Creative Writing Competition

Winners of the 2016 Creative Writing Competition

First prize – Sam Davies, Level 2 Extended Certificate in ICT

Beach, Normandy Beach

I guess I’d better introduce myself before I start my story.  I go by the name of Jim.  Well, when I’m at work I’m Mr Davies.  When I’m in trouble I’m James.  When I met the Priest on the day of my marriage I was James Davies.  Well, you, the reader, you can just call me plain Jim.

“Come here”, I signal to Adela, as she gathers her toys up from the beach.

“Yes daddy”, replied my dear little daughter.  Yes, well, I forgot to say.  Someone in my life calls me “daddy”.  That’s my daughter. My 11-month young daughter. Not even a year old yet. I wouldn’t say she walks, she stumbles.

We’re on the sunny beach. It’s a perfect day. The tide is out and the beach has only a few resting people. We don’t live far away from the paradise. We go to get ice cream regularly from the nearby shop, “always vanilla”, she says in her high pitch voice. She does make me smile.

“Go go go!” screams the sergeant. I sprint for my life, carrying the heavy bags, ammo, and of course the heavy inaccurate gun. I’m running through the densely crowded people sunbathing and playing with their dogs. I run towards the shop. I can imagine her saying, “always vanilla”. I’m crying and running. Running for the chance to see her again. To get ice cream and go to the beach…

This is the beach I used to go to, to relax and play with…her. Adela. I hope she’s ok. I sent her to Switzerland, a safe haven from war, a neutral country. I want to be with her. She’s all I’ve got after her mother…. a big cloud of sand smacked me in the face. I come back to reality of running through the dark, shrapnel horror. So many bodies scattered everywhere, consuming all of the red soaked sand. I can see a lonely hand in every direction. I’ve got an individual hand for every time someone asks me for a hand. I shouldn’t joke about the tragedies happening around me but I’m trying to stay light hearted about it.

I’m getting chased by dogs, hammered by rain. I walk up the beach to spread her ashes. The sky is black like my heart today. I’m reliving that dreadful horrible day. Getting chased by dogs and getting hammered by the rain, which is quickly getting heavier and heavier. More painful with each hit. I miss her. She was the best. I’m going to be with her soon. As I think about her, I begin to see her. I see them, Adela and my wife. I’m on my way to them. Climbing the stairway, heading towards the light. Ice cream on the endlessly sunny beach with both of the girls special to me. I’m confused when i meet them both to why Adela is here. My darling wife says the plane she was on crashed. It hit a mountain going through France. At least we are together now forever and we can never be apart again.

 

Second prize – Isabelle Asbury, A Level English Language, English Literature, Sociology

Death’s Dance

Icy rain was cascading through the dense trees of the dark, gloomy forest. Lightening illuminated the hand-like branches that spread out from the tree trunks. Ivy climbs up the trees, suffocating what life they have left in them. An owl hoots and perches itself on the rusty, gothic gate that leads to the nearby cemetery. The gate creeks and shuts behind the tiny figure of a girl that enters the cemetery. Quivering and shivering the figure walks on, then stops dead in her tracks. Petrified. Too scared to move. The sound of footsteps reverberates around the cemetery. A restless sole, trapped in neither here nor there, just another trophy in death’s collection of graves. A blood curdling scream irrupts from the forest and pollutes the surrounding area. The ear-splitting sound echoes in the girl’s ear.

Heart pounding the girl begins to run. Faster; faster than she has ever run before through the never ending grave yard. Her breath quickening and blood boiling with fear. Voices follow close behind, telling her of the certain doom she is entering. The hand-like branches pull at the hair and scratch at her flesh leaving fresh cuts on her pale skin. Rivers of blood bubble to the surface of the skin and trickle down her arms and face. The malevolent roots from the trees rise above the earth tripping her. She crashes to the floor. Shadows swarm above her, shrieking and demanding her soul. She covers her blood stained face with her hands. The sounds stop. Silence. The girl lifts herself off the floor, shaking, alone, terrified.

The grave yard is empty; she stands and looks around warily. Has this nightmare ended?  The cold wind whips at her hair and face, stinging the cuts on her face. The trees whisper as the wind disturbs them and dead summer plants nod their bowed heads up and down as drops of rain bounce off them. Thick, icy fog begins to crawl through the grave yard. Anxiety fills the girl’s body as she realises that it isn’t over, her sadistic nightmare continues and she’s trapped in an unforgiving grave yard where death is her only friend. Her heart rate begins to plummet again as she attempts the flee the grave yard of terror; past the aging head stones she’s sure she’s already past time and time again.

A hooded figure appears in front of the girl and blocks her path. She stops running and stands, hardly daring to breathe. The hooded figure extends its ancient, gnarled arm and reveals a skeletal hand. The girl steps back, staring in horror and disbelief. The ghostly figure stares back, its blood red eyes visible through the shadow of the hood. Gradually the black hood slips off its head and slithers its way to the floor. A gaunt, pale face is revealed.  The girl stares in horror as she recognises herself in the lifeless demonic, face. The ghostly figure slowly envelops the girl’s soul.  She tries with no avail to scream as she sinks inevitably into death’s cold abyss…

Third prize – Marquita Markland, Level 5 Diploma in Therapeutic Counselling

What Do You See?

I look at a pound note: I see food on my table, clothes on my back. I see my children comfortable, a roof over our heads – a means to an end.

You look at a pound note: You see insufficient funds. You see poverty, depression. You see wants and you’re angered by this delusion.

I look at a gold bullion: I see greed, I see pain, tears, strife, dishonest scams. I see friends against friends, family against family and I sigh.

You look at gold bullion: You see riches and land, empires. You see glittering jewels all in excess, and you smile – wondering how you can get another.

I look at woman: I see hidden scars. I see silent tears and a wounded heart. Yet a string disposition and a steadfast gaze ahead.

You look at woman: You see an instrument suited for your pleasure, an object made to supply your needs. An object upon whom your every anger and self destructive behaviour can be taken out on.

I look at man: I see the impression of strength and the hidden weakness. I see vain glory, and I see plainly the deep darkness they try so hard to keep from showing.

You look at man: You see a form of Godliness and beauty. You see power and unshakeable strength, You see with a blindness only you can see.

I look at life: I see corruption. I see unspeakable terrors and evils.  A deep dark hole with no ending, its circumference being widened every day.

You look at life: What do you see?

 

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