Hope

Category B: Highly Commended (2026) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Poppy Newell

January:

Father made a promise to me.

Two years ago, he swore we would stick together.

That we would avenge Mother’s name.

That we would never feel that pain again.

I never thought he’d lie, but here I am running for dear life.

February:

I don’t know where I am.

My only belongings being a woollen blanket, food, one tealight candle, a few pennies, and the clothes on my back.

No way to contact Father, no way to know if he’s okay.

As snow falls over my makeshift shelter, I doubt I can make it through alone.

March:

My stomach growls.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten.

All my supplies are used, the boredom is making me insane, and I long for a bubble bath and warm milk before bed.

I feel the coins rattling in my pocket, I need to do something.

April:

I sneak to the nearby market.

Old woman Anita prepares a pouch of food with a smile, charging me nothing.

‘Be safe,’ she says.

After all, they’re getting closer as the days go by.

May:

With nothing to do but think, I relive my memories.

Police sirens blaring,

Father rushing me to the back door, my bag in his hands, tears in his eyes.

‘Is this about what you wrote when Mother died?”

He only squeezes me tightly and says,

“Ellie, run and don’t look back, we’ll be together soon.”

But we weren’t.

June:

I look at my new home.

Similar forest, similar shelter, but another town.

I knew I had to move before word spread and the police caught on, but it hurts to leave familiarity behind.

Now I’m greeted with the unknown.

Again.

July:

A honey bee flutters past, wings wide with freedom.

Father used to tell me that though they brought light and happiness into the world, they would always be misunderstood.

I tell myself that as hard as things get, I have to push through.

Just like a honey bee.

August:

The sun kisses my face.

It’s a strange feeling, warmth.

It feels wrong, knowing that somewhere out there is my father. Suffering.

With this being my birthday month, I pull out my only tealight candle, even though I planned to save it for winter.

I make a wish.

September:

I gasp, startled by the smallest rustle.

‘It’s just the wind,’ I force myself to think as I walk towards the town.

I spot ‘Maria’s muffins,’ the stall that Anita told me about.

Once I explain who I am, Maria grins.

Finally, I go to bed with a full stomach.

October:

A glimmer of hope.

I can’t comprehend it as I stare.

Just a crumpled piece of newspaper on the street, but with the headline, ‘October 8th 1917, Police riot in England, prisoners break free,’ I start to believe.

I know that I mustn't get my hopes up.

But I already have.

November:

I walk towards the muffin store with the scrap of newspaper in my pocket, a smile on my face. But before I can speak, Maria pulls me aside. “You’re in danger,” she says, “there have been rumours around town that someone’s searching for you, and they’re not going to stop.”

My new home becomes Maria’s living room.

December:

I wake up to the fire crackling beside me, frost on the windowsill, and whispers in a nearby room. I can’t make out much but I hear Maria say, “The townspeople led you straight to her.”

This is it, they’ve found me.

But as the figure approaches, I rub my eyes.

A familiar face looks into mine.

Hope.