About Us in History by Wyatt Winke, Senior Creative Writing Award Winner 🏆

Dear My Friend from History,

Do you ever think about the back corner of the history classroom, and what we did back there? I do.

We sat in the back corner with our friends. I was always in front of you. I liked it then, but lately sitting behind you feels better, it lets me look at you. Did you like doing that, looking at me in history? In history you’d extend your leg slowly to my chair and tap it with your foot. I’d move back in my chair, snake my arm down and grab your shoe. The feeling of the smooth top and rough bottom was oddly soothing.

We’d stay like this while the teacher explained apartheid, or was it World War II? I don’t remember. We probably should have listened, I was never good at history. I don’t think I ever looked back at you when we did this. Although if I did, you’d probably be smiling or laughing. I really liked your smile and laugh, I thought they were cute. Do you think we blushed? It seems like something that would happen if this was a romance show. I don’t think blushing happens to people in real life, I’ve never seen it happen.

In the back corner of the history classroom we never seemed to care if someone saw, I thought about it occasionally. I don’t think people would regard two guys at the back, one holding the foot of the other as a display of affection or something suspicious. We would have easily been able to play this off as something else.

It's ironic that I can't remember the history of this action that started in history. Maybe that's better. I get to make my own connections and write my own origin. Was it me leaning on your shoulder during lunch? It's the time I first started showing my feelings for you. It started after I came out to you, the first time. We've never talked about any of this in person, only through messages. Something about the silence of these displays of affection were the most beautiful part of it.

That one lesson of history. Last period. What were you thinking about? I really want to know the motivation behind your actions. We did the usual, leg extending, chair tapping, scooting back, arm snaking, and foot holding. You switched it up after that. I didn't see it coming to be honest. I was surprised.

You grabbed my hand that day in history.

Your hands were so soft, so warm, I really liked holding them. You caught me so off-guard that period. I might have even turned around, or maybe even blushed. I was so happy. I wanted to do that again.

But that’s history. We held hands a few times after. We even kissed. We fell apart. We stopped talking. We stopped hanging out together. It hurt to think about it for a while, I really hate that.

We talk now, it’s nice, I’m so scared I might slip up and try something with you. I don’t want to lose our friendship again. I don’t want to push you away. The many evolutions of my feelings make the foundation for this piece of paper, each one expressing a different way I feel about you. It's weird how I’ve used my many drafts to rationalise my feelings for you. It feels dumb to write this letter to you. You’ve probably moved on from history.

Sincerely,

Your history buddy 

A Misplaced Heart by Benjamin Corbett 

Her life was once perfect. Her porcelain skin. Her flowing, lace dress. Her mansion. Her. Everyone wanted her - she was the next big thing. Everyone all around the world knew about and longed for her. Her unmatched beauty struck the hearts of millions. She was priceless. All good things, however, do have to come to an end.

She began to always lose things around the house. It started out as small trinkets - keys, rings, her glasses. Slowly, however, she began to lose more… ‘prominent’ items. Bookshelves, lighting features within her own home, tables, chairs. All these objects moved around on a day-to-day basis, slowly tormenting the woman’s sanity. One day, a room would be filled with priceless antiques, and the next, she would find everything in a completely different room. Walls would disappear, and when she woke up would be connected to entirely new ones. Doors were always moving from one place to another. Windows never in the same location for more than a day. She was scared. She was terrified to go to sleep only to wake up and find her reality distorted and changed in unspeakable ways all over again. And that excessive giggling. That shrill sound that became her epitome of torture. Any time she went about her day, that squealing laughter followed her. Every time she moved, she drank tea, she left for bed, that piercing noise haunted her to the very core. Her only solace was sleep, but even that came with its own demons. That overwhelming dread of waking up and seeing her mansion rearranged beyond her imagination, broke her more and more. She finally accepted that the only thing she was truly losing was her mind. As her sanity fractured with every waking day, so did she. The final nail, her grand awakening, was that one day she woke up, and she had lost her arm. It didn't hurt. No blood either. Simply nothing. An emptiness both in her mind, and where her arm should have been. She couldn’t find it either. Unlike most things that went missing, this one didn’t return to some weird place the next day. Or the next. Or any after that. From then on, things started changing for the girl. She became lethargic, barely getting out of bed, locked in an eternal slumber. As time went on, that crippling laughter also seemed to fade, until eventually she never heard anything but a deafening silence. She was left with nothing but her thoughts. Her windows no longer let in light and her mansion was locked in repose with its owner. Slowly, more and more, pieces of her started chipping away. After all, if she was losing herself, what was the point in trying to keep what she had left? Her once perfect skin was now cracked, her lace dress torn and stained. Dust and cobwebs started to take each room, yet there was nothing she could do. She was wasting away beyond recognition. In her bed - her deathbed.

With no concept of time, she hadn’t known how long it had been, but it felt like years. Days and nights passed effortlessly as she lay still in her fateful slumber. But finally, a light shone through her windows. Was this the blissful light of heaven? Or the raging fires of Hell? All she could do was lie in her bed and hope that whatever happened was quick and painless. But it was so much worse. For the first time in years, she finally heard something, yet all it did was consume her with sorrow.

“Hey, Becca, come over here. Wasn’t this your old dollhouse?”

A short pause occurred before an answer, yet for the girl in bed, it felt like hours. As she heard the response, her eyes started to swell with dismay and devastation as she realised the harsh truth of her world.

“Yeah, but you can dump it. That doll’s broken anyway, not much use now.”

And with that, that brief ray of light, that brief ray of hope had vanished. She had finally accepted it. She was only a doll.

Broken. Beyond love.

Arrival at the peak by Samuel Priest

Morning chills left my head throbbing as I shrunk to fit within the sanctuary of warmth provided by my coat. The warm blood flowing through my veins fought vigorously against the approaching frost. Huffing into my gloved hands, I watched the steam spiral out of my mouth as it diffused tenderly into the frigid atmosphere. Eventually, the lethargy faded, catalysed by the shot of caffeine now circulating through my system. Ahead, amid the chorus of trees, lay a pebbled pathway, a sculpture of rain, snow, and passing soles. Yesterday's hike saw us starting 800 metres up the mountain, only halfway to our goal. From the rich hues of the forest floor to the sweet blue glow of the sky, this was a wonderland for those willing to absorb it. One foot after another, we slowly shuffled through the mud, my heartbeat lost in the damp echo of my boots, my sight melting into a state of wakeful dreaming.

Breaching 1200 metres elevation, the cold familiarity of the sub-alpine zone began to fade. Towering giants which dominated the lower lands grew thin, overthrown by masses of shrubbery. Droplets of dew glistened in the warm rising glow that peeked over the horizon. At such heights, the bitter sting of Fiordland alpine air wrestled with spears of warm sunshine. A seemingly everlasting climb saw many trailing from behind, the whisper of conversations now drifting in the wind. Then we saw him. A humble visitor, whose coat of green concealed a plethora of colours beneath. The quiet rustle of packs and the distinct click of a camera caught his attention. He gave us a look, full of curiosity and confusion. Whether it was out of fear or boredom he soon left us, gliding into the wind, his call a beacon for all. The path ahead carved the rockface, eroded from the feet of our predecessors, a daunting incline warning us to turn back now… while we still could.

The mountain. What a daring statement of the apathy of time. From here, the goal was visible, a peak emerging above the clouds, slicing through the sky like butter. Climbing higher, my anxieties deepened. What if I panic? What if I fall? Each step was a risk, an opportunity for the raging void below me to claim my soul. A shift in footing sent pebbles flying, spiralling down the rock face, warning me I was next. The thrill of walking on the edge of my demise was the only thing that kept me going. This game of chance added to the sheer beauty of nature that I was immersed in. The path ahead was transforming. Helping handrails slowly disappeared, melting into mere holes in the flat face of rock. Ice crystals grew into dancing communities of light, traps laid to send your feet sliding out from under you. Regrettable boot choice and a lack of proper training saw the itches on my feet swell into blisters, more painful with each step.

The slowing curve of the incline, the ripple of excitement behind me. We were here. Rounding the final corner, I saw what we had achieved. From purest white to deepest grey, the mountaintop was the artistry of the horizon. The silver crown of the world. Standing at the edge, my pride tanked the growing desire to fall back in fear. Below was a land garnished with the careless dandruff of wintry skies. The Hollyford Valley, stretching out for kilometres before collapsing gracefully into the Tasman Sea, 1600 metres down. Only now could I appreciate the magnitude of our achievement. Through the gloomy forest. Past the danger signs warning us of our possible demise. Over the slippery slopes waiting for us to fall, we had reached the top. Above the clouds we sat to rest, absorbing the true beauty of the world.