Year 8 Middle School Writing Competition Winner

We are pleased to bring you the final Middle School Writing Competition winning entry.

This story is by Darcy Kappel in Year 8.

The theme of the competition was, ‘The fateful phone call” and stories were based around current Middle School studies centred around the Olympic Games.


Darcy Kappel – Year 8

Gavriil Sokolov sat in the dining hall at the Olympic Village, staring down his beef stroganoff with what seemed a grudging respect. He sipped his vodka intently, enjoying the harsh, burning sensation trickling down the back of his throat. His enjoyment was not shown however, on his clean, shaven face. He was the only athlete in the dining hall drinking alcohol, but after all he was the only athlete who had an excuse; the best celebratory reason for it. For Gavriil already knew what tomorrow had in store. He already knew he would stand up on the highest point on the podium with a lump of gold around his scarred neck.

“Oi Sokolov!” Gavriil’s piercing blue eyes darted around the room and settled on a dwarf of a man strolling towards him, squeezing between the chairs, between gaps that shouldn’t have been possible for any grown man to squeeze through. Gavriil hated the chairs. They were a blinding green, the sort of colour that gave you a migraine.

“Don’t drink too much eh old fella!” Gavriil hated Neil Cambell almost as much as he hated the chairs, Americans annoyed him, and Texans were the worst sort. “Ya wouldn’t wanna get smashed before the final eh would ya now! You should have some of this stuff.” He smirked, shaking the glass of sweetened milk he seemed to be addicted to.

“No.” Gavriil’s respond was short but seemed sufficient. He hated small talk, right now all he wanted to do was to pick up the dwarf by the scruff of his neck and throw him into one of the chairs as fast as a bullet; as fast as the bullet he would fire tomorrow to win gold.

“Well I suppose I came over ‘ere to wish ya the best of luck for tomorrow.” Gavriil didn’t respond, for he didn’t need luck. The dwarf (for this was how Gavriil always referred to him as, never Neil) on the other hand would need overwhelming luck to beat Gavriil.

“Well anybody home?” Gavriil stood up, brushing off the dwarf’s comment and in fact the dwarf himself.

“Hey what the hell do ya think ya doing!” It wasn’t a question. Gavriil paced outside and sat by the pool, recounting the events that had surely secured his victory… He had been laying in bed, staring at the dull ceiling. It wasn’t much to look at, but it beat staring out of the window. As he was nearly on the top floor, all that could be seen out the window was a starless sky and the roof of another building. Then his phone vibrated. He always kept his phone on silent as he hated all the ringtones. Gavriil answered the phone as he always did, silently. The harsh but calm voice of Gavriil’s agent answered the phone. Well, he wasn’t really Gavriil’s agent, more an advisor. A seedy advisor. There weren’t many words said, but there was plenty of understanding.



“It’s been done.”


“I must go.”

“Ok.” What one must understand is that this is not the Russian way of conversing, but Gavriil was a very unique type. After all he hated small talk. It was not a glorious way to win; spiking the other competitors drinks with laxatives, but it was necessary. Gavriil was a good shot, but he hated losing. Laxatives seemed the ideal solution, it would be impossible to aim a pistol with that sort of pressure building up in your gut. It gave Gavriil a dry satisfaction when later he thought back to his conversation with the dwarf, knowing that it was indeed the dwarf who had been drinking the wrong liquid recommended to win an Olympic final. Gavriil lay in bed, staring at, not the ceiling, but an empty bottle of vodka laying across the cold tiles. He flipped the pillow over to the cool side and slept, with a head full of grim satisfaction.

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