The Boy
Ashley, Age 11, Forster, NSW, Australia
The door slammed, echoing down the long hall. The boy woke up with a start. His father was calling him from the kitchen. The boy peeped around the kitchen door. Father had a sour expression on his face, like he bit into a mango and discovered it was as sour as a lemon. “Boy,” he called again. “Come here.” The boy crept into the kitchen, so carefully, so quietly, that if any one looked closely, he would appear as a silhouette.
His father saw him. The grey kitchen seemed to turn a shade greyer. The boy’s father loomed over him. He shouted. He screamed. He yelled. And it was all about The Door. The Door was a door. A plain old door. But the secrets it hid were mysteries. Until now.

The boy was walking. Just casually strolling through the house. Then he saw the door. It was big. It was black. It had a bronze handle. Something drew him to it. Maybe he heard it whispering secrets behind its oak doors. Something made him turn the handle. And something made him stroll into the awaiting darkness...

He was falling.

No one to catch him.

Down, down into the red fire. It waved its hands invitingly, dancing, whispering, tempting. The crackling grew louder; a buzzing filled his head, louder, louder, faster, and faster.  “Stop!” He screamed “Noooo........” His pleas for help faded...into nothingness.
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