Thank you to everyone who entered The Canterbury Tales Writing Competition 2024/25: Surprise, Surprise! We loved reading all your poems and stories. We hope you had fun and have been inspired to read and write more in the future. Here are this year’s winners…
Ages 5-10
1st Place
By Francis, aged 9
Down by the riverbank, April showers mixed with sunlight, making everything glossy green, a happy day for the river creatures’ annual trip to the water mill. Everyone assembled. Imperious Heron announced from his sharp beak that, this year, each of the intrepid adventurers must tell a tale to pass the time along the way. Predictably, Beaver grumbled, mouth full of woodchips. Dragonfly, with quicksilver wit, darted back, “You’ll hardly struggle, Beaver, your great chomping mouth never stops working.” Water Vole, ever the peacekeeper, intervened. “Perhaps,” he said in his quiet way, “perhaps the one who most entertains us can be titled, Ruler of the River?” A cacophony of happy noise greeted this suggestion and eager Dragonfly began…
The Dragonfly’s Tale
Do you remember your first ever trip?
Mine was a dazzle of colours.
Light glinted through the mill’s turning wheel,
Dividing the sky into great chunks of gold and blue,
I spun through it all in joy, dizzier by the second,
Until I knew nothing of where I was.
Kind Water Vole saw my confusion,
Sent word to my mother, who brought me back,
Safe and sound.
The Water Vole’s Tale
Safe and sound that year but the next,
The Year of the Great Flood,
We all recall with despair.
How good friends were washed downstream
By the raging river, like a bad dream.
How we clung to the trees by night,
To the riverbank by day.
All very well for the humans
Snug in houses where they could play
But when we thought about our river friends,
All we could do was pray.
The Heron’s Tale
Your tale is of too much water, Vole,
Let me remind you of when we had too little.
That year of the Great Drought
When my wings had to bear
The weight of you all
(Not Beaver — too stout!).
For the river was so low, our progress too slow.
Hot, parched days had left the banks exposed,
Weeds shrivelled, minnows gasping.
So, we soared above the river’s dry course
Hoping it would soon fill again.
The Frog’s Tale
Calamities. But none, for me, to match
The year our frogspawn hatched
While Mr Frog was still upstream.
My trip was surely over!
Heroic Heron found me,
His great mind alight
With a bright spark of imagination.
“Quick, fold a waterlily pad,
Make them a nursery.”
Following his commanding voice
I scooped them safely,
Heron flew them in a great arc
To Beaver’s snug den to wait
For our return.
The Beaver’s Tale
Torrents of tadpoles, I remember.
A chip in my tooth, from a hard canoe
reminds me of another year
All those humans boating, in our way
Oh, what a day!
At the word ‘day’, Beaver suddenly stopped, noticing dark sky and water: it was night! The whole day of the trip had passed. The creatures, caught up in their Ruler of the River tales, remained just where they began. Next year, they’d have a story to tell about long stories!
2nd Place
The Journey of Faith
By Jasmine, aged 9
Alexander was the youngest and the most fearless commander of the knights in the Kingdom of Bath. He rose to fame quickly through his hard work and dedication. His father, Augustus, the head of the knights, was his greatest inspiration. When Alexander was fourteen, he received a shocking rumour—his father had died in battle against the City of Yorkshire. Refusing to believe it, he chalked out a daring plan to uncover the truth.
Alexander joined the army and swiftly rose to the rank of commander. Yet his only true motive was to find the truth about his father’s death. To find out more, he went to the City of Yorkshire. He managed to approach and speak to an elderly prisoner and whispered, “I’m looking for Augustus from the Kingdom of Bath. Do you know if he is here?” The old man murmured something that changed everything.
A grand celebration was to be held in Yorkshire in a month’s time. Every five years, on this day, prisoners of war were allowed to meet their families. This year, Alexander made a bold proposal and challenged the present clergy, priests, and the royal family. He challenged them to fight and defeat their bravest knight in combat in exchange for releasing prisoners from the Kingdom of Bath who had served their prison term peacefully. His challenge was accepted.
On the tournament day, Alexander fought with incredible strength and valour. His skill and courage led him to victory, securing the freedom of the imprisoned knights of Bath. Among those released was Augustus, who wished to meet the valiant knight responsible for his freedom.
Alexander arranged a secret meeting in a peasant’s house on the outskirts of the village. When a knock sounded at the door, his heart pounded. As it opened, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stood before him. The familiar, confident gaze and sparkling eyes left him breathless. Tears rolled out as he had found his father.
Augustus, unaware of the truth, beamed with pride. “You are a brave knight of Bath. Your father must be proud to have a son like you.”
Wordlessly, Alexander took out a small, broken locket and placed it in Augustus’s hand. Recognition flashed across his father’s face. “This belonged to my daughter, Alicia,” he murmured. “I gave it to her before leaving for war.”
Alexander took a deep breath. “Father, I am Alicia.”
Augustus’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”
“For ten years, I lived as Alexander to find you,” she confessed. “In a world where women are forbidden from battle, I had to become someone else.”
Augustus, overwhelmed, fought back tears. “I never imagined my little girl, who once played with wooden bows and arrows, would fight a real battle.” He embraced her tightly. “Your love and faith brought me back. You have made the impossible real.”
Alicia’s journey had finally reached its end. The hope that had fuelled her for years had become reality.
3rd Place
The Last Library
By Gustav, aged 9
In a city where the skyline was dominated by glass towers, there was one building that stood in defiance of modernity—a library, ancient and sprawling, tucked between two gleaming skyscrapers. It had no name, but everyone knew it as “The Last Library.” It was said to house every book ever written, every thought ever recorded, and every dream someone had ever dreamed.
Amelia, a journalist, had always been intrigued by the legend. She’d heard whispers about the library her whole life, but it was something most people laughed off. It was too strange, too improbable. But after years of reporting on the world’s biggest mysteries, Amelia couldn’t resist. She needed to see it for herself.
One evening, she set out to find the library. Her map guided her to a narrow alley, hidden between two new buildings, with a cracked stone archway at the end. She hesitated, then stepped through.
Inside, she was greeted by silence, an odd, soothing silence that felt older than time. The library stretched on forever, endless shelves crammed with books. The air smelled of aged paper and ink. But what struck her most was the stillness. It wasn’t just quiet—there was no hum of electricity, no buzz of modern life. The world outside seemed to have vanished entirely.
A woman appeared from between the shelves, as if she had always been there. She wore a flowing dress, faded from years of use, and her eyes sparkled with a curious depth.
“You’ve come to see the books?” the woman asked, her voice soft, almost like a melody.
Amelia nodded. “I’ve heard stories. About this place. I need to know if they’re true.”
The woman smiled, as though she had expected this. “What is it that you seek? A story? A truth? Or something more?”
Amelia thought for a moment. “I want to know if all of it—everything—has already been written. If everything we ever do or think is already in a book somewhere.”
The woman led her deeper into the labyrinth of shelves. “Perhaps it’s not about what’s already written, but what could be. In this library, the future and the past are one. The books you seek are not those you expect.”
They arrived at a small alcove where a single book lay on a pedestal. The cover was blank, a simple leather-bound volume. Amelia felt an undeniable pull.
“This book,” the woman said, “is your story. But it is not written yet. It waits for you to decide what happens next.”
Amelia reached for it, but as her fingers brushed the cover, she saw flashes—visions of her life, of all the choices she had made and all the ones she would make. The highs, the lows, the moments of joy, and the times she’d felt lost.
The woman’s voice echoed in her mind, “The story you seek isn’t written in the pages. It’s written in the choices you make.”
Amelia stood still, the weight of the book heavy in her hands, the weight of possibility on her shoulders. She could feel the room shifting, the books around her whispering in a language she couldn’t understand. This wasn’t just about finding answers—it was about creating them.
She closed the book and placed it back on the pedestal, knowing that some stories were never meant to be finished. They were meant to be lived.
The woman smiled, her eyes alight with understanding. “Remember,” she said, “The last book is always the one you write.”
And as Amelia turned to leave, the silence followed her, carrying the weight of all the untold stories yet to be lived.
Highly Commended
The Story of Mr Pickle
By Elizabeth, aged 10
Mr Pickle was an abandoned seed, blown away from his home field by the wind when he was very small, who grew up in a potato field after the potatoes took him in. Mr Pickle knew he was different from his potato family but was very happy with them and they loved him very much.
Once day some travelling cucumbers came through the farm and happened upon the potato field. They were very cool, and Mr Pickle and all the potato children were in awe of them. “You are more like us than like these potatoes, you should join us!” The cucumber leader declared. Mr Pickle declined, but after the cucumbers had moved on, began to wonder more about his true family. “I am going on a journey to find my Pickle People.” He told the potatoes. They were very sad to see him go, but wished him well, and he set off boldly into the forest.
The forest was much more dark and frightening than he had imagined, with loud scary noises and unknown creatures. Mr Pickle suddenly became very aware that he was very edible… He stumbled through the forest until he happened upon a pickle patch, his people!
“Oooh, you are like us!” They chorused, crowding around him. Mr Pickle was happy to find out more about his homeland and people, but did find them a little weird, and missed the potatoes terribly. He realised that they were his true family, no matter that he looked different, and returned through the forest to be with them. His potato mother was so happy to see him she cried tears of joy.
Then they were all harvested and turned into mash.
The End.
Ages 11-14
1st Place
By John, aged 12
Iridescent April, one minute showery,
The next, glinting sun, drew to Spain
Followers of the Camino.
Staffs in hands, bags on backs
Each gifted a scallop shell,
Sign of the pilgrim, sign of the journey.
Two shells bound together
Were my strange pilgrim’s token,
“Present this at Santiago”,
Were my solemn instructions,
“And there cleave it open.”
We left to traverse high mountain ranges,
Four held my company,
The earnest naturalist,
The modest deacon, the weary historian,
And the grand duchess.
All contemplated my doubled shell.
To pass the weary hours, we devised a plan:
To the one who told the best tale,
Of that peculiar shell,
Of how it came to be and what it foretold
Passed ownership (for surely it was treasure).
Modesty cast aside; the deacon soon began.
“While the screech of owls
Pierced the night calm
Robbers plundered a saint’s quiet tomb.
Under the dark frown of the yews
A relic they took and a curse they acquired.
Each thief who held this holy thing
Was cursed as Midas. So, it passed
Hand-to-hand with haste
Across borders and countries
Until one trapped it here, safe in a shell,
On its way to Santiago to seek
Absolution.”
“A musty relic? Heavens no”,
Exclaimed the Duchess, who told
A tale of more glamorous riches.
“At the tip of an Indian Ocean isle
A diver prepared his watery plunge.
Under the serene surface, an eel lurked
Electricity sparkling along its length,
Dipping and dodging,
The diver reached the deep
And the chance of an oyster.
Nestled, a gleaming white mass
Of pearl, priceless and pure:
This rich prize your shell contains.
Disguised, in this quiet case, on its way
To the jewel shops of Compostela.”
“Fantasy, no more”, the Naturalist tutted,
Pausing his collecting to tell his tale.
“Rainforest canopies shelter
Many rarities in their flourishes of green,
Each the target of cruel hunters.
One, in his greed, his net scything humid air,
Clipped the wings of a butterfly, unique in delicacy.
Guilt filled his heart.
Within two shells
He sealed it to heal
Sure, that at Santiago,
Its rested wings would unfurl in flight,
An inestimable symbol of hope.”
“Hope?” mocked the historian,
“Nothing matters except what we keep, store, study.
Many millennia ago, the Mayans
Made the power stone
Of their grand civilisation, jade.
Smooth polished greenstone,
Coloured with swirling serpentine.
It’s been told that, once,
On the riverbank of the Usumacinta
Lay a jade amulet, inscribed
With this people’s deepest mysteries.
Scholars teeming with knowledge
Of the world’s ancient languages
Trace its journey here,
On the way to Santiago.”
“Where we now arrive!”, I exclaimed:
Pilgrims, gather round.”
With bright eyes and sharp elbows
They jostled for position
To see and seize the treasure.
Tap-tap, a hair-thin crack.
Tap-tap, a splintered shell.
Inside,
Another shell!
Mottled, green-grey, moving:
A small snail
Began its own slow
Silvery way.
2nd Place
The Wife’s Ballad
By Amaira, aged 13
In youth, love set me free.
So, when the lord –my husband, did first claim me,
His heart would forever be my key,
I was blinded by naivety.
But oh, his eyes, a tempest on a winter’s night,
And in their grasp, I withered in fright.
“A vain wretch” he lashed me with his tongue,
And none knew just what he had done.
Now harken, good pilgrims, and thou shalt know,
Of all my woe, how it did surely grow.
I wed a lord, proud and cold,
With wealth and lands, but cruelty untold.
Every word, every harsh command
I felt my heart ploddingly rip,
Who I was, my soul slipped
And I, poor wight, ‘neath his hands did I suffer,
He took from me my voice, my joy, my mind,
And in his reign, no mercy did I ever find.
I lived in his shadows, his cruel eyes, His whims, belittled my silent cries, I was but his mere slave, A queen of nothing,
Locked within a dark grave.
But time, unyielding, saw his frail form decay, With his final breath, my bonds gave way. Oh, how I cheered! With false tears did I lament, In his passing, my soul found content.
My being unshackled, found its sweet reprieve, In tranquil calm, where heartache took its leave. As joy began to mend my soul.
For soon, a suitor, no older than me, Stepped forth, his eyes a tempest of mystery
A man so kind, he did beseech to wed me,
I paused, uncertain of what fate might be,
By expectations weight, did I consent,
With each passing moment, I grew more tense.
Deep within, I feared what truth might rise—
A secret buried ‘neath my quiet guise.
My lord succumbed not to sickness’ grasp, nor time’s decay, —’twas I , who stole his stay.
With poison sweet, I claimed the night
—’twas I, who took his breath away.
And now, here came the day again,
When the wedding bells chimed,
Vengeance would be mine.
Every man I wed was a lamb to slaughter,
I wouldn’t trade my freedom like bartered water.
As veiled under their promises of love and grace,
Lurked shackles eager to bind my space.
To live as a shadow, a pawn in their game,
Would snuff out my fire and bring only shame;
With every ‘I do,’ I sharpened my blade,
Breaking the yoke where my spirit was weighed
Not from malice, but to turn the tide,
A woman’s worth will not be denied.
3rd Place
The Stone Girl’s Prophecy
By Sophie, aged 11
I pattered down the sea-spray kissed steps to the lawn for my final nightly walk. I would miss this tranquillity when I moved to the smoky, boxed, eternally grimy streets of London to join the army of women already assisting the war efforts. My toes met the freshly cut grass of the terrace, which was fringed with wild rose bushes, a fragrant flush of bursting blooms, that lined the paths it shared with towering foxgloves. Purple allium pom-pom heads were bobbing in the breeze, trying in vain to impress pink, puffy peonies, dressed in delicate tutus. Illuminated by the moon’s sacred light, I reached up to touch the magnolia’s bunny ear buds before wandering wistfully to the cherry blossom orchard, home to my cherished childhood swing. The peaceful petals draped down gracefully like angel’s wings, iridescent in the faint skyline.
Perching myself on the worn wooden plank of my faithful, soporific swing, suspended only by fraying rope tied to resilient weathered branches, I gained momentum. Keeping a steady pace, I watched the coast come into sight then fade away again. The higher I flew, the more the patchwork landscape enveloped my solitary silhouette. Soaring into endless space, I spied a new statue in the stone garden, placed next to my grandfathers. It was mesmerising. A vulnerable girl staring out to sea in a moss shrouded shawl. When I swooped up again the statue had turned, as if to warn me of something. Her icy, marble eyes met mine. I shuddered, my hands instantly clammy, my breath rapid and shallow.
Her cave like dimples, meticulously braided auburn-stained hair and slender body sparked a familiarity inside; we stayed transfixed for a few precious moments before I was swished back down again. But when I next propelled myself upward with burning curiosity, the Stone Girl had frozen. I forced myself to come to an abrupt halt. Heart betraying head, I scurried down to the cove in search of the Stone Girl of Montrose Manor.
The small, sheltered cove was reached by scrambling down a steep winding path lined with crumbling statues of various ages. Each honoured an occupant who had lived, loved and died at Montrose Manor. It was like a graveyard but less depressing. In fact, the stone garden was the subject of many family adventures. We used to love dressing up the statues and waiting for a rare high tide, when the water gushed way over the rusty bronze plaques and up to waist height, making it appear as if the stone people had come back to life and were swimming. Suddenly, I fixated and headed towards the Stone Girl. Just like every other statue, her hands were bitingly cold, and solid. Beneath them, a plaque sat, hindered from view by the mist of my breath. I tentatively wiped away the veil to see the name and date engraved into the bronze. Paralysed in shock, I stared at the name. It was my own.
Highly Commended
By Alida, aged 14
Four years old
Steadily dragged along by a relentless maternal hand
Unwilling to agree, unable to pull away
Wishing to be older
To be able to defy your parents
To rebel against the impossibly unfair rules
To speak your opinion and make sure they hear
No matter the cost
Twelve years old
Leaning against a recently slammed door
The “BANG” still echoing through the air
Guilt seeping into bones heavy enough to drown in
Imprisoned in your own mind, powerless as hurtful words replay in slow motion
But hindsight is no use
Words cannot be erased
You defied
You rebelled
You were heard
Surprise: you’re already there
Five years old
Sweating in an itchy dress you want nothing to do with
Gazing longingly at the teenagers easily laughing in the corner
Wearing clothes they got to choose
Clothes they felt comfortable in
The “big kids”
Dressing to achieve their wildest dreams
Not held back by what adults choose for them
You can’t wait
Thirteen years old
Itching to get out of the cage that is your skin
And the laser-beam eyes you can’t escape
Constantly examining, judging, poking and prodding like you’re the subject of an experiment
and the world is the cruel sadistic scientist
You hear laughing and do your best to mimic the sounds
Laughing even if you’re not sure what at
Is it you? Your hair? Your dress?
What do you need to change?
Where did you do wrong?
If only someone could just do it all for you
Surprise: you’re already there
Six years old
Bored out of your mind as the adults
blabber on and on about what must be gibberish
Failing to find any viable entertainment
When suddenly you see another kid – an older kid
Pulling out the magical portal tucked into their pocket
Prepared to take them anywhere they wish
At a moment’s notice
Endless possibilities one fingertip away
You suddenly know what you want from Santa
Fourteen years old
Permanently attached to the device glued to your hands
As if it provides lifesaving substances
Rather than the deadly drug of dopamine you are now reliant on
Unable to look away for a second
Unable to detach from the draining IV that’s become the new normal
Or else you might miss something
Might be left behind in the never ending whirl pool of content:
“Get ready with me”, “My Christmas hauls”, “dos and don’ts”, “tips and tricks”
Follow than cancel
Popular than cringe
Whatever happened to just being bored
Surprise: your already there
Ages 15-18
1st Place
By Zoe, aged 16
Supersonic,
Is this a really good investment or is it
catatonic?
Not in suburban malls on Christmas,
so I called up the number on the screen.
they asked if I was over eighteen
So I lied yes…
and gave them my address
Electronic,
with triple x batteries and the strength of man
it’s so erotic
And still in the development, so it’s a hundred grand
I’ll take you for whatever you are
If its the marching band, even if it’s air guitar
cause nothing can beat a lonely heart
It’s a classic transformation,
in the laws of worlds in science-fiction,
Can’t hold secrets for long durations,
So here’s the truth
keep your mouth screwed
Can u please forgive me,
I just bought a time machine
then went back, to try to kidnap the old me
And I didn’t want to tell you that from the beginning,
cause I’d thought you think I’m human trafficking.
But I just really want her to be in my place,
for me to be replaced,
By the smooth sailing of childhood grace
And trust me, I make no mistakes
Just wait a couple days
And look at the state
Its so euphoric,
the feeling of somebody to look forward to,
I hope she’s chaotic,
or at least has alot to say
so you don’t go away,
I know you would’ve stayed
so much more than just mutual mates
If I put her in my place
It’s a classic violation,
She’s tied and locked up, down in my basement.
And with every declaration,
“Please let me go!”
Just wanna keep her more.
and I took her out for water
But she ran away
from my own place
and I start to feel a fever
of just screwing up
from night to dawn
and oh my god
I hurt someone
I made them feel
just so distraught
then maybe in the future,
they’ll just jump off and drain their bloods out
Can u please forgive me,
I don’t have any limits
she would’ve stopped
but I was the one that didn’t
I’m wild and I’m messed up
the worst of my kind
I drink and I lie
make a Venn diagram
of all the good and the bad
I’m unsure of where I stand
where’s now and where’s then?
is this who I am?
2nd Place
By Orla, aged 17
Leigh woke up, saw the time, and almost swore;
she tumbled through the motions to the door.
she’d overslept again – a guarantee
of talking late with friends across the sea,
but they were worth the detour that she took
to fumble at the postbox with a book.
Now, was that Kai’s address? – no time to fuss –
she shoved it in and sprinted for the bus.
just making it, her heart slowed down once more
And sunk to think of all the day might store.
Ah well. She tried her hardest not to mind;
her friends were there, just half a day behind,
while she was on her way to be entombed
for just along the street, the office loomed.
Before she went inside and that was that,
she fired off a message – ‘free to chat?’
then in to work to earn to stay alive
(her soul just shut its eyes from nine to five,)
’til time to go. Fresh air! – Leigh savoured, sighed,
And checked her phone. Noone had yet replied.
Leigh took the seventh bus seat from the back
and stared past her reflection into black
until the street three streets away from hers
and then she walked the rest without a word.
Her door could keep the world outside at bay.
Before she turned the key to end the day,
she thought to trudge back out and check the post –
a pilgrimage in habit more than hope.
She found the usual crop of useless junk;
a coupon that suggested she get drunk;
and underneath an ad for cut-price lamps
a parcel using far too many stamps.
Leigh seized upon the letter held inside,
and bridged a gap that stretched Atlantic-wide.
‘ Hey Leigh! How’s things for you across the pond?
I hope your weather’s better – though I’m fond
of rain, there comes a point I kinda wish
that we could just donate some to the fish.
But if you’ll open this and have a look,
The point is that I thought you’d like this book.
That’s all from me! Though please do give a shout
if there’re dehydrated fish about.
Take care – with love and all the usual stuff,
from your friend Kai. ‘
Leigh shook her head and grinned. God only knows,
that man – and then she saw the book, and froze.
A moment passed, then two. She stood there, blinked,
and then began to laugh. What now to think?
She recognised the cover and the name
as if it were her own – it was the same
as one slim, dog-eared volume on the side
that she was currently re-reading (seventh time;)
And Sunday, at the book fair in the hall,
She’d found another copy on a stall;
A copy sitting now – she scarce believed –
in someone’s sack of post for overseas.
As day gave way to dwindling afternoon,
with reading-light held high against the gloom,
Leigh lost herself in lines she’d thought to share,
and smiled to know a common love was there.
Third Place
I saw you there
By Molly, aged 16
People walk past you,
without glancing in your direction.
I saw you there,
standing proud among the masses.
Arms everywhere, in every direction
splayed for all to see.
I saw you there,
brown, as warm as a summer evening
with a body as rough as sandpaper
Showing your age around your edges.
I saw you there,
your petals as soft as velvet,
their colour as striking as candy floss
Waiting….. to come into bloom.
I saw you there,
Blossom tree
others will soon see you too.
Highly Commended
By Roma, aged 18
[Please note this poem contains adult themes]
A poem about Medusa’s surprise when she realises that her beauty causes Poseidon to rape her and Athena to be so jealous that she turns her into a gorgon
Beauty,
Not what I thought it to be,
It brings forth happiness
Attracts good fortune
Is what I was told
Well.
Beauty,
A target on my back
Signalling to the gods
‘Look at me’, it says
‘Notice me’
‘Envy me’
Beauty,
A noose around my neck
Sealing my fate
With a few choice words
‘I am better’ the luscious hair says
‘I am superior’ the plump lips whisper
‘I am equal to a goddess’ the upturned eyes purr
It does not matter if I do not say it
They say it for me
And everyone listens
Beauty,
An excuse for men
‘Come closer’ the generous curves say
‘Touch me’ the full chest demands
‘Take everything I am and make it your own’
Beauty,
A gag in my mouth
Not letting my voice be heard
Yes, my body can spin stories
But my mind can tell you my own
If only you would listen
Beauty,
A weight tied to my feet
Dragging me down
Sealing my fate in that temple
Sealing that goddess’ hatred of me
I am drowning
Beauty,
A target on my back
A noose around my neck
An excuse for men
A gag in my mouth
A weight tied to my feet
Beauty is everything but beautiful
It is misleading
Surprising?
Something more sinister
Perhaps
Beauty,
Something I no longer possess
My abundance of it led to my lack
I stare into the mirror
Hundreds of cold, stony eyes stare back
‘You are ugly now’ they hiss
I cannot bring myself to care
Beauty,
A death sentence
Causing the death of itself
And me.
Surprise.