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Teasdale

Teasdale - Sam's Account

The island of Teasdale; the island of death.

I live on an island with barely any food and barely any water. Life is still a struggle, but it's not so bad - my dad is quite a high up ranking official - and we get special rationing privileges. I've only ever known dwindling supplies, ever since I was born. Any time I've asked why we have nothing, and why there seems to be no-one but us on our island, on Earth, everyone is dismissive.

Now even our rations have dropped, slowly creeping into starvation, slowly creeping into famine. The scarcity of food is barley commented on, most people stay confident that because we have military power we are forceful, and that's all that matters. But I know deep down they thing otherwise, that they are hungry too. Surely we can't go on living like this?

The only thing I ever got out of my Mother was that we were in hiding, then she stopped what she was saying when my dad threw her a look. I did eventually find out there was another island, and on there was lots of resources.

"Why can't we borrow some?" I asked Dad, he just chuckled and didn't say anything. For some reason both islands didn't communicate.

I live on Teasdale island, the other island - just across the straight of Cornio - is Barros island. Just a small stretch of water separates us in geography, but a seismic issue separates our governments. No-one talks about Barros, no-one stands on the Halfdale beach and watches their comings and goings over the straight of Cornio. But you can, apparently.

Halfdale isn't too far away, and it's one of only three towns on the island; the rest of the area is dry, barren and flat. I live in Swalesbry, the most northern town, Halfdale is to the east, and due south is the town of Truss.

Life isn't good. There are barely any people my age in the upper-class part of town we live in , and the streets are barren and gray to look at. It nearly always rains; turning the muddy banks, which line most streets, into meandering streams of dirt. All of the houses are constructed from the same cheap concrete mixture, and finished off with slabs of gray slate. Cheap and practical, just like life here.

Every time it rains more life drains out of the dreary streets. Every day drains the life out of the inhabitants. Slowly we were fading away. There was no sense of freedom here; most people stayed confined to their houses, there was no point in work, there was nothing to work for. The government rationed out the supplies; the government were running out.

Nothing seemed to happen in Teasdale, and I could never guess what Dad had to do in his countless government meetings. But one day - after he came in, dressed in his usual bland charcoal suit - he let something slip; his briefcase was left on the table, and he was out of the room. The faded leather case was ajar, and a sheet of white protruded out. As clear as day I could read the title at the top of the document;

'TOP SECRET : Preparation For Imminent War Begins'