Toitoi 27



Words by

Isla Atkins, age 12

Pictures by

Coco-Inez Penn, age 11

Translation by

Narration by

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It’s coming, I can hear it, our enemy — the wind. I grip onto the branch, hanging on for dear life. I am one of the last ones left. I have seen everyone around me fall. If I look below, I can see the remains of my friends. 

Whoosh. The wind pulls me. I feel my grip slipping. One final gust is all it takes. I am swept away, away from my home, away from everything I have ever known. 

Oof. I slam into something. I have no idea what it is. Thick, stubby fingers reach out and trap me, crushing part of my frail skin. But I know my journey is not over yet. 

The cage that is holding me opens and I float to the ground. Yet again, I am at the mercy of the wind. The next gust hurls me towards a street where cars rush past at tremendous speed. I know this is very likely the end. 

I flutter onto the street and cars come flying over the top of me, one missing me by millimetres. Another gust of wind blows me into the relative safety of someone’s front lawn. 

The fence on my left blocks most of the wind. Every couple of minutes, I am blown back and forth across the same small patch of grass. Finally, after what seems like days but is really only about an hour, I settle under an unused garden seat. I love it there, no one bothers me, and the shade of the seat protects me from the sun.

I spend days in peace, decomposing under my special seat. Eventually, like everything else, I come to an end, absorbed back into the ground.