Winning Entries from the Oxford University Press Story Writing Competition 2017

Winning Entries from the Oxford University Press Story Writing Competition 2017

Journeys

Note to readers: please be aware that these winning stories have not been edited.

Published in 2017 for the LitFest PO Box 24506 Dubai, UAE Tel: 00971 4 355 9844

Approved by the National Media Council UAE: 199125 Printed by Jamalon FZ - LLC All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be repro­ duced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owners. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The Oxford University Press Story Writing Competition 2017 Since the launch of the Oxford University Press Story Writing Competition we have seen wonderful participation from school and college students around the UAE, who are keen to show their talent in writing, a talent that has touched our hearts throughout the past years.

With the new UAE policy for reading including all aspects of literature, the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature is pleased that this competition continues to encourage a new generation to develop literary strength in their writing. We are delighted with the standard of the work submitted this year.

Choosing the theme of “Journeys” has created great diversity in student’s choices. The participants explored so many ideas that fall under the theme of “Journeys”, going well beyond simple movement from one place to another and into science fiction, emotional and life journeys.

We have received amazing submissions, and the judging panel was impressed by the cultural and literary qualities, and the passion of the writing, which has led them to award joint winners in more than one category. Congratulations to all our winners!

I would like to thank Oxford University Press for their sponsorship and support for the contest every year. OUP actively promotes extensive reading and the development of writing skills in and outside the classroom through its print materials, online learning and teacher training activities.

Julie Till, Head of Business Development - Central Asia, Middle East & North Africa at Oxford University Press, says: “We are proud to be part of Emirates Airline Festival of Literature and to encourage young writers in the UAE to create and publish fictional stories.”

As a final point, I would like to extend my sincere thanks and gratitude to each teacher, mother, father, and anyone else who supported students entering the OUP Story Writing Competition this year. We are extremely grateful to our team of ‘sifters’ for their help this year in reading and assessing the stories: Athba al Bazargan, Samara Bryan, Gillian Henney, Yvette Judge, Noura Khalid, Daisy Line, Sue Lucas, Penny Mackenzie, Sheela Mahesh, Helen McAinsh, Nicky Mills, Yara Mirdad, Monita Mohan, Ronita Mohan, Sharmila

Mohan, Mary Obaba, Claire Rohrmann Pedersen, Marilyn Phipps, Pete Ray, Flora Rees, Carmel Rosato, Mia Santiago, Eve Saunders, Chrissie Searle, Mairead Slattery, Prachiti Talathi, Tanya Thresher, and Cathryn Wilcox.

I would like to thank the judges, Kathy Butti, April Hardy, Kathy Hoopmann and Liz Turner, for the time and care they have taken in choosing the winning entries from such a strong field. We appreciate their discerning comments and their support for the competition.

Now I invite you to enjoy these new journeys from the imagination and creativity of students in the UAE. Eman Al Hammadi Competitions Manager & Arabic Education Relationship Officer

CONTENTS 11 and under Gautam Nambiar

07

Shreya Kopuri

10

Morgan Dean

13

12-14 Sofya Yaritsyna

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Sebastiaan van der Boom

22

Gianna Elizabeth Mathew

26

Suha Omar

30

15-17 Rameen Aslam

37

Nikhil Abhayan Pillai

44

Caitlin Adonis

49

18-25 Ashisha Ann Itty

57

Haleema Adi

64

Salma Abdussalam

70

11 and under Judge’s Overview I was highly impressed with the level of imagination shown in these short-listed stories. Over half were written in the third person. Those writing in the first person did very well to not fall into the trap of over overusing the word ‘I’, which happens very easily. You all did very well.

The titles which didn’t include the word ‘Journeys’ were the ones which caught my eye first, and I commend the writers of these for being brave enough to let the competition theme shine through their writing unannounced. In each case I thought it worked absolutely.

April Hardy January 2017

In and Out

First place: Gautam Nambiar, 9 Hartland International School

One sunny afternoon young Jack, who is also my dear owner, upturned his minion box and slowly started counting us. One at a time. “I just need a few more coins,� he sighed. Jack had been collecting money to visit Legoland for quite some time now and he was still a few coins short.

He tried to raise the money by selling ice cold lemonade that chilly evening. His plan might have worked if he had sold something warmer. A large, unpleasant looking man (the only customer he had) bought two glasses of lemonade. I was handed over to him in exchange for the note he gave Jack. The man shoved me into his pocket and walked into the street. I suddenly felt dizzy and began tumbling in the air. I had fallen from a hole in his pocket. To add to my bad luck I fell right into a manhole that had been kept slightly open for cleaning purpose. Ew. What a stink!

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My beautiful, shiny body was now covered with stuff that I am even embarrassed to mention. I grew breathless in this place, which was as dark and gloomy as a cemetery.

I was grateful to a municipality cleaner for spotting me while clearing the drain. He scrapped me against the cold ground, which hurt quite a bit but I felt refreshed when he poured running water over me. What a beautiful feeling to see the sun again.

That evening the cleaner handed me, along with a few others, to a barman. I was dropped into a drawer that smelled of liquor. My ears hurt with the loud noises in the bar and I shivered with fright when there were physical fights. I kept counting the days when I would be out of this mess. Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks very slowly.

Finally, that day arrived. I was pulled out of the drawer, along with some of my pals, and handed over to a cleaner boy. He smiled and put us carefully in his pocket. I jingled with joy at having escaped this devilish den.

He walked into a toy shop that was as large as two football pitches placed together. I felt so tiny in this humongous store. He exchanged us for a beautiful doll dressed in pink. I had not even rested in the drawer when I was pulled out again. “Jack, can you please make it quick,� called a loud voice from behind me. I looked up and saw my Jack. My own dear Jack. I was so thrilled to see him even though he did not recognize me.

As he slipped me into his pocket, I wondered whether he had made his journey to the Land of Plastic Bricks.

Not that it mattered anymore. I was just glad to be home.

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Judge’s Comments A charming and well thought out tale, written in the first person, humourously recounting a few of the myriad journeys of a humble coin – from the POV of the coin itself.

The writer of this story engaged the senses beautifully. In just 472 words I was treated to an engaging beginning, a middle which made me want to find out where the coin would end up next, and a well-rounded ending. I enjoyed this and commend the writer for trusting that the writing followed the competition’s theme sufficiently to not need to mention it in the title. Showed great imagination. Well done!

9

The Brave Egyptian Princess

Second place: Shreya Kopuri, 7

Jumeirah English Speaking School, Jumeirah The king of Egypt was protector of the magical gems of life.

The red gem stopped earthquakes, while the pink prevented floods. The yellow one stopped desert-storms. His daughter, Alani was an excellent swords-woman. She practised in secret as the king wanted Alani to learn sewing instead.

One night, a dark spirit stole the gems. People were scared as the Nile was starting to flood, the ground shook, and storms covered the light blue sky. No one but Alani knew what to do. She took out her long slim sword and set off charging through the golden sands on her black horse Tiger-Lilly.

As she rode through the desert, she saw the Luxor temple covered with bones and skulls. She peered into the

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dimly lit building. Inside was a coffin and the red gem on it. Alani bit her nails, sweat dripped from her pale face. She found a hard grey rock and tied it to a long rope. She crept inside and carefully hung the stone from the creaky ceiling.

As Alani took the bright ruby and headed for the entrance, the coffin creaked open. A giant stone statue came to life.

Alani raised her sharp, silver sword and cut the rope. The stone fell on the statue crashing him to pieces. The earth stopped shaking when Alani put the red gem into its box.

Alani raced back out of the temple, mounted Tiger Lilly and galloped towards the river Nile. The rapids of the angry river were bouncing off the sharp rocks. She saw the pink gem glittering in the sun on the opposite bank. As she dived in to swim across, a scaly blue monster emerged out. Alani grabbed her sharp sword and swished it side to side. She cut the monster’s body into half. It died instantly. She swam across, picked up the pink gem and placed it into its box. The Nile became calm again.

With Tiger-Lilly she then cantered into the sandstorm. She reached the tallest pyramid, and the yellow gem was at its tip. As she started climbing up, the Sphinx suddenly blinked and grew to become as tall as the pyramid. It started blowing a huge sand-storm. Alani cut out a hole into the stone pyramid with her sword and crawled inside. She found a secret passage and climbed up the stairs to the top. She took the glowing yellow gem and put it into its box. The Sphinx screamed, and became the stone statue he was. The storm vanished.

She could feel the warm sunlight touching her golden face giving her a pleasant feeling. She had a happy tingle 11

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in her body as she felt all the three boxes under her cape.

She rode back home to the castle in Cairo to the cheers of the people. Alani gave the boxes to the king. In return, she got a golden sword, its crystal handle studded with gems.

The king said “You can practice sword-fighting everyday now!”

Judge’s Comments This vivid, colourful tale, written in the third person, grabbed my attention from the very beginning and held it right through to the end. As I read, I could picture a lively animation of it in my head. The characterisation was excellent and was “shown” to the reader as well as “told”.

Princess Alani was a worthy heroine and certainly deserved her happy ending. The pacing throughout the 495 word story was just right. As was the title. A very imaginative piece of writing. Bravo!

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Jack and the Jungle of Hoogle Boogle

Third place: Morgan Dean Jebel Ali School Dubai

Jack Richards was fed up of being the weakling of the school. He wished with every muscle in his body to be in the basketball team. He had even saved all his pocket money to buy his own kit because he never thought he would actually make it. Whenever he wore the kit he felt extremely special, like he could throw the ball a million miles.

One day Jack was wearing the kit while watching a match when CRASH, the basketball smacked straight into his head flinging his meatless body right off the bench. Everybody started giggling at poor Jack and he felt incredibly sad and so embarrassed that his cheeks started to glow as red as a raspberry. Suddenly his kit also started

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to glow bright purple, then there was a bang and Jack was gone!

The next thing Jack knew, he was in an enormous bushy plant in a mysterious jungle, holding on to the basketball. When he stood up, he discovered he was surrounded by grotesque green piggy looking creatures with scaly spikes on their backs, they were all carrying sharp slate spears.

Jack felt paralysed, he was so scared he couldn’t even move a limb. Jack gulped ‘Wh-who are you and w-wwhere am I?’ The biggest of the odd looking creatures told Jack ‘We are the Hoogle Boogles and this is the Jungle of Hoogle Boogle?’ in a deep scary sounding voice. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘I’m not sure.’ said Jack, rubbing his head.

‘Well I am hungry!’ said the Hoogle Boogle and Jack spotted some of the other Hoogle Boogles bringing out a mammoth frying pan.

‘Please don’t eat me, I’m not very meaty and I wouldn’t taste nice.’

‘You are the only food we have,’ said the Hoogle Boogle, ‘except the bungo beans but the trees have grown too tall to reach them.’

‘I can help you get them!’ pleaded Jack.

‘Really?’ said the thing.

‘Yeah,’ Jack said ‘here I’ll show you’. Jack bounced the ball a couple of times and flung it at the tree. All the bungo beans came rattling down.

‘How did you do that?!’ the Hoogle Boogle shouted.

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‘Easy, I’ll teach you. I’ve got the moves but I’m oh so weak.’ Jack said sadly. He showed the Hoogle Boogles how to throw the ball at the beans.

‘Thank you!’ said the Hoogle Boogle ‘Now we shall do you a favour in return. Take this, it will give you all the might you will ever need.’ Jack took the bottle filled with sparkling green liquid and drank it.

Suddenly there was an ear bursting ‘POP!’ and Jack was back on the basketball court. He sprang to his feet, bounced the ball to the hoop and did an epic slam dunk.

From that day on nobody made fun of Jack anymore.

He was the strongest player in the team, and he never forgot his Hoogle Boogle friends.

Judge’s Comments This thoroughly entertaining story, written in the third person, struck me as a kind of modern day remix of Jack & the Beanstalk. A strong beginning – the opening paragraph instantly made me want to root for our hero, Jack. An exciting middle – just what would the Hoogle Boogles do to Jack? And a very satisfying ending – good things come to those who deserve them. There was plenty of action crammed into 490 words, and all under a fun and enticing title.

Great job!

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12 - 14 Judge’s Overview I love reading the work of budding authors and when I think that the writers in this section are only 12-14 years old, I am amazed by their literary skill and ability to tell a good story. As a judge, I journeyed to ancient labyrinths, crossed seas, was shipwrecked, fought dragons, was lost and found, and I cried in wars. The winners were very hard to pick. Many aspects had to be weighed up against each other. Was there an interesting, original plot? Did it make sense? Did it follow the theme? And most importantly, did I want to read it to the very last word? This year’s winners ticked all those boxes.

Congratulations on rising to the top of a long list of very competitive entries.

Kathy Hoopmann January 2017

Journeys

First place: Sofya Yaritsyna, 12 Raffles World Academy

I awakened sensing something. A calamity was certain, yet to prevent it, I only had 21 years.

I was a decrepit idol carved out of purest bedrock that stood upon a deserted hill. I was an idol, yet I possessed human proportions: with oversized shoulders and a flat, polished back. My hefty shoulders were coated with moss, like a fur cloak. On the crown of my stone human’s head was a nest, weaved by two nightingales, which whistled out lovely melodies. It was a pleasure listening to them!

But the most intriguing, as they would say, were my big round eyes that seemed to reflect the world in a more caring, forgiving and compassionate way. As of that, they began naming me ‘The Symbol of Love’.

Abruptly, I felt the urge to leave my peaceful hill, as I was the only one able to prevent the catastrophe that

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began bugging me. I began patrolling downhill heading towards a crease of lank trees illustrating the woods. Each of my stone steps were accompanied by a low thud that trembled through the moist soil of spring.. The nightingales, disturbed, began bustling around and moving with me, questioning the sudden passion. Why did I continue walking? I didn’t know myself. Their curiosity tied them to me, so they fluttered right by.

I stomped through the neurology of twirled roots and tender ivy. Trunks of colossal trees lined up before me, their raw leaves whispering a melody. I have never witnessed such beauty and I was fascinated by it. The forest’s realm had a sudden hill which was too steep to climb and too wide to circumvent. Right beneath it raised a sapling of an oak. I recall that sapling; it seemed weak and vulnerable. My engraved eyes stared at the seedling as I stepped aside and began to wait. I had to protect it and let it grow.

Seasons cycled from year to year, yet I still stood. The nightingales, which stalked me, flew away to sunny regions. It was sorrowful to see them leave; yet I had to continue my journey. Three, five, seven years passed; I kept track of every day that went by. Beside me flourished a ramose oak. After twenty years, a blooming tree towered over me. A bronze acorn fell from one of the hand like branches right in front of my frozen feet. A faint tremble ran across them as I, in someway, regained consciousness.

When I came back to life, it was winter…

I bent, picking up the acorn from the shimmering snow. After, I stepped to the oak and began ascending.

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Thick, swirling branches were like a living ladder for me to climb. Half way up the tree I stopped climbing and masterfully stepped on a wide branch leading to the top of the hill. With each of my bulky steps the branch arced towards the ground, eventually touching it. I stepped off and headed to a numb, mirror like river. I knew exactly where I was going.

I hurried to the icy river with a solid gait, as my stone fist was clutching around the precious acorn; I had to defend it from the raging storm that began in seconds.

Immediately, once I reached the boundary of the silverblue river I apprehensively stepped on it. The thin layer of ice gave off a faint crack, yet I had no serious concern about it. The fish beneath it swiftly began circling me, as I was balancing on the blanket of ice. They seemed like flowers in the frozen land of winter. I had to take agile steps to get over to the other side. All of a sudden a rasping noise came from below… It was the ice shattering under my weight…

I threw the acorn to the opposite side of the river, as I was collapsing into a wintry, freezing water below the ice. The acorn harmlessly landed into a pile of snow, as I began sinking closer to the river’s floor. Fish began swimming around me and staring with their glass, convex eyes.

I thought they wanted to help me… As I reached the flooring of the river, I, surprisingly, didn’t hesitate, but scanned my surroundings to find a way out. I spotted an underwater hill, which seemed to rise above sea level. I attempted to swim, but my weight held me down, so I walked towards it.

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As soon as I made it out of the frozen river, I rushed to find the acorn. Water droplets were falling off me and freezing before reaching the ground. It didn’t take long for me to locate his precious acorn and gently secure it in my stone fist. We were reunited, I felt relieve fill my heat as I continued my journey.

By spring, I reached my desired destination. It was a vast, empty field with no visible edges. The ground was coated with young grass and sprinkled with some blossoming flowers. Somewhere in the distance towered a mountain hidden in mist. I scooped up some of the spring’s soil and gently placed the acorn into the opened hole. Birds sang in the background, they reminded me of the two nightingales… After I planted the acorn I began moving to the unknown mountain, or what seemed like one…

As I came closer I came to realize that it was no mountain, but a humungous volcano! Its steep black ash walls swirled to the sky. Some magma was drooling down the side… I decidedly began ascending.

I turned to take a glimpse of the field and then dropped myself down the opening. I sacrificed myself to prevent an explosion, to save this realm and to protect the acorn that would once grow into a forest…

100 years later around a mountain blossomed a lush, oak forest where always sang nightingales…

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Judge’s Comments Not only was this intriguing adventure of a stone statue wellwritten, it kept me gripped to the last sentence. I loved how, even knowing time was short, the idol stopped to protect a tree for twenty years. An enjoyable and unique perspective of a journey.

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Journeys

Second place: Sebastiaan van der Boom, 14 Raffles World Academy

I am a pawn.

I am a pawn that you play chess with, yes, one of those pawns. You may ask yourself, how does a pawn talk? Well, we don’t you see, but we can think. Actually, everything can think even though you may not have thought that possible. Anyway, this is a story about the first time I reached the end of the chessboard. In case you are not familiar with the game of chess, a pawn can reach the end of the board but the player often replaces that pawn with another chess piece then they use that piece to win the game.

The chess game is at Michael’s house. Michael is tall and broad shouldered. He is a smart chess player. Today, he is playing the white side so he goes first. It is a shiny, varnished beech and maple wood chequered board. It has

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gold-coloured metal framing the perimeter. The board is meticulously set up by Michael and my player and the game begins. I am placed second from the left in the second row from the back of the board. The king and queen, castles and knights are behind me. I am awed by their powerful shapes. I see the first pawn on the opposing side move forward, it is bone white, made of ivory perhaps so is the rest of the white side. It moves forward two spaces because it is Michael’s first move. I wait in anticipation, wondering who my player will pick to strike back. The black pawn to my left is picked up by his egg-shaped head and swiftly brought down onto the board directly in front of the white pawn. I can see the sweaty fingerprints on the black and lustrous surface of the pawn.

Six turns pass and the chessboard has filled up with taller pieces than I. I am anxious. I feel like I have been in this place for a very long time. I am finally moved forward two spaces and now I am face to face with the white team’s knight, a giant, gleaming horse head with carefully carved out reigns. I am intimidated by his menacing presence but I know that he cannot touch me because knights may only jump two spaces forward, either to the left or to the right.

The game continues for hours, turns flying by and my player only moves me once every seven or eight turns so that Michael doesn’t notice that I am slowly creeping forward. On the thirty-seventh turn there are only five black figures and eight white figures left on the entire board.

I stare at Michael’s clammy hands as they drift over the white queen’s head, lingering ominously. My thoughts 23

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spinning as I consider the possible outcomes of the game.

I think of where he could possibly move the queen that is logical. Then it dawns on me. Michael smiles devilishly as he figures out what my purpose is. He arrogantly rotates the queen towards my position and slowly nudges her towards me and leaves her in a place where she blocks all my moves. I am stuck. Sadness and anxiety creep into my soul. I am almost there. Almost to the end of the board.

She is standing there, next to me. A tower of destruction. The most lethal, the most treasured piece on the board. She is the most intricate figure that I have ever seen with a pointy crown carved on her head. I wait to see if my player will sacrifice me to the wrath of the queen.

I watch his hand carefully moving to pick out the bishop. A feeling of dread sweeps over me. I am about to be replaced. I am ready to accept my fate when the player surprisingly moves the bishop from the opposite side of the board and crashes him into Michael’s queen. The queen topples over in defeat. Michael winces as my player sweeps the queen off the board. Michael retaliates. The bishop is struck down by the castle in a final effort to stop me but it is too late. I have done it. I am guided forward to the last space by my player. I wait. I don’t know what I am expecting to feel, maybe happiness or pride? No, I feel cheated as I see the shadow of my player’s hand loom over me. My time has come as I am removed from the game.

The black queen, in all her glory, takes my place on the board. I am set aside next to the timer, set aside, abandoned. Sacrificed. Like, a pawn.

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Judge’s Comments A journey across a chess board it not something you read about every day. This clever story means I will never play a game of chess again without feeling the tenseness, anxiety and ultimate abandonment of the lowly, but vital, pawn.

Well written, with an original plot.

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Journeys

Third place (tied): Gianna Elizabeth Mathew, 14 Al Diyafah High School, Dubai

Abiodun. I gave him that name because he was born during a time when there was a war waging within myself.

Living in poverty, I did not know if I could take care of the baby boy that was growing inside my womb; I was scared. But my son, even though he grew up amongst the piles of rubbish, he grew up well, well until my countrymen decided to scatter greed to feed their pleasures. Now I was running, running as far as my feet could take me.

Abiodun – his name no longer meant the same to me; he was no longer a child born during a war, but he was a child enslaved to war.

Sierra Leone burnt bright that day. We stood at the back of our disintegrating hut, my husband forced to stand against the wall. “Father, forgive me,” Abiodun pleaded in our native language, Krio. “I have loved you,”

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he whispered. I wailed, “Why are you doing this, my son?

He is your father!” But it was too late now, I saw the innocence clinging on to his tender skin, barely holding its grip. I saw the madness in his eyes, they did this to him.

My son was innocent, I told myself over and over again.

“Marai, run…” my husband cried out, before Abiodun pulled the trigger and the bullet could hit a little below his chest. I looked at his face one last time, the man I loved, his skin made of ebony glinted under the sunlight, the sweat dripping from the sides of his temple.

Then his eyes stood still, wide, glassy, as he succumbed to the ground. Abiodun turned around to stare at me then, his breath hung heavy, the AK-47 flexing in his hands, he looked apprehensive; I could sense his fear. “Mama, he was right. You must run, you need to have the baby.

Before I lose control. Please!” he screamed at me, I knew it was the fear talking. And so, I ran. Leaving my village behind me I ran, ran till the wind got knocked out of me.

At nights, I wondered if my boy was okay, if the rebels were still with him. I couldn’t imagine the tortures he faced. Running, I fled to Guinea, I made it my home, even though the earth in Sierra Leone still bore the roots of my blood. I worked here day and night, making this a comfortable home for my daughter. I wanted my daughter to remember the taste of the war. I wanted her to treasure its lessons, to teach it to her future generations.

Abiodun’s little sister was three and a half years old now.

More than three and a half years since I last saw him.

He turned fifteen last month. I still loved him, I forgave him. The acts that drove him to murder, they were not his 27

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fault. The drugs forced into his bloodstream, they were not his fault. It was the rebels, the so called “humans”. I thought about how people from the same country could carry so much hate around. How that hate poured out of them, soaking their minds with the thought to murder their very own brothers, their flesh and blood. The greed for power, the greed for money, the greed for our diamonds, all gone in vain with the end of the war. Hate can never triumph, that is what I learnt from this life. Now that the war was over, I needed to find him.

“Have you seen this boy?” I asked the man in the grocery store in our old neighbourhood, back in Sierra Leone.

The place was so much quieter now, new well-built houses lined the sides of the roads, painted in different shades.

Green, white and blue banners hung up all over the place, I almost forgot that those were the colours of the flag. The place looked idyll, almost. Waving towards him a worn out photograph, one of Abiodun smiling, teeth bared, the joy surrounding the rims of his eyes, I missed that little boy. “Why would you want to find that piece of garbage?” he yelled back at me, “he killed them all, his father, his mother, and rumour has it that he killed his unborn sister along with her.” Shocked, I replied, still composed, “What do you mean? How would you know that?” “If he didn’t kill them, he wouldn’t still be alive. The rebels would’ve crushed his bones, turned it into ash. We’ve never seen his parents in almost four years.” I asked him again, “Please, I beg you. Please take me to him, his mother did not die.”

“Where is she then?” he questioned aggressively. I replied calmly, “I am his mother. This is his sister.”

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The Rehabilitation Centre for Children of War stood tall on the outskirts of town. Painted white, it symbolized peace. We sat in an enormous classroom, the wall on one side had a window looking out into the town. I watched many children come in and out of the classrooms, their pants ironed, and skirts crisp, hair neatly tied, and some had scars across their faces, stumps for legs; they all smiled.

“Abiodun will be here in a moment madam,” the teacher informed us politely. I waited, anticipating, unsure if he was the same boy. And then he came in, illuminating the classroom. He was a lot different now, taller than before, bronzer skin, wider shoulders, his dimples grew deeper, yet this was still my boy; I knew it was him from the way he walked, the way his shoulders slumped around the edges; he smiled warmly at me. “Hello… mother,” he grabbed me in a tight embrace, tears flowed across my cheeks as I held him in my arms for the first time since the war. He let go after a while and then said, “And this must be my little sister, what’s your name?”

“Sierra,” she mumbled shyly.

Judge’s Comments The devastation in so many lives that is created when a child is stolen to become a soldier is told with sensitivity and an awareness far beyond the author’s age. But it also tells of the redemptive power of a mother’s love. A sobering, yet hopeful story that urges us to “remember the taste of war, treasure its lessons and teach them to future generations.”

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Journeys

Third place (tied): Suha Omar, 14 Wesgreen International School

She huddled closer to her mother’s chest, the undercurrent of cries and empty conversations flooded her ears, yet the sound of her sister’s soft snoring was all her mind could identify. Even secure in their mother’s warm embrace, the sisters couldn’t help the dread that drowned their blissful memories of home, as they were carried towards the foreign terrain.

Reluctantly, she peeled her eyes open just enough to take in her surroundings. Dozens of families as vulnerable as hers had commenced on this journey to nowhere with them. Grudgingly, they treaded onwards on the green, open land. Trees were scattered randomly across the earth, staring down at her, waving their branches in farewell. There was not a single cloud tainting the clear, azure sky and the sun’s golden rays swam through the

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grass, making it resemble the shrapnel of a shattered emerald. A subtle breeze danced through her hair, tickling her tender cheek.

It would have been a beautiful day, if it wasn’t for them.

The men who stormed into her family’s house earlier that week, armed with heavy guns.

She glimpsed at her mother, immediately noticing the sheet of sweat that shimmered on her forehead while she tried to support her daughters as she marched tensely.

There are no more homes to go back to.

At least that’s what her mother had said to her. At least that’s what she assumed had sent all these families away from their country, dragging their feet as they hiked to an unknown destination, seeking shelter.

Curiously, none of them carried any luggage. They left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and a few belongings, as if they were on a trip that would soon end and they would return home.

There are no more homes to back to.

No one could have possibly believed that coming home would be possible again now that they’ve left. Anything they’ve left behind would be abandoned and forgotten.

If it wasn’t worth saving, it wouldn’t be worth remembering.

Yet neither one of the sisters had dared ask why their father had not joined them yet.

She cast a glance at her sister - a skinnier, shorter form of herself - as she lay asleep in her mother’s hold, oblivious to the world around her.

Looking around at the families encircling her, she recognized the distress they lugged with them, and the 31

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anxiety hovering above them. Children, used to finding hope in their parents’ watch, searched for optimism yet returned empty handed, finding nothing but a discouraging reflection of their own despair.

She watched a little boy toddle on his own, hugging a worn out teddy bear as he wandered, falling to the ground every few steps he took but continue to try again. Little did he realize that he was lost.

Wearing a hollowness in her eyes, a woman slowly walked alone, as if every step was consuming her strength and motivation.

A man crouched over his injured children, crying for help. He knew that no one could reverse what they did.

The men who carried guns. Knocking down doors, barging into houses, firing at anyone in their way, banishing people from their homes, leaving them either stranded at their mercy or evacuating for the sake of survival.

Abruptly becoming aware of her mother’s arms loosening around her and tightening around her sister, her head jerked upwards to look at her in terror, only to come face to face with her mother’s tear-rimmed orbs.

“I’m so sorry,” her mother managed. At a complete loss for words, the girl remained motionless, gaping at her mother in disbelief, frantically trying to find comfort in her gaze with no reassurance. “I can’t carry both…” she fought back her tears, which threatened to pour out of her glistening eyes, as she gently set her down on the ground.

She felt her mother’s lips tremble on her skin as she kissed her forehead, before she pulled away, turned her back, and continued her journey.

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For a moment that could have been eternity, her rapid heartbeat was the only sound she could sense. For a moment that could have been eternity, she stared ahead at her mother’s hair, watching it sway as she walked, feeling a sudden numbness wash over her. For a moment that could have been eternity, she forgot how to breathe, her mouth gaping open in vain.

It was only after that excruciating moment that the reality of what happened had sunk in. She was abandoned.

Isolated in a crowd of people.

Denying the truth that burdened her, the helplessness that overcame her, and the fear that slaughtered her hope, she attempted to get up. But her legs couldn’t get her anywhere. Not after what they did with their guns.

A single tear trailed down her face, as she hung her head in defeat. The cold sensation catching her off guard.

She finally awoke to the pain of loss.

Struck by the grief that clogged her chest, the prejudice of her situation was all that she could fathom in the chaos.

Waves of anguish, sorrow, and rage crashed in her mind.

What had she done wrong? What had all these people done wrong, to deserve such abuse?

In a few, short hours, youths were drained of their pureness and innocence and adults were stripped of their childhood reminiscences and security. Nostalgia lurked in the air, extracting evidence of amity from a previous reality, replacing it with bleakness and devastation in this new one.

Trees were scattered randomly across the earth, staring down at her, waving their branches at her in a warning of 33

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danger. Don’t leave, you won’t come back. There was not a single cloud in the sky to shield them from the hot sun as it bore its hot glow onto the never-ending land. A subtle wind shifted her hair, mocking her and the future she would never get. Mocking her journey, which would never end.

Nothing could have restored beauty to that wretched day.

Judge’s Comments This is an achingly sad story of a choice no mother should ever have to make. It brings home the terrible cost of war upon innocents that is all too familiar in today’s world.

Told with raw truth through the eyes of a child, it makes the reader join her global cry, “What have all these people done wrong to deserve such abuse?”

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15 - 17 Judge’s Overview This year’s entries from writers aged 15 to 17 have taken readers on a wide range of journeys, from physical journeys involving mountain climbing and airplane travel, to psychological journeys forcing characters to face the unknown or confront unpleasant truths about themselves. The three winning entries are of different genres and demonstrate creativity and writing skill in various ways, but all have succeeded in what is the writer’s most important task: creating a connection with the reader. Congratulations to the winners, and many thanks to all those who submitted stories this year. May we all continue to enjoy reading journeys for many years to come.

Kathy Butti January 2017

Journeys

First place: Rameen Aslam, 15 Dubai Gem Private School

Roses were her favourite flower and now they lay wilting beside the ornately decorated coffin, seeming to mourn her death. Streaks of sunlight hit the floor, where little dust particulates swirled around like a fractured constellation after making their way through the church windows at intervals, Asher’s eyes were transfixed on the ground, his eyebrows drawn in. Around him were sounds of mourners, of a broken “I’m sorry,” and of funeral bells ringing deafeningly loud. He wished he could block it all out; perhaps cover his ears with his hands like a small child and pretend nothing existed. He knew his wife’s heart didn’t beat any longer, and he imagined it, still and lifeless inside her corpse. Her bones would rot and crumble, and the earth would swallow her whole grotesquely.

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Tears sprang to his eyes, and Asher hurriedly excused himself from the procession, shoving past distant family members and pushing open the doors to step out into the bitterly cold October morning. The sun shone weakly above, and Asher cursed it for momentarily stinging his eyes.

He didn’t think he would ever forget how he found Sylvie’s body, lifeless, a mere three days ago. The air was cold and it encompassed him as soon as he stepped indoors after work. He remembered a disembodied shriek flooding his ears, the harsh footsteps on the stairs as he rushed up them. He recalled the cherry red blood staining the hardwood floor, and how her hair fanned out in a mess of tangles. He took in the pale undertones of her skin and the darkened circles beneath her eyes, and even then she managed to hold his heart prisoner.

“Sylvie,” he choked out. “Sylvie, breathe.”

The blood.

It was everywhere; red and utterly beautiful because it was flowing through her veins, but at that moment it poured from her neck, little rivulets trailing down and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. It was mocking him as it dropped with a small whimper to the floor.

Asher snapped out of his reverie when he felt a touch to his shoulder. He turned back, only to be hit mercilessly by a wave of nostalgia when his gaze met that of Sylvie’s brother. They had the same unfathomable, foggy grey eyes.

“Are you okay, Asher?” Julian questioned, squinting against the uncharacteristic sunbeams that morning in autumn.

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“I’m fine,” Asher replied, his voice sounding heavy to his own ears.

“You don’t have to lie,” Julian said. “I know her death came as a surprise- I can hardly believe it..” He chuckled without mirth, pain evident on his sharp features. Julian ran a hand over his face.

“It wasn’t a suicide,” Asher said. The words rolled off his tongue like an avalanche; strong, sure and cataclysmic. “That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? I can swear it wasn’t; she was fine- perfectly fine, in fact.”

Julian fell silent, his eyes studying Asher’s face. He held up five fingers. “Five stages of grief, Asher. And the first one is denial.”

“You didn’t know her well enough.” Asher’s tone was clipped, and he angled his body towards the door once more.

“She was my sister!”

“And my wife.”

The men stared at each other for what felt like a century. A time bomb seemed to tick between them, and the air grew charged with tension.

“If you’re so sure, why don’t you prove it? Why don’t you find her killer?”

Cheeks burning with shame, Asher clenched his fists and shoved them into his pockets. He wouldn’t give Julian the pleasure of angering him.

“I will. I’ll find him, Julian.”

The bomb detonated and the force of it split the two men apart.

Melancholy was overpowering when Asher decided to investigate. He felt like a violator, opening Sylvie’s 39

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drawers and cupboards for a clue, a hint, any lead as to why she was now just a name on a gravestone. His fingers brushed feather-light over her photographs, her pens and diaries, and even then Asher felt as if his touch was tainting her possessions. Her scent of wild blossoms still lingered and wafted through the still air.

He found nothing to lead him to find her killer at their own house. In actual fact, he’d spent most of the time wrapped up in reminiscence of past times. He couldn’t ever hope to hold her hand again, or drive off into a summer sunset, or stroll down the street with Sylvie by his side. Asher found himself wondering why his cheeks were constantly tear-stained.

Asher, however, would not leave it at that. He was like a thundercloud with two feet, visiting her workplace to question her colleagues. Each and every one of them touched his arm to pacify him, disbelief clouding their faces when they heard of Sylvie’s death. Asher went through her files and papers, tracing her handwriting over and over again until he had to be pulled away.

He visited her closest friend next, Julie. Julie’s hands shook even as she clasped them in her lap.

“I’m trying to find Sylvie’s murderer,” Asher explained, earning himself a look of pity.

“I know it’s difficult to accept Asher, but I don’t think anybody would’ve killed her,” Julia said, her voice thick with sorrow.

“How can you be so sure?”

“She had everything, Asher. She had you. She had the perfect job. She was funny, confident-” Julie said, her 40

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voice breaking towards the end. “It just doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”

Asher found himself flinching at her use of the past tense. He knew how Sylvie and Julie were childhood friends; the framed picture of the two as ten-year-olds, laughing spontaneously stared down at him from her mantelpiece.

“I think it is likely. She had everything, Julie. Isn’t that what you said? Someone wanted to take that away from her!” Asher found his voice rising, and he felt as though his ribs were freezing over, icicles growing over his heart. The realization was so strong and sudden; almost like a gravitational pull towards every answer he had ever searched for.

He jumped to his feet, rushing towards the door. All rational thoughts blurred in his mind, which was a site of demolition and destruction only fuelled on by his grief.

Sitting in his car, Asher reminded himself that he was willing to go on any journey, any length to avenge the death of his wife. His breathing quickened as he placed his sweaty palms on the steering wheel and began to drive.

It was so obvious. It was so evident.

When he finally reached his destination - a house just a few minutes away from their own - he hammered on the door until it was answered by another man. It was like an illusion, how similar he looked to Sylvie.

“Julian,” Asher began, a smirk growing across his lips, “it was wrong of you to lie to me.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about, Asher?”

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“Sylvie had everything you don’t, Julian.” Asher clenched his teeth, his cheeks flushing with all the emotions swimming around in his mind. “I know what you did.”

Julian sucked in a quick breath, scowling. “Asher, calm down. You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, reaching forward to touch the other man’s shoulder. “I know it’s difficult right now, but-” Asher began to yell accusations incomprehensibly.

“You killed my wife! You murdered her!” The sound waves trembled and fell at their feet, and Asher suddenly reached for Julian. He blindly threw punches and kicks, taking him off guard.

“Asher, stop!”

His clenched fist made repeated contact with Julian’s sharp cheekbone.

“Asher, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

The exclamations all go unheard. He had metamorphosed into an unstoppable monster, but he was brimming with regrets and apologies.

His fingers hooked onto Julian’s shirt collar, clutching at it almost desperately. Asher was struck by déjà vu.

“Asher, don’t hurt me.”

The words struck him like a meteorite, and images of bloody footprints, of messy dark hair like a halo around her head, of the engravings on her epitaph, of endless, splitting screams - and it all came rushing back to him.

Asher was unstoppable and uncontrollable and uncontainable.

Returning home from work that evening, he reeked of misfortune and negativity. His mind was wounded like a 42

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thousand bullets had grazed across it, but his brain was the ventriloquist and he was the puppet, giving in to its commands and losing every last drop of his sanity.

He released Julian and stared down at his hands, the hands of a murderer, memorizing their cruel shape. He wanted to hold on and cling tight to the semblance of love, and of endless journeys to prove it, but now he feared it was merely a mirage.

The love slipped through his fingers.

Every time he smells roses near Sylvie’s gravestone, Asher thinks to himself: If the world had an edge, I would be leaping right off it.

Judge’s Comments Opening with an impressive multi-sensory description of a young wife’s funeral, this story traces the husband’s internal and external journey to determine whether his wife committed suicide or she was murdered. Skilfully plotted, the story leads the reader step by step to the final twist with a logical progression of events and careful character development. The greatest strengths of the story, however, lie in the writer’s rich vocabulary, accomplished use of imagery, crisp dialogue and effective use of paragraphing.

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The Journey of Odin

Second place: Nikhil Abhayan Pillai, 15 Indian School, Al Ain

Natalie is happy. After the long 2 years, finally she got a vacation to go back to her hometown and meet the love of her life- Ravit. Natalie waited happily in the airport for the announcement to board the aircraft. Her feet lifted with excitement and she couldn’t hide her smile. She viewed Ravit’s message, Come soon, I can’t hold my excitement for too long.

Natalie laughed out loud. She didn’t care if there were people around. She is the happiest in the world. ***** David, the co pilot seated himself in the cockpit. He is supposed to be brave, though it is just a 4 hours flight but he couldn’t get his mind over the break up that happened

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few hours back. David tried to take his mind off, and concentrate. He tried to feel the roaring engines beneath his feet. He loved the airplanes and it was time to board. ***** The passengers boarded the aircraft. Natalie seated herself. She wanted the time to fly. The 4 hours of flight seemed too long for her. Natalie’s happiness was reflected in her face, she smiled at every person she saw and made them smile too. ***** The airliner was up in the sky, and David felt like the lord of the skies. He tried to feel every movement of the aircraft, like the first time he flew it. He was admiring how the plane moved through the sky. When it did the pitching and yawning, he could feel her pushing the air apart as she moved towards the welcoming sky.

‘You are smiling’, said the captain. David felt it more like a question than a statement because the captain had a questioning look on his face.

‘Yes, I’m just feeling her breath’ he replied back.

David could see the setting horizon, the shadows of pink engulfing the white clouds and giving it the best look. Some view that no one should miss while flying.

Captain Kenneth was admiring it. David knew, he loved this scenery the most.

David’s face cringed. He felt it- he felt something wrong with the big bird he was flying. He looked at the captain who had the shocked look on his face. David followed the captain’s gaze.

TURBINES OVERHEATING 45

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The beep started coming on.

The flight engineer looked worried, the air traffic controller was contacted.

Why is this happening now? David thought. The horror happening before his eyes did not go with the view outside.

He knew what was going to happen next as he read the message: ENGINE 1 – FAILED ENGINE 2- FAILED… ***** Natalie always opted for the seat beside the window, especially one near the wings. She always loved to watch the sky with the great wings interrupting. She feels like the wing belongs to her, that she is the one flying. Natalie watched the beautiful sky outside; the clouds were like small hills and the rays of light falling on them – such a beauty! She thought smiling.

At first, Natalie thought the wings were reflecting the setting sun. She had felt the plane shudder. Everybody ignored it. Such things happen on the flight. She could have ignored it, if she wasn’t watching the wings on fire; both the turbine engines were on fire, engulfing the wings. She stared in horror. What was happening now? Her hand went up for the call button but her mind said it was late. She watched in horror as the fire engulfed wing was giving away… ***** David held tight to the yoke. He knew it was of no use but he wanted to hold tight to it. What if a miracle happens? Captain Kenneth prayed his last prayers and held 46

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the yoke. They both looked at each other, maybe the last journey through.

‘Maybe, a miracle…’ Captain Kenneth said his mind aloud with no hope in his face.

David tried to do rolling with the flight, against the wings that gone away… ***** Ravit waited at the airport. He had the bouquets of red roses in his hand, Natalie loved them the best. He had reached two hours before the arrival of the airplane in which Natalie is to come. He was excited to meet her.

He had to wait for two years, to see her, and he couldn’t wait anymore.

Half an hour before the arrival, he could see the relatives of the passengers pouring in. Everybody was waiting for their loved ones. Maybe they too were like him; long to see their loved ones. How many years? Two? Five? He could see his expression reflected in every face around him.

Another two hours had gone by. He saw that the roses started to wilt. He could feel himself losing his freshness with his patience. Where is it? Natalie had told him the departure was on time. Everybody seemed to be disturbed around him. What’s happening? Should he wait even more to meet his love?

And then he saw, the relatives screaming, some running into the airport, the security guards stopping them.

He watched in horror. What’s happening to these people? Are they getting tired? But there were more with the same expressions. He went for the source. The television 47

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had the news channel on. He watched it, confused. He couldn’t hear it, but the flash news could be read. There was an aerial view of a crash. An aircraft broken into two, burning and below it read…

THE ODIN AIRWAYS CRASH- ON THE MOUNTAINS-NO SURVIVORS The bouquet slipped from his hand to the ground. The people stamped on it, some screaming, others watching the TV in horror.

God, please save Natalie… Ravit thought as his eyes were fixed on NO SURVIVORS… Judge’s Comments Effectively using shifting points of view, this touching story explores the bright expectations and subsequent horror of a trio of characters whose lives are shattered by a fatal plane crash. The young women traveling to reunite with her love, the young man awaiting her arrival and the co-pilot who attempts to avert the crash are all proficiently depicted by the writer, who builds to the dramatic climax with effective pacing and well-crafted use of detail.

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Journeys

Third place: Caitlin Adonis, 15 Raffles World Academy

Dead, then brought back to life. Not me, of course, but my garden. You may be wondering: why a garden, what made it so special, so unique? Well, maybe it’s because I’d been living in that cottage with that precious garden for 40 years now. Or the fact that, without me, it would’ve stayed dead forever.

November 17th. I lost my life the day I lost my wife, Jane. To a monster, a murderer that cut through her body with each painfully slow passing minute. They still haven’t caught the disgusting excuse for a living thing.

There aren’t even ‘wanted’ or ‘warning’ signs put up anywhere. So I’m warning you now, beware of a murderer. A murderer that goes by the name of Cancer.

She was so strong. She fought that battle for 12 years and now I’m fighting it too. 18 months on March 2nd.

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I’m getting weaker though. Older with every round of the clock. ***** When we moved into the cottage, it was old, dull and dirty; that’s probably why it was so cheap. Our only child had moved out a few years before and there was no need for us to live in a big house anymore. And the garden? A normal person probably wouldn’t have recognized it as one. Nothing but what looked like a big furry brown carpet spread out over the area in front of the house. Only an enormous patch of brown wool with dead plants surrounding it; sagging sadly, giving up on life, finding no reason to live any longer. I, on the other hand, because of my immense, infinite love for gardens and nature, saw potential in it. I saw the beauty that no one else did and the love of my life happily agreed.

After some renovating and a touch of clearing up, the cottage had the same warm and welcoming atmosphere any home should. We moved in three months later and I knew I had made the second best decision of my life. The first being marrying Jane. You might think I’m being cliché but you don’t know Jane like I do. She had the most dazzling smile that could light up the earth if the sun ever disappeared. She was selfless enough to care about those around her, yet she knew her limits and when she needed to put herself first. She brought out the best in me and made me happier than I’d ever been.

I’d never known true sorrow until the day I lost her.

My emotions had never been so confused; sad to have lost her but happy that she could now be in a safe and 50

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painless environment. The thought of her living peacefully in Heaven was what got me through it.

Six months later, my garden was looking healthier than ever. I nurtured it like it was my own child. Before, it looked like an old film, black and brown, no white though. After long hours of work, two days a week, and me watering it every day, you could now see a rainbow: purple, red, green, pink, white, even blue. It was beautiful.

My garden wasn’t only special because I brought life back to it but because of the thousands of unforgettable memories my family and I made there. Memories in the garden and in the placid, peaceful swimming pool right next to it.

I’ll never forget those calm and quiet evenings; me watering the garden and Jane sitting, eyes closed, lost in a daydream, on a lawn chair. Once I’d finished, I’d join her and we’d sit there for what felt like hours, side by side. All problems in the world would just fade away, screaming to be heard but my dreams were louder. With Jane, a minute could feel like an hour and an hour could feel like a minute, time stopped when we were together. Now with her gone, time has nowhere to go but forwards.

Sometimes when I’d sit there, I could feel her presence, hear her sweet and innocent daydreams.

“How are you today, Roger?” her gentle voice would ring in my ear like a soothing melody.

“Better now that you’re here.”

One of my most prized memories is of those family ‘pool parties’. Our son, Nicholas would come over along with his wife, our daughter-in-law, Sarah and our two 51

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grandchildren, Angelina and Scarlette, otherwise known as Angie and Scar, the twins.

It wasn’t a very big pool, we weren’t exactly young when we moved in and it was just the two of us, but we figured that it was a nice bonus and we thought that it would be delightful during hot summers, an exhilarating dip in the pool to cool off and relax in.

It was a warm summer’s day and the sun was shining radiantly. Nicholas and his family came over to cool down in the pool and have an affable barbecue. We sat in the pool and laughed more than I’d laughed in my entire life. Scar and Angie were quite young and had only recently learnt how to swim, they loved the feel of the refreshing water hitting their warm skin as they swam in the water, showing off their skills. I stood by the barbecue with Nicholas by my side and we just talked, catching up. Nicholas had always been close to me and his mother and we were so proud of him, we couldn’t have asked for a better son.

The smell of the mouth-watering food was carried throughout the neighbourhood and filled the air. Jane and Sarah were in the kitchen making the salad.

Once lunch was made and eaten, we all relaxed in the pool and I was happy as could be.

After that get-together, it became a summer tradition. Only that, a few years later, Jane and I became too old to join them in the pool but they still came over and Scar and Angie would still swim. They loved that pool as much as I loved my garden.

When Jane passed, it became less frequent. We don’t have the ‘pool parties’ anymore but we still get together.

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Jane would’ve wanted us to continue living normally, but without her, the pool parties weren’t the same so we stuck to the normal family gatherings.

There were also those Christmas holidays.

Everyone gathered around the sparkling tree, the room lit up by the light of the fire and the atmosphere filled with joy and the sound of laughter. Scar and Angie would be opening their presents while the rest of us surrounded them, watching as they caught the first glimpse of the box hidden beneath the colourful paper and their faces would illuminate with wide smiles from ear to ear and their eyes grew wider than their tiny faces could manage.

Jane had only witnessed this a couple of times before she passed and a few years after that Angie and Scar became older and more mature. They’re still the sweet little girls I remember from those memories, only an older version. They still get as excited during Christmas and it makes me so happy to see them so enthusiastic. ***** The Cancer’s been here for 18 months now and the doctors don’t think I’ll live much longer, they gave me four months. I can feel my body slowly giving in.

I’m ready to go now. I’ll miss them terribly. Scar and Angie, I won’t get to see them grown up and start a new family but I know they will grow up to be wise and beautiful young women. Nicholas and Sarah, they were so good to me these last few months and I know they’ll look after the twins so well and raise them to be as thoughtful and loving as them; and lastly my garden, I’ve taken care of it for the last 40 years, but I know that in a few years, 53

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someone will move into that cottage and I hope they’ll treasure it as much as we did.

I’ve lived a good life and I’m ready to let it go.

My body finally gives in. The world stands still. I can feel the pain of the Cancer slowly lift and I am freed of that burden. Everything goes black.

I open my eyes and I’m in the most beautiful garden I’ve ever had the pleasure to lay my eyes on. It is full of colours and people are sitting quietly on the grass, filled with happiness. It is absolutely gorgeous with a stunning silver gate at the entrance with a sign saying: The Garden of Eden.

“How are you doing today, Roger?” I could recognize that voice anywhere. Jane!

“Jane! I’ve missed you so much! How’ve you been?”

I’m filled with adrenaline and feel so young and energetic again.

“Better now that you’re here.”

I’m finally reunited with the love of my life, in the most beautiful garden and I have the chance to hold her fragile hands in mine once again.

Judge’s Comments This story focuses on the relationship between the narrator and his garden, which serves as a metaphor for his relationships with his wife and other family members. It is also a meditation on the life cycle and the nature of life and death. Particularly noteworthy are the writer’s successful use of conversational style, the well-described family vignettes and the descriptive detail.

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18 - 25 Judge’s Overview What a range of interpretations of the concept of a journey!

This year’s entries were a joy to read, taking me on a whirlwind of journeys varying from the everyday bus ride with a puzzling mystery, to a journey through time and into battle and even through life itself.

Congratulations to the winners, it was a very hard task to choose between such varied interpretations of the title and also writing styles.

The entries this year all employed superb use of adjectives to allow the reader to fully immerse themselves in the setting, using all their senses and letting the imagination run wild. The winners skilfully told a complete story whilst also leaving the reader wanting to know more by planting unanswered questions throughout. Clever use of language techniques invoked a powerful feeling of emotion within the reader.

Liz Turner January 2017

Journeys

First place: Ashisha Ann Itty, 18 The Winchester School

Rays of sunlight shone through from behind the masses of waltzing clouds and cast shadows as I shuffled along a loose pebble from the gate of our family’s Bungalow. I strolled leisurely towards the main roads of Delhi keeping my eyes peeled for a vacant rickshaw. Most interns don’t land a position within the first 6 months of their internship. Then again, most interns don’t have fathers who conveniently sponsor and manage half the hospitals in the entirety of India.

I chuckled to myself as I recollected the scenario of the interview process in my head. The sudden change in demeanour of the official as his eyes swept over my surname, his mind making the connection. His eyes all telling as I felt his clammy hands writhe in my sturdy hold. I received my letter of appointment that very evening when

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my father walked into my study and placed it at the edge of my desk. I deserved it, I was a good person. A career that saves lives requires a great deal of sacrifice and responsibility; while taking after my father and brothers would have been easy, I was destined for more. Besides that, I travelled by rickshaw even with the family’s prized collection of BMWs. Humble, selfless and an integral part of society, yet my father always had a glint of disapproval etched in his eyes.

My journeys were hard; That morning, I sat in the gaudy rickshaw covered in tacky stickers and grubby interiors, the sound of blaring horns and rambunctious exchanges filled the roads as the vehicle drove over uneven roads by the fish market, allowing the unpleasant smells of Surmai to waft in. I sighed to myself as we finally stopped at a traffic light marking the 17-minute checkpoint of my journey. I glanced out from behind the plastic sheets that separated me from the riffraff on the roads. A scrawny looking boy with unkempt hair, a tattered oversized shirt and calloused hands gripping a sign for donations to help his ‘sick’ sister. Yea right… Probably some scoundrels exploiting children to earn the extra rupee. Nevertheless, I beckoned him over and placed a few 100 rupee notes into his collection bowl. ***** That night, as I sat tinkering on my desktop my father barged into the room firmly shutting the door behind himself. I grimaced as I braced myself for the impending lecture. He must have heard from Mr Rajeev regarding the disagreement we had today. Despite being 58

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a permanent employee and being just as equipped as any senior doctor in that establishment, I was deprived of having any contribution towards worthwhile cases and instead, was limited to mundane tasks like checking IV drips and fetching chai and samosas for whom so ever pleased some. I was the son of the main sponsor of the hospital; if my mere skills weren’t reason enough to be of substantial use to the establishment, that should be.

To summarise the encounter, my father mumbled some words of disapproval, I tried to defend myself, he dubbed me ‘selfish’, ‘entitled’ and ‘tarnishing his reputation’ and I apologised for the sake of pacifism. ***** It was a Tuesday, and I was sat in a decrepit rickshaw deep in thought, looking out at the traffic signal where I usually saw the beggar boy. His dish for collections laid overturned and the patch of soil seemed undisturbed.

Jolted into awareness, I was mindful to watch for him on my way back. As the week had gone by, the youngster remained AWOL. Perhaps he was hiding from the cruel men who were over-working him, maybe he’d been kidnapped. As the morbid thoughts flooded my mind, I felt my consciousness grow heavy. I had to help, besides, this would be a good opportunity to prove my father wrong, showing him I wasn’t a snob.

The next morning, I set out in pursuit of this vagabond child. As I reached the amber light, I clambered out of the rickshaw and consulted the meter before paying the driver. Wherever this boy was, he couldn’t have gone far on foot. As the chugging of the rickshaw faded, I 59

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made my way down the precarious, cow dung and graffiti infested alley a few feet away from the signal. After 20 minutes of wandering, my eyes caught sight of a feeble tent constructed of ripped pieces of cloth and plastic; outside lying the very cardboard sign the boy held.

I warily approached the frangible structure to find a frail figure laid in newspapers, covered with an array of neem leaves placed arduously over her limbs. The familiar shadow of the little boy rested beside her, his eyes trained on his sister’s face. His bloodshot eyes shot up at me as my shadow cast into the tent and his expression mirrored his fear. He thrusted himself to shield his sister and began screeching threats in broken Hindi. I held my arms up in surrender and attempted to calm the pair and exhibit that I meant no harm. ***** After an hour of convincing the children of my pure intentions, I managed to gather that the howler, Abhishek, and his sister, Parvathi, were left orphans after a violent family dispute led to their parents being murdered and the duo being abandoned. Parvathi had a serious case of, based on my medical experience, skin ulcers from strenuous work, but according to the adolescents, were marks of the ‘evil eye’. Despite my requests to take Parvathi to the hospital and assuring Abhishek that all finances would be covered, the siblings were adamant that neem leaves was the only cure.

In an effort to win their trust over, I regrettably agreed to accompany Abhishek into the adjacent forest that had clusters of neem trees they often harvested from. As we 60

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ventured further, I noticed Abhishek had secured plastic bottles on his mud caked feet and I looked down at my polished shoes feeling a pang of shame for ever complaining about ill-fitting shoes. Despite the lack of equipment, the runt skilfully weaved through the bushes and under fallen trees, clearly a seasoned veteran. He didn’t look older than 10, but his wide stance as he wielded his little pocket knife with finesse resembled that of a combatant.

Sadness crept over me as I followed him in sullenness, speculating on the quality of life these siblings must have had to be conditioned in this way. Conforming to their accounts, they must have been 7 and 5 when they were cast out as orphans. At 7, I was attending the most prestigious private school in all of Delhi, concerned only of the colour of my Poppins.

‘Thodi der rukheye!’ he suddenly whispered loudly, making me halt. Puzzled as to why he abruptly stopped, I peered over his bony shoulders to see a King Cobra slithering on its belly. The snake’s muscular body glistened under the sun as it began to sway with its hood flared. ‘Saanp’ he whispered without a silver of fear in his voice. I’d only ever witnessed a snake through a 20-inch TV and I felt a cold sweat travel down my neck as I watched Abhishek edge closer. Appalled that he had lulled the snake into a trance and carefully lured it into a hollow log, I looked at the gaunt boy from the roads with newfound awe. I had never felt so petrified in my life and this boy had just handled a life threatening situation with such ease.

It made me question; what kind of doctor couldn’t stare death right in its beady reptilian pupils? What right 61

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did I have to demand a position at the hospital when I was so easily helpless, despite my medical knowledge, and dependant on an illiterate 10-year-old? Pathetic.

As we gathered all the neem leaves we could, Abhishek resumed their story, in his personalised dialect of Hindi, revealing hardships beyond their years and mine. I felt sensations of stupefaction as I scrutinised my life. They supported and cared for each other, were humble and resourceful, all things I couldn’t say about myself. ***** Months have passed and I continue to travel by rickshaw and I still gaze out at the traffic light every time I pass it, but I never see Abhishek there. Parvathi and Abhishek have been taken in by a foundation that sponsors orphans and provides them with all their necessities, allowing them to blossom. As an ex-doctor and the founder and director of the foundation, I take a personal interest in my newfound chota and choti.

Some might need a week’s journey into the secluded wilderness to find themselves and realise their true calling but I found myself on a 20-minute traipse into a grove 15 feet away from the main roads of Delhi, accompanied by a malnourished Indian boy. I guess in the words of Abhishek’s most beloved poet Rainer Maria Rilke, ‘The only journey is the one within’.

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Judge’s Comments The winner of this category takes the reader on an emotional journey through the pastoral development of a doctor.

The story describes the turning point in this young doctor’s understanding of what makes a good practitioner and decision to become the subsequent founder of a charitable foundation.

Ashisha has used emotive language to immediately enable the reader to fully understand the young doctor’s situation and predicament. She has interspersed the narrative with nouns in the local language to help set the scene, and her unique and skilful use of other language techniques, such as onomatopoeias, create clear imagery to allow the reader to immerse themselves in the scene.

The character is inquisitive, “as I warily approached the feeble structure”, leading me as the reader to postulate too.

A clear win with a heart-warming tale that led me to wonder what happened to the children and others like them as a result of this kind doctor’s actions.

Well done Ashisha!

63

Journeys

Second place: Haleema Adi, 18 K12 International Academy

O Oman! Restful and beautiful country! Scene of happy memories! Blessed land of my brothers and sisters in faith! I can never bear to any country the loyalty I bear to my own; nor can I say that Oman’s beauty equals my country of valleys and mountains and lushness, but it has the tranquillity that is sadly so marred in my father’s land.

Once I visited Oman with my mother’s family, at the end of the year when the heat had cooled somewhat, and it was one of the most wonderful journeys any one could undertake. To be sure, it was short, but it was memorable and full of beauty: it was what every journey should be like.

We came from a desert land to the north, and I expected to see Oman much the same; but I was pleasantly surprised. Oman had more settled villages than its northern

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neighbour, which had been mainly inhabited by traders and fishermen along the coast, and Bedouin farther inland. These villages had been lived in for many years; the houses were white and dun, flat-roofed and low— but the graceful palms were unusually tall. Oman was a greener land, and groves and groves of date-palms, with now and then a little abode peeping between the slender boles, rested the eye weary of bare and stony mountains.

The houses of the richer farmers were girt with beds of soft bright-hued flowers, tended with a care, in that harsh clime, that reminded me of the overflowing flower-pots of my own village-people.

One day we went to a wadi, a water-valley, in the low mountains, and it was one of the most enchanting places in the country. We passed villages on the way half-buried in under the spreading fronds of the palms—old villages where men and women have lived, and died, and worshipped, and tended crops, and herded animals, for hundreds of years—and always, behind the masses of trees and the small, pale homes, stood the brown mountains. When we arrived at last at the mouth of the wadi, we beheld a green river running between two stony cliffs, with a shore a short boat’s ride away. There was a small, simple mosque in the shadow of the left cliff. Then I heard a sound that delighted me: the queer, choking bleat of a goat! Eagerly we looked up to see flocks of brown and black goats frolicking along the curving ledges, and how we laughed to see and hear them! No matter how familiar I am with goats, I shall always find their bleat one of the oddest sounds in the world.

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Crossing the cold water, we arrived on a pebbly shore, which soon became rather sandy soil—but the wadi itself was no dry desert. Palm trees of all ages clustered at the base of each cliff, as did trees with star-shaped masses of slender pointed leaves; and bright bushes grew scattered along the goat-paths. We were travelling to the heart of the wadi, and the wadi grew more and more beautiful the further we passed into it. From the first we saw cold shallow pools, lined at the bottom with smooth stones; then we encountered the wadi-gardens: barley and date-palms and even tomatoes were being cultivated here, where there was water. They spread from cliff to cliff, and we walked along the little, low walls of the irrigation channels, bordered on either side by young plants and red cotton bags of barley-seed, and shaded from the noon sun by the lowhanging trees that grew amidst the crops. Beyond the gardens, swift-running, chill streams, which had been hitherto hidden from view, appeared again, sparkling and laughing in the sun, and rippling in miniature waterfalls, making greener the stony banks with clumps of grasses and aquatic plants. The path continued down a beautiful avenue of slender palms to the right of the water . . . the golden sunlight, the rugged cliffs, the humble path transformed by the stately row of these life-giving date palms, made this part of the way one of the most exquisite of all the wadi. Then the path climbed higher and higher, over stone of varying colour—red, grey, and brown—and sometimes so smooth as to be dangerously slippery, and so rough as to be difficult to walk. We climbed up, and we climbed down, and ever to our left were the pools 66

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of water—growing larger and larger as we approached the heart of the wadi—still and blue and ringed with white stones, tufts of grass and shrub, and folded shelves of stone. Most wonderfully has God shaped this Earth!

Several low caves we passed that we were tempted to explore, but we were most eager to reach our journey’s end in the wadi pools.

At last the path was so rocky (but not barren, being plentifully interspersed with elegant palms and bushes) that we seemed to be making our way through a rock-jungle, with rocks of all shapes and sizes, but mostly white in colour. We reached an irrigation channel made of hardened mud on the left, and mounted upon it—it ran along a shelf of cliff—and followed it. Running down the green channel was cold water. This green guide brought us around a corner, through dark-green bushes—and suddenly, we beheld before us the Pools of the Wadi!

Plants grew right down to the water, and leaves swayed over it, as if they longed to drink of its clear freshness. Oh, how beautiful it was! The bottom was full of small stones, which, though they were very smooth, were quite painful to walk upon; the water chilled the hot feet; and oh, how ticklish was the nibbling of the tiny fish! Long grey-green lizards ran under large leaves to the water and slipped in.

Between surging cliffs, the pools took their course. Not being allowed to swim, my mother and I scaled the right cliff, watching the clear, blue-green pools below. Very soon the water began to be deep—shallow—deep—following the curves of the cliffs. Where the water met the cliffs, the rocks were shrouded with algae to the degree of 67

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being invisible—also, of being impossibly slippery, to the extent that once in the pool, no one could emerge from the water! The pool continued until we came to a low tunnel, at least a dozen metres long, whose rocky roof was but a few feet above the water level. Through this narrow passage, only one person could swim at a time. Beyond this rather frightening tunnel was a spacious cavern, and from the far side of the cavern sprung a fine waterfall, in the shade, spilling down the green rocks. Children climbed up to the level of the waterfall and dove happily into the pool. The waterfall came from a large slanting hole in the cliff, a hole between the vertical and horizontal, and one peek through this orifice brought a vision of more glorious pools shimmering underneath the sun, and fringed by bending palms.

How lovely was this journey! How enchanting the scenes! How humbling it is to see the valleys, the waterways that our Creator has shaped! This wadi, not done one-tenth the justice it deserves in these few simple lines, became dear to us all that day. What beautiful places and secrets the desert hides . . . who would have imagined what splendour lay behind the high, flinty cliffs where the goats rambled!

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Judge’s Comments This short story by Haleema describes a simple trip to Oman, but what captivated me throughout this story was the awe and wonder conveyed by Haleema through the use of descriptive language techniques. She uses antithesis to make clear the range of stimuli on the senses: “the stones were smooth but painful to walk upon”.

It is clear that the sheer beauty of the area is unexpected and every new discovery exciting and wonderful, through the skilled use of both punctuation and imagery to build atmosphere. The main character’s surprise at the beauty is further emphasised by the passion for her faith – “how humbling to see the waterways our creator has shaped” – a link that is expressed at the start and repeated at the end of the story.

An exciting journey with new wonders unfolding throughout.

A well-deserved second place. Congratulations Haleema.

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Chance Encounters

Third place: Salma Abdussalam, 19

Middlesex University He noticed them when he’d bend down to collect his fallen piece of paper. While straightening up, it was the one clad in black that his attention flew to first. Maybe it was the all black outfit or the way she walked with a purpose that grabbed his attention. Whatever it had been, once they’d entered his field of vision, it became hard to look away from them. They were an odd pairing indeed. One dressed in all black formal attire, the other one young, a child really, dressed in a multitude of colors. They walked hand in hand across the street approaching the bus stop where he’d been sitting. The one in black was definitely older than the other one but looked too young to be a parent to the other one. She was guiding the younger one by the hand. He watched her lead the younger one to

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the machine next to the bus station and top-up their bus cards. He couldn’t watch anymore after that since his bus rolled into the stop. Punching his card in, he settled into a seat in the back.

Curiosity made him seek out the pair. Realizing that they were not outside, he started searching inside the bus.

He spotted them in the front, right behind the driver.

The younger one was seated inside and was gesturing excitedly at the scenery outside. The older one was too engrossed in her phone to pay attention. After a while, as if sensing the rising impatience of the younger one, she turned and nodded at whatever was being pointed at.

By all accounts, from what he’d seen so far, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the pair. They looked to be related from the familiarity in their behavior towards each other. And yet, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something very off about them. On the surface, the older one appeared affectionate towards the younger one. But, to him, her interactions seemed forced. As if some invisible force was pushing her to complete each action. She didn’t seem to want to take the child anywhere.

Moreover, whenever she raised her head to look around she appeared to be searching for something. Or someone.

Her furrowed brows and shifting eyes indicated that she wasn’t exactly welcoming of whatever was coming. Very much like that of a hunted prey, almost.

His curiosity had now taken over as he made his way to the front of the bus. ‘What th-’ he hadn’t noticed the lady on his right when he’d stepped on her foot. The commotion caused her to turn around. He locked eyes with 71

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her for a second before averting his eyes in an attempt to cover his embarrassment. He looked around for a seat close to them and found one a row behind. He was now within hearing distance and could hear the intermittent conversations between the two. He did briefly ponder his strange fascination with the pair but was too engrossed to analyze and reflect on the situation.

The bus was now passing through the town square and since this was the busiest day of the year, the traffic was at an all-time high. The sounds of horns and crowd chatter drifted in through the open doors when the bus stopped at the station. A large crowd made their way in, blocking his view of the pair. For a moment, he thought he heard a voice from their side of the bus scream something unintelligible. He craned his neck to peek through the crowd but was unsuccessful, with the increasing rush of people cramming their way into the bus. When the doors closed and the crowd had subsided, he saw them right where he’d last seen them. Unchanged, as if someone had painted a surrealist portrait of them.

He was fortunate enough, that despite the crowd he had an unobstructed view of them. He watched the older one give the younger one a sheet of paper and a pencil.

The words exchanged were hard to catch but he could make out parts of it.

“Write what I’ve told you”, said the older one.

The younger one shook her head refusing to accept the paper. She knew that this was a ploy to keep her busy.

She signaled something to the elder one. “Later....I promise”, the elder one added to make her believe. Having 72

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her request granted, the younger one took the paper and started scribbling something in. With the younger one occupied, the older one turned back to whatever it was that she’d been typing out in urgency. Waiting for a while, she started typing furiously again in response to the ping that sounded from her phone. With each text she sent, she seemed to grow even more restless. As she was typing yet another rushed text, her phone rang. The standard iPhone ringtone blared as she fumbled around trying to answer the call. The younger one looked up hearing the ringtone, a question in her eyes.

“Hello?” her steady voice betrayed none of the frenzy she’d experienced earlier while texting. “If you want to...Yeah, she’s with me. No. A couple of stops after the square....”

The younger one had by now abandoned her artwork and was completely focused on the conversation.

“Ok. Fine. See you then”, she cut the call.

The younger one signaled something to the older one.

“Yes, him. We’re getting down at the next stop. Don’t worry, we’ll get there on time.”, she reassured when she saw the younger begin to shake her head. She picked up her bag and checked her phone one more time. When the bus pulled into the next stop, she took the hand of the younger one and pulled her to the door. Punching their cards in, she dragged the younger one off the bus.

He didn’t realize he was halfway out of his seat until his neighbor nudged him. “Hey man, you wanna move or stay?” “I’m sorry, can you...” He moved to a seat on the right aisle, closer to the window, in hopes of gaining 73

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one last look at them. He saw her standing at the curb, palms shielding her eyes, looking around. Her eyes were still wary as she appeared to scan her surroundings. The bus started to pull away and his last image of them was her turning to cross the street just as a black sedan pulled up right in front of them. The bus turned into a side road right then and he couldn’t see them anymore. He settled back into his seat as he thought, there’s a story there.

Judge’s Comments Salma’s story, set in a normally mundane circumstance, drew me into intrigue. Set on a bus journey, the skilful choice of nouns set the scene. The two characters, simply referred to as “One” and “The other one”, piqued my interest as it does the passenger on the bus. This story alludes to ideas but ultimately answers none of them, setting rhetorical questions on which the reader builds assumptions and further questions.

The narrative contains plenty of imagery on which to build these assumptions about the reason for the journey and the relationship of the interesting pair of fellow passengers.

This story left me wanting more!

Congratulations Salma.

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Judges

Kathy Butti has taught secondary and tertiary English language and literature in the US and UAE for many years. She has particularly enjoyed teaching literature in the UAE, appreciating the opportunity to discover new works and rediscover the classics through the eyes of students from a variety of cultural backgrounds.

She has also enjoyed guiding young creative writers as they search for their own voices and explore different ways to express their creativity.

April Hardy’s varied career has included touring pantomimes, children’s theatre and a summer season in Llandudno as a Butlins red coat. All interspersed with much waitressing and working in hotel kitchens!

At the 2014 Emirates Airline Festival of Literature, she won the inaugural Literary Idol competition, and also had a successful Quick Pitch session, showing Kind Hearts & Coriander to agent, Luigi Bonomi, whose agency, LBA Books went on to sign her up.

In 2015, she signed a 3-book deal with UK publisher, Accent Press.

Sitting Pretty is the first of her New Forest rom-coms.

Kathy Hoopmann is the author of over twenty books for children, teens and adults with translations into thirteen languages. Her work sells widely in Australia, the UK, the US and the Middle East, and she has won and been shortlisted for many literary awards.

For thirteen years, Kathy lived in the United Arab Emirates and was inspired by the desert, the people, and her ability to travel widely in the region. Now living in Brisbane, Australia, Kathy is always working on the next book.

Liz Turner has worked with secondary students from a wide range of backgrounds for 18 years in both the UK and the UAE, where she is currently supply teaching while raising her family. She initially specialized in science, then taught a range of subjects including English Literature. She has guided student councils and run student leadership skills awards, and has also worked as an editorial consultant on a science book for children. She is an avid reader and book club member.