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No. 23 Lowvale Lane looks just as you remembered it to be. The grass
is still uncut, the rose bushes still unpruned and the gate is still
unlatched. Moonlight shines down over the dilapidated two storey
house in the middle of the property as you walk towards it. You push
open the door and step inside. The house has been empty for years
now, as most potential buyers steer clear of it, scared away by the vast
collection of rumoured murders, poltergeists and hauntings which
have ‘occurred’ over the years. Youwalk up the creaking stairs, trailing
your hands up the bannister and feeling the familiar bumps and
scratches left in the tarnished wooden beams, reminding you of the
years you spent here.
An uneasy feeling runs through your veins as you step into the
attic. The deathly silence pierces your ears, and the heavy musty air
of the room clouds your senses. Flashes of childhood memories
flood your vision; there was laughter here, days were spent exploring
this treasure trove, forts were built and wars were fought over who
was the rightful king of the attic. Now the attic is cluttered with
various articles of abandonment. Peeling wallpaper covers the walls;
and piles of furniture, books and antiques clutter the dusty floor. A
fine film of dust covers everything, the attic has been left untouched
all these years since you left, almost as if it has waiting for you;
patiently, unmoving and unchanging as the years have slowly passed
on. You reach into your pocket and take out a lighter. You have
thought about this moment for many years, you’ve toyed with the
idea, of ending it, of finally moving on. You flick open the lighter,
bend down, and light the closest thing in your path; a straw hat.
The flames lick away at the straw hat. Slowly they crawl, bit by bit
up its braided edges, twining around the raw fibres of the hat until
they engulf it whole. The hat burns for a moment, lighting up the
attic in its wavering warm light, chasing away the shadows into the
far corners of the room. It’s a bonfire of sorts, the beautiful calm
before the storm, the hungry flames reaching leisurely towards the
dark ceiling, producing tiny embers which jump and spread from
the straw hat to the other neglected pieces of furniture in the attic.
The aged, musty carpet catches fire next, followed by the tattered
armchair, and then soon the numerous piles of leather bound books.
The fire grows bigger, it gains strength as it burns, eager to consume
the antique objects in its hungry appetite and doing so, until it blazes
like a great flaming beast, the devoured bodies of its victims still
The Fire
Nina Guo
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Overall Winner
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