Henrietta felt intrigued by the girl in the mask from the first day she walked into the school. Everyone was fascinated with the girl in one way or another, though Henrietta’s curiosity extended beyond mere fascination, verging on jealousy that she wasn’t the first to come up with the idea of wearing a mask to school every day. Henrietta knew from experience that students don’t attempt something as bold as wearing a mask to school without expecting to be tested and Henrietta was particularly skilled at putting your ideas about how the world should be to the test. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” Henrietta’s grandmother repeated the phrase enough for it to be etched into her daily internal dialogue. Henrietta gave herself three days to try and come up with a better idea, but, in the end, she accepted that the only way to test the girl’s resolve would be to take the mask from her and find out what lies underneath.

Henrietta knew to be sceptical of all information contained in the first wave of rumours. Theories about burn marks and operations were, therefore, quickly discarded, but not before scouring through the details of the rumour to see which elements matched up with reality. Although an easy rumour to accept, burns or scars didn’t make any sense as this wasn’t the type of mask you would wear if you wanted to draw attention away from yourself. Attention was definitely an important piece of the puzzle here but certainly didn’t complete the puzzle itself.

For the first three days, Henrietta watched the girl in the mask from a distance. She wanted to know if the girl would be open to a frank conversation about the mask, but, due to everyone tiptoeing around the girl in the mask like she was made of glass, Henrietta never really got to observe her in conversation at all. Henrietta’s abrupt nature would cause the girl in the mask to completely shut down, making it impossible to know how much longer it would be before any solid answers could be given. Henrietta’s best friend, Polly, wasn’t much help, either, keeping herself grounded by refusing to charm the girl in the mask and source information on Henrietta’s behalf. Henrietta didn’t have to spend too much creative energy devising new plans to gain the attention of the girl, because, on the third day of observing her patterns of behaviour, the girl in the mask approached Henrietta herself.

Calm down and think. What are the facts? They are here for the diary, and they are not violent. That much I know. With all of the commotion downstairs, I could easily rip out the pages and eat them or flush them down the toilet of our upstairs bathroom, and they wouldn’t be any wiser. Interesting I should be thinking about that at the moment, given I’d managed to get myself into this mess by being far less than wise. Still, I have time to think, so that’s probably what I should be doing. Maybe they’re not here for the diary. Maybe they’re here for, I dunno, food or something. I’ve got to stop kidding myself because there’s no time to be kidding myself. That’s something I’ll have plenty of time for once everything has calmed down.

I could potentially hide the diary in plain sight. You know, leave it lying there beside my hairbrushes on the dresser. I read about that once. The whole theory is that if you walk, talk and act confidently enough, you can pretty well get away with hiding anything in plain sight. It’s based on the assumption most people are decent people, so our brains are already primed to be actively seeking all the good things people do. Though, given the noises below, I’m going to go ahead and admit, now is not the right time to be toying with untested theories. It’s always good to have a backup plan just in case you get stuck when the timer runs out. Trying something was going to be better than not trying at all.

Ok. Back to the facts. They were here for the diary, and they are not violent. The truth is, I don’t possess much more information about them than your average person, but that’s apparently enough to get them curious. Writing down what I do know wasn’t the silly part. Telling Henrietta Cronenberg. That was the real mistake. Her flair for getting the information she wants out of people is matched only by her desire to spread her newfound knowledge around the town like a wildfire she was proud to start. I’d bother telling her about the consequences her actions had if I thought that it would do any good. But, with Henrietta, ‘doing’ and ‘good’ rarely make it into the same sentence.

I hate the sound of their wings. It sends my skin into a fit of goosebumps every time. It’s like a rattlesnake but a million times worse. Unfortunately, it’s also the best indication I have as to how close they’re getting to my bedroom. The only other student I know who has heard the sound is Haley. The story goes that she had left the school and made her way down to Crow’s Nest Pond where she had somehow managed to get them angry enough that they chased after her. That’s all they ever seem to do is chase. It’s almost as if they just want to make you scared enough not to want to bother them again but that they really wouldn’t hurt you even if you went back for a second helping.

It’s embarrassing that I’ve stooped this low, but, here I am, under my bed, clutching the diary to my chest and staring up at the underneath of my mattress. There’s not enough room for me to lie on my side, so the best I can do is to turn my head and look through the crack between my bedroom door and the floor for any signs of movement. The erratic shadows moving on the other side of the door and the gut-wrenching sound of their wings are working in perfect harmony to get my heart beating faster than it ever has done before. They’re close now. A short, sharp bang happens just outside my doorway followed closely by a deafening silence that only makes me feel more uneasy. I hold my breath just for a moment, trying to imagine what is happening on the other side of the door.

Two cockroaches start crawling on the carpet under my door and head straight towards me. Being trapped under my bed, the only word I can think of is ‘sneaky’. They found me without even trying. I move to hold the diary out to them, defeated by magic, or witchery, or whatever was powering this situation. That’s when my dad walks into my room. He yells something I can’t make out and before I can stop him, he takes off his shoe and squashes one of the roaches with a single swift blow. I’m in shock at what I’ve just seen but nowhere as shocked as when the second roach spreads its wings and flies down the stairs and out of the house for good.

Although he’s pretty chuffed with himself, I can only imagine the joy that’s going to come from my dad being the hero. Pretty sure they’re not going to like being told that one of their own kind is dead. Given his goofiness, it’d be pretty funny if my dad ended up being the one who started a war between ‘us’ and ‘them’. But, then again, I’m going to need all of the humour I can use over the next few days until I figure out their next move. Except for this time, I won’t be unwise enough to write it down. Well, at least not to share it with the wrong person anyway.

Claire sat on the gutter beside the new bike that her grandmother had bought her for her eighth birthday, her hands holding up the weight of her chin while she watched the other children in the street playing a mixed-sport edition of tag. Three were on scooters, two were on foot, and three others had bikes. One of the older boys in the group, Sam, stopped his red and black BMX bike in front of Claire with so much force that he performed an unintentional skid, leaving a black mark on the road.
“You know, this is meant to be fun, right?” Sam asked sarcastically.
“It’s not my fault my parents never taught me how to ride!” Claire responded with such passion that Sam considered leaving her there on her own. Instead, he opted to show her compassion. He hopped off his bike, took off his helmet and leaned his bike against the tree behind where Claire was sitting. She was looking up at him as he made his way back in front of her.
“Has anyone ever told you about the bird method?”

Claire raised her eyebrows and pulled a face similar to the one she had made when her mother brought out homemade soups with names that nobody at the dinner table could pronounce.
“It’s pretty simple,” Sam said. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Although small fountains of rage bubbled underneath, Claire’s demeanour didn’t change all that much as Sam put his fingers in his mouth and produced three short, sharp and piercing whistles, each note complementing the last. Awkward silence in the form of an unofficial staring competition occurred between the two of them for at least one minute before Claire got distracted by the sound of a single crow squawking from the tree where Sam had parked his bike.

Claire felt the crow staring at her, and she pushed her hand down in the recently cut grass, subconsciously moving her own body away from the crow’s attention. Sam knelt down to intercept and the two of them locked eyes again, though Claire’s eyes were wider than they were a minute ago. Sam took this opportunity to say something that might calm her down. “Trust in the birds,” he said calmly. Claire swallowed and turned her head back around to face the crow. She followed the crow’s movements with her eyes as he flew off into the sky, circling above the houses. Out of the corner of the sky, two more crows appeared. Then five and ten, possibly more. The other children had stopped playing their game at this stage and had gathered around Claire and Sam, their mouths open wide as they stared at the black mass forming above them. Once Claire could no longer keep count, she squinted her eyes and tilted her head to the ground in preparation for what was to come.
In an impressive act of synchronicity, the crows swooped down towards Claire, some using their talons to carry Claire off the ground using her T-shirt while others swooped under her legs to provide support as they carried her into the sky as if she were sitting on an imaginary chariot.
Thanks to the effect of the dizzying heights, Claire struggled to make out the activity occurring below her, but it looked as though her bike was being wheeled out into the middle of the street. The crows carried her high above the houses, towards the end of the road. No longer moving forward, the crows flew from side to side until Claire was facing her bike. She could now make out that Sam and Brody were holding her bike upright but she didn’t have time to thoroughly absorb the situation before the crows started carrying Claire down towards her bike at a speed that Claire imagined would even make the skydivers she had read about in her books nervous. She dared not close her eyes as the crows approached the bike so that she could get into position before impact.
The crows carried Claire onto the bike and the two boys let go of her bike just in time to allow her to get some control before shooting off down the street at a tremendous speed. Most of the spectators let out a chorus of “ohs” and “ahs” as Claire rocketed towards the end of the road, pushed by the force of numerous energetic crows. Every time she went to lean too far one way or the other, the crows would help her regain her balance.

Eventually, Claire began to slow down, her momentum giving way to the connection between the road and her wheels. As a result of the fast pace at which she had landed on the bike, everything now seemed to be happening in slow motion. Claire could think clearly while feeling the slightest wobble one way or the other and her legs and arms cooperated at the perfect rate for her to maintain the required speed to remain balanced. Claire turned her bike around at the end of the street, the crows taking this as their cue to fly off over the horizon.

Claire approached the crowd of kids whose jaws were still yet to shut, yelling, “Trust in the birds!” before using the brakes to perform an impressive skid and coming to a stop just in front of the impressed onlookers.
“Now, let’s play tag,” Claire announced, high-fiving Sam as she weaved her way around the bikes and scooters and children on foot.

Christopher sat cross-legged on the edge of the deceptively bumpy rock that would lead him to the entrance of the cave. He wasn’t avoiding going in; he knew in his heart that he would make his way underground when he was ready. Given the heft of the situation, however, taking a quiet moment to reflect on the beauty and the evils of the world didn’t strike him as being too much of an unreasonable activity. He reflected on the stories of his favourite comics, particularly the ones so well written that the emotions they evoked stayed with him long after putting the comic down on his bedside table. Christopher pondered on the idea that, for every superhero in the comic-book world, there was an equally ambitious and dedicated villain who, through both explicit and implicit motivations, worked tirelessly with a view of destroying the hero, granting the villain access to the unlimited power they felt as though they deserved.

Christopher saw himself as the villain, the one who didn’t quite fit in with the happiness of the real world. It wasn’t due to a lack of empathy; he knew when people were enjoying themselves, and he didn’t go out of his way to sabotage their enjoyment. The thought stemmed from the belief that he could see through the good times and project the hidden, darker motivations over the top of everyone’s behaviours and interactions. He reasoned that he was too young to present these feelings in a way that anyone else would understand, so he thought it best that he make his way underground, where he could live without the pressures of justification.

The cave beckoned Christopher, so he rose to his feet, providing his legs a moment to catch up to the motivations of his mind. He closed his eyes in appreciation of the poetic sounds of the waves merging to double their impact as they crashed below. The sound of a seagull warning others to keep away from his meal forced Christopher to open his eyes. He smiled ever so slightly as he turned to enter the cave, leaving his belongings by the edge of the rock.

Christopher treated each step with care on his way towards the cave while working up the courage to peek beside the entrance to make sure that Billy had lived up to his end of the deal. He smiled when he spotted the white-handled shovel leaning against the rocks and picked it up, its weight making him feel unexpectedly powerful. He tapped the shovel on the edge of the cliff twice before walking into the cave and out of the sunlight forever.

“You know, I can’t decide if you’re crazy or a genius.”

Christopher’s heart skipped a beat, and he froze. Billy Coates emerged from the shadows of the shallow cave, standing in just enough light for Christopher to make out his shape while waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

“Don’t freak out,” Billy said as he walked along the opposite edge of the cave, running his finger along the lines of its walls. Christopher could make out some of the details of the cave’s far wall where he wanted to dig.

“I’m gonna let you do whatever freaky stuff you’ve come here to do. In fact, you can think of me as your number one fan,” Billy said sarcastically as he chuckled at the delivery of his own joke. “Anyone who has the guts to get out of this town has my blessings, that’s for sure.”

Christopher remained silent and stared at Billy, the curl of his lip betraying his anger at Billy’s nerve in encroaching on this moment.

“Like I said, don’t freak out, digger boy. I’ll leave you be.”

Billy whistled a familiar lullaby as he left the cave, its echo remaining long after he disappeared out of view. Christopher closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What happens when the villain has an arch nemesis of his own? In one swift movement, Christopher lifted the shovel above his head and drove its sharp edge into the wall of the cave, the sound of crumbling rock bringing a smile to his face. One that was going to be hard to get rid of for as long as he kept on digging.

The ocean breeze felt significantly colder against Christopher Duckworth’s pale skin than when he’d entered the crystal-clear water less than fifteen minutes ago. Lawson’s Bay presented itself well to tourists and locals alike on most days but, today, Christopher had come here to make sure that he spent his remaining moments above the ground in a meaningful way. Struggling to think of a time when the emerald greens and the sky-blues surrounding the bay carried more vibrancy, Christopher resisted drying himself with his blue and white towel for as long as he could before turning his attention to rocky cliff faces surrounding the bay. The sounds of families laughing faded into the distance as Christopher used his eyes to trace his route across to Henrietta’s Cave. Christopher turned from the cliffs, smiling at the immense delight that beaches, particularly Lawson’s Bay, tended to cultivate in people. Christopher reasoned that Lawson’s Bay must be one of the most highly sought after places to live on Earth, so it made sense for him to be here given that today, he had made the decision to live underground forever.

After shaking his head and redirecting his attention towards his belongings, Christopher threw his towel over his right shoulder and picked up his T-shirt before making his way towards the boulders marking the bay’s edge. Once behind the boulder, Christopher threw his T-shirt back on and looked around to see if anyone was watching. Not surprised to discover that no-one was particularly interested in him or his activity, Christopher ignored the strategically placed warning signs and continued rock-hopping across the dangerously jagged surfaces at the base of the cliff, occasionally leaning back to avoid the splashback from the waves aggressively ending their long journey across the ocean beneath him.

Having made it safely across the narrow ridge snaking its way up the cliff face, Christopher was rewarded with an opportunity to calm his nerves and to regain some energy while trekking across a larger, flatter rock surface for the next few minutes. Christopher’s thoughts scattered far and wide, settling on a series of unsettling questions.

What if Billy forgot to put the shovel where he said he was going to leave it?

What if even more sinister events prevented him from reaching his goal?

How long before he could work up the courage to complete this task again if he failed at it today?

The terms of the deal between Christopher and Billy were agreed upon following a serendipitous encounter in the school’s cafeteria the week before, where the more entrepreneurial students gather to trade food for favours. Due to the rare nature of at least five of the food items on the canteen’s menu, a favour of equal or lesser value is never hard to come across. For fear of being mocked, Christopher remained silent for most of his school day. On this day, however, Christopher stuck his neck out of his shell long enough to walk away with a commitment that the shovel would be delivered, all for the reasonable price of three hamburgers purchased over as many weeks. A handshake was made and the deal was set in stone.

It’s funny how your identity changes when you wear a mask every day for three years. You feel like the only one who ever gets to see the real you, so you’re forever questioning who your friends, family and acquaintances are interacting with. If it’s not the real you, then it must be a fake you. I spent far too long trying to uncover the answers to these questions, so I’ve settled on the following response: You’re interacting with me. Just me in a mask. I mean, I don’t get all funny because you’re wearing a hat to hide your hair or clothes to cover your legs, so why should you question me about why I choose to wear a mask?

The fact remains that there is more than one reason why I wear the mask, anyway. Is it for attention? Well, it didn’t start out that way, but I can’t say that I’ve not enjoyed the added attention I’ve received. Is it because I’m shy? On the one hand, the mask draws attention to itself when meeting people for the first time or in situations where wearing a mask might be considered taboo, which is pretty much everywhere. On the other hand, however, the mask makes it easier to blend into the background in situations where people tend to leave you alone and you can almost feel a stranger’s relief when they realise they’re standing or sitting next to someone with whom there is no pressure to interact. So, although many individuals claim to be baffled and bemused by the fact I wear a mask, I believe that, for the most part, I’m also performing something of a social service by giving others an excuse to sit in a comfortable silence next to a stranger, both of us thinking about how all we have to do is think and not talk. Is it for highly intellectual purposes or because I think I’m better than everybody else? Yes, that’s it. You’ve got me all figured out. I think I’m smarter than everybody else, so I wear a mask. Way to go, Sherlock!

The mask itself is relatively innocuous, with its off-white surface and minimal decoration, so, at first, I was terribly confused as to why people found it so offensive. My common sense eventually prevailed, though, and I understood that people have a desire to see the face of the person they’re speaking to nearly as much as they have a desire to eat or breathe. In this regard, it’s also not something you think about until you are faced with a situation where the person you’re interacting with deliberately hides their face from you. Even then, you’re not going to have an enjoyable time trying to put into words why it is that you find the fact that I hide my face so offensive.

In any case, I’m not actually hiding from you, I’m saving myself. Wearing this mask is a highly selfish act and you should be offended. You should be offended that I am choosing to keep my own fear at bay rather than to interact with you on a level that allows us to explore some of the deeper meanings to our existence. Instead, we’ll both struggle to move past the point where you ask me for the umpteenth time, Why are you wearing that mask? How shallow of me to put my feelings first and to disregard your emotions with such frivolity! And, yet, how noble of me to presume that, were it not for my selfish endeavour to cover up my face, our interaction has the potential to move past the mundane and into the ‘realm of the fascinating’.

Let’s be frank. You and I both know by now that everything I’ve said boils down to one word: Fear. And, you’re right. I am scared. Not about your typical, “woe is me, I’m scared of what other people think of me” type of fear but a genuine, blood-curdling fear about something you will never understand. Not unless you lived here in Greenvale. Then you’d feel it and maybe, just maybe, you might be able to sympathise with me. Who am I kidding? You’ll never get it. So yeah, I may be scared, but at least I have the courage to admit it and to do something about it.

So, I ask you, instead: What’s your excuse for wearing a mask?

That’s what I thought.

The saga began when Kilo refused to ‘bob for apples’ at Jack DeLong’s ninth birthday party. Though clearly passionate, Jack’s six-year-old sister, Samantha, used her high-pitched voice to relay the rules of the game in excruciating detail to Kilo, fuelling his distaste for a game that was, quite frankly, demeaning at best and degrading at worst and certainly not worthy of an individual possessing even a fleeting desire to graduate Greenvale School with his dignity intact. Taking this opportunity to reflect on matters far more worthy of his time, Kilo excused himself from the kitchen where the events were about to take place and went and sat on the living room sofa. As if she had been waiting for Kilo her whole life, Jack’s pet cat, Luna, jumped up into his lap, purring so ferociously that Kilo chuckled at the thought that she may have swallowed a miniature motorbike. Luna dedicated the next several seconds to padding down Kilo’s jeans and, once the desired softness had been achieved, curled up into a perfect ball on his lap.

Kilo admired the esteem with which cats held themselves, but it was their ability to get humans to adhere to their every whim that impressed him the most. With one or two well-timed meows, cats could force humans to feed them, open doors for them or organise a place for them to sleep. Their entire day was filled with doing exactly what they wanted: nothing less and certainly nothing more. The sounds of laughter drifted further into the background as Kilo and Luna silently encouraged each other to close their eyes and drift off to sleep.

It was difficult for Kilo to think of anything worse than waking up to the sounds of seven out-of-tune children singing Happy Birthday, yet this was the exact predicament in which Kilo now found himself. Luna and Kilo looked at each other with equal amounts of disgust as the dreadfulness of their situation dawned on them. Kilo turned his body and rested his left elbow on the top of the sofa to better see the crowd desperately vying for the rare positions closest to the triple-layered chocolate cake. He squinted and yawned before picking Luna up from the cat-shaped ditch forged into his lap and made his way over to the table just in time for the crowd to cease their singing. The birthday boy dutifully drew in a deep breath and let out an almighty blow, much to the delight of both the younger and older people present at today’s celebration. The blow didn’t quite have the desired effect, however, leaving a single candle blowing alone in the stillness of the dining room. In what many students at Greenvale would later consider the catalyst for the following events, Kilo let out a subtle, yet very audible, chuckle.

Jack issued an intense challenge to Kilo for him to do better, emphasising the importance of ensuring all nine candles on the cake be completely blown out should he stand any chance of receiving the benefits associated with the elusive wish. Although he found the tradition of blowing out candles to be far more odd than people gave it credit for, Kilo had exactly zero intentions of leaving this party with a tainted reputation, so he accepted the challenge. Once they had been lit, Kilo lifted his head back, took a breath and blew every single one of the candles out for good. Kilo would never know if the party guests were genuinely impressed by his efforts, or if they were clapping loudly just to encourage the moment to end a little quicker. Either way, all of the candles had been blown out just as his friend had asked and, just for his own amusement, Kilo made sure he made a wish while watching the last puff of black smoke drift out from the top of the red and white candle.

That was three weeks ago, and Kilo had been trapped inside of a cat’s body ever since. He had made the wish “to be a cat” under the incorrect assumption that most wishes would, or could, never come true. Sitting down and licking the loose hairs from his body for the third time that day, Kilo now knew this was not the case. Although it had its positive moments, being a cat was nowhere near as grand or decadent as he had first presumed, but it was decent enough. As Kilo settled in for the night, lifting his head occasionally to sniff the night-time breeze finding its way through the open window in his room, his thoughts jumped from one idea to the next, with one burning question that he was unable to communicate: If he was here, then what had happened to Luna?

Nervous energy filled the surrounding arena. The crowds had looked forward to this moment for so long that they braved the torrential rain for what was easily the most anticipated race in modern history. Statistics were pored over in the days leading up to the event, with each of the racers’ strengths and weaknesses studied and analysed to better make conclusions about who would be crowned the winner and who would be deemed a loser. Firstly, there was Ainsley Adair. A first-time racer who had delighted crowds with his efforts in the pre-match events. Then there was Briony Bay, a veteran racer, known for patiently playing the long game. Despite the quality of the field, the favourite for today’s event was Clay Conell, a racer whose level of fame was only matched by his theatrics. Today would mark Clay’s fourth race, but, being a leaf in the intense world of gutter racing, four races was more than enough.

Dozens of excited sticks, ecstatic blades of grass and intensely dedicated birds waited in anticipation for the racers to arrive and take their places at their starting positions. There was an air of expectation surrounding Clay Conell’s entrance and he did not disappoint, his yellow body floating down from the sky in a series of flips, turns and tumbles after being released from the talons of one of the most majestic eagles the crowd had ever seen. This was classic Clay, and he was the reason most of the crowd were here. The commentators of today’s race did not hesitate in making the claim that Clay himself was solely responsible for the dramatic rise in the public’s interest in gutter racing, adding that, if Clay won today’s two-metre race, he would not only be crowned winner, but would be considered the greatest racer the gutter racing world had ever seen. If Clay was feeling half as nervous as the crowd when he took his position beside the other two competitors then he was certainly not showing it. With the three competitors lined up at the white pipe marking the start of the race, the umpires gave the signals for them to prepare to race and, a split second after the whistle blew, they were off.

Due to the consistency of the rain, the water levels in the grey concrete gutter had risen dramatically, resulting in a powerful current that Clay could use to his advantage. He shot out in front, sharpening his focus on the obstacles ahead. This was a difficult course, with three tufts of grass growing out of the cracks in the gutter at the thirty, forty-five and eighty-centimetre marks, their longer blades swaying back and forth across the width of the track. The shallow section between the ninety-five and one-hundred-and-twenty-centimetre marks would prove to be Clay’s undoing if he didn’t make the best use of his lead. Then there was the bend, where he might be able to gain some traction by making his way to the inside of the track. If everything went according to plan, Clay would be able to use his remaining strength along the straight, falling down into the drain first and claiming his place in gutter racing history.

Clay made easy work of the first and second tufts of grass, gliding past the first while ducking underneath the second in an act of pure showmanship. The crowd showed their appreciation, but Clay heard their cheers quickly turn from excitement to shock when he got himself caught on the blades of the third tuft of grass. Trying to keep the attention of the crowd while maintaining his lead, Clay used some of the strength he was saving for the upcoming shallows to flip himself over the waving grass, but it was too late and Ainsley now had possession of the lead. Seeing the mistake for what it was, Clay eased back, regaining some of his energy while providing the rookie with the false hope of having both the mental and physical games in the bag. As they approached the shallows, Clay could sense Briony’s patience aching to give way to action. He distracted the crowd from his lack of prowess in the shallows by spinning his body rapidly from one end of the shallow section to the other. Clay drifted out of his final spin, straightening himself up and reading the race as the crowd stood on their feet in anticipation of what was to follow. He wasn’t in the last position for long, using the inside of the bend to overtake Briony and set his sights on Ainsley. Clay’s theatrics and his passion for gutter racing overlapped as he raised half of his body out of the water, waving to the crowd and using the energy from their chants to power himself along the straight and overtake a very exhausted Ainsley Adair.

Falling into the drain in first place happened in slow motion, with each drop of water representing the hand of Mother Nature congratulating Clay on his commitment to being the best. Despite the illusion of ease with which Clay won most of his four races, the achievements that came from this race were the result of a lifetime of dedication.

Today, Clay would celebrate being a champion. Tomorrow, the world would continue to celebrate the art of gutter racing.

Krinsala stood in a forest whose beauty would have best been described by a poet or story writer. He secured his fighting stance by turning his body to the side and forcing his back foot down on the soil beneath him as if the Earth relied on its pressure to continue spinning. His sword was held in a black leather sheath hanging from his hip, adding considerable weight to how Krinsala perceived his body in space. His left hand held the sheath steady while his right hand ached to move in front of his body and remove the sword in preparation for the fight. His training had taught him how to channel this energy and to concentrate instead on his breathing. Krinsala’s master invested significant time patiently teaching him how the body could trick the mind into becoming calmer simply by slowing one’s breath. He inhaled the forest air while treating the speckled hints of pine vying for the attention of his mind as an unwelcome distraction.

Today, there would only be the fight.

Standing underneath a canopy on the perimeter of the clearing, Krinsala’s body remained still, his eyes scanning for movements in the mist. His breaths remained slow and deliberate so as not to give away his location and he was grateful for all of the discipline his master had taught him. His master never strayed from the narrative that Krinsala was unique and that he would one day be the greatest warrior the world had ever seen. For a moment, Krinsala’s thoughts drifted to considering the difference between thinking you can do something and knowing that you can. This brief distraction was nearly enough for Krinsala to miss the subtle movement of thousands of specks of mist being pushed through the forest. When compared to how the mist behaves for a hare or a bird, Krinsala concluded that something large was navigating its way towards the clearing in the forest.

Appearing to make an attempt to confuse Krinsala, a shadow inched its way through the forest, its opaque outline betraying its location and determination. Krinsala gave his right hand permission to cross over his torso and grip the black-patterned cloth covering the handle of his sword. Krinsala allowed his mind to wander more freely and, before long, the outline of the creature was thick enough for Krinsala to be confident that he knew what he was dealing with. He tightened the grip on the handle to the point that his knuckles had gone white and, just as a spirit appeared out of the smoke of a fire, so too did the creature step out of the mist and into the clearing.

Krinsala exposed a hint of his sword’s reflective surface as he watched the creature start walking on his hooves, sniffing the perimeter of the clearing, its light grey horns contrasting against the dark, thick hair covering its body. It was not possible that the creature did not know that Krinsala was there, but, not only was it a creature of dignity, it had survived this long, knowing that rushing into a battle was the equivalent of signing your own death wish. When the creature was close enough for Krinsala to make out the individual hairs on its body, he drew out his sword slowly and completely and took a step forward into the clearing. Krinsala held the sword out in front of him, ready for whatever it was that was about to come his way. Staring deep into its soul without moving a muscle, Krinsala found the creature’s disappointment surprising. Knowing it was time to uncover what fate had in store for both of them, Krinsala transitioned his body into a weighted stance. “It is time, Master, to challenge what you think you know.” Krinsala and the creature bowed ever so slightly before taking a deep breath and charging towards one another.

The stars could sense that The Moon was not in the best of moods before they even had a chance to see her glowing face appear before them. Several bolder stars drew on their vast experience, claiming that they just knew it wasn’t going to be a great night while the shyer stars silently cradled their nerves. Among the quietest of them, a newborn star, Stellar, listened to the conversations with particular interest, observing how the older stars behaved in these high-pressure moments while admiring how brightly all of the other stars shone. Stellar’s response to stress was to continue looking into how to become a better star. Unfortunately, Stellar was the dullest star in the night sky and everybody knew it, including The Moon. So, over the months, some of the more supportive stars worked tirelessly with Stellar, attempting to match her eagerness about learning the art of being a star with the ever-present problem of a lack of space and a lack of time. There were only so many times The Moon was going to ignore her lack of light before replacing her with another, brighter star.

The stars had invented their motto several years earlier and it was something that Stellar repeated to herself before commencing each shift. Tonight, as The Sun’s light was replaced with darkness from one end of the sky to the other, Stellar repeated this motto until it was the only thing she could think about. ‘Shine bright, shine all night’. Even without the sense that The Moon might be in a particularly awful mood, Stellar struggled to maintain a decent brightness for any significant length of time. Occasionally, The Moon would make herself known to the other stars well before their shifts were due to begin. These surprise visits didn’t happen often, but when they did, The Moon would ask any stars not doing a wonderful job to leave her night sky. Stellar wasn’t quite sure where the stars ended up when they were asked to leave but she was sure that she wouldn’t want to go there. The stars had an important job and, if you weren’t up to the task, then you had to find yourself another job in the interests of working together to create the best night sky in the universe.

Stellar relaxed when she realised that The Moon was on time tonight and started performing her job to the best of her capabilities. If she felt as though she was unable to shine as brightly as she would have liked, then she would do her best to camouflage herself amongst a group of brighter stars. Tonight, however, The Moon’s impatience seemed to fuel the sharpness of her eye and, out of the billions of stars in front of her, she singled out Stellar, causing her heart to beat faster and faster. The Moon stared at Stellar for an eternity while the other stars looked on helplessly. “What is the work of a star?” The Moon asked Stellar, breaking the uncomfortable silence between them.
“To shine bright and shine all night,” Stellar answered in a wavering voice.
“These are just words,” responded The Moon. “Let me ask you another way.” Stellar had not expected a second chance. “What is your purpose?”
This question had caught Stellar off guard so it took her longer than she had hoped to answer it. “I help make the night sky the best that it can be.”
“Exactly,” responded The Moon. “And how do you expect to do that when you are not shining as brightly as the others?”
Stellar was convinced her time in the night sky was over. As she started to turn to leave, she saw something that she had never seen before. The Moon’s light flickered. Stellar dared not blink as she turned back to stare at The Moon, looking to see if any other stars had seen what she had seen. After several seconds it happened again. Though, this time, The Moon’s light completely went out.
“How dare you!” a booming voice sounded behind them. Stellar turned to see The Sun, the brightest star of them all, holding a planet between himself and The Moon, making The Moon appear duller than anything else in the night sky. The Sun released the planet, causing his own light to reflect off of the surface of The Moon. “Your light is not even your own, yet you think brightness gives you the right to decide who belongs here. This sky belongs to all of us.”
The Moon retreated and quickly found a place to hide.

It would be several weeks before any other star would see The Moon and, when she returned, she remained silent while Stellar took pleasure in knowing that even the dullest object could make the night sky a place of wonder.