Short Stories

The Crossing
By Alice Dawson

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There are two things I know for certain. One: I have to cross this lake before dawn. Two: there are sirens in the lake. And they are hungry.

Not a great situation to be in, if I’m honest.

Moonlight dances over the lake, shimmering and shining. The beauty of it is deceiving. I look away in terror.

A blonde boy behind me nudges my shoulder. “You’re holding up the line!” he growls.

Making friends has never been my strong suit. But half of us will be dead by sunrise, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.

“That ginger girl will never make it to the island,” one of the girls near me sneers. “Look at those tiny arms!”

Strength comes in many forms. My father’s voice echoes in my mind.

The horn blares, and the crowd scatters. Some charge into the water without hesitation, their muscles flashing. But seconds later, a scream tears through the dark. A bloom of red stains the surface of the water.

Bile burns the back of my throat.

How do I get across without swimming?

My eyes catch sight of a row of trees along the shore.

Trees.

Wood.

I can make a raft.

Sprinting to the treeline, I discover a few others have the same idea.

The blonde boy yanks at the branches. I do what he’s doing, but it’s no use. My arms are too weak.

He starts laying the wood together, but he has no idea how to tie them. I spot a nearby bush and seize my opportunity. The boy curses when he realises he has no rope.

I slump beside him, twisting the vines into lashings. He tries to cut me off, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“We have a better chance of survival if we team up,” I plead.

He hesitates, glancing at my scrawny arms. Another scream from the lake pierces our ears.

“Alright then. Go get more of that.”

We tie the last beam as the moon climbs higher.

“Ready?” I whisper.

“Not remotely,” he replies dryly. Our eyes meet, and I notice the small speckles of gold in his deep irises.

The water bites like ice when we push off. We paddle hard, each gripping a large plank of wood. Shadows start to circle below, but I don’t dare look down. A hand bursts from the water, webbed fingers grasping the edge of our raft. The boy swings his makeshift oar. It shrieks, then vanishes beneath the ripples. We are a mess of breathless pants, not speaking a word until our raft hits the sandbank of the island.

We stumble onto the beach, gasping and shaking, but alive.

“I’m Laura, by the way.”

“Arthur,” he replies.

Before us, a large flame marks the entrance into the Gateway. Arthur grasps my hand as we step over the barrier. The flame flares with light.

And for the first time, I don’t look away.

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A Note From Our Guest Judge, Jordan McGarry

I really enjoyed meeting these two characters, Laura and Arthur, and discovering their fledgling relationship. Even outside of the precarious situation they find themselves in, they come across well as a distinct and dare I say amusing pair, with their dry humour. While they have made it across the lake in time to find (relative) safety, I am curious to know more about them and what they might encounter through the Gateway.