An Unsung Hero

Category A: Third Place (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Sri Satheesh

Dust danced in the moonlight that peeked through the window. The light bathed my father in an otherworldly glow, as he slouched on the large armchair. A book perched on his lap; the pages filled with vivid pictures of princesses and rebels.

My childhood was filled with stories of the brave and heroic. Yet there’s an unsung hero that was never written in the books. Never whispered to children in bedtime stories and never seen on TV.

 That hero was my father, and this is the tale of an unsung hero.

The sky was crying in great heaving sobs, her fists could be heard smashing against the roof. Inside the apartment a warm yellow tinted glow, emitted from a few ancient light bulbs. A hero, a warrior and a budding sapling, sat in a fortress of brightly coloured blankets. Whilst a deck of well-loved, worn-out cards were being dealt.

The hero frowned slightly at his hand and scratched his scruffy brown beard as he tried to make light of a losing battle. The budding sapling and warrior both smiled coyly, having caught air of the hero’s predicament.

The muffled sound of a phone ringing came from under one of the fluffy pillows.

The hero was saved by the bell.

 Or so he thought.

After the call, the hero emerged with red tinted eyes. An empty smile plastered onto his face.

 The battle began as cards were traded like jabs, swords clashed endlessly until only one victor remained. A triumphant cry left the hero’s mouth, followed by a groan from the scathed warrior. The sapling however not so lucky now sported a few broken ribs and an even more distraught ego. Victory had favoured the one that fought despite being sentenced to death.

The battle may have been over, but the war had just started.

As on the phone, the hero had received message that a great evil had befallen him. An evil spirit known as cancer.

The battle was followed by tears, closed doors, words of comfort and whispers. The hero wore a mask of bravery in the face of adversary, the warrior stood strong despite everything at stake, and the sapling was albeit to the magnitude of the oncoming battle.

In a nearby kingdom, the hero gained support from highly skilled white- clad knights. This foreign land was a place where hope began and died. Instead of the comforting aroma of curry, this kingdom smelled of antiseptic.

 The knights attached tubes and needles to the hero, with solemn nods. They used weapons the young sapling had never seen before.

The warrior’s face became marred with shadows from sleepless nights. She was at every battle, for both the victories and losses. The young sapling watched a flame burn bright in the hero’s eye, whilst his skin became a harrowing pallor, and his luscious locks fell out.

The hero had fought with courage and bravery through hopelessness and pain. Yet never received a story book of his own.