Short Story Competition: 'Roll Call’

By Reuben Carruthers (School Years 8 to 10, winner)

The cold always woke me before the guards did. 

It crept through my clothes and into my bones, making it impossible to ignore the miserable place I was in. The ground was rock solid beneath my boots, and the sky was still dark. The sun didn’t seem to want to rise. We stood in rows, silent and waiting. I hated waiting and did anything to distract myself. I counted sheep. I counted the clouds in the sky. I counted the ants on the ground. I just didn’t want to think about anything that used to be. It hurt too much to remember home. But I didn’t want to forget it either. 

When they came for us, everything changed. Doors banged. There was shouting and crying. My mother begged me to stay close to her, trying to reassure me that everything would be okay. We weren’t given any time. We couldn’t take anything with us. I had nothing to remember home by — no photo, no keepsake. We had to leave everything. 

We could smell the camp before we saw it. Smoke and mustiness. We were led inside. There was nothing of comfort and nothing to enjoy. Every day was the same, long and hard. Every day we were hungry. Hunger became a normality to our lives. We were always scared. Everyone was scared. Fear became normal too. 

We knew not to ask questions. We knew not to look the guards in the eye. We knew to do as we were told, and to suffer in silence, or we would suffer more. 

There was roll call each morning. One morning, a boy near me tripped and fell. He was so thin, so frail, that he crumpled to the floor. I didn’t dare to move. 

A guard charged towards us, shouting at him to stand up. But the boy couldn’t. He couldn’t even raise his head. My heart thumped against my ribs. I wanted to help him, but I was terrified. If I spoke, would I be beaten? If I didn’t, could I live with myself for not trying? 

The words came out before I could stop them. 

“He’s not well,” I said. My voice croaked, worried that I would be the next victim watching my life fade away before my eyes. 

The guard leaned towards me. I could smell his damp body odour. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground. The edge of his gun was inches from me. I could feel his gaze on my face. For a moment, everything seemed to disappear, the noise, the cold, the people. I could only think about my mother and pray she wouldn’t see. 

Then another guard shouted, and the gun moved away. The guard looked annoyed but walked over and picked up the boy, who moaned in pain. He was alive. For now. 

I shook, not from the cold, but from fear. My legs felt weak, as if I was about to collapse; I couldn’t let that happened – I would be tossing my life away. I waited for a punishment that never came. No one said anything, no one dared to whisper. The line moved forward again, and the day carried on like it always did. The boy was gone. Roll call continued. 

Judge’s Comments: 

This is a powerful and deeply moving piece of writing that conveys the harsh realities of life within the camp with striking clarity and restraint. The writer’s use of simple, direct language intensifies the emotional impact, allowing the fear and uncertainty to resonate strongly with the reader. The repetition of routines, such as roll call, highlights the bleak monotony of existence, while moments like the boy’s collapse introduce a sudden, gripping tension. Particularly effective is the internal conflict faced by the narrator, where fear battles with compassion, culminating in a brave yet quiet act of defiance. The atmosphere is unrelentingly bleak, and the lingering sense of helplessness remains with the reader long after the story ends.