2024 School Magazine

Running True Senior Prize—Charlotte d'Joncourt Folklore Competition By Georgie Falting (12B)

Sweat trickled down Nysa’s brow as she stood at the starting line, her legs taut. Her heart pounded in sync with the roar of the crowd, but the noise barely reached her. Before her lay the track, winding through the familiar hills she had raced since childhood. This wasn’t merely a race; it was a trial of honour, a chance to prove herself. “Ready to lose, Nysa?” Kalos called from across the line smirking, his voice slick with confidence. She narrowed her eyes, pushing back the unease curling in her stomach. “We’ll see,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders to shake off the weight of his taunt. The starting horn blared, piercing the stillness, and they were off. Nysa’s feet skimmed the earth, each stride precise and powerful. The wind whipped through her hair urging her forward. She felt the rhythm of the race in her bones, the steady drumbeat of her pulse echoing the thrum of the crowd. The first mile passed in a blur, and she surged ahead, the ground beneath her a blur of colour and grit. A sudden flash of gold flickered in her peripheral vision. A golden apple tumbled across the track, gleaming in the sunlight. Her heart raced as she hesitated, her pace faltering. What was happening? Kalos was close behind, his gaze locked on the apple. “Want it, Nysa?” he taunted, his voice thick with mockery. Nysa gritted her teeth, recalling the legend of Atalanta—the apples of distraction that had entrapped even the swiftest. Was this some divine test, or was Kalos trying to undermine her? Another apple rolled into view; its surface blindingly bright. The temptation calling to her. She slowed down, reaching towards the apple, suddenly her father’s words rang in her mind: “Integrity, Nysa.” “No,” she whispered, clenching her fists. She pushed forward, ignoring the shimmering fruit. Her legs burned, but she wouldn’t be swayed. She would not sacrifice her honour for an easy win. Kalos, however, slowed, overcome with greed as he scooped the first apple into his palm. Nysa glanced back just once, watching his grin falter as the weight of the apple slowed him. He stumbled, the gleam of victory slipping away. The final stretch loomed ahead, the finish line fluttering like a beckoning flag in the wind. Nysa ran true, her steps unbroken, unyielding. The roar of the crowd blurred into the wind rushing past her ears. With a final burst of energy, she crossed the line, her lungs heaving, the thrill of victory washing over her like a wave. She collapsed to her knees, dirt clinging to her sweat-slicked palms. Moments later, Kalos stumbled across the line, the apple still clutched in his fist, its shine now dull and lifeless. He dropped it at her feet, scowling. “Tricks don’t win races,” she said between gasps, her voice steady. Kalos looked away, shame etching lines into his face. The race had ended, but her test of honour had only just begun.

The story is inspired by the Greek Myth of the footrace between Atalanta and Hippomenes. The parameters of the 2024 competition asked students to write an original piece on the Olympic theme of the ‘spirit of competition’.

BRISBANE GIRLS GRAMMAR SCHOOL 2024 | 129