Senior Fiction Winner

Winners of the Lakefield Literary Festival’s Young Writers Contest are featured on these pages

THE STICKIEST OF SITUATIONS BY RACHEL VAN VLIET GRADE 12, ADAM SCOTT CVI, (MR. ELLIS)

I am burning hotter than magma. Somehow the sun’s rays are catering exclusively to my body, making me a concentrated mass of painful heat. The ice formerly floating along the surface had long melted, but its glacial juices do nothing to quench my flaming plea for relief. My lungs will soon surrender to the sugary liquid in which I marinate. This will allow my corpse to rise, and finally reach the oxygen at the top of this prison – although it will then be futile.

If only I had fallen sooner, I think regretfully to myself. I recall seeing the tank of harsh liquid full of ascending bubbles only an hour prior to my fall. These bubbles could have been my lifeline. I would have manipulated my frail body toward one, and it would have briskly carried me to the decadent oxygen at the gateway above me. These heroic casks of air had long popped. I am sentenced to this decarbonated, aspartame-infested hell for the duration of my life – an interval that promises mere minutes, and agonizing ones at that.

The scent of ginger that lingers in my nose is not a welcome one. When I first tumbled into this tub of liquid, I was pleasantly surprised by the organic smell of spicy ginger. But, alas, the duration of my visit served both to fill my lungs with syrup, and to fill my nose with distaste. The once-refreshing scent is now one most foul and stale. I long to scrape every stinging particle from the cavity of my nose, just to rid myself of the piercing odor.

My eyes dart around me, but I know my sight is restricted. The blurry image of moving figures is available for 360 degrees. The same fuzzy visions appear in my sightline that had been there when I first fell into this tank. I can scarcely identify a woman in a yellow dress, who is making conversation with a taller figure, whose clothes are a dull, charcoal grey. The image is foggy, as though projected from an old television set that struggles to keep its signal. If I turn my head in the opposite direction, I can see three tiny figures, made up of soft pinks, delicate blues and light yellows. I think of a freshly peeled banana when I see the pale-yellow figure. It crawls across a strip of navy blue, while its pink and blue counterparts remain stationary.

The muffled conversation fills my sore ears. My brain is only able to conclude that there indeed is a muddled sound, but makes no inquiry as to what the people are saying. They could be laughing at a lighthearted joke told by a friend – maybe he butchers the punchline, but that only adds to the humour. Perhaps they’re transferring the latest gossip from ear to ear, like a fuse of electricity, whose spark travels quickly and without pause. The new neighbours moved here from Ireland (Dublin, I think) and Mrs. Petri has another baby on the way (at her age?) and the Hudson family is thinking of adopting a new dog (oh, I do hope they keep it quiet) … Or maybe they’re discussing matters most pressing to human beings, such as taxes, or the stock market or politics or groceries or the weather or whose child is the most successful or whose house just sold for above the asking price. The unintelligible sounds stay a mystery to me, for they may as well be extraterrestrial noises – indecipherable, yet heavily intriguing.

Of course, all these details act as mere distractions from the plight I presently face. I am moments away from drowning. I direct my eyes towards the top of the glass cup. The sun is beating down, and nearly blinding me with its intense rays.

But something has changed… The sun no longer taunts me with its omnipotence, or its godlike radiation, no… It now fuels my determination like never before. The disdain I had felt has melted along with the ancient ice cubes from the surface. I want, no, need to escape.

I begin shaking my wings, fluttering them in attempt to push my body upward. All six of my legs kick forcefully, leaving trains of soda pop in their tracks. I am elevating.

My joy impedes me from noticing the hands wrap around the glass. A smooth, fleshy blanket hugs the cup, and my eyes meet the pink swirls that envelope the exterior. Then, all at once, the cup is raised, with me inside it. It happens quickly enough that I am unable to assess the situation, and the environment that changes around me. I am raised higher and higher until“Ew! There’s a fly in my drink!” The glass is released and I fall toward the earth. The cup hits the ground softly, without breaking. I, however, smash roughly against the side, ginger ale sloshing along either edge of the clear cylinder. I lie on my back, coughing and sputtering. The beverage continues to drain onto the grass, leaving me the oxygen it did not need. My lungs begin singing with ease, their hard work at last paying off. My sticky body is as sore as can be, but I could not have been happier.

Knowing I need to act fast, I heave over onto my belly, and crawl out of the cup as quickly as I can. I find sanctuary in a tall bed of grass next to a table leg – an apt place to recuperate before my wings are set for flight. I scan the garden party from my newfound perspective. I see the three babies crawling gleefully along the navy-blue blanket on the lawn. I see the yellow-dressed woman, seemingly bored trying to keep conversation with the pontificating businessman. I hope everyone is enjoying themselves. I, for one, can no longer complain. I am alive, and will one day be able to recount my story, of the fly who fell into the glass of diet ginger ale.