Fiction: Group 3
I felt the gentle, pitter-pattering rain on my skin, delicate like a mother’s kiss. The surface of the Pearl
River was tranquil, and the 414 souls of the deceased in 1813 gazed up at the moonlit sky.
The Pearl River Asylum stared down upon me, a giant awakening at the dead of the night.
Adrift in the Fragrant Harbour
The British International School Shanghai, Puxi Campus, Gawthorpe, George -13,
Fiction: Group 3
Nothing. That was all he could remember. Nothing.
He stared out at the huge, majestic, almost teeth-like buildings, punching through the clouds. Everything
seemed so familiar, yet so distant. The clouds started to turn pink as the sun set. He saw them, but really all
he was doing was searching. Searching. And searching. He searched the clouded depths of his brain for
something. Anything. But there was only...
Nothing.
Now the darkness set in; the last glimpses of the orange sun faded away beneath the horizon. The wind
howled, in a high-pitched scream, and then it stopped. Where the icy buildings had once been, there was
nothing. For one moment the whole city seemed to hold its breath – nothing moved – as if it were a
predator stalking its prey, ready to jump, every muscle coiled ready to spring. Waiting. Anticipating. And
then leaping. One by one, each building along the landscape lit up - one, after another, after another.
They chased each other in a colourful race. One building would light up, and then two more. They would
catch up with each other and then spread outwards in different directions. They painted the skyline in a
colourful blanket of neon light.
However, the same questions kept going round in his head.
“Who am I?”
“Where am I?”
“Why am I here?”
He wracked his brain looking for something – anything – he could remember. Then it came all at once.
Like an electric shock, it ran down his spine and along his arms, making the hair on the back of his neck
stand up. Finally, it stopped. He gasped.
He remembered one name. He reached for it, trying to pick the fragile antique out of the cloudy depths of
his mind. But he was clumsy at this kind of thing, and the name slipped away into the abyss. It was gone.
The next morning, he was tired. Cold. And hungry. He had spent the night sleeping on a bench and had
his coat draped over himself. The sun had only just come up, so he knew it was pretty early too. Today the
birds twittered merrily, singing to each other as they went about their business. The pine trees stood tall,
like guards on duty. They creaked as their leaves and branches slowly swung, being pushed by the gentle
breeze. The air felt crisp on his skin and litter was swiftly sliding over the path. He got up from the bench.
Everything felt so quiet and peaceful. It had been hard to see last night – because of the dark – but now he
could see that he had stumbled into some sort of park.
He followed the nearest path to the edge of the park. The streets were already starting to fill up with
people. Now he could see where he was, much more easily. He was on the corner of a junction; the
buildings around him were, obviously, not modern. They had black-tiled roofs with stone chimneys
coming out the top. The bodies of the houses were white (probably made from wood) and had tinted
windows in them. The doors were all black with a lion embellished into the knocker. In short, the houses
were old-fashioned. He had no idea where he was.
