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I find it rather ironic that Jay Gatsby has the ability to read people perfectly, yet the notion of opening a book and then going on to read it is seemingly preposterous to him. What ever did we do to make him so distant?
My cousin The Picture of Dorian Gray on the shelf below me doesn’t think we are to blame, and I would tend to agree with him. I don’t think Jay dislikes reading, I just don’t think he enjoys it either. He has so many other things to do in his busy billionaire life. None of which involve picking me off a shelf, of course.
He often walks into the library and just stands in the middle of the room, as though he were admiring his impressive collection. Yet when I look into his eyes, all I am able to detect is a vague emptiness. It has occurred, occasionally, that he take one of us in his hands and look at the cover, perhaps even daring to open the front page and skim over the first few words before tiring his eyes. I’ve never had the honour. Sometimes, I wonder if he is purposefully ignoring me. I think, though, that I might feel insulted if he made the effort of picking me up but didn’t bother carrying on to actually read me.
I remember once, not so long ago in fact, a drunk owl-eyed man from one of Jay’s parties stumbled into this very library. I’m rather proud to say he took quite a liking to me. Not only that, but he gently tipped me backwards to get a better look at my spine, and slid me out of my place. The touch of human hands on my cover, and the sound of my pages carefully being turned, one by one. Seeing things from a new angle was quite disconcerting in and of itself. I felt dazed when the owl-eyed man gently put me back in my spot. I distinctly remember hearing the owl-eyed man mentioning something about my cousins and I being “real books, with pages and everything”, a look of awe written across his face. I think he was expecting fake cardboard books.
Jay wants people to believe he is a well-educated Oxford man, but we all know he only spent four months there after the war. A handful of my cousins were brought here from Oxford, but he never read them. I get the impression he brought them here as a reminder to himself that he did, in fact, partially attend Oxford University. To convince others, one must first convince oneself.
What I love about being one of Jay’s books is that I get to hear so many different opinions regarding such an infinitely wide range of subjects varying from religion to unicorns. Another thing I love about belonging to him is the amount of things I hear from other humans who wander in here, trying to act ‘intellectual’ when they’re really too drunk off their own ego to notice our open ears, devouring every word they utter. They manage to come up with the most absurd rumours you could imagine about how Jay became who he is. However the facts remain unexamined, quite like my cousins and I.
I think it a tragedy that a mind as intricate as his be wasted on the wild imaginings of a man in love with impossibility. What has love ever done for humanity? It has caused wars, deaths, grief… Don’t tell The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling that. He’ll simply say love is what we owe our existence to.
I suppose I rather like my owner, however hypocritical he may be. Although in his defence, he is ‘in love’, as The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling would phrase it, and I wouldn’t be here if he weren’t.
Why would Jay Gatsby feel the need to own a book entitled Out Of Love if not to remind him love isn’t an amount like his money, but an emotion who’s persistence keeps one going?

It always happens like this.

I stroll through the square, my feet brushing through the leaves. Out of the corner of my eyes, I make out Mrs. Baumern’s black cat trying to jump from one window sill to another. I stop to watch it. I suddenly hear a loud thudding sound. I look to the left and see Mr. Weseley cutting down a tree with his axe. It starts raining, and the sky grows dark, as though in a hurry. Mr. Weseley stands up straight, his back still turned, silent.

“Mr. Weseley?” I ask hesitatingly.

He slowly turns around until he is facing me. His head is drooping slightly, so I can’t quite make out his face from under his hooded grey cloak. After what feels like an eternity, he raises his head. I feel myself grow pale. All the colour has been drained from my face. Instead of Mr. Weseley, I see a black oval shape, with two sunken eye-sockets and a mouth shaped hole. Grey smoke is pouring out of it. I want to scream but nothing seems to be coming out.

He starts advancing towards me. My feet are as though fastened to the ground. As he grows closer, I realise that what I thought had been an axe was in fact much bigger and thinner, much more elegant. It is a scythe. He stops as he reaches me. He seems so fragile, and yet so powerful at the same time. I can practically taste his loneliness, rolling off him in waves. I want to run from this sad, desolate creature, but I can’t. I can feel him drawing the life out of me. I wonder why he even carries a scythe. He doesn’t need one.

Suddenly my legs buckle. I don’t want to run any more. I feel my face against the dead leaves. I don’t want to be afraid any more. I can no longer feel anything. I don’t feel. There is darkness. There is silence. There is nothing.

Ever since I can remember, I have been able to see what will happen in the future. Every so often I am randomly hit by a vision of something that will take place in my future life. I used to think they were simply dreams, but I soon came to realise they meant something more.

When I was six, I had a vision of my little brother drowning in the lake. At the time, I dismissed it as a nightmare. However two years later, my father was telling me that my little brother had just drowned in the lake. He described it just as I had seen it. That was when I knew my dreams and nightmares were not only imaginings of the mind, but predictions of the future.

Most of the time, the visions are quite unimportant; for example the surprise test in maths next week, or my neighbours moving out in a year’s time. A handful, however, are much more meaningful, and none of which I can prevent. Believe me I’ve tried, but it’s as though something were holding me back, restraining me from not breaking my leg. Or not being able to warn anyone as the church burned down with people still locked in a few years back. I even had a vision of my boyfriend breaking up with me last month which I was yet again unable to prevent.

I don’t know what causes them, but these visions are someone’s fault, and I intend to find out who. I hate the feeling of not knowing, but I’m not going to pretend I do. I used to think of these visions as a kind of gift, but I think of them now as a curse. Knowing how you are going to die isn’t particularly comforting. Knowing how you are going to die and not being able to do anything about it isn’t particularly soothing either.

I have never had the same vision twice. Except one. There is one vision which I have everyday. At least once everyday, I see myself dying the same way, over and over again. Over the course of the years, I have come to notice and pick up every minute detail of it. The movement of each branch, the sound of each step, the taste of each intake of air, the smell of each flower, the feel of my face crashing against each leaf. And then nothing. I can’t even describe it. It’s just a kind of emptiness, which cannot be filled. Should not, in fact, be filled.

This is what I tell myself as I stroll through the village square, my feet brushing through the thick carpet of leaves. I’ve never liked autumn; too many noisy dead leaves. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Mrs. Baumern’s black cat trying to jump from one window sill to another. I stop immediately, watching it. I suddenly hear a loud thudding sound.

The inevitable has come to pass, and I feel now the future in the instant.

“Well-well you could have been more graceful in your fall.” was all Lyra managed to splutter.

The boy rose slowly, and stretched.

“I knew I’d stayed in that form too long. I always get cramps. Professor Uriah keeps telling me to practise but it’s so tiring, you know?”

“I…” trailed off Lyra.

“Hey, I’ve never seen you two before. Newbies?”

“No, we were just on our way out in fact.” pronounced Lyra, recovering from the shock. “Do you mind telling us how?”

“How what? To leave? Well you’re going completely the wrong way. Wait…” said the boy suspiciously, “are you running away?”

“Pfft,” scoffed Lyra, “no, we were given permission. By… the headmaster.”

“There is no headmaster here…” said the boy slowly “but I do know the way out!” he brightened.

“Really? Could you tell us? That’d be great, thanks.”

“Follow me.”

He led them down a path. For a while, the silence was only filled with his humming. The tune seemed familiar to Luna, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“My name is Nym by the way.”

“Nym? I’m Lyra, this is my friend Luna.”

“Hey Luna!” Nym smiled at her.

“Umm, hi.” she answered, still thinking of the chameleon.

“So, what’s your other form?”

“Huh?”

“Your other form! What animal do you turn into?

“Oh, uh… that’s a, umm, private question.” answered Lyra over a long period of time.

Nym arched a questionning eyebrow. It turned brown as he raised it. It had been the same colour as his hair. Green.

Luna stopped dead in her tracks. Lyra hadn’t noticed, distracted.

“How- how did you do that?”

“Well… I am a chameleon you know.”

Luna just stared at him, in awe. Nym continued walking, a smirk on his face.

“Here we are.”

They were in front of a tall, brown gate, but Luna gathered that the brown was mainly rust by the looks of it.

“Uh, how do we open it?” asked Lyra, quite reasonably.

“Well you have permission don’t you? Just speak into this.” He pointed to a small device on the side of the gate.

“And what do I say?”

“Your name.”

“My name?”

“Yeah, your name. Is your other form a parrot?” said Nym sarcastically.

Lyra gave him her best evil eye, and straightening up, she walked quickly to the little device and spoke her name clearly:

“Lyra Galimore.”

“Lyra Galimore, you have no permission to leave the compound.” answered the machine.

“But I-”

“Lyra Galimore, you have no permission to leave the compound.” it repeated.

“Ha! So I was right! You were trying to escape!” exclaimed Nym rather too happily.

Lyra was fuming. “You people have no right to keep us, we desire to go home.”

“And you are Newbies!” added Nym joyfully.

“Please, you don’t understand-” started Luna.

“Sure, sure I do. You’re gonna follow me again now, and we’ll figure it out. That okay?”

Still fuming, Lyra followed him out, Luna close behind.

{ Now don’t think I’m forgetting Luna! Both Lyra AND Luna are the main characters, so no favouritism on my part ^^ }

Now that they were walking back, the two girls could see just how big the building was. It was four storeys high, eight windows on each landing. Big wooden doors stood wide open, as though awaiting them. The boy strode through them and led them up a set of stairs, and down a corridor. They halted in front of a door.

Nym knocked two clear knocks.

“Come in!” a female voice said.

Nym opened the door and they entered a small office, with a door leading off to the right. A young woman sat behind a desk, filling in some papers. She had brown hair bunched up in a messy bun, and glasses rimmed her nose.

“And what can I do for you today Nym?”

“Hey Avi! It’s these two girls here.” Nym nodded in their direction, “Lyra Galimore and Luna.”

She smiled.

“Lyra and Luna! Pleased to meet you! Luna Mercury I presume?”

“I… yes. Umm, how do you know that?” asked Luna uncertainly.

“Why, because we’ve been expecting you for a long time. I gather you tried running away? Father warned me you might.” She shrugged. “But even though we won’t make you stay of course, you will give us a chance to explain ourselves. I know this must be stressful for you, but you mustn’t worry, everything is going to be fine.”

“That’s what parents say just before something goes wrong.” said Lyra calmly.

“Well I’m not your parents.” answered the lady called Avi. She rose from her chair fluidly. “I will show you your rooms now.”

“We never even said we were staying. You know in the normal world this is called KIDNAPPING.” yelled Lyra.

“And this is not your typical ‘world’.”

She walked out the room gracefully, a slight swing of the hips in her steps.

Mr. Lantin was married at age 25, in Paris, in 1890. His parents had sent him there to study. His father was a teacher in a rural school, and his mother a seamstress. Now working for the ministry, he spent much of his time bent over his desk, writing, reading and working.

He had met Mrs. Lantin in a park on a summer day, during the maturity of nature, while the sun shone with all its power. Before he had met his wife, Mr.Lantin had thought this park was like all the others. But when he met Ms. Morillon there, she lit up his life, and made this simple park a special place for both .

Ms. Morillon was a poor girl of 20 years, of modest beauty, but an angelic and heavenly charm. Her mouth seemed so divine that Mr. Lantin imagined she only ate ambrosia, the gods’ divine food. Her eyes were so soft and tender that they could bend someone’s will in a single glance.

Their wedding took place in Paris , and their honeymoon took place two weeks later, in Monaco, in the south. Mr. Lantin introduced his wife to theater, which she fell in love with. She could not help but spend all her time watching plays. After their wedding, it was a marital bliss, during which the two lovers never ceased to repeat that they would love each other for all eternity.

But little by little, Mr.Lantin began to not go out with his wife to the theater every week, except for a grand event or occasion to make her happy. He was always sitting at his desk, back hunched. He almost began to forget their once so young and lively love. And his wife also noticed this, gradually. Mrs. Lantin was bored. So she asked her husband if she could go to the theater alone. But he, who adored her all the same, would not let her go alone, lest misfortune happen to her. He therefore only allowed her to go if she was accompanied by a friend.

But the dates with her friends did her wrong, for her friends told her “See here, the necklace that my husband bought me?” or “Just look at these darling earrings”. She quickly began to envy them and decided to get some for herself. She saved up her money, and managed to buy a beautiful, gold ring . When her husband asked her where all her jewelry came from, she simply replied ” They are fakes.” And he only nodded his head.

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A beetle scuttled over to them. Lyra stared down at it.
“Do you think there’s someone in there?”
“Hmm, probably. I mean, you do know you could be staring at a person.”
Lyra looked away awkwardly.
“Do you really believe this stuff though? It’s like the X-Men, but… real. I think. What he said back there, does it mean we can do that too? Turn into animals?”
“I don’t even though if I’d want that. Mum, Dad, our normal lives… and our friends. I don’t know, I just… it’s weird.”
“Yeah, you bet.”
Lyra looked around.
“Hey where’d everyone go?”
“Let’s go see.”
“Wait, no, that’s the point. While everyone’s gone, we can try to escape!”
“But, what if we are Mutatios or whatever, what if it’s better if we do stay here. We might harm people otherwise.”
“What, and stay imprisoned with these weirdos!?”
Lyra took off at a run, quickly followed by Luna. They ran for five minutes, until they reached the edge of the forest.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Uhh…”
Lyra grabbed her sibling by the hand, jerking her forward. They ran for another ten minutes, tiredness getting the better of Luna. PE had never been her strong point. Lyra on the other hand, was extremely fast, and good with her legs. Her agility let her climb to the top of the nearest tree in record time, taking in their surroundings.
“Well, this place is huge. We could- gahh!”
Lyra felt a sharp pain in her leg, and looked down quickly. A big lizard, no, a chameleon, was sitting on her left leg, with claws digging into her flesh. She screamed, shaking her leg, jerking it up and down, until the lizard finally fell from its perch, tumbling down to hit the ground with a loud thud.
“That hurt!”
The two girls looked down onto the forest floor in surprise. Curved in a ball lay a boy with grass-green hair. He shook his head slowly getting up, uncurling his back. He looked directly at Lyra, accusation plain in his eyes.
“You could have been more careful, I do have a spine you know.”

“On this planet used to live a race of people called the Ranturs. They were as similar to a human as one could be, living on another planet. One day, the head of these people called them in a meeting. He said there was a war raging on in neighbouring planets, and that invaders were liable to attack them soon. So they set up an army, and prepared for attack. Sure enough, a couple of days later they were swarmed, and fought hard during a long blood filled battle. It lasted 3 years. After those 3 years, the invaders, named Saketh, won. They took over and ruled the entire planet, including the others it had colonized. However, the Saketh were not completely human. They were also part animal, and had fur, or claws, or cats ears, or horns, or sharp teeth, each distinguishing them as a human version of a particular animal. For several centuries they lived together, and slowly, peace settled, and they mixed. However, the new-borns had a special ability. They were able to turn themselves into an animal. Say, a dog, or an elephant, or a butterfly, or even a flea. Anything. And those new-borns are the people who live on this planet. We are called Mutatios. And so are you. Yes, you two dear girls.”

The old man let that sink in in silence.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to. But I swear that it is all quite true.”

“But, er, we’re not on Earth then?”

He smiled softly.

“No, you are not on Earth. You are on Darnnis.”

“Earlier you talked about the Haay. What is is exactly?”

“The Haay is a great book, that contains the names of all of the Mutatios. To keep track of who’s who and who can turn into what, if you want. A person Encyclopedia.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to now, but you’ll believe me soon enough.”

“I want to see Mum and Dad.”

“Your parents aren’t here. They’re on Earth.”

“But they’re wondering where we are! I don’t even believe you! Let me out! Let me out of here! You’re all mad! Let me out!” Lyra was screaming now, and she slammed herself onto the door, bursting it open. Luna quickly hurried after her sister. They both ran down a corridor with paintings and tapestries hanging off the walls. They turned a corner and kept doing so until they reached an open door opening onto… the outside. Everything was so beautiful. The lawn outside was long and green, well kept. There were beautiful plants everywhere, and trees with all kinds of fruits and flowers growing on them. It went on it seemed for ever. It was full of running children, or resting teenagers, or just simply strolling people. And animals. There were so many kinds of animals it was hard to think it was real. A lion, a frog, a monkey, a mouse, so many. They were everywhere, with humans. It was so strange and yet so beautiful. They had never seen anything like it. It was like magic.

“Wow.” breathed Luna.

“Yeah.” agreed Lyra.

The knife. That dreadful knife was resting in a glass case, next to the old man. It had taken a strange colour, it seemed to glow like the embers of a fire. Suddenly the old man looked up at them.

“Are you feeling better girls? I expect you have a serious headache Luna. You hit your head quite hard as you landed.”

Astonishment submerged Luna’s face.

“You- you know my name?”

The old man smiled softly.

“Have you ever heard of the Haay?” he now seemed to be addressing both of them.

“Uhhh, no.” replied Layla.

“I expected so. The Haay is a book. This book grows bigger with every new-born. Well, not exactly every newborn, just a few. Like you.”

Layla cocked an eyebrow.

“This will take a while to explain and to digest, so I suggest you both sit down on those comfy couches. I know you’re tired.”

They sat down wearily.

“Can we just say something first?” said Luna.

“Why of course.”

“Well, uh, how did the knife get here? Because it’s really dangerous and you’re not going to believe us but smoke came out of it.”

“Oh but I believe you.”

“You do? But isn’t normal smoke. It nearly choked us to death.”

“This I also know.”

They stared at him.

“You see, it all began a very long time ago.”

My treasured place, is a place I visit every night. It is a vortex of different colours and shapes that inhales everyone into a world where the shapes and colours take a defined order and are real things.

It is a dream.

It can be nice, peaceful, happy, innocent, angelic. Or a storm crashing over your unconscious mind, blowing your “little grey cells” into different areas in your head.

When people say the word dream to me, I immediately think of my bed. Because it is on that soft little island that starts one’s journey every night.

It could be dangerous, and scary, like Ulysses’s voyage to find his kingdom and beloved wife Penelope. Or it could be a trip in the clouds, on Apollo’s golden chariot as he brings down the sun, at dusk.

A dream is a very strange place.

But most intriguing of all, is what those random shapes and colours become. They can vary a great deal, as can the people that you personally know. Your family, or friends. Even your foes.

But there is one dream in particular I wish to describe. It was a mixture between a dream and a nightmare. I was floating, above the ocean, lost at sea, no living thing or creature in sight. No tropical islands, no rocks. I was alone. Waves of different colours would come charging at me, like a provoked and furious bull.

I had been scared like never before. Alone, and afraid. A companion, of Robinson Crusoe.

And then suddenly, a small, white cloud came breaking through the dark sky, and carried me away. I seemed to hover, like a fairy.

I could hear the storm and the ocean, then, they abated, and there was nothing. My friend and saviour brought me to a place I shall never forget.

The sun.

At first touch, it burnt so much, that I felt like Apollo really had pushed me off his golden chariot. But slowly, the pain ceased, and things grew. Grew out of nothing into multi-coloured trees, rivers of silver and mountains of diamonds. But the houses, I shall never forget. They were in the ground, just like Hobbits.

But it didn’t last long.

The sun quickly took control of itself again, and everything disappeared as fast as it had come. So my little faithful friend the cloud quickly carried me back to a place where I belonged.

My bed.

“Hey John. I’m real bored.”

“Me too man.”

“Aww, will you two stop complaining? I just want to finish this burger!” I said.

“Sure, sure. That’s what you said half an hour ago.”

Mark snatches it from my hands and throws it across the street.

“Hey! I paid for that!” I complained.

We continue bickering until I come to a sudden halt. Where the mist has moved away, stands a tall, derelict house. I gape. I aske with an uncertain tone in my voice:

“Did you two say you were bored?”

“Yeah, wasn’t that kinda obvious? You were supposed to feel guilty.”

“It’s just that we could go investigate that old house over there. But only if you aren’t afraid,” I add quickly. Hopefully I don’t sound too… hopeful.

“Sure! Cool idea dude.”

We walk towards the abandoned house and climb our way over the fence. Something rustles in a nearby bush. We stop suddenly.

“D’ya hear that?”

We listen but hear nothing more.

“Probably a mouse o’ some sort.” explains Mark.

But I noticed a twinge of nervousness in his voice. We continued down a path and stop in front of a door. Probably the back door.

“So, do we go in?”

“Course, what do you think we came here for?”

“Okay, okay, just makin’ sure.”

Just worrying you mean. I noticed they were a little way behind me. I reached out and placed my hand on the door knob. It felt as cold as ice. I turn it carefully, but unfortunately, it doesn’t open.

“Probably locked. Better head back then, don’t want to stay out too long. It’s cold.”

Wow. John really is scared.

“No way we’re going back. Anyways, I don’t think it’s locked. I think somethin’s just blockin’ it.”

“Let’s try pushing it then.” I offer.

We all lean against the door, although John is reluctant. We push with all our strength, and the door gives way with an almighty “rip-tear-rip-tear” sound. We all step back mechanically.

“Anyone got a torch handy?”

Moments later, a light blares up beside me, lighting up the obscured entrance. It’s Mark’s lighter. He isn’t allowed to smoke, but he apparently can’t help it. Hmm.

“Well come on, get in. You’re not chicken are you?”

John prods me in the back hard, so instead of marching in dramatically, I stumble in with a pain in my back.

“Not cool man!” I yell.

“Funny though.” he answers.

My first thought is: “Wow, it stinks real bad in here. People seriously need to get rid of the damp.” I look around myself and see that the ripping sound had come from wallpaper which had been stuck all over the doors, walls, floor, ceiling and windows.

“What should we do? Go back right?” asks John in a low voice.

This time, however, everyone looks at me expectantly.

“Hey, look! There ain’t no wallpaper on the doors!”

He is indeed right. No wallpaper covers the doors. It seems it only covers doors that lead outside. I turn around and walk forward wandering what I’m supposed to do now. Run around screaming like a girl, or bravely walk forward and go into a room? I pick the in-between option.

“Which do we pick guys?”

“Supp’ to you. Don’t look at me like that. You’re the boss here. Plus, it was your idea.”

I raise an eyebrow. Since when am I the boss? But I pick a door anyway. It’s the seventh one, the last one, on the left side of the corridor. “Let there be nothing in there, let there be nothing in there”, I prayed. I am about to open the door when I hear a whooshing sound behind me. I whirl around, tense. Something moves in the shadow. My heart is beating louder than a traffic jam in the city.

“Wh-whassat?”

“Dunno. Probably some big, hairy spider!”

“Ha ha.”

Mark knows perfectly well I hate spiders.

I turn back toward the door, put my hand on the handle, and push. It swings open easily, something I don’t expect. I walk in resolutely, with all my senses screaming to my body not to make that step that will change my life forever. But I do make that step, ignoring my instincts. Never done that before.

Inside the room are several unlit candles. They are positioned in a perfectly smooth circle. Strange. No, not strange, freaky. I am freaked out. A lot.

“Why the hell are there candles here for? Do you think I should light them? At least it’ll be more light. It’s real dark, even with me lighter.” proposes Mark.

“No! Don’t!” John whispers loudly.

“Why shouldn’t he? You scared?” I ask.

John looks up at me defiantly, while I emphasize the word, proving that he is creeped out.

“Mark, gimme the lighter.” I say, knowing that he would otherwise ask John to do it to scare him, and John would refuse, and they’d argue as usual.

“Uh, sure Jim.”

I hate it when they call me Jim. It’s my Christian name, but I prefer being called James. He is so annoying.

I take the lighter from him and kneel down on the hard floorboards with my bare knees. There are thirteen candles altogether. I light one, two, three… gradually illuminating the room up. I notice that this room contains no windows, with patches of black damp covering the ceiling. Dark red stains are spattered and mark the floor and walls. Uneasiness sweeps over my entire body and a shiver runs down my spine.

I light the thirteenth candle and step back up. The moment the candle is lit, the whole room goes very cold. Probably sub-zero. A freezing gust of wind also blows through the room, as if we aren’t already cold enough, and the door slams shut.

Mark’s voice startles me:

“If the wallpaper is covering the inside of the house and doors… then how did the guy who put it there… get out?”

I let that sink in, and gulp. We all look at each other, realizing the same thing at the same time: there is someone in this house who must be on the verge of death because of the lack of food. But judging by the state of the wallpaper, it had been put down quite a while ago. As in, several years. Which means that the person who put it up is either dead or…

Creak.

Creak.

All the blood drains out of my face, and is replaced by adrenaline.

The sound is coming from the stairs, and it seems to be getting closer and closer. It stops outside our door, and-

Scratch-scratch.

On the door this time. We all back away from it, towards the wall. The handle moves downwards… and the door opens.

I scream.

I open my eyes. I find myself crouching in a room with thirteen candles. I look around, and notice two big red lumps at the far end of the room. It definitely smells of decaying flesh. I look closer, and see two dismembered corpses. There is a dripping sound coming from about where I stand. I look down, and see my body covered in blood. I feel meat in my mouth.

I turn, and run out.

As the girls filed noisily into the dance room, the teacher shouted:

“Get in here you girls, and quick with it!”

There was an answering silence and then a scuffle of feet scraping polished wooden floorboards. We all took their place at the bar and looked up at the teacher expectantly. She wore a dull blue leotard with a very badly done up bun. Her face was a mixture of anger, severity and nastiness. Not a wrinkle of sympathy or softness.

As predicted, she lectured us on the movements we had been supposed to practice (*ahem*) and asked for a demonstration. Of course no one stepped forward so she picked randomly (yeah right), and it, of course, landed on me.

I walked forward, knowing in advance that this would end up really badly and started trying to dance. But of course, I lost my balance and fell. Typical me. I heard snickers from behind but felt too dizzy to even look up. Although I did feel my cheeks grow red hot.

I felt someone pull me up roughly. It was Ms Davill, our mean dance teacher.

“YOU IDIOT GIRL! Can’t you be more careful! You just tore one of your laces and you don’t even worry! You also fall on my feet and don’t say sorry! You need some manners young lady! Have you even looked at yourself?” she scoffed, and she ranted on during who knows how long.

I felt like crying, but I held back my tears knowing that it would only make thing worse.

By the end of the lesson, my legs felt like jelly, and my arms like marshmallow. As I ran out the door, tears gushed down my cheeks, and stayed there until I wiped then off, not wanting anyone to see them.

As I reached the front door with my hand to grasp open the handle, I dropped my dance bag on the floor. Tough luck. But I picked it up anyhow.

I stomped into the living room and found my mum doing the dish-washer.

“I AM NEVER, EVER, EVER GOING TO DANCE AGAIN IN MY WHOLE STUPID LIFE!” I yelled, hoping to catch the house holds’ attention. My mum stared at me, visibly shocked.

“-Honey, what happened?

-What happened? I’ll tell you what happened! That stupid dance teacher (I spat the words out as disgustingly as I could) laughed at me and said I would be a dance failure for the rest of my life! That’s what happened!” But I didn’t wait for an answer. I stormed upstairs to my room and locked the door.

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