牛牛资源

Winner: Katie Parkinson

The elements for this year鈥檚 Young Writer were:

• Title: The Gamble
• Line of dialogue: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 cheating鈥�. 
• Object: A silver dollar

Read the winning entry:

Your Mother gambled her flesh on you; she put all her chips on red and let the wheel fly. You began soft, half-baked, more of an idea of one than a person yourself. In your small body, hundreds of hands moulded together, palm to psalm. Plump and pumped full of first breath, you didn't need eyes to feel her warmth. 

鈥淗ave a good day; I'll pick you up later!鈥濃�� 

Small stones are swept gently from the folds of your feet, tarmacked playgrounds and gravel driveways pungent with small steps. Little shoes in pink and blue with Velcro that clumsy hands can sometimes close. The world hums with magic, stars shining like searchlights against unadjusted eyes. Mysterious things enthral you: angels, witches and shoelaces. 

鈥淣ext you make two bunny ears. Hey, cheeky, are you watching?鈥� 

In parks cowering under council flats, small urban spaces where grass has spat itself, together you spend leisurely afternoons. You crown yourself with temporary jewellery: soft petals that kiss your ears and whisper tender nothings. The reification of your ascension is confirmed by your Mother鈥檚 quiet witness, fleshy fingers clasped together as you pledge yourself to your little country: green, lush, alive. 

Pigtails, French braids, fishtails. Squealing: 

鈥淭hat's cheating!鈥濃�� 

as she blows silken raspberries on your belly. You run; she chases, loping after you in slow, playful strides. Small feet leaving a trail up the stairs as you go, she slips into the shoes made out of carpet marks you leave absentmindedly behind.鈥� 

鈥淧lease, we need to talk about this. Hey, don't - HEY!鈥� 

Dutifully, nightly, she apotheosised you beneath blankets as routine chaperoned you to rest. Having scaled a mountain of kisses and then abseiled back, she leaves the young sun wrapped in cotton and still secret darkness. The moon confronts the night alone. Half her face, borrowed, shared and stolen, features both inherited and passed on, are framed by the nightlight that smoulders from beneath your impenetrable door. Hidden in chalk between hopscotch and wonky flowers, commandments have followed you home. 

鈥淕od, I don't know how I put up with you.鈥�  

Measured in the metric of teeth, time carries on. Your stubby-nailed fingers pry from their suburban rows the traces of childhood, releasing the muck from underneath; success fills your mouth. Gums returning on investment - you claim your dividends in silver dollars. With blood marking your entry into adulthood, you rise my child, and are cleansed. 

鈥淪huuush, I know baby, I wish I could take away the pain; I really wish I could.鈥� 

Your tears and screams lick at your Mother鈥檚 ears; you're unsure you mean it. Slowly, you begin to chew her up in your new tools. Ground between spit and salt, you destroy the braces that held you back. Doors slap and stamp protesting in true teenage rebellion, filling the house with grunts. A baptism of fire, a burnt bush. You've outgrown tenderness, peace and quiet; you threw out your nightlight. 

鈥淒on't look at me like that.鈥� 

鈥淧lease, talk to me!鈥� 

鈥淲here's my baby?鈥濃�� 

Unsure of your positions, you engage opportunistically: pecking and nipping, scratching your way. Noses transfigure to beaks, fingers don claws and feathers erupt over the house. Tiny dinosaurs together you romp. And at night in your coop you huddle close, the unseen fox pacing on the other side of the wire.鈥� 

鈥淚 don't know why I said that. I鈥檓 so sorry Mum, I lo-鈥� 

Between hormonal imbalances and acne, the commonality of womanhood prevails. Hurtful words on body, face and ego have bruised, flowered and dulled to bone-deep aches. When the final bell rings, bracing like boxers, you weep and kiss, turning the other cheek to grant more space to plant her love. 

鈥淢uuuuum, do you know how to do long division?鈥� 

Some years later, when the circumstances are right, your body too makes the demand. It鈥檚 ignored at first, as - everything is, nappies and beige nurseries:鈥� 

鈥淭hat's the last thing on my mind.鈥濃�� 

However, after some time your will is worn down, pelted by middle-aged mediocrity and a looming expiration date; this could be your big undertaking. So, you trade energy drinks and cheap cigarettes for cellulite with sunny side up brochures that show babies stolen from stock photos, their turkey-teethed mums eyeballing each other.鈥� 

I鈥檒l deal you in. Rolled and licked, wrapped up, parts of you fold over parts of them, and a conglomerate of repeated risks is christened. Checked on with black-blue scans that show a bulbous creature carved of your clay, claimed as ours. Your labours are universally understood and as eagerly dismissed. I would much rather be a father than a mother. The biggest gamble in the world and the odds- (Do you feel it?). 

鈥淢耻尘?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Face flushed sallow, something both achingly foreign and maternally familiar is blazing its way into your life. Torn and shredded, career goals are crucified, like dead worlds and equally as obsolete they collapse in on themselves. Skin slithers from skin, and everything ruptures. In white-hot strikes, your life vanishes; you've been reshaped, your metal mould melted and reformed. A mother (Mother) now, no longer a woman, never again a girl; in an instance you age.鈥� 

Like all those before you, for better or worse, in sickness or health, the wheel keeps spinning. Your faith is placed, not in me, but clasped in little wrinkled hands. A new religion has been born, a temple erected, and the first follower sits still in a hospital gown gazing at the face of her new tiny God. (In her complexion you can see your mother, grandmother, aunt, and every woman you never had the chance to comfort. With the partridges, the doe, the ducks, the hen, the trees, the bushes, the river, music and soul beating within her pliable palms. To hold a piece of history is to hold another person; perhaps mothers understand this best.) 

Winner: Ruby Reynalds-Jones

This year, entrants were asked to write an essay titled "The Games We Play". Submissions could address some or all of the following questions:

• When was the last time you played to learn?
• What roles do you play in your daily life?
• What games do you play the create worlds with others?

Read the winning entry:

Some say life is a battlefield. For others it is a journey. To me though its always seemed more like a giant playground, full of hidden rules, shifting teams and unexpected challenges. From childhood make believe to work meetings, we are constantly inventing, playing, losing, and starting again. The games we play are not always obvious; some involve dice while others happen silently woven into daily routine. Wether it is learning, shaping our identities, or building imaginary worlds with others, play is at the heart of how we grow. In this essay, I will explore the many ways games, both real and invisible, have shaped my experiences and helped me navigate the ever-changing playground of life.

The last time I truly played to learn was during a history lesson where we were tasked with building a society. Starting from basic questions such as what values would our society have? And what kind of government would we form? At first, it felt like an exciting creative exercise of naming cities and inventing traditions but as we dug deeper, the game revealed its complexity. Every decision had consequences. Prioritising a strong army meant fewer resources for healthcare and education. Having a booming society could lead to political unrest. As it continued, we faced unexpected challenges like invasion and natural disasters. Through this I realised how fragile societies truly are and how the smallest choices such as who gets to vote can shape the future of millions. History, which could sometimes feel like a series of dates was a complicated web of human hopes, mistakes and compromises. It was a realisation that sometimes the deepest understanding comes from daring to imagine rather than memorising facts.

Some days, it can feel as through I have lived several lives before lunch. At school the role is a student, sitting through lessons, asking questions and keeping up with the endless rhythm of deadlines. In the spaces between classes I morph into a loyal friend, the one who listens to late night worries or sparks laughter over rushed dinners in the dining hall. Living at boarding school means that my world is never really divided between school and home, everything blurs together. I am the independent one, responsible for managing my own time, my own space, my own choices. There are moments when these roles feel natural like slipping into a favourite hoodie. Other times the shifts feel exhausting, as if they were quick costume changes in a play where the scenes keep changing without warning. I recall one evening sitting alone in my dorm, books spread in front, phone buzzing with messages from friends needing advice, assignments piling up. I felt stretched thin like a character trying to play too many parts without a script. These moments have taught me resilience and how to be dependable even when no one was there to remind me and how to carve out space for others without forgetting to protect my own. Life is not about mastering one perfect role; it is about learning to carry them all.

Some of the most meaningful worlds I have ever built were not made with bricks or pixels but with conversations, shared laughter, and quiet moments of understanding. Boarding school means that friendships are not confined to a few hours a day instead stretching into late nights, early mornings, and everything in between. We invent games of our own, storytelling games whispered under blankets, inside jokes that evolve into secret languages and plans for imaginary futures in cities we have only dreamed about. Though these small games we build invisible worlds together stitched from trust, belonging and hope. They may not look like the towering castles of a video game or the polished games on a sports field, but they are just as real. Every late night conversation, every shared silence after a hard day and every spontaneous adventure into town we were creating something lasting. 

In those moments I realise that the most powerful games are not about winning at all. They are about building something with others that is bigger than yourself and learning through play, what it means to belong.

Winner: Valerija Savicka

The elements for this year鈥檚 Young Writer were:

• Title: Back Once More 
• Line of dialogue: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 not how I remember it鈥�. 
• Object: A map

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry:

"This inventive, formally daring story is experimental in the truest sense, tackling questions about humanity and the natural world through an unassuming yet philosophical non-human lens." (Livia Franchini)

"Truly visionary in its rendering of a fox's perspective and its place within the world, this story brings together spiritual musings and cruel violence in an unexpected way." (Winnie M Li)

"There鈥檚 a compelling sense of incomprehensibility in how the fox鈥檚 mind is expressed that avoids neat anthropomorphism." (Thomas McMullan)

"A whip-smart, explosive and unafraid story that is full of ideas. I feel very excited about reading this writer's future work!" (Dizz Tate)

Read the winning entry:

Dry ground crunched, flopping sounds of birds on a faraway tree, dots of sunlight flickered as the leaves lazily swooshed back and forth.  

 It doesn鈥檛 matter for our little point of focus.  

 It鈥檚 moving in swift, deliberate motions. Wind touching the red fur on its back. Sensitive nose; sensitive paws; sharp vision. It was made to be quick and It didn't want to lose this opportunity. 

 Now, reader, foxes cannot think in a human understandable way. It doesn't mean they cannot think at all. This particular one thought 鈥淪un, down, soon, fast鈥�, encouraging itself. Ooh and this one was not a usual fox as well; it was the Fox.  

 Diving under the fallen tree, vaulting over a small stream and then to the overgrown display board it rushed. Exhibiting there was a map, moulded, yellowy-brown; it was not looked at by any eye in something between a decade and forever. Except this is not entirely true: one particular pair of deep, hazel eyes were looking at it right now and had looked at it a month before and a month before and more and more.  

 The Fox stops before it, examining the washed-out picture. It's a tradition, a second of praise and acknowledgement because the Fox has been here many times and knew the path inside out but this was the place it learned the right way. 鈥�Thank you鈥�, it thought in a usual manner. 

 But just a second, it then turned and continued on its way. 鈥�Fast!鈥�.  Sky was becoming darker; as our Fox moved the sun inhaled what was left of the light, it was harder to see but the path was remembered. Just a few more jumps, passing by the big stump and out of the bushes. If foxes could smile in a human-understandable way it would grin instantly. 鈥淔颈苍补濒濒测鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

 The Fox felt relieved to be in its usual place - a small part of the colossal hill where there were no trees or bushes. Occasional litter was here and there, of course, but it didn't distract from the view.  From the top of this land our Fox could see the whole of the forest and ocean. It was magnificent. This was not what we're here for.  

 Stepping slowly to catch its breath the Fox moved to the edge. It sat down in a comfortable but honourable way. It finally looked up. A blanket full of bright lights was stretching all over it, becoming even brighter as the sun disappeared entirely. Filling every part of the Fox with a heavy feeling of belonging. Existing. A deep inhale. An exhale. It relaxed. Feeling soft air circulating through. It felt where it always should have been. Home. 

Our Fox never knew how it learned that the dots were in fact a faraway light and not just painted on. Probably always knew. But to sit there was a relief. At first, it was just a fun activity. Then a day to wait for. Then a reason to live. Then a reason to fight through the day. 

Peace. The Fox looked at the lights and began its ceremony. Inhale. 鈥淒ear light, my light鈥�. Exhale. 鈥淚 ask, soft bed, food more. Me, become you, after鈥�. It stood up carefully, still looking above. Bowed its head as close to the ground as it could and closed its eyes. It then sat again to try and feel the usual connection. Our Fox believed it to be stronger if it sat for a few minutes and thought really, really hard about it. It didn't want to come back yet anyway. At our Foxes home they didn't notice that it was gone, they wouldn't notice even if a day passed.
 This tradition was important in a way people feel towards their childhood habits. It was like reading a bedtime story or taking all your plushies to sleep so they won't feel excluded. It was that sense of pleasant warmth that you don鈥檛 realize fully until you lose it. 
 Now, let me tell you how it started. The first time our Fox found the place was an acci- 
 There were footprints on the ground. -de- um -nt. Alright. Anyway i- 
 There were cans from beer laying near the bush. I鈥檓 sorry, what are you doing? Why are you bursting in? That鈥檚 not how I remember it. St-
There were two men hiding. No. What is happe-
They saw their prey and were taking out the knives. Knives? No, that's鈥� you need to st-
One of them whispered 鈥渓ook she鈥檚 curling again鈥� and the other sneered soundlessly.  It what..? Oh.

  The Fox bowed respectfully in a thankful manner. It decided to say the last words of the ceremony and head back. It thought 鈥淒ear light, my light鈥�  
The weapon was gripped, they were ready to catch. No, please, wait a moment! 鈥淚 promise, my light鈥� I don't want to see this, please, I鈥檓 begging you, let the Fox get out, please!
 The first man started running towards.
 No, no, no! 鈥淧romise, return, next month. Promise, repeat, pray鈥撯�� 
 Two men took their prize by the shoulders, fixing in a position. They were using the knife to threaten and put fear. You remember shame. The hands all over you and the fogging vision and cold air where it wasn't supposed to be. You don`t remember the details, your mind erased it. 
Others did not believe you. The men were never caught. 
 I鈥檓 sorry. 

 鈥淎s I laid there the lights were looking at me. I knew they were telling me it was okay. I knew that they would never leave me and one day I would join. I didn鈥檛 feel my legs and arms and hoped the moment to join would come soon.鈥� 

 You will have to face the truth. Another time you will come back, once more. 

Winner: Leo Muhibzada

The question for this year was, 鈥淲hat story does my name tell about my cultural heritage?鈥�

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry:

鈥淲e were wowed by Leo鈥檚 moving and compelling essay that deftly balances the personal and the political. We were taken on a journey that retold world events through the perspective of the individual. Leo鈥檚 writing carries weight and the ability to inform and educate, whilst retaining character and emotion. Congratulations!鈥�.

Read the winning entry:

On 17th June 2022, sat in my year 10 classroom in Catholic school and surrounded by people who had been on a journey with me, the register came up on the digital whiteboard in the middle of the lesson.鈥� 

My friend behind me leans over her desk and excitedly taps me and my partner on the shoulder, pointing towards the screen: 鈥楲ook! Look! It says Leo on the register!鈥� Her face is pure joy, excitement, pride. It swells in my chest. My partner throws her hands up to her mouth, 鈥極h my God!鈥� She turns to me and shakes me, screaming 鈥極h my God!鈥� She turns around and announces it to the class. Both friends are cheering now. Clapping arises from some corner of the room and now everyone is cheering or clapping or congratulating me.鈥� 

And if I鈥檓 being honest, I never even saw what was on the register that day. Now I only remember their faces, the feeling of freedom. That鈥檚 all that matters.鈥� 

But it's not like I didn鈥檛 have a name on the register before. It鈥檚 just that my teachers had become used to seeing one name and saying another out loud. We establish relationships with other people through our names, but at some point I had to decide how I was going to establish myself, not only in relation to others but also to myself.鈥� 

Some months after I gave myself the first name 鈥楲eo鈥�, I felt a strange sense of loss. My name was no longer an identifier of my cultural heritage鈥搃tself a difficult question to answer. I am the child of first generation Afghan immigrants who grew up during the war and under the Taliban government. But as a queer and mostly white-passing individual with the name 鈥楲eo鈥�, I noticed a shift in the perception of my cultural identity, and a lack of relatability to my family members who I hoped would eventually come to recognise my gender identity, and refer to me as such. 

With this realisation, I stayed up until the early hours of the morning, researching Afghan boy names until I finally found one that I felt fit. My brother鈥檚 first name is 鈥楢hmad鈥�, yet in the family we use only his middle name 鈥楩aisal鈥�. This initially led me to a compromise of sorts, which is my middle name, 鈥楰aihaan鈥�. Its meaning is 鈥榮olar system '. It holds the gravity which maintains the orbit of my first name around my last. It is the bridge between my identity and my cultural heritage. 

I have been to Afghanistan three times in my life. The most recent is the only one I can remember: In the summer of 2018 I was 11 years old, and together with my uncle鈥檚 family, I stayed a month and a half in the capital city of Kabul. I was always travelling between my mum鈥檚 side in Karte Parwan and my dad鈥檚 side in Bibi Mahru, by the airport where the planes were always jetting back and forth through the sky. Most nights with my paternal relatives we ate dinner as a massive family in the garden on the 鈥榮uffa鈥�, barbecuing kebab while the sun went down. With my maternal relatives we drove down to the Panjshir River or Qargha Reservoir and sat cross-legged in little huts suspended above the water, eating fresh fish or drinking tea, playing cards and eating slices of watermelon. And there were never enough seats in the car, so two or three of us would sit with our knees up in the sweltering boot, simply for the thrill of it. 

On Eid-al-Adha I watched the Qurbani take place. A yearly practice for my cousins at home but it was the first time for us newcomers. We fed the cow apples that we picked off the trees in the garden and filled up its water bowl with the hose we used to wash the car鈥攐r have water fights. On the day we were told that we couldn鈥檛 watch, but I stayed transfixed throughout the whole thing. A halo of people around my cousin and his axe, one swift motion cut through the chorus of 鈥楢llahu Akbar鈥� and blood spurted out from its neck, before settling in a pool on the patio floor. And when it was done we spent the afternoon separating the meat into equal parts and distributing it to people in the area. 

In August of 2021 the Taliban regained power, dispersing my family, with some fleeing to America and some being halted from the course of their lives. My cousins who are girls can no longer study, their futures dependent on their ability to find suitable husbands. During the day my mum kept the living room curtains closed, for fear that every time she looked out there would be soldiers and rockets outside the window of our third floor council estate flat. Watching from behind the TV screen, I felt powerless, so I spent hours filling out countless applications for my family members to find refuge in safer countries.鈥� 

You see, the cultural heritage in my name is a story I cannot tell on its own. My cultural identity is inextricably linked to both political and gender identities.鈥� 

Yet despite how distant I feel from my heritage at times, being fully integrated into western society and culture, my life continues to orbit around those memories of home. The feelings of estrangement towards my family will never outweigh the stories I carry with my name. Gravity returns me to the feeling of having experienced true freedom, and it propels me to search for that in every aspect of my life. 

My name is Leo Kaihaan Muhibzada, and it is the symbol of my freedom. 

Winner: Mayomi Omogbehin

The elements for this year鈥檚 Young Writer were:

路        Title: A New Beginning  

路        Line of dialogue: 鈥淚 guess you don鈥檛 know?鈥� 

路        Object: A broken phone 

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry:

鈥淭he voice and detail of this story are wonderfully effective. The judges admired the careful structuring, the storytelling skill and the moving portrait of family and ageing.鈥�

Read the winning entry:

Winner: Lucy Hurst

The question for this year was, 鈥淲hat does the food you eat and how you eat it say about you and/or your culture?鈥�

Read the winning entry

Winner: Sue Yuan

The question for this year was "What do you hold dear?"

The judges said about this year's winning entry

鈥�The judges found this to be a beautifully written essay that focused on a single object, a pair of Khaki Trousers, to explore some vital themes of our time including belonging, consumerism and care. The story that unfolded travelled cleverly and sensitively through time and space, starting during the Cultural Revolution in China, and ending with pertinent questions about the present. It demonstrated how listening carefully and respectfully to people鈥檚 stories can help us all reflect on our own lives, and what we hold dear. It was an incredibly evocative and generous piece of writing that resonated profoundly with the panel.鈥�

Read the winning entry

A pair of khaki trousers

Along the precipitous curves and cliffs of the Sichuan mountains, a young girl runs in barefoot. Her ill-fitting homespun khaki trousers seem like a floor-length piece of dress that burden her long trudge home.

Living in rural Sichuan province during the 1970s was more about surviving rather than living. The Cultural Revolution that began during mid-1966 was too baffling and perplexing for a young girl of only 3 years-old to comprehend, yet from her mother, she understood that her father had to undergo 鈥渃riticism鈥� in order to 鈥渢ransform鈥� from a village elementary school teacher to a staunch patriot.

The purpose of the 鈥渃riticism鈥� was for intellectuals and property owners, or landlords, to be publicly shamed in order to protect the society from their existential threat of potential rightist rhetoric. Nevertheless, the sharp lances that the Red Soldiers pointed at my grandfather鈥檚 face when he was arrested made absolutely no sense to my mother, who was only 8 years old at that time.

My grandparents inevitably lost their jobs during the Cultural Revolution, so they had to start side hustles in order to provide for their 3 young teenage brothers and one little girl. The pair of khaki trousers was a piece of clothing that the little girl, my mother, inherited from her three brothers and was gifted to her during her 10th Chinese New Year celebration.

Celebration would be an irresponsibly exaggerated description of our family鈥檚 circumstances. While many other families in the village had pieces of delicately smoked Sichuan spicy sausages and other freshly captured fish prepared for New Year dinner, my mom and her siblings only had one piece of marinated lean pork to share among the four.

The piece of baggy cotton trousers from my mother鈥檚 brother that no longer fitted him soon became an indispensable asset to my mother, as it was her only pair of bottoms for a very long time. It was homespun and had rolled-up bottoms that was customized to fit my mother鈥檚 short height, though it was also comical to the other kids at school because my mom would be the only one wearing such prissy, ill-fitted bottoms.

However, despite 鈥渟illy鈥� appearance of the trousers, my mother prized it dearly. Not only because it was one of the only clothes she owns, but because it also encompasses the warmth of her family struggling through deprivation together. It had secretly sewed-in patches and pockets to hide pieces of coins that her oldest brother furtively gave her in order to buy succulent, tender peaches from the village-center in Spring. The carefully tailored bottoms that could pin up and down by grandma facilitated the mowing hogweed in the field. The ill-fitting and awkward waist that grandma had to re-spun for mother helped her roam freely on mountain roads and wheat fields without her bottoms falling off.

Though the pair of khaki trousers is seemingly worthless in the fast-paced consumerism society that we currently indulge in, it鈥檚 invaluable to me, my mother, and my family as it carried memories (and stains) from a period of extreme hardship, hunger, and poverty.

However, the historical importance of this piece of clothing does not only pertain to my family. It reflects the austere conditions faced by our society and culture as a whole. It also reminds us the best and worst of our society at that time 鈥� a period of silencing and horror, but also a time of unity and love seen in billions of households represented by millions, if not billions of pairs of khaki trousers. It was an epoch of extreme poverty, famine, and antiintellectualism, yet an epoch of solidarity and hope.

The pair of trousers is no longer wearable now, yet my mother keeps it safe in her closet. The patched, deeply worn and washed out patterns incorporate my family鈥檚 deep concern and love towards my mother, the youngest of them all. It reminded my mother and my family of the times when even survival was a luxury. It reminded me of my place of origin 鈥� the dales of Dayi, Sichuan, and the exhausting yet rewarding journey of opportunities that brought my family to where we stand now.

As someone who was born into an era of technological advances, my privileges enable me to enjoy high-quality education, housing, and healthcare. However, the pair of khaki trousers allows me to contemplate the impacts of the Cultural Revolution, and the tangible destruction that it brought to families and individuals. It deteriorated my grandmother鈥檚 health and costed my grandfather鈥檚 career; however, it made my family comprehend what it takes to be a true family.

An old Chinese proverb superbly concludes, 鈥渒inships are tested in misfortune鈥�. The adversity that my family faced in unity led to astonishing transformations. My mother鈥檚 sociocultural upbringing has formulated her resilience and perseverance that attributed to her success, bringing many others out of the small, isolated village of Dayi.

Material anthropologist Daniel Miller pointed out in his book, The Comfort of Things, that people who develop strong relationships with commodities and items are 鈥渢he same people who develop strong relationships with others鈥�. To develop a strong relationship with an item, one must value it as being emotionally substantial.

Some argue that profligate consumerism encourages unlimited acquisition of goods, thus people fail to be satisfied. This is true to an extent. I argue that consumerism鈥檚 issue arises only when people consumer too rapidly that disenables them to reflect on what they already own, not when more is consumed. The faster we consume, the less we reflect.

Hence, I value reflections. Upon reflection, an item as insignificant as the pair of khaki bottoms represents a microcosm of individual events that determine the progress of our society. It is also an emblem of my roots, kinship, and family values, which largely shapes who I am now. An important question now emerges 鈥� what can I do with these critical reflections? I say, with reflections, I can find answers to life.

Winner: Simon Ezra-Jackson

The judges said about this year's winning entry

鈥淎 powerful and entertainingly written piece which starts in the present, delves back into the past for insight and then looks forward to a future of continued inaction over climate change. It picks up on a highly prescient point that protestors , particularly protestors who disrupt daily life , are often treated as unwanted outsiders. Their inconvenience remain the preoccupation of society rather than the issues they espouse. The inclusion of The Sun insults directed at XR along with official Government classification as extremists provides compelling evidence of society鈥檚 casual assignation of outsider status to Extinction Rebellion and groups like them. Striking miners from the 1980s, poll tax protestors from the 1990s, fathers鈥� rights campaigners from the early noughties ,will all recognise this treatment. The arguments in favour of disruptive, even illegal action, are cleverly made , especially in drawing on ethical morality to talk about the futility of drawing on outcomes for justification. The writer takes time to deal with the counter arguments to the general thesis, dismissing them by deploying inherent internal contradictions against them. We鈥檝e built statues to  lawbreakers of the past and accepted them as  legitimate political leaders, but seemingly, only after the daily inconvenience they caused, is long forgotten.  The argument is clear and well-structured throughout.鈥�

Read the winning entry

From the Suffragettes to Extinction Rebellion: Civil Disobedience is 'Acceptable' Only in Hindsight

In April 2019 environmental protesters from the climate action group 鈥楨xtinction Rebellion鈥� (XR) staged a series of demonstrations in central London. They chained themselves to bridges, blocked roads and occupied key sites for over two weeks. Around half a million people were affected by the disruption to traffic, and over a thousand activists were arrested.1

These kinds of mass protests are nothing new; breaking the rules to get attention for your cause has been a popular strategy for activists across history. Take the Suffragettes in the late Victorian and Edwardian periods, who smashed windows and vandalized artworks to shine a spotlight on the fight for female suffrage; some groups used nonviolent civil disobedience to get their point across, famously the US civil rights movement and now the XR.

In school, I was taught about these historical lawbreakers. We were told how the Suffragettes planted explosives in churches and public buildings across the UK, and even bombed a crowded theatre in Dublin. While it鈥檚 hard to see how that wouldn鈥檛 be labelled as terrorism today, a century later these acts were described to me with a twinkle in the teacher鈥檚 eye. This goodwill extends beyond schools - there is a statue of the militant Suffragette leader Emmeline Pankhurst directly outside the Houses of Parliament.

Any contemporary copycats can expect a frostier reception from us, however. Similarly, disruptive stunts by environmental groups in the UK are tolerated at best and viewed with contempt at worst. A Counter-Terrorism unit was found to be classifying Extinction Rebellion as explicitly 鈥榚xtremist鈥�, in documents sent to local authorities and government departments across the country. The pamphlet, warning of extremist groups, put XR 鈥渁longside neo-Nazi groups and jihadists鈥�2 . This dim view is shared by many, including the most widely read newspaper in the UK, The Sun. It calls the group 鈥減reening, planet-polluting morons鈥�, 鈥渟andal-wearing saddos鈥�, and 鈥渧irtue-signalling simpletons鈥� - all in the same article!3

This reveals an interesting contradiction in popular perception of troublemakers. Once the dust has settled and the once-controversial cause has gone mainstream, society dons its rose-coloured glasses and condones rule-breaking actions. Violent bombers like the Suffragettes are lauded or at least understood, but heavens forbid nonviolent XR protesters make a fuss now. Perhaps this hypocrisy comes from a sense of nostalgia, but I wonder if it鈥檚 hindsight that lets us put aside partisan squabbles and appreciate the wider picture that so many activists could see from the beginning.

Whatever its cause, this doublethink is sending a message to climate activists today. They are told that facing the existential threat of mass migrations, political chaos, widespread biodiversity loss and global warming on a scale not seen for millions of years is insufficient cause to justify disruptive acts. One is led to wonder what is?

The minority who do support the XR today, might defend their lawbreaking actions by insisting that they are 鈥榣egal鈥�, so long as you use a broad definition of the term. For example: imagine that you, an American, are out walking and you see a mass shooter on the other side of the road. They haven鈥檛 noticed you. You could cross the road and tackle them, saving multiple potential victims. However, in the US it is illegal to jaywalk (to cross the street without using a traffic light). Now, no right-minded person would see the misdemeanour as a reason not to cross the road. Obviously it is more important - more moral - to prevent catastrophe even if you commit a minor crime. It might even be seen as your duty to break the law in that situation. Note here a distinction between minor infractions and serious crimes; it would be significantly harder to justify threatening life or safety in the name of climate justice, and XR has no intention of doing so.

Activist Noam Chomsky famously applied this same sentiment to other criminal acts, in the context of opposing the Vietnam war: If you and I are fine with somebody jaywalking to tackle a mass shooter, shouldn鈥檛 we be fine with illegally derailing ammunition trains which would cause mass loss of life in Vietnam were they to reach their destination? Or, in the case of Extinction Rebellion, wouldn鈥檛 it be okay to hold up traffic by gluing oneself to an road4 , if it meant raising awareness - and getting action on - an issue that would endanger countless lives?

Some might see the examples as unrelated. It might be argued there is no guarantee that public attention, were it raised, would reliably translate into concrete action on climate change. In ethical philosophy this is a really important problem; if you base the morality of an action on its outcomes, but can鈥檛 predict those outcomes with any amount of certainty, then you鈥檙e on rocky ground. In response, an environmental activist might point to the increased discussion around climate change today as being the direct result of their frequent high-profile stunts and campaigns. It certainly does put pressure on lawmakers to at least look like they鈥檙e taking notice, and makes more radical policies a publically palpable option, shifting the overton window. 5 But even if it鈥檚 impossible to determine what鈥檚 cause and what鈥檚 effect, the protester argues, the risks of ignoring climate change are so great that if there鈥檚 even a chance of change then the lawbreaking is worth it.

Then there is the criticism that being public nuisances may put more people off of a cause than bring positive attention to it. Certainly there is an argument that the Suffragettes inspired animosity against the cause for women鈥檚 suffrage. However, the eco activists clearly subscribe to the 鈥榓ll press is good press鈥� attitude, and view every critic of their controversial methods as another voice raising the profile of their platform. They argue that many of the apoplectic articles and outraged op-eds criticising XR鈥檚 methods generally do not tar the wider climate movement with the same brush. After all, this struggle for climate justice is global and contains highly-esteemed public figures and activists like David Attenborough - who are beyond reproach in the eyes of the public.

Those still not convinced that XR has a licence to trouble-make may be right to be sceptical. However, as part of a society that praises previous lawbreakers, be they Suffragettes, civil rights protesters or Stonewall rioters, we all have already admitted that civil disobedience is permissible, so long as it鈥檚 for the right reasons. Of course there are causes which are rejected in hindsight as unreasonable and wrong just as they are rejected today - not all rulebreakers are right. The real question then becomes; will XR join the ranks of the venerated movers and shakers of history, or be condemned to join the miscreants who we reproach? Something tells me that those in the overheated and catastrophe-ridden future, with all the benefits of hindsight, might just understand why XR were so desperate to disrupt daily life.

Winner: Max Blansjaar

The elements for this year's Young Writer were:

• Title: Home
• Line of dialogue: "How did you know?"
• Object: A photograph

The judges said about this year's winning entry

鈥淭his was an exceptionally strong year for the prize, with more than double the number of entries of previous years.  Nevertheless, Max's story was the unanimous choice of the judges.  The most striking thing about it is the voice - so fresh and vivid, buzzing with energy and lyricism.  There's real craft and skill to it, too. the way the different elements are woven together so that what we end up with is a genuinely powerful story of youthful idealism and regret.  A real achievement and a very worthy winner.鈥�

Read the winning entry

Home

This is us at home, yeah, US in capital letters under the shade of an old oak tree near the river. Rum poured into empty beer cans. Young tongues wag loud. Coats laid inside-up as seats around a bluetooth speaker blasting ABBA from underneath a pile of now-empty crisp packets. Cinematic perfection, a coming-of-age film in 8K UHD. Watching, starring, directing: a dozen pairs of eyes, too young to understand anything, too old to want to.

Finally facing my Waterloo! Baa-ba-da-ba-daa-dum. It鈥檚 April, things are getting lighter; people are shaking winter off their furs. April sits directly opposite me. Tries to say something. But the pause between her sentences is too long, the rest of us have moved on. A disease of the young. Tough luck. What a tune! When did you say this was from? The 60s? Jeeeeeez.

Can鈥檛 find my lighter. Guys ca- oh.

No lighter, but April鈥檚 found a camera in her small denim rucksack. She pulls it out. One of those old ones, where the picture comes sliding out the bottom after you take it. I was there when she bought it. It鈥檚 cute, she told me then, and I knew immediately she鈥檇 become one of those self-absorbed hippies who took analogue photographs of their own feet all the time.

Picture! Everyone get under the- guys, I鈥檓 taking a picture of you, get und- guys, under the tree!

April waves her hands in the direction of the giant oak tree I鈥檓 leaning against. People come and sit next to me. I recognise them but not really. Do they recognise themselves? If we were seeds, we wouldn鈥檛 survive here. Nothing grows under this thing. It鈥檚 selfish with the soil and it blocks all the light. Ah, the wise old oak tree! Under the shade of which everything dies.

Okay.

罢丑谤别别鈥�

迟飞辞鈥�

Come on, guys. Smile.

It鈥檚 a five-minute walk from here to the big house where April lives. The space behind it has been a building site for as long as I can remember: massive concrete boxes rising up from the earth, slowly, like zombies waking. Jupiter Green. Luxury four-bedroom properties.

We used to go out the back of April鈥檚 garden sometimes - through a gap in the bushes that only allowed for people our age - and lean right up against the thin metal gates, watch it all happen. Waste of time? Maybe. But hey, this is our home, ya know. What they doing out here growing zombies? Rats! We called them rats but they never heard us; or maybe they did, but they deemed the roaring of heavy machinery to be sufficient reply.

Like heavy machinery, April shouting her lungs out on an overcast Sunday evening in December twothousandandsomething. It鈥檚 one of those things you remember well.

鈥淵ou know how much those houses gonna be worth?鈥� April asked me that morning, eyes fixed on a bright yellow digger

Dunno. Like, a million?

"Yeh. How did you know?"

A guess. Who鈥檚 gonna live there? Commuters, she replied. Londoners, bankers, whatever.

(People in big houses are shapeshifters. Pretend they鈥檙e people who live in small houses by using words that people in small houses say. Pledge their allegiance to the struggle of the small-housers and go back to their big house when the blood starts to spill. Maybe that explains the events of that evening; and the way things went after it.)

The events: finish dinner later - you wanna see this. Past the statue of the old slaver, the old Victorian street with the Golden Arches and the local bakery鈥檚 plundered tomb under their shadow, to the big house where April lived. Round the back. April on top of a JCB under overcast skies - God knows how she got up there, someone said to someone else, or how she even got over the gates in the first place, someone else replied - scrawled slogan of protest on the banner she held. Screaming bloody murder. How they didn鈥檛 understand, or didn鈥檛 want to. Londoners, bankers. A million pounds!

People ran to get her down as soon as they saw her up there, of course. Little girl at great height. But they were all too late. Lucky that April always said she liked being in hospital. People make a fuss there; people never usually do.

Her parents:

These things are complicated, darling. You can鈥檛 just break into a bloody construction site and tell us you know what鈥檚 what. See, how it works is鈥�well, it鈥檚 complicated. Don鈥檛 bother yourself with it. We still have a view on the north side, anyway.

April told me that calling things complicated was just a way of making things easy for yourself. I didn鈥檛 understand what she meant; I understand it now. But April threw her banner away and she started eating meat again and she stopped separating her plastic from her paper from her food from her soul and now we鈥檝e outgrown the gap in the bushes at the back of her garden. Maybe it鈥檇 all left her disheartened, I guess, or maybe she realised she still had a view on the north side.

Wait, El, move closer, you鈥檙e not in the frame! Yeah, that鈥檚 good. Okay. Ready? Aaaaand

A dozen pairs of eyes, tired before they鈥檝e even really woken up, staring down the lens of an old camera. You can see April鈥檚 house from here, though you have to look for it, these days it blends into its background, a sea of undead suburban mansions. Waterloo! Couldn鈥檛 escape if I wanted to! The tame creature I called home has transformed into a flesh-hungry beast, a monster that will grab me by the shoes and swallow me up and spit out an owl pellet of bones and feathers and fur. I鈥檒l let it. The flash blinds me when the camera clicks, the mechanism whirrs; out slides the picture.

These develop better in the dark. April places the photograph under the old oak tree.

Ah, Christ. Didn鈥檛 she hear me think it? How everything underneath here dies?

Winner: Tolu Odejide

The question for this year was 鈥淲here are you from鈥�.

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry

鈥�The judges found this to be a compelling essay exploring the complexity of self-defining, society-defining, and belonging. The fantastic use of literature made sense of your own experience while also linking this to wider patterns of experience relating to migrations. 

You managed to show a high level of introspection while also drawing on the work of others such as Chinua Achebe and Jing Yin 鈥� and this balance between personal insight and broader context resonated profoundly with the anthropologists on the panel.鈥� 

Read the winning entry

Where are you from: Afro-Migrant Literature

Rather than focusing on other people asking 鈥榳here are you from鈥�, why not think about it as an internal question, one I ask myself almost every day.

The existence of a young 1st generation immigrant in the UK is one of jumbled identity. Like most things, my answer to the question, 鈥榳here are you from鈥� is dependent on the context and circumstance of the situation I鈥檓 in. Many secondary questions come to mind, but the main one tends to be 鈥榟ow much do I want to belong.鈥�

After years of shape-shifting my identity dependent on my environment, even asking myself the question can sometimes be confusing and frustrating. I decided that the only way I can know where I am really from is through a deep dive into my sense of self. In 鈥楾he Self in Literature鈥�, Irving Howe describes self as a 鈥榗onstruct of the mind, a hypothesis of being鈥�, informed by all of our interests and predilections, particularly our interests in literature.

Literature and writing have been powerful tools to explore culture and the individual. Through words, we manage to investigate the human experience and present it in a way that is easy to confront and question. I cannot say conclusively that this is a shared experience of all Afro-migrants, however, for me, literature has allowed me to understand the various conflicts that make their way into my identity and lead to the stutter before I spit out, 鈥楲ondon鈥� or 鈥楴igeria鈥�.

A formative text for many Nigerians is Chinua Achebe鈥檚 鈥楾hings Fall Apart.鈥� It presents the conflict of identity between two separate people, a father and a son. It鈥檚 a near-perfect image of a scene that plays out in many intergenerational immigrant households. Okonkwo鈥檚 son Nwoye converts to Christianity and moves away from the family. They meet only once again, staring at each other over a widening gap of confusion and misunderstanding. The father, upset at the assimilation of his son into colonial white society. The son, irritated at his father鈥檚 archaic ways. This great chasm between the integrated and segregated is present in the life of many young 1st and 2nd generation immigrants 鈥� it鈥檚 the defining point of our identity crisis. Who do I really belong to? Where am I actually from?

This generational conflict informs some of the difficulty around answering the question by introducing another dimension. When I ask myself where I鈥檓 from, am I referring to myself as an individual or myself as a member of a community? Unsurprisingly, friction exists here as well. The inclination to identify the 鈥業鈥�, in this context, as a single person is primarily a modern Western concept. 脡mile Durkheim, in his seminal text, 鈥楾he Division of Labour in Society鈥� (1893) makes the assertion that the 鈥榗ult of the individual鈥� is part of 鈥榦rganic solidarity鈥� which only exists due to modern industrial society. This 鈥榗ult of man鈥� allows for the acceptance of 鈥榓ll human miseries鈥� and broadens out the definition of humanity. Idealistically, the message becomes all are welcome.

And it鈥檚 true, to an extent. The theme of acceptance and ideas about being part of a collective human race, rather than a collective racial identity, are central to the immigrant experience. Teju Cole, a prominent Nigerian American author says just as much in his essay 鈥楤lack Body.鈥� 鈥業 am not an interloper when I look at a Rembrandt portrait. A hunger for life鈥�is about the incontestable fundamentals of a person: pleasure, sorrow, love, humour, and grief.鈥� Wanting to get away from the oft-constricting culturally motivated answers to the question is typical of the immigrant that has grown up in the West.

Unfortunately, things are never that simple, hence the double answer I mentioned earlier. Referring to one鈥檚 self as a part of a cultural collective is a far more traditional, non-Western idea. In his paper, 鈥楤eyond Post-Modernism: A Non-Western Perspective on Identity鈥�, Jing Yin presents the Kemetic and Confucian alternatives to Western individualistic belief. They argue that to be a 鈥榝ull human鈥�, one has to be rooted in relationship, especially relationship with those closest to us 鈥� our families. And again, this is true, to an extent. Culture remains a unifying and empowering force in my life, and I鈥檓 sure, the lives of many immigrants. The narrative of adaptability and determination, the one all immigrants share, the one I unconsciously affirm every time I proudly confirm myself to be Nigerian or African, is important to my sense of self.

The either/or argument I present here is unfairly simplistic. One does not have to just be an individual or just a member of a community. As far as I understand, you can be both. The question then becomes, 鈥榙oes society see it that way?鈥�

In one of the more tragic perspectives presented in William Faulkner鈥檚 novel, 鈥楢bsalom, Absalom!鈥�, it seems impossible to inhabit more than one sense of identity. For Charles Etienne de St. Valery Bon, a biracial man, living in Deep South America in the aftermath of the civil war, born of a half-caste father and octoroon mistress-wife, this unfortunate reality never mattered more. Careening from the trappings of white privilege to the victimhood of postslavery black America, his story feels eerily familiar and modern. The dissonance between his own personal identity and what society and his communities choose to define him as leaves him tormented and lost. Suddenly, the question, 鈥榳here are you from鈥� doesn鈥檛 matter anymore 鈥� the unwillingness to respect his multifaceted identity means that any answers are invalid as you鈥檝e already decided who he is.

This plays out in contemporary society often. Insults like Oreo or Coconut 鈥� white on the inside, black (or brown) on the outside 鈥� persist. They actively encourage feelings of inadequacy around cultural identity, when things do not have to be so clear cut. So, when you ask 鈥榳here am I from鈥�, I have an answer for you, it鈥檚 just not very neat.

Winner: Amy Rushton

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry

鈥淭his was a very topical piece which lent itself to a historical approach. What was impressive about this was how you kept the focus on your main point - the fantasy of British exceptionalism - throughout the whole piece even as you discussed different threads of your argument such as the empire, the response to the pandemic and Brexit. You used two very good historical examples to illustrate what you argued was mythmaking about how Britain was an exception, the Spanish Armada and the Second World War and you finished strongly.鈥�

Read the winning entry

The Enduring Fantasy of British Exceptionalism

Boris Johnson鈥檚 apparent plan in early March 2020 to allow Covid-19 to spread through the nation may have costed thousands of lives, with estimates that the UK death toll could have been halved had we entered into lockdown just a week earlier.

Given the devastation occurring at the time in Italy, the UK Government鈥檚 decision not to impose the measures enacted in Europe now seems callous and even bizarre. Interwoven with their entire approach was the idea that we somehow didn鈥檛 need to impose those measures- that the death and pain which occurred there would not happen here, that Britain was an exception- an idea still prevalent as the Government relaxes lockdown measures. Throughout our politics, education and media, through direct comparisons or more frequently the language used, Britain harks back to a bygone era, one with a 鈥榞lorious鈥� empire; or Britain standing alone against the Nazis with little but a stoic spirit to see us through. As COVID-19 has shown, this fantasy of British exceptionalism is capable of leaching into reality.

Many countries see themselves as being special or different in some way; it goes hand in hand with patriotism and in its best form it promotes the celebration of culture, diversity and progress. However, where other countries draw the line, Britain steps far beyond it and incorporates that national fervour into its political debate and policy. This can, and in the current COVID-19 crisis it has, proved devastating, particularly as it is founded on a lie.

The idea of the Empire is in many ways the foundation of such exceptionalism; that Britain was simultaneously a growing global superpower and a small island winning miraculous victories against larger powers, but when confronted with historical fact this narrative crumbles into mythos. We are only beginning to see our past as it really was- an exercise in colonialism, exploitation and slaughter which left millions dead across the planet. Despite the fact that the fantasy of the Empire is starting to unravel- particularly in the wake of Black Lives Matter shedding light on the cruelty and exploitation it was founded on- it still fuels the belief of a mighty and powerful Britain that is no longer a reality in today鈥檚 geopolitical climate.

Take the Spanish Armada; hailed as an example of Britain鈥檚 exceptionalism as a tiny country defeating a seemingly invincible foe; but this was not the miraculous victory it is believed to be. For one thing, the sinking of the Armada was not ultimately a massive setback to the Spanish- it did not end the war with Spain and England suffered its own devastating defeat in their 鈥淐ounter Armada鈥�. More importantly, the Armada was not actually invincible; bad weather, rotting provisions and terrible leadership meant most of its damage was either accidental or self-inflicted. Nor were the Spanish a massive force in comparison to the English- taking into account the merchant and private ships that were commandeered, their total force matched the Spanish. This fantasy of a tiny island capable of taking on the world鈥檚 superpowers has become part of a perceived image of ourselves, and it plays into the reaction to COVID-19, distorting the reality of how capable Britain actually is against a global pandemic.

The fantasy of the Empire has had far reaching consequences in the past few years, feeding into the Brexit referendum of 2016 which, for some, was a rejection of Europe and an assertion that Britain can stand alone. This is an idea that if anything has grown in ferocity since then. Brexit can be said to have been driven by a kind of nostalgia for Britain鈥檚 past, and just as prominent as the Empire in the rhetoric surrounding Brexit were references to the Second World War. Johnson鈥檚 coronavirus response speaks to the same WWII fantasy about Britain standing alone as his Brexit campaign did, but Britain was not alone: it was just part of an international effort. We were not alone at the beginning of the war when we had allies in the form of France, Poland, Australia, New Zealand, Belgium, the Netherlands and many others; and we were certainly not alone at the end when the US, Soviet Union and more joined the fray. Many of the troops that served with the British came from India or Africa, and the battles in sea and on air were not fought alone either- Britain鈥檚 most successful squadron during the Battle of Britain was the Polish 303 squadron! Polish cryptographers and European resistance groups provided vital intelligence during the war, and it was financed through trading partners and dominions across the world. So the idea that Britain fought alone is a fantasy, a rose tinted view of what Britain is capable of, but that doesn鈥檛 mean it has no relevance to reality. The fact that the image of Britain as exceptional and a world leader is so embedded in our education and national values, reflects the importance it has to large swathes of the British public, which is frequently capitalised on by politicians.

Johnson鈥檚 entire election campaign was fought on the basis of Brexit, and as Brexit relies so heavily on British exceptionalism, it makes sense that he would then incorporate it into his premiership. Early in the pandemic he assured everybody that the British public will 鈥渢ake it on the chin鈥�- 鈥渋t鈥� of course being the deadly virus that has already killed a significant number of the population and left thousands more hospitalised or living in dire economic conditions. He has spoken at length about his- as yet unrealised- 鈥渨orld-beating鈥� track and trace system. As a man who tries to emulate Churchill in all he does, the resemblance to a World War II 鈥淏ritish Spirit鈥� can hardly be missed. But the problem is when you look at the past through those rose tinted glasses, you begin to see the present that way too, and as much as Johnson might like to pretend otherwise, this virus is not a war and Britain cannot 鈥榝ight鈥� it by standing alone. Our envisioned track and trace system is not world beating and a refusal to use the systems other countries have already realised and which are working well speaks to a dangerous insistence on being separate and different. This is the same desire that caused Johnson鈥檚 government to refuse to join PPE schemes with other European countries. The insistence on fighting a lone war is evidently costing lives, as did the decision to ignore the scientific realities of coronavirus early on in the pandemic, simply out of hope that Britain may be different.

The fantasy of Britain鈥檚 past obscures the reality of our present, and when we allow the language and ideas of British exceptionalism to enter our politics we allow them to distort reality with potentially destructive consequences. The truth is, we didn鈥檛 get through WWII or face off the Armada through British spirit alone- we had resources, luck and most importantly allies on our side. To pretend otherwise is to ignore our past as well as our present, and as the coronavirus crisis proves, it is killing us.

Winner: Elena Bardon-Davis

The elements for this year鈥檚 Young Writer were:

• Title: Lovestruck
• Line of dialogue: "What do you want me to do?"
• Object: A cup of coffee

The judges said about this year鈥檚 winning entry

鈥淓lena's story was the unanimous choice of our judges out of all 168 entries.  A tale of the comforts and limits of virtual reality in a dystopian near future, the story is full of flair, imagination and craft.  What really impresses is the way in which a complex and clever idea is made dramatic, vivid and moving, all in under 1000 words.  This takes real skill and talent and suggests a writer with an exciting future."

Read the winning entry

鈥淎nd I said: 鈥榃hat do you want me to do?' at which point she said-鈥�

What were they talking about? She couldn鈥檛 remember. Odd, because she鈥檇 re-lived this exact moment more times than she could count. It didn鈥檛 matter, though. It was better to focus on the more important things: memorising his smile, the quirk of his brow, the slanting grey scar over his upper lip.

Had his eyes always been that colour, she pondered? No, they were meant to be deeper, more like a black hole than a crumpled autumn leaf, the kind of sweet darkness you could lose yourself in. The world shimmered and between one blink and the next, the colour shifted. Yes, that was much better.

鈥淲hat? Have I got something in my teeth?鈥�

Jacob grinned at her and she smothered a smile beneath the curve of her coffee cup. She liked him like this. Here he was warm, brimming with humour and energy, alive; the live wire to her fuse.

鈥淣o, sorry. I was just lost in your eyes.鈥� Her mouth was moving- she could feel it- but she wasn鈥檛 the one using it. It was like some invisible force had her by the puppet strings and was jerking her around a stage to a script she couldn鈥檛 read.

鈥淪uch a charmer,鈥� Jacob chuckled.

鈥淚 do try my best.鈥�

Her fingers twitched with the desire to lean across and lace her fingers with his. Instead, she tightened her grip on her cold, chipped coffee mug and took a sip. Her lips pinched together tightly. It was sour and nasty, ripe with an undercurrent of decay. It would do for now though, at least until she could scavenge for something better.

鈥淲ell, consi- consider me char- charmed,鈥� Jacob said brightly, but the words snagged on his teeth. She frowned as his eyebrows twitched and his lips stuttered and strained like someone learning to smile for the first time. It didn鈥檛 look right.

鈥淵ou鈥檙e welcome,鈥� she heard herself say.

His eyes were almost black now; cold and immovable, like the lacquered marble that used to line her kitchen floor before it was razed to ash and rubble. His grin was plastic.

鈥淎-And I said: 鈥榃hat do you want me to d-d-'鈥�

Mallory frowned. No, that wasn鈥檛 right. He鈥檇 already said that.

She chanced a glance outside.

Beyond the caf茅鈥檚 snow-lined window, the world moved on carelessly. The clean, ivory sky swum with snowflakes. The street bustled with sallow-faced transmuters on the grind. Children scampered between legs and light poles with tired parents bobbing behind like half-exhausted helium balloons. If she closed her eyes and listened to the thrum of the city, it was almost like she was actually there. It was so familiar, it made her heart hurt.

Look a little closer though and you鈥檇 start to see the motion blur. Blank, repeating faces swum through the crowd like moments of film rewound and replayed in real-time. Sounds and lights scattered and re-assembled on repeat, always the same and never changing.

Jacob was still stuttering.

鈥�-love you- lo-love you-鈥�

Mallory swallowed.

His top half was starting to drift through the seat behind him. The waitress sweeping beyond the counter was still and unmoving, a shred of stolen time locked unnaturally in place. Beneath Mallory鈥檚 fingers, lines of blue computer code flickered in and out of existence and she winced.

Glitch-outs always did make her feel sick.

鈥淐omputer, stop!鈥�

In an instant, the caf茅鈥檚 calm and quiet veneer spasmed and sputtered away. Jacob鈥檚 cake platter melted into shattered shards of glass- the remnants of a beer bottle smashed in a fit of desperation. The empty booths and tables faded to dingy office cabinets strewn with empty ration packets, pill bottles and cigarette butts, bullet shells and first aid kits. There was a stained sleeping bag in one corner of the room and a tossed-over desk jamming the door.

鈥淢emory simulation error: please re-adjust visual sensors,鈥� the voice in her ears said.

Fingers trembling, she felt for the latch at the back of her head and the visor fell apart in her hands with a crack. There was smoke spewing from the outlet like exhaust from the end of a shotgun barrel and her immediate resigned huff kicked up a layer of undisturbed dirt from the table.

That鈥檚 what she got for trusting an online vendor: second rate projector chips. Good thing she had spares.

Outside the safety of the abandoned office, the sound of distant gunshots and grieving screams ruptured a tentative quiet. Menacing streaks of red light speared through the cracks in the boarded windows and she shoved down the sickening urge to look outside.

Guilty tears pricked behind her eyelids as she pried out the fried sensors and wrestled the new ones into place.

Just ignore it, she told herself quietly. There's nothing you can do. Re-live those precious moments before the bullets started flying. Forget about the outside world ruled by ghosts of a corrupt society. Pretend that there鈥檚 more left of the world than skies and oceans bruised black by pollution and countries laid to waste in the crossfire of clashing ideals.

One day, she would wake up from the simulation and everything would be better again. Someone else would fix this. They had to. After all, there was nothing she could do.

The computer whirred cheerfully, 鈥淲ould you like to resume the simulation? Would you like to resume the-鈥�

Her fingers twitched, the sensors sparked and the world burst back into colour and light. Grieving screams faded to birdsong, the clang of the bell above the door and the giggles of long-dead children. Jacob smiled at her with a silent joke twisting his lips, warm and soft and alive .

All was perfect; as it should be.

鈥淢emory File 52: 鈥楲ovestruck鈥� re-selected. Resuming simulation in three鈥� 迟飞辞鈥︹��

鈥淚 love you, Mallory.鈥�

Her coffee was cold.

Winner: Jack Probert

Above is Jack receiving his trophy from Professor Frances Corner OBE, the Warden of 牛牛资源, at the 牛牛资源 Prize ceremony. Jack won for a story that the judging panel felt:

"...stood out for its ambition and accomplishment.  Multiple layers and voices mix fairytale and realism together to create a narrative of power, skill and feeling, all within the very challenging limit of 1000 words."

The elements that had to be included in this years' entries to the 牛牛资源 Young Writer Prize were:

• Title: This Is The Night
• Line of dialogue: "Can we stop for a minute?"
• Object: a ladder

Read the winning entry

(Please note: this story was written by Jack under the name 鈥淢o Ayari鈥�)

This is the Night 鈥� by Mo Ayari 7C

Once upon a time there was a merman and all he wanted to do was see the stars of the night sky. From his cave at the bottom of the sea he would look up every night and look up at the stars but he could not make them out properly because of the water above him. Their light would turn soft and slippery and slide onto the top of the sea like white foam. The merman would sometimes cry at night because he knew that was where his mother had gone. She was watching him from up in the sky, with the stars, and he wanted just to see her once. Mermen do not cry very often but this one did and every time he did the sea all around him heaved and shook with his sadness. He would sing and hoped his mother heard him one day and knew he was safe.

One day a ship came by. The people on board had heard his singing and they thought it was very beautiful. They came to see who was making the noise. They thought it might be a mermaid because it had the same brilliant shine of a wave as it breaks and its deep blue cracks and splits into millions of greens and turquoises. Really it sounded so nice because he sang while thinking of his mother and the thousands of dazzling little stars that danced around her in the sky but he did not say this when the men on board took him on because they would not like it. They all thought waves were very beautiful and so the merman decided to think that too, just to be sure they would like him. They saw a scar on his arm and they were sad. They said sorry. He did not know why because he had always had the scar from when he was very young.

鈥淭he writing gets illegible here: as is to be expected from a less high-achieving student. I鈥檝e written it down on his page in my notebook. Disappointing 鈥� the rest of the story is鈥�promising; it鈥檚 just this handwriting problem again. A bit of a let-down, really. Quite a shame, given the rest of the class has been showing such pleasing progress. This just feels a bit, well, garbled: English through a kaleidoscope.鈥�

The merman looked on as the men dressed him in some spare clothes of theirs. They told him he looked very good and said they would show him to their Prince when he woke up. The Prince would be very happy to see someone so unique as him. The men were a bit confused when the merman did not look as happy as they wanted him to when they told him he was going to meet The Prince. He did not say he was happy. But he did not say anything. The men could tell he understood them. Sometimes he would nod or shake his head but he would not speak.

鈥淎gain, I feel like he has the story in his head, it just won鈥檛 quite click with what want. I know it鈥檚 only been a term now, but I really think he can just push a bit harder for me and really show me what he鈥檚 got to give: I want 110%, not 40. Let鈥檚 go on:鈥�

The men took him in front of The Prince, who was a very kind man. The Prince talked to him. He said some very nice things to him but he grew bored. He said it was suspicious that the merman did not talk back to him. The Prince got out a dagger. The merman was very afraid and did not want to get hurt. 鈥淪ay it.鈥� growled The Prince. 鈥淪ay hello to me and I will help you. Just speak to me and I will not hurt you. I want to hear you speak in my tongue.鈥� He lunged at the merman, who ran back to the side of the boat. He began to cry and The Prince began to laugh 鈥� what sort of merman cries? He had expected a terror, a beast of the deep with a set of teeth to match, yet this is what he got? Pathetic. The merman was pathetic.

He opened his mouth. He tried. He tried to sing the words but they came out jagged and spiked. They were not to the merman. He opened his mouth again and tried. All that came spilling out was sea foam. The Prince lunged at him again, trying to strike this strange creature from the deep dark depths through his heart. The merman cried out as the dagger plunged in and foam came bursting out the gash. He melted away into the sea. The Prince sighed: he really should have tried harder to speak.

The merman looked up at the sky from where he lay, a pile of white foam, drifting between the stars that were reflected on the ocean. 鈥淪o,鈥� he said to himself, 鈥渢his is the night.鈥�

鈥淪ee 鈥� it gets good by the end. I think Mo is really starting to figure out how to tell stories now. It鈥檚 been quite a positive improvement. In terms of spelling and grammar, he鈥檚 come on far; however, again, it just feels like it isn鈥檛 quite natural for him yet. It鈥檚 like he鈥檚 holding onto something else and I鈥檓 not sure what or why.鈥�

鈥淐an we stop for a minute? Could you just repeat that last bit, please?鈥�

I can see the look in Mr Ayari鈥檚 eyes. He is terrified. The first Parents鈥� Evening is always the worst. They usually get better. Behind them, I can see him thinking, translating. Him and Mo have climbed the first rung on this ladder, this stairway to a better life than the one they left behind. In his old language, in his old life, 鈥榝oam鈥� and 鈥榯ears鈥� sound almost the same. I know because it used to be mine.

Winner: Sally Piper

Sally's story follows Edna, a hotel owner forced out of her town just for being different. After many years, Edna finally plucks up the courage to go back - unsure of the welcome that awaits her.

The elements that had to be included were:

• Title: One Day
• Line of dialogue: What happened to you?
• Character Action: A character throws an object in a river

Read the winning entry

One Day

Across the river from Edna鈥檚 hotel was the town. She rarely let herself look across to the cluster of buildings that constituted it, except at night when the lights were softly glowing and the details were obscured.

Edna鈥檚 hotel was called The River鈥檚 Way, and she hadn鈥檛 been to the town in nearly fifty years. She had Angie, after all, the young girl who helped out a couple of afternoons a week, to run to the shops for supplies. But other than that, she could usually find everything she needed in the hotel. She had a good team of staff who didn鈥檛 tend to ask many questions and always kept things ticking over.

鈥淚 have no need to,鈥� is what she said to anyone asking why she never went across the river; it was the truth, really, though not the whole truth. Edna didn鈥檛 believe in lies of omission; the guests did not need to know her whole life story. Besides, if she were to tell them that she had been turned out of the town by the torch-carrying villagers who held her in contempt, it might stop people visiting, and she was quite reliant on the town鈥檚 tourism.

It didn鈥檛 really matter that the people who lived in the town were quite foul. It didn鈥檛 matter that the night when they had come for her and Catarina was still enough to make her wake up sweating.

鈥淵es, I am the founder of The River鈥檚 Way,鈥� she would reply when asked, and she allowed pride to inflate itself a little. 鈥淲e - I bought it nearly half a century ago, can you believe it? Still going strong. Of course, at first I lived in the main town, but then鈥� well, you know how prices rise! Plus, I personally never trust someone who owns a hotel and yet does not believe it good enough to stay there.鈥�

That is what Catarina had said on the first morning after they had fled to try and reassure both of them; they were both shaking, holding each other for what felt like hours in silence. And then she had said that. Softly, quietly, in her special way, and Edna felt her heart beat finally start to ease. Catarina had always known exactly what to say to turn things into a positive.

But now, on cold mornings when the town was starting to stir and the harsh sound of it seemed to bore into Edna鈥檚 ears even over the flow of the water, there was nothing to break the silence. And Edna鈥檚 arms had been empty for several decades now.

鈥淲hat happened to you?鈥� the letter from her sister read; it was old and tattered, but looking at it still brought tears to Edna鈥檚 eyes. 鈥淲hen are you coming home? We miss you. Times are changing, Eddie, I swear - you and Catarina, you should come by. It鈥檚 Ma鈥檚 birthday tomorrow, and I know she鈥檇 like to see you鈥︹��

When the letter had first come, Catarina, with her now aching cough and premature greying, had stroked Edna鈥檚 back as she cried. Edna could still feel the touch when she scanned the blurry page. The times might have changed, but had the tides?

She wondered, with a pang, whether her sister would even recognise her now. It certainly wouldn鈥檛 be her mother鈥檚 birthday again any time soon. And yet鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 popping out for a quick walk. I might take the canoe, you know. The sun is shining, after all, and Mr Sands said yesterday that he鈥檚 seen some baby moorhens along the bank鈥︹�� she said to Angie out of nowhere, taking herself by surprise.

Angie knew, of course; she always knew. She smiled gently, and raised one eyebrow.

鈥淒o you want me to come with you?鈥�

鈥淣o, I鈥檒l鈥� I鈥檒l be going alone. Won鈥檛 be long, though.鈥�

鈥淭ake as long as you need.鈥�

The canoe was small and a bit battered, but it was Angie鈥檚 preferred mode of transport to the town, so Edna felt obliged to trust it. It wobbled slightly in the water, but Edna got herself comfortable and took some deep breaths. Already, from her lower position in the water, the gargoyles that decorated the town鈥檚 church seemed far closer and far more grotesque than she was used to.

She almost got right back out again. But then she closed her eyes, and thought of Catarina. Of her smile. Of her softness and warmth and beauty. Of how, even after everything, she maintained a sense of pity for the townspeople who had turned them out; they were only doing what they believed was right by God, she had said. She said that one day they鈥檇 come to accept them, and she鈥檇 even made Edna promise not to ignore the acceptance when it came. She had died too soon to see the promise kept, but Edna decided in that moment not to break it completely.

So, with still-shaking hands and a head swimming with what could be, Edna dropped the oars into the water, throwing the rope into the river in a sudden movement to let it trail behind her like the wedding trains they never got to have.

And, as she began to drift towards the place that had been her home in childhood, and away from the place which had been her home ever since, she felt calmer than she had in years.

That鈥檚 the way the river flows, she supposed dreamily; one day it is turbulent and fierce, and the next day it calls out to you, honey-sweet and repentant. And, when the river calls, you answer.

Winner: Miranda Barrett

Her entry tells the story of Charlotte and Ben, close companions from childhood, driving across the country in the hope of finding safety amongst a rapidly unravelling world.

The elements that had to be included were:

• Title: Saviour
• Line of dialogue: What are you doing in here?
• Location: A broken-down train
• Action: A character drops a set of keys 

She said:

鈥淚鈥檓 delighted to have won this competition and am very proud the judges liked my submission. It came as an extremely pleasant surprise to find out I had won. Writing opportunities for young people 鈥� especially older teenagers 鈥� are limited outside of school so I am very grateful to 牛牛资源 for creating this prize.鈥�

Dr Thomas Lee, a 牛牛资源 postdoctoral tutor and member of the judging panel, said:

鈥淭he panel were blown away by Miranda鈥檚 story. Her writing showed maturity beyond her years, and provided a compelling snapshot into the lives of two young people struggling to come to terms with a changing world.鈥�

Read the winning entry

Saviour

鈥淲hat are you doing in here?鈥�

Charlotte turned.

鈥淐ome look at the view.鈥�

鈥淏耻迟鈥�-

鈥淏en, seriously, look.

The strip of railway that split the countryside in two had fallen out of use months ago, but that was no explanation for the engine quietly rusting into the landscape. Maybe it was waiting for repairs that would never come or maybe, like so many in recent times, the driver and all the people inside simply got up and walked away.

The stagnant water that pooled between the seats also hung in the air, leaving everything damp to the touch, as though the carriage itself was the carcass of some recently departed animal. In the far corner a cluster of bottles and cigarette butts lay festering, the trail of scuttled debris leading to it the only sign of recent habitation. A fine layer of broken glass crunched underfoot like snow. It smelt like gin and dust.

Charlotte was sitting in one of the empty windows, a thread of smoke unravelling above her head. She shuffled up as he swung his long legs over the windowsill and joined her, train wobbling ominously. He followed her gaze- and felt his breath catch in his throat.

鈥淲辞补丑鈥︹赌�

鈥渊耻辫.鈥�

They鈥檇 been driving with their backs to it but now he saw, next to the thin line of motorway halving the scrubland, poised on the horizon was a gigantic statue. It was the figure of a man, simply moulded, one hand reaching towards the sky. From the knees down it was encased in a giant mound of stone, not randomly uneven, like rubble, but jointed, like it鈥檚 feet were buried in a spine. The clay it was made from was stained a deep crimson, the bleak light behind it stencilled it鈥檚 outline into the clouds.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 amazing!鈥�

Charlotte grunted in approval. Stowing the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she reached into her jacket pocket and produced a small tin, emblazoned with the logo of the bookshop she used to work at. The night the store was raided she鈥檇 escaped with only a stack of Batman comics and their entire supply of promotional mints. They rationed them out now to mark special occasions.

Solemnly they both took one. Ben let his melt on his tongue.

鈥淗ow long till we get to the docks?鈥� She asked.

鈥淭wo days.鈥� Supressing a chill, he detached the car keys from his belt and began to toss them in the air. They jangled as they hit his hands. 鈥淩eckon it鈥檒l be better in France?鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 got to be, right? They still have a government.鈥�

鈥淚 heard Germany fell last week.鈥�

鈥淚 heard that too.鈥� She looked at him. 鈥淲ho did you vote for, that last time?

鈥淚 didn鈥檛 vote.鈥�

鈥淣o. Neither did I.鈥�

The keys jumped higher, glinting in the cold sunlight. Finally he missed and they fell to the train鈥檚 floor, disappearing into the trash. Cursing, he leant down to pick them up. Charlotte muttered something under her breath.

鈥淲丑补迟?鈥�

鈥淚 said thanks for bringing me.鈥�

She coughed, chucked the cigarette butt over the side. Coughed again.

鈥淚鈥檝e got no money, my flat burnt down and I can鈥檛 speak French. But you brought me with you. So, thanks.鈥�

The train groaned as Ben straightened up, swallowing the mint whole. It stuck in his throat for a moment before slipping down.

鈥淥f course I brought you, I鈥檇 get bored.鈥�

She nodded.

鈥淏esides鈥�. You鈥檙e all I鈥檝e got.鈥�

She nodded again. After a moment she shifted awkwardly along the windowsill and put an arm around him. He hugged her back until she pulled away. Suddenly he laughed.

鈥淲丑补迟?鈥�

鈥淩emember when we made that voodoo doll?鈥�

A grin spread across her face. 鈥淢rs Williams, wasn鈥檛 it?鈥�

鈥淵ou made me bait!鈥�

鈥淣ot bait, distraction. You were too chicken to do it yourself.鈥�

鈥淵ou got the hair though, right?鈥�

鈥淗ell yeah I did. Christ, remember we couldn鈥檛 figure out how to make the doll, so we just shoved it all in a sock?鈥�

鈥淎nd the googly eyes.鈥�

鈥淥h yeah, I forgot that. That was your idea.鈥�

鈥淲hat did you do with it, anyway?鈥�

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know, I think I forgot about it.鈥� She snorted. 鈥淗ey, if it went up with the rest of the flat, maybe it worked.鈥�

鈥淪omewhere, in some retirement home, an old woman burst into flame.鈥�

鈥渊耻辫.鈥�

He watched her hand wander towards the packet of cigarettes, retreating as she decided against it. A fleeting wind rattled through the train. He wouldn鈥檛 get a straight answer if he asked in the car. It may as well be now. It had to be now.

鈥淵ou ok?鈥� He asked.

Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

鈥沦别谤颈辞耻蝉濒测.鈥�

He realised it then. She looked sad. She hadn鈥檛 looked sad for a long time. Not since there were much smaller things to be sad about. Not when the radio stopped playing. Not when he鈥檇 picked her up on the curb outside her flat, everything she owned burning behind her. Not even that day a week ago when he鈥檇 started crying in the car.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know, dude,鈥� She said.

Ben paused. Then he reached out and pointed to the monolith on the horizon. The dying light outlined it in a burning red, clay darkening to the colour of blood.

鈥淵ou know Anthony Gormley?鈥�

鈥淗e鈥檚 an artist, right?鈥�

鈥淵eah. He did The Angel of the North.鈥�

鈥淭hat one of his?鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 the last one he ever did.鈥�

鈥淗e鈥檚 dead?鈥�

Ben exhaled slowly.

鈥淗e got caught in a riot. Trampled to death.鈥�

鈥凄补尘苍.鈥�

鈥淵eah鈥� They put this one up just before Parliament was stormed. Some kind of last ditch attempt to keep the country together.鈥�

鈥淲hat鈥檚 it called?鈥�

They looked at the statue, feet entrenched in the angular dirt, one hand cupping the sun.

鈥沦补惫颈辞耻谤.鈥�

A breeze whipped across the grass. They moved a little closer together. The train鈥檚 shadow spread like a stain over the earth. In ten minutes they would get back in the car.