I entered my short story "The Tower in My Dream" into an Australian schools contest. I know I'm one step closer to winning, because last time I entered four years ago, I didn't make it to the "Would you like to be published in our poem and short story anthology" stage. Well, this time I have made it that far.

I'm not getting any hopes up, but I'm half trying to tell myself I have a chance. Five hundred dollars could help me immensely with my savings for a new digital piano. I'd be more than happy with the $200 second prize. Hell, I'd be proud just to be a semifinalist.

It's all about the credits here.

That was the tower in my dream.

I pull myself up the ladder just like last time. People fall past me on both sides. It’s a shame. But I know they’ll wake up once they hit the ground. I remember the moment of utter fear I’d felt as I’d tumbled through the air.

And I know I’m dreaming, but I can’t stop climbing. And what will happen when I reach the top? Will I fall and colour the ground?

Perhaps.

But those few seconds of fear will be worth it just to wake up. Because I am tired of climbing. I’m tired of the itch in my hands caused by the dirt left behind from others’ shoes, and knowing I can’t stop to scratch.

Because if I do I will fall.

But why must this tower be so tall? There couldn’t be such a thing as an eternal ladder.

As the people fall by I sense their regrets.

The last thing he said to his wife.

The crush who never knew her.

And here I am without regret, for whatever I have done wrong I have paid back with a thousand rights. Another rung, another step. Another challenge to face. And each one I had faced head on, and thus here am I, climbing a ladder to the heavens.

Even hurled stones cannot stop me, for what stone can break the mould of destiny? The top of this ladder is where my future lies. There lies the future of all. Come stones, I challenge you. Empower me to strive further, for without hindrance there is no challenge, and without challenge there is no reward.

Reward without challenge is the devil’s friend, and those who practise the cheat’s way shall fall from the tower to meet their other destiny.

The people falling by try to latch onto me and bring me down with them. They can’t touch me. I’ve done nothing wrong.

The ladder is not eternal. I can see the top. My destiny awaits. I reach up and pull myself another step closer. As soon as I had started climbing, it seems, I pull myself over the ladder and stand on the top of a thin spire, room enough for only one foot. I dare to look down, one foot hanging over the edge. I don’t fall. I am perfectly balanced, and I am unafraid.

Here a light comes, from everywhere around. My destiny has been found. I am blinded by white. And there is nothing.

I sit up. I see a tower with a great ladder.

That was the tower in my dream.

The Fourth W'll

This is the first time I h’ve ever written ‘nything like this, wrote Ry’n. This is ‘ piece in which I will bre’k the fourth w’ll. Unfortun’tely, the [‘] on my keybo’rd h’s ce’sed to work, ‘nd thus ‘ll letters being the first letter of the ‘lph’bet will be repl’ced with ‘ [’]. But let this hinder us not. Without ‘ny further ‘do, we sh’ll st’rt the story.

J’ck is ‘ simple m’n. He lives in ‘ simple home, with simple neighbours, ‘nd he works ‘ simple job. Unfortun’tely, this simple job does not p’y p’rticul’rly well. But th’t isn’t why he is going to rob ‘ petrol st’tion in ‘bout h’lf ‘n hour.
He rushes out of the house. He knows even though his job doesn’t p’y p’rticul’rly well, he needs wh’tever money he c’n get. He stops ‘bruptly ‘nd looks to epic’lly into the sky.
“Who s’id th’t?” he ‘sks. Little does he know th’t authors do not live in the sky, but they ‘re ‘ll ‘round, w’tching ‘ll the time, ‘ bit like th’t God guy, or Big Brother from the book Nineteen-Eighty-Four.
“Nineteen-Eighty-Four? Wh’t in the world ‘re you t’lking ‘bout?”
What? You’ve never he’rd of Nineteen-Eighty-Four? It’s ‘ dystopia. ‘ bit like I’m trying to m’ke this story but you’re ruining it by m’king sm’ll t’lk. Now, stop this ‘nd re’ct to my boring, long-winded n’rr’tion.
“No! This is not norm’l. I dem’nd ‘n expl’n’tion!”
J’ck doesn’t re’lise th’t I’m ‘ctu’lly ignoring him.
He hurries up ‘nd gets in his c’r.
Oh, come now, J’ck. You’re boring my incredibly e’ger re’ders. He obeys ‘nd hurries up ‘nd gets in his c’r. Oh, wh’t ‘ sh’me. His petrol is ne’rly out. Th’t’s out first conflict. I suppose he’ll h’ve to go to the petrol st’tion.
“Ye’h, I know wh’t to do with ‘ low petrol gu’ge. Th’nks.”
I w’sn’t t’lking to you. Now, r’ther th’n bore you with tedious n’rr’tion while he drives there, I’ll tell you ‘ little story.

Once, ‘ long, long time ‘go, ‘ mother duck w’s feeling low. The mother duck h’d l’id her eggs, but h’lf of them looked just like kegs! One d’y the eggs beg’n to h’tch. They cr’cked ‘nd cr’cked, ‘nd ‘ll ten m’tched.
One h’dn’t h’tched ‘nd it w’s big, ‘nd looked different. Like ‘ fig. The mother thought, “Oh me! Oh my! I guess this duck will never fly!”

“I’m here.”
Ugh. Well I c’n’t end the story there! I’ll just h’ve to sum it up for you. B’sic’lly, he goes on ‘ big ‘dventure, ‘nd ‘t the end he wonders if he is ‘ sw’n like the ones in the pond with which he felt ‘ speci’l bond. Turns out he’s ‘ll out of luck ‘nd he’s just ‘n ugly duck! I re’lly love th’t story. It’s got everything you w’nt. Tension, emotion, ‘n eng’ging plot (‘s opposed to this story), and--
“Hey, I’ve been sitting here for ‘ges. Can you direct me ‘lready?”
Jack gets out of the car and enters the petrol station.
“I thought you couldn’t use [a]s because the key is inoperable,” Jack points out.
I c’n’t. J’ck p’ys for his petrol.
“I h’ven’t even filled my c’r yet!”
J’ck shuts his mouth ‘nd p’ys for his petrol. He pulls ‘ gun.
“I don’t h’ve ‘ --”
-- Yes you do. He pulls ‘ gun.
The st’tion keeper g’sps. “Wh’t the -- I c’n’t swear in this story c’n I?”
No. It’s going up on ‘ school intr’net.
“Oh, ok’y. Wh’t the ****?!”
“Wh’t now?” ‘sks J’ck.
I don’t know.
“Wh’t do you me’n? You’re writing this story, ‘ren’t you?”
Yes, but I don’t know wh’t to write next. Wh’t’s th’t excuse writers use when they don’t feel like writing? Oh ye’h, writer’s block. I h’ve writer’s block.
J’ck shoots himself and f’lls to the ground.
Hey! You c’n’t do th’t! I’m writing this story!
“I’m writing it now,” s’ys J’ck.

But do you live or die?

J’ck?