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took my million dollars away!’

18
The
Northwest Chronicle

    At six-thirty that evening, I was standing in the Northwest town square with a couple of hundred other people waiting for the announcement of the winners of the junior section of the
Northwest Chronicle
short-story competition.
    The Northwest brass band was doing its best to keep us entertained despite the cold gusts of wind that were blasting the crowd while we waited for the official ceremony to begin.
    Many of the other students from Northwest Southeast Central School were there. Last year’s winner, Fiona McBrain, was waiting at the front, near the stage. She was obviously expecting to win again. David Worthy, who won last year’s second prize, was standing next to her.
    I went and stood next to them, feeling a mixture of excitement and dread.
    I had a good story, and a good chance ofwinning. But after what had happened to Jack that afternoon, I was nervous.
    I didn’t trust that pencil.
    Especially when I realised that it was in my pocket, even though I had not intended to bring it.
    I pulled it out and looked at it.
    The skull was grinning.
    I shoved it back into my pocket.
    At that moment, the mayor arrived. He was a tall man, with a big gold chain around his neck.
    As the band finished, he strode confidently up the steps, followed by the editor of the
Northwest Chronicle
and a few other official-looking people, one of whom was carrying a giant cardboard cheque.
    An official-looking man made a speech.
    An official-looking woman made a speech.
    The editor made a speech.
    Finally, the mayor stood in front of the microphone holding two envelopes. ‘It is now my great pleasure to award second place to . . .’ He paused to open the envelope. ‘Fiona McBrain, for her story “My Grandmother’s House”.’
    The crowd applauded. Fiona looked shocked as she walked up the stairs to collect her certificate. Fiona McBrain was not used to coming second.
    â€˜And now,’ said the mayor, ‘without furtherado, it is my even greater pleasure to award the first place in the
Northwest Chronicle
writing competition to . . .’ He paused again while he opened the envelope. ‘Henry McThrottle, for his story “Treasure Fever”.’
    I couldn’t believe it. I’d done it! I’d won the writing competition I’d been trying to win ever since I was old enough to write! I walked up the stairs and shook the mayor’s hand. He gave me my certificate and I stood there, basking in the crowd’s applause. I could see my mother and father beaming.
    â€˜Well done, Henry,’ said the mayor. ‘But don’t go yet—I think the editor of the
Northwest Chronicle
has a small gift for you.’
    The crowd laughed.
    There was nothing small about the enormous cardboard cheque that the editor was attempting to carry across the stage, his progress hampered by the strong wind.
    Suddenly, the wind ripped it from his grasp and it flew across the stage towards me.
    The next thing I knew I was lying on my back looking up at the sky.
    There was blood everywhere.
    My neck was stinging.
    â€˜Somebody call an ambulance!’ yelled the mayor.

19
Northwest Central Hospital

    I was rushed to the emergency room at Northwest Central Hospital.
    As it turned out, I was okay, apart from having what the doctor described as the nastiest paper cut she had ever seen. The cheque had nearly cut my head off!
    The doctor bandaged me up, told me that I was lucky to still have my head, and discharged me.
    I sat in the waiting room while my parents completed the paperwork and was amazed to see Gretel there. Her arm was in a sling.
    â€˜Henry!’ she said. ‘What happened to your neck?’
    â€˜Oh, just a little accident with an oversized cheque,’ I said.
    â€˜What?’ she said.
    â€˜Well, I won the writing competition, but when they were presenting me with the winner’s