.” I spun around, shocked. The voice had a purring quality to it, almost languid. My own heart was racing - surely anyone I met in the library at this hour would be just as shocked as me. Surely it wasn’t a regular occurrence for people to be prowling these halls in the dead of night. “Who are you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I glanced frantically around the dim room, searching for the source of the voice. “I have had many names,” replied the dry voice. “My current one is Grimalkin.” And then, the speaker stepped into the patch of silver thrown by the skylight and smiled with a face that was decidedly not human. Ebony fur coated his skin, thinning on his face and on his hands, which were clawed. Pointed ears twitched occasionally atop his oddly human-shaped head. I could see a tail protruding into the murky darkness behind him. And once I had taken in all of this and believed I could no longer be shocked about this creature’s appearance - even when I saw that he was dressed almost like a pirate - his eyes showed me how wrong I was. His right eye was ordinary enough, appearing a murky brown in the uncertain light. His left, however, shone an unnaturally bright saffron, almost seeming to glow. The sclera was all but nonexistent and the pupil was a horizontal slit. Involuntarily, I took a step back. The smile widened into a Cheshire grin, revealing pointed teeth. “What are you?” I managed to choke out, amending my previous question. “Dark things are going on in this library. Dark enough to give something like me physical form. I am a creature out of the stories. I live in the shadows, but I am on your side, for the most part. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the things that will soon be given substance if this perversion continues.” I hesitated. Everything about that made me shudder, made me want to leave this library and not return. But… someone had been sending me notes, and I was going to find out who it was. Although, come to think of it… “Have you been sending me those notes?” I asked uncertainly, remembering the crumpled sheets, the words repeated over and over across the creamy surface of each one. “No. I have been receiving notes myself, in fact.” I was about to ask a follow-up question when I was rudely interrupted by the sight of a ghost floating through one of the walls of shelves. I would’ve been surprised, but my capacity for shock had already been exceeded. Grimalkin, on the other hand, let out a low hiss and moved back into the shadows. Translucent and glowing a faint cobalt, the specter was a young man dressed in antiquated clothing. Periodically, he would drop a small slip of paper onto the ground, tossing them over his shoulder or simply letting them slip through his fingers. Hesitantly, I bent to pick one up. Where? It read. Where, where, where? I turned to another. Penelope Philips, 23 Darling Crescent, London. The address was repeated over and over. The archives. The archives! But where? Where? Where? Where? I straightened, disturbed, before noticing that the trail of these notes led towards a librarian’s desk. Slipped into a stack of papers, in a desk drawer, these notes had been left for the poor librarian to find. Get out. Get lost. Farewell. And, perhaps most disturbingly, enjoy the remainder of your insignificant existence. The librarian seemed to have fled, judging by the state of disarray the desk was in. Slowly, the ghost slid through the floor, disappearing to somewhere in the direction of the archives. I blinked, letting the notes in my fingers flutter to the ground. “He’s clearing out the library.” I said slowly. “Why is he clearing out the library?” Grimalkin let out another low hiss and murmured, “I think I know why.” With trepidation, I followed his feline figure as we wound through corridors and between stacks of books, until arriving in a small storage closet with walls that were chipped and peeling. He gestured for me to look through one of the cracks. I did so, and was shocked to discover that, buried under endless chambers of the library were the trappings of a once-fine room, sealed off from anything else. And inside the room… “I think we’ve found our culprits,” I whispered.

Like dark gods, the tall Ionic columns loomed over me in disapproval. I tried to blame my trembling on the icy breeze which whipped across the path, and not the sinister shadows which seemed to watch me from somewhere just beyond my sight. A waning sliver of argent moon hung in the sky which on this night resembled a cosmic leer. It smiled knowingly down from the heavens. I strode quickly up the steps, wincing as the tap of my boots on stone broke the misty silence of the night. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw a shape move. It’s just a shadow, it’s just a shadow, it’s just a shadow, I frantically told myself as prickles raced up my spine. It’s just a shadow, it’s just… I caught the briefest glimpse of an eye, flickering in the pale moonlight. It shone in the moonlight, slit-pupiled and tawny yellow. I gulped. Certainly not a human eye. Quickening my pace, I scurried up the steps and gently pushed open the ornate doors, grateful that the hinges were well-oiled. I glanced behind me but could see nothing but the unnaturally silent street. I was happy to put the choking fog behind me as I stole into the darkened Mitchell Vestibule. In books lies the soul of the whole past time - the articulate, audible voice of the past when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. The haunting inscription was the first thing my eyes fell upon and it chilled me to the bone. One day, I too would vanish like a dream, and that day felt closer and closer as I came closer and closer to the heart of this library. I shivered, turning my gaze away from the words and taking in the grand room around me. More columns once again glared at me as I slowly entered the Reading Room. I sank down into a wooden chair. This seemed as good a place as any to finally plot my course of action. I didn’t need the eldritch tugging in my gut to tell me that this was the place I needed to go - the notes had done that already. But I did need to know how to find the sender - furtive sneaking seemed more comfortable than strutting through the halls, but if I was caught- “Hello.” I spun around, shocked. The voice had a purring quality to it, almost languid. My own heart was racing - surely anyone I met in the library at this hour would be just as shocked as me. Surely it wasn’t a regular occurrence for people to be prowling these halls in the dead of night. “Who are you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I glanced frantically around the dim room, searching for the source of the voice. “I have had many names,” replied the dry voice. “My current one is Grimalkin.” And then, the speaker stepped into the patch of silver thrown by the skylight and smiled with a face that was decidedly not human.

Author's Note: I'm sorry this is so unfinished. I will try and post a full story later on. Thank you! Xander Orion contemplated the beauty before him with a detached avarice. The planet seemed nice enough, covered as it was with lush jungle and soaring peaks. Exotic clouds in various shades of orange wreathed the unfamiliar planet in a halo of gold light, which was visually appealing if hard to photograph. Orion sighed. This was an excellent business prospect - prime location, beautiful vista. There was just one problem. The natives. When he had bought up this quadrant of the galaxy, he had been expecting mainly uninhabitable planets which could be turned into industrial plants or stars that could be used as energy cores. Perhaps the occasional diamond in the rough to be used as a tourist trap. And this one would satisfy that last very well if it weren’t for its humanoid inhabitants. Orion could see the reasoning behind not exterminating humanoid species but damn it, he was not going to lose this opportunity because a bunch of primitive savages beat him to it. “Danger factor: 6,” beeped a robotic voice from the dashboard of his small, private space cruiser. “With all due respect, sir, landing on an unfamiliar planet inhabited by a potentially hostile species is a very bad idea.” “Cancel all my appointments today, Ethel,” Orion replied, ignoring the AI’s advice. He grabbed his transmitter, a canteen of Space-Ade (purified liquid that was consumable to over 60% of the galaxy’s humanoids, and perpetually 'on sale' for only 3 credits a bottle! Get yours now! *Catchy theme music*), and his blaster pistol. He didn’t know how to actually use the damn thing, but he felt better having it. “Watch the ship while I’m gone, Ethel,” he added as the ship pulled closer to the forested surface of his planet. “Sir, I am an artificial intelligence programmed into this ship, and as such I-” whatever the ship had been about to say was interrupted by a loud rumbling noise as all his screens went dark. His ship’s connection to the source of power in the civilised universe was being disrupted by this planet’s atmosphere. In short, he was facing a bumpy landing. Well, that was inconvenient. A stunning panorama of alien flora was presented to Orion as he plummeted to the ground. It sure was lovely - perhaps he could use this hurtling sketch of the planet as a feature, not a flaw? The calls of various avian creatures filled the air as their startled forms fled the impending collision. That was a selling point, too. CRASH! Sending up debris for quite some distance, his pod smashed into the forest floor. When the dust cleared, he remained hesitantly inside for several minutes before slowly exiting into a new world. Juxtaposed against the commotion of the crash, the silence and stillness was oppressive. Orion glanced around at the lush, exotic foliage around him. High above in the canopy, a curtain of green and blue obscured the sky from view. The underbrush was a tangle of creeping vines bursting with tubers and flowers and fruit and things Orion couldn’t even identify. As he trudged out of the ruins of his ship, the sharp, bright metal stood out starkly against the springy ground. Tickling his nose, a breeze brought unknown scents, reminiscent of a tropical rainforest but somehow strange. Slowly, cautiously, the avian creatures began to settle back in the trees, bright feathers rustling in the zephyr. Orion sighed. Well, as nice as this place was, he had a meeting at 0800 Galactic Standard that he would rather not miss. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the transmitter he kept for emergencies - it had batteries (the primitive thing), so the power disruption wouldn’t affect… Something was scrambling his signal. Something was scrambling his signal! But that was impossible… the only inhabitants of this planet were primitives… it just didn’t make sense… For once, Orion felt uncertainty stirring, but he pushed it down. Slowly, his eyes swept the wreckage as he attempted to take an inventory of his supplies. What did he have? Nothing, as it turned out. Agitated, he began to turn slow circles around the clearing. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to him! He was famous, rich, powerful! He wasn’t supposed to end up marooned on some stupid backwater with no resources… except for some berries. They were small, bright green, and shiny. Orion snatched one eagerly, scoffing it in one bite and reaching for another. They tasted sweet… sickly sweet… almost like… sleeping syrup. Orion crumpled to the ground. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Orion heard a jumble of garbled voices. Faces swam above him, wavering in his vision. What was going on? Who were these people? He struggled to awaken through the thick haze the berries had left upon his mind. Finally, he managed it. “Foreigner,” said a thickly accented voice. “Tell me; why were you flying so close to our planet?” When he tried to speak, his voice came out as a croak. There was a sigh from somewhere just beyond his peripheral vision. “I suppose you should recover your strength first. But we of the jungles are not fond of trespassers.” We of the jungles… not fond of trespassers… the inhabitants of this planet were the ones who caused his ship to crash. This was getting better and better. A hand stretched out towards him, holding a cup of water which he took gratefully. Suddenly, an imperious female walked into the room. A circlet of what appeared to be wood nestled upon her head. She had a commanding aura about her, accentuated by her extreme height - apparently this race was on the larger side, and Orion felt slightly dwarfed. With no preamble, the woman barked, “I would like to know what it is that you think you are doing on my planet.” Great. “Um…” How to phrase this? “It… wasn’t exactly by choice.” “Obviously. It’s nice to know that our defensive systems work, but that isn’t the reason you’re here.” “Defensive systems?” Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Apparently there’s been talk of some upstart real estate agent buying our planet. Can you believe that? As if they had the right!” “That was before I realised that you had a civilization!” Orion blurted. Damn. They would kill him for sure. “You…” her eyes widened in rage. *There’s a break in the story as I realise I won’t have time to finish it* ORION: Excuse! Platitude! Please don’t kill me! CHIEFTAIN: But you’re trying to sell my entire planet on the galactic property market. ORION: Runs away. *Attempts to survive in the wilderness* *Almost runs headfirst off a cliff within about three minutes* NOOOO! CHIEFTAIN: Wow, this guy is an idiot. Well, I guess we oughta save him. ORION: Thank you! I’ll do anything- CHIEFTAIN: Well then. If you can convince your superiors to not sell our planet, consider your debt repaid. ORION: Fine. *Goes back home.* ETHEL: Sir, you have mail. ORION: Not right now. Can’t a man get a minute of peace? ETHEL: But, sir, it’s tagged as important. ORION: Fine, you insufferable AI. ETHEL: You’ve been fired. ORION: Well, I’d like to think of that as a temporary arrangement. You see, I have powerful friends now and I doubt they’d want to let this get in the way of their plans. *Writes angry letter to boss* BOSS: *Reads the letter* What do you mean, powerful friends? CHIEFTAIN: Left a little bit... *A homing missile crashes directly into Orion's boss's desk* ORION: That's what I mean...

Author's Note: Sorry that I haven't included a MacGyvered solution yet, that wouldn't really even occur to my character except as a (very) last resort, so that should come towards the climax. CRASH! Sending up debris for quite some distance, his pod smashed into the forest floor. When the dust cleared, he remained hesitantly inside for several minutes before slowly exiting into a new world. Juxtaposed against the commotion of the crash, the silence and stillness was oppressive. Orion glanced around at the lush, exotic foliage around him. High above in the canopy, a curtain of green and blue obscured the sky from view. The underbrush was a tangle of creeping vines bursting with tubers and flowers and fruit and things Orion couldn’t even identify. As he trudged out of the ruins of his ship, the sharp, bright metal stood out starkly against the springy ground. Tickling his nose, a breeze brought unknown scents, reminiscent of a tropical rainforest but somehow strange. Slowly, cautiously, the avian creatures began to settle back in the trees, bright feathers rustling in the zephyr. Orion sighed. Well, as nice as this place was, he had a meeting at 0800 Galactic Standard that he would rather not miss. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the transmitter he kept for emergencies - it had batteries (the primitive thing), so the power disruption wouldn’t affect… Something was scrambling his signal. Something was scrambling his signal! But that was impossible… the only inhabitants of this planet were primitives… it just didn’t make sense… For once, Orion felt uncertainty stirring, but he pushed it down. Slowly, his eyes swept the wreckage as he attempted to take an inventory of his supplies. What did he have? Nothing, as it turned out. Agitated, he began to turn slow circles around the clearing. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to him! He was famous, rich, powerful! He wasn’t supposed to end up marooned on some stupid backwater with no resources… except for some berries. They were small, bright green, and shiny. Orion snatched one eagerly, scoffing it in one bite and reaching for another. They tasted sweet… sickly sweet… almost like… sleeping syrup. Orion crumpled to the ground.

For the third time that evening, Avril Rosseau rechecked her suitcase. The navy, wheeled contraption had three large, zippered pockets, and every one was kept as controlled and tidy as her well-organised mind. In the first pocket were her clothes - thick and warm to protect from the extreme cold, and with fluorescent or reflective stripes in case of an avalanche, snowstorm or other disaster. The second pocket contained an eclectic combination of a small two-person tent, a sleeping bag, a lantern, a torch, two spare batteries (they both used AA, which wasn’t a coincidence), and various other useful items - like night-vision goggles and other utilities. The third pocket… well, hopefully she would never need to use what was in the third pocket. Was Avril an overpacker? You could say that. Sighing, she left her preparations and went to ensure that the rest of the household were packed. Properly packed. She couldn’t trust them not to leave something behind. And you never knew when that something could be crucial. “Maurice!” Avril called as she walked down the hallway to his room, “I’m just going to check what Maman has packed for you.” “M’kay Avi,” he murmured, in the process of stuffing yet another teddy bear into his bag. The rest of his preparations she deemed “good enough,” the same as their parents’. She wrote an inventory of their packings in her journal, before finishing with the worry that had been plaguing her all day. Cher journal intime, There are twenty-four avalanche-related fatalities in the Alps every year. And we will be there all the way from France to Switzerland. Will my family be some of that number? She paused, then made up her mind. No, she wrote. Because I won’t let them.