Palmarès du First Annual English Short Story Contest Thème Walls

WALLS

Thème de l'année

Members of the Jury :

Mathias Degoute (CPGE), Peter Greaney (CPGE), Laura Kilian (CPGE), Robert Lim (CPGE), Thierry Sicard (CDI), Véronique Ward (secondaire), Jeanne Weeber  (CDI), Élodie Likhtart (secondaire°

Concours organisé par Jeanne Weeber & Élodie Likhart

Secondaire:

Desit Hippolyte, 2nde, Get over it. Second place…………………………………………………….. ……...3

Law Anne, 1ère L, Echo Chamber……………………………………………………………………………..7

Njoo-Déplantes Suzanne, 2nde, Three Thousand Bricks. First place………………………………………….13

Rio Eugénie, 2nde , Happy Ending……………………………………………….15

Zilber Zoé, 2nde, Just Looking for Peace. Third place………………………………………………………..17

CPGE:

Girodolle Adèle, ECS2, A Breach in the Wall……………………………………………………………….. 21

Guérin Agnès, Khâgne, Palace of Grass. Second place……………………………………………………...25

Heuillard Alexandre, ECS1, Memory of a Prelude in D minor Third place……………………………………28

Malefant Julia, Hypokhâgne, Golden Walls…………………………………………………………………...31

Pascal Touraine Athénaïs, PCSI, Metanoïa First place………………………………………………………35

Perney Nathan, ECS1, Blank………………………………………………………………………………..38

Souami Jack, MPSI, The Sword in the Scone…………………………………………………………………...40

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS………………………………………………………………………..48

Secondaire

Get Over it 

Hippolyte Desit

It was a bland autumn evening, just like it had been a bland autumn day. Like any other. Fainting sunrays still shone through a handful of crimson leaves, torn by the wind. An unremarkable routine.

Philip had started the day as he did any other day: alarm clock, snooze, snooze again, a painful but necessary shower, half a cup of coffee, half a piece of sugar, then a resigned walk to an early train he knew he would miss, and to yet another day of class, where he would attempt to blend in with people he didn’t wish he knew. Like yesterday and like he would tomorrow, he had behaved well, partook when he had been told to, and payed attention. Heading home, he had walked a few hundred feet with whoever was going the same way, he had waited for a few minutes on the docks, and for the next thirty or so minutes Philip had stared aimlessly at whatever would pass by the window: the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, a tunnel, someone’s garden. Same old.

Precisely 1,6 km away from Philip but yet worlds apart, Matthew had awoken content, listening to his favorite rapper’s newest songs, excited and wishful. Bearing a wide toothless smile, he had taken the bus alongside familiar faces, and gotten swiftly to school. Not all were his type of people, but over the years he had learned to appreciate each and everyone of them, and it was heartwarming seeing this close a group of friends, as loud as they may have been. Effortlessly, he had been through hours of class, and then had meandered pleasantly through town, with a few of his closest friends who, like him, had no particular reason to get back home. But eventually he did, as always.

Back home and mildly exhausted, Philip had firstly kicked his shoes off, dropped his ponderous bag on the hardwood floor, and laid back. Tenderly swatting off his concerned and caring mother, he had then got to his room, sat at his desk, booted his computer. The young boy had desperately wanted to relax, to have fun: he had browsed the internet, watched the newest videos he could find from the creators he followed. He had yet again realized how stale and repetitive what he gazed at had gotten over the years, but it somehow had something comforting. He had addressed the few needy texts he would receive from classmates, and stayed available to his phone. Every so often Philip would get a text, on social media, though only through group chats composed of everyone in his class indiscriminate. He enjoyed thinking those texts were for him. He would usually wait at least one minute before answering, everyone did, as to not seem desperate.

Blue, Matthew had finally headed home, as the group had split. His parents had once again lectured him for having come home so late, and Matthew had once again ignored them and scrambled downstairs. Hastily turning on his console, he had thrown his headset on, and gotten back with his friends, in theory until his eyelids would pressure him to stop. A couple inches from his lap had been his phone, set on “please do disturb”, and every so often the gamer would interrupt his session to answer a text, more or less thrilled to do so.

Philip and Matthew had been friends for seven years. Granted every relationship has ups and down, this friendship had been unconditional. The two of them could effortlessly remember the way they had met: on a bus, on their way to school, it was Philip who had stepped up and greeted Matthew. Immediately they had discovered shared interests and made each other laugh, so much so that the next day and for the year to come they had become inseparable. They would easily spend weeks at a time sharing a room, while seeing time fly and asking for more. Philip would make his friend discover his new favorite game. Matthew would make his friend discover his new favorite band. They were truly wholesome: best friends.

That very night, that unremarkable night, something clicked.

During the four previous years, of course the two mates had been in the same class, which contributed to them spending more time with each other than sleeping. However, they had also shared four years of their lives with an entire band of the same people, creating not only one strong bond, but a large yet intimate group of friends. But now: things were different, drastically.

A few months previously, that very group, however intimate and however loving had split up. As each and every one amongst them had weighed up his interests and his friends, most had decided to leave, in pursuit of something more, in pursuit of something great, and more or less having accepted to sacrifice years of bonding. While a core had decided to stick together and disregard “greatness”, none of them really understood why things had had to change this much, and most envied the four former years of their lives. On top of that, this rough episode had, as change often does, revealed in some of them foul aspects of their personalities: arrogance, lies, judgement, disdain…

It was in a last and somewhat naive attempt at reviving what had made these people so special that three weeks ago Philip had taken it upon himself to organize a reunion: plane, simple, cheerful. He pursued what he had cherished over the years. During that October afternoon, most of the class had confirmed they would be able to make it, at least all of the people that mattered to Philip: Matthew would come. As the day had come closer, most had seemed like they were looking forward to it: Philip had been ecstatic.

Then the reunion had arrived. Everyone had come. They were all there. They had had a quiet lunch. Philip had expected the magic to happen; he had expected it for a long time. On one couch, had been Matthew along with the group of friends that had decided to stay, as Matthew had had. In a corner had been a group of four or five girls; they had been friends forever and would remain friends forever. Philip envied them. Several feet away had been yet another group of friends, who had left together, and continued to see eachother everyday. In the dining room another group. In the kitchen another. Ready to go home yet another. And there had been Philip. Walled off. All around him: friends laughing. Together. Amongst themselves. Without him. He had tried.

Philip had failed. He did not understand why but he could clearly see he had failed. Why was he so different? It had been that day that he had realized how different. He had thought that it was helpless, impossible to keep a friend who was so far away, a friend who has other friends, a friend you no longer see every day. Except he had been proven wrong: it was undeniable and it was spectacular. A slap across the face.

That night, Philip would find answers.

On social media, at a time everyone is home, and when teenagers think they have nothing better to do than be on social media, all of them were on social media. Then, conversation got to choices, their choices, their interests: why they had split up. None would remember how or why it had got to that, but it wasn’t interesting or important. There had always been people who talk and people who don’t. Philip talked. Matthew didn’t. That night everyone talked. It had started as a calm and tame discussion, but it quickly became clear how much they all had bottled up, and friends who hadn’t argued in seven years started insulting each other. No one knows how someone feels, hidden behind a computer screen, and it’s so much easier to type. Then it became personal, as they were all simultaneously trying to say the least about themselves, while learning the most about others. However painfully, Philip quickly heard, or read, what he hadn’t understood, and why he was so different: “arrogant, disdainful, petty, boastful, deceitful, clingy, impatient, jealous, rude, untrustworthy, hypocritical”. “A toxic person” in the words of Matthew. That night, Philip didn’t sleep much.

It took a long time for Philip to process that night, a long time full of thought and introspection. A period during which he would look back on four years of glee, learn to see moments when those four years were more ambiguous. He started to see more flaws in certain friends, certain behaviours, he noticed dubious people. But most importantly, he understood..

However difficult, Philip told himself he would climb over the wall.

ECHO CHAMBER

Anne Law

Small box, what are you hiding?

“I’m hungry.” Zo moans.

“Well, let’s eat.”

Log puts his book back. He takes a directory to examine it. There are some recipes, but he only uses them as bookmarks. Log has tried, but each time he loses his cool because of Pat.

He finds a caterer to call and rings with the fixed-line phone. Near Zo, Pat is crying. According to him, he is famished and has to eat a sweet at best. He has been whining since Log began to work.

The meal to come is a dietary dish. No dessert! Pat, who claimed to be able to devour anything, suddenly raises his expectations. Zo does not say a thing. She is really able to devour anything.

Knowing Log will not pay attention to him, Pat complains about something else. He has never held a serious grudge against his “big brother”. This time, he gets overly worried about noises of the outside world. Farther sounds are faint and none of them is curious.

Someone opens the door. Log cheerfully greets his friend, Dox. She only comes as a guest, but she may as well be a part of the family. They friendly chat the world and how life is good.

Hey hey small box, you sing like a music box.

It has been mostly silent until now. Discussions on various themes are filling the place. Dox and Ale behave correctly, even if they always disagree. Log is listening to them without showing his point of view. He likes that kind of polite conflict, since the final answer is often thoughtful.

This brilliant idea comes from Pat. He has become more reasonable. He dreams big about justice. He goes outside more often to listen to others: this is how he met Ale.

Log has stopped worrying about his many trips. He used to be distrustful, because he only agreed with Dox. It has been a while since he admitted she was not always right.

A big improvement: these debates make them nicer and smarter. Well, except for Zo who only cares about eating and sleeping when they should. She only manifests herself as a wise reminder.

Good day today but... something is bothering them… this thought lets him see what is going on.

“You are surrounded by lies. Fake appearances and deceitful friends, like a jail. Take warning...”

A horrible lady is babbling at the threshold. Distorted voice is coming from her hideous grin. A mesmerised Pat is listening. She terrifies him with her ominous predictions but what if she is right?

“Get out of my house.”

Log stands upright, like a firm oak. His friends, Dox and Ale, throw death glares at the stranger, getting along for once. The crooked lady is no match. She has no choice but to leave.

“Poor things… you think you are free, but you are all prisoners of yourselves.”

Small box, are you my own cell?

Log stays at home. Pat is the one who goes around and invites people. The guests are each time less pleasant. They insult each other. Why do they bother to come if it is just to be obnoxious?

People can be rude and have interesting opinions. But now, he only hears empty words and low blows. He is now too tired to make them leave. Like a virus, they multiply.

“I wanna sleep.” Zo mutters.

But nobody listens to her. Her plea means nothing in that mayhem. Log is so tired. He wants to shout, he wants to be alone. But even yells are powerless. Pat could be the only one able to do something, but he refuses to lift a finger. He hates what is happening, but he thinks it is necessary.

“Log. You have to stop it.” Dox whispers close to his ear to be heard. “You can’t let so many people with contradictory opinions in one place. Yes, difference is great, but now it is unbearable.”

“I tried. I forced myself to seek better people who do more than spitting out their point of view. But it is impossible to argue with deaf people. I am exhausted, Dox.”

“I’m going to talk with Pat.”

Pat goes like a bee with flowers. He collects words without critical thinking. He accepts everything: absurd assumptions, hate messages… no time to reflect on things. The more the better!

Dox cuts off his hysteria.

“Pat, stop! You have to distance yourself from them. You can’t be soft with everyone.”

“But… you can’t just ask me to shoo away someone when they may be right. Isn’t it better? I’m taking into account each side of each issue!”

“You can’t just have all opinions! Stop being so hesitant, it will only bring you despair.”

“… You’re right. They scare me.”

His sudden change of heart does not surprise anyone. He has always been fickle.

Small box in a bigger box.

Times flies. Changes happen. For example, Dox has disappeared.

But Log thinks otherwise.

Is it because he sleeps a lot now? Or did time really freeze? Pat is nervous. Why? The house is crowded. It always contains many people with their voices filling the place.

Are they playing with a ball? Endless bounces look like a fun game… but there is no ball. This repetitive sound must come from somewhere. And why do they look all the same?

No, they are different, they are wonderful. Don’t you see? Go back to nap. But Pat, you look so unhappy… What do you mean? I am better than ever.

Then, memories flow again. Painfully.

“Pat, I am awake. Why have you done all of this?”

“Stop asking the same question...” He responds anyway. “I just wanted security.”

Log has two choices. He can always flee, listen to the same sound like a lullaby, and sleep again. He has always taken this option. Not this time.

“Pat, I remember. You wanted to know each thought. It was the chaos. You never recalled the facts, you lived the emotion then moved on. You ended up in another direction. And it’s bad too.”

“Yes yes, I know.” Pat is annoyed.

“You have to change. You think you are safe, hence happy. But it is not the case.”

...

“When?” Pat suddenly asks.

“What?”

“When will I be happy?  When will I be able to claim I am free?”

Log has never seen him so angry. Oh, he is used to see him angry, about food, about injustice…

“I will help you. I will guide you and you will be carefree again. I am so sorry…”

“A long time ago… you were in charge and I have no responsibility. I spent all time bothering you. I was content, at least.”

“This time can come back. I will never, ever, flee again.”

“How can I trust you again?”

Log has nothing to say. Except empty, bittersweet promises.

“A long time ago, a witch told us we were prisoners. Prisoners of ourselves… a meaningless threat you said… but now it makes sense.”

Pat raises his hands and shows everything around them. What they call “home”.

“Here. People enter or leave. When they are here, they speak. Their thoughts, their feelings, their opinions… all these sound echo over and over again. And we’re impacted by it. The more it repeats, the more influential it becomes… This house is like a trap for us.”

He walks like a beast, the arms forward, as if he is going to fall on his four limbs. And he does so to pick an object on the ground. A chainsaw.

“I’ll free us.”

The strangers finally react. They assault him as one person. Pat slaughter them without effort. Corpses’ pieces fall on the ground, dead flesh hardens like stone. Log is horrified.

“… What are you doing?”

“My supposed friends wanted to stop me. They are afraid to lose their influence on me! Now, I will tear up these barriers. No limit any more. If you get in my way, you will feel my blade!”

Log do not have the time to move. Pat cut his legs without killing him. He wants him to live. However, too focused on his goal, he does not realise what he has done: Log will never walk again.

Now, the walls.

...

A scream. A feral, animal scream. Pat first believes it comes from outside. And then he sees her.

Zo, their mother.

Quiet, soft… easy to forget. Now, it is a completely different person. Drooling mouth, eyes in fire. She jumps on him and tears his face with her her nails as long as claws.

Pat is shocked. He tries to use his chainsaw: no mercy, even for her. But the smallest movement is answered by a burst of pain, with Zo becoming more aggressive. At a certain point, she rips his eyes, leaving him powerless.

And when she estimates there is no danger, she returns in her corner. Does she know she lives her last moment? Log has no leg, Pat is blind because of her. She will be fed no more. Her fury was useless, since dead awaits them anyway.

Small box, one day you will not be closed.

Three Thousand Bricks
Suzanne Njoo-Déplantes

I stand, three thousand bricks piled up seven meters high. The masons have been working hard all morning and now, finished, they all look up to me, squinting their eyes to the radiant sun. With astonishment I notice neither pride nor satisfaction as they look at their achievement, but only a mixture of bitterness and relief. They soon start walking away from me on each side. I am left alone, nothing else but a fragile brick wall under a scorching sun. The cement holding me together is still fresh. I am a stranger to everything: who are these people? Why do they want to be separated from each other? I watch them walk away, hoping that they will suddenly turn around and come back to give me all the answers I am desperately seeking. None of them turn around. They walk at a rapid pace, their heads down as if they feared the thought of having to look at each other. I try to make out the differences between the people on my left and those on my right. The same blue working clothes, the same robotic walk, the same unease in their eyes. I cannot grasp the detail that could explain my very existence. Why do they loathe each other to the point that they must build a barrier to insure their separation? They seem completely identical. Now, there is nothing but a blurred blotch of blue on both sides, as if I had watched the sun for too long, gradually fading away as the men walk on. 

The oppressive heat is making me feel light headed. My thoughts seem to float in front of my eyes, filling me with unbearable frustration. It seems as though the blue-suited men built me as a statement of the hatred they mutually share for each other. I slowly drown into my own feverish thoughts. 

When I open my eyes again, two little girls are playing together. They carry a box of chalk and are walking along my side, drawing wonderful peaceful kingdoms filled with princesses in colorful dresses and flowers everywhere. I observe quietly, smiling. Suddenly, they stop and hide the chalk as they hear the startling voice of their mother looking for them. The fierce woman is outraged to see her two daughters so close to the enemy's side. The little girls run back as fast as they can, leaving their idyllic princesses behind. 

Time passes, and almost everyday I watch children come to both my sides to play alone. They all dream of peace and happiness, unaware that the cause of their trouble is right in front of them. I am the cause of all of these innocent children’s anguish. I was born to maintain hatred. 

As months start to go by, I notice how scarce these visits become. Summer is still here but there are no trees to lend me any shade. The heat is suffocating. I feel the weight of the three thousand bricks that I was once so proud of. They seem to pull me deep down into the burden of my existence. I cannot bear the weight of separating people. I dream like a child of light crystal palaces built for love. 

My will to be free of my heavy burden lingers on for months. Not a single kid comes to me anymore. I close my eyes and isolate myself in with my thoughts. Only in my mind does my wish of lightness come true. I float away like a feather. 

One day, I am suddenly awakened by violent screaming. I try to figure out where it is coming from but soon I realize it is getting louder on both sides. People charge at me like madmen. The heat has become worse than ever. I feel trapped between the gunshots and the

hollering. People urgently climb to the other side. I already see bodies lying on the ground. The whole scene is blurred by dust and utter confusion. I watch a man as he climbs up on top of me, his screams muffled by the general turmoil, and flings a box of matches out. He barely has the time to ignite the fuse of a bomb when he is hit by a gunshot and falls down my seven meters, hitting the ground with a thud. 

The threat of the bomb heightens as the seconds pass. While they all start to run away, I stand still, helpless. It explodes. Fragments of myself are projected high in the air as I am scattered in pieces everywhere. I fly above all the hatred that made me. I feel light. No more heavy responsibility. I look down on these people fighting, hoping they will understand how alike they are, and perhaps learn to love each other. I think about the children who will maybe draw peaceful places together, depicting reality instead of only futile dreams. I slowly start falling back down, relieved that all this is over for me. 

Three thousand bricks, scattered on the ground. 

Happy Ending

Eugénie Rio

5th June

I like listening to their conversations. They sound so serious ! You can't imagine. Sometimes, Youngy, the young one, it's the nickname I chose him, arrives with some good news. In this case, Bossy's mood turns into a happy one. On the other hand, if Youngy has a bad information, Bossy becomes so angry, he could break the wall. But he never did. And if he did break it, I would not be here, and my family neither. That's why it always relaxes me when Youngy tells good news.

Sometimes, I'm so bored that I think about the past years, even though Mother told me not to. She thinks it's bad to look at the past, because the present is so different. She's not wrong, but in my opinion, it can be good to, some days, remember what had happened. For example, I always laugh when I think about my brother Fred's birthday. He ate so many candies, that he was sick the whole week. But, after all, he did it again, and was sick another time. Father calls him a pighead, now I understand why ! 

27th July

I am dying. Literally. It's so hot in here. Seriously, I think the apartment's temperature is at, at least, 40° ! Well, I'm feeling it. The worst in all this, is that we can't even open the window during the day. Roll on the end of all this !

I spent the whole day reading my favourite book. It's Romeo and Juliet, by Shakespeare. I think I've already read it 20 times, but I love it. And, to be honest, I don't either have so much choice : we could only bring a suitcase with us, we decided to take as much clothes as possible, abandoning almost all our library. 

6th August

Today, I got a really big fear. An enormous one ! And all this because of Youngy... He got the great idea to tell Bossy a very, very bad news. So Bossy, furious, punched and punched the wall, so hard I thought it would break. And then, it would have been the end. Our end. But happily, the wall won, so happily we're still here, alive. I hope Youngy won't have another time the thought of communicating to Bossy another bad news. 

11th September

Oh... I'm sick of always eating potatoes. I used to ask Mother :"What are you cooking for dinner tonight ?". Now, I don't even have to, because I already know the answer : boiled potatoes. 

I remember my favourite dish. Father prepared it every year, for my birthday, because he knew how much I loved it. It's a French dish, called the poule-au-pot. I like its name, I think it's funny. You're certainly asking yourself : what is this strange name's thing ? Well, I don't really know, only that it contains chicken, and that it's really tasty. 

29th September

It's crazy to think a wall protects us. The wall. The one that keeps us alive. You wouldn't think your life depends on the presence of a wall. I do, because it's the reality. If the wall wasn't there, where would I be, at this moment ? And what about Fred, Father and Mother ? I don't even want to think about it : we tell so many awful stories...

14th October

I'm bored... It's getting colder each day, and my clothes tighter... Sadly, Mother and I can't go shopping anymore : I used to love those afternoons we spent in the shops... Anyway, I shouldn't be thinking about this !

Yesterday, as we were listening to the small radio, as we do each day, we learnt Italy declared war to Germany. I thought they were friends... I don't understand anything to politic ! Why would you, one day hate someone, and love him the next day ? All of this doesn't seem very logic to me...

1st December

It's snowing ! I love snow ! I wish I could go outside to play with it... The whole city has became white, well the roofs are, anyway ! It's very nice to look at. For dinner, we only have a potato now, we used to have two... I guess we'll get used !

Sometimes, I try to recreate the choreographies from my dance class. I really like dancing : it's relaxing, and time seems to go faster ! Once or twice, I even tried to invent a dance myself ! 

26th December

When you think about it, nowadays, people's lives are all about objects. I mean, my life depends on a wall. A wall. Material is way too important.

19th January

I have to be fast. Really fast. 

We're moving. 

Mother's telling me to go faster and to leave now, but I have to write all this. 

I don't know what's going to happen, but I hope it will have a happy ending.

Just Looking for Peace

Zoé Zilber

On the wall between the campus’ third and fourth buildings. A day like others. Sasha wrote something. It was just a word.

Hey!

That same day, Charlie was reading, back against that same wall. Nobody had seen Sasha’s message yet. The reader saw it and answered.

Hi!

What a surprise for Sasha to find out someone had actually answered with another nice little word. This was the best place to sit and listen to music according to this student who would do it every day to erase all the problems from a preoccupied mind and relax. Listening to music, no matter what genre, was a true passion for this very young adult. Knowing that somebody was here sometimes, it felt weird. Immediately, there was a third message on the wall.

I thought I was the only one coming here but apparently not…

Charlie was delighted to see this mysterious stranger was also enjoying having a peaceful spot in the campus. But there was no way to figure out who they were. In this big university nobody really knew everything about the others, who they were and their habits. Soon a fourth message appeared on the wall.

I used to go to the wall between the second and first buildings yet here is as great as over there.

Sasha was perplexed and wrote hoping this anonymous person would give an explanation.

Why didn’t you keep going there?

To which Charlie gave an explanation.

Since some people decided they were going to play soccer against the wall there, it’s not as quiet as it used to be…

Then of course this message got a reply.

Well, here will always be a silent heaven. I’m not counting on letting anyone taking this away from me.

And so, Charlie wanted to get to know more about this total stranger who seemed to love as much as Charlie having those little times alone sitting at the bottom of the wall, warmed by the sun during summer and cooled by the wind during winter.

Why do you care so much about here?

In fact, Sasha didn’t like talking to relatives about that time spent here listening to music, enlightening the rest of the day and momentarily erasing all daily life’s issues, therefore didn’t like talking about it even less to perfect strangers. But with Charlie it was different. Sasha, writing on the wall, got profit of the anonymity it gave.

When I am here, listening to music, it is like everything else doesn’t exist. Neither school nor other problems. What about you?

At first, Charlie was a bit disappointed. As far as the young reader had imagined the mysterious “wall correspondent”, they were always pictured as a reader too. For three days Sasha’s message was left without an answer. Then, from this disappointment bore a curiosity, a craving for learning more about the apparently musicophile who chose the wall between the third and fourth buildings to enjoy some good music.

Looks like we definitely don’t have the same use for this wall. Well, I’m not a big fan of music but I was wondering, what genre do you usually listen to?

Then, came Sasha’s turn to be surprised. How come the unknown writer didn’t like music? What a letdown.

Through their little conversation the musicophile had mentally built an image of Charlie, pictured both of them talking about music. Backs against the wall, maybe hand in hand and one’s head on the other’s shoulder. 

However, after two days of thinking, the conclusion came up by itself. Sasha’s desire to discover this mysterious correspondent’s identity had subdued their differences of interest.

I listen to a bit of everything, but I have to admit I have a special interest in Jazz. So, may I ask how you spend your time here?

Charlie smiled seeing Sasha eventually answered and more over didn’t just answered the initial question but add another one.

Mostly reading. Sometimes I just sit and think about things and others.

Except, this was not the only message Charlie let. Charlie decided to make one step forward.

By the way, I still don’t know your name. Do you think we will meet some day?

And immediately regretted.

Mostly reading. Sometimes I just sit and think about things and others.

By the way, I still don’t know your name. Do you think we’ll meet some day?

This afternoon, all the students of the campus got to see Charlie walking from class to class with earphones instead of reading as usually. And if they had the chance to be close enough, they could have heard a sweet jazz melody playing. 

The morning after this day, Sasha discovered Charlie’s message and had the impression of sinking in the deception. Why had Charlie censored theirself? Didn’t they want to talk anymore? Sasha was lost and sat at the bottom of the wall waiting for something, anything, nothing.

Meanwhile Charlie had just ended the last class of the day.  

Our two students had realized how much they wanted to meet each other. How they were missing each other despite the fact that they didn't even really know them.

On the wall between the campus’ third and fourth buildings. A day like others. An apparently quiet afternoon. Except this particular afternoon the students got to see the two shiest students running in one another’s arms. The reader and the musicophile. Two boys kissing in front of that wall, where they came just looking for peace.

CPGE

A Breach in the Wall
Adèle Girodolle

“There’s something unusual”. I had not even opened my eyes when that first thought swept through my brain. And then I got it. The silence. The deafening silence was unusual. 

When you live in Juarez, it doesn’t take long to forget what the word “silence” actually means. There’s noise everywhere. The loud snore of car motors and the almost outraged yell of horns, in the maze of parallels and perpendiculars that the city is made up of. The rumble of thunder when it gets too hot and humid in summer. The smugglers’ gunfire at night, in the distant suburbs. And the radio buzzing on in each household. My neighbor’s radio used to play American rock ’n’ roll all day long. There was that one song that would always make me go out in the yard to hear better, and whose lyrics I would whisper as if they were the words of a prayer. Another Brick in the Wall. 

When you live in Juarez, the wall is something you’re accustomed to. Everyone keeps talking about it, especially now that the American President wants to build it for real. I wonder how he would feel if he were the one trapped behind a wall. Wouldn’t he try to cross it? 

Many Mexicans do intend to cross it, but few actually try and even fewer succeed. Once they have, they settle in El Paso, on the other side, and they send as much money as they can afford to their family. As for those who fail, we never hear about them. At school the other day, a teacher told me that California used to be part of Mexico, and that long ago it was possible to travel from Arizona to Yucatan and back to Texas without crossing a single wall. It sounded so unbelievable that at first, I couldn’t help laughing. The teacher’s look of despair made me stop. Later though, I understood she was not angry at us. She was angry at History, that had made us lose all hope and had led us to a point where we could not even believe that walls used to have doors. 

I remember when Papa and Mama told me I was going to cross. “Esperanza, you’re young and strong. You’ve been to school and, thank God, you’re a healthy girl. You have a future. You have to go, and on the other side you can settle down and build yourself the life you deserve. You’re leaving tomorrow”. No matter how hard I tried, I could not make them change their mind. I told them I wanted to stay and would rather live with them on this side than alone on the other one. But they did not let go. Later that night, I lay in bed for hours before falling asleep. I could hear my neighbor’s radio playing across the yard, and eventually the reassuring sound rocked me to sleep. Radio waves could cross walls. Could I?  

I remember the last time I saw them. We woke up just before dawn, and minutes later I heard the roar of a truck outside. It was like being in a dream, everything was shaking around me. For a moment I put my fingers on the wall and tried to connect with it, to feel and memorize every noise and every touch of those happy days, every little hole in the adobe and every crack in the white paint. Then I hugged my parents, got out and sat at the back of the truck. The door, the yard, the street corner, the highway, the edge of the city, then nothing. We were driving through the immensity of the awakening desert, mile after mile along the straight road, on both sides of which invisible walls prevented me from escaping the future that lay ahead.  

I remember the wall. After hours of driving, we finally pulled to a stop and someone yelled at us that we had to get out. We were summoned to walk North and never to look back. Then I saw it. The wall. I remember thinking “Where are the tons on concrete that are supposed to contain us behind, is this it? A mere fence topped with barbed wire?” A voice shouted “It’s electrified! You have to crawl under it. Tiniest goes first.” And immediately after “You girl, squat down and cross!”. Assuming that the yell was meant for me, I walked towards the fence on my insecure legs, got down on all fours and crawled forward. I remember hearing the whisper of voltage in the electrified wire just above me, then nothing. Here was I. I had crossed. I remember turning back to take a final glance at Mexico, to face the smugglers and my travel companions… But the smugglers were gone. They had abandoned us without a word. I waved at the others to tell them it was safe, but in slow motion I saw them taking a step backwards before running away, back to their life of struggle to which at least they were accustomed. Never mind. I had managed to get that far, nothing would stop me now. I turned around to gaze at the United States. 

I remember the maze of the desert. Walking for hours, until I forgot which direction I was coming from and which one I was aiming for. A maze without walls, a maze without shade. One foot after the other, until each pace was a torture. I remember crawling on my knees, and then falling on the ground and crying, raging for my past already out of reach and my future that was never to be. I remember…

I was lying in the sand, all the memories rushing through my mind. Unable to stand it anymore, I closed my eyes again to escape the burning sun. “Walls of heat, and blue sky as a ceiling”, I thought. 

 “Come on, try to stay focused”. Seated at her desk, Liberty Rodgers could not concentrate on her homework for more than two minutes, no matter how hard she tried. She kept ordering herself to make an effort, but her pen was stuck on the table and her algebra notebook’s sheet remained desperately blank. On the contrary, her thoughts flew rapidly from one subject to another. Yet, she was constantly driven back to this obsessive question the Philosophy teacher had asked the class earlier that day. 

“Why do men build walls?” 

Someone immediately answered: “Well, that’s obvious. Men build walls because they feel safer inside than outside. Can anyone imagine how it would be to live out in the open air, here in the most remote and dry part of Texas, less than ten miles away from the border? No way!”

Then the debate began: “Hey, do you mean that the Soviets built the Berlin Wall because they felt unsafe in Eastern Europe?” 

“No, that’s a different kind of wall. It was not supposed to protect them from those on the outside, but to prevent those on the inside from fleeing!”

“All in all, the purpose of a wall is to prevent any kind of exchange or movement between the two sides.”

And then, the inevitable joke arrived: “Hey, but if that’s true, then what’s the purpose of windows!”

Most of the class just burst into laughter, but Liberty remained silent. Although she didn’t dare to speak out loud, she felt there was something deeper than merely practical considerations underlying the question, and that it was definitely worth asking. And indeed, she was relentlessly asking herself, on and on, “Why do we build walls?”

The week before, she had read that during the Apollo Mission, the laws of physics had made it possible to launch a rocket whose metallic walls were even thinner than a tin can, and which could have broken at any moment. A wall is protective, yet disruptive. Danger can also lie within it and the outside is not always scary. It is unknown. Unseen. Exciting. Thrilling. Appealing? At least those astronauts must have found it seducing at the time, otherwise what was the point in putting their own life at risk? 

She glanced around her. The one-story house was entirely glass-walled and lit by the afternoon sun. From her bedroom, Liberty could scan miles of rough terrain and stare at every detail. It was like being out there in the wild. For the first time in her life however, she felt trapped behind the windows, as if she did not belong there. “I need a stroll”, she thought. Then she noticed something in the distance. A weird shape, something that wasn’t there minutes before. “Now, what is that?”. She grabbed the keys, her sunglasses and slammed the door. 

Noise and walls. Esperanza couldn’t remember anything more about her life in Juarez, as she opened her eyes and wondered if she was really in the middle of the Texan desert. She felt dizzy and exhausted, and her sunburned eyelids hurt.  Still, she found the deeply buried strength to get up and stagger down the hill, her throat aching with thirst and her feet bleeding in her sneakers. Unable to make one more step forward, she fell down on a rock. “After all, those Mexican noises weren’t so annoying. At least I could hear them and I felt alive, whereas now it is as if I were already dead. All in all, you were just a brick in the wall, that’s how the song went. Maybe it’s true”. 

“Maybe the purpose of walls is for men to try to cross them and fail. And maybe the worst wall of all is the wall of Silence and Loneliness that surrounds you when you’re in need of help but no help comes…” She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she had neither noticed the house a few yards away, nor heard the cautious paces that were coming towards her. When she eventually heard them, she looked up and found herself face to face with a tall, thin and healthy girl. 

“She is so pretty, I wish I looked like her”, Esperanza thought while gazing at the girl in awe. “She is probably my age though”. 

“She comes from the other side”. Liberty kept repeating this sentence to herself as she was staring at the poor creature lying down in the sand. “She cannot be older than me”. 

Liberty, Esperanza. English, Spanish. North, South. Inside, outside. Native, foreigner. An American girl and a Mexican one. Two girls. Two pairs of eyes staring at each other. Two mouths unable to speak but two brains full of questions. The wall of Language, and the wall of the Unknown. 

All in all, you’re just another brick in the wall. 

No, they were not. 

Liberty stretched her hand and helped Esperanza up. 

Palace of Grass

Agnès Guérin

This night was but one of the many nights during which I dared to walk through the gate of dreams, and see, swirling with preternatural visions of hopes never conceived and dismays never felt, one of these boundless countries that are only found in night-time deliriums and the dusty canvasses haunting my uncle’s attic. This man whose grave bear the name of Randolf Carter was the one to introduce me to the timeless secrets of dreams, and the numerous legends and keys that urged men to plunge themselves in these long ecstasies, to pursue their voyage on the purple seas that swell under the measureless cliffs of one of these kingdoms of unknown names. 

After a few years, when I had followed him through the corridors in which opened the small iron gates, that led, according to his sayings, to dream countries, when I had for the first time absorbed this strange black herb with an indescribable scent, the blue smoke of which he used to inhale before is long sessions of motionless trance, when I had, as an accomplished disciple, seized the wand of a dream wanderer, and were able to mount the barbed backs of these strange winged creatures that dwell in the cracks of the high peaks of Xanadu, he began, as he could let me roam freely through these unearthly realms I had grown accustomed to, to stay in these countries for days and weeks, letting his old body, forsaken in his deserted house in the Yorkshire, slowly die away, his skin turned grey and his body and face, that had become inhumanely gaunt, let him, instead of rotting and exhaling the abominable pestilence of the dead, reach a mummified state, as if the herbs and various drugs he was constantly absorbing to maintain himself in this paradoxical state of consciousness that enables the wildest dreams had preserved his organs from the decomposition. In his hands were the rest of some unknown plant I have never seen him take before, that exhaled a perfume I would never forget. 

Since then, as the lone traveller I was, with the experience of the numerous worlds I had seen, the beings of these spheres and other travellers like myself, I had learned many languages that were, on earth, let unspoken, as well as many forbidden secrets, and reasons behind the wonders that painters, poets and musicians have summoned from the depths of their psyches.

 I saw the grotesque land of infinite tortures and hideous monstrosities, all twisted and colourful that the great Jeronimus Bosch had beheld before the creation of his paintings of hell. I saw, looming in translucent skies the strange vessels that fly though the wildest fantasies of Poe. I heard the delightful tunes of the golden fortress, in the ethereal harmonies of which Dvorak had found the chords of his ninth symphony. And of course I saw the white streams of Alph, the sacred river, and the violet arabesques of the woods in the boughs of which the Jubjub birds dwell, and I saw these dreamers themselves, from other times and other places, some of them had nothing of the man and could create (for most of them were musicians whose language was of tune and chords, thus the songs they played in their polyphonic flutes were also poems), the most wonderful concertos. 

This other night was one of the many nights during which my craving for otherworldly wonders was again taking over my mind, as its silken tentacles of invisible glass slowly rasped at my chamber’s door. At that time I had learned to fight these urges with a jolly company, a few laughs and many books, with the pleasures that every sentient creature has been blessed with and with the love I felt emanating even from the lowest forms of hymenoptera. This was when I noticed the thing. The thing from which my uncle had escaped in his strange country of armless poisons and purple scents was lurking in the corner of my eye like a rampant mountain lion and had left in its trail some shining dust made of blue thoughts of skies and seas. The thing loomed beyond walls and bellowed low like a vast mountain horn, it drew closer and yet unseen, rolling like a wave over me and ripping open my soul and memories and plunged away in a fizzling spark. The thing had left with what I had been before, it had left with the hallucinated memories of my poor uncle and the haunting sounds of my sleep. 

What was left was the drab four square meters room, all plain and dull and stingy with nothing but grey furniture, grey bed and grey clothes on the bony form that faced me from the other side of a dusty glass. I sighed as I felt the last traces of taste in my mouth, of the sensual touches the ghosts were giving me in my forgetful ecstasy, and I recalled what my life, if it were not for dreams, the greatest ones that my uncle used to bring me in his dark wooden boxes, the wisest ones that my wandering mind brought me in, in the form of some quaint and delightful meetings with familiar figures that did not bear any names and women all dressed up in rosy blouses and long skirts from the previous century, would have been. We walked up-hills towards high mills that heaved their pleasant brows in a low sky, talked of love, tea and poetry, sailed along silent rivers not far from home, and (thus I knew this was but a simpler and less glorious estate of the vast lands of the dream) always the air bore this cerulean hue that I could no longer make out, since the thing, the wide beast made of musk and dusky foam, had left with my sweet sleep between its fierce jaws. 

To open, my eyes were so slow, and the light, white, so harsh, invaded my sockets like frozen spears. Nothing around me but the low chug of some strange mechanisms hidden from my sight, and the regular chime of not so distant flute, repeating the very same note, regular and cold like an iron heart. A voice repeats: “blood tastes like iron” and I know, as the sickening flavour of flesh, of steel and self run down my throat that this voice is my own, as well a morbid reminder of my loneliness of harsh lines and alien sounds. I knew it all too well, the place I grew in, the place I suffered in, the place out of time, out of space out of heart out of everything real, six walls floating in nothingness. 

In this perfect cocoon, I slowly grew. It was what I thought at first. I got large, like a white larva eating the insides of a hazelnut until its death amid rotten rubbish. Yet, after a few days, I understood: I did not grow: my body was as gaunt and scrawny as I had always been, lost in the dull white of the room. 

The walls. The small room’s walls were drawing closer and closer, making it almost impossible to breathe. The walls clasped me in their harsh embrace, closer and closer, smaller and smaller: first, it was like being in one of these tiny huts every child has built at least once. Then, it was small as a coffin: nothing outside, not the faintest muffled sound, and the walls but a few inches away from my face, my hands, my feet. I tried to inhale, I gasped for air, but the ceiling, too close, did not let my chest expand to receive a breath of oxygen. My screams were left unheard, the remote and regular pulse of the flute became faster, as the walls again, were drawing closer. Closer again, closer, so close, the walls slowly took the shape of my body, smothering me in this horrible shroud of cement and heat, with no place to see, no place to feel, no place to smell or breathe, and the only thing I could hear was the throbbing of my blood on my temples, the panic of my heart and my lung, the fizzling of my nerves that shrieked like burning trees. Yet, the walls drew closer again. The walls became my skin, my bones, they let me blind and incapable of any movement. My flesh squelched  amid the walls, my lungs shrunk back to the state of rachitic bushes, and the walls pressed, crushing my muscles and my guts into a horrible and blind vision of intermingled mud, it pressed until the atoms drew closer, until they touched, until I was nothing but an indistinct mass of carbon, until I was nothing but the entrapped epitome of flesh: Thus I became matter. 

And thus came the time to call the beast back, the wild beast of my dreams, the beast with eyes of burning green, streaked with morphine-induced hues. The feline creature crossed the walls with a golden key in its claws, and helped me on its woollen back with its two striped tails. The walls were like cinders for this soft jaguar coming from the blue jungles of India. It took me slowly through a rain of orbs of opal and cliffs of clay, through the first shapes of thoughts and legends, and it sailed like a ship on the rays of green suns and chariots made of stars, amid the isles and the planets that turned around Saint Elmo’s fires like elliptic archipelagos. It jumped from castle to castle, and led me to the glass palace, the palace that was my dwelling in this kingdom of gardens and lakes. Each wall of the palace was made of pure crystal and led to other spheres and dimensions, each was an ever-changing canvas of shapes, colours and scents, a sublime portal leading anywhere, anywhen, clear walls of freedom and poetry, from some of which the ominous tunes of Silenus’ mossy forests were to be heard. 

Thus I sat in the glass palace with my singing friends from other times and places, around the wooden table of some summer evening, in the soft heat that the earth exhales after sunset, surrounded with perfumes of spice and roses, drinking wondrous ales with tastes of spring and moss, laughing past laughs all tinged with the sweetest melancholia, as the sheen of our lamps slowly was fading into the dark and motherly softness of sounds, smells and unearthly pleasures. The beast was now a cat curled up on my lap, that, somehow, bore the smell of the strange herbs of my uncle, the last herbs he had ever consumed, the ones that led him to his eternal respite by these incorporeal realms. 

Slowly, I stroke the velvet back of the creature and whispered: “Thank you, sister. You let me go.”

Memory of a Prelude in D minor

Alexandre Heuillard

Romaine's greatest regret had always been her lack of failure. At the age of 24, she was as successful as one could possibly hope to be, both in her career and in her personal life. She'd been able since she was a child to logic and reason her way through existence, and it had always brought her nothing less, and nothing more, than happiness. Life had always been kind to her, and, however grateful she was for it, a part of her did wish life would cut it out for just a moment.

That moment happened to be a week in January.

It was her last week of moving into her boyfriend’s apartment, who was out of town on business, and she would have to say goodbye to her flat that very Friday. It wasn't exactly heartbreaking : she never thought much of the place, with its noisy neighbors, small rooms and blank walls. Good enough to work. So she was quite happy to move in with someone else after living in this empty place. And it was growing emptier by the minute. By the time Monday arrived, she could barely recognize it, and as she looked at the ruins of the what used to be her home, she tried to remember what it was like to live there ; what memories she would keep from her life there. When, in a few years time, she'd walk down this street, and pass in front of this building, when she’d close her eyes to recall the good and bad times she had known in her years living there, what would she remember ; what had mattered ? She couldn't think of anything : nothing worth remembering, nothing worth laughing about, nothing worth crying over.

As she stared into the void of her apartment, she sat on the wooden floor and leaned against one of the white walls in her living room. Everything was absolutely silent. It felt to her as if she was miles away from all life. That the silence would go on forever. That nothing could ever break it. But then, suddenly, she started to hear something ; a faint tune, that, in the middle of the stone cold silence, seemed so surreal, she thought she must have been imagining it. And yet the music continued to play, and she could slowly hear it better and better. She then pressed her ear against the wall behind her, and that faint tune all together turned into the majestic melody of a piano.

She knew music pretty well, she had studied it in her teens. But this was music unlike anything she had ever heard. She knew the piece actually, but had never thought much of it before. But hearing it here, now, played by the pianist on the other side of the wall with such passion, such longing, she could hardly recognize it. All the notes were telling her something, both about the person playing them and about herself, but nothing she could put into words. The beginning was slow, deep and grave, and as every phrase went higher, she could feel the tension and the desperation growing stronger in the pianist’s mind and body. Every time a note changed, it felt like he was putting his heart and soul into it, until the next note came along, and every time, Romaine felt inexplicably torn by the melancholy he was expressing. And then, against all odds, the music became more hopeful, as if the act of playing for a few seconds had given renewed hope to the pianist, and the notes were now, while still sad, tinted with a certain sense of playfulness, like the man who, full of despair, laughs in the face of it.

And soon enough, the beautiful music she was hearing turned into a delight for the eyes as well. The music seemed to be giving meaning, or rather feeling, to everything around her : all the colours in the room became brighter and sharper, the sun all of a sudden seemed to break through her dark curtains, and those same curtains now seemed to be slowly and nobly dancing and acquiring new shades of colour. The entire apartment seemed as enchanted by the music as she was, and was now showing her its true colours, shades of truth and realities she had experienced, but had never taken the time to truly grasp. She could finally feel the world around her ; she felt like she was one with every person outside, everyone she had or hadn't met in her life, with every feeling a person could ever hope to feel. And as she started to feel the world itself spinning, she fell to the ground and just lay there with her eyes closed and an unstoppable smile on her face.

And as the week went on, she would every day look forward to her pianist returning, and playing something new for her : sometimes it was hopeful, other times full of despair, and some other times playful and ironic. But every time it hit her emotionally in a way she was never able to foresee. And she spent her days thinking about the pianist who was creating this music, this raw emotion that, every time, without fail, brought colour, hope and life into her day. She wondered about who he, or she, was, what they looked like, and what could possibly have happened to them for that music to be so pure and perfect ; but also, she felt like she knew this person already, more than she'd ever known anyone else in her life, even though she  hadn't known they even existed a few days earlier, even though they still didn't know she existed. She had allowed herself to fall in love with someone she had never met. Someone she could never meet, because the second she would, it would all disappear : the mystery behind the music, its purity and simplicity, all that would be lost if she ever met the complicated, imperfect human this person had to be. So she was content simply listening to what the pianist had to play, sometimes dancing to the melodies, other times just sitting on the floor, one ear against the wall.

And in her mind, she imagined the last time the pianist would play for her, that Friday, how perfectly heartbreaking it would be, to say goodbye to a person she somehow loved, without them knowing her name. But when Friday came, there was no music. She spent all day waiting in silence, in her living room for the piano to speak to her, to acknowledge her leaving. But nothing. All day long she waited, and nothing happened.

The whole apartment was at last totally empty. At 8pm Romaine had to have left for good. It was 7:50pm. And still no music. She was still lying against the wall, waiting for the pianist to play for her one last time, for a final farewell. But all she could hear was the cruel symphony of silence. She was just about to give up and leave, and in a final act of desperation, without much conviction, she knocked on the wall. No answer. She then got up, put on her coat and took one last look at the deserted flat. Then, suddenly, to her own dismay, in the ungodly silence that was surrounding her, she was able to hear a shy « knock knock » coming from the other side of the wall, followed by a voice softly asking : « Hello ? » She stared amazed at the wall where the knock came from : a part of her hadn't truly believed until now that there was anyone on the other side of it, that the music that had given her so much joy, so much life could have been coming from anyone outside of her own imagination. Now, if she answered the knock, if she talked to the pianist, and the pianist answered back, then it would be real, then they could learn to know each other, they could meet in person, they could become friends, maybe more ; they could be imperfect again. If she let herself know this person, then they could never again be as close as it had felt they had been those last few days. But she couldn't help herself. She knew she wouldn't have the strength to leave without before having heard those fingers play one last time. She slowly  walked towards the wall, leaned against it for the last time and whispered : « Hello ? ». After a slight pause someone answered : « Yes hello… who is this ? », with a kind, but cautious voice. 

« Please, can you play something ? », she whispered, hopefully.

« I beg your pardon ? », the pianist asked, somewhat bewildered.

« Please, can you play something ? », she asked again, louder this time.

« Won't you at least tell me your name ?... »

« Please, can you play me something ? », was all she could think to answer, she was at such a lost for words, and it was all she really wanted right now.

« If I play you something, will you tell me your name afterwards ? »

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, and yet she couldn't stop smiling, hardly believing she was speaking to the pianist who had offered her such beautiful music, who had moved her all week long, who had kept her going, who had given her hope once more. 

« Yes, I will, after », she finally answered. « And you'll tell me yours, I hope ; maybe we could meet up, learn to know each other better... After. »

« Sounds good to me ! »

She then heard her neighbour get up and walk to the piano.

Romaine looked at her watch : it was 8:02pm. She stared to cry just as she heard music playing one last time. It was the same piece that she'd heard that very Monday, which felt like so long ago. She could feel the music working its magic on her once again. She got up and slowly left that apartment, her eyes closed, listening to every note, every harmony ; she felt like each one of them was singing to her, for her, and, with  hopeful melancholy, to the love she and he could never live, and never should. Like in a trance, her steps guided her through the music all the way outside, until she found herself sitting in a cab.

As she drove away, she could still hear the sound of the piano from inside the building, slowly growing fainter and fainter. And as she rode towards her future, her eyes still closed, she tried, with all the strength she could muster, to capture the beautiful sound that she could still feel in the air, to preserve in an undying, unfading part of her memory the music that the pianist was playing for her, and that she hoped would play forever.

Golden Walls
Julia Malefant

It was mid winter. The branches were sad and bowed to the ground; the ground was frozen and its skin was peeling off. A shadow was moving at a regular pace, under the trees of the long path. Kazuki Yamamoto had return from the South. The dust raised by the young samurai steps flew with the cold breeze and entered his clothes. His eyes were barely opened, fixing his hands, in which the declaration of war was trembling.

Once he arrived at the end of the alley, he raised his head. The palace was just above him, separated from the earth by endless stairs. Its pointy roof skinned the clouds while its towering walls stroke the eye with their radiance. It was out of the reach of the gloominess of winter.

Kazuki paused for a few seconds, his body tensed at the temptation of turning away. The muscles of his hips stretched against his bones when he slowly raised his feet. Before his heel had touched the first stair, he froze. His dark blue eyes had turned into profound black holes: his eyeballs were trembling, as if he was seeing a violent scene, while his lips were drawn back to show his teeth. In the shine of his moist eyes, there was his young brother slaughtered by unknown blades, there was his house burned to the ground by wild flames. There was his mother, and her head, her ankles, her leg, her liver and her blood in the smooth snow. Kazuki rested his foot, breathing through clenched teeth, humming distressful sounds as if he was chewing his screams. There was no snow on the ground yet and the small but heavy paper in his hand was more real than some dark cloud over his home. His black hair fluttered around his face as he moved off to take the stairs.

Holding the paper like a rope that would take him to the palace, Kazuki moved fast. After a moment he stopped, out of breath, even though the message was his only burden. A thin flow of frozen air was slipping through his lips, his bloody lips that were flayed by the wind’s kiss. He turned around and saw, below him, the vast valley of Nagano and the peaceful Sai river. A few tiny houses could be seen, as well as fields and small groups wandering on the roads. 

A brutal and sudden stomach ache made Kazuki bend. His spirit spat blood on the landscape. His eyes drew flames and erased houses; the treaty burning his palm became a tracing paper and his imagination a raging brush. The ink was the thousand of tears that could have flown down his face.

He clung on to the grip of his katana and turned to the magnificent golden walls of the palace with a deep breath. There, on top of this gracious mountain, the emperor was waiting. And he, a mere swordsman whose conscience was losing balance, was about to deliver him a message from a mere daimyo of a mere county. A bunch of words that would provoke death, desolation and sufferings to the entire population of his homeland. He started climbing again, fighting the pain, refusing the guilt, despising the weakness. If the emperor had decided to make war then the entire population should strive to death to offer him victory.

He was about half way when he stumbled and nearly fell; the paper slipped from his hands and flew on his right, stolen by the eastern wind. Right when it was about to disappear in the mist alongside the stairs, he grabbed it. But right before he did, a vicious image exploded in his mind. The message drifting away, lost forever among the birds, his truth dismissed by the lightness of air… While he, the fool who had lost it, would be forced to commit suicide. He was already seeing his abdomen torn apart by his blade, he was eagerly trying to imagine a real, frank, honest and releasing pain. 

He gripped the paper so tight it distorted. Something was right in this desire, something felt right. Why couldn’t he die and take to his grave those words filled with hatred? He leaned against the wooden rail. His eyes, just like flies that wander in confusion toward the closest beam of light, turned to the golden walls. Why would war have to penetrate this lair of harmony and purity? The torments that come with destruction, battles, massacres and extermination would enter the palace with the message. How could it be the duty of a samurai to bring such disaster into the house of his god, the emperor? Wasn't his first duty to protect him with his life; therefore, wouldn't he have to die so that the message never reaches its recipient? 

Kazuki stared at the walls with an anguished look, trying to find among the beauty something that would clear his confusion. But his angst stood once again between him and his reason: before his eyes, flames and smoke assailed the palace. His heart jumped; so did he, eyes widened in fear. Of course, he knew it wasn’t real, but he kept racing to the palace. The sound of his pounding feet cried his urge to warn the emperor: suddenly, the brief instants of hesitation he had had felt like years. Somewhere in another land, thousands of soldiers were preparing for battle. That was the only truth that drove his mind.

As he arrived at the end of the stairs, the golden walls and their imposing stature calmed his fears. The sun’s rays weaved webs of reflects on a sea of radiant splendor: The heat of the color had its own breath, as if a spiral of shine attracted everything within its matter while rejecting the impurity of life.

Overwhelmed by the grace of the walls, Kazuki imperceptibly slowed down. The closer he approached, the larger the front wall seemed. His sight line was embracing the golden rampart and soon, it was as if the fountain of gold filled the entire universe. His eyes could barely distinguish the small pieces of dark wood that formed the gates. They were but an unsightly stain. However, once he spotted it, the stain became a hole that swallowed his attention. He eyed intensely the smooth and immaculate walls, purposely avoiding the doors, but they grew darker, increasingly clear in his vision, irritating the eye like an insect.

He was walking now, half oppressed by the glory of the structure, half disappointed by the fact that it had the necessity of having a door. He was realizing with an irrational disappointment that he was not getting closer to the pure and vast gold. Instead, he was heading for the disgusting dark mouth that would swallow him into the palace. This door implied that something was behind this godlike beauty, that something could exist beyond. He stopped, fearing his entrance, fearing what he would discover inside, when the wall would no be there to marvel his eyes any more. He frowned, refusing the reality of the entrance. But then he remembered his duty, and moved forward again. Unconsciously, though, he kept questioning the existence of the door, and soon, the existence of the wall itself, and the existence of the palace. More precisely, he questioned the impurity of a wall that had such an ungracious hole, conscious in the same time that a building without an exit or an entrance would be an absurdity. Doors allow food, clothes, people, messages inside the palace. Even the emperor needs to connect with the outside world. It would be through this very exit that, at his death, his body would be taken away. And it would be through this very entrance that his son would be elevated to the rank of a descendant of Amaterasu.

War had to cross the door to become real; the prescription for losses and sorrows was becoming a certainty when passing through; Life was asking a dance to Death; the man was but the messenger, he was but a passenger. Being dead already, claiming the right to live, chanting life with every breath and serving death with every move… The door was the way of the samurai; impure but essential. Only the palace and its shine mattered, only the Golden Wall, pure and glorious scenery of the waltz of life and death.

Now at the doorstep, Kazuki was waiting. The guards had recognized him and were looking at his gentle face. “Eh, Kazuki, how did it go, back there in the South?”

He glared at the polished wood, incapable of lifting his head to announce the news. At the absence of response, the guards exchanged an anxious look and eventually opened the gates. 

Kazuki, the eyes already closed, disappeared among the shadows.

Metanoia

Athénaïs Pascal Touraine

Sing, Goddess, Helen's love,

Bright and gentle, that cost the Greeks

Incalculable pain.

*

A king, they said. Powerful, all of Sparta is at his feet, and soon you’ll be his queen, Helen. She married him, not because she liked him but it was what she had been told to do. Princesses marry kings and bear their children. 

An ambassador, a young daring prince Paris had offered a way out. Out of that dull palace and life. Leaving husband and daughter behind was for the best, he had said. She had doubts, begging for some time to think. Such time had not been granted to her, as she had realized waking up on the Trojan ship sailing away from Sparta. Even that choice had been ripped from her, as all the other ones in her life. 

*

The sun used to weave a golden crown in his hair draping him of a godly halo. Cassandra should have known. But he had shone like the sun and she had been foolish Icarus. A mere child, free of pain, full of joy. I can give you everything. He had sworn on the Styx. Everything? Why did she do it, why? I want the gift of the Pythia. Nothing mattered more than Troy. She would be its last walls, its last protection. She would carry a burden, worse than Atlas’ for her homeland.

Apollo had granted her wish.

And he came back one day, asking for her love.  She hadn’t made such promises but everything came with a price; She should have known. He poisoned her mouth and her nights. Her family locked her up. For safety, they claimed. But not her own. And when all was said and done, she couldn’t bear to look at the sun again. She should have known better but nobody warns little girls about traitorous gods with honey words.

*

Somewhere outside her room her father and newfound brother Paris were arguing. Cassandra didn’t feel compelled to listen to their heated argument; had foretold it in vain, and now they had the Spartan queen locked up in their palace. 

An empty stillness had struck her home, her light footsteps echoed in the marble hallways, breaking the eerily atmosphere. The proverbial calm before the storm.  Not a single haunted soul, no petulant children. And then, finally, her, facing the window, her back to any newcomer.

“You’re that Spartan Queen my brother stole.”

Helen turned around, startled by the unknown voice. Her face carved by the gods themselves from the curves of her blossoming lips to her frowned brows and yet she still bore her humanity as her crown. Helen made no effort to conceal her glistening, weeping eyes. Her wet cheeks and bloated nose made Cassandra believe every tale. Pain and suffering grounded her ethereal beauty and, in her eyes, - the bluest eyes she had ever witnessed- burned a strength Cassandra could only wish for.

“Is that a question?” Helen answered, firm, not the shaky voice Cassandra expected.

“No.” Honesty was the only compassionate gift Cassandra could offer. “I foresaw your arrival long before today. I was hoping fate wouldn’t run its course, but here we are. War is upon us and I can’t stop it. Ten years of misery and deaths. Man on man, god on god, will witness one of mankind’s cruelest testimony.”

“You’re a charming woman, mouth full of gruesome prophecies. You must be Cassandra. You should leave before I call the guards.”

*

“You’re perfect.” Cassandra said, a week after their first meeting, studying Helen’s every feature. The two girls spent their days together weaving, as it was expected of them.

“I’m beautiful, yes. That’s something they’re never going to let me forget. Perfection is nothing but a lie. I am the one that launched a thousand ships. It was not for my kindness, nor wisdom. My brothers are heroes sung by a thousand chorus. What am I but a tragedy?”

“My mother told me a story once about a canary. Troy flourished with lemon trees growing the ripest golden fruits where sung the canary. Travelers came from all over the sea to even have the luck to hear its dawn melody. Some say that the bird had been blessed by Apollo himself. But all good things are not made to last and the king, consumed by greed, hunted and caged the canary, to keep its music for himself.”

“What happened?”

“What happens to every caged bird. It withered and with nowhere to fly away, died miserable in the cage.” 

*

Cassandra had been a welcoming presence in this never-ending hell. she visited often with hidden gifts or news from Sparta. She showed nothing but kindness expecting nothing in return. Somedays the loneliness and sorrow were too much for her too handle, tightening her chest until she could barely breathe, and she ran, ran as far as her feet could take her, as far as she was allowed to.

Cassandra found her one day high above the ground, standing on the firm walls, weeping at the sea, longing for home. No words could heal her wounds and Cassandra knew that. They stood in silence for hours crying out all their carefully concealed pain in each other’s arm, a last wall before their collapse. When all of world’s evils left the box, only Hope remained.

*

The moon had casted gleam on the gardens. The war had made its first victims; the Greek had sailed to Troy’s highest walls begging for their Queen. The battles were roaring outside, the air carrying the scent of blood and rotten flesh. Oblivious to the bloodshed, two women were sneaking out of their rooms.

“What are we doing here?” whispered one of the shadows.

As an answer the other one picked an orange from the closest tree, ripped it open and handed it for Helen to bite the ripe fruit, juice running down her chin.

Cassandra leaned in and closed the space between their lips, sucking on the sweet liquor. And all of a sudden, a hand was in her hair and they were kissing. Entwined in their soft embrace, Cassandra listened to the hurling warriors fighting for this precious moment they were sharing. And she knew why Orpheus had gone to hell and back for his beloved.

*

Stolen kisses had become their habit. Cassandra had convinced her family that Helen needed another woman to help her navigate the world. Only if they knew, the thought at night kept her awake. But they were careful, always careful. Only agonizing arm touches in public. She was Tantalus and Sisyphus, forcing herself over and over again to ignore Helen’s laugh at dinner, frightened that her lovesick eyes would betray her. Eventually someone would find out.

And someone did. Her beloved brother Hector cornered her one night accusing of her own misdeeds. Her back against cold stones, her breath short, her only thought turned to her. Hector would surely drag her to their father and she would be married by dawn. But he did no such things. 

“Nothing is more sacred than love, Cassandra. I hope you’ll understand that one day.”

*

"Who are you mourning?" Helen asked one day, frightened by Cassandra’s grieving dress.

"The soldiers. All the dead outside our walls. Falling one by one for this pointless war."

 "You never mourn them. Who are you morning Cassandra?"

"You. You’re a mere ghost of yourself Helen. Quieter. At dinner you drink their wine. You speak their language."

 "I've adapted to my environment."

“You've dulled yourself. You now longer sing, canary."

"What do you want me to do Cassandra? I'm trapped here! I've nothing left, no one left! I'm surrounded by foes, liars and traitors."

"You have me."

"I'm not sure that's enough. You’re just as much a prisoner as me, Cassandra. They don't see a princess, even when you hold your head as straight as you can. They see the messy eyes, they see you talking to yourself. They see a heathen who dared to reject a god. And they punish you for it."

*

Messengers had come to her room, bearing the heartbreaking, excruciating news of her brother's fate.

"You're not alone." She hadn’t noticed Helen standing behind her in her grief. “You don't have to grieve your brother alone. I'm here for you."

"I love you" She said it at least. Out of the blue. Hector would have wanted her to live again. Not time for grieving in a war. That comes after. If there is an after.

 "Oh Cassandra. I will love you as Achlys loves innocence, as tempests love the sailors and as war loves young men. I will love you until all the walls in the world collapse and fall, and until the moon no longer run her nightly course. I will love you despite the distance, despite the ships carrying me home as we leave your shore. I will love you until you stop breathing and even after. I will love you if you leave me, if you find your true leave and marry them. I will always love you Cassandra even when Troy is burnt to the grounds and there’s no evidence of us. Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us.”

*

It was a lovely night, a warm lazy summer night. One of those nights made for grape-eating and friendly laughter. If there were laughter out there tonight, it was not friendly nor kind. Roars had overpowered the endless litany of agony. Crawling to the statue, kissing her feet, Cassandra prayed for a last hopeless blessing:

“Clear-eyed Athena, courageous maiden,

I pray to you. Grant me your protection from the terrors of this night.”

The footsteps grew closer but she couldn’t stop her whispering. The men were coming for their war tribute, for her. There was no resisting, no fighting. No tears too.

The temple’s doors burst open. The hearth’s flames could barely light his face. She couldn’t make out his sigil in the dark, but she all too well Greek colors. And it was all her fault. The horse is a trap; don’t let it in our walls. But she had forgot Apollo’s sweet, sweet curse. They had laughed it off. She could remember the red face of the mocking general, and how white his face was tonight only tainted crimson by the blood dripping from a spear.

“It’s the princess!” The soldier screamed, sealing her fate. 

“No.” A firm voice resonated behind him, striking their opponent in the chest. “You can’t have her.” 

“Helen? That’s not was supposed to happen! That’s not what I’ve seen!”

“Then maybe it’s time we stop trusting the gods. The walls are down Cassandra, nothing is holding us here anymore. We can leave, together.”

Blank
Nathan Perney

I was a prisoner, stuck between those four walls, and the only sound around there was coming from tip of my fingers tapping on my computer. Even though I was endlessly trying to begin that story, the one that was going to change my life, it wouldn’t come, and I was still just a puny teenager stuck in his bedroom. I had the writer’s block but, of course, I was no writer. Just a stupid dreamer.

However, at this exact moment, the dreams wouldn’t come either. I felt as if my mind was foolishly teared apart. A writer, when he sits on his chair, willing to fulfil his job, must travel: a thousand lands and stories pop out of his head and fall on his paper, and before he realizes it, he just starts creating his very own masterpiece.

In my case though, mind and paper were both particularly blank. Why was my imagination not working? I couldn’t understand, some kind of walls – metaphorically speaking – were stopping my mind from traveling anywhere. I laid down on my chair, fighting against the tempting idea of giving up. It seemed I was changing: maybe I wasn’t a child anymore, maybe I wasn’t able to imagine fictions as easily as before. The path I was devoting all my evenings to might not be the one I was meant to follow…

Or maybe it was. By the window, which seemed to be a real hole dug in the wall to lead to the outside world, I stared at the moon for several minutes. Quiet, fascinating… newly inspirational. When you think about it, walls don’t really mean anything, they are no real obstacles.

Gazing at this pale light hooked in the middle of the black sky, my mind opened, and my imagination finally went off. I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, I was an astronaut. I saw myself in this weird white suit, nearly flying. My feet touched the ground, and I looked around me. The moon… so this was my new playground. I couldn’t help laughing, tasting a new feeling of freedom. I knew I hadn’t left my bedroom, but I could feel this surprising imagination flowing through my veins.

A loud noise made me jump down, and a bright red stick of light nearly brushed against my head, just before crashing behind me. And a second one came, and another one, and another one… Lasers? Seriously?

I got up and ran as fast as I could. A quick look behind me confirmed what I thought: someone was firing at me with a weird-looking gun. However, this “someone” wasn’t an ordinary human. This humanoid creature, with its yellowish skin and its two big eyes, was clearly an extra-terrestrial.

Who was this… person? Or rather what was it? And why was it trying to kill me? A story started to emerge in my mind, that was exciting. And then… nothing. A wall appeared in front of me. I couldn’t run anymore, I couldn’t do anything, so I opened my eyes.

Nothing. It seemed indeed that walls were more complicated obstacles than I thought. The imagination I was trying so hard to work with was turning into frustration, and again, I wanted to give up, but… no… that would have been a stupid thing to do. Trying to erase this dangerous negativity from my mind, I lied down on my bed, and closed my eyes for a second time, hoping to witness the true extent of what I could create.

This time, I found myself in a giant reception room. Wearing an elegant tuxedo, I could feel the weight of a revolver hanging at my belt. Even if I haven’t seen it, I could tell it was a Smith & Wesson. Classic. There was a James Bond vibe in the air, as I was not a teenager anymore. Indeed, the character of this new story was clearly an international spy on a truly serious mission. Precise, indeed, but again, I just knew it.

I mean… I guess I was right. Otherwise, why would this character be attacked by other guys with elegant tuxedos?

A beautiful woman was at my side: she was trying to get rid of my opponents by throwing champagne glasses at their faces. What a weird story that one was… And the weirdest thing of all was that a man got hurt pretty bad by a glass which had violently landed on his face. He fell next to me, unconscious.

Trying to think logically, I searched the guy’s vest and found something in its chest pocket. A wallet! I opened it and grabbed an ID card. Despite the fact that all those noises made it hard to concentrate, I tried to read the name written on it. Then, I could probably understand all this situation.

Once again, my imagination shut down at the exact moment I was reaching a turning point in my story. The card turned white in a split second. I was so angry I screamed. Everything stopped, and I looked around me, progressively regaining my calmness. The mysterious woman, all of those mysterious foes… they didn’t even have faces anymore. I couldn’t see the story anymore.

I just couldn’t… However, it was no real surprise. The ceiling above my head, the walls surrounding me… those were the only things I knew were real. I couldn’t imagine any plot other than cliché, neither interesting nor original. Even though I wanted to keep that thought far away from my mind, I was aware I was only recreating stories I already knew. Stories everybody knew.

Then, I asked myself: how could I write a fully new story? Something that would come out of my mind but couldn’t come from somebody else’s. What could it be then? I honestly had no clue what I could write about…

It didn’t have to be a novel… Maybe a fairy tale or a short story? A fable or a poem? Somehow, I sensed a story was coming although I was unable to mould it into what I wanted. Indeed, how could I, not knowing what I wanted to create? My mind was… lost. Pretty bored of all those difficulties, I followed my intuition by doing the exact same thing as before: I closed my eyes.

But it felt different this time. I was in a weird room, quite small, and everything was snow-white. No door, no exit, just a sudden need to get out. Of course, I wondered what it meant, but I figured I couldn’t get an answer if I stayed there. I had to go past those white walls.

As I didn’t have any idea what to do, it took me some effort to hold my frustration inside. However, a black smudge appearing in front of me suddenly caught my attention and calmed me down. It looked like a drop of ink. A few seconds after its appearance, it started to move and formed letters. Black letters on a blank wall: you couldn’t miss them.

“WALLS ARE NOT MADE TO IMPRISON YOU”, I read.

Okay… Then why were they in my way? Why couldn’t I get out? That sentence was surely right, but… I didn’t know how to break walls. It was happening in my head, of course, but my imagination made me believe it was real. Isn’t it the point of a story? Make you believe in it as if it was real? But this story… this one was strange, and I felt restricted by its complexity. Although I could feel it coming, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

All of a sudden, I felt overwhelmed with anger and frustration. If this place was coming out of my mind, I should have the right to make it whatever I wanted! So, like that, in a blink of the eyes, I just wrecked the walls. Without using my fists, just with a kind of bursting passion, I made them collapse.

When calm returned, I was standing at the centre of a large pile of rocks. To my surprise, there was nothing past the broken walls except a mirror. I looked into it and saw myself, as I am. No space suit, no tuxedo, just me. At this moment, I realised something: I never tried to write about me, and I had so much to tell people. My life isn’t interesting enough to make a novel based on it, but I wanted to confess, to explain how my mind works… Behind those walls I had built myself, there was just me, because the only necessary thing to start a story was myself.

My eyes opened, and I sat on my chair, stared for a minute at the blank page on my computer, and started typing.

“Everybody builds walls in their head, drawing imaginary limits and making themselves less extraordinary than what they could become. I believe you can erase those walls to move forward and improve yourself. Let me tell you why with a story: mine…”

The Sword in the Scone

Jack Souami

“Alright, once last rhyme:

There once was a king called Arthur,

who lived on a very tall tower;

A mighty strong lord,

Buttered bread with his sword,

And the blade was all covered in flour.

Now good night, sleep tight !”

Sally had figured out the key to efficient babysitting: a little bedtime story about knights and princesses, and Paul and Gary would go to sleep in no time. Once the boys were asleep, she was free to use the beautiful high-definition TV that Mr and Mrs Fields had gotten last month and which was already connected to Netflix. And, of course, she was getting paid for this. Going to bed late, watching Netflix and getting a salary, as well as all the other perks that her own parents gave her for “being at work” - this was really great! And tonight would be the best – Mr and Mrs Fields were gone to Minihane’s for the evening. They were going to then stay with friends all night, and weren’t getting home until the next morning. She had calculated that, were she not to fall asleep, she could watch a full half season of her favourite show, Merlin, while the boys were sleeping. This was paradise for a shy girl like Sally, or indeed any teenager.

Before settling down to the couch, she went to the kitchen wall, took a sticky note, and stuck up the words “The boys went to sleep fine. Tuesday, November 10th”

That night she dreamt of Camelot and of all those other castles Paul and Gary were mad about. She dreamt of the holy grail, of wizards and of nights, but mostly she dreamt of the old stone, of the battlements, towers and spires. There was something that had always fascinated Sally with stone - the cold, unyielding strength, the magic the castle had seen, the secrets kept between the walls for centuries. The Great Pyramid hid an entire chamber for over 4000 years: who knows what sorcery might still be hidden within the walls of the hundreds of castles around the countryside ? And even apart from the magic, anyone could feel the soothing sense of safety the walls provided.

She woke to the sound of Paul and Gary bickering:

“I want it. Stop trying to take it from me!”

“But I found it! Finders keepers.”

“It’s not fair, you had your turn already!”

Well, Sally was getting paid for babysitting them so she had to go see what they were arguing about. She got up from the sofa, switched off the TV that had been on the Netflix homepage since the previous night, and went into the living room. The first thing she saw was the bottom drawer of the parents’ desk, emptied out on the floor. This would earn the boys a good scolding, though Sally always felt awkward reprimanding children. Her gaze turned to the rest of the room, and to her horror she saw that the argument was over a knife. A long, sharp knife that glinted as Paul brandished it out in front of him over the table, taunting his little brother and at great risk of taking someone’s eye out.

“What do you two think you’re doing?” Sally bellowed. Paul, who had never seen her this angry before, dropped the knife, and Gary ran to the corner of the room to hide in shame. Sally stepped up, took the knife and sat down.

“I asked, what have you two been doing? Gary, that means you too.”

Gary came out from behind an armchair, and he and Paul hung their heads silently like a pair of dogs caught with gravy-covered paws in front of an empty dish. After a moment, a quiet “Please don’t tell Mommy” came out of Gary. They hadn’t realised, of course, that Sally could get into just as much trouble as them for such an incident, so she simply answered “We’ll see.”

She examined the knife while the boys were tidying up the room. The handle was ordinary enough, but there was something in the iron of the blade – it looked more like iron than like steel – that made it gleam like a motorbike under the summer sun. Something strangely fascinating, and it was no wonder Paul and Gary had coveted it. Holding it gave Sally assurance, a feeling of authority that she rarely had as a babysitter: with such an item of beauty and craftsmanship in hand, commanding was no longer an effort.

As the boys were finishing their cleaning, she discreetly pocketed the knife so as not to revive their desire for it. Sally had never hidden anything from Mr and Mrs Fields before, and had always taken care to note down everything that happened, but being asleep in front of the TV while Paul was threatening Gary with the sharpest knife in the house was something that was best left unsaid. She therefore walked over to the kitchen wall, and stuck up the simple words “Calm night. Wednesday, November 11th”

After an hour or so of Paul and Gary playing loudly, Sally decided to calm them down before the parents arrived, and called them down for story time. Paul arrived with a tall book about knights, so Sally settled down on the sofa with Gary on her lap and Paul at her side, and began to read. Reading was one of the most rewarding parts of babysitting: to see them both captivated by the beautiful drawings and eager to know what happens next, even though she had already read each of these books out to them a dozen times at least, was truly marvelous. She liked seeing their avid faces react to every sound she uttered, feeling them enthralled by her voice and tale, hanging off her every word. And as she read, she too lost herself in the story and lived through the adventures of brave Sir Robin. Most of all she was in the castle, hearing the crows that circled above and feeling the strong stone that held up the many turrets and battlements of Camelot. For the space of a story, she swelled with joyful dreams.

When Mr and Mrs Fields got back, Sally told them the boys had been good, and neither of them contradicted her. The parents had had a great time the previous night, and wanted to do the same again on the night from Thursday to Friday. Sally agreed, and went home promising to come back the next day. She stepped out the door.

The emptiness around her struck her. When seconds before she was safe between walls, in a warm cozy house where familiar people surrounded her, here she was alone in the cold wind, where anyone could walk up to her. She set off towards home, waved the Fields goodbye, and as she walked began to daydream.

She was at the top of a tower, her whole castle visible under her. She was under siege, yet the enemy swords were nothing to the great wall of stone that surrounded her. She confidently gazed at the enemy ranks, milling about like ants at an upturned stone. And within her castle, life went on. Until a crash was heard, the sounds of screams went up around her, and an enemy banner was visible at the very foot of her tower. Not knowing how they got past her gates or how long she had left, she reached her shaking hands into her pocket. The instant her fingertips went it, she broke out of the dream – she’d forgotten to put the knife back. It was too late now, so she’d simply have to take it back on Thursday and keep it for the time being. Besides, she deserved it better than the Fields, and there was no risk of her inadvertently stabbing someone, which was more than could be said for the boys. She continued on her way, still intimidated by the empty space around her, and when she arrived home after an uneventful walk she was relieved to once again feel the comfort and safety of a house.

–

“No trouble to get the boys to sleep, an obedient pair. Thursday, November 12th”

With Paul and Gary in bed, it was time for Sally to watch her series in peace. The annoying thing with watching a series while babysitting is that you can’t put the volume too high, or else you’ll wake the kids. The good side of this is, however, that you hear whenever something is happening. It was a dark, cold night outside, with no moon and no cloud, only a starry sky and cold winds sweeping across the city like blight through a field of spuds. From the house, none of this could be seen, and when a knocking sound was heard from the door Sally absentmindedly got up and turned the key.

On the other side of the door stood two bulky men with crowbars. Their hooded heads and grim eyes told all Sally needed to know: they were not here for a pizza delivery. There was a long moment of stupor as the startled men realised someone was awake in the house, during which terror rose within Sally as she saw what she had done. She tried to slam the door shut, but one of the men stuck his foot out and pushed back. After having watched three episodes one after the other, Sally felt ready for all sorts of heroism: She sprang back out of the door’s path, and drew the knife that still waited at her side. One of the men held up his crowbar and laughed in a deep, hoarse voice: “Are you hoping that toothpick is going to be of any help ?”

“This is no Toothpick. This is the Iron of Excalibur, forged anew from its Ashes! By its Mandate do I command ye to leave.” And Sally dashed forwards. A crowbar was going straight for her head; it glanced off her raised knife like a pebble off a stone wall. She went straight for the throat, guided by some instinct she had never felt before. Yet as she did so her sock slipped on the tiles, and her hopes came crashing down with her to meet the icy, merciless floor.

“Now now, what have we here?”

And all went black.

–

In her cell, Sally felt betrayed. Only once had she opened the door, only once breached her wall, and now her castle had crumbled, and walls stood against her. She felt the same helpless fear, the same confinement as in her dream, trapped on top of a besieged tower. God knows what happened to Paul and Gary – once walls are breached, all those inside go together. Now all Sally had left was her mind, her imagination, her dreams. The same tales as before, but with a new eye: whereas before she used to be King Arthur of Camelot, now she was Sir Robin the wandering knight, roaming the lands and freeing damsels. And wishing poor Sally might be freed in turn.

- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS-

Heartfelt thanks to Mr. Jean Bastianelli, Mr. Sebastien Pelletant, Ms Marie-Flore Martin, Mr. André Frambourt, Ms Sophie Niedergang and her drama students, to the members of the jury, to Shakespeare and Co, to Mr François Busnel, Ms Catherine Canton and Ms Lenka Ludakova for their support and generosity and to all the staff and the students from Louis le Grand who helped with the organisation of the contest.

Above all many thanks to all twelve contestants.

Blog created by CDI Lycée Louis le Grand   https://cdillg.blogspot.com/

cdillgblogspot pubish the French Short Story Contest since 2011 between Lycée Louis le Grand, Lycée Henri-IV and Lycée Fénelon