Lachlan Osborne took second place in the years 5/6 story category of the Wangaratta Young Writers Award with this piece. The competition is run annually by the Rotary Club of Appin Park Wangaratta and the Rotary Club of Wangaratta, and is supported by the Wangaratta Library.

It's early morning. The sky stretches into a warm, vibrant horizon, pitching light across a cluster of rolling hills. Sprinkled trees scatter their leaves in the wind. Small farms dot the valleys like quiet memories of a simpler time. But, in the stillness of this peaceful land, an old man sits alone. His rocking chair creaks beneath him; its voice harsh and tired, as if pleading for rest. His name is Albert.

"These days, there's no-one to talk to, but my grandkids come around. They've got their games and their bright faces. But... they don't know. They don't know what it used to be like."

He pauses, looking down at his chest. A scar. A relic of a time long gone, but never forgotten. His fingers brush over it for a moment. A flicker of darkness passes through his eyes.

"My scar. What a story it tells. Running. Hiding. Surviving. Yes, that's it."

The sound of rain begins to fall gently on the roof; each drop a soft tap against the tin, tapping a light beat on the roof. The door creaks open, with a voice calling from the verge.

"Grandpa!"

"I've got a story," he mutters.

"Go ahead, tell me."

"Oh, it's a great one! It's abou... Well, about what happened when everything changed." A deafening silence hangs high in the air.

"It started like any other day, but it wasn’t long before the storm came. Only it wasn't a storm of wind and rain. It was a storm of soldiers marching a monster into the heart of the town with boots that thundered on the cobblestone track echoing off the tall walls caving in over their souls. They surrounded the village, just as the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon. And then, they built their fences."

"From peace to prison. Just like that, barbed wire, three metres high, every attempt to escape ended in death. Trapped was I. Cold concrete lights a shiver up upon my back. A voice called for help but there was no hope. The slavery was manageable but painful. Shadows haunted and men gazed down at filthy people like me. The days were engulfed by a long, dark horizon."

The old man's eyes grow distant, his voice distant too, as if slipping back into the moment.

"It was a dark room, barely enough space to breathe. I still remember hearing the groans of tired men. I still remember the stench of the aroma. I still remember the rats scurrying across the floor as if nothing had changed. But we knew. We knew, every night, that something would. Something had to change." A long silence hangs before Albert speaks again, broken only by distant thunder and the increasing rain.

"We had a plan, my mates and I. We'd slip past the guards. One of us would distract them and the rest would crawl under that cursed wire, threatening our lives like it was saying something."

"But that’s not how it went, is it Grandpa?"

His eyes cloud over, haunted by the memories that won't let go. The sound of the rain now mingles with the distant cries of soldiers and the cracks of guns in the background.

"The nights were endless, it felt like forever. The barracks creaked, alive with the groans of bodies pressed tightly together, with a craving for food. lt wasn't the sleep we longed for, it was the escape. But there was no escape. Only death. Not the kind that comes in an instant, but the everlasting pain, the grinding kind."

The rain begins to pour harder now, the tin roof singing louder, alongside the chorus of thunder. Albert’s voice fumbles but doesn't falter.

"Guard towers and rifles simmering in the moonlight; like a glow in the dark sky. Dogs barking. Rifles cracking. It was like the air itself was dense with fear. You could smell the decay. You could taste it in the back of your throat, just there to annoy you. Some of us died. The rest of us... waited. Waited for the next day of cruelty and agony to come and haunt us. How long would it last? How long could we last?"

The words hang heavy in the air, with sympathy seeping through the cracks of the old man's mind, mingling with the sounds of rain and distant thunder crackling.

"Then one day, it was my turn. The plan had worked. But it cost. It always does.”

"Bullets flared with a chorus of rifles setting off behind me. Danger was high all you could do was run. I saw danger, I saw guns. I saw danger, I better run. I saw danger, I am done. One shot could end me and put me to my fate. A bullet looks like it is in slow-motion, hanging in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bullet pierce my chest. Blood stains and splatters around making waves of red fluids setting a crime scene. An eerie ring echoes a high pitched scream in my ear. Run. Run. Run."

In the stillness, with tears in his eyes Albert once again finds himself peering down to his scar. The old man looks out across the hills rolling, over the peaceful land that has forgotten what once happened here. But Albert hasn't forgotten. Neither have those who remember with him.