Hero - No Money No Hero by Jennifer

2L of whole milk, 1L of skim milk and bread. 2L of whole milk, 1L of skim milk and bread. 

Susan recites her shopping list in an earnest bid to win over her forgetfulness. The doors slide open, and she slips past a middle aged man clutching onto his bicycle, who, unperturbed by the numerous pairs of questioning eyes, chants distant murmurs.

Onto the platform. Up the stairs. Past the ticket barriers.

The glowing green 'Woolworths' sign greets her at the other end of the station complex. Above the bustle of peak hour shopping, the sign emanates an aura of consumerised civilisation.

She shuffles toward the automatic barriers at the supermarket entrance. Susan wonders for a moment how the barriers see the world. A binary perspective - presence or absence. No individuals. Every passer-by is the same, a mere presence. No more than any other inanimate object. A signal to do work. Work. Work. Work.

The milk section is at the very back. Of course. Susan makes her way to the very back, passing by the countless discounts positioned to prey on the indecisive consumer.

2L whole milk. 21 March, 21 March, 24 March, 22 March. She opens the fridge door briefly and takes out the milk expiring on 24 March. Into the green basket. She glances back to ensure the carton behind it didn't expire on the 25th. Also 24.

Time to move on to 1L skim milk. Susan lets out a sigh of exasperation. Some stocking staff thought it amusing to place all the milk cartons with their expiry date backwards. Or maybe it was on purpose.

After trying to view the expiry dates at an angle to no avail, she reaches in and takes out a carton at random. 25. Good find. She places it in the green basket. Susan stands around for 10 seconds, then reaches in to take out another. Also 25. Probably the best right now. Susan tries not to look sheepish as she places the second carton back.

Into the bread aisle. She passes the sign warning of loose grapes on the floor posing a safety hazard. A bombardment of discount tags. Wonder White 2 for $6. Buttercup Country Split 50% off. Tip top 2 for $7.

Dilemma. Actually, multilemma.

A sign catches her eye.

Heroes. Susan is reminded of the literature piece she has not started. She takes a second glance. Maybe her brother would be interested.

Her focus shifts to the upper right shelf. Something here too catches her eye.

Tempting. Should she choose the hero card or the cheaper option? The hero or money? Fantasy or reality?

Susan pats the bread to test its softness. She checks the expiry date. Then she whisks the buttercup country split into her green shopping basket.

She shuffles toward the automatic payment terminals, leaving the hero behind her.

Author's Note: 474 words. A rushed stream of consciousness piece with close to no motive or purpose. Good night.

P.S. this is as close as a true story gets to being true.
P.P.S. i'm going to schedule this post for 10pm Sunday. hope it actually posts successfully.

Sunsets - Shapeshifting Sunsets by Jennifer

We all recall the end of a typical animated movie - the protagonist returning to his relieved family after heroically defeating the villain. A heart warming reunion, foreground to the sunset in the the distance, symbolising a closure whether it be plot-wise or emotional. The sunset marks the end of the day's turmoils, of a retreat into the tranquil familial sphere from the perils which thrive on the energy of sunlight.

Yet at the same time we hear of the danger in the final rays of the sun as it makes its descent, the inevitable conjure of endless imagination - thieves, murderers hiding around the corner of every sombre alleyway. The smell of covert criminal activity springing to life with the death of sunlight, the taste of the awakening of the city's other facade which laid dormant in the daylight hours.

But what is the mystery behind the sunset? Why does a simple, daily phenomenon hold such ambiguity? Perhaps, as does human tendency, we have glorified the sunset and bestowed it with much greater significance than it constitutes. But who is to say that this bestowed significance has not shaped how we discern night and day?

Author's Note: 196 words. Sorry about the short post. I intended to address the many different meanings we take out of a sunset, and to pose questions about whether there was a 'correct' interpretation and whether such an interpretation would be time/spatially dependent. I'm not very satisfied with the ending, but can't exactly pinpoint what. Sleepy. Going to sleep. Good night.

#WRITERSNEVERDIE

Hey guys! Exciting news!

We're back with a new series of beautifully written pieces for your personal devouring and enjoyment, delivered live and flapping like freshly floundering salmon straight to your computer screen.

Our new program schedule will be broadcasting individual pieces every second Sunday, starting from the Special Pilot episode this weekend, before university starts for your loverly writers.

And on that note... Introducing, the writers of this season!

• Your beloved returning cast: Jennifer, Alicia and Katrina 
• Fresh meat: Maggie and Alison

But this season, there's a twist.

Gone are the 30 minute writing restrictions. Gone are the restrictive genres of belonging. GONE ARE OUR BORDERS.

This season... our hearts, minds, creative limits, and procrastinative abilities can't hold it back anymore and are letting it go! (sorry)

The new rules:

• any written text type is cool. (e.g. short story, poetry, scientific report, documentary, speech, presidential address, resume etc. BE CREATIVE) 
• the minimum effort required needs to feel like you actually really tried ok?
• no writing time limits 
• one prompt a fortnight - must be addressed sufficiently in your piece. do not include it as a random reference. you still have to use it like you would a stimulus in high school, just maybe a bit more creatively this time. 
• each πece is due Sunday 11:59 PM AEST

Happy imaginative writing, and may the motivation be ever in your favour! 

Don't miss out!!!

Revival Request

Hey guys, let's revive this blog after our extreeeeeemely long hiatus!

I was thinking that as well as creative writing, we could have other modes of writing too ... like feature article type opinion posts (if you know what I mean, we might even have to do a bit of research on the topic). So maybe we could have a committee of some sort to decide the type of writing, the stimulus/topic it's going to be on (it could be a normal stimulus like the ones we've been using, or it could be a controversial topic e.g. euthanasia, or a topic inviting opinion-fuelled discussion e.g. the questionable existence of bus timetables), and other specifics (like compulsory vocab or whatnot).

But I guess this wouldn't work so well with a time limit ... maybe we could just say that you have a whole week to work on it or something, and you just post what you've got at the end of the week? (No peeking at the drafts though haha!)

I thought that this would be good preparation for uni as well ... where we're going to need to engage in some academic writing :)

Any opinions, etc. welcome in the comments! This is just a proposal hehehe ...

Fight - A Moral Greyscale by Jennifer

A Moral Greyscale

The accelerated lash of a trained soldier's boot on my left cheek, and the momentary yet lethal darkness sends me down onto the perilous base of the invaded trench.

The stalemate had been broken.

In the frenzy I taste the thick blood of my bitten tongue, metallic like the deafening barrage of overhead gunfire. It is only a split second before I recover and search frantically for the soldier who had attacked me. Letting go of a single life will result in the death of many more.

I spot the soldier's pale complexion over ten metres away, his skin a stark contrast against the muddy earth which lines the trench, against the dark green uniform which crowds the narrow area ... against the rest of us.

"GET HIM!" I bellow in agony as his shrinking figure recedes into our living quarters. 

Then the reluctantly anticipated fire of a machine gun, the howls and shrieks of combat mates violently ambushed. It is difficult not to picture the carnage which will await my return. Blood and revolting gore, but this time of my friends ... my friends, of whom we had sworn an eternal allegiance.

The culminating fury erupts within me as the crazed scream of a mad fighter - and my paralysis shatters. I storm through the length of the trench with a regained strength, treading on the hands and shoulders of my fallen army.

He is still there, the cold satisfaction of murder plastered over his white ghost of a face. 

He is white. Just like those who had slaughtered my village. White.

Charging towards him, I tackle him to the ground with the power of countless memories of loss. He loses his machine gun, as I did my parents. My friends. My elders. Everything was gone.

I strike his stomach like a frenzied animal, drawing on the forgotten strength of pain. He tries to strike me again, this time with the dagger attached to the side of his shoe. He misses. 

He sends his foot flying against the stone surface, dislodging the earthly remains of the trench wall which topples over us. Pushing us closer together, urging us to exact our revenge.

The silver dagger dislodges. He wails as the blade slides to within a few metres' distance, sending us into a frantic brawl. He elbows my thigh sharply, temporarily disabling me as he scampers toward the blade. His hand is merely centimetres from the blade before I clasp his neck, strangling him as I drag him along the blood-stained floor.

I reach for the blade, but the solace of cold metal in my hand does not arrive. I almost forget myself - whipping around, I force the dagger against the soldier's white neck.

Against a boy's white neck. His horror stricken eyes match chillingly, incongruously, with the snicker of murder on his mouth. He has aged too much. 

It will take only a flick of the wrist to send this boy to the hellish suffering he deserves. 

He is white. I am black. White, black, white, black, white, black ...

Author's Note: 515 words. Sorry about any parallels between this story and the first creative I wrote on this blog (Chastity - My Kind). I think I tried to refrain from specifically using the phrase 'my kind' haha ... don't remember if I succeeded :|

I was originally going to end it with something like white, black, something brown then something about how there's always a bit of each in each other (yin and yang) or some deep philosophical statement. As expected, that never happened.

I should probably add more to this author's note. On another note (do you see what I did there? I get amused by my own sense of humour), I need to sleep. I realise that I only ever post here right before I go to bed .........

edit: In case you thought I was pulling that lunacy about white, black and brown from nowhere, it's me reading too much into the colours of the cat and dog :P

An Instant - Blinding Wind by Jennifer

Blinding Wind

"The government housing? You mean that eyesore of a debilitated shack which sits clumsily on the brink of our otherwise pristine neighbourhood?

"No way, you can't be serious. Mum, I'm not coming with you. Haven't you heard the rumours? Everyone says that the girl who went missing last month was last spotted just two streets away from that row of government housing."

My mum darts me that familiar glare, the oh-you-are-such-a-snobby-twenty-first-century-first-world-country-teenager look.

"There's no proof behind that - and you know it. I expected something more reasonable from you, Mel."

I admire my nails in an attempt to hide my defeat. A painful essence of truth in her statement had struck me, but it was much easier to pretend not to care.

"Come on, we're leaving now. At least you can say you've volunteered before at your next job interview."

She flashes one of her taunting grins as I shoot her an affectionate scowl, grabbing several bottles of hand sanitiser and pepper spray into my bag behind her back.

***

Even from afar, the cacophonous multitude of languages shrouds me in confusion. What were they gossiping about? A lady hanging up her laundry takes a quick glance at me - then a few seconds later shouts something in some foreign tongue to her daughter behind her. A momentary fury swells within me as I imagine her making a racist joke - was it the colour of my skin? Or my mass of curly hair?

But as the young girl turns around she only appears two or three years my junior, albeit several centimetres taller than me. Where was her cultural dress? Everyone at school said that the area was extremely distinct because all its residents wore peculiar cultural dresses - almost like a fancy dress party, but daily.

In fact she was clad in a t-shirt and jeans, her white socks peaking peeking out through her ... Nike sneakers which I had been begging my mum for three months to buy me. I tug at my mother's hand eagerly, but she ignores me and starts searching for the other volunteers.

The young girl turns around on her sneakers and begins heading my way. Subconsciously, I roll my eyes in an exasperated sigh - I was too exhausted for a wordless exchange, facilitated only by universal hand gestures at ineffectively overcoming the language barrier. That's how all the movies showed two different cultures communicating, wasn't it?

"Hey, are you one of the volunteers? I think the others are meeting up over there."

She points to some unfamiliar location to no avail, as I recover from the shock of her perfect English. Why of course. She would attend the local high school, just like me. Maybe I had even seen her before?

As she turned around I tried to photoshop her silhouette out and drop her in the midst of our school campus ... surprisingly she would blend in well. Actually, there would be no indication whatsoever of her living in government housing. Where were the broken shoes, the greasy hair, the notable accents or stuttering of those who live here? 

Author's Note: 520 words. haha, as you can see, I have not finished. and my bedtime is nigh. i almost need to go to bed. this one is pretty colloquial, I haven't actually gotten to the main point at all sadly :( i tried to intersperse the colloquial language with some heavier matter later, to show how their two lives are interlinked and stuff. but i shall leave that to a commenter's analysis :P i might actually keep working on this creative and post it on my personal page when done :) maybe. 

well it goes on with how (in an extremely cliched manner - because I lack the creative juices to transcend this clichedness) the persona realises all the social and political stigma associated with not-as-well-off families. And something like this was meant to be one of those lines: "And it took only an instant for me to recognise the false stories, the false rumours, the false speculations. We had all been blinded by the suffocating wind of society and politics, our minds pushed to and fro into what we would like to be thinking." Then something about me being cleansed of the 'paint' and untrue (yes, trying to find another word for false --> consequence of limited vocab) perceptions which once plagued the persona, revealing her true self.

I know right. I invite anyone to challenge me in being the self-named queen of clichedness.

It probably isn't really belonging either, more CHANGE or JOURNEY. Good night! :)

change of plans, actually on to read Alicia's creative! :P

Orchids - Outgrown by Jennifer

Outgrown

It has only been 6 years, but today the group of young girls I remember in my graduation photos have transformed into the beautiful ladies seated around this coffee shop reunion.

Braces removed, pimple marks faded and the stress of the impending HSC absent in their eyes, it hits me how they have all grown. Long gone are Theresa's signature Nike joggers, replaced by the black stilettos whose glinting tip taunts any approaching stranger. She turns to me and flashes her perfect smile, beckoning me over to her table.

'Hey, how have you been?' The lingering keenness in her musical voice reminds me of who I must be, of the desire to rebuild that past intimacy which had existed between us.

I wear a foolish grin. 'Just as usual. You?'

'Yeah, around the same. Isn't this a great idea? How'd you manage to organise this reunion so well?'

An insignificant primitive instinct falters for a moment within me at her praise. A great idea. That was what I expected initially as well. It strikes me that the strained smile I pull performs poorly against their immaculate complexions.

'Well, it's great that we're here together now, isn't it?' 

Her wavy, mahogany hair glints with the fluorescence of the cafe light as she nods enthusiastically. 

I dare myself to take a long look at these women around me, these people who had accompanied me in a stressful but rewarding high school life. And it becomes clear that my perceptions had been far outdated ... my immature teenage narcissism being stripped of me painfully.

Torn away from my egoism, the story of the ugly duckling happens in reverse. What had happened to the sense of security and superiority many years ago? I pinch the back of my shin under the table until it goes numb, casually stealing another glance at the gathering around the table. Once I had thought that I was the elegant white swan, maybe not the best but fine nonetheless ... but gradually the ugly ducklings of my herd bloomed and, caught up in my own vanity, I had failed to realise that it is now I who is the ugly duckling.

I pull my shoulders back, chin up, in what I know is a futile attempt to live up to these ladies around me. In a final, exhausting effort, I try to laugh sincerely as the outgrown grass in a garden of orchids.

Author's Note: 405 words. I am getting less and less creative judging from the shrinking word count haha. There are so many aspects of this creative which I would not write in something that I actually have to hand in (haha 'pimple marks faded') but this is a half hearted attempt at writing something which 'I know about'. Not really, since I haven't done the HSC yet ...

Prison - As far as the Mind Takes us by Jennifer

As far as the mind takes us

I dive underneath the canopy of newspapers spread across the coffee table, temporarily shielded from the stream of bullets which I can hear attacking the house outside. Every low but piercing bang penetrates my eardrums, sending a chilly response which stiffens my spine.

The heavy bullets of rain pause momentarily, giving me a chance to leap upon the window sill and strip the curtain off its pole. I wrap the curtain around me - I cannot let slip any slim chance of survivial. Suddenly the cluttering bangs continue outside ... amplifying slowly as I can almost smell the reek of petrol which smothers its yielder growing stronger and stronger.

There is no way out.

The bedroom door bellows a silent scream through its ajar mouth, beckoning me to enter its depths - a potential asylum. I sprint through the corridor, photos and paintings of the family members who have already fallen victim to the beast outside smashing onto the floor behind me ... chasing my own footsteps ...

By the time my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room my palms are sticky with the blood from various wounds cut open by the apprentices of this villain outside. Yes, it is a villain! The one who has come to seize me yet again. The thundering of my caged heart threatens the silence which blankets me, every truncated breath a deathly betrayal of my whereabouts.

The barrage of the machine gun outside appears to have ceased, and with it I release a sigh of relief. But I do not let my guard down ... I will not let them catch me ...

***

Yet again, the weary breath which is cut short upon every entry into what was once the serenity of a home. She sighs as she recognises the familiar traces of a victim's flight from the horror of one's nightmares ...

It is not long before she catches sight of a deranged Winston, huddled underneath her bed sheets clad in the navy blue of her living room curtain. Today he wears the Sydney Morning Herald around his neck as well.

She smiles off the wet tear which brushes down her lined cheeks as she parks the lawn mower back into its position in the garage space, the rusting backyard swings echoing from the absence of the lawn mower's sputtering engines. Tentatively she enters the house, carefully picking up the family photos which lie scattered ... shattered ... across the corridor.

It bears her great pain to watch as Winston, once a lively child, darts underneath her bed defensively, hands clasped together in the jagged gesture of a gun.

Winston will never hear of the real world ... he lies trapped within the impenetrable confines of his own mind. And she realises that this is where he will remain. Unheeded by the burden of reality, he passes his days without the knowledge of grief, remorse, sentimentality. He turns and turns in the cell of his own mind like a fly that doesn't know where to die. Forever preoccupied with what we see as the insignificances of our own lives, he  is troubled by little beyond the treacherous games weaved together by the imagination with eternally binds him ...


Author's Note: 542 words. okay I've spent almost a minute figuring out what i'm supposed to capitalise in my title ... and I don't really like this story either. It doesn't make sense :(

AAFM - The Fatal Noodle by Jennifer

The Fatal Noodle

It bears me great pain to retell this story, a story weaved within the turning point of my life. The ensuing trauma dates back several years, back to a time when my naivety triumphed the complexity of my circumstances ...

To many, the supermarket aisle boasts of its magnificence in its splendid array of food items. Multicoloured packaging lines the shelves with a plethora of products to overwhelm the reluctant consumer.

It was one of those stormy winter nights, the horror echoing in the emptiness of my kitchen cabinet. Braving the gale-like winds, I had ventured the perilous one hundred metres down my suburban street in the heart of the dark, arriving at the asian food market as the clock strikes midnight.

The dark eyed cashier eyes me up and down, as if doubting my sanity at such an unearthly hour, then returns to his preoccupation with the change upon his counter. I scan my eyes hastily across the aisle signs ...

Vegetables ... glutinous rice and flour ... haw flakes and kids snacks ...

AHA! The captivating words Instant Noodles draw me toward aisle 4, my senseless feet drifting towards the imagined scent of chicken and seafood and beef flavourings and preservatives which bestills such immense olfactory pleasure within me that the emotion transcends beyond the written word. The correctly placed capital letters of the two heavenly words spell out IN ... a fatal twist in an attempt to draw me closer into their clandestine corner of the shop.

Upon stepping into the aisle the vivid combinations of colours sing a familiar post-dinner-snack song ... and paralyse me for a moment too long. I immediately head towards the conspicuous hole on the shelf where a cheap bargain has cleared its contents. The location is strikingly familiar ...

The lousily scribbled "Chicken flavoured Kimyu Cup Noodle 10% discount" bestills horror within every hair follicle in my body - the vacuum in the shelf stares at me menacingly, a fatal symbol of hunger throughout the night. This was my flavour. My brand. My cup noodles.

But out of the corner of my eye I spot a soft green ... an all too familiar smell but tinged with  ... with ...

A dark figure emerges beside the green cup discarded carelessly on top of another brand section. Terrified, I watch aghast as the dark figure turns his head, raises his arm ...

A split second is all that is required as I sprint to the other side of the aisle, whisking the green cup into my trained palms in a primitive possessive instinct and landing battle stanced at my original position. I had won the fight, cup in hand with the empty shelf teasing the intruder as he turns away, surrendering to me.

Slamming down my silvery coins which glimmered with victory onto the counter at the front of the supermarket, I boasted of my triumph over the cashier's monotonous "One dollar fifty."

Even the wind whips around me in a celebratory manner as I jog home, my well deserved prize of the night in hand. It was a trophy, a hard-earned token which would accompany me through what would otherwise be a cold, lonely night.

I throw the kettle onto the boil, stripping the plastic packaging off the cup noodle package as I wet my lips, anticipating the enticing gustatory pleasure inside the little cup.

Suddenly the floor opens underneath me, the whirring of the kettle a lethal attack on my burning ears.

In small letters, above the all too familiar CHICKEN FLAVOUR, sat the devastating word CHILLI!!!

Author's Note: 600 words. Sleepy. This was deleted: In a primitive possessive instinct I snatch the green cup noodle from the man's hand, determined not to have used the last five minutes of intense dilemma to no avail.

edit: although not really obvious, I got influenced by Edgar Allen Poe's short stories when I wrote this. I really love his dramatic endings, and I remembered afterwards that it was from his short story The Black Cat where I got inspired with how to start my creative. I actually really enjoyed writing this creative, and actually stayed up in an attempt to finish it off (hence why I was dead today at school). I felt like I could actually just keep typing and I had the 'flow' ...

Originally the persona was going to go to extreme extents in picking the correct cup noodle - they would check the expiry date, immaculate packaging, shaking each cup to see which one had the most 'intact' noodles ... etc but that never happened. It just came out this way haha!

And also, you can probably tell esp. comparing my creatives with Alicia's and Selina's that I'm not really good with description. I tend to prefer movement, and this is what I get deducted marks for at school as well!! I'm too shallow :P

Model - The Unattainable by Jennifer

The Unattainable

The Outsider

She sits, upright, on her seat with the golden waves of her hair cascading down her back, semi-exposed through the lace of her white evening dress. Even the very air around her dares not to disturb the elegant silence which lies, outstretched, around her.

It is the pensive look in her eyes which draws every man toward her, the melodious chime which rings with her every spoken word. Her attractive, hoarse voice tugs at the strings of every man's heart, pulling them closer ... and closer ... but aside from our fantasies, we can never reach her.

The glint of the morning sun off the cafe window blinds me momentarily, almost like a warning against my meandering mind. But I know that even on this ceaseless bussle of a street there are five ... ten ... maybe even twenty men like me, reaching out into the seducing world of the rich.

Her delicate hands lift the silver spoon which stirs the sweet coffee on her table.

I turn around, lifting a rolled newspaper in my stained hands and throwing it at the cafe window. And ride away.

The Insider

It is the same newspaper boy across the street, the one who faithfully pauses in front of the cafe window every week day. The glass window acts like an impenetrable barrier, blocking me from the everyday lives of others ...

I am almost like a mannequin, pinned up for display in an expensive array of clothes that are meant to be seen ... not worn.

His eyes are no different to all of those who pass me by, an unforgettable but ephemeral longing and desire. Undeniably I am merely a part of their lives in those several minutes they catch sight of me ... but as they turn their backs ... out of sight and out of mind ...

The dirt crusted lines of the boy's hand speak of a journey from north-west, where the water is murky and the hot sand blinding under the scorching sun. He stares at my pale, smooth, loathful hands ... and I can tell from the unmasked expression on his face, his young mouth slightly ajar, that he sees me like the object of this store. And like how it has always been, I sit and am acknowledged as the best ... but once they are given a choice, no one buys the golden girl ...

It is no different with anybody else - for some moments of their lives I sit, the unshared, absolute centre of their attention as the symbol of wealth and elegance. I am flawless - so they say - but the smooth surface of my history pains me, against the profound stories which they all share.

The boy prepares to leave, and the dull thud of his newspaper against the rigid glass window marks another person who has turned away ... left me, alone. Once again I will be the nameless shadow of their dreams ... the unidentifiable essence of their materialistic hopes ...

Author's Notes: I'm sleepy. and I think this is really poorly written, honestly. I'll elaborate some time when I'm awake ...

edit: 508 words. Okay, so I guess I didn't relate to the stimulus very well again. This is a problem. Which I will work on to hopefully bring up my school marks. And now it's dinner. I wonder if I will ever get this note finished ...

edit #2: I intended to relate to the stimulus by making the male persona perceive the female as the symbol of wealth and elegance (like what a Lamborghini stands for haha). I tried to use references to 'mannequins' and 'objects' to make a subtle hint to car displays ... and everyone at those car exhibitions always crowd around the Lamborghini and make it the subject of their desire. But then when it actually comes to a purchase, almost no one ever picks the Lamborghini. And they don't brood over it either. So it's like abandoned in all its magnificence. I was originally trying to tie that in with the lack of a licence plate on the stimulus (lack of identity) and you can see my not-really-worked-out attempt near the end using words like 'nameless' and 'unidentifiable'.

But obviously the above paragraph can not be written to an examiner which will sadly mean I am dooooomed.

Chastity - My Kind by Jennifer

My Kind

The crack of the whip rings continuously in my ears, a ticking clock reminding me of the magnitude of my mission. I close my eyes and try to hypnotise myself.

I am strong. I feel no pain. I am invincible.

The hot lashes on my back have rendered it numb since hours ago, but still a stinging sensation shocks my entire body with every whip.

The uncomfortable intimacy in the room presents little room for escape. Stocky men with robust builds line the small wooden door, hands permanently welded to the barrel of their machine guns. The smell of charcoal dominates the room as the fire beside me spits at the tied logs serving as a wall around me. Even the dark sky above me hides its stars, blanketing me with a pessimistic omen of hopelessness.

"She's hasn't said a single word since yesterday."

Through my peripheral vision I glare at the unfamiliar face of an officer clad in khaki uniform. He leisurely ambles into the room, emitting an aura of deliberate carelessness. He halts in front of me, slowly squatting such that his cold eyes almost empty everything within me, almost makes me spit every knowledge I have out of my bruised and bloody mouth.

But I will not betray my kind.

The corner of his lips twist menacingly as he sees past the walls I erect within me.

I will not let them taint me with their foul beliefs.

"You're just one of them. You're nothing. Do you really think you can make a difference by keeping your mouth closed? There are probably ten, one hundred ... thousands of ones like you locked up in every crevice in the world ... do you really think we will choke nothing out of all of you?"

His cackling laugh sends a chill through my bones as I realise the enormity of the scale of events.

We are one but we are many. We are an indestructible edifice.

"But the demise of no matter how big a fortress will be in its smallest crack."

I fail to hide my shock as he responds to my thoughts. His grin, as cold as the iron rod beside the fire is hot, expands a little more across his scarred face.

How ... how ...

"I have dealt with more than enough of your kind. Don't overestimate yourself. We know exactly how your thoughts align themselves ... we can see through you."

Suddenly my moral wall falters and weakens as the dark skinned men erupt into a unanimous chuckle. A horror is instilled within me as the transparency of my thoughts become a reality.

But as the men continue to laugh at the futility of my struggles, I remember my ultimate purpose once again. My kind ...

We may be transparent, but there is much more to us than you can see.

A seething confidence throws a dark glare at all the officers in the room. I rebuild my inner walls, which become stronger than they ever were. Amidst the sting of the fiery sparks erupting from the blaze onto my bare skin, I afford one last look at the burning fire. Today, from this violent fire of corruption, the courage of an untainted ideology is born.



Author's Notes: 542 words :O But I kind of cheated because I wrote for a few more minutes after my timer went off for 30 minutes because I was literally in the middle of nowhere going nowhere. You can probably tell my ending is a bit rushed/misplaced, especially since I wrote my last paragraph first and I struggled to make my story 'meet up with it' at the end.

Another implication of my poor time management skills: my original ending was a bit different, I had the persona escaping and instead of "I afford one last look at the burning fire" I had "I afford one last look at the cottage in flames". And the mysterious khaki clad officer was actually meant to turn out to be a good guy!! But I was nowhere near the escape when there was 5 minutes left so I scrapped it. As a result my interpretation of 'chastity' as a purity of purpose and untainted beliefs in the story is even more diminished :(

And I saw Alicia's title before writing this ... >.> I kind of died a little already haha!