Young Writers Society

Stanley too rarely understood what was going on in his head and even now he questioned how he should feel and behave. He now condemned his incompetence and wrongness, did he put himself on the same low level as his brother. He felt no better than him.
On the fifth or sixth day of the novena he was again with Conrad, together with Eleonora. The sick man was proud of Stanley, he was a reliable gentleman whom nothing could shake. Even then he doubted the statements of those who praised him. It had to be a mistake, he was no good for jokes. He could not show weakness because he did not possess it. He remained in this stoic phase without realising what was happening in front of him.
Stanley was trapped in his egotistical world, he continued to write his ideas for the story. As he inwardly flared up to find his place in this invented world, he did not notice how he was distancing himself further from reality.
He thought for a long time about why he had actually gone with Eleonora, his brother immediately came to mind. Alone in the flat it would have driven him crazy. He didn't feel comfortable there, so close to him. Yet he was not liberated from his family in this remote area.
A letter had arrived for him.

"What will the future be like?" he spoke suddenly.
With the last of his cigarette, he returned to the promenade to the young people with their flags and torches. They were no longer in chord, were the spectators no longer laughing and enjoying themselves, but watching as the HePo attacked a woman screaming at the top of her voice. She was just pulled out of the horrified, unstable group formation, kicking her with all discretion against anyone who was near.
Stanley watched the play as she was pulled aside and finally restrained. Visibly relieved, the two constables seemed to be relieved when they apprehended her. However, she was still able to fight back, she bit one of them in the nose. At that, the crowd screamed and Stanley ran to the scene as the other HePo raised his baton.
"Don't interfere, sir!" he roared as Stanley jerkily slammed the baton down on him.
"She is a criminal. Get out of here or we will arrest you." the second spoke with a bleeding nose.
Stanley paid no attention to the two men, trying to help the woman who now fixed him.
"You don't have to help me," she relayed arrogantly.
He managed to tear her away from the two men. His dare ended with a blow to the back of his head. One last time he saw the woman's frightening eyes before he blacked out.

The cell was spacious.
The bars between Stanley and the HePo's desk were narrow and cold. He had a good view of the police station. A powerful painting of the Baron hung opposite him. It stared back at him and was worse than any constable.
An HePo with blond hair who went by the name of Martin Weinrich sat behind the desk, a radio beside him. A typewriter in front of him was little used. A torn sheet of paper hung in it. Somewhere a window was open, blowing the paper during a breeze.
Stanley lay on the hard bench.
He refused to open his eyes. He still had the event clearly in his mind as an image and knew that he had been taken to the station. He tried to imagine the consequences as he listened to the hum of the HePo. Stanley did not immediately recognise the tune, it was short and memorable despite its familiarity.
"Your little heroic act didn't cut it."
Stanley stared at the ceiling. As he sat down, he noticed the woman standing by the bars, grinning at him.
"At that, I said I didn't need any help."
"Are you all right?"
"I detest old-school knights," she replied with a grimace.
"They tried to beat you up,” Stanley spoke in shock, "Everyone should intervene in something like this."
"The beating came too. With or without your help." she said gallantly, "There was more to the beating after you intervened."
She came closer and giggled.
"At least the one now has a big hole in his nose."
Stanley showed his disgust clearly.
She giggled again and sat down in front of the bars. Stanley, now afraid of himself, found that he had not expected her to be like this. He studied the woman from a distance and avoided her gaze when she looked at him.
There was no person who had eyes like that. They were light green, or at least they should be, fading into egg yolk yellow. They sparkled at the HePo with sombre cheekiness. Her hair was braided into a ponytail and looked a strange almond brown. Stanley thought he saw pinkish streaks in the shadows at the beginning, wasn't sure if they were after-effects of his punch.
Now that he had collected himself and recognised everything more clearly, he realised she was smaller than he remembered her. Her nose was bent and ugly. She belonged to an old lady. The emaciated cheeks and high forehead were narrow in her face. Her hands played with the sticks as if she were plucking a harp.
She wore a lilac dress while her ankle boots lay in the corner next to a purple bell hat and her handbag.
"What were you up to?" he wanted to know.
"I was standing up to the regime. Children must not be instrumentalised. It is not acceptable that this man in his proud uniform wants to rule the world right into every living room," she explained suspiciously, pointing to the Baron's painting. Martin at the desk listened up.
"No talking!"
"What do you want to do? We're already sitting in the cell!" the woman threw back.
He remained silent in shock, probably thinking of his colleague who had to go to the doctor for his bloody nose. Stanley was also thinking of just that. He was in a cell with this beast and saw in her a cannibal. Why had he felt led to help her again? Or was it stupidity to throw a wrench in the HePo's plans?
The woman knelt in front of him and held her head above his lap.
"Valerie is my name."
"Stanley."
"Not very Sagauvelian. Foreigner?" she returned, sitting down beside him.
"My mother wasn't from Sagauvela," he replied.
"Tell me more."
He refused with a shake of his head and distanced himself a few inches from her.
"So?" she laughed haughtily, "No interest in the princess you came to rescue?"
"Silence!" roared the HePo.

Klaus had his shoulders constantly drooping as if he had just been pulled by the ears again. His posture clearly showed where he stood. He was his father's shadow and was supposed to become like him. Until then, he had to work hard.
His face was egg-shaped, he had a high forehead and a big nose. His dark-browed, round eyes constantly sought advice and disappeared when his protruding mocha-coloured hair fell back into his face in a mess. Klaus could smile often and with pleasure, even if he concealed it from his father. His straight teeth had been examined by a doctor since early childhood.
His thick neck merged with his dark blue sweater. He wore a beige shirt underneath, light brown trousers and expensive shoes. What probably added the icing on the cake to his status as conceited was his new wristwatch, which he wore on his right wrist.

You needed six more pairs of eyes to see everything at once. At the end of the long corridor on the third floor, behind the white double doors, several glass cabinets and bookcases lurked on the walls. Apart from the windows and the few paintings, there was hardly any open space on the wine-red wallpaper.
A fireplace, richly decorated with ornaments boasted in the centre. Two busts stood on the ledge, a small, noble clock with mahogany wood, and above it hung a magnificent landscape painting by Albrecht Erbshausen.
The professor kept the most valuable volumes and books on history and biographies behind the glass cabinets. In between, priceless porcelain, more busts and carvings accumulated. Behind the thickest glass was a miniature sailing ship. A filing cabinet hid behind the one column that somehow wasn't needed for the house. A globe hid behind the mighty desk.
Two soft, comfortable chairs stood ready around the fireplace and were not to be moved. The dark parquet floor was too expensive, just like everything else in this room.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, a lamp beside the doorway and a candle stands in the shape of a swan stood on the little telephone table in the corner.
On his workstation carefully lay a cigar box, yesterday's newspaper and his gold reading glasses next to the fountain pens and a thick tome entitled The Polyglot Cynic Group from Spindport. Two or three sheets of paper that Siegfried had scribbled all over lay on the floor. The open windows had twisted the thick curtains.

Klaus had not expected to venture into his father's office without permission.
It didn't take a second thought; he could be back for dinner so quickly that he barely had a quiet minute to reconsider the break-in.
To him, every step seemed like a loud crash that might wake his mother from the kitchen. He tiptoed into the sanctuary and did not close the double door behind him.
Klaus caught the letter from the tome and was about to pull it out when it occurred to him to first make sure which page it was on. As he was turning the pages, he winced as a gust of wind through the open window caught him. It was like a fist in the pit of his stomach, he felt the unpleasant nausea of doing something forbidden.

The old barn next to the inn has been steadily expanded and altered in recent years. One still noticed the original use of the building when one entered it. The large windows had been introduced later. Some old chains hung from the high ceiling.
Furthermore, there was a constant smell of cut wood and straw between the school benches and the blackboard at the end. A low platform for the teacher had been installed. He used it too rarely, so most of the students saw him sitting by the blackboard, writing down sentences and mathematical problems in cursive.
Forgotten between the rows, there were just five children attending school in Torvitas Alacris. Their ages ranged from seven to sixteen, who stayed together in the converted barn.
Teacher and at the same time priest of the village, Wolfsmilch was a young man with a gift for inspiring children and adults alike about something that was foreign to them. He had seen quite a bit in his short life (he had only turned thirty-three a fortnight ago), and wanted to show the world.
His biggest feature was probably his wheelchair. Not completely paralysed in the legs, he could climb stairs and walk a few metres before collapsing like a house of cards. He preferred to spare his feet.

Janice kept her feet in the water and whispered a prayer into her folded arms. Blessed with worry, she felt the cool wet penetrate between her toes and shuddered at the thought of climbing further into the dark water. Her naivety was dangerous, she feared everything, sometimes even the priest.
The girl had a submissive posture, she kept herself small, and yet she was too tall. She had slender limbs, skin bumpy with patterns of marks she inflicted on herself when she wasn't careful. Her fingers and toes were crooked and angular, like those of an old woman.
Her face was that of an egg, oval and long. She had ash-blond, thick hair that reached her shoulders. The tiny ears had disappeared. Her triangular forehead looked like a stage, the strands were the curtains. Beneath her were hidden the watery, pale blue, bright eyes. The eagle nose was like a dot above her small, diamond-shaped mouth. The whole head seemed elongated and dry, like a forgotten field on the high, long neck.

"That's where we live."
"That is... is Torvitas Alacris?" asked Janice, looking at his finger, "There's nothing there."
"We're so small it's not worth mentioning that they marked us on it."
"But how does the map know where we live?"
Egidius laughed.
"Many years ago, someone had once visited the country and recorded everything. After that he made this map," he explained.
The priest followed a road to the north, along a large blue hole, Wyvern Lake, Janice later learned. A little above the middle of the lake, he stopped with his finger.
"And here is the capital."
"That's a much bigger point than Allerheiligenstadt."
"Sagauvela City also has a much larger population than anything else in the country."
Janice looked at the map a little. She didn't understand why this land called Sagauvela was so big. Torvitas Alacris was an invisible dot. Here and there were many lakes that were much bigger or areas where there were many signs. Everything was much bigger than the home village. How was she supposed to get to the capital like that?