GIS Newsletter March 2018

SHORT STORY SUCCESS
Here are the school’s winning entries for the FOBISIA Short Story competition. Our Primary winner
is Layla and in Secondary, the story below was written by Ella. We also entered a graphic novel
contest run by Neilson Hayes. An entry by Tanya, Chloe and Anja in Year 10 got through to the
second round, which means they spent a day in Bangkok for a special storytelling workshop and a
chance to improve their story.
We called him Dodie. No one can remember why, just that he was
Dodie. Always had been, always would.
Dodie had a grandfather clock. It stood against the far wall of the
saloon, right between the fireplace and the bookshelf. It was a magnificent
creature, standing at almost seven feet tall. Its body was
made of lacquered chestnut, exquisitely carved with depictions of
nature. Birds perched on miniature pear trees peered out at us from
the borders. A. Wolves nestled themselves in the snowy hills just
above the clock face.
We used to find a new scene every other day. It was as if the clock
was forever changing, evolving and growing like vines over the side
of a cottage.
Dodie would tell us stories about them. Every Saturday, we kids
would go back to his house after church, promising our parents that
we would be back by dinner. We never were. His stories lasted
through the night, enthralling us with a sort of magical pull that kept
us wanting like an addict waiting for their next fix. He would weave
us all manners of stories, from light-hearted folk tales to dark, bloodcurdling
confections that sent as much thrill through our bodies as it
did fear. He would speak all night, right up until the sun rose from
the horizon and his voice died in his throat, and everyone’s eyes
finally fluttered close. We would huddle together on his thread-bare
old rug, colours faded from the years it had seen.
One day, when I was nine, Elsie Garrett disappeared. We searched
for days but all we could find was her left shoe, empty. She was
seventeen, and everyone just thought she ran away. Most young
people want to, they said, but only some actually do. Elsie was selfish,
they said. She lived how she wanted to. Elsie would run away
without a second thought if it meant she was happy.
My Elsie was different. Elsie took care of me when I fell down. She
would kiss my knees, stick a couple of plasters on them and get me
up and smiling in five seconds flat. My Elsie wasn’t theirs.
After the Elsie Incident, a phoenix appeared on the belly of the
grandfather clock, wings spread wide in front of a burning sun.
Dodie told us a story, as he always did, about the phoenix who flew
too close to the sun.
The phoenix was a ferocious thing, with a fiery soul to match its
feathers. It flew through the land, casting light on even the darkest
of shadows, banishing evil from every crevice of the world. But one
day it got too proud, too arrogant. It claimed to be brighter than the
sun. So the next day, the phoenix flapped its great wings once,
twice, and reached the sun.
“Aha!” it cried grandly. “What did I tell you?” The phoenix fluffed up
its feathers and circled the sun triumphantly. But it got too close,
Dodie told us, and the tip of a feather brushed against the surface of
the sun. The phoenix fell to the ground, shrieking in pain as its fire
burned out.
I had nightmares after that. The only difference was, it was Elsie.
She flew and crashed and burned and died, howling all the way.
And whenever I went to Dodie’s house, I always faced the grandfather
clock, as if to challenge it. As if I knew. Knew what, I don’t
know, but it didn’t need to know that.
We moved away about a year after that, my parents and I. The
house was sold, our furniture was moved and I said my goodbyes. I
forgot about everything, from Dodie to the phoenix. Life went on,
ticking like the hands of a grandfather clock.
A week ago, a letter came in the mail. From Johnson’s and Johnson’s
Solicitors. Dodie had died, it said. Of a heart attack. I was the
sole beneficiary, they said. I had gotten his house, his boat, everything.
Grandfather clock included.
I travelled back on a Saturday night. I had nightmares on the train,
about home.
It was still home, even after all these years.
Dodie’s house was just as I remembered: rough white walls, little
trinkets piled atop tables, chairs and windowsills. The fireplace still
huffed and whistled. Nothing had changed. Almost.
The clock was different. Horror where there wasn’t before. Eyes had
been painted onto the face of the clock. Blue, green, brown, grey.
The fauna had turned into Hell. Flames licked around the borders,
crushing in the tangle of people carved within the wood. I could feel
my heart stop and my brain turn to ice.
I don’t know how I knew what to do. I didn’t want to. Every inch of
my body was telling me to run, but I didn’t. For Elsie and the others.
I don’t know how many eyes there were. A hundred, maybe more,
maybe less. All stuck into the wall, glazed over with the same varnish
as the wood. They seemed to move, all rolling about frantically.
Some had become so ingrained into the wood that the red of the
veins had become brown and had stopped moving altogether. They
could have been older than me, I think. Maybe even as old as the
stories.
They’d been watching us. Eyes staring through the wood to the children
hearing their tales. The little birds, hanged from trees. Wideeyed
deer held underwater for too long. Wolves slowly freezing to
death.
I backed away, and-
It was time for his stories.
The children stared up at him adoringly, just as many had before
them.
“Dodie, tell us about the little fox!” one cried out. The others murmured
in consensus and Dodie smiled that wide-lipped grin of his.
“There once was a sly little fox who was too clever for her own
good. One day, she looked where she shouldn’t have…”
And I’ve been watching ever since.
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