SHORT STORY COMPETITION WINNERS 2026
The Ministry of Culture Award – Overall Competition Winner
Winner: Naomi Duarte with ‘El Cuenco de Castañas’
I used to believe that speed could outrun hunger, that if I ran fast enough through the corridor the heat in my palms would not blister. Abuela had just slit las castan as with the small, precise knife she kept for such tasks, scoring cada shell with a cross as if marking them for resurrection. Mi hermano y yo ran beneath the orchestic anthem of La Champions League, water sloshing over the rim, a dull percussion against porcelain like muted bells. It baptised the floor in brief, shining arcs that would later dry into nothing, leaving no evidence of our urgency.
It seemed impossible then that something so smooth and self-contained could hold such sweetness inside it. They looked like small animals sleeping, their shells reflecting the weak bulb light in brief, defiant flashes. If I had known that memory would one day behave like that bowl; tilting, spilling, refusing containment, I might have tried to run slower. But children are never custodians of the future, they are its acceleration.
I pushed open the tin door. At the top of the steps in el patio, Grampí presided over his improvised architecture: a precarious tower of pans, stacked with the ingenuity of someone for whom making do was embedded in identity. Most things he touched bore the quiet signature of hands that understood the grammar of screws better than words. Smoke threaded its way out between the seams of his invention, carrying with it a metallic and sweet aroma of roasting chestnuts, like iron remembering it was once part of the earth. Heat has a way of revealing what patience alone cannot—it commands that what is hidden declare itself.
The air tasted of labour and anticipation, of something about to be shared.
Fireworks had begun splitting the sky beyond the tight weave of Upper Town roofs, their detonations ricocheting off stone, insisting on being felt in the ribs. The bursts illuminated the whitewash and peeling paint, the faces of losnietos seated along the steps, their profiles briefly carved in silver before returning to shadow on this cold November fifth. As children we flinched and then laughed, as though courage were something that could be rehearsed in increments. This type of beauty, luego lo entendería, is often accompanied by violence—not crueldad, pero fuerza, the kind that startles you into awareness.
When the first chestnuts were handed back down wrapped in paper cones, they burned through the thin barrier y pienso que el amor, often arrives like that; too hot to hold at first, demanding adjustment. Pero no one retreated to a corner to perform the small surgery alone. We leaned towards one another, our fingers blackening as we split the shells, lifting away the bitter inner skin that clung stubbornly to the flesh beneath. You held one for me while I loosened its seam; I steadied yours while you worked your nail under the thin membrane that refused to surrender. Hubo algunos fáciles, chestnuts that seemed to have been waiting all along for release in compliant spirals, their interiors pale and intact. Y luego estaban the ones that resisted, whose bitterness announced itself early, whose layers adhered with a quiet hostility that made you question si the effort would be worth it. Even then, before I had the vocabulary for it, I felt that I was being initiated into a more complicated arithmetic of affection: that not everything yields at the same pace, that tenderness sometimes demands persistence.
Y just when I think I have mastered it, the inner skin de uno peels back and reveals something dull and slack, a darkened sponge where there should have been golden firmness. “—Ay que asco,” one of our cousins says, leaning in with a grin that is half horror, half delight. “Uno podrío.” Podrío. Rotten. Said with the authority of someone who has seen corruption before. We crowd around it anyway, because disgust, like sweetness, is communal. Nothing in its surface had betrayed it. I turn it over in my fingers as if another angle might redeem it.
“Bite around it,” dijo el abuelo, practical, hopeful. “Quita lo malo.”
So, we tried—an attempt to rescue what remains, to salvage sweetness from the perimeter. But the bitterness spreads quickly with an aftertaste that refuses correction. The rot is not local. It has travelled inward with intention. The worms, invisible and diligent, have reached the centre first. There is nothing to do but leave it there in the paper, a soft collapsing thing cooling in the night air y pelar otro.
The fireworks crack above us again, each explosion a brief manifesto against silence, each cascade of light a reminder that splendour is inseparable from disappearance.
The spoiled one is folded into el papel and set aside, not condemned but acknowledged con pena. The fire does not falter because one centre has darkened; my grandfather adjusts his tower of pans with the same concentration, smoke rising steadily as if nothing in the world has shifted and we still had wonder to experience.
Eventually the fire lowers its voice. The sparks thin. The wrappings empty. We were left with sore nails, sweet mouths and a patio that today holds only its own echo. I remain within this single night, refusing to step beyond it into what came after, the bans, the absences, the quiet dissolving of traditions like Guy Fawkes, because everything I needed to know was already present in that bowl we carried too quickly through the corridor. Spilling, colliding, sweetness yearning and sometimes betrayed. But love is not the guarantee of an unblemished centre, it is the willingness to keep peeling. I have seen since then how rot travels. How it moves through families the way worms moved through that chestnut—patiently, invisibly, until the centre decomposes. I wonder which withers first—the rituals, or the people.
The fire will always go out, but somewhere in the body, the hands that learned to work together will remember the warmth.
Judge’s comments:
The smell of roasting castanas and the figure standing by the ‘precarious tower of pans’ is woven into the very essence of Gibraltarian life. As the summer passes and you begin to smell the smoke on street corners it is an indicationthat autumn is closing in. This writer has recreated that scene perfectly in their childhood patio. Their turn of phrase in ‘marking them for resurrection’, ‘muted bells’ and water ‘baptis[ing] the floor’ sanctifies the ritual and honors the memory as something hallowed. The short story successfully runs a deeper subtext under the familial scene: one of love, and perseverance and human connection. This writer’s use of language is lyrical and impactful, and yet accessible with the use of Llanito is woven naturally through the text. It feels like a childhood story that a friend might recount, and yet reads like literary fiction.
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Adult Story in English Language:
Winner: Jaime May Rudder Knight with ‘Vantage of Ruin’
She is beautiful, this sister of mine. Volatile at times? Yes, but only when antagonised, which, over the millennia, has become more frequent.
Today, the sky above her is clear, save for the sun’s fierce glare and my temporary throne – a fat cumulus with pillowy edges. Though reluctant, the small cloud is accommodating, naturally. But then, anything less would have been insubordination.
To his relief, even the resident banner cloud has been discharged today. He has become unusually fond and somewhat protective of his limestone abode and the inhabitants within. Perhaps because they bestowed upon him a name, which he perceived as love, and which gave him a uniqueness that allowed him to gloat over his peers. I don’t have the heart to tell him that his charges were not always appreciative of his overbearing presence.
My gaze drifts back to my kin. Foamy bubbles dance about her hues of blue and green. She stretches, flexing her restless tides as she prepares for her majestic yet tragic performance. She’s excited, fuelled by fury. This saddens me. But then she has endured the worst of their neglect.
I understand what needs to be done, yet nonetheless, we shouldn’t take delight in it. Would we then be no different from them?
A rumble in the distance indicates that my brother is ready. I glance to the south and see him afar, standing proudly atop the olivaceous giant, that which is left of the mighty Atlas, ready to guide the old titan’s anger when I wake him from his deep slumber.
We are just a few of many who will all act in unison. I, first, to signify the beginning – or the end. My throat aches with sadness, and I blink away a tear. Some of us argued with Mother. Begged for them to be given one more chance, although deep down we acknowledged they had been warned plenty. She had the final say, of course, and her justification was sound. We couldn’t deny that.
My cushioned seat adjusts a touch, pulling me back from my vicarious regrets. Taking a deep breath, I summon my soldiers, and the sky darkens as the mighty cumulonimbus charge in, denying the sun’s gaze. The cumulus beneath me trembles slightly at their arrival, unaccustomed to their presence.
The towering clouds, black with rain, crackle with energy. I shout the command. A menacing bolt is thrown towards the sleeping titan; my brother is crouched and ready to give his orders. The lightning hits its target perfectly, and the peaceful mountain awakens with a roar, its reverberation rippling across the Sea.
My ‘throne’ is jolted forward as an explosion to the southwest breathes through the sky. The volcanic islands have announced their verdict. I can smell the acrid odour from here, rising in their throats, molten rock ready in reluctant judgement. Ready to drown the unsuspecting innocents in heat and fire, in the foothills below.
A crack to the west. Miles away at the epicentre of destruction, the earth beneath the ocean fractures violently.
My sister below swells in anticipation, eager for the nudge that will allow her to rise 2000 feet into the air, a towering gavel of retribution.
It is then that I look away. I am no longer needed, and I refuse to bear witness again to the near annihilation of a species that I cannot help but love. I urge my cloud higher. Higher still to the vacuum where the sounds of the suffering cannot reach me, and I weep.
I weep not for the scorched earth and the tarnished sky. I weep not for the sunken cities nor the deserts hardened by ice. I weep not for the dead, nor for the dying. Their suffering is complete.
Not all will perish here today. Some will survive, some will endure. Some will live on. And it is for those I weep.
Judge’s Comments:
This is a strikingly imaginative and vividly realised piece that showcases a confident and original narrative voice. The writer’s personification of natural elements is particularly compelling, transforming clouds, sea, and earth into powerful, almost mythic beings with distinct personalities and motivations. Overall, it is a creative and memorable work that combines ambition with control.
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Runner-up: Laura Harper with ‘The Fog’
They sit in the warm room, framed by the window, both looking out onto the calm dark water.
“I have two daughters” he says softly, looking to enter the quiet that had occupied the space between them. He says this as a statement but there is a lingering question to his fact. It’s not clear whether he wants confirmation of this or if he just hopes to start up a conversation, inviting her to enquire further.
When she doesn’t respond, he continues: “They are such good girls, we’re so proud of them. I had a son too, but he died as a baby so I never got to know him. I wonder sometimes which of the girls he would be most like or whether he would just be entirely of his own making.”
He pauses for a moment, turning into the room, looking for something or someone.
“Ali went to church a lot after that and found comfort there, but I never had a faith. I didn’t have anyone to blame or question why.” Time has eased but not erased this heartbreak, so he continues: “I have grandsons now. Two of them. My youngest daughter’s children. They could not be more different.”
He stops and it is clear that he has drifted back into the fog. His concentration’s shifted and he starts to read the titles of the books on the shelf quietly to himself. She nods and tops up his coffee cup from the cafetiere, takes a sip from her own cup, not sure how to respond to this stranger, despite knowing his life story.
“You saved the lives of a lot of children” she reminds him, keen to reinstate a brighter mood. “That time a lady brought her distraught toddler to the surgery and you identified the meningitis rash immediately. You said she was burning up, but instead of getting redder, she turned paler and more withdrawn by the minute. You bundled them into the car and drove them to the hospital yourself.”
He let slip a wry smile at this and she knew what was coming next, that she’d given him an opening, a shaft of light to dive headfirst into.
“I got pulled over for speeding on the way, you know” he boasted.
She couldn’t help but grin back at him and let her shoulders rise and fall with the suppressed laugh at the pride he still took in having gotten caught breaking the rules.
“Luckily, one of the officers had just done her first aid course. When I explained the situation and severity of the symptoms, she recognised them and insisted on giving us a police escort to the hospital. It was so exhilarating driving in the shadow of those blue lights and sirens, snaking in and out of the traffic.”
As though excitement and adrenalin rush of the memory had winded him, he added quietly “made me wish I’d been a paramedic” but in that moment he sounded too tired to drive anywhere.
His gaze shifted to the clutter that had gathered on the table. “I don’t know where they have put my glasses, they are always moving my things, those kids. It really irritates me”.
The sudden bursts of anger still threw her. Not just because they came from a man who had only raised his voice to his own children less times than a handful of times, but because they immediately followed moments of such warmth. The frustration and resentment of being trapped in a body that couldn’t be repaired, just lurking, ready to pounce, to fell you when your guard is down.
This diverted her attention from the room as well. They had raised so much money, the generosity of friends, family, former patients, even complete strangers, had been overwhelming. There had been fundraising walks, runs and bakes but the cruelty of this disease, particularly in choosing someone who had given so much of his life to others, couldn’t be paid away.
The professional life of a GP is rarely sensational but the calm, kindness and compassion he had offered with such consistency had made him popular in the community. He made time for his patients, far in excess of the ever-decreasing time allowance the authorities expected him to be able to complete a full assessment in. It was frustrating for his family that everywhere they went someone would stop and ask him medical questions, at birthday dinners in restaurants or immediately after the school play. These would-be patients dressing it up as a joke and saying “so you don’t think my foot will fall off?” or a concern for a friend. Yet, he would respond warmly “not today but make an appointment to come and see me if you wake up and it’s not there tomorrow – in the meantime, ice it, elevate it and rest it”. He always found the time.
Now time is a concept alien to him. His memory awakens him in different decades with no warning or pattern, a cruel menace played not just on him but on those around him too.
Sitting surrounded by photos taken across the globe, she is glad that he had been so courageous before being so ruthlessly ravished of his capabilities. That as a young doctor he leapt out of his comfort zone and volunteered for Médecins Sans Frontières, travelling to Nigeria in the wake of the war and famine. That they had lived in Bengaluru, India for three years to help set up clinics there to alleviate some of the worst poverty. And, that he had made these memories, even if they only came back to him sporadically.
She smiles at him, desperately trying to blink back the burning tears of mutual pride, anger and sadness that come without warning. He smiles back and tells her: “I have two daughters”. She responds this time, having let him tell one of his stories. “I know Dad, we both love you very much”.
Judge’s Comments:
This is a moving and sensitively observed piece that captures the quiet devastation of memory loss with great care and authenticity. The writer’s use of repetition, particularly the father’s recurring phrase, is especially effective in conveying both confusion and emotional resonance. The tone is gentle yet deeply affecting, resulting in a thoughtful and memorable narrative.
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Spanish Language Category:
Winner: Eugenia Maria Torres García with ‘Antes de Olvidar’
No recuerdo muchas cosas ya, pero sí la primera palabra que dije y el desconcierto que dejó en la habitación.
Hay mañanas en que despierto y necesito unos segundos para entender dónde estoy. Otras en que una palabra se queda detenida en la boca, como una llave que no encuentra cerradura. Mi hija lo disimula con una delicadeza que duele. Termina frases, completa nombres, ordena el mundo antes de que me dé cuenta. Lo hace con la misma paciencia con la que yo le enseñé a atarse los zapatos.
Mi nieta se sienta a mi lado en la plaza y balancea las piernas. Sostiene un trozo de calentita aún tibio. A nuestro alrededor las voces se mezclan, como siempre ha sido aquí: una petición en un idioma, una broma en otro, un saludo que empieza de una forma y termina de otra. Para ella es aire. Yo, en cambio, intento seguir cada hilo y acabo enredado en todos. Cuando me hablan, sé que esperan una respuesta sencilla. Veo en sus caras el instante exacto en que mi silencio empieza a resultar incómodo. No es que no quiera contestar. Es que las palabras no acuden. Se abren huecos.
Hubo un tiempo, sin embargo, en que el silencio fue mío por decisión.
Recuerdo el suelo frío bajo la mejilla. Empujaba una canica sobre las baldosas mientras las voces pasaban por encima como corrientes. Para mí no eran solo sonidos: eran puertas. Cada lengua abría una estancia diferente dentro de la misma casa.
Mi madre cambiaba sin darse cuenta. En una lengua su voz se volvía firme; en otra, suave. Mi padre también variaba: había expresiones que lo asentaban y otras que le robaban aire. Mi abuela no distinguía; hablaba como si todo formara parte de una sola respiración.
Yo entendía. Sabía cuándo me pedían que recogiera, cuándo discutían, cuándo fingían no hacerlo. Pero cada idioma encendía una luz distinta y, bajo esa luz, las personas que quería se desplazaban apenas un milímetro. Eran ellos. Y no del todo los mismos.
Una tarde escuché mi nombre repetido de varias maneras. Decían, con cuidado, que tardaba demasiado en hablar. Que quizá tanta mezcla me confundía. Que convenía enseñarme a decir las cosas «bien». Como si «bien» fuera una puerta estrecha por la que había que pasar para estar a salvo.
Yo estaba en el pasillo, con la canica en el puño, y comprendí que, si hablaba, tendría que elegir. Y elegir no era pronunciar un sonido: era inclinar el mundo hacia un lado. Hacer que una voz fuera correcta y otra quedara como error.
No quería perder ninguno de aquellos acentos.
La tarde entraba oblicua en la cocina. Mi abuela pelaba patatas; el cuchillo golpeaba la tabla con una regularidad casi sagrada. Mi madre hablaba por teléfono y su voz subía y bajaba con una cadencia que me tranquilizaba. Mi padre sostenía el periódico sin pasar de página.
El olor del puchero llenaba la cocina. El aceite murmuraba. Afuera, alguien gritó un nombre. Y, entonces, abrí la boca.
—Homa —dije.
La palabra salió redonda. No era la de mi madre ni la de mi padre ni la de mi abuela, y al mismo tiempo era de los tres. Al pronunciarla sentí algo ratificarse en el centro del pecho, como si por fin encajara en su sitio. El silencio fue inmediato. Todos alzaron la vista. Mi padre tardó un instante en reaccionar.
—¿Qué has dicho?
Mi madre repitió el sonido, intentando acomodarlo en una lengua u otra.
—Ho… ma.
Mi abuela dejó el cuchillo y me miró largamente. En la comisura de sus labios apareció una sonrisa breve, casi secreta, como si me hubiera entendido sin necesidad de traducirme. Nadie se rió. Nadie me corrigió.
Después llegaron las demás palabras. Muchas. Conocidas, útiles, previsibles. Aprendí a usarlas todas. Crecí. Cambié de casa. Negocié, callé cuando convenía, y pedí cuando tocaba. Con el tiempo aquella escena se fue borrando, como se borran las primeras caídas o los primeros miedos.
Hasta que las palabras empezaron a irse.
Primero las raras, las que solo se usan una vez al año, como un mantel de fiesta. Luego las precisas. Después las fáciles. Una mañana no supe el nombre del tenedor. Lo tuve en la mano y no pude llamarlo. Ayer confundí el nombre de mi hija con el de mi madre. Ella me miró y en sus ojos vi una sombra rápida; algo parecido al vértigo. Aun así sonrió.
Ahora mi nieta me pregunta qué significaba aquella palabra. Me observa con una mezcla de curiosidad y prisa. Durante un instante no respondo. No porque la haya olvidado, sino porque la plaza me resulta extraña como si la hubieran cambiado mientras dormía. Busco un punto fijo, como quien tantea en la oscuridad. Algo que no se mueva. Y entonces siento una mano sobre el hombro.
Al alzar la vista encuentro los ojos de mi hija, tan parecidos a los míos que por un momento me devuelven a mí mismo.
Y, en ese segundo, la palabra aparece. Siempre aparece.
—Significaba hogar —le digo.
Ella frunce el ceño.
—¿Y por qué no dijiste eso?
No era cambiar de casa. No era escoger una puerta y cerrar las demás. Era algo más simple y más difícil: no traicionar ninguna voz.
—Porque era la única palabra donde cabían todos —respondo—. Sin que nadie se quedara fuera.
La niña repite el sonido en voz baja.
—Homa.
Luego corre tras las palomas. Mi hija no retira la mano.
Las demás palabras pueden marcharse. Algunas ya se están yendo.
Pero esas cuatro letras permanecen, esperándome.
Son el lugar que no cambia cuando todo lo demás se desdibuja. Tal vez por eso no me asusta que el resto desaparezca. Mientras aún pueda pronunciarla, sé que puedo volver.
Y el día que no pueda —si llega— quiero creer que me habré ido por el mismo lugar por el que entré: por una palabra en la que nadie tuvo que quedarse fuera.
Judge’s Comments:
A moving story that conveys more between the lines than in overt description. The narrative takes us back and traces a lifetime through the speaker’s arrival at, and use of, language. The writer makes lovely use of simile and description to evoke the memories of the speaker. The implied loss of the character’s language – be it through old age or illness – is described sensitively and with a sense of acceptance. The importance of the speaker’s first word is a lynchpin: stating and ending the narrative and lending the reader a sense of completion at the end.
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Runner-up: Brian Gordon with ‘La Curanderita’
Mikiel, desde pequeño, siempre había trabajado con caballos en su Malta natal. Vestido con camisa blanca, chaleco y gorra de paño ladeada, apaleaba estiércol y cambiada la paja de la cuadra en la gran casa señorial. Su empleo como mozo de cuadra en tal casa de prestigio en Gibraltar la venía muy bien, siendo un buen sueldo como inmigrante Maltés que era.
En aquella tranquila tarde la luz del sol brillaba sobre el pelo castaño del caballo, atado a un argolla en el patio, mientras Mikiel lo cepillaba suavemente. La ama de llaves – encargada de la servidumbre de la casa – se lo acercó con mucho misterio y en voz baja le encargó un recado. Él siendo Maltés pero no tonto, intuía de tiempo lo que pasaba. Los rumores se hacían cada vez más frecuentes y tratándose de una casa de tal renombre las habladurías eran difícil de ocultar. El recado consistia en ir a recoger a Rafaela – una curandera – en las afueras de La Línea. Mikiel no tardó en preparar los aparejos de montar, y mientras el caballo seguía atado a la pared, lo ensilló y le colocó el cabezal, ajustando los correajes bien para el corto viaje a La Línea. Se agarró fuerte a la montura, y con las riendas en su mano izquierda, se impulsó con su pie en el estribo hacia arriba. Firmemente se acomodó en la silla, manifestando una bonita estampa entre hombre y animal. Con un leve toque de talones del jinete, el caballo se echó a andar saliendo por la puerta del pórtico de la gran casa señorial, rompiendo al trote elegante al llegar a la calle.
Una vez en el otro lado, jinete y caballo bordeaban casitas y huertos dirigiéndose hacia las afueras de La Línea. El recorrido de arenas y piedras fue fácil para el trote, levantando el polvo del camino con cada paso de los sonados cascos. Casi llegando a los más lejano, pasando por charcas y dunas de húmeda arena, tomaron una vereda estrecha entre cañaverales altos. Un llano cercado de espesos pencales se abrió ante Mikiel, dejando el sombrío y estrecho sendero tras de sí. Barraquitas de techumbres de cana se encontraban justo en medio del claro, rodeadas de sus pequeños huertos de escasas hortalizas.
Desmontando y llevando el caballo por las riendas se encaminó hacia una de las barraquitas encaladas de blanco. Se abrió paso entre unas gallinas picoteando el suelo y acercándose a la puerta abierta levanto la voz llamando a Rafaela. Una muchacha joven desde dentro salió, secándose sus manos en su delantal. Moza de ojos verdes aceituna, morena tez y pelo negro recogido en larga trenza, contestó que Rafaela – su abuela – había recién muerto. Fina, su nombre – por Josefina – le preguntó para que la andaba buscando. Que si ella le podía servir, ya que su abuela le había enseñado bien los rituales de curar y demás.
Mikiel, en su chapurrado español le dijo que se necesitaba una curandera en una casa señorial de Gibraltar. Un trabajo a buen pagar. Había que apresurarse y que los dolores habían comenzando y las aguas estarían por romper. Fina, sin pensarlo dos veces entro en la barraca por su bolso. Él le tendió la mano y le ayudó a subir al caballo, saliendo a galope juntos cuando ya atardecía.
Ya adentrada la madrugada Fina llamó a Mikiel diciendo que había sido una niña. Un parto como de tantos que ella había asistido, ensenado todo por si difunta abuela. Fina le entregó a Mikiel un hatillo de tela blanca casi ensangrentada, diciéndole que era la placenta y debería enterrarla bajo las raíces del árbol más débil del jardín. Eligiendo un pequeño naranjo cavó un hoyo y enterró el hatillo. Todavía sudaba cuando, extrañado, subió Fina al caballo con la criatura en sus brazos. La niña fruto de un embarazo n deseado, tenia que entregarla en algún convento del Campo de Gibraltar. Mikiel se echó a caminar sujetando el cabello por el bozal, mientras ella, meciéndose al movimiento, dejaban la casa en silencio hacia La Línea.
Varios meses pasaron cuando Mikiel se presentó en la barraca en busca de Fina. Tenía que devolverle unas pequeñas tijeras olvidadas – con curiosa forma de cigüeña – que había usado en el parto. Tenia una criatura en brazos, de clarita piel y ojos muy azules cuando al tomarle las tijeras se sonrojó de vergüenza al leve roce de su mano. Todo quedaba comprendido sin mas preguntas entre silencios, mirando a ambas con ternura mientras el bebe balbuceaba.
Así los meses transcurrieron y el naranjo del jardín engrandeció frondoso y colmado de fruta. Las vistas de Mikiel frecuentaron mas por la barraca, viendo a la niña crecer y corretear detrás de los gorriones. Cada vez los paseos con Fina fueron mas largos. Cerca de las chumberas y las canas altas, por las dunas de arena y charcas donde las ranas cantaban. Llegó el ansiado día cuando Mikiel con su acento Maltés, tomándola de la mano y mirándola fijamente, le hizo una formal y bonita propuesta. La rubia niña, siendo testigo con una naranjita en sus manos, fue besada por ambos a la vez muy felices por lo que el destino había unido.
Muchos años han pasado desde entonces. Tres muchachas en un césped sentadas estand. Dos son morenas de cabello largo y negro, muy parecidas – ¿Hermanas? – Quizás. La más mayor está de espaldas, apoyada contra un naranjo. Rubia como el trigo, ojos azules como el cielo, cosiendo – puntadas va dando. Unas tijeras en su mano con forma de cigüeña, cortando el hilo de hilvanar. Tijeritas que uso la curandera que la ayudo a venir al mundo, la que la pario no la querrá. Jospehine… de cara a sus hermanas, bajo el árbol de la placenta enterrá. Es el árbol se la vida, la niña rubia nunca lo sabrá
Judge’s Comments:
A tale of duty, compassion and love. The characters in this story are well-drawn and there is a real sense of place. The narrative arc of the story is satisfying and develops a tale that may once have been all too common. A chance encounter brings romance into the lives of the 2 main characters and the cultural references establish the story clearly in Gibraltar’s past.
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Llanito Category:
Winner: Kaylan Escamez with ‘Que Bonito Es La Hora Del Te’
Pg tips or Tetley Rey? My mum decides to ask me as the clock strikes la hora del te. My feet dug into the warm August sand, wiggling my toes with excitement at the thought of the pedazo bollo I’m going to eat now of jamon y queso. “Pg mum, poco milk” I reply. “Tu no toma azuca no?” replies my mum to which she knew the answer already. “No mum” and so the milk comes my way, with a large mug decorated with blue and white flowers.
She pops out a large termo in black with the largest industrial handle you can imagine from her never-ending beach bag, como un modern Mary Poppins. The sun is settling in through the sombrilla, hitting my greased-up skin when my mum asks “Quieres biscuits y el bollo ya o te va toma un dip antes?” to which I reply “me voy a tomar un dip”.
I dive headfirst into the water, the scouring bubbling sound ringing in my ears as I plunge into the cold waves. My skin thanking the drop of temperature after cooking myself under the sun with Australian gold tanning oil. There are two striped fish circling my feet, making me feel as if I’m part of the ocean. Welcoming me into their world which I have just invaded. The wet sand touching the souls of my feet is soft and grainy as if I’m walking on cold talcum powder. Paradiso.
I turn around to face the shore and see my mum preparing tea, with her small beach table and the mantel being laid out. I can almost read her lips as she is speaking to herself “la mierda arena conio” as she is waving sand off the table. She is decorating the table with all the biscuits, the bollos, the mugs full of piping hot tea y la azuca que no tomo.
The sun glistening over the ripples of the ocean, waving me back to shore, inviting me back for teatime. I climb back up to our sombrilla and sit on my Coca Cola towel grasping for air before I prepare myself for tea.
I take a sip of my tea and quickly came to realize that I wasn’t at the beach, I didn’t have a dip in the sea, the sun was not out at UV 10. The birds were not chirping; the kids were not screaming at the top of their lungs in contentment, and my coca cola towel was not there. In fact, I was alone, cold in my room on a rainy January’s day, dreaming about better days and better moments. Dreaming about the way the sun reflected on my smile, the way my mum’s Nivea sun cream scent reminded me of younger times. See my days at the beach with my mum aren’t about what they are physically but where they take me, to a place in time that made me feel safe, protected and free. Innocence blooming. Ay que bonito these moments are.
Judge’s Comments:
A short story that describes a scene that is familiar and nostalgic to many of us. El termo, los bollos, el mantel…la arena. Is there any hunger like the hunger felt at the beach? The contrast of the mother’s actions with the plunge beneath the waves is effective. The first person perspective takes us through this moment and lets us experience the memory as our narrator does, and in doing so takes us from the heat of the beach, to the cool of the sea; from the small figure of the swearing mother, to the first sip. The writer has captured the sense of Llanito in the language used, the scene set and the events that are described.
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Runner-up: Yvonne Sacarello with ‘Mamaita’
“Isabelita me llamo yo, yo soy la hija de un pescado….”, the song drifted through the open window, along with the various alternatives as to who Isabelita’s father might have been! Stretching on tippy-toes to catch the banter from the patio below, I’d hear their comments then run and repeat these to my grandmother, before I forgot them.
“Mamaita, dicen que ai una que tuerce como un hombre, eso que es?” and she’d go off into gurgles of wheezy laughter.
I’d sit with her, repeating what I’d heard, singing the songs and giving reports on comments from the patio. She’d chuckle her throaty laugh, her eyes twinkling wickedly and though I couldn’t see what was funny, I was content just to see her laughing. This was the soundtrack to my childhood, and I loved it.
Those days with her were special, magical, she knew everything that was going on in “her world”, she brought motion and excitement from the armchair she never appeared to leave. Sitting there with her big black phone beside her on a sturdy Morocan side-table, she’d start her morning rounds of calls. Beginning with her sisters, then her children and finally ‘the friends’, she dialled all their numbers from memory, turning the clumsy dial with the help of a rubber ended pencil. I listened to these one-sided conversations and knew exactly when she was being naughty or telling a ‘white lie’ as she’d wink, holding up crossed gnarled fingers.
She was Mamaita, my ‘little Mama’, which seemed appropriate seeing she was so little. I rarely saw her out of her chair, but when I did, her tinyness always impressed me. Though years later I found out her name was actually Ita, after an Irish saint, I never found out the why of this, but possibly the red hair that popped up through the family, her sharp wit and love of the magical might account for this nod to the Irish. But to me she was always my Mamaita, my always swaddled in black bundle of entertainment and fount of all knowledge.
She never spoke a word of English and if I ever did speak to her in English. She would make it very clear she was NOT well pleased, waving her hand and harrumphing at my faux pas.
“Anda, anda, háblame en Cristiano”, she’d say, and occasionally, by way of explanation, she’d let me have a glimpse of what the years in London “en pleno bombardeo” had been like.
“El dia que nos fuimos de nuestra casa, hice promesa de vestirme siempre de negro si volvíamos todos a salvo – y volvimos!”
She’d tell me how they’d left their home, shipped out with a few of their possessions, not knowing when or if they’d ever return. In those moments her eyes would fill with tears, lost in the memories that still brought her so much pain. Taking our the hankie stored up her sleeve, she’d blow her nose, give her eyes a rub, and after a few sighs and sniffs, return it to its storage place, leaving only the scent of lavender behind.
“Que nunca se repita lo ya pasao” she’d say, changing the subject, and her mood, in the blink of an eye.
“Pasame las cartas, anda, ave que nos quentan hoy ….”, and with that she’d take the well-used pack of cards, shuffling them roughly before laying some out on the table next to her. I loved watching her though I didn’t for a minute believe she actually saw anything, it was just the fun of making up what she thought I’d like to hear. And we did have such fun.
“Yo veo un moreno guapo que viene buscando una muchachita peliroja … y trae muchas historias de aventuras”, and I’d smile and look amazed.
The changes happened so gradually I missed their beginning. Too slowly I became aware of changes in her humour, the almost extinguished twinkled in her eyes and the loss of that ever-present laughter. She barely used the phone now, and this sounded my first really loud alarm, instead she sat motionless, silent, when she would have been nattering on her morning ‘rounds’. I tried to coax her, to rouse her out of her lethargy, but my efforts were mostly met with indifference, or even annoyance.
I was too young to understand what was happening, why she couldn’t remember the games we’d played, or the jokes we’d shared. My attempts were brushed aside with an “Anda, anda, dejame ya, vete a jugar, no ve que no tengogana?”
I was told to leave her be, that she was old and tired, but I knew that wasn’t it. I felt as if someone had locked my Mamaita in a shell and she couldn’t come out. But I knew she was in there as every now and then I caught that twinkle in her eyes and for a moment, before it faded, I’d catch a glimpse of her.
One day, as I went past the open window, I heard someone singing in the patio, picking up on the song as I went by, I sang along,
“Isabellita me llamo yo, yo soy la hija de un pescado …..”, and from behind I heard,
“Cuando era chica así de chica, cuando era grande así de grande”.
I couldn’t believe it, my Mamaita was signing! She carried on it her trembly voice, remembering all the words to the silly, childish son we’d shared. Her smile lit up her eyes and her face was alight with her old joy! I didn’t want it to stop. I started the song again, and again, the tears streaming down my face and I saw she was crying too, but she was more alive than I’d seen her for so long. She looked at me, smiled her old smile and said,
“Cuentame, que has oido hoy?”.
And then just as if someone had turned off a switch, she leant back closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Judge’s Comments:
As someone who grew up in Humphreys with bustle of el patio all around, this story brought back fond memories. There are many Gibraltarians for whom patio life, the tiny grandmother dressed in black and the morning round of calls will resonate. The story weaves the Llanito language through seamlessly and lends the narrative accuracy; the flashback to ‘el bombardeo’ also recognises the shared history of so many Gibraltarians of that generation. A heartwarming story that will remind many locals of their own grandmother.
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School Years 11 to 13
Winner: Siena May Lee with ‘Unnoticed’
From up here, everything is ‘on silent’.
It is this that she notices first about heaven, not the prodigious light or the absence of suffering, but the silence. No mirrors, no voices, but pure stillness.
She drifts downwards through years, not falling, as she locomotes through her memory.
A toddler with sticky fingers and grazed knees, eating because hunger arrives and leaving food because fullness does too. When she asks her mother for more, she says “you’ll spoil your dinner”, implying that appetite is a matter which must be managed early. At various family dinners, older women pinch her rosy cheeks and exclaim “she’ll be so pretty if she’s careful”. Unnoticed. Unnoticed how food becomes a performance; praised, monitored, and opinedupon.
In bathrooms, she becomes acquainted with mirrors and observes her mother turning sideways, pinching at her skin, sighing at herself, and repeating. As she absorbs her mother’s behaviour, she begins to discover that bodies are projects, incessantly unfinished.
In middle school she loves running, a race against her breath that hurts just enough to feel alive. Running hard and eating freely. Teachers praise her discipline and her grandmothers claim she’s ‘looking well’. As masses of compliments are given, conditions begin to attach; imperceptible strings begin to wrap and tighten around her ribs. Unnoticed.
Her parents argue quietly at night. Her mother cries into folded laundry. Divorce is mentioned once, then never again. Stability is chosen over safety. She understands this as a lesson: endurance is virtue.
As she reaches secondary school, the language of comparison feels native, unlearned and fluent. A new girl arrives in October, hollowed cheeks and collarbones almost needle-like. They sit together at lunch. The new girl does not seem to eat, and she imitates her, a strange admiration, a pull occurs. Skipping lunch feels rebellious, almost elegant. Hunger becomes a shared, almost ritual experience as teachers walk past. No one asks why the two sit with empty trays. Unnoticed.
She begins to feel electric on an empty stomach, colours seem brighter, thoughts rapid. After school she spends all of her pocket money at the corner shop, hands shaking with excitement and shame. Eating alone, quickly, stopwatch ready, then expunges it. She stands, knuckles stinging and raw; rinse, spit and repeat. Unnoticed.
From above, she wants to reach down and cup that girl’s face; to say it’s not control it is simply erosion. But memory has no hands.
Meals begin to feel like interrogations, as her father comments on portions and jokes about ‘earning dessert’ her mother remains silent. Plates grow smaller and conversations thinner, she begins to hide her food in a bag under her bed. Unnoticed. Patterns begin to settle in the form that habits will always do; softly, then completely. Her reflection soon becomes an enemy that begins to shift when she isn’t looking. She begins to adopt phrases that society hangs upon the younger generation; cheat days, clean eating and portion control. Unnoticed.
From heaven, she asks herself why school assemblies focused on drugs, strangers and managing exam stress and not how powerful she became when she felt empty or the degree to which control can be disguised as care. As her friends comment on how amazing she looks and her teachers eulogize her focus, a liminality occurs as shrinking is blurred with thriving. Unnoticed.
On her sixteenth birthday, social media begins to function like gasoline, endless bodies edited to perfection, captions preaching balance whilst simultaneously praising emptiness. Scrolling, swiping, and liking until her eyes begin to ache, and comparison feels automated and involuntary.
Days begin to blur into months, she grows tired in the way sleep is irreparable. Unnoticed.
Her end does not arrive loudly.
From above she watches herself kneel down one last final time, body too tired to perform. No confession or intervention. She lies down, finally still.
From above, she mourns herself as a toddler, the girl with sticky fingers who ate when she was hungry. She envisions a softer world, detached from the constant comparison and commentary and screens encouraging self-hatred. A space where schools teach the truth without a fear of planting ideas.
She imagines being noticed, but imagination cannot bend time. She is light now, not fixed or broken, but free of mirrors and begins to drift upwards. Her story remains below, unspoken, but lived by many.
Below her somewhere, a girl skips lunch, feeling the same rebellious power for the first time, unnoticed.
From above, she hopes someone looks closer.
Judge’s Comments:
This is a beautifully crafted piece rich in vivid imagery and striking creativity. The writer’s descriptions are both delicate and powerful, from the “prodigious light” of heaven to the evocative moments of memory that unfold with fluid grace. The imagery surrounding the body, food, and control is particularly compelling, transforming abstract experiences into something tangible and deeply affecting. There is a lyrical quality to the language, with each scene blending seamlessly into the next, creating a haunting and immersive reading experience.
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Runner-up: Grace Oxley with ‘The Memory Box’
Throughout your life I’ve found that memories escape your grasp, they run beneath you like an unending road, a shadow that always seems to trail you. No matter how hard you cling on to the old you, the friend you mourn and all the fading emotions we carry around with ourselves like extra baggage, you simply will end up losing it all. I ask myself why I’m so desperate to keep reliving a memory already lived and I think the answer is that memories are the glue that hold my identity together, they’re a tribute to who I am. What a shame that when you meet someone, you’re only aware of the most basic part of them, their outer appearance. It feels like overlooking the most wholesome, truest part of someone. A constant reminder that no one can truly know you, as they only see others as deeply as they see themselves.
As I sit back on my bed in my childhood bedroom and the contents of my preloved memory box stare back at me, challenging me to surrender and remember the purest days of my life, I feel so vulnerable. As if the most interesting and unique parts of who I am as a person can be squished and folded into this pink rusting box a best friend gifted me at my seventh birthday. Each item represents something so important to me at the time I placed it in this box; it feels as if I’m peeking through a window at a life that doesn’t belong to me. The things important to the twelve-year-old me are not the things important to me now. What would I put in my box now if I still wanted to remember everything about my present life? I’m not sure.
I close my eyes and let the warmth of this moment weigh down on me, and for a minute I forget about the life I now lead, and I am taken back to one of the most perfect times in my life. I trace the ridges on the shell beneath my fingers as I gently place it in my mum’s hands so that she can keep it for later. I hear my name being called from over in the sea, willing me to come back and keep exploring in the waves. Running across the golden layers of sand, I enjoy the feeling of it gently enveloping my feet as I sink into the sand with each step and make my way back to the sea, with the sun sparkling across the soft waves. I fold myself into the waves, and my head is submerged under. I melt into the warmth of the water caressing me. My dad snorkels over and signals our sign to keep swimming. We stick together and take in the bright reefs and colourful fish that filter through their home. We’ve been doing this for hours now, yet I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of snorkelling with my dad. Although I only have limited experiences, I know that this has got to be one of the most beautiful things to ever exist.
Opening my eyes, I feel the same shell that is slightly cracked and dusty in my hands and move to place it back into the box, packing away a memory, a piece of myself. In the corner of my eye, something catches the light, daring me to pick it up. Digging my hand through the box in front of me, I clasp the rounded beads on a pink and purple charm bracelet. Its familiarity is unmistakable in my hands and holds the memories of a beautiful childhood friendship.
The bracelet is smaller than I remember. I fasten it around my wrist, and for the first time I am fastening it again around a much smaller hand. My fingers clumsy with its thin elastic ends careful not to pull too tightly. After watching my granny’s earlier appearance when receiving the bracelet that I gifted her, I think I finally understand her expression as I’m sure it’s much similar to the one I wear now. She looked like she felt special to be receiving something so simple, maybe it’s because she saw her favourite colours decorating it. I hear my mum’s warm voice cutting through my thoughts to tell me what an amazing friend I have for giving me such a beautiful bracelet. She’s right. I love this bracelet so much, it’s so sparkly. I can’t believe someone would give me something so brilliant! My earlier jealousy when I saw her making it seems funny now. I was thinking that maybe granny might like the gift more if it was this bracelet, but I think granny liked her gift because I was the one who made it.
The bracelet digs into my wrist now and is decorated with the passage of time, but it feels anything but wrong to be wearing it. Glancing back at my memory box, I wonder if my grandma kept her bracelet in her memory box or if she now wears it in heaven, part of me hope she still wears it and doesn’t pack it away, as I did.
I place the last object into my box and rest my hands on the lid as it settles closed, the sound soft as wind. The box is lighter than I expected as I place it underneath my bed, or maybe I am stronger now. I no longer need the proof of my existence I once so heavily relied on in the form of small, shiny items to remind me of who I was. Now, I recognise they have done their work. The box is full, finished and beautiful. Despite this, I consider if there is anything I could add but the thought passes. Because I now know some things need to be lived not saved. I let this moment pass through me and out again, and it is enough.
Judge’s Comments:
The writer’s use of imagery is particularly engaging, especially in the vivid beach scene where the sensory details of the sea, sand, and light bring the past to life with clarity and immediacy. The motif of the memory box is handled thoughtfully, acting as a tangible symbol of growth and change over time. The writing flows with a gentle, introspective tone, allowing the reader to connect with the narrator’s shifting relationship with their past, and the conclusion offers a mature and quietly reassuring sense of acceptance.
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School Years 8 to 10:
Winner: Reuben Carruthers with ‘Roll Call’
The cold always woke me before the guards did.
It crept through my clothes and into my bones, making it impossible to ignore the miserable place I was in. The ground was rock solid beneath my boots, and the sky was still dark. The sun didn’t seem to want to rise. We stood in rows, silent and waiting. I hated waiting and did anything to distract myself. I counted sheep. I counted the clouds in the sky. I counted the ants on the ground. I just didn’t want to think about anything that used to be. It hurt too much to remember home. But I didn’t want to forget it either.
When they came for us, everything changed. Doors banged. There was shouting and crying. My mother begged me to stay close to her, trying to reassure me that everything would be okay. We weren’t given any time. We couldn’t take anything with us. I had nothing to remember home by — no photo, no keepsake. We had to leave everything.
We could smell the camp before we saw it. Smoke and mustiness. We were led inside. There was nothing of comfort and nothing to enjoy. Every day was the same, long and hard. Every day we were hungry. Hunger became a normality to our lives. We were always scared. Everyone was scared. Fear became normal too.
We knew not to ask questions. We knew not to look the guards in the eye. We knew to do as we were told, and to suffer in silence, or we would suffer more.
There was roll call each morning. One morning, a boy near me tripped and fell. He was so thin, so frail, that he crumpled to the floor. I didn’t dare to move.
A guard charged towards us, shouting at him to stand up. But the boy couldn’t. He couldn’t even raise his head. My heart thumped against my ribs. I wanted to help him, but I was terrified. If I spoke, would I be beaten? If I didn’t, could I live with myself for not trying?
The words came out before I could stop them.
“He’s not well,” I said. My voice croaked, worried that I would be the next victim watching my life fade away before my eyes.
The guard leaned towards me. I could smell his damp body odour. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground. The edge of his gun was inches from me. I could feel his gaze on my face. For a moment, everything seemed to disappear, the noise, the cold, the people. I could only think about my mother and pray she wouldn’t see.
Then another guard shouted, and the gun moved away. The guard looked annoyed but walked over and picked up the boy, who moaned in pain. He was alive. For now.
I shook, not from the cold, but from fear. My legs felt weak, as if I was about to collapse; I couldn’t let that happened – I would be tossing my life away. I waited for a punishment that never came. No one said anything, no one dared to whisper. The line moved forward again, and the day carried on like it always did. The boy was gone. Roll call continued.
Judge’s Comments:
This is a powerful and deeply moving piece of writing that conveys the harsh realities of life within the camp with striking clarity and restraint. The writer’s use of simple, direct language intensifies the emotional impact, allowing the fear and uncertainty to resonate strongly with the reader. The repetition of routines, such as roll call, highlights the bleak monotony of existence, while moments like the boy’s collapse introduce a sudden, gripping tension. Particularly effective is the internal conflict faced by the narrator, where fear battles with compassion, culminating in a brave yet quiet act of defiance. The atmosphere is unrelentingly bleak, and the lingering sense of helplessness remains with the reader long after the story ends.
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Runner-up: Miriam Natasha Ramagge with ‘Where Are You?’
I look for you sometimes Granny, while the asphalt roads bake in the sun and the trees on the Rock sway gently in the light breeze. It hurts.
I don’t know where you are. I’ve spent days wondering about that question, the one that adults never have the right answer to, that teachers never make you learn. I remember the flat, seeing the empty armchair where you used to sit, and wondering if you were ever really there at all.
You told me that we all have souls, and though we grow old, our soul stays young. You said that when we go to sleep at night God gently takes our soul away and returns it every morning. But one day he won’t give it back anymore. He’ll keep it and tell an angel to toss it into the sky, a speck of fire that once was one of us.
Others say we go to Heaven. Spend forever with the good people of the earth and look down on our loved ones, peeking through the golden threads of woven clouds that we see from the pavement.
I’ve never known what to believe. Sometimes I clutch the necklace that you gave me and remember you. I look into the sunset and wonder if you are flying close to me, gliding through the pinks that graze the sky.
I remember when we used to say goodbye after a visit. You would stand on the balcony as I shouted “I love you” from the bottom of the block, oblivious to the neighbours smiling at me. I would stare at the distant halo of your grey hair as I crossed the road, waving eagerly as I knew I’d see you again soon.
The day the ambulance came you didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t get a kiss, a warm embrace, a wave from the balcony. Later I stood in an alley beside the mortuary, clutching my mum’s hand as people went inside and said their last goodbyes, wondering why she wouldn’t let me do the same.
I wrote you a letter to tell you how much I missed you Granny.
The next day I posted it, sliding the envelope into a red post-box outside your flat. I didn’t know where to send it so I wrote your full name on the line where it said “Address”. “I hope you read this Granny”, I whispered into the air as I heard the letter fall into the box.
I don’t know where the letter went, and I wonder if you ever read it. Or are you too far away?
Judge’s Comments:
This is a tender and reflective piece that explores grief with a quiet, poignant sensitivity. The writer captures the confusion and longing that accompany loss through the innocent yet searching voice of the narrator, whose questions about where their grandmother has gone feel deeply authentic. The piece is understated yet powerful, leaving a lasting impression through its honesty and emotional depth.
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School Years 6 to 7:
Winner: Helena Baczynska with ‘What Stayed Unsaid’
They were in the courtyard after lunch. Phones out everyone laughing, daring her to try the vape. I froze. My chest felt to light. My stomach knotted. I could feel the heat in my face, my fngers trembling even as they stayed by my sides.
She looked at me for a second, just a glance and she felt familiar. I didn’t know why, something in her expression – small frightful almost imploring – pulled at me, and suddenly time seemed to stop.
The laughter faded into a dull hum. The breeze shifted across my face, and I felt every heartbeat as if it were mine alone.
I waited to say something. I wanted to step forward. My voice stuck in my throat. My legs refused. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I wanted to move, but the world seemed to be frozen around us. Every possibility pressed in at once – doing nothing, saying something, moving closer, moving away – and it made me dizzy panicked.
And then it was over. I looked away. She copied me, clutching at her mouth, and the phones blinked with images that would surely be circulating the school for months. I walked home. Slowly. My backpack felt impossibly heavy, each step dragging.
At home the kitchen was warm, mum asked how I was, I couldn’t speak, I nodded swallowed, made a small sound. Everything smelled like toast and coffee and comfort but it didn’t reach me. My chest ached. My hands shook. I felt too small, too silent. Alone.
I shut the door to my room and let the tears come, quiet at first, then harder until I had no sound left to make. And in silence, I felt weight pressing down pressing in. The moment I could have acted, the moment I looked away.
The one I carried alone. Inside me.
Judge’s Comments:
This writer has managed to convey exactly what it feels like to be a bystander, full of the best intentions and yet fail to speak up: the empathy with the person in trouble; the physical reaction of the body, the desire to intervene; and ultimately the ensuing guilt that sets in later. Today’s young people live with the very real fear of feeling pressure to engage in activities they know are harmful, compounded by the very real fear of their actions being recorded for eternity. A very impactful account of one such moment from a talented writer.
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Runner-up: Eli Brenig with ‘The Fallen Star’
The power went out five minutes before the first bell.
At Beechridge Secondary, that should have meant chaos. Instead, the building held its breath. Emergency lights glowed along the corridor, and the usual noise of lockers and laughter faded into a cautious hush.
Mina stood by reception, watching the front doors. Rain stitched the parking lot into a single shimmering sheet. The secretary had gone to check the generator, leaving Mina with one instruction: if anyone came in, tell them to wait.
Someone did.
He was small, maybe Year Seven, soaked through, holding a battered shoebox with both hands like it might crack. He paused on the mat, blinking as if the darkness had followed him inside.
“Are we closed?” he asked.
“Not closed,” Mina said. “Just quiet.”
He nodded, then glanced down at the box. A faint sound came from it, not quite a scratch, not quite a squeak.
“What’s in there?” Mina asked.
He lifted the lid a finger’s width. Something pale shifted in the gap.
“A star,” he said, solemn.
Mina almost laughed. “A star.”
“It fell,” he added. “By the back fence. Everyone walked past it. I couldn’t.”
The emergency lights flickered. For a heartbeat, a soft thread of brightness slipped out of the shoebox, thin as breath, wandering upward like it was trying to remember the sky. The boy’s face warmed with it, and Mina felt a strange lift behind her ribs, the way you feel when a song begins in another room.
Then the generator thumped alive. Fluorescents snapped on, loud and ordinary. The thread vanished.
The boy closed the lid carefully. “It doesn’t like being watched,” he whispered.
Mina lowered her voice too. “Then let’s get it somewhere safe.”
They walked down the corridor toward the library, where the windows were high and the shelves were quiet. Mina held the door while he carried the shoebox inside, as careful as a promise.
Judge’s Comments:
A really special little story. The writer uses figurative expression to create a sense of wonder with the ‘building [holding] its breath and the ‘rain stitch[ing] the parking lot. The story begins with raucous noise which settles to a quiet hush when the protagonists begin to discuss the box and its contents. Magic is woven through the story through excellent use of punctuation, effective structural choices and dialogue that contributes to the sense of wonder.
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School Years 4 to 5:
Winner: Hannah Allen with ‘Daydreaming’
Hi, my name is Joseph but all my friends call me Joe, and if you ask any one of my friends what I’m like they would say one thing. They would say I have a very imaginative mind. I’m forever daydreaming about the most unusual things. Well, I’m going to tell you a story, a story about my very imaginative mind!
One day in maths class my teacher was droning on about fractions and decimals, when her voice suddenly faded into the background. I found myself in a daydream. In my daydream I was president for the day. I made a new law that there would be no school on Fridays, and every day would be Pancake Day. Then I went even further into my daydream. I daydreamed about going to space, meeting aliens, touching shooting stars, and visiting space stations. I daydreamed about time travel and meeting dinosaurs, Neanderthals, and ancient bugs.
I daydreamed about gruesome ghosts and gauls, witches and wizards, and scary skeletons. I daydreamed about meeting Santa, Mrs Clause and the Elves. I daydreamed about shopping for TVs, videogames and sweets. I daydreamed about football, basketball and hockey.
As you can see I daydreamed of nearly every topic you can think of. I quite forgot I was in school, but I still went on daydreaming. Daydreaming about this and that and this and that. Before I knew it the lesson was over, and all my surroundings started moving. From a distance I heard my teacher say, “Joseph, don’t forget your homework tomorrow!” If I were president I would make any teachers who made me do my homework work all night as well as all day! I thought to myself.
I went to bed that night thinking about my day. The next morning, I went to school and in my maths class my teacher asked me, “Joseph, where’s your homework?” Uh Oh!
Judge’s Comments:
As a fellow, life-long daydreamer this story spoke to me. The listing in the story works well to capture the reader and replicate the wandering mind. I too wish that every day would be Pancake Day! Even though the story ends with a bump back to reality, the message is clear – imagination is key.
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Runner-up: Anna Sofia Medici Serfaty with ‘The Hooded Figure’
In the dark and misty night, I found myself standing in the middle of an eerie city. I thought I was alone, but then, I saw a shadowy figure move through the empty alleyways; his hood pulled low, covering his face. Slowly, the figure walked towards me but stopped under the lonely flickering streetlight. I could now see his clothes, a green hoodie and black trousers. Suddenly, the figure sprinted towards me. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I thought he was going to harm me, but all he said was, ’I’ll be back…’ No one has seen him since – rumors spread but soon the story was forgotten and everyone moved on.
Five weeks later…
I returned to that same place, feeling regretful. What if the man had something important to tell me? When I met him previously, he was unarmed ‘But this time, will he be?’ I asked myself. ‘What am I doing?’ Then I remembered I was here for what he had to tell me. Could it be that something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell me the first time, because it just wouldn’t come out? I was about to find out, or so I hoped. I was unsure whether he would come out or not. All of a sudden, I felt something inside of me pulling me, like it was guiding me so I followed it with hesitation. It took me to an abandoned town. I turned around but all I could see was black…I was scared. I felt the same inside tug again but this time it was stronger. While I was following it came to a sudden stop …to a graffiti wall? In the blink of an eye the man jumped over the wall wrote a message and left once again. The message read ‘‘Love one another.’’
Judge’s Comments:
A moody and atmospheric scene is set in this story through the use of vocabulary and figurative language, From the ‘lonely streetlight’ to the sprinting, hooded figure the reader is engaged and eager to follow on to what seems an inevitable outcome. A pleasant surprise then when the shadowy figure’s message turns out to be to ‘love one another’. A fitting message for the ages.