The Canterbury Tales Writing Competition 2025-26: Happily ever after?
Thank you to everyone who entered our “Happily ever after?” writing competition. We absolutely loved reading all your poems and stories. We hope that you enjoyed our competition and will continue to write in the future. Please see our website for details of our latest competition.
Finally, a big thank you to all the teachers, teaching assistants, librarians, parents, guardians, and all those who have supported our competition.
All prize winners have been contacted via their schools or guardians.
Here are the winning entries:
Ages 5-10
1st Place
By Muhammad, aged 9
The Weaver’s Thread: A Pilgrim’s Tale of Happily Ever After?
Whan April with his gentle showers sweet
Had pierced the drought of March to root and wheat,
And small birds made melody in the air,
A fellowship assembled, debonair,
To seek Saint Thomas’ shrine at Canterbury.
Among them rode a Weaver, Mistress Alisoun,
Not clad in silk, nor crowned with jewels rare,
But in plain wool well-spun by her own hand.
Her fingers were as swift as swallows’ wings,
And all about her hung bright-coloured strings—
Scarlet bold, blue deep as twilight sky,
Gold fine as sun when harvest fields lie dry.
Yet though her craft brought coin and good renown,
A quiet sorrow weighed her spirit down.
For once she loved a carpenter’s fair son,
A merry lad whose laughter matched the sun.
“O sweet Alisoun,” he oft would say,
“We shall have joy that never fades away.
A cottage small, with roses round the door—
And happily ever after, evermore!”
But Fortune (that blind spinner of strange thread)
Turned swift her wheel, and other paths she led.
The young man sought advancement in the town
And wed a maid whose father’s purse was brown
With heavy gold. Thus promises grew thin,
Like cloth too stretched, and tears replaced her grin.
So travelled she with pilgrims on the road,
Her loom left still, her burdened heart her load.
At night, beside the inn’s warm crackling fire,
The Host called out, “Good folk, let none grow tired!
Who tells a tale of love that conquereth all?”
A youthful Squire stepped forth, proud and tall,
And told of knights who won their lady fair,
And swore their bliss no sorrow could impair.
The company applauded such delight.
Then quoth the Host, “Now Weaver, speak thy plight.
Doth love secure an ending ever bright?”
She rose, and though her voice was soft and low,
It carried clear as any trumpet’s blow.
“Good friends,” said she, “I once believed the same—
That happiness was fixed, a steady flame.
Yet life, like cloth, is woven day by day;
One broken thread need not the whole betray.
The pattern shifts, the colours fade and blend,
But skilled hands may new designs yet mend.”
She told how grief she wove in patient hours,
And from dull flax drew unexpected flowers.
She taught young maids the shuttle’s gentle art,
And laughter slowly lightened up her heart.
No prince returned, no wedding bells did ring,
Yet peace grew quiet as the dawn of spring.
“So ask not if she wed or wore a crown,”
Quoth she, as stars upon the fields looked down.
“For ‘happily ever after’ is no gate
That once passed through keeps sorrow out by fate.
It is a thread we choose to weave each day,
Through toil and loss, through hope along the way.”
The pilgrims sat in thoughtful silence deep.
And whether she lived happily ever after,
Judge thou thyself—
For she lived bravely, and that may suffice.
2nd Place
[Please note: This entry explores themes which some readers may find upsetting or triggering]
By Lara, aged 9
The Showdown
Thorn Ironbrand, chief of Tribe DragonClaw, adjusted his grip on his sword hilt. He stopped himself from drumming on the scabbard. He looked jumpy because he felt jumpy. He was exhausted. It had been a long day- first the journey, and then the ambush. But it wouldn’t do to show it, not before the others. The whole tribe encircled them, whooping and hooting.
They had been headed down to the plains, the entire tribe, in a convoy of carts, the food and the goats and livestock in the middle for safety. The attackers had had the element of surprise on their side. Blood had flown freely, but they had given as good as they had got. And now there was this fellow, captured. He must die, of course.
It wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple. Ironbrand must fight the fellow to the death. He was a captive and those were the rules. A captive got one last chance to win back their freedom. It was a rough justice. But times were rough, and a strong chief had to keep proving his worth.
“Name?” roared the crowd at the intruder, encircling them.
“Kragga Bane,” snarled the fellow, baring his teeth, one golden tooth glinting in the sunlight. “Remember the name.”
They circled each other. The fellow was swift. Ironbrand felt like a lumbering bear beside him. Each jabbed at the other.
Finally, Ironbrand got in a solid blow with the flat of his blade. The fellow- Kragga- was sent reeling.
He rallied faster than Ironbrand would have expected, standing up from the dust with a grimace that was beginning to feel unnerving. This would not be easy.
And then Kragga lunged at him, faster than he could have anticipated. A flash of red-hot pain lanced his shoulder. Gods, not his sword arm- but too close for comfort. The sweat streamed down Ironbrand’s face.
The fellow was dancing around, whipping his blade about, taunting him now. “I’ll kill you like I killed your people-” He casually bent to the side and flicked the hood off an old woman’s corpse with the tip of his blade. “Like this miserable crea-”
The jeer died before it was uttered.
Kragga’s face fell, like a mask had slipped off. He staggered back as if he had been struck.
Ironbrand had not become chief by wasting opportunities. He charged at Kragga, slashing him across the belly, leaving a giant gaping smile dripping red.
Kragga looked down at his wounds, and then back at the corpse whose hood he had ripped off. His face was befuddled. It was as if he couldn’t understand any of it.
All around was silence. The audience waited for the man to utter his last words, or die, whichever happened first.
“Mother-” the fellow gasped! “My mother. She was… my mother. Taken as a child… I forgot which tribe I was. And I killed her, gods save me, I killed her!”
He pitched forward into the sand.
3rd Place
By Rikhil, aged 9
Biscuit and the glistening red ball adventure
Once there was a small orange cat named Biscuit who lived in a tiny house at the edge of a big town. His very best friend was a nine-year-old girl named Lily, who loved ball games more than anything. One sunny afternoon, Biscuit discovered something wonderful in the yard—a sparkly red ball. It was shiny, bouncy and VERY fun. He tapped it gently with his paw. Boing! The ball bounced away. Biscuit raced after it as it bounced and bounced all the way to the woods behind Lily’s house.
The woods were tall and twisty and just a little bit spooky. The trees creaked in the breeze and long shadows stretched across the ground. Still, the red ball kept bouncing deeper and deeper between the trees. Oh no! Biscuit stopped and looked around. The trees all looked the same. The wind whispered through the branches and Biscuit realised he didn’t know the way home.
A small, shaky feeling filled his chest. He missed Lily. He missed his warm pillow. He even missed his boring dry cat food. Meanwhile, back at the house, Lily noticed Biscuit was gone. She looked under the bed, in the laundry basket, and even inside the fridge—though she knew that was silly. But Biscuit was nowhere to be found.
Worried, Lily pulled on her pink jacket and told her mom she was going outside to search. “Biscuit!” she called as she hurried toward the yard. “Here, kitty kitty!” Her voice carried all the way to the woods. Biscuit’s ears perked up. He heard her! “Meeee-ow!” he answered as loudly as he could.
Lily followed the sound past a big mossy rock and a crooked old tree. She pushed aside a bush—and there he was. Biscuit sat in a pile of crunchy leaves with the sparkly red ball beside him. “Biscuit!” Lily laughed with relief as she scooped him up into a big, warm hug. Biscuit purred so loudly he sounded like a tiny motor.
They walked home together, Lily carrying Biscuit while he proudly held the red ball in his mouth like a champion. That night, he slept safely at the foot of her bed with the sparkly red ball beside him. And from that day on, Biscuit decided that adventures were best kept in the yard—not the spooky woods. And they both lived happily ever after.
THE END
Highly Commended
By Shaurya, aged 8
A Celestial Happily Ever After
In the vast emptiness of endless space,
our Solar System found its place.
A spiral country in the Orion spur,
Milky Way galaxy watched it swirl.
And in that country, warm and twirl,
lived Father Sun—the central.
Around him, in a graceful sweep,
his children danced from near to deep.
And Mother Gravity, silent, deep,
held them all in gentle keep.
From Mercury to Neptune, in arcs and rings,
held close by tender but strong love strings.
Where there are pots, they will clatter,
children squabble, egos tatter.
“I’m speedy-fast!” cried Mercury with a grin so bright,
“I’m closest to our father’s light!”
Venus shimmered, “Oh, just SEE!
The brightest planet—that is ME!”
“Life blooms on me and species grow,”
boasted Earth, “a joy you all will never know.”
Mars roared loud with his red rage,
“I am the only warrior on this stage!”
Jupiter showed off his strength and mass,
“I’m the biggest—none can pass!”
Saturn swished with a hypnotic gaze,
“My exotic rings put everyone in a daze.”
Uranus twirled with a graceful pun,
“I spin in little different but I have fun!”
Neptune hissed with icy storms,
“I guard the border and all your forms!”
The Sun sighed deeply, with a defeated flare,
He spoke with wisdom and dimmed glare.
“I burn for you every single day,
to bring you light and warmth of my flame.”
“Your mother holds you all with her force and gaze,
and still you fight in selfish ways?
You all are unique with dignified fame,
We love you all, but this pride you must tame.”
The planets hung their heads in shame,
when suddenly—an eerie whisper came.
All felt a dangerous pull, so deep,
a darkness waking from its sleep.
Father Sun’s flames burned bright,
the Warrior king spoke sharp and upright,
“An ancient galactic monster, who sucks the soul,
is lurking nearby—the mighty Black Hole!”
“Gather your strength,” he commanded. “No time for fear.”
“Together we must plan and prepare.”
“With rhythmic push and pull, swiftly we’ll glide.
Gravity hold them together, don’t let them slide.”
The planets listened, held their breath,
and moved together to escape the imminent death.
Jupiter pulled, Saturn leaned,
Mercury showed what speed means.
Earth brought warmth to all so dear,
Mars growled courage, defeated fear.
Venus and Uranus cleared the path,
Neptune protected with icy wrath.
Sun whooshed them with a blast,
Gravity embraced all, till the danger rolled past at last.
The treacherous journey came to an end,
Stars reappeared and the calm returned.
The planets spoke, all in unison,
“We have learned our precious lesson.”
“We are ashamed but proud,
together we worked, and death has bowed.
No one is greater, none is sided,
In family, we all stand united.”
Orbits reformed with gentle tug,
wrapped in Sun’s warmth and Gravity’s hug.
No thanks, no sorry—all was healed,
“Happily ever after” was ethically sealed.
Ages 11-14
1st Place
By Hannah, aged 14
Arachne, Guild Girl
In our town, thread matters more than truth.
We measure a woman by the smoothness of her seams,
not the sharpness of her mind,
and we bow to Saint Athene as if she herself taught our fingers how to spin.
Arachne was not the sort they bowed to.
Her hands were always red, thread-burned and cracked,
not soft like the ladies who stitched only for show.
She worked the back rooms of the guild hall,
where the air smelled of dye and damp wool,
and the apprentices coughed their futures away.
But my God, could she weave.
Not flowers.
Not saints.
Not chaste queens smiling modestly into eternity.
She wove truth.
She wove lords who preached temperance
while drinking themselves into pigs.
She wove noblewomen who spoke of virtue
while selling their maids to old men.
She wove priests who blessed marriages by day
and broke them by night.
People came at first like it was a fairground.
Laughing.
Pointing.
“Oh look, that one’s Lord Pembroke!”
“Don’t that bishop look familiar?”
They loved it,
the same way people love a joke
until they realise they’re the punchline.
News spread.
The guild elders noticed.
So did the Lady Athene’s society —
the embroidered wives and velvet daughters
who funded the church tapestries.
Athene herself came, they said.
Not in armour and light,
but in fur-lined sleeves and gold rings,
with a smile as thin as fine silk.
“You embarrass us,” she told Arachne.
“You humiliate those God placed above you.”
Arachne didn’t kneel.
She just held up her latest cloth.
A wedding scene.
Perfectly done.
And in the reflection of a silver platter,
the groom’s hand under the table,
on the leg of a serving girl.
People stopped laughing after that.
They called it blasphemy.
Not because it wasn’t true,
but because it was too well made to ignore.
They said she insulted the saints.
That she disrupted the natural order.
That she made good people uncomfortable.
And that, apparently,
is the only unforgivable sin.
She was not burned.
Not beaten.
Not even publicly shamed.
Athene was too refined for that.
They simply removed her right to weave.
No guild.
No loom.
No orders.
For a weaver,
it was a quieter death,
but a longer one.
Now she sits barefoot by the river,
twisting threads of grass between her fingers,
still making patterns no one will ever hang.
And the guild hall?
Full of perfect tapestries again.
Saints.
Flowers.
Good lies.
They look much nicer on the walls.
2nd Place
By Bhumi, aged 13
The Reeve’s Tale of the Rain-Soaked Sparrow
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
I, Robin, Reeve of a skinny-timbered shire,
Rode forth on cob, my humours low as mire.
For I had seen too many harvests fail,
Too many debts chalked up on too much ale,
And in my heart a canker had got root—
That happiness was but a rotten fruit.
The Host beheld my face of curdled cheese.
“What ails thee, Reeve? Unclench thy bony knees!
Tell us a tale of how a man might find
Some joy before the maggots eat his mind.”
And so I spoke, not of a knight nor king,
But of a small and very common thing.
—
There was a sparrow fell down our chimney-flue,
His left wing bent, his tiny bellows blew
With such a fright that all the kitchen folk
Stopped kneading bread to watch the feathery smoke.
Our cook, a man of swift and heavy hand,
Said, “Wring his neck. He’ll taste of soot, but bland.”
He reached. I stayed his wrist. I do not know
What moved me—pride, or March’s melting snow.
I set the bird inside an empty ale-cask,
Lined with my scarf, a rough and rash-like task.
He trembled there, a bruise upon his chest,
His eye a bead of black, unlovely, stressed.
My wife, good Alison, brought crumbs of bread.
“You’ll keep him, then? A creature half half-dead?”
She did not mock. She set a thimble of water.
Thus our house gained a silent, feathered daughter.
Three weeks he perched upon the lintel-rail,
And ate from Alison’s palm, and grew his tail.
He learned to ride the rim of Father’s hat,
And tug the thread from Mother’s welcome mat.
No cure he sought for what had gone before.
He did not ache to fly to some far shore.
He simply stayed. And in his staying, taught
That joy is not a thing to be dis-taught.
One morning, April-proud, he spread his wings,
And circled twice the room of common things—
The bread-board and the basin and the bed—
Then flew into the blue above the shed.
My Alison said, “There. Thy work is done.”
I said, “He’s gone.” She said, “He is not gone.”
And she was right. For in the yard I found
A new nest, snug, in sycamore, and sound.
He’d found a mate. They flickered through the air,
Two commas in a sentence of small care.
—
So, gentles, this my tale: no trumpet-blast,
No villain vanquished, no long famine past.
But if a sooty sparrow, mended, sings—
Then happiness has roots in common things.
The Host roared: “Reeve! That wingèd wretch has won!
A happy end? By masses, it is done!”
And for the first time in ten barren years,
I laughed, and let the ale wash out my tears.
3rd Place
By Testimony, aged 13
The Prince was currently standing on the wooden arm of the castle catapult, looking like a freshly-polished action figure with a horrendous case of main-character syndrome.
“Meredith! My love!” He bellowed, his voice cracking like when you step on a dry twig. “I shall prove my undying devotion to you by flying higher than any beast!”
I sighed, adjusting my silk sleeves. My gown was a masterpiece of blood red and gold, and it definitely wasn’t designed for watching idiots launch themselves into the stratosphere. I looked at Zyn, my best friend, who was currently leaning against a marble pillar. He was busy giving little unbothered head-pats to the dragons—massive, shimmering beasts of emerald and obsidian that were purring like oversized house cats.
“Sir Reginald,” I called out, fanning myself with a hand-fan that cost more than his entire cavalry, “the dragons are not trying to compete with your terrible flying skills. Why are you like this?”
Reginald’s face turned the colour of a bruised plum.
Ugly and Unwanted. I could basically hear Zyn say in my head. It’s a real thing. I don’t care if you don’t believe it.
Anyways back to the idiot in the death machine.
Zyn, in the corner with those suck-up dragons, let out a long theatrical yawn.
“BORING! Did I say that out loud?,” he smirked.
The prince was busy strapping himself into his cause of death, muttering about ‘stupid wife stealers’.
Fun Fact: I was never gonna marry him, this is another way of public humiliation for my own satisfaction.
The catapult let out a loud TWANG! And then he was soaring. Not like a hawk but a potato in red robes. The crowd went “OOH!”. Then he was falling. Then he became a bloody pancake splattered prince. “OOF”
The King stared at the moat, his face pale as a blank canvas. His only heir was now a smudge of velvet and regret on the castle walls. The silence was heavy, broken only by the emerald dragon letting out a small, satisfied burp. ‘My legacy!’ the King wailed, looking like a deflated balloon in a remarkable golden crown. I sighed, smoothing my blood-red skirts. “What a dramatic piece of rubbish,” I muttered. My cousin leaned in, whispering about finding a new ‘suitable’ royal match. ‘Eww, no,’ I snapped, my voice cutting through the grief like a sharp palette knife. ‘I’m not marrying another inane dolt with a death wish.”
He shrugged, “The princess has spoken.”
“Absolutely NOT! My legacy needs to go on! She WILL marry!” The King wailed. I looked at Zyn. He adjusted his feathered cap and winked with a flourish, his eyes reflecting the obsidian scales of the dragon beside him. ‘I’d rather marry him,’ I said, pointing a ringed finger at my best friend. ‘He’s… formidable.’ I looked away, a blush creeping up my neck that was definitely not in the royal handbook. Happily ever after? For me, absolutely. For the King? Well, he was officially out of heirs.
Highly Commended
By Oluwadamilare, aged 11
The Baker’s Widow and the Carter
People say going on a pilgrimage makes you better. I think it mostly shows who you already are.
There were six of us walking to Canterbury. Our feet hurt, our food ran low, and everyone said they were going for forgiveness. I walked behind them and listened. If Chaucer had been there, he would have smiled and written everything down.
Alice of Southwark walked in front. She was a baker’s widow, and her dress still had white flour on it, even days later. She talked a lot and liked people listening. On the second day she said, “Marriage is when a man promises and a woman pays for it.” She laughed and waited for praise. When no one spoke, she added, “A woman learns fast or she goes hungry.” I noticed she spoke often about money and never about missing her husband.
Tom the Carter walked near her but never close. He was usually quiet, and when he spoke, he chose his words slowly. When we asked his story, he said his wife had run away with a priest. “She said God called her,” he told us. “I think she only wanted a door that opened.” He rubbed his hands together as if trying to clean them.
Alice clapped softly. “Doors matter,” she said. “So do chances.” Then she told her story. Her husband had been weak and sick, and the debts were louder than his prayers. A young priest listened to her and stayed longer each visit. “He said I was brave,” she said. “No one ever paid me to be good.” When she said, “A woman must live,” she looked at each of us, daring us to argue.
That night by the fire, Tom spoke again. He said the priest’s name, low and clear. Alice smiled, “God must trust him,” she said. “He carries many burdens.”
Alice was gone by morning. Tom’s purse was gone too.
By the time we reached Canterbury, people were already talking. A priest had been beaten near the gates. No one said they saw who did it. Tom said nothing either.
At the shrine, Tom cried for a long time. When he stood up, he looked calm. Later, I heard he married a washerwoman who spoke her mind. He said life felt happier that way.
People still tell stories about Alice. Some say she escaped to start again somewhere else.
I finished the journey knowing this: happy endings depend on who gets to tell the story.
Highly Commended
[Please note: This entry explores themes which some readers may find upsetting or triggering]
By Amal, aged 13
Carefully, Anne cut the fresh herbs into the bowl of warm chicken soup and placed the bowl on a tray. Next to the bowl, she put a cup of water and two pills. Carrying the tray, she walked towards her mother’s bedroom, knocking on the door, not expecting an answer. She never got an answer anymore.
Her mother wasn’t asleep, yet Anne didn’t get acknowledged. Instead, her mother’s eyes looked glazed over. Her face was pale and deprived of sunlight; her body weak and skeletal, bony hands clasped over the blanket. Anne observed her with pity. Her beautiful, laughing mother had become a captive of her own thoughts, trapped by grief.
Anne pushed back her tears and went to put the tray on the bedside table. She turned to leave and stopped. something cold and bony grabbed her wrist. Her mum was looking up at her
Her mother’s face was calm and kind. Anne was scared; she didn’t know what to do, having forgotten what it felt like to be seen. Her mother spoke in a hoarse voice, “I’m sorry, Anne, I have to go.”
Anne’s heart skipped a beat. Where was her mother going? Fear washed over her as she quickly went to follow her mother. They stopped eventually at a lake. The sky was dark, the only source of light being the moon. Everything around them had an eerie stillness; even the emerald grass did not sway, held in a quiet anticipation
Anne turned to her mother for an explanation, searching her grey eyes for an answer, but they didn’t give anything away. She smiled at Anne, every part of her exuding a sense of serenity and love for Anne. She held out her arms and hugged Anne, the kind of hug Anne only knew from her early childhood, the kind of hug that only a mother could give, one that reached every single part of you and mended the broken parts. Anne cried into her mother’s shoulders and hugged her back, knowing it might be the last.
Her mother let go but held Anne’s hands and looked straight at her,
”I love you, Anne. I’m just going to take a little trip to see your father again. I promise you will see me again, sweetheart.” She kissed her on the forehead and let go of Anne’s shaking hands.
Walking towards the stream,her dress trailing behind her, making her look almost like a ghost bride, hair loose from the bun, swaying slightly. Very quickly, the bank appeared, leading to still inky water. Yet Anne’s mother didn’t stop there. Anne gasped as her mother stepped past the edge.
She descended without making a splash. The grass didn’t even have indents from where she stepped. The night carried on as if nothing had been lost.
Tears began streaming down Anne’s face. She lifted up her hand to wipe them away and found it was full. A white rose was clutched between her fingers. A goodbye gift.
Ages 15-18
1st Place
By Julia, aged 17
Dear poetry,
I didn’t come to you for beauty.
I came to you because the world had gone silent,
and the noise inside me
was starting to win.
I hated geography class
the way we learned about borders and rivers, countries and capitals;
like the world was something you could hold on a page,
like life came with a map and directions.
I hated small talk,
and the way people smiled without meaning it.
Not the users.
Not the users who wanted my fire but none of the smoke.
Not the nights I danced just to forget my name.
Not the mornings I woke,
carved out like a fruit already spoiled.
I tried being small.
I tried being soft.
I tried disappearing in all the ways they said would make me worthy.
And still
I was starved.
Then you came.
Not like a savior,
but like a mirror I could finally look into.
You didn’t ask me to be pretty,
you asked me to be real.
You said, “Write it, all of it, even the parts they told you to bury,”
so I did.
I wrote like it was the last thing I’d ever do
not to be heard,
but to survive.
The grief, the rage, the softness I was punished for,
the wild substance beneath my skin that refused to die.
And in those lines,
I didn’t find healing.
I found truth.
And that was louder,
and that was enough.
I learned how to bleed without apology,
how to make art out of ache.
I stopped needing to be chosen;
I chose myself.
With every word I came back to the body,
to the voice,
to the girl who once held fire in her fists and forgot.
You reminded her
not gently,
not kindly,
but completely.
So this is not a thank you,
this is a reckoning.
I was drowning.
You handed me the pen,
and I wrote my way back to the surface.
2nd Place
By Robin, aged 17
Yesterday I went to a café with my eight-year-old self.
He ordered a hot chocolate and a ham and cheese toastie.
He brought his toy car. He told me his favourite musical is Matilda, it made him feel seen.
We talked about drawing, he asked if I’m a book illustrator yet. Not yet.
I asked how’s school, he said it’s too noisy. They visited the local museum. He tried to tell our family, no one was interested.
I asked how our parents are. They’re busy arguing, he asked if it stops. No but it gets manageable.
Yesterday I went to a McDonald’s with my twelve-year-old self.
He ordered a burger.
He brought headphones; preferring his music to the radio.
His favourite musical is Hamilton; he loves the history. Matilda is for babies.
Have we made it to the West End? No but you’ll love Drama GCSE.
He asked if I had dated anyone, I said heart break will eventually come round but you’ll find your person in the end.
Yesterday I went to Domino’s with my Fourteen-year-old self.
He ordered a pepperoni pizza, we split it.
He brought a current book he’s reading.
He told me he hates secondary.
He wants to get leg surgery, be taller so people would notice him.
I told him it’s a waste of money, be comfortable in your own skin.
He didn’t speak much after that.
Yesterday I had lunch with my Sixteen-year-old self.
There wasn’t much difference, he seemed pessimistic.
I’m scared of exams.
You won’t be pleased with what you get in the end, but it won’t stop you.
He’s scared for the future, the world changed but he doesn’t understand it yet. I told him he never will, that rabbit hole will only drag him down.
Tomorrow I’m having café with my nineteen-year-old self.
He ordered coffee with a shot of Bailey’s.
He said I should take a gap year. He seemed brighter, standing taller.
I asked how’s our girlfriend, he said we’re moving in together.
I asked how’s mum and dad. He said they’re older, it doesn’t stop them from having a laugh. I should cherish this time.
I asked him how was college? He said we strive through. It gets better on the other side.
Tomorrow I’m having dinner with my Twenty-Five-year-old self.
We ate Indian food. He said stop being afraid of things. Publishers, CV’s, healing.
He said mediate, you can quiet that voice in your head. He didn’t have much time to talk; he had to go back to his wife.
Today I spent lunch with myself.
I ordered coffee, brought my toy car, listened to Hamilton, read my favourite book. Had a meeting and tried to stop my parents fighting. I cried in my sisters’ arms and proposed to my girlfriend. I felt the static like drowning, I applied to university and decided to write this piece. I still feel restless but a little less alone. I know that I have my own back.
3rd Place
By Lauren, aged 16
It all collapsed nine long months ago,
Fitting time, we saw the girl’s stomach grow,
A royal scandal hidden in a fairytale,
I became the witch, the demon, the wretch, the frail.
I know I did wrong, I know I cracked,
Jealousy seeped out, she had what I lacked;
beauty, love, kindness, youth.
The gods granted her magic; they chucked me truth.
Truly, we hate what we cannot have,
I’m only human, just broken, just half
of what I used to be,
I lost two men, and now three.
Two husbands; the former one was all I desired
but death longed for him too, my heart retired
into the arms of easy money,
the girl’s now-dead father, down on one knee.
I was lonely, hungry, supporting two,
I did what I had to, so would you.
And now I’ve lost another man,
who I wanted for my daughter, the perfect plan.
My step-daughter snatched him, from my exhausted grasp,
and bewitched him with joy, smiles, laughs.
They waltzed ‘til twelve, at my expense
She forgot a shoe, and her common sense.
Now she’s happily married and expecting twins,
The story cycles; a pretty face wins.
And as for me? The villain forever.
The world curses the cold and clever.
Highly Commended
[Please note: This entry explores themes which some readers may find upsetting or triggering]
By Aanya, aged 18
The Perfect Pair
A holy bond so intimate and close,
covered in reds, pinks, and bordered with rose—
Jewellery and gems, she was covered in gold.
Grace draped in lace, fate bonded to riches,
still unaware of what lay beneath.
Yet nobody dared disturb the façade—
A beautiful bond, closed in court.
Elders blessed it, bellies full of wine
smiles all around, but God saw
what would soon be found…
Slowly, as time flew, his true intentions
Surely shone through.
Even when she played nice for all to see,
He carved his ‘lessons’ into skin and bone.
He took her soul to make it his own.
A year ago, adorned in red.
Now she profusely bled.
Lipstick smears, bruises beneath her eyes.
Some say, “A wife must obey him.”
So she served him all day and night.
Screams of pleas and crushed-up dreams,
marks that echoed familiar themes —
A body taught to remember pain.
The Priest still calls it sacred.
His name still spoken with pride.
Who knew a polished paper
would turn into her own prison?
To keep the “glory” of the groom and bride.
The world looked away, and let the truth slide.
Her peace vanished
as the ache slowly settled—
numb, torn, broken, and ruined
a bond in which many are fluent.
So she still stands at her husband’s side,
bouquet in hand, watching her sister smile.
A single tear slips quietly by,
while cheers ring out for the newest bride,
as they march down that same flowered aisle.
Hoping, praying that when the sky
turns deep purple and blue,
they find the happily ever after.
She learned was never meant for two…
POETESS’S NOTE:
In many Asian cultures, red symbolizes prosperity, love, fertility, celebration, and marital status. I have used the imagery of red throughout my work to capture the essence in two different ways—signifying the ceremonial aspects of marriage but also uncovering the hidden violence that can be present.