Dulwich Despatch
Page 6
Creative Writing
Farm Lake It was a cold October night at Gort; there was no evidence of any tracks in the papery earth, nor the evidence that someone had cycled there by Farm Lake. There should have been, but tonight was different. He ran... a scream, but still, there was nothing in the ripped seedy abysses that gaped at him between every tree. The withered leaves dangled like dead men hanged by rope; cracked and shrivelled, veins bulging like old fingers. The branches of the trees lurched, bowed and wretched in agony as the wind sent cascading booms, clawing at the bark as the ripples flooded up the trunk. The stagnant folding water on the lake looked like the waste from a charnel house, creeping up the muddy banks. He was the only one left, desperately gasping for air as he scrambled up the loose rock of the ramshackle track that led to Mr Gren's field, where he kept the horses. He knew a town, it was just over the hill; he would be safe from it there. Numbers were the only thing that could stop it; a nearby sanctuary where he didn't need to be smart and quick, but he was running out of time. It was getting closer, he could feel it. A long shape was coming into view; it was the field fence, but in the overwhelming dark he could not estimate the distance of the nearing obstacle. He heard a wail and suddenly burst into a rapid spree of sprinting: he jumped. A violent shock hit him in the legs. He hit the
ground hard and felt a gruesome liquid dribble down his left leg. He felt around it and came across a sharp substance; it was barbed wire, and it had torn into his leg. It was deep. His eyes darted around, it was then he saw it, walking towards the field. He desperately searched his pack for his knife. It was getting closer, searching for him. He tried to pull the wire off. There was a tearing sound, and a husky cry erupted from his throat and tears trickled down his cheeks. He found the knife. He clenched his jaw and began removing the wire from flesh, grimacing with utter pain. He was loose, but it was now striding towards him. He clasped the knife and limped helplessly towards the town, now only a few stones-throw away. It was quicker than him now; he'd have to be smart.
Illustration by Alex Mellis, 8L
He glanced at the wooden barn, then changed his course, knowing it might be his only chance. It was nowhere to be seen. He clambered into the barn via the stable window. He sat between the hay bales panting. The barn's back door led to Jay Street: he was nearly there. He pulled up his trouser leg; his limb was raw and still had strands of wire clinging to it. But he
(Continued on page 7)
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