麻豆女郎

The contest challenges students to produce either a rich description of an image, or to pen a short narrative in response to a prompt. The entire year attacked the competition head on, and a myriad of varied and inventive entries were submitted to students' respective teachers.

After a long and involved judging process, the winner was finally declared to be Markus F., who told a compelling story following a mysterious note left on an inherited mirror. Krish P. won himself Runner Up, penning a vivid description in response to the prompt image.

Congratulations to all involved in the competition, with especial commendation to our two named winners. Please do enjoy their notable entries below.

Markus F. - The Broken Mirror

It was a rainy day, almost as you would expect it to be. Dark, grey clouds loomed overhead ominously.

鈥楾here鈥檒l be a storm,鈥� someone said. 鈥榃e鈥檇 better hurry it up.鈥�

But we couldn鈥檛. It wasn鈥檛 the sort of event that you could 鈥渉urry up鈥�. It needed time. To process. To reflect. To celebrate something that we all take for granted, suddenly taken away from us. I can鈥檛 see her anymore. I know there鈥檚 all this stuff about 鈥淥h, she鈥檚 in your heart鈥�, but she鈥檚 not really here. I have pictures, of course, but it鈥檚 not the same. The memories of days like these flood back to me, the rain hitting our house making the sound of a thousand bullets raining down from the sky. How she held me in her arms, stroking my hair and speaking comforting words until I calmed down. I could almost see her now, sitting in her rocking chair knitting something far too complicated for me to understand. A tear rolled down my face. The priest called my name along with her other grandchildren鈥檚, so we went to the bucket, took out a lovely yellow flower each, and put it on the casket. I sat back down, looking down, feeling blue.

I wanted it to stop.

Three weeks later, my family got called to come to the reading of the will. It was raining again. I trudged over to the car, opened the door and sat down. My mum sat in the driving seat, my dad riding shotgun, and we took off. The journey mainly consisted of me looking out of the window, staring at the droplets of water that were falling down the window. We pulled up to my uncle鈥檚 house, where the reading was being held, and sat down in some seats aligned neatly in a row with a label reading 鈥楾he Johnson-Parkers'. I took a seat and waited. After five minutes, the reading started. It was the usual thing, names and belongings. 鈥楾he house goes to...鈥� 鈥楬er car goes to...鈥� I was drifting off into my own world when something made me jolt awake. It was my name! She had written my name in the will! I sat up, listening for the next few words that would come out of the reader鈥檚 mouth.

鈥楩or Harry, I leave you a mirror. Don鈥檛 forget to read the note!鈥�

I stood up, walked to the front of the room and took my mirror. It was a small, circular mirror. There was a gold-painted frame around it with intricate designs. There was a sticky note on it that said: 鈥楾o my grandson Harry, so that you can look at your beautiful face every day.鈥� On the back a sign said: 鈥楩ragile, easily breakable.鈥� It was a nice gift, nothing too special, but a kind enough thought to put a smile on my face temporarily. Until the memories came back. Granny did what most grandmas are thought to do - compliment until there is nothing left to say. It always made me smile, which made her smile. I missed the days when she was alive. I didn鈥檛 want her to be dead.

I wanted it to stop.

I kept the mirror on the table downstairs as a reminder of her. Seeing it every day made me feel more connected to her, which was nice. It was only a day until my 11th birthday party, and my family and I were just finishing the preparations for the next day. I turned around with one of the party bags in my hand but dropped it when I stubbed my toe on the table. I saw it in slow motion, just as they do in the movies. The bag fell onto the mirror, smashing it into seven unequal pieces. Some were on the floor, some on the table, and the contents of the party bag were strewn across the floor. A purple smoke came out of it, but very faintly. I fell to my knees, more tears running down my cheeks, more than at the funeral. I struggled to find all the pieces looking around in despair. Granny had gone out of her way to give me a mirror in her will, with a thoughtful note on it. I found the last piece set them all on the sofa, trying to remain calm and concentrated. Maybe I could fix it? Put it back to what it once was. I could see dark spots on the sofa from my tears.

I wanted it to stop.

Mum came, trying to assemble the pieces as I sat in a chair on the other side of the room, screaming into a pillow.

鈥楾here,鈥� she said. 鈥楢ll done. See its good as new.鈥� I came over and looked at it. Indeed, all the pieces were in their rightful place. She went to get me a tissue to blow my nose, which is when I saw the ripple. It was as if the mirror was water. I saw myself, younger, in Granny鈥檚 house, baking apple pie with her, but I couldn鈥檛 see her. The image was looking down to see me. This meant that they had to be taller than me. The truth dawned upon me. This was a magical mirror showing Granny鈥檚 point of view.

I read the note again. Maybe 鈥榮o that you can look at your beautiful face鈥� didn鈥檛 just mean that I could view myself in the mirror normally. Maybe I could also see my past self, from her point of view? In that case, was 鈥楨asily breakable鈥� a clue to break the mirror so that I could reassemble it? Perplexed, I watched her look out into the garden, weeding the flower bed, playing Monopoly and Ludo with me.

Suddenly, the image shifted again. It showed a blank piece of paper and Granny鈥檚 hand moving across it, writing a note. It said that there was a safe behind her favourite painting, and the code was her birthday! In there was a special present for me! I knew her favourite painting. It was painted by an artist who shared the same birthday as her. It depicted an old woman fighting back against an army, overpowering all of the soldiers. She said that it showed the strength of grandmothers. And her birthday? Well that was easy. It was the rarest birthday in the world. The 29th of February. And the year? That was 1943.

I rushed to her house, took the painting off the wall and entered the numbers 29, 3, 19 and 43. I twisted the lock, and I heard it click open. I pulled at the door, and there it was. Stacks of money with a note at the front that said, 鈥業 love you, my clever Harry鈥�.

Krish P. - Descriptive Piece

Tumultuous rain hammers down like rotating cylinders of iron, locked onto their target, preparing for impact. Sobbing and crying, frightened children flee in a desperate search for shelter. Their small eyes avert from place to place, so innocent and full of hope. Parents beckon for them to come. They can protect them, they say. No, they cannot. This storm is invincible, inconceivably powerful. It destroys the health of countless souls each and every day. Thunder roars, vigorously vibrating the ear drums of people far and wide - such an incredible force.

The potent odour of damp attacks the nostrils of an elderly man nearby. A wrinkly, weathered hand shivers its way towards the window. Silence. The barrier between the light and the dark has shut, locking away the natural disaster outside. A small room on the sixth floor overlooks the terror. Within, the sheer power of central heating is released. Every crevice and every nook are warmed by boiling, bubbling water, spreading joy like carol singers on Christmas. An antique lamp provides light against the abyss beyond.

Across the room, an enormous, chocolate-coloured, grand armchair sits proud, beckoning to all who wish for comfort in their lives. Atop it lies a blanket; it is such an aid from the bitter cold. Its fibres are soft. Its heart is kind. Its body envelops people spreading hedonism throughout.

In the corner of the room, a brass record player shimmers in the light. It truly has endless possibilities. One pin and one record work together in harmony. They create beauty and wonder in their own private ensemble, perfectly interlocking with the beauty and wonder of reading.

Shelves upon shelves of novels and biographies and diaries and stories surround the armchair. They tell the tales of adventure, of heartbreak, of those who fought for their country and never came back. Paper and ink open up paths between realms. They hold greatness.

In the hands of keen readers, the familiarity of cracked leather provides comfort - the inexorable smell of pages produced centuries in the past melds with it. Sometimes this escape is the only thing convincing people to persevere through life - the thought of a good book.

From the horror outside, the contents of this room give respite to all who enter. It seems to perfectly mould to its user. The carpet nuzzles at your toes. The armchair adapts to the shape of your body. The mahogany shelves hold the knowledge anybody wishes to seek. This is pure paradise.