The Vine's Creative Writing Competition
Last term The Vine held its first ever creative writing competition and we were delighted by the high quality of the entries we received, ranging from Flash Fiction to lyric poetry. Thank you to all of you who contributed - we were truly impressed!
Below, for your reading pleasure, are the three winning entries:
Fine Dining by Alex Dale (Sixth Form prize)
Valentine by Emily Thompson (KS4 prize)
Halt! by Will Bell (KS3 prize)
Plus the three highly commended entries:
Moon Shadows by Imogen Dyer (KS5)
Malach Mystery by Toni Rogers (KS3)
Lost Friendship and Friends Again by Amelia Bowerman (KS3)
Read and enjoy them!
Below, for your reading pleasure, are the three winning entries:
Fine Dining by Alex Dale (Sixth Form prize)
Valentine by Emily Thompson (KS4 prize)
Halt! by Will Bell (KS3 prize)
Plus the three highly commended entries:
Moon Shadows by Imogen Dyer (KS5)
Malach Mystery by Toni Rogers (KS3)
Lost Friendship and Friends Again by Amelia Bowerman (KS3)
Read and enjoy them!
Sixth Form winner: Fine Dining
The perfectly seasoned sirloin that sat before me was nothing short of art. It sizzled as if it were frying on the immaculate plate it was served on. I drove my knife into the meat like a surgeon and a sanguine hue fled along the dish. As I tasted the sirloin it swooped me into a state of euphoria; I sat there for a moment, reminiscing over tender steaks my mother had fed me as a child, although quite frankly, they did not compare to this succulent creation. Even the noise of my chewing was like music to - !
How could I have forgotten to select a piece of music?! I'm not afraid to admit that my limited knowledge of classical music only extends to Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. But a decision had to be made. As a soft tuneful hum escaped my lips it was the latter that won my heart. I clicked my fingers, summoned a servant and ordered them to play me the music. I had to wait a few long moments for it to begin before I could return to my brilliant meal.
Not only had I forgotten the music, but also the vintage red wine that, when I looked up and remembered was there, seemed to reel me towards it like a fishing hook. However -
"It is time, Mr Smith."
How could I have run out of time already? The song came to a close, unlike my half-full glass of wine and barely eaten sirloin. The servant urged on.
"This way, Mr Smith."
Before I could begin to protest, I was led away by two men. As intimidating as they seemed, I had to at least attempt to negotiate.
"Just let me finish my glass?"
They remained silent. The music stopped playing. I was led out into a corridor and into a solitary room, one I did not recognise. As I was lowered into a chair ("comfortable enough for a king!") my euphoric feeling seemed to come back to me. Happily, I glance around to acknowledge my surroundings, and noticed something peculiar: my wrists were bound, and upon further investigation, so was everything else. Suddenly, a strange looking administrator approached me, carrying a syringe. I watched as the needle penetrated my skin and I felt the euphoric feeling quickly drain out of me.
Alex Dale
KS4 winner: Valentine
This year, Joyce’s Valentine’s day would be spent in the arms of her husband, listening to love songs and playing board games in front of the fire. This year, she would experience all the normal things someone in love should experience.
For the past decade, since she had turned sixteen, Valentine’s day had been her least favourite and most terrifying day of the year. Though, unlike most, she did not worry about a lack of attention or being forgotten; in fact, it was quite the contrary. She prayed to be forgotten by her stalker.
Ten years ago, her first surprise had been left outside her front door. The parcel had been covered in brown paper and bound with a blood-red (whether by coincidence or planned irony, she did not know) ribbon. That was the last time she could open a Valentine’s gift without dread. Joyce remembered how she had so delicately and carefully pulled on the ribbon, watching with delightful anticipation as the folds slid over and under each other until the bow fell apart. She had not noticed the red spot leaking through the paper.
Joyce had gasped. Her eyes had widened. Her whole body had stilled as she beheld the… gift. For what had lay in her outstretched hand was a warm, sticky, blood-coated heart. She had wanted to hurl the thing against the wall, to scream and demand answers. Who could be so cruel as to bestow a heart on a vegetarian? But, as she had twisted her wrist, preparing to throw the organ, a note had slid between her fingers and to the floor the way a leaf drifts downwards with a gentle breeze. The note, in scarlet ink, read: ‘A heart for she who holds mine.’
And then she had been sick.
The heart, she had later learned, was that of a pig and not to a human as she had feared, if only for mere seconds. Police had been called, investigations undergone, and Joyce had been forced to sit through three strenuous hours of counselling before being allowed to deny any more “help”. That was it. A fright before she could – she had to - move on.
But move on she did to the extent that, before the 14th of February next rolled around, the ordeal had almost been forgotten. Almost. But it was impossible to forget when, the very next Valentine’s day, she received another gift. This time, the heart of a cow: bigger and yet more repulsive. And it just got worse. Soon, the hearts strayed from farm stock. Soon, she was holding the heart of a rabbit, a cat, a dog. But the ninth year continued to haunt her. The parrot had been a gift from her (then) fiancé and had since been part of her intimate family. She had held its tiny, lifeless heart in her palm, along with a note that read: ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird, Joyce. Why won’t you love me back?’
From then on, attachment to animals was not allowed. Even fish were banned.
More police investigations and therapy had seen her through to this year: hat would be the tenth year of her stalker’s gifts. But, this year, she was married. Even he, who was damned with such insanity, would leave her alone now. Surely.
February 13th had been a sleepless night to say the least, her husband’s absence making it all the worse. He would be home for Valentine’s day, he had promised, but work, apparently, demanded his attention with quite some urgency. She stretched out beneath the covers, reaching for the comfort that was not there. Reaching for some glimmer of hope that her stalker had left her alone.
But sure enough, when she checked the post the very next day, a parcel, bound with blood-red ribbon (a move she was by now sure was tactical) graced her doorstep.
She did not want to look. But she had to. The longer she left it unopened, the more it would worry and scare her. So, with trembling fingers, she reached out for the package. With a sharp breath, she undid the bow. And, with a swallow, she allowed the paper to fall open around her hand.
Blood. More of it than she had seen before. There was also a warmth – more than could be achieved by the still-low sun. She felt bile rising. But she swallowed. She tried to look past the heart, to find the note that was always left for her eyes. There it was. And in his signature red ink was a scrawling.
‘How are we supposed to be together with your husband in the way, love? I took care of it him for you’.
It was a human heart. It was the heart of her husband.
Emily Thompson
For the past decade, since she had turned sixteen, Valentine’s day had been her least favourite and most terrifying day of the year. Though, unlike most, she did not worry about a lack of attention or being forgotten; in fact, it was quite the contrary. She prayed to be forgotten by her stalker.
Ten years ago, her first surprise had been left outside her front door. The parcel had been covered in brown paper and bound with a blood-red (whether by coincidence or planned irony, she did not know) ribbon. That was the last time she could open a Valentine’s gift without dread. Joyce remembered how she had so delicately and carefully pulled on the ribbon, watching with delightful anticipation as the folds slid over and under each other until the bow fell apart. She had not noticed the red spot leaking through the paper.
Joyce had gasped. Her eyes had widened. Her whole body had stilled as she beheld the… gift. For what had lay in her outstretched hand was a warm, sticky, blood-coated heart. She had wanted to hurl the thing against the wall, to scream and demand answers. Who could be so cruel as to bestow a heart on a vegetarian? But, as she had twisted her wrist, preparing to throw the organ, a note had slid between her fingers and to the floor the way a leaf drifts downwards with a gentle breeze. The note, in scarlet ink, read: ‘A heart for she who holds mine.’
And then she had been sick.
The heart, she had later learned, was that of a pig and not to a human as she had feared, if only for mere seconds. Police had been called, investigations undergone, and Joyce had been forced to sit through three strenuous hours of counselling before being allowed to deny any more “help”. That was it. A fright before she could – she had to - move on.
But move on she did to the extent that, before the 14th of February next rolled around, the ordeal had almost been forgotten. Almost. But it was impossible to forget when, the very next Valentine’s day, she received another gift. This time, the heart of a cow: bigger and yet more repulsive. And it just got worse. Soon, the hearts strayed from farm stock. Soon, she was holding the heart of a rabbit, a cat, a dog. But the ninth year continued to haunt her. The parrot had been a gift from her (then) fiancé and had since been part of her intimate family. She had held its tiny, lifeless heart in her palm, along with a note that read: ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird, Joyce. Why won’t you love me back?’
From then on, attachment to animals was not allowed. Even fish were banned.
More police investigations and therapy had seen her through to this year: hat would be the tenth year of her stalker’s gifts. But, this year, she was married. Even he, who was damned with such insanity, would leave her alone now. Surely.
February 13th had been a sleepless night to say the least, her husband’s absence making it all the worse. He would be home for Valentine’s day, he had promised, but work, apparently, demanded his attention with quite some urgency. She stretched out beneath the covers, reaching for the comfort that was not there. Reaching for some glimmer of hope that her stalker had left her alone.
But sure enough, when she checked the post the very next day, a parcel, bound with blood-red ribbon (a move she was by now sure was tactical) graced her doorstep.
She did not want to look. But she had to. The longer she left it unopened, the more it would worry and scare her. So, with trembling fingers, she reached out for the package. With a sharp breath, she undid the bow. And, with a swallow, she allowed the paper to fall open around her hand.
Blood. More of it than she had seen before. There was also a warmth – more than could be achieved by the still-low sun. She felt bile rising. But she swallowed. She tried to look past the heart, to find the note that was always left for her eyes. There it was. And in his signature red ink was a scrawling.
‘How are we supposed to be together with your husband in the way, love? I took care of it him for you’.
It was a human heart. It was the heart of her husband.
Emily Thompson
KS3 winner: Halt!
The resistance base was about five minutes away. Chains clanking, pedals turning, ancient buildings whizzing by faster than a cheetah. Whenever he passed these buildings he would always think that if they were people, they would be so old that they would have wrinkles like they came out of a bath after being underwater for a day and they would have beards all the way down to the ground.
The streets of Paris were always filled with people. Walking their dogs walking with their friends and lovers, every one of them wearing the same smile as everyone else. But that all ended when Germany invaded. After that, people hid away in their homes, fearing for their lives.
A few days after that he and his mother joined something called the French Resistance. From what he heard, there were two different kinds of rebels. There was one type that wanted to hurt and kill the Germans. These were called the Marquis. But his mother believed in peaceful protest. So he and his mother joined the other branch without a name. They specialised in publishing secret underground newspapers and sent radio programmes against the nazis.
“Halt!”
His thoughts immediately cut off when he noticed three nazi officers coming this way. What would he do? Would he ride off trying to get away? No. That would make them more suspicious. He simply stayed put as the three men or whatever they were, (as he saw them) approached him.
They searched him everywhere. His trouser pockets, under his hat. They took off his coat and searched through the pockets of that. His heart was racing. He felt like all his organs were about to fail. Eventually, they searched everywhere and then they searched the bike. They felt over the seat then pulled it up and looked out of it. They found nothing. They looked under the apples on his front basket. The adrenaline was punching him everywhere. They found nothing. In the end he was in the clear. And so he rode off. No more Nazi officers breathing down his neck. No more anxiety filling his stomach and leaking to his entire body.
The resistance base was about Three minutes away. Chains clanking, pedals turning, ancient buildings whizzing by faster than a cheetah. And as he went by, he thought to himself, “I wonder what would have happened if they discovered the information written on pieces of paper in the pipes of my bike?” And then he put that entire experience behind him, and turned a corner.
Highly commended: Moon Shadows
Stepping out of deceiving warmth and plastic light
I enter a world unknown to the day;
Moon shadows are my personal deep peace,
the only sound is that of my heart,
my breath and the soft hum of traffic
transformed to a gentle melody by summer breezes.
This is my private time
where the moons gentle dusting of light only allows
the brightest of distant suns to glint in the pale gray sky.
As I walk I realise the scale of life,
how someone so small and something
so far and grand can come together
in a moment that only the two will know.
Some say we are only a speck of star dust,
soon to be lost in the passing of time
But to this one speck of life given dust
nothing is more romantic than the small,
the mighty and moon shadows.
Imogen Dyer
Stepping out of deceiving warmth and plastic light
I enter a world unknown to the day;
Moon shadows are my personal deep peace,
the only sound is that of my heart,
my breath and the soft hum of traffic
transformed to a gentle melody by summer breezes.
This is my private time
where the moons gentle dusting of light only allows
the brightest of distant suns to glint in the pale gray sky.
As I walk I realise the scale of life,
how someone so small and something
so far and grand can come together
in a moment that only the two will know.
Some say we are only a speck of star dust,
soon to be lost in the passing of time
But to this one speck of life given dust
nothing is more romantic than the small,
the mighty and moon shadows.
Imogen Dyer
Highly commended: Malach Mystery
I woke up as the birds were chirping and singing their songs. The sun was shining through my window. As I woke up I realised what day it was and a huge smile was on my face. It was my 21st birthday. I went to get up when my mum and dad burst open my door carrying my breakfast that they made me. My heart warmed and melted. They made me breakfast in bed. I had pancakes and syrup, strawberries, a glass of smooth orange juice and I had a long stemmed rose in a jar.
My parents walked out and I ate my breakfast. After my breakfast I got dressed. I wore this amazing cyan dress that sparkled in the light, I curled my long, silky, hazel hair so it had ringlets and I applied lipstick. I painted my nails to match my dress and then I put my favourite pair of shoes on and went downstairs. My parents insisted I open presents so I did then we went out for a very nice meal. It was so fancy and posh. We sat down at a reserved table that had such a beautiful view that it made me smile so much. I could see a water fountain, a beautiful flower garden, butterflies going around adding to the ambiance and ,since the window was open, I could hear birds chirping. Me and my parents ordered and ate (dinner and desert).
By the time we left the restaurant, it was dark but it was only 5:00pm as it was winter. We were walking home but it was an extremely strange and terrifying walk home. To get to our house we had to walk through woods and normally we would have no problem but that night...... I still have nightmares. The moon was full and the stars was more bright than ever. We were exchanging in pleasant chit-chat when suddenly, I got the feeling I was being watched. I didn't know whether or not it was paranoia or I was generally being watched. I turned round and standing there, was this black figure. It was distant, thank god but it still freaked me out. I turned round, tried shaking it out of my mind. Turned back round and looked behind me again and weirdly this figure had disappeared. At this moment my parents were walking ahead still talking and chatting about how grown up I am now. I still did not believe my eyes. All of a sudden I had this huge migraine. I was holding my head, hoping my pain would go away. During the pain, I was getting strange flashbacks. Of course, like always, I didn't get the full flashback, I only saw me watching my favourite TV program when the power was cut and the floor boards creak upstairs. All of a sudden, the visions were gone and I was again staring into the emptiness of the black sky.
I was so confused and dazed. But I just kept walking and eventually I caught up with my parents. We got home and everything seemed out of place. But it was just me who felt that way as my parents didn't say anything. I just thought that maybe I was still dazed about what happened while walking home.
My mum tried to turn the light on but nothing happened.
"Ah, the power must be out, I'll go downstairs and put it back on." She said and she grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen draw and went down the creaking death trap formerly known as the basement stairs. She went into the cold black darkness of hell known as the Basement.
Me and my dad sat down, I was still holding my head as I had a massive headache or probably a migraine. My dad could hardly make out in the darkness what I was doing but then he realised that I was holding my head.
"Darling, are you ok?" He asked. As soon as he did I had some more flashbacks. This time of me running from my bedroom out to the garden and bumping into my parents.
"Yes, I'm fine dad" I replied.
"Ok well I'm going to grab a flashlight and head downstairs to see what your mum's doing, ok?"
"Ok." And he kissed me on the cheek, grabbed a flashlight and went down to the basement.
All of a sudden, I heard them screaming. I panicked. I ran to the basement and tried opening the door. It was locked.
"Don't worry, I'll get you out!" I shouted but they kept screaming. I rummaged through the kitchen draws to get the last flashlight and ran upstairs. I turned the flashlight on and in front of my eyes was a black, figure with ripped clothing. It was coming towards me and I screamed. I ran to my bedroom and locked my door. I moved my wardrobe and my nightstand in front of my door and I locked my window so that it didn't come in. I sat on my bed and I kept getting these weird flashbacks in tiny pieces at a time. It was mostly dazed. But I managed to make out the same black figure, writing on walls, it was like a nightmare. The figure burst through. I jumped up and went to a corner of the room.
"Ah hello again." A weird scary voice spoke. A chill went down my spine.
"Do you not remember?" The voice spoke again. I tried to speak but my lip was trembling too much. All that came out was "a......how........wh......what?"
"Let me recap. We met on a spooky Halloween night. I appeared to you when you were 16 and home alone. Remember?"
I felt really weird. My head was spinning. Then came all these memories and flashbacks. They were no longer clear or short. I remembered the whole thing and I realised what happened. Once I had finished going through memory lane, I looked back at the black figure.......and screamed.
"I see you remember. Do you like my recent work. The basement door locking, that humoured me. Hahahah."
"That was you?!" I spoke finally. I was so angry but also nervous. Especially because of my first visit from the figure from hell.
"Oh yes, it was HILARIOUS!!!!" Spoke the voice. "Well I'm gonna go. I'll visit VERY soon!"
And then it disappeared.
I ran downstairs, trying not to fall over and try to make a path of light with my flashlight. I reached the basement door. "Hold on, I'll get you out of there!"
I was banging on the door and all of a sudden, it opened. I walked down the steps, cautiously. My parents were facing with their backs towards me. "Mum...........Dad, are you ok?" They both turned around and there eyes were swirls. They were in a trance-like condition. "Join us.......!" I screamed and ran back up. They chased me up zombie like. I locked myself in my room and googled 'how to kill a malach.'
'Malach's feed off of the fear that they cause their victims. Only one way to get rid of Malachs ; don't let them scare you.'
"Well that's helpful," I spoke to myself while my zombified parents were banging on the door.
All of a sudden, my window burst open and wind and leaves blew in. Then the black figure appeared.
I gulped and praying to be anywhere else and wishing that this wasn't happening. That this was a dream. I closed my eyes and thought of the possibilities that this was a dream. But then I opened my eyes and I was back in the dark dusty world that was my hell.
"Worth a shot!" I muttered to myself. I closed my eyes.
In my mind I was thinking "I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm not scared."
"Hahah you can never defeat me, you and your parents are a measly family. That's why it was easy capturing your parents. Hahah. And now.......... I'll catch you!"
I opened my eyes. Just as a fireball was huddled towards me. I jumped out of the way and hid behind my nightstand.
"This is MORE than a malach. It's a freaking supernatural disaster."
I was ducking while the so called 'malach' was blasting away. I closed my eyes and thought about my parents, and what happened to them. I stood up and faced the creature. I never had so much courage in my life.
"I'm not scared. Nothing you can do can scare me. I'm not scared, I'm not scared."
The supernatural creature spoke. I opened my eyes.
"Good luck getting rid of me, your nothing but a measly little girl with a measly little family."
I felt the rage surging through my body.
"You can't hurt me, I've got the upper hand."
I closed my eyes again and thought of my family and the pain the 'malach' put them through.
"I'm not scared, I'm not scared." I opened my eyes and shouted. "I'M NOT SCARED!!!!!!"
The malach looked at me puzzled with a hint of concern and terror. I looked down and there was a huge fireball right in my hand.
"Noooooooooooo!!!!!" The creepy voice shouted and I raised my hand and threw the fireball at the malach. There was a huge blast, a massive shine of light and I was blown against my wall. I stood up holding my arm that I crushed when chucked against my bedroom wall.
"Sweetie, sweetie are you ok?" I heard my mum's voice and then my bedroom door was blown open. My parents came and comforted me.
" Yeah I'm fine guys, and don't worry, that 'creature' won't be coming back any time soon." My power then came on and me and my parents went back downstairs, microwaved the popcorn and snuggled up, under a blanket, and watched a film. We were happy, and we never had to worry about the so called malach ever again.
Toni Rogers
Highly commended: Lost Friendship
Friends are always there for each other,
Friends are who I need,
So, when I call you my friend,
Why weren’t you there for me?
When it all started out,
we were so close,
and our friendship I would never doubt,
I thought you loved me the most.
The special moments and memories we shared,
The endless laughter and joy,
You could see we were made to be paired,
So why did you destroy.
You seemed perfect but you lie,
You were good but you’re rotten inside,
And your beautiful face is a mask to cover up the mean,
Where has the old you been?
You’re the reason I build up these walls,
To keep me safe from the cruel,
You treat me like a joke,
Like I’m some April fool.
I hope you learn what it’s like,
to feel broken inside,
I hope you feel the pain,
The pain that I tried to hide.
I’m a bird with a broken wing,
Because of you I can’t fly,
I’m still swollen from your bee sting,
And yet you still deny.
I wish I could talk to you the way we used to,
I wish I could say how I feel,
But I’m still afraid of you,
I can’t continue to heal.
I can’t move on unless I forgive,
Even though it is hard,
We could make the world we’re living a better place to live.
Even though I’m scarred.
What’s going on in that beautiful mind?
Say something I’m giving up on you,
Maybe we can just rewind,
And start everything new.
I’m sorry for ignoring you,
I’m sorry for what I said,
But without a sorry from you,
I can’t move ahead.
Friends again
Okay so we’re friends again,
And it’s great that between us is peace,
and you say our puzzle’s complete again,
But I feel like there’s a missing piece.
I know I should be grateful,
That we have bonded once again,
And on our beautiful summer's day,
Why is there still rain?
Why can’t I tell you secrets,
Why can’t I feel free,
Am I still afraid,
that you’ll use them against me?
I want to believe you,
when you say that you’re sorry,
But there’s a part of me,
That still continues to worry.
Isn’t this what I wanted,
Isn’t this what I need,
I am no longer haunted,
But is my wound still open to bleed?
I thought it would be better this way,
But maybe I was wrong,
It’s funny how I feel this way,
about something I’ve wanted for so long.
Amelia Bowerman
Friends are who I need,
So, when I call you my friend,
Why weren’t you there for me?
When it all started out,
we were so close,
and our friendship I would never doubt,
I thought you loved me the most.
The special moments and memories we shared,
The endless laughter and joy,
You could see we were made to be paired,
So why did you destroy.
You seemed perfect but you lie,
You were good but you’re rotten inside,
And your beautiful face is a mask to cover up the mean,
Where has the old you been?
You’re the reason I build up these walls,
To keep me safe from the cruel,
You treat me like a joke,
Like I’m some April fool.
I hope you learn what it’s like,
to feel broken inside,
I hope you feel the pain,
The pain that I tried to hide.
I’m a bird with a broken wing,
Because of you I can’t fly,
I’m still swollen from your bee sting,
And yet you still deny.
I wish I could talk to you the way we used to,
I wish I could say how I feel,
But I’m still afraid of you,
I can’t continue to heal.
I can’t move on unless I forgive,
Even though it is hard,
We could make the world we’re living a better place to live.
Even though I’m scarred.
What’s going on in that beautiful mind?
Say something I’m giving up on you,
Maybe we can just rewind,
And start everything new.
I’m sorry for ignoring you,
I’m sorry for what I said,
But without a sorry from you,
I can’t move ahead.
Friends again
Okay so we’re friends again,
And it’s great that between us is peace,
and you say our puzzle’s complete again,
But I feel like there’s a missing piece.
I know I should be grateful,
That we have bonded once again,
And on our beautiful summer's day,
Why is there still rain?
Why can’t I tell you secrets,
Why can’t I feel free,
Am I still afraid,
that you’ll use them against me?
I want to believe you,
when you say that you’re sorry,
But there’s a part of me,
That still continues to worry.
Isn’t this what I wanted,
Isn’t this what I need,
I am no longer haunted,
But is my wound still open to bleed?
I thought it would be better this way,
But maybe I was wrong,
It’s funny how I feel this way,
about something I’ve wanted for so long.
Amelia Bowerman