Gabrielle Brenan (age 16)

A flame may burn brightly in the dark, but it’s the degree of the darkness that determines how much is illuminated. The balance of power.

The trees formed an interlocking canopy high above the man’s head. The forest had dimmed much more quickly than the plains that surrounded it. Thick leaves hid the stars from view and the wood felt very dark indeed.

The man had lit the torch not that long ago and, regardless of the strength of light, it made hardly a dent in the sea of darkness.

He knew it was a homing beacon but he couldn’t bring himself to put it out. To be stumbling blindly once more over rocks and trees. He’d be no good to anyone with a broken ankle. If that were to happen, he would most certainly die. So, he hoped that whatever beasties there were lurking in the dark would hide from the fire. After all, the unknown makes cowards of us all.

As he walked, the man thought. In the background memories darted by, one leading to the next. At the forefront, though, he was contemplating how strange it was to see only flashes of the landscape. The constant changing of tree trunks. The leaves that glimmered as the light brushed their damp colours. Monstrous shadows that loomed out of the dark. And the strange shifting of shapes, all innocent in the light, but horrifying in the dead of night.

He caught the occasional gleam of white that might have been eyes, and it made him nervous, because no matter what we tell ourselves, we all fear the unknown, and unfortunately, our minds are rather good at filling in the blanks.

Never really being able to see the full picture. In an abstract way, it is a rather apt metaphor for the human condition. Life is a puzzle with more missing pieces than we’d like to admit. Only ever able to draw conclusions based on assumptions that are maybe, possibly, correct. Perhaps?

The man laughed and the sound echoed eerily in the quiet. He shivered. How his friends would tease him if they ever found out that the big, bad wolf was trembling in the dark. Mulling over philosophy in the quiet hours of hunting. They’d never let him live it down. But, then again, they’d never find out. He forced his mind to go over his mission as he blundered through the undergrowth with his flaming torch that may as well have been a candle.

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He found the child cowering in among the roots of a tree: they rose out of the ground and made for an impressive hiding place. He made his way in cautiously and could see why she had chosen to hide there. It felt safe. He crouched to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. It was futile. The girl looked up and screamed.

The man held the light higher to better see her face. Her dirty-blonde hair hung limply around her pale face and he could see her brown eyes carefully tracing his face. From his scraggly stubble to his long, lank hair. Finally, her eyes rested on his – brown on blue – and she swallowed, nervously. The man smiled and set his torch into the ground. He held his arms out to the girl.

A sob crept up her throat as she launched herself at him. He caught her and held her away from the fire. Her body was cold and her fingers freezing as the brushed his neck. The man supressed and shiver.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to get lost.” Her voice was blurred; her words muffled by his thick vest.

“It’s alright, darling. I found you.”

Carefully, he crouched and released her. Picking up the torch, he turned his back to her, and she scrambled up, her arms winding around his neck, holding on as if he was her lifeline.

He walked back through the dark, following the trail he had made, his daughter’s face buried in his neck.