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First published 2017 Writing East Midlands Competition, 32a Stoney St, The Lace Market, Nottingham NG1 1LL

Tel: 0115 959 7929 info@writingeastmidlands.co.uk

www.writingeastmidlands.co.uk

© Writing East Midlands and with the contributors, 2017

Cover illustration by The Unloved

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The Beacon 2The Beacon 2 Solstice Prize for Young Writers

Anthology 2017

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Introduction

Well done and thank you to all the young writers who submitted their stories and poems to our Solstice Prize for Young Writers in celebration of National Writing Day.

The winners and highly commended pieces in each age category are as follows:

10-13 Age Category

OVERALL WINNER:

Nikki the Anteater Does it His Way by Natalie Grady.

Highly commended pieces:

Bannanero and Strawbriette! by Katie Thomson

What am I? by Harry Lehman

Searching for Home by Yusef Ali

Every Bunny but One by Alice Burke

Doll by Erin Evans

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14-17 Age Category

OVERALL WINNER:

The Catch by Anton Caldwell

Highly commended pieces:

Translucent Skin by Ariane Branigan

The Silent Passenger by Rebecca Hawkins

Must by Jenny Gallagher

Ink by Lottie Armitage

The Right Way by Maia Siegel

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Natalie Grady Overall winner 10-13 age category

Nikki the Anteater Does it His Way

Can you imagine how rubbish it is to be an anteater? And it’s even worse to be an anteater stared at by humans all day, I can tell you. Photos and videos just tip me over the edge although videos are always the worst. A few years ago, I invented a way to cut down the filming: it’s very simple (but don’t tell the armadillos). Here it is: don’t move! Whenever someone whips out a camera I stay very still and lie flat on the straw. It’s quite amusing to watch faces of growing frustration, as people use up all their phone storage, filming what seems to be a dead anteater’s back. My life is so dull! I need something to change. This week I’m going to do it my way.

Ranger has just bought me my fruit smoothie.

“Nikki,” She calls, like I’m her pet dog, “Nikki, look what I’ve got for you” as she shakes the bars.

I must have the patience of a saint to put up with this every day!

“Nikki…Nikki…come on I know you want it”.

Really? Does she really know? If she was as clever as she thinks she is, she would know that all I want to do is sleep. And she would also know that if she calls my name one more time, I will get up, charge towards her, and rip the smoothie bottle in half.

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Tomorrow, Ranger has told me that two girls who are studying animal nutrition are coming in to see how you look after anteaters. She said they are going to watch her feed me and so I had better come out. And so, I will…under two circumstances:

Number 1 - If one of them asks why they don’t feed me ants if I’m an anteater, I will certainly come out. I will barge down the door and tell them exactly what I think of ants (disgusting in my opinion)! When I find the person, who named anteaters, I will ask them how they would like to be called ‘spinacheaters’ and only be expected to eat spinach!! Mealworms are delicious, beyond delicious in fact, why we are not called ‘mealwormeaters’ I will never know! I will never understand humans – they think I like fruit smoothie. What they don’t know is that I am unlikely to stumble across a ready pureed fruit smoothie in a termite hill am I?

Number 2 – They do not mention armadillos. If they mention armadillos, I will make a wall of straw and sulk on the other side of it. Just to make it clear, I HATE armadillos. Every junior ranger says “I do like the anteater but he’s a bit ugly isn’t he. The armadillos are just the cutest.”

Spring and summer are my worst seasons. There are more junior rangers for a start – making rude comments about me. Plus, its daylight for longer which means for me more time sat in straw because I’m a nocturnal, and less time to bash at my termite hill. They think I think it’s a real termite hill, I know it’s fake. For a start, I’ve never seen a termite come out of there.

People refer to me as an ‘ant bear’, I find that most insulting since bears are the deadliest creatures I know of. Not that I can talk – one of my species attacked and hurt a ranger once. He did me a favour really because now if I don’t

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want to move, no-one dares to make me (although I did feel a bit sorry for the ranger).

Today, Ranger introduced me to her daughter. She was all right I suppose, better than the junior rangers at least. Except she kept asking stupid questions like “Can he hear us?”

Of course, I can hear her- what am I now, ugly and deaf? She is the loudest person I have ever heard. I made the mistake of looking up so that she knew I could hear her.

“Hello Mr Nikki, will you be my friend?”

No I won’t, I don’t tend to make friends with rangers’ daughters and you will not be the exception. Not after your Mum used you to trick me into getting out of bed – I was so fed up with the constant questions that I skulked over to the visitors’ window and whilst I was there, she cleaned out my sleeping enclosure! I hate fresh straw, it gets up my rather long nose, irritating me and it doesn’t smell right. I vowed to never leave my enclosure in daylight again.

Disaster has struck – after such an annoying day; I have been invaded by a bold duck and her nine noisy ducklings. The horrible birds were trespassing in my private property. How rude and disrespectful of them! Last night in my only hours of peace and quiet (except from the selfish lions roaring) I spotted them waddling across my enclosure and plopping into the pond. If we are allowed anywhere we want now, I’m heading straight for the café. A junior ranger once brought a cup of coffee into my enclosure and spilled a bit outside the bars. Later I investigated it with the help of my expertly long tongue. It was incredible! Coffee is my second favourite food (after mealworms of course) and a large latte would go down a treat!

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This morning is looking much better, last night the ducks tried their sneaky antics again but this time I was ready for them. The day before I had discovered the place they had snuck in so I lay behind my termite mound and when they arrived, this “ant bear” gave them the fright of their short lives. It cheered me up no end to see their little legs going so fast!

No more trespassers around here - that’s how I do it my way!

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Katie Thomson Highly commended 10-13 age category

Bannanero and Strawbriette!

Bannanero was a ripe yellow banana he was kind and caring and knew his job, which was to stay right at the bottom of the fruit bowl. He was part of a family who took pride in being yellow and despised all other coloured fruits, especially the Strawberries.

Strawbriette was a rough, tough Strawberry who had a black belt in Karate. Even so, she was a fabulous friend, who would always look after you. Strawbriette was known throughout the kitchen. She was the pride of the Strawberries and was well protected by the biggest strawberries of all the Long Wedge Strawberries for every hour, of every day. She hated it.

One day as Bannanero was heading to the bottom of the fruit bowl he saw a Strawberry all alone, crying in a corner. As Bannanero was such a warm-hearted, gentle man he went up to her to try and comfort her even though he knew he shouldn’t do so. The Strawberry, who was Strawbriette, looked up and started to wail increasingly loudly. “What’s wrong?” Bannanero questioned her, “What makes you cry like this?”

“My mother was put into a Strawberry Smoothie, it’s the chef’s new special.” Strawbriette cried despairingly.

Later that day Strawbriette was walking back home from Karate with the Long Wedge body-guards when

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she saw Bannanero walking in the street. “Excuse me,” she said politely to the body-guards, “May I go shopping by myself for once. I can look after myself.” The Long Wedges looked at each other, then at Strawbriette, who was doing her ‘if you don’t let me I’ll do a new kick I learnt,’ look, and then, reluctantly, nodded. So, off Strawbriette skipped. Bannanero saw her coming. He had taken quite a fancy to the delightful Strawbriette, and busied himself with the Skittle machine. Strawbriette came up to him and gave him a hug. They met each other’s gaze and almost instantly fell in love.

They met up almost every day in the café to talk and develop plans of how to make the Strawberry family and Banana family live harmoniously together. One day as Strawbriette was heading to the café to see Bannanero she heard a voice say, “I’m so sorry to hear about Bannanero’s death.” Instantly she knew her love had gone so she turned and ran up to the very top of the fruit bowl and jumped into the Fruit Salad that lay next to it. She didn’t care what her family would say she only wanted to be with Bannanero.

Meanwhile, back down in the fruit bowl Bannanero was in mourning for his Grandad, Bannanero Senior. None the less he had gone to the café and was awaiting the arrival of Strawbriette. An hour he waited, two hours, three hours, he was beginning to get restless. So, finally he decided to go out and search for Strawbriette. As he was walking along he saw another search party out looking for Strawbriette and straight away he knew. He knew Strawbriette had heard about a dead Bannanero and he also knew that this was one of the worst misunderstandings ever. He had heard of the sort when the Chef made the wrong dinner for someone but never of one like this. So, he ran to the top of the fruit bowl and despairingly jumped into the smoothie and was blended.

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The next day the Banana and Strawberry family were in search of their children when they bumped into each other. “Where is my son, what have you done with him?” asked the Banana head

“Nothing, we’re out searching for our daughter the mighty Strawbriette!” exclaimed the Strawberry head. Bannanero’s mother bravely butted in “Why don’t we join forces for once and find our children together?”

“Yes, why not?” said Strawbriette’s Aunt. So, they did. The two families walked up and down the fruit bowl in search of their children, but they never found them. They went up to the Grape family and asked them “Have you seen a Bannanero or Strawbriette?”

“Well obviously not. Have you not heard? I thought you’d be the first to hear after all you’re the parents. But if not I’ll tell you after all I am The Wise Old Grape. Bannanero Senior died and Strawbriette believed it was her true love Bannanero Junior. So, she’s gone into the digestive system of some human. Then Bannanero junior realised what had happened and jumped into a smoothie blender, rumour has it that it was the new Kiwi and Lemon Smoothie. I’m not sure it would taste very good with an added Banana. Anyway, that’s the story, so I reckon if you want to find your kids have been reunited in somebody’s stomach.” Said the Grape.

It was a lot to take in at first but the families got it in the end and were so sorry about the feud that had settled between them that the two families have become the best of friends. So, whenever you have Fruit Salad for a dessert always ask for Strawberries and Bananas together, for that would make Bannanero and Strawbriette very, very happy.

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Harry Lehman

Highly commended 10-13 category

What am I?

I can see you. Can you see me? I can change my colour, to match most any surface. My three hearts and my blood, as blue as the ocean, my natural, happy habitat. I am hiding from you. In a small gap, only I can reach. I have many tricks up my sleeve, to protect myself from other creatures. I can squirt ink, as black as coal, hide between rough rocks, and change my colour, to prevent my death. I swish my 8 legs as I swim, lightning fast. I flip them back and forth, as I slither through the ocean. I hear you. I hide. Can you see me? I can see you.

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Yusef Ali Highly commended 10-13 age category

Searching for Home

The clouds swam across the vast blue ocean sky. I watched them for a few moments, then stood up. What I saw was a picture I had once seen in a book about the apocalypse. Once where had risen three storey buildings, now all that remained was a single pillar, about 10 foot high. At the foot of the pillar lay the wreckage of the building. The non-existent buildings were like soulless eyes glaring accusingly, as if I was the one who caused this madness.

I turned down the side street and tripped over a mass of metal rods, jutting out from the bombed stairwell of a large house, I picked myself up, choking on dust and try to remember where Mama could be. I glanced at the battered screen of my watch, which stated that it was 12:31 PM, time for Zuhr. Mama could be in the mosque praying, the location of the mosque was fuzzy in my memory, but I could remember that it was near the playground, which was down the street. I began to walk towards where I thought the playground was and all around me was wreckage, nearly all the houses were demolished with metal wires poking out and glass shattered across the pavement. After a long while I spied the towering minaret of the mosque, but with a gaping hole in the outer wall. I pressed on, and eventually found myself at the entrance of the mosque.

Just a couple of months ago this place would have been buzzing with the shouts and screeches with children

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running around the courtyard, but now it was abandoned and desolate, as if no human soul had ever stepped foot inside. I could smell the musty dirt wafting from the concrete scattered about. I made my way to the women’s praying area, and spotted a woman with a fake Calvin Klein jumper on. She saw me approach, and I asked her if she had seen Mama. She looked at me for a long while without saying anything. At last, she asked if I was alone and I said yes, then told me where I lived, because she would take me home and find Mama. On our way back, I asked her what her name was, and she said it was Soraya. Something about her presence seemed comforting as I began to feel increasingly confused.

As we neared the house, I heard men grunting, and rocks being thrown on the floor. We turned around the corner and there were four men all wearing white helmets. One turned around asking what we were doing here. I said that I lived here and was wondering if Mama had come back. The men looked at one another but said nothing. Another man shouted at us to stand back. Soraya questioned if I wanted anything to eat. I hadn’t noticed it before but I was starving. We turned back and Soraya led the way to the nearest food queue, and walked there in silence.

The queue snaked right around to the end of the courtyard, where the fountain had been, but now was just a pile of rubble in the shape of a trodden-on cake. The queue was so long, it looked like a snake because of the colours of the keffiyehs that the people were wearing. The people in the queue were coughing and sputtering due to all the dust in the air. Soraya said that the queue was too long, so she would wait and I would go back home. I nodded and trudged back.

When I got home I heard the men shouting again but this time it was serious. I could see an arm sticking out of the

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rubble. Panic rose within me as it dawned on me whose arm it was. “Mama!” I ran towards her but a big, burly man scooped me up in his arms. I started to cry uncontrollably as grief shot through me like an electric charge.

They took me to a UN refuge somewhere in the desert. I sat inside the vast sweltering tent. There were other children too. The noise was unbearable; I managed to find a more peaceful spot next to a tall boy with a baseball jacket, which had a rip in the sleeve.

“Where do you come from?” the boy said.

“My home is in Tadef,” I replied. The boy chuckled.

“Home?” he sniggered, “Where in the East of Aleppo can you find a place to call home?” he held out his hand and let him hold mine because I didn’t know what else to do.

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Alice Burke

Highly commended 10-13 age category

Every Bunny but One

One little bunny went to market, One little bunny was a geek, One little bunny went to a party, And one little bunny ate a leek. But there is one little bunny left, this little bunny is called Bess. She is not kind or caring, She is terrible at sharing, She is always swearing and what in the world do you think she’s wearing? …NOTHING! Ha ha ha, he he he, I am laughing, me. But do you want to hear something really not funny? She stole a cookie from a cute little bunny. Do you want to hear something worse than that? She bopped a cat with her mother’s baseball bat. Now do you want to hear something worse still? She poisoned the grass on the emerald hill. And guess what…she never paid a bill and pulled out people’s hair, until the police locked her behind bars, somewhere where there were no escape cars. Now something sad, little Bess got cursed. But boys and girls, please don’t fear the worst. You see, To an evil bunny, a curse is a blessing and that’s quite funny.

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Bess feels all tingly, she screams and shouts, she gets all jittery, she starts to run about. She looks all about her then breaks the bars, she runs out quickly and looks at the stars. She says “tallyho!” and “Off I go!”. Little Bess is somebody you must not hate, She’s put some clothes on and gone straight. She is kind, she is caring and very funny. She is the most delightful little bunny. Now this is how our story ends, With me, with you, with Bess and her friends.

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Erin Evans Highly commended 10-13 age category

Doll

Pretty little china doll, Please let me share your parasol. Pale skin and clear glass eyes, Every day she slowly dies. Who can tell what she thinks, What secrets lie behind those winks? Delicate frilly pastel dress, Kindly fastened by her mistress. A perfect image of despair, Which pot of tea does she share? It’s a lovely little game she plays, She can keep me entertained for days. And when she shuts her eyes at night, She goes to sleep without a fight. A complacent little thing she is, She’s quite the perfect little miss. Silky smooth, jet black hair, She’s so pretty, it’s hardly fair. Arms move up. Arms move down. Tiny fists all curled round. A flower crown, upon her head, It’s a pity that all the buds are dead. She’s my favourite princess playmate, Because I’m the one who determines her fate. But I’ll rip the head off my pretty doll, Because she just won’t share her parasol.

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Anton Caldwell

Overall winner 14-17 age category

The Catch

I sit and dangle my legs over the edge. A family of crabs gather four feet below my soles. The string in my hand is heavy with last night's pork chop and the crabs dance as I tickle the surface with it. I think, with enough meat and string, I could conduct them in an underwater ballet.

"My dad's out catching the rest of your family; you'd better dance well or I'll eat you up too," I say to myself. All the old fishermen's faces crease up when they hear that. They're lined up along edge of the pier, just next to my spot on the steps. Grandpa Tony gives me a toothless grin,

"I bet your daddy's gonna come back with the juiciest king of the crabs just for you to eat, lassie."

"No, haven't you heard? The king of the crabs eats little girls like you!" Says another one. I don't tell them how many crabs I've crushed and eaten. The king crab would be no match for me.

The old men quickly sink back to the seats of their chairs and I marvel as their eyes recede behind great drooping brows. The only sign of life comes with the lashing of the fishing hooks back and forth across the belly of the waves. No hint of arthritis is evident in those old men's wrists. They whip their arms back at some distinct moment known only to them, then cast again with the arc of an insect's flight.

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I'm contented on my mossy step at the water's edge when the sound of elderly terror echoes from the peer.

"Philliiiiip, Phillip, help me Phillip!" It's not often you hear a sound like that in this pebble-dashed, UKIP voting, fish and chip capital of England. I'm quick to drop my string and investigate. I'm not the first. Something has roused the seaside pensioners from their seats to form a gaggle around one rod. Grandpa Tony and his friend grip the pole like soldiers manning a mortar.

"Let go Tony, you silly bugger!"

"Not if you don't let go first, Phillip. He's mine!"

"We're not twenty-two anymore, Tony. If you keep hold of that pole you'll end up in the bottom of the harbour."

"I'll let go when I'm dead then!"

I look on in bemusement until one of the other men nudges me and points out to sea.

About a hundred yards out is a mess of waves and spray around the end of the line. They've got something. Something massive. The old men's biceps buck against their leathery tattoos. More and more of the men join their hands on to the rod. It becomes a religious ceremony. The preacher in the centre summons the faith of the followers. Little shouts and groans crescendo from the circular mass of pensioners over the whirring of the fishing line. It's getting closer.

"Come on you arsehole, it's time for you to come out of that f...ing ocean!" Grandpa's voice calls from the centre of the struggle. Every one of them has lost forty years. Eyes wide, teeth gritted, they've been waiting long for something like this. The splashing edges closer to the pier and I can tell it's a race between whatever's on the end of that hook and the will of a dozen old codgers.

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The creature is fierce. It's a tiger of the ocean. Elderly muscles splinter and crack in time with decking as the anchor of men is dragged closer to the water. I can feel Grandpa's knuckles in pain, stretched around the rod, and I want to cry to him to stop.

I reckon there must have been a horde of angels waiting to take them but, at the point of collapse, they haul the catch on to our pier. A gleaming bulk of fin, tooth and tail, thrashes and writhes. Seeing their prize beached, the men deflate happily. Grandpa and Phillip embrace and slowly reach the floor.

"Not bad old man," says Phillip.

"Couldn't have done it without you old man," says Grandpa.

Grandpa beckons me over. I sit with his arms around me as the rain starts to fall and the boundary between sea and sky begins to blur. We stay there for what seems like hours as the creature on the pier ceases struggling. The gills flap open and close in the wind. Grandpa and the rest of the men exchange a look, then he and some other men gather round the animal.

"Come on lass, it's time for him to go back now," says Grandpa. I don't understand why they want to let him go. In sombre reverence, the animal is lifted like the casket of a dead friend. He slips into the water with a small splash and swims slowly along the waves.

Grandpa and I sit back down as the others disperse to tell the story to the town. His thin legs are longer than mine as we dangle over the edge and watch the tides in the rain. We wait there. I see the prow of Dad's boat cutting through the mist.

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Ariane Branigan

Highly commended 14-17 age category

Translucent Skin

I watch the ghost that lies beside me, the rise of his shoulders, the collapse of his breath, and I miss the space where you lay. He speaks in his sleep, the sentences which I deciphered in the darkness when the shadows made me sweat and slash at the air, the sparks which never became flame. I am the queen of self-immolation, as I lie in this bed next to a slumbering god. I tense when he stirs, scraping the moonlight from my arms, carving in scars with feather-light knives. I let myself miss the weight of existence, dragging him into the tar pits of my lungs, waiting and stagnating with this empty lover while his kisses bloom into bruises beneath my fingertips and he steals my breath with condolences which mean nothing when he leaves me behind as he always does, always will. If the sun drags itself up he will disappear from beneath my sheets, and he will make me realise that I cannot love this illusion, this man moulded from translucent skin and crumbling bones, his bleeding heart blinding me until all I can see is him.

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Rebecca Hawkins

Highly commended 14-17 age category

The Silent Passenger

The lawyer has an awful, droning sort of voice, like a fly constantly thwacking into a window.

I nod absently, letting his incessant monotone fade into the background. His words are meaningless, full of technical jargon that is neither necessary nor meaningful to me in any way. What he is saying could be summed up in two sentences. Will you stay with your Dad full time instead of alternate weekends? And then my reply – Yes. I don’t have anywhere else.

When the tea stain on the carpet becomes dull, I glance up the lawyer. He suits his voice. He’s not fat, just sagging, not ugly, just…mediocre. I watch his little wet mouth work in weird shapes before letting myself acknowledge the shape hovering behind him.

She stands pale against the dimness of the doorway, as washed out as the rest of the grey wallpaper and faded blue curtains. Numb, I watch her watching us then I look back to the lawyer, an obvious dismissal. She doesn’t take the hint. She stands and gazes at us with her lank straw hair concealing her throat.

She remains in the doorway even after the lawyer has gone and Dad starts packing the suitcases. He moves awkwardly through the house that hasn’t been his for the last five years, like a dancer a fraction of the second off the beat.

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From the look on his face, he’s thinking the same thing. Nothing will ever be the same, no matter how hard we try.

She’s standing behind me again. I close my eyes and pause from stuffing clothes into the duffle. I don’t even have to turn around to know she’s there; I can feel her eyes on my back, feel the air go cold.

“What do you want?” I say and glare down at the whirlpool of clothes in front of me.

She doesn’t answer. It infuriates me; I feel the hackles rising on the back of my neck; I must clench my mouth shut to stop myself from screaming at her. Instead, I decide to ignore her. Serves her right. My movements now are slow and laboured, the t-shirts and cardigans feel like lead weights. My back begins to itch. I know she’s watching me.

I turn around and flinch. She’s closer than I thought, standing marooned in the middle of the carpet, a drooping, wasted figure that gazes at me morosely. I yearn to lunge for her and shake her so hard she chokes on her tongue. But I can’t. I only glare. Her hair hangs limp from the crown of her head, her eyes are hollow, her collar pulled down so that I can see the obnoxious brown bruises around her neck. They’re there to spite me. To taunt me. To remind me.

“Why are you still here?” I spit.

Her head slowly tilts to one side, exposing more of the bruises around her neck.

I start to shake. “You don’t get to do this. You left me. Remember? You. Left. Me.” My voice is low and grim. “So, go. I don’t want you anymore. I don’t need you anymore.”

Nothing. She gives me nothing. Just stares at me balefully, with only sorrow in her brown doe eyes. Well what

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about my sorrow? What about what she’s done to me? Fury grips my heart, my tongue, my brain.

“I hate you,” I shriek.

Her gaze leaves mine. Slowly, she turns and slips away. Something about it is so grave, so final, that I call after her.

“Mum?”

The gloom of the doorway swallows her.

“Mum?” I call again, louder, frantic. “Mum?”

Dad crashes in through the doorway, out of breath and panting, still foreign in this shell of a house. “Emily – what is it?”

“No-nothing. It’s nothing.”

He looks unsure. “Are you almost ready?”

I look down at the bag and nod. “Let’s go.”

“Emily,” Dad says in the car, hesitating before he starts up the ignition.

I brace myself for the words I know will come. My mouth tastes sour. This speech is pre-rehearsed.

“It wasn’t your fault. What happened was nothing to do with you. Your mother was very sick,” he stares at anything other than me. “You know that, don’t you?”

I nod tersely. “Let’s go.”

As the car rolls away, I cast a glance over my shoulder, and my heart jerks in my chest. She stands in the kitchen window, staring at us, one grey-tinged hand pressing against the glass.

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“Stop!” I shriek, throwing the door open and diving out, knees smacking into the tarmac. I am up and on my feet before Dad can reach me, sprinting back towards the house, screaming her name.

She isn’t there. I stare at an empty room. Dad comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. He tries to keep his voice from shaking.

“You need to let her go. Please, Emily. Let her go.”

I nod, because what choice do I have? I don’t want to let her go, despite what she did in the garage with the rope, despite the fact she left me, because she’s my mum – but what choice do I have? I let Dad lead me outside.

She’s sitting in the car, waiting. I slam to a halt, staring at her, my mouth tasting of ashes. Dad glances down at me in concern and he gives me a little tug, but I can’t move. There was never any choice. A bleak, horrified smile tugs at my lips. She will be with me forever; the grey shadow, silent, mournful: the mother who wanted to leave me. She will haunt me for the rest of my life.

We go to the car, and take our silent passenger with us.

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Jenny Gallagher

Highly commended 14-17 age category

Must

I must have passion and power But be gentle and kind I must be easy for the boys Keep my thoughts in my mind I must be strong and independent and bold I must also always do what I’m told Clever is a must As is pretty As is fun Dancing round the hours Far away from the sun Tanned but not burnt Slim but nor bony My breasts must be large Rounded and homely And at the end of the day When I’ve performed, and been rewarded The whispers say ‘do better’ Yet the hands are applauding When I’ve loved and I’ve lost When I’ve trusted and betrayed In the bed of a child Is where I must lay.

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Lottie Armitage

Highly commended 14-17 age category

Ink

Once upon a time.

I gaze down at what I’ve just written, my trails of ink spreading their dark feathers over the page. Those poor words have no way of knowing what a terrible cliché they are.

Once upon a time, there was…what, exactly?

I sit here and absorb the blank paper into my mind, trying to fill it with everything I’m thinking of as if splattering it with paint. It’s impossible. I’ve heard of writers being afraid of blank paper, but this isn’t fear as such – this is a block the colour of dull cotton, wrapping itself around my senses and rendering them broken. Worst of all, the only words it is capable of weaving appear to be ‘once upon a time’.

I glance at the clock and let my pen become loose in my hand, tracing meaningless lines across the empty landscape of the paper with a sound like claws on wood. ‘Once upon a time’ isn’t the end of the world, surely. Everything has to begin at some point, so why shouldn’t it have happened a long time ago?

‘In a galaxy far, far away,’ my cliché-sodden mind fills in, and I have to keep myself from bursting into tears.

At least the page now looks less lonely, less neglected. The spirals of ink my careless hand has left are dancing together, full of chaos and yet not quite full of

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creativity. If only there was something beyond this waiting, a form of inspiration I’m yet to discover—

You’re thinking too deeply again. There is nothing else. There is only writing.

My eyes snap open. This is the voice of a pen meeting paper; the voice of a pencil being dragged in neat lines to fill the void. It’s also, unmistakably, my own voice. I cannot move for fear of hearing it again, because it’s reassuring and comforting but comes with that slight edge of the unknown. Despite what it’s telling me, I know for certain now that there is more than this. There must be.

That something else, as it happens, is pulling itself out of the paper and turning to look at me with two small flecks of night sky.

What am I supposed to say at this point? I suppose I still think like a writer: even now I’m searching for similes for those layers upon layers of ink as my numb brain tries clumsily to wrap itself around such an idea. In the end, no metaphors could accurately describe what has just appeared on my paper. Beneath all the adjectives in the world, it’s an animal formed from ink, and it’s staring straight at me.

Write, it murmurs, and again the sound of pen on paper floods my ears like the roar of the sea. Write, and see what happens.

Now that my shock has reached a safe level, I permit myself to take a closer look at the creature. It resembles a fox in shape and form, beginning with tight cross-hatches along the muzzle and curving into delicate sweeps for the arch of the back before ending in a glorious flourish for the tail. Standing with an unnaturally upright gait, as if merely an illustration from a pop-up picture book, it raises its head slightly and regards me with splinters of light scattered across

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its tar-coloured eyes. The paper below it becomes ink-speckled with paw prints smaller that my fingernail as it walks forward, first one step, then another, pausing in-between to sniff the air.

Look around, it hisses, but the slender muzzle doesn’t open an inch. Ink is everywhere.

At first, this deeply confuses me, but the notion slowly enters my consciousness that there is some truth in what the creature has said. My walls have always been painted the same mundane shade of muted blue, but now I can see in that blue the details of the ocean: minuscule flakes of peeling grey, scrapes tinged with brilliant white, imperfections I never knew existed. Against this rich backdrop, the face of the clock glows like a forgotten moon rimmed with hazy shades of plum and silver.

This is the ink with which you will write your story.

All at once, the creature leaps and lands on the armchair in the corner of the room, appearing to me as a rough black arc followed by a liquid eruption of dark and lighter tones. It occurs to me how furious my parents will be when they see this mess of ink, but I soon dismiss this ridiculous thought. Some wilder knowledge is telling me this will be seen by me and me only; that this ink-fox – my ink-fox – is a deep and crucial part of who I am.

My mind doesn’t even tell me to pick up the pen, but I do so anyway, trailing an intricate web between the prints the fox has left. All the while, it leaps from place to place like a flame, blazing its trails of deep black across the contours of my room. Still I write, except this time I can feel the words flowing from my brain and out through the tips of my fingers, guided by the pen until they form victorious crowds on the paper. I have never felt this frenzied and yet this effortless in

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my quest to become a writer, but then – I laugh triumphantly to myself as the fox returns to its position in front of me – nothing quite like this has ever happened before.

Now look. See what you have written.

I do, and am met with my old enemy, that foe of writers everywhere: ‘Once upon a time’. For a moment, I clutch the paper in disbelief, causing deep rivers of ink to form in the crumpled crevices on either side. The room is spotless; my fox is nowhere to be seen.

‘More than this,’ I tell myself, and allow my eyes to travel down the paper.

Once upon a time, there was nothing. Then, there was ink.

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Maia Siegel

Highly commended 14-17 age category

The Right Way

The right way to eat a mango is to get messy with it, to dive into its island scented flesh like a leopard into an antelope’s heart, to have its fragrant juice race down your chin like raindrops down a window. To get its marigold colored strings stuck in your teeth, but still, when you look up with the slight embarrassment only a domesticated animal can have, to smile. The right way to have a front yard is to let it run wild, to watch the daffodil weeds dance two by two with the small pink flowers dotting patchy grass. To have the green stalks grow tall enough so that they bow when a slight ocean-bound wind commands them to. The right way to walk on this earth is to tread lightly, for running

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and stomping and jumping crushes the pulsing dirt.