Fiction: Group 4
return back to the way it was. Right now, the only thing left reminiscent of the land before was the same
cool, flowing river and the few jagged rocks that lay nearby.
—————
“Mother, look, what’s that?” seven-year-old Cecelia pointed into the distance at wisps of faint grey smoke
rising into the air. “Look!”
Her mother, a tall, dark-haired lady, gasped loudly as she caught sight of the charred landscape, hand
automatically flying up to her mouth to stifle the sound.
“Mother?” Cecelia tilted her head questioningly, tugging at her mother’s arm, curiosity swimming in her
eyes.
Her mother shook her head, quivering in fear. She drew Cecelia closer to her, wrapping a protective arm
around her shoulder as she let out a shaking breath. She was so afraid, so,
so
afraid of the black smoke and
the ruined land and the -
She took large, gasping breaths in an attempt to calm her shaking nerves.
“Cecelia,” the mother started softly. “T-that’s… that’s a fire, something very, very dangerous. You must
promise me that you won’t go anywhere near it, alright?”
Cecelia pursed her lips dutifully at her mother’s tone, but nodded nonetheless. “I promise…”
Her mother breathed a sigh of relief before hugging Cecelia tightly, a gesture that, she convinced herself,
would keep her daughter from any harm’s way.
Caw! Caw!
Both mother and child spun backgrounds in surprise at the eagle that had swooped down from the sky onto
the ground a few meters away in front of them.
Cecelia’s surprise soon morphed into something different, something
joyous
- she clapped her hands
together, mouth curving upwards as small bubbles of laughter erupted from her.
“Mother, mother, look!”
Her mother pushed Cecelia anxiously towards the direction they had come from. “Not now, Cecelia. It
isn’t safe to stay here…”
Cecelia didn’t budge. She was utterly captivated by the large bird in front of her. “But… it’s an eagle. I want
to play with it.”
Her mother sighed, glancing around her surroundings for any sign of immediate danger. “No, Cecelia, you
can’t play with wild creatures like that. It’s dangerous. What if you get hurt?”
Cecelia stamped her foot against the ground stubbornly. “But I want to play!”
Her mother was resolute. “No. I’m sorry to have to say this, but no, you
can’t.
Now, come on, the sun’s
going to go down if you keep this up.”
Cecelia frowned, recognising this as her mother’s strict voice, something she often used when Cecelia had
been bad.
