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Description
“The Flaming Shell”
A heart-wrenching true story of a hermit crab named Claude Alabaster and his best friend Shelley Gertrude.

Part I
The Awakening
“Death - the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening” - Sir Walter Scott

A dappled ray of light warms my pale fuchsia antennae through a narrow grey window. It spreads like warm butter across my facial features, lighting them with the morning’s greeting. Slowly, my huge orb-like obsidian eyeballs begin to inch open. A blurry vision fills my mind. I was in a small, grey box. The same grey box that I had been in for the past three years. My life. My prison. My Hell.

My name is Claude. Claude Alabaster. I am a hermit crab from the warm salty waters of the Australian coast, and I have lived in the Great Barrier Reef. Until three years ago, that is. I had done something terrible, something unforgivable all those years ago. That is why I am here now, in this tiny, mono-toned cell. What did I do, you may ask? Well, after hard scrutiny and careful observation, I have decided you are trustworthy.

Part II
The Flaming Shell
“Out of the frying pan into the fire.” - Persius

It all happened three years ago, on the 5th of August 2003. My best friend Shelley Gertrude and I had just been to a sea cucumber race at Flounderington. The light was fading away from the seabed and we were full up on green algae pies and Vee Bee sea beer, and we were slowly crawling home, our small town of Tartarchiller a monstrous four metres away. We had made it halfway there, when Shelley suddenly tripped over, showering soft granules of sand and rock onto me. I didn’t know how he tripped over under the water, but nevertheless he had been my friend for my whole life, and I didn’t laugh. Instead, I went to his side.
“Shelley! Are you alright???” I panicked.
Shelley pulled up his head out of the sand and shook his head, dazed.

Shelley was a small hermit crab, by our standards, but he had the best (and biggest) shell on the Southern coast. His parents were extremely rich, and he got what he wanted. Except friends. I was his only friend. He was born when I was born, and we made friends in Crab School. We shared everything together, but lately he had become moody and grumpy. His magnificent flame emblazoned shell housed not just Shelley, but features I could only dream about. It had a luxurious fridge (Fisher and Paykrill) with an ice-machine and a beer cooler (perfect for hot days under the boiling Australian sun), a humungous television which completely covered the wall (perfect for watching the cricket/footy on) and so many other amazing features that my amazement prevents me from writing them down. Sometimes I grew jealous of his shell, but always managed to restrain myself.

My shell, on the other hand, was a dingy, old colourless thing, the only decoration being a tiny particle of algae. Ooh! Algae. Make that no decorations.

“Shelley!!! Get up, come on! I cried, tugging at the corner of his shell with my tiny pincer.
“Get away!!!” Shelley screamed, swiping my pincer off with one of his legs, “What if you ruin the intricate flame detailing with your stupid, scratchy claws???”
I withdrew my claw in surprise with such force that I whacked myself in the head. I groaned and rolled on my back, legs flailing about crazily. Shelley righted himself and leant over me.
“Never touch the shell, Claude, you prawn-brained fish intestine-eater!!! You know how much this thing cost? How dare you lay one of your filthy, seaweed covered claws on me!”
Now that was a bit harsh. I was only trying to help! How could he do this to me??? I was a bit confused. Gradually I got up and stumbled over to Shelley.
“I- I’m so sorry, Shelley” I stuttered, untruthfully.
“I don’t care! I hate you, Claude!!!” He screamed, backing into a strategically placed hunk of prickly coral. However, this only got him angrier, and as his shell ground against it, scratching flecks of the precious red, orange and yellow flames into the surrounding sea. He screamed, a sound unlike any other I had heard. It was a deep, furious roar that emanated from within this tiny hermit crab’s mouthparts. He ran away, as fast as a hermit crab like him could – rather slowly, frantically, but still incredibly slowly. I knew I could have easily kept up, but I decided against chasing him. Maybe I would give him until tomorrow to apologize for his unwarranted behavioural outburst. No, wait. This wasn’t my fault! I was trying to help him up, that was completely selfish of him to brush me off and yell at me like that, how dare he! This was war!

Part III
The War
“Power corrupts. Absolute power is kind of neat”. - John Lehman

A seaweed pen bobbed precariously along my lip, my thinking cap was pulled on tight. Planning revenge was a tiring business, and I gazed out the window (open, to let in some fresh micro-organisms) and my gaze fell upon Shelley’s house. It was the biggest house in the street, a huge white coral with twenty-seven huge arch windows (al-fresco style), big French awnings (with detailing by ‘Picashoal’) and I knew that inside was sixty-something rooms the size of coconuts (pretty big compared to a hermit crab). I was jealous, I admit it, but his wealth had gotten to his head. I had it. My pen scrawled madly on the piece of paper in front of me for an hour, maybe more. My face suddenly brightened. I had completed my plan.

Part IV
The Plan
“He who fails to plan, plans to fail” - Proverb

I crept silently along the soft silt. I was stalking my prey. I glanced up towards the outcrop of purple and pink coral topped by on old, rusted bell. The only thing that could bring every hermit crab out of its shell and abandon home as quickly as possible was that bell. It heralded the arrival of such a sinister danger that I am not allowed to even speak of it - let alone put pen to paper and write about such an abomination. I crawled up the steep embankment slowly, checking backwards every so often to make sure that no one was following. I eventually reached the top. It was a huge, golf ball sized bell, the kind you might find in a really old church. It was covered in algae and bacterial growth. I highly doubted my ability to actually make it budge. I took in a deep breath of salty; oxygen saturated seawater and took a firm hold of the bell rope, quite mangled, but still usable and wrenched as hard as I could.

Part V
The Bell
“A bell's not a bell 'til you ring it” - Oscar Hammerstein II

An almighty “DONG!” filled the atmosphere. The sound was almost deafening, and I fell backwards clutching my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Maybe I should have just apologised, I should have just waited a day and then confronted him. It was too late now. I had to complete the plan. I scuttled off towards Shelley’s manse. My parents would think that I was out in Crabs bottom Trench, out of harm’s way. As I ran to his house, I glanced over at my town. The whole of Tartarchiller was bolting out their front doors, abandoning their shells inside. I saw Shelley and his family exiting their house. Shelley had taken his shell, but his parents tugged him until he reluctantly shed it and took off with the rest of the crabs. They were going to Humpty Doo, an outback town in Central Darwin, no not really. They were going to take refuge in the ‘bell’ shelter in the neighbouring town of Cardeejhin. I watched them leave, my heart burning with guilt.

Part VI
The Shame
“A nightingale dies for shame if another bird sings better.” - Robert Burton

I crept down to Shelley’s house and spotted the shell, half wedged in the front doorway. I slowly walked up to it, my conscience laden with guilt and shame. I took the devilish shell in both pincers and tugged. It came free. I immediately cast away my old shell and slipped easily into the new one. I admired the fiery designs on the exterior, and then delved into the depths of it. I was awestruck, the interior was even better than the inside! But I quickly stuck out my legs and scuttled off. It would not be long before they realised it was a false alarm, and investigated. They would easily lift my claw prints and I was not willing to take that risk. I ran. I ran as fast as my tiny, segmented legs could carry me.

Two days later I was found on the outskirts of Gillunger by a search party on seahorse back, still clutching the shell protectively. I had to be pried apart from it, and then they took me into custody. After a short trial I was sentenced to life for the terrible heresy of ringing the bell without proper authorisation, and intent to harm. I was made to return the shell, but in doing so, I denied my best friend the few things we treasured. Trust. Respect. Honesty. Friendship. And love.

Part VII
The Lost
“Love is blind, but friendship closes its eyes.” - unknown

I stole the shell from Shelley Gertrude. I stole Shelley Gertrude from Shelley Gertrude. I stole his soul. Instead of asking why he had been so unhappy, I took the chance to rip his heart out and burn it. I hate myself for it, and I would give anything to have that moment again, so I could fix it. I ended up with less than what I started with. And now look where I am; in prison, on the outskirts of Abbey Roahd. That is my story. I want you all to remember that friendship is not to be underestimated. It can make or break a being. My very being was broken. Remember that. The sun is setting, and my cheeks are turning orange, set afire with the golden night. Farewell.

(c) Emily V // Glumpy jockstrap. Contains 1,745 words.

Description
“The Flaming Shell”
A heart-wrenching true story of a hermit crab named Claude Alabaster and his best friend Shelley Gertrude.

Part I
The Awakening
“Death - the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening” - Sir Walter Scott

A dappled ray of light warms my pale fuchsia antennae through a narrow grey window. It spreads like warm butter across my facial features, lighting them with the morning’s greeting. Slowly, my huge orb-like obsidian eyeballs begin to inch open. A blurry vision fills my mind. I was in a small, grey box. The same grey box that I had been in for the past three years. My life. My prison. My Hell.

My name is Claude. Claude Alabaster. I am a hermit crab from the warm salty waters of the Australian coast, and I have lived in the Great Barrier Reef. Until three years ago, that is. I had done something terrible, something unforgivable all those years ago. That is why I am here now, in this tiny, mono-toned cell. What did I do, you may ask? Well, after hard scrutiny and careful observation, I have decided you are trustworthy.

Part II
The Flaming Shell
“Out of the frying pan into the fire.” - Persius

It all happened three years ago, on the 5th of August 2003. My best friend Shelley Gertrude and I had just been to a sea cucumber race at Flounderington. The light was fading away from the seabed and we were full up on green algae pies and Vee Bee sea beer, and we were slowly crawling home, our small town of Tartarchiller a monstrous four metres away. We had made it halfway there, when Shelley suddenly tripped over, showering soft granules of sand and rock onto me. I didn’t know how he tripped over under the water, but nevertheless he had been my friend for my whole life, and I didn’t laugh. Instead, I went to his side.
“Shelley! Are you alright???” I panicked.
Shelley pulled up his head out of the sand and shook his head, dazed.

Shelley was a small hermit crab, by our standards, but he had the best (and biggest) shell on the Southern coast. His parents were extremely rich, and he got what he wanted. Except friends. I was his only friend. He was born when I was born, and we made friends in Crab School. We shared everything together, but lately he had become moody and grumpy. His magnificent flame emblazoned shell housed not just Shelley, but features I could only dream about. It had a luxurious fridge (Fisher and Paykrill) with an ice-machine and a beer cooler (perfect for hot days under the boiling Australian sun), a humungous television which completely covered the wall (perfect for watching the cricket/footy on) and so many other amazing features that my amazement prevents me from writing them down. Sometimes I grew jealous of his shell, but always managed to restrain myself.

My shell, on the other hand, was a dingy, old colourless thing, the only decoration being a tiny particle of algae. Ooh! Algae. Make that no decorations.

“Shelley!!! Get up, come on! I cried, tugging at the corner of his shell with my tiny pincer.
“Get away!!!” Shelley screamed, swiping my pincer off with one of his legs, “What if you ruin the intricate flame detailing with your stupid, scratchy claws???”
I withdrew my claw in surprise with such force that I whacked myself in the head. I groaned and rolled on my back, legs flailing about crazily. Shelley righted himself and leant over me.
“Never touch the shell, Claude, you prawn-brained fish intestine-eater!!! You know how much this thing cost? How dare you lay one of your filthy, seaweed covered claws on me!”
Now that was a bit harsh. I was only trying to help! How could he do this to me??? I was a bit confused. Gradually I got up and stumbled over to Shelley.
“I- I’m so sorry, Shelley” I stuttered, untruthfully.
“I don’t care! I hate you, Claude!!!” He screamed, backing into a strategically placed hunk of prickly coral. However, this only got him angrier, and as his shell ground against it, scratching flecks of the precious red, orange and yellow flames into the surrounding sea. He screamed, a sound unlike any other I had heard. It was a deep, furious roar that emanated from within this tiny hermit crab’s mouthparts. He ran away, as fast as a hermit crab like him could – rather slowly, frantically, but still incredibly slowly. I knew I could have easily kept up, but I decided against chasing him. Maybe I would give him until tomorrow to apologize for his unwarranted behavioural outburst. No, wait. This wasn’t my fault! I was trying to help him up, that was completely selfish of him to brush me off and yell at me like that, how dare he! This was war!

Part III
The War
“Power corrupts. Absolute power is kind of neat”. - John Lehman

A seaweed pen bobbed precariously along my lip, my thinking cap was pulled on tight. Planning revenge was a tiring business, and I gazed out the window (open, to let in some fresh micro-organisms) and my gaze fell upon Shelley’s house. It was the biggest house in the street, a huge white coral with twenty-seven huge arch windows (al-fresco style), big French awnings (with detailing by ‘Picashoal’) and I knew that inside was sixty-something rooms the size of coconuts (pretty big compared to a hermit crab). I was jealous, I admit it, but his wealth had gotten to his head. I had it. My pen scrawled madly on the piece of paper in front of me for an hour, maybe more. My face suddenly brightened. I had completed my plan.

Part IV
The Plan
“He who fails to plan, plans to fail” - Proverb

I crept silently along the soft silt. I was stalking my prey. I glanced up towards the outcrop of purple and pink coral topped by on old, rusted bell. The only thing that could bring every hermit crab out of its shell and abandon home as quickly as possible was that bell. It heralded the arrival of such a sinister danger that I am not allowed to even speak of it - let alone put pen to paper and write about such an abomination. I crawled up the steep embankment slowly, checking backwards every so often to make sure that no one was following. I eventually reached the top. It was a huge, golf ball sized bell, the kind you might find in a really old church. It was covered in algae and bacterial growth. I highly doubted my ability to actually make it budge. I took in a deep breath of salty; oxygen saturated seawater and took a firm hold of the bell rope, quite mangled, but still usable and wrenched as hard as I could.

Part V
The Bell
“A bell's not a bell 'til you ring it” - Oscar Hammerstein II

An almighty “DONG!” filled the atmosphere. The sound was almost deafening, and I fell backwards clutching my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Maybe I should have just apologised, I should have just waited a day and then confronted him. It was too late now. I had to complete the plan. I scuttled off towards Shelley’s manse. My parents would think that I was out in Crabs bottom Trench, out of harm’s way. As I ran to his house, I glanced over at my town. The whole of Tartarchiller was bolting out their front doors, abandoning their shells inside. I saw Shelley and his family exiting their house. Shelley had taken his shell, but his parents tugged him until he reluctantly shed it and took off with the rest of the crabs. They were going to Humpty Doo, an outback town in Central Darwin, no not really. They were going to take refuge in the ‘bell’ shelter in the neighbouring town of Cardeejhin. I watched them leave, my heart burning with guilt.

Part VI
The Shame
“A nightingale dies for shame if another bird sings better.” - Robert Burton

I crept down to Shelley’s house and spotted the shell, half wedged in the front doorway. I slowly walked up to it, my conscience laden with guilt and shame. I took the devilish shell in both pincers and tugged. It came free. I immediately cast away my old shell and slipped easily into the new one. I admired the fiery designs on the exterior, and then delved into the depths of it. I was awestruck, the interior was even better than the inside! But I quickly stuck out my legs and scuttled off. It would not be long before they realised it was a false alarm, and investigated. They would easily lift my claw prints and I was not willing to take that risk. I ran. I ran as fast as my tiny, segmented legs could carry me.

Two days later I was found on the outskirts of Gillunger by a search party on seahorse back, still clutching the shell protectively. I had to be pried apart from it, and then they took me into custody. After a short trial I was sentenced to life for the terrible heresy of ringing the bell without proper authorisation, and intent to harm. I was made to return the shell, but in doing so, I denied my best friend the few things we treasured. Trust. Respect. Honesty. Friendship. And love.

Part VII
The Lost
“Love is blind, but friendship closes its eyes.” - unknown

I stole the shell from Shelley Gertrude. I stole Shelley Gertrude from Shelley Gertrude. I stole his soul. Instead of asking why he had been so unhappy, I took the chance to rip his heart out and burn it. I hate myself for it, and I would give anything to have that moment again, so I could fix it. I ended up with less than what I started with. And now look where I am; in prison, on the outskirts of Abbey Roahd. That is my story. I want you all to remember that friendship is not to be underestimated. It can make or break a being. My very being was broken. Remember that. The sun is setting, and my cheeks are turning orange, set afire with the golden night. Farewell.

(c) Emily V // Glumpy jockstrap. Contains 1,745 words.