Fiction: Group 3
My Queen
Renaissance College, Chan, Jane - 12, Fiction: Group 3
he opened her eyes, and stared up at the no-longer-blue sky. Since the last war, she had trouble
discerning fantasy from reality. If she rolled over, she’d see a city of white marble in the faraway
distance. She could not stop herself from glaring with hate at the mocking city they called ‘The truly
new, New York’.
Not that it was ever called New York before.
The city of lights, sounds, hopes and dreams were long gone now.
Campaigning against the opposing side did not result in good things for her.
Sometimes, the wind would whisper to her, tell her of better times. It kept her going; kept her sane. For a
day, the rivers in the city ran red with blood until they burned everything to the ground. She was there, and
it wasn’t fun.
When people passed by her - in the rare occasion that she’d come to the city, of course - they would
smirk, and the whispers of disrelish followed her around like a dog on a leash. If they were brave, they’d yell
out insults.
People never assaulted her, but their words were enough to make her turn back.
***
He opened his eyes, and saw flashes of red and orange. He sat up and batted them away.
He examined his
surroundings: rolling hills, a dirty grey sky.
In the distance was a majestic city of marble. To the right was an area of charred-black trees, that went on
out beyond the horizon.
He looked down at the slate of grey. He scooped up some, and a charred black object was poking out. The
powder was loose, so he dug it up and blew away the grey.
It was black and burnt, but the spherical object was instantly recognizable.
He dropped it and closed his eyes as a wave of nausea overcame him, and he started heaving what was left in
his stomach: which was nothing.
***
She goes through her routine, and walks over to the small river with pellucid water, sheltered by black trees,
twenty paces to the left of her dwelling. She eats and drinks off it, so she returns home for a bucket, and fills
it close to the brim. All the other streams and rivers were burned away, but not this one.
She still remembers the stream through her eyes of childhood.
It was bigger, back then.
It was also very polluted, so she considers it better off after the war. It healed itself, something that she was
amused by. The name was the pearl river delta, though she now calls it the river of hope. It was famous
before, and the fact that it stands after the war is hope.
S
