Thank you to everyone who entered The Canterbury Tales Writing Competition 2023/24: Being Part of a Group
We had so many wonderful entries this year and want to say a huge thank you to everyone who entered. We hope that you enjoyed our competition and will continue to write in the future.
Finally, a big thank you to all the teachers, librarians, parents, guardians, and others who have supported our competition. We really appreciate your support.
Here are the winning entries:
Ages 5-10
1st Place
Don’t judge a dancer by his smell!
by Christina, aged 8
My story’s about Katie, Calum and Kit.
Three friends at Bennington school.
All sure that they were simply “it”
Thinking they were super cool.
“I’m the best at dance moves!”
“I’m an expert at singing!”
“Just look at all my dance grooves
And the technique I’m bringing!”
One day there was a talent contest
For small groups to have a go.
These friends thought they were best
And started planning their show.
“I’ll be starring in the front OK?”
“No way! You’re not doing that!”
“I’m the most talented anyway”
And so then began their spat.
They had all day to design their show
With lots of time to rehearse.
Everyone wanted the chance to glow
So it went from bad to worse.
Katie called Calum a dancing pigeon
And Kit tripped Katie to make her cry.
Calum said only he had dancing precision
Which he knew was a bit of a lie.
All this meant time was running out
They hadn’t decided on their display.
Suddenly they all heard a familiar shout
And they looked down in great dismay.
It was Mrs Snoppydoopy the Headmistress!
She was helping all the kids find a group.
She brought over a tall boy in a floaty dress
Who smelled like stinky animal poop!
“But we already have our group now”
“We don’t need anybody else”, they said.
“Oh you can make room for one more”
“Now make sure you look after Ned!”
After she went they took no notice.
They turned and they walked away.
They started to do some dance practice
Leaving Ned by himself all the day.
And poor Ned WAS wearing a teacher’s dress
Because he fell in dog poo coming to school!
But he still wanted to try, keen to impress
He didn’t want to look silly or a fool.
He tried asking the trio if he could join in
But they pretended he wasn’t there.
He could see them laughing about him
But he decided to be brave, not to care.
As what Katie, Calum and Kit didn’t know
Was what Ned’s dancing was actually ace.
His mum was a pro on the Strictly show
So he’d danced everything all over the place.
He knew how to do the Argentine Tango
And he was so brilliant at the Rumba!
He was known to be fab at the Bolero
And he always did a weekly Zumba.
So when their group finally took to the floor
Katie, Calum and Kit were in for a shocker.
Their unprepared moves were a bit bore
Leaving Ned to become the showstopper!
His pirouette into arabesque was simply unreal!
His pas de bourree was speedier than lightning!
The limelight was all for him to steal.
The applause was so loud it was frightening!
So Ned brought the talent show cup back
On behalf of their little dance group.
Leaving Katie, Calum and Kit a bunch of sad sacs
With their long faces starting to droop!
2nd Place
The Book Club
by Jaden aged 10
Jake, Leon, Daniel, Sophie, and Lucy all filed into the library chattering excitedly to each other – it was the first meeting of the Book Club!! They had all come to the Book Club to bond with others over a passion for reading and writing but when the group entered the library, they all fell into an eerie silence.
To get their Book Club ventures started, they had all agreed to bring their favourite book and read out a section each but it was quite clear that no-one wanted to go first. After a while of just sitting there awkwardly and waiting for someone to break the silence, someone cleared their throat loudly, evidently signalling for someone to start reading. However, only Sophie seemed to pick up on the hint and started reading her book about a lonely orphan. Sophie was the opposite of Leon – she could talk to anyone about anything without breaking a sweat! Leon, however, was an introvert and liked to keep to himself at all times. Leon had bright blue eyes that were always darting everywhere like searchlights. He had ears that stuck out like sore thumbs and a short, stubby nose. Jake and Daniel always seemed to be chattering on about something but even they had been silent for a while. It was almost as if they were all enchanted by Sophie’s reading.
Jack’s eyebrows were furrowed, Leon’s ears perked up, Lucy looked a lot more awake than usual (that was saying something, considering that she was usually half asleep) and Daniel just looked like he was in a trance. They all listened intently and when Lucy was finished, everyone wanted to go next! One story could change everyone’s perspective and even make them do the exact opposite of what they were doing before!
“Hey, I have a good story to tell. Anyone want to hear it?” asked Daniel. Everyone unanimously voted to hear Daniel’s story. And so he recited his short story, full of cliffhangers and making the rest of the members quiver because of the unbearable excitement and suspense. When he was done, everyone, even Leon, applauded Daniel’s story! What a start! Going from no-one wanting to start to everyone enjoying each other’s stories!!
Over the next week, all the Book Club members were buzzing for the next meeting and when the day finally arrived, they could hardly contain their excitement!!
Once again, they all filed into the library, each bringing their own sheet of paper. When everyone sat down and discussed about their plans, they found that all five of them had come up with the same idea – to write a collaborative story! “Great minds think alike!” Lucy struck in. “They sure do!” agreed Jake.
Everybody soon got to work, putting together a masterpiece of completely different genres! They eventually came up with a funny horror sci-fi fantasy adventure story, putting together all of their ideas!
Like I said, one story can make a huge difference!
3rd Place
Tale of the unlikely warrior
by Mirabelle aged 10
In a land not far away,
There live a group of warriors, Mother would say.
Whenever they got too near,
Their enemies would tremble in fear.
First, there was Christofer, the most skilful knight.
It was said he’d never lost a single fight.
Next, there was a noble archer of great aim.
Lady Trickshot was her name.
Last, but not least was Aurthur the Hoary.
His years of sword fighting brought him much glory.
I was just a lowly slave.
But I dreamt of joining these warriors, so brave.
When I was cleaning the shed one day,
I noticed three figures north of White Whale Bay.
Here were the heroes and a chance at my dream.
I begged to join them, to be part of their team.
“She is a smelly child,” Lady Trickshot scoffed.
And in her perfumed silks, she walked off.
“Let’s give her a chance,” Aurthur declared.
Lady Trickshot rolled her eyes and glared.
Though Christofer decided to bring me along.
Lady Trickshot made me feel like I didn’t belong.
The next morning, I found a note that said:
We’re off to fight a monster. You child, stay in bed.
I cried all by myself in the room.
Until I realised it was way past noon.
“It’s late! Have they been defeated somehow?
Oh dear, what am I to do now?”
I thought, “I’m in the team and have a part to play.
I guess this is my chance to save the day.”
I stepped into town and saw scattered on the floor,
Were arrows, swords, daggers and more.
Tied up high for all to see,
Were the heroes captured, unable to break free.
As the townsfolk were fleeing in fright,
I managed to get close, out of the monster’s sight.
I looked up and saw a way to break them free.
Because I was small and quiet, the monster didn’t see.
Free at last! The trio sprang into action.
And fought the towering monster from all directions.
But wait, were my own eyes tricking me?
Where the monster’s arm was sliced off, there were now three!
As Christofer chopped off the monster’s head,
Two new fearsome ones appeared instead!
What used to be one monster seemed like four,
Deafening all with its terrible roar!
Amidst the battle, Lady Trickshot cried out to me,
“Go behind the monster’s knee!”
“That is its one and only weak spot,
Child, you can do it as you are short.”
I stabbed my dagger in with all my might,
hoping to pierce its thick hide.
As the monster fell in agony,
Aurthur, Christofer and Lady struck in perfect harmony!
Finally, I was part of their crew,
From that day on, our bond only grew.
Let this story be told and retold,
Don’t be deterred by judgements others may hold.
While you may be different from the rest,
You can prove yourself worthy if you give it your best.
Highly Commended
by Hendrix, aged 10
I hope it is not me who has to flee
Cosy with my family, happy in my home.
I feel like I fit in, I feel like i’m home grown.
Sitting down relaxed, no need to run,
I just play, I just have fun.
But watching my TV I see,
People running, people having to flee,
People seeking safety, hoping for home,
People leaving loved ones, unable to text or phone.
How difficult it must be,
To be like those who have to flee.
Everything is different, everything is new,
People tell me this and that, I don’t know what to do.
The language is so different here,
Sounds so strange, so unclear.
Food is unlike the food back home,
Sounds are unfamiliar, not my own.
A new school with new children,
Are they my friends or are they my enemy?
Do they care, or have they been told to pass me their sympathy?
They play games I do not know,
They tell me to stop when I think I should go.
They laugh and they snigger, they point and they stare,
Are they laughing with me, or laughing at what I wear?
Fitting in a group can be so hard for a refugee,
So that is why I say to you,
I hope it is not me who has to flee.
Ages 11-14
1st place
Curry Day
by Rose, aged 14
You were an old-fashioned kind of
traveller, a walking stick for a friend –
coarse as the clay-red roads,
soul young as a dusty sunset. How
lucky you found us! Three souls
at the crossroads, choosing to wait a while.
You sat at the back of the classroom,
and I wonder, could you tell tomorrow
from the back of our heads? Every
Soft Saturday. Three shifted to four
and we sit here cackling, playing
Go Fish on the office floor. Desks
pushed up against the wall,
we talk of nothing at all, yet I’ll see
For six years the world through your eyes,
your glasses of red and rose and blue,
slumped in our strange little fairy ring,
dreaming of the moon.
When it rains, the form room’s busy,
but it’s quiet on Monday, a few tender
rays of light seeping through the windows.
Spring’s scout. Seven’s a lucky number –
three more friends who dream of the moon,
our chaos and clamour drifting and shifting
through the night sky. I breathe in the air,
savouring the smell of mud and sweat
and body spray. Our gang!
2nd Place
by Ethan, aged 12
WhatsApp:
Conner: Found this new group on snapchat, wanna join?
You: Sure, how much people there?
Conner: Just 5, including you!
You: Yep, I’m all in [smiley face]!!!
Conner: I’ll invite you…
Conner: *Snapchat link*
Snapchat Group Chat (main):
You: What up guys?
Muhammed: Yo, we have a new join! What’s your name?
You: Joe, what’s yours?
Muhammed: Muhammed.
Conner: Joe’s my friend from school.
Muhammed: Cool.
Arlo: Sorry, just read the messages, welcome from me! [smiley face]
Snapchat Private Group (Conner and Hugo):
Hugo: Just seen the group chat. Why didn’t you ask us before adding him??
Conner: Sorry mate. Thought it would be ok?
Hugo: Oh right…It’s not really…
Snapchat Group Chat (main):
Hugo: Hi Joe…
Me: Do you guys wanna meet up at Wellington Park, sometime tomoz.
Muhammed: Yeah sure, I am totally in!!!
Arlo: I would love too!
Hugo: Sure…
Me: See u guys there!
Snapchat Private Group (Hugo, Muhammed and Arlo):
Hugo: Do you guys agree with Joe being part of the group? Don’t know why Connor added him?!
Muhammed: Guess he should have asked? Joe seems ok though, don’t you think?…
Arlo: I agree with Hugo…
Hugo: Let’s kick him then!
Muhammed: That’s a bit harsh guys. Chill out!
Hugo: Really? Okay then. Let’s see how it goes tomoz..
The next day:
I trekked up the steep slope towards Wellington Park. When I got there no one was there. I thought they had all forgotten, but within ten minutes everyone had arrived. We were quite a miscellaneous group. Hugo with his lofty attitude, Muhammed with his humble demeanour, Connor who acted like everyone else in his school and then finally there was Arlo who honestly looked like he came off the streets.
We sauntered down by the river and chatted about our lives. Conner and I knew each other from school, so his story about his dog and family wasn’t new to me. It was fun learning about everyone else’s lives though. They were all so different to mine. Muhammed prayed five times a day and ate Halal food. He was really devoted. On the other hand, Hugo didn’t really care about faith and ‘believed in science’. He spent most of his time studying in his dad’s expensive manor. Finally, there was Arlo whose family had fallen on hard times. He earned money for his dad by selling painted pinecones and ‘special’ rocks he found in the local forest.
Later that evening, as I lay in my bed, I felt overwhelmed with excitement wondering what sort of adventures my new friends and I would get up to next.
Snapchat Group Chat (main):
Muhammed: He wasn’t that bad, was he? Told you not to kick him.
Arlo: Yeah I guess so… seemed a bit desperate for friends though?
Hugo: I think he’s annoying and just weaseling into our lives.
You: Sorry guys I think you’re typing in the wrong chat…. Sorry to intrude on your group…
*Joe left the Snapchat group*
3rd Place
by Richie, aged 12
As the Parson ended his tale to the group,
Back to the hearty inn they did troop.
Their gait loosened from stead to swerved,
Yet more ale they demanded be served.
To the barkeep they turned, with mirth in their eyes,
“Good sir,” they implored, “judge our tales, be wise!”
So each retold their stories to solve this puzzle,
Words poured from their mouths as ale poured from the muzzle.
Like a mountain ash tree, the barkeep’s tin-grey beard swayed,
Though a seasoned elder, the travellers were not to be dismayed.
His eyes ablaze, yet his expression a moon peaceful and cold,
Weathered wrinkles harbouring countless pages untold.
Wearing a wry grin, he surveyed the scene,
An assortment of men, the pilgrims seem.
With a hushed low voice, he beckoned them near,
“No need for haste, good gents. An old man’s tale won’t you first wish to hear?”
In distant field where sun doth grace the land,
Once a young toiling farmer took his stand.
From dawn to dusk, he sows the seeds with love,
Each sprout a testament to the hard work above.
A tyrant monarch, with royal decree.
His deer in fields, a trespasser be.
My precious plants of labour and sweat,
From the foul beast I sought to protect.
Convicted I was, for chasing deer.
A disgraced life I held in fear.
An outlaw born, in the greenwood deep.
With a heart so heavy, in shadows I’d creep.
Through forests and hills, I made my way,
A life of crime, a price to pay.
Yet sanctuary found, in a holy place.
A monastery’s refuge, a saving grace.
Within sacred halls, a brother stood by my side,
A fellow monk, or so I thought, in piety allied.
But silver’s allure, a traitor’s greed did sway,
Betrayed by vows, morality led astray.
A couple of coins, the price of deceit,
Whispers of treachery, a venomous conceit.
Soon the kings horses were at the cloisters doors,
And I, took flight, a convict once more.
Lost in the labyrinth of life’s cruel jest,
I stumbled through the streets, a soul distressed.
Ale’s bitter solace, a refuge sought in vain,
Drowning in despair, each drop a drop of pain.
Lost to the world, a beggar in the cold,
A tale of ruin, in misery untold.
Yet, in the shadows of fate’s cruel embrace
An innkeeper’s mercy offered another saving grace.
Taken from the gutters, where lost souls linger,
Sobered by kindness, by a merciful innkeeper’s finger.
I served him true, till the end of his days,
And here I stand, a man who has refound his ways.
So, my friends, the winner I shan’t declare,
for tales are like rivers, flowing everywhere.
Let each tale weave its path, through the night,
In this cozy inn, by the firelight.
Here’s to the stories, both old and new,
ay they linger and dance in the evening dew.
In the warmth of the inn, by the fire’s gentle glow,
the tales continued, a never-ending flow.
Highly Commended
by Liberty, aged 13
A Newcomer to Senior School
I will tell you my tale, and ‘al the condicioun’
But can you hear me through the noise?
My name is Liberty, Libby, Libs or the Libster. But that doesn’t matter as sometimes I seem to be invisible.
Should I join the marching band?
The beating of the drums, the expectations to fit in.
I can feel the rhythm, my feet seem to want to tap in time. But I am a “plain Jane in her Mary Janes”.
The official uniform: flying laces, with shining Air Force 1 plates, skirt rolled under once or twice. Perhaps thrice.
Me thynketh that my language is too archaic.
JSYN IDK* – I don’t understand their text language. Soz.
They check their WhatsApp, Twitter, Tik Tok status; I have no status.
‘Forbid us something, and that thing we desire’.
Can’t wear knee socks, as they are “too junior school”. Don’t want to wear trainer socks in the winter, and have bare, cold, purple legs, skin like a plucked turkey. Perhaps tights are the option, but sheer or opaque? With ladders or without?
‘Ladders will take you up’, best to avoid any snakes in this group game.
Trousers, an alternative, but I am asked, “Are you a boy, Libby?”
So they do know my name! I am not invisible.
Pigtails and plaits are “too childish”, but I AM a child.
Side ponytail is “too old skool”, and a high ponytail is trying too hard to fit in.
Baby pink scrunchies are “for babies!”. “Lilac is too 2020”. Forget the remaining pastel pallet…
Smiggle is no longer a smile and a giggle. Typo is the replacement, is this a mistake?
Life is too short, ‘the craft so long to lerne’.
I am no longer a stranger to the rhythmic beat of the marching drum, it is getting louder and stronger, but I have lost the timing.
I do not beat my own drum, but I sing alone tunefully. My identity is everything within and everything that surrounds me.
Who will join my choir? All voices are welcome. Don’t be a stranger.
No Retraction
Here is ended the tale, A Newcomer to Secondary School
*JSYK = Just so you know. IDK = I don’t know. Soz = sorry.
Highly Commended
by Daisy, aged 13
The moon, which glowed creamy white, hung almost directly over their heads. The four of them stood in a line, sand between their toes, staring. Staring out to the lapping waves, and the white sea birds flying above like elegant ghosts. She coughed, opening a small tear in the ever-thickening silence. Her thinning hair was tied up into a tight bun, although many dark ringlets had teased their way out and surrounded her face. The cold licked at her cheeks, the wind felt harsh against her thin, pale skin. She sensed this peaceful night would be one of her last.
The morning came. She sat on the balcony, breakfast displayed in front of her, towers of croissants and tarts, platters of cheeses and hams, plates of bacon, eggs and toast. But she couldn’t eat. She grew skinnier every day, her bones more protruding, her wrinkles deeper. A hand-picked bouquet of salmon pink blooms, like splashes of paint, were neatly arranged in a tall black vase, the flowers spilling over the rim. She gazed as the sun rose and the sky turned lemon, pink and orange cream. She watched as the morning traffic crawled by, listened to her children chattering excitedly on their way to school and felt her husband plant a soft kiss on her cheek. Would that be the last kiss she felt? How was she to know? She caught sight of his car entering the long threads of traffic, slowly weaving their way through the city. She was alone. She felt her eyes become heavy, her breathing slow, her heartbeat drop. And she felt no more.
It’s been three years since mum died. And the house has never felt so quiet. My dreams never lead me to the same fantasies they used to. Now, when I close my eyes, all I see is her. Our family adventures never feel as exciting, just me, my sister and dad. He tries, he really does. We all do. But it’s just not the same.
That devastating day, coming home and seeing her lifeless body just sitting there, it tears a family apart. We all act like the grief has left us, as if the heavy pain was never in our chests. But I still feel it – sometimes it feels like that pain takes over, outgrowing the tightening of my chest, writhing under my skin. And the smile constantly plastered onto my face won’t last forever, cracks will appear, tears will fall. They always have, they always will. But sometimes, when I think about her, it’s not the grief I feel. It’s happiness, nostalgia. A bouquet of salmon pink flowers sits elegantly on her grave, those were her favourite. She would’ve loved them.
The three of us stand in a line, staring out to sea. The moon still hangs over our heads, the gulls still fly silently above, the waves still lap gently around our ankles, the sand is still between our toes. Life moves on, even if I can’t.
Ages 15-18
1st Place
by Ruby, aged 16
The bathroom bustled with bouffant hair and glittery tulle overskirts. It was nearing 10pm, and the stuffy atrium air had begun to take its toll; suit jackets lay abandoned on chairs, heels kicked off in favour of dancing barefoot, makeup smeared by sweat. Girls gaped into the dusty squares of mirror as they applied another layer of mascara to wilting lashes. Undeterred by the white-tiled walls, the music from the dance floor pulsed as bone-shudderingly loud as ever.
Jumping to the music, one student stumbled too close to the tangle of miscellaneous wires tucked in a dark corner behind the DJ booth. As he fist-pumped to the music, punch (that probably wasn’t only punch) sloshed from his cup, staining his rumpled shirt a lurid pink, and dousing the wires in (suspiciously rum-scented) soda. If it had been quieter, a crackle would’ve been heard, followed by a hiss, then a pop as the lights flickered, wavered, and abruptly shut off.
In the girls’ toilets, a sudden shocked silence devolved into surprised shrieks, a heady mix of fear and giddiness, as toes were trodden upon, walls bumbled into, and mascara smeared blindly across cheeks. There came the cringing sound of tearing fabric as someone’s long dress fell victim to a misplaced heel, and a smaller whump, as one girl, believing to have located the exit, instead fumbled into a cubicle.
A haphazard constellation of feeble phone flashlights blinked dutifully to life, casting the room in a submarine glow: a sliver of red lips, a gleam of black ringlets, a slash of white tile, a swath of sequins glittering darkly. The darkness stole all familiarity; in that moment, they were all mere suggestions of girls, glossy and dazed, giggling nervously.
Blind to faces, hands sought comfort in solidity, solidarity, clinging to wrists and shoulders like driftwood in a storm. With recent milestones – exams, interviews, partings – they had shed the bubble-wrapped comforts of childhood, becoming raw, exposed, small and squirming, like those grainy alien diagrams shown in biology lessons. This unites us, they claimed. This is our beginning. It was a room full of uncertainty, smelling of hairspray and hand soap.
“What should we do?” came a voice, pitchy with poorly-masked unease. All the girls felt it, though none were bold enough to admit it. Something about the darkness kindled childhood fears, of the unknown, the unavoidable. Shadow-stained corners held the power of monsters and cruelty, and jagged teeth.
Ghostly flickers of girls stared out from the mirror, ephemeral.
“I say we leave.”
“And try to find a teacher?”
“We should stay here,” one girl spoke up, her voice clear and sure. “No one move. The lights’ll be back on soon.”
A beat of expectant silence. The lights, as if in consideration, hummed, fluttered. Snowy light flooded the room, illuminating clasped hands and scrunched eyes; a streak of smudged mascara, a frayed seam of torn fabric, frizzy curls of hair; dimples, teeth, curved lips; tentative, fond glances between the girls.
2nd Place
by Lottie, aged 16
Philosophical brown table with the wonky legs
Only brown because we perceived it that way or something something sixth form religious studies,
Government mandated to keep us thinking broadly
Whilst we play card games under the table
Cus I thought enough in my teens to last me a lifetime and
I’ve got the winning streak of 5 whilst
Andrew’s fuming cus we filmed him wash his boiled egg under the water machine
And Alexandra’s laughing as I pull her cards away from eachother cus they got mouldy
From that time we got caught in the rain and I used my coat and her umbrella to cover my work bag instead of my face,
Being ill for a week is better than rewriting those stupid Paris anthology notes and
Ruby’s mad because Sir took the mick out of her greese pile- she called it a burger- and
Warden’s got his headphones in and his hood up because his emo phase finally came in.
And I picked this lot out of a very small field
Kinda like a group of misfits clinging to the other weirdo wonders
Cus we are way out of our depth in the microcosm of 16-18 and the frustration of taking two extra Alevels you couldn’t care less about and
I don’t think I’d change it.
Well, I’d like to have more money in my bank account, but friends wise?
I’m minted.
3rd Place
by Charlie, aged 17
Sheena is a Punk Rocker
but not the kind you find draped like a sash
in bin bag elegance, the crinkled kiss
of an unlit rollie, still wet between her lips
as she flirts with anarchy like a sensual hobby.
She’s not one of those you see symmetrically
safety-pinned, magazine-skinned, a lesson
in political pretence, her bashful life a blue-eyed
blessing. And she’s not all high and refined,
world-blind, quietly crumbling so as not to wake
the neighbours, suicidal schemes tucked neatly away
like Sunday silverware. She’s the kind you spot
on the streets, studded with acne, makeup
painted on like adulthood. Mainly kitchen-sink,
young woman on the brink, and she scowls at you.
You mean nothing to her. She’s just looking for
her place in this world, like anybody else.
Just searching for hope, searching
for herself like the rest of us.
Highly Commended
by Lola, aged 17
If you grew up here, beneath the pink haze,
Summers spent trawling a digital maze,
City of skyscrapers piercing the blue,
City of holograms where trees once grew,
You would know the stories, rumours that thrive,
Of the CyberCity, and its hard drive.
Since it’s boutade in 3008,
Tales have manifested, malware mutates.
What viruses smear the electric sphere?
Stories of sacrifice, knights beneath here-
What swarms in the sewers of PROJECT:8LOOM?
Do they bite, do they claw- and is there room?
The blue-skinned busker always weaves wonder,
Twining tales from litter cast asunder,
“Beneath the city, beneath your own boots,
A flourishing forest, flowing with fruits,
Enmeshed in emerald, deep in the depths,
Malignity moulds, an evil unkempt!
We call them Cybernuns, beauteous brutes,
Horns hidden in habits, robes twined from roots,
When the moon is a jewel, skimming the skies,
And the stars shimmer like octopus eyes,
The cybernuns swoop from their lustrous lair,
To lure their pure prey, dragged down by their hair!
The child is entangled until the feast,
The sweetmeat is swallowed, fed to the beast!
They worship a brute, an ogre, a troll!
A towering tyrant with eyes like coal,
With a great spooling neck and drooling jaws,
A black tongue, haired horns and soul-splitting claws,
In the dead of night you may hear their prayers
So don’t descend, or you could become theirs!”
A creased man on the bus adds to the mound,
“Politicians are the ones underground,
Holed up in the filth, in the shit they poured.
Did you think our trash problem got restored?
Ex-lawyers, ex-husbands, journalist loons,
Clearing the dirt with old caviar spoons,
They sit there and wish for the good old days,
Before their careers went up in a blaze.
That’s why they spread all of that crap, you know?
About beasts and cults, so their kids don’t show.”
The newsagent grins when I ask his side,
“Who told you that? It’s not somewhere to hide,
Down there, a stadium where danger reigns,
Light from the racetrack pours out from the drains.
Only the bravest, best knights journey down,
Swimming through storm tunnels, hunting the crown,
Every night there’s a race, deadly courses,
They ride their trusty steeds, robot horses,
Charging through tunnels, they’re chasing the high,
Galloping, hurtling, leaping, they fly!
They crash through the gate- the victor is crowned,
The party is sometimes heard above ground.”
My head churns with words, a lurid cocktail,
kaleidoscope brimming, and with a wail-
Drizzling fireworks into a rage,
Rain puddles pooling, a fractured-light stage.
Screens blaze from every window and shutter,
But I watch the star tears flood the gutter.
Can I believe in demons and knights,
Labyrinths of darkness and blazing lights?
But the drain stares back, obsidian orbs,
Rain ripples, black velvet, no stain absorbs,
No rioting rainbows, no light below,
The gutter is dark- I strain, but no glow.
I want to believe the stories they twined,
But nobody comes; I leave it behind
Highly Commended
by Amy, aged 17
Anxious eyes cast to the ground-
fear crinkling in every line on her face.
She watches the group in her peripheral vision;
she tries to find her own place
in the chaos that is comfort and home
for me, and my friends. We know
who we are, how we fit, why we stick like glue;
Together it is easy to be brave-
“Who are you?”
We’re gentle, we smile,
Despite harbouring nerves
That she isn’t quite the person we need.
She looks up with hope,
wary eyes meet
and she grabs hold of the rope we throw.
She tells us her name; we tell her ours-
we ask if she’d like to sit down.
She obliges, we watch her;
is she what we want
or a charity case to make us
look like clowns?
Hours turn to days, into weeks, into months-
she becomes a part of the scenery.
But every moment she seems more at home,
there seems to be less of me…
My friends say I’m crazy-
we’re just as close as we were
before she came into our lives.
But I think they are lying.
They like her more.
They’re starting to cast me aside.
I hate jealousy and yet I feel it grow,
warping my mind and my soul.
I take action before it consumes me whole
and she listens, she thinks, and embraces.
She tells me exclusion was never her plan;
she’d hate for me to feel alone.
She offers for us to go off on our own;
my eyes fill with thankfulness
and we make a new home.
My old friends still mutter
of how they knew I was sly.
I don’t even give them the time of day
To ask them exactly why.
The two of us are happy,
our life is much easier
than when we had so many voices to hear
We don’t regret it, we never will;
not now they’ve been so cruel, and we have seen.