Fiction: Group 3
Fire and Chocolate
Elsa High School, Fischer, Ben - 13, Fiction: Group 3
he old book was dusty.
It had a mottled, deep chocolate cover, a colour so consuming she tasted it upon her lips; a colour
so deep it only complimented to the attic’s friable frame. The sunlight of the late noon shone bright
through the high upstairs window, creating an entrancing shadow which lay upon the book like a menacing
arrow. It seemed strange, she wondered, for such a book to be in this state. The bare room could barely
support itself; creaks were often heard in the night. The house was meant to be empty, but the petty items
of the household still resided. Returning out of the deep thought the very cover of the dusty book brought
her into, she gingerly reached her long, pale fingers and curled them under the cover of the precious
manuscript. The pages were cracked and frail. Cautious, she flipped to the first page as she had so many
times with her beloved books. As if preying upon the unopened seal of some tomb, she began to read.
I was given this book by a Mongolian traveller, to record my journey with the hope it will bring me success
on my mission. I am now flying over Nepal, the mountains passing before me. My precious cargo sits on my
lap. Andrew is sleeping beside me.
There was a large black puddle on the page that seemed to be ink.
The plane went down. It has been three days now. Andrew is dead. He survived the crash, just him and me.
There were forces on the ground. I took the chest and ran. I did not look back. They are searching for me,
a whole platoon. Germans, it appears. I fear they know of the chest…they are coming. I hope I can write
again.
The small, rocky boat made its way along the Pearl River Delta. I am the sole passenger. The navigator and
captain is a shrivelled old man, but I trust nobody now. After Shanghai…I have not had the time to write
again. We should be making port in Macao shortly. I wish I had the time to recount my adventures since,
but time is of the essence and I must keep an eye out. I will not allow more surprises. It may be a long time
until I can write, though I will try. My cargo is intact, but I will not let it out of my sight. I hope I succeed.
The cannons all fired; smoke billowed out of the barrels and the cannons rolled back on their heels. The
ringing in my ears would not stop, an endless pounding, a sound of drums so loud my eardrums seemed as
though they would burst. Faintly, I could hear the sound of a hundred things. Gunfire, penetrating the
walls, riddling them just as they did my brother’s chest. The commanding officer, shouting commands to
ready the cannons once more. Horses whining as they fell to the ground, their riders crushed. The memories
of these past few days still shine bright in my head. Christmas day could not grow worse. The College has
been taken, the West Brigade Fallen. I am writing here as I watch my city burn. The chest I have made such
an effort to deliver sits beside me. I do not have the courage to open it; for then it would be to acknowledge
that I have failed. Failed my duty, my country, my city- for in the end, Hong Kong is my city-I have
fought for it, and I will die for it. If this does not mean anything, nothing does. But alas, these are the
desperate murmurs of a dying man. The Japanese are nearing. If they gain the contents of this chest, the war
is lost. So I will hide it.
The next few pages were yellowed and torn, making the delicate and tall English handwriting
undecipherable. Beyond that numerous lines and sentences were missing or inked out. Taking no time to
ponder all that has been read and the excitement that lay within it, she turned to the nearest readable point
and continued.
It has been done. The chest… is hidden. I can only hope they will not find it. It… If they find it the battle is
lost. Already we have lost. Our spirit is diminished, and that is always the first to be lost. I can only hope the
next will not be more lives. I have no complaint, and I am content with my fate- It is not long now until
they find me. There is fire before me, a fire that has left my heart. I am drained. I have travelled through
deserts and oceans, battlefields and warzones, only to fail my mission. The contents of the box… city…
Andrew died for nothing. The battle is already lost. I cannot live with the burning memories that have torn
through my head like the plague of war spreading across the world. Here, now, is the Fall of Hong Kong.
The world is broken, unrecognizable. We will kill ourselves for no purpose, rip the world to pieces for what
gain? Nothing. Anger has filled inside of me, providing the embers of the fire that once raged inside me, but
there is nothing I can do. I will die alone. Death is not a fearful thing; it never was, but the sudden clarity
that has struck me is something to fear indeed. Life is but a short interval between death and birth, and
T
