The winners were:
Martha Eadie (13) Bishop’s Stortford
Thomas Goulding (11) Chester-le-Street
Lily Hawker-Yates (16) Stockport
Naomi Latham (14) Sutton Coldfield
Matthew Lee (16) Wakefield
Heayther Milton (13) Hereford

However, in the meantime, if you are 18 or younger you are eligible to enter the Henrietta Branford Writing Competition. Henrietta planned this before her death so that she could honour the up-and-coming generation of writers. That’s YOU!

This year you are being asked to continue an opening paragraph to write a short story not longer than 2,000 words (it needn’t be that long!). The story must be all your own work, but you can get help with spellings and so on if you need that. It’s easier to read if it’s written correctly and if it’s a good story it deserves all the care you can give it.

So, off you go… and enjoy it!

“They were still there when I came back from taking Fred for a walk in the dunes. Two huddled figures on the beach, wearing a school uniform that I did not recognise. They were watching the breakers pound the shore – they weren’t running around or talking or eating, they were just staring at the green-brown sea. And it was weird, I thought, because all the schools around here had broken up a couple of weeks ago. Fred trotted over to say hello and to sniff around. The girl ignored him and turned around to glare at me with dark, accusing eyes, while the boy, who was much bigger, continued to observe the murky waves. Suddenly Fred got spooked and started to growl. I trudged across the sand and grabbed him by the collar but even as I pulled him away he just kept on growling.
It was then, in a flash of recognition, that I saw the boy’s face. I should have obeyed my first instinct and run, run like there was no tomorrow, but I didn’t.
“What you staring at?” snapped the girl.”

Send your finished story no later than 14th June 2008 to ‘HBWC, Glebe House, Church Road, Weobley, Herefordshire. HR4 8SD or by email to youngwriter@enterprise.net and be sure to include your name, your age, your postal address and, if possible an email address. We do not disclose these, but we may need to contact you to tell you that you are one of our six winners.

These six winners will each be invited, together with an accompanying adult, to attend the Branford Boase Award ceremony in London on Wednesday, 9th July 2008 where they will meet authors, publishers, agents and others. They will also receive copies of the books short-listed for the Branford Boase Award.

GOOD LUCK! We look forward to reading your stories - and remember, you can’t win if you don’t have a go!

There have been some small changes in the magazine, but I’m sure you’ll let us know if you think we’re doing something wrong, and the next step is to bring this site up to date, so keep checking back to see how we’re getting along. Just like the magazine, this is your site, so send in any news or comments you would like to see published.

As you may already know, my poem won the competition to go to the concert for Diana. When I found out, I was in shock, but my mum was screaming and jumping round the house!
We got to Wembley fairly early; in fact, due to misguidance from the staff, we were the first people in the stadium! But then one of the members of security came down to tell us we weren’t supposed to be there as it wasn’t 2 o’clock yet. So we went out again. Mum looked at her watch; it was only 1:15!
When we finally got to our seats, we looked around to see whereabouts we were. We had good seats. They were very comfortable and we had full view of the stage, plus, we had cover, so if it rained, we wouldn’t get wet! (Thankfully it didn’t rain though!) The only downside to this great seating arrangement was that we couldn’t see the Princes because they were directly above us, and the camera that swung around the audience never came our way. But, never mind!
From where I was sitting, I could see Fearne Cotton coming through one of the entrances. Loads of people went down to see her and get photos and autographs, and when they came back they all said the same thing, ‘Oh she’s lovely Fearne is!’ She seemed a lot taller than when you see her on the tele, even from where I was sitting.
10 minutes before the concert started, (and was broadcasted on the T.V.), a member of the b.b.c. got the audience engaged in an activity so as to get us warmed up for what was to come. He split the audience in to two and made us sing, stand up and do actions to several songs such as: Reach up for the Stars, Y.M.C.A., We will Rock You and a few others. The side that was better got a point (My side won!). This was when I discovered that mum can’t do the Y.M.C.A.! When the side didn’t get the point, the member of the b.b.c. pointed at someone in the audience and aid it was his/her fault. When this happened, their picture came up on the big screen. All the way through the concert people were put up on the big screen for all of us to see without them knowing.
The concert kicked off with Sir Elton John singing ‘Can’t put down in words’. This was fantastic and everyone loved it.
Then the Princes came on to talk about what the concert was about and even cracked a few jokes.
Duran Duran then came on and were absolutely amazing! They sang ‘The music between us’, ‘Wild Boys’ (dedicated to the princes!) and ‘A real dancer’ (dedicated to Princess Diana). I loved it so much that I have asked my mum for a Duran Duran album for my birthday. I especially liked the way the vibrations from the music went through your body. It was like a super loud disco, you couldn’t talk to anyone.
James Morrison was next on and he sang ‘You give me something’ and ‘Wonderful world’. He was good, as always.
Then came the first charity to talk about what the princess did for them. This was shown on the big screen and was very moving. There were several of these. The first was Chain of Hope, one of the major charities that the princess supported.
Then Dennis Hopper and an actress that I don’t know the name of came on to talk about Princess Diana and the importance of the concert.
Next was Lilley Allen with ‘I don’t wanna be anywhere else’ and ‘Smile’.
Then Luton bowling club was on the big screen talking about the princess.
Fergie was next. Her first song was ‘Glamorous’ and the dancers to her song were great. Her other song was ‘Big girls don’t cry.’
Then another charity talked about Princess Diana, this time it was the British deaf association. The princess showed she cared by learning sign language so she could communicate with deaf people.
Kiefer Sutherland then came on to talk about the princess.
Next up was the feeling with ‘Show some love’ and ‘I love it when you call’.
Gemma Quinn then talked on the big screen about how Princess Diana helped her.
Then N.E.R.D. came on and rapped 2 songs. One of them I don’t know the name of, and I think the other is called ‘She’s what?’
Bill Clinton then talked about the princess.
Then the British Red Cross came on to the big screen to talk about how Princess Diana helped them.
Andra Tigraca from Angola then talked about mines.
The three American idol presenters then came on to talk about the princess. One of them was Simon Cowell; I don’t know the other two.
Nelly Fetardo then came on and sang ‘You don’t need nothing at all’, ‘I’m like a bird’ and ‘She’s a maneater’.
Then there was a talk on the big screen about Princess Diana from the English National ballet.
Natasha Komplinci talked about Diana and ballet as well.
Then the English National ballet performed an extract from Swan Lake, and, although I don’t like ballet, I could see that it was very good.
Then there was a 10 minute break.
When I got back to my seat, the Mexican waves began. These were fantastic and it really took your breath away to see the whole audience take part in this activity. That was, everyone but the ladies sitting next to mum who looked quite grouchy and didn’t take part in anything. But after a while, we got tired and only a few people were doing it before it finally stopped fully.
Status Quo came on next singing something that I don’t know the name of.
There was then another talk on the big screen about how Diana helped, but this time from Thorpe Park.
This was followed with a talk from Free Spirit.,
Joss Stone was up next and she sang ‘Messing with my mind’ and another song that I didn’t catch the title of, but I know it contained the word ‘bird’.
Roger Hodgsen from Supertramp was on next was on next with an interesting mix of ‘Dreamer’, ‘The logical song’, ‘Girlfriend’, ‘Something else’ and ‘Give a little bit’.
Then the charity Turning Point talked on the big screen about how Princess Diana was an asset to them.
Fearne Cotton then came on the stage to give a little talk.
Orson was next up singing ‘Happy days’ and ‘No tomorrow’.
Next, on the big screen was the National AIDs trust. I paid particular attention to this as this was the charity that I had chosen to write about in my poem that won the competition.
Julian Arden then went on the stage and talked to us.
Tom Jones was up next singing ‘You don’t have to be rich to be my girl’ and ‘Dance floor’. He was amazing because he managed to get everyone up and dancing-even the two ladies sitting next to mum!
Then Joss Stone joined Tom Jones and they sang together, but I can’t remember what they sang.
‘I wanna be free’ was sung next by Will Young. His dancers were really good.
Natasha Bedingfield sang next, and her song was ‘Unwritten’.
Next, on the big screen was See Ability.
Boris Becker came on with Tom Mackinlow and talked about the princess.
Bryan Ferry sang three songs. His first was ‘Save the love’. It was quite interesting because, as he was singing, there was a catwalk going on. I don’t know what his second song was called, but his third one was called ‘Come on’.
Next was Tony Blair on the big screen, talking about Princess Diana.
Then Kat Deely did the same thing but on the stage.
Then Sarah Brightman, Michael Ball, Elaine Paige and Andrew Lloyd-Webber talked about Princess Diana and musicals.
There was then an extract containing 2 songs from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Music of the night, an extract from Cats, an extract from Jesus Christ Superstar with Anastasia singing, and an extract of Joseph and his Multicoloured Dreamcoat with the 3 most famous Josephs singing, including the winner of the b.b.c. competition and David Osmond. Once these had all been performed, Andrew Lloyd-Webber himself appeared on the stage.
There was then another 10 minute break.
In the 10 minute break, we saw Shayne Ritchie!
Keith O’Sulliven then came on the stage to talk about the princess.
Rod Stuart was next to sing and he was amazing. He got everyone singing, made my hands hurt from clapping, and kicked footballs into the audience. He sang ‘Maggie Maggie’, ‘I am sailing.’ and another song that I’m not sure of the name of.
It was then some professional photographers turn to talk on the big screen.
After the photographers, the royal Hampshire regiment had their turn.
Then Patzy Kenzit talked to us on the stage.
Then there was some singing from a singer that I didn’t catch the name of. He sang 5 songs. One of them was ‘Get down girl’, another was ‘I need you right now’. The other 3, I don’t now the name of. The interesting thing though, was that half of the faces in the orchestra were gold.
Spinal Research then talked on the big screen.
Jamie Oliver came on the stage to talk about Centrepoint and what the princess did for it.
P.Diddy sang ‘I’m missing you’, which sounded like it was really directed towards Diana.
Great Ormond street hospital for children and British Lung foundation then had their turn at the big screen
David Beckham was next to come on stage and talk to us about Princess Diana.
After that, Take That sang ‘Shine’, ‘Patience’, and ‘Back for good.’ These songs got everyone singing.
Then the London Symphony Chorus talked about how Princess Diana helped them on the big screen.
A comedian came on to the screen, and, looking rather miffed to have not been chosen himself, introduced comedian Ricky Gervais.
Ricky Gervais did some comedy, singer and guitar. He also got Gareth Kiff to do some singing with him.
Elton John then came on to the stage. He talked and also sang 3 songs, these were: ‘Saturday’, ‘Tiny dancer’, and ‘Are you ready for love?’
Then William and Harry came on to say their words of thanks.
Elton John came on for the last time to do some more talking.
Finally there came the last 2 videos on the screen. One of them was of an important man whom I don’t know the name of talking about the princess; the other was a film of her life.
Overall the concert was fantastic and I will remember it for the rest of my life!

I recorded this information in my notebook. I’ve tried to make it as accurate as possible, but I may have a few details wrong. Sorry if I do, Charlotte!

“Twenty-five competitors, ladies and gentlemen, twenty-five men and women here for you today!” George Handler shouted, his big, red face getting bigger and redder as he shouted to the assembled crowd of thousands. “All of them here for one purpose and one purpose only – to show you just how many doughnuts they can eat in under teeeeeeeeeen minutes!”
George Handler is an idiot, Eric Cavalli thought, tucking his bib into his jeans belt. George Handler is a big, red idiot. He was surprised to note that his hand was shaking.
Handler patted the first contestant on his meaty shoulder. “Here we have Mr ‘Damaging’ Dale Cranmer, the champion of the Second Annual Gingerbread Man Eating Contest! Tell me, Dale,” here Handler leant down conspiratorially and pointed the microphone into Cranmer’s famous mouth. “just how many gingerbread men did you eat?”
‘Damaging’ Dale shrugged. “Seventy-seven.”
“And how long did those seventy-seven delicious gingerbread men take you to eat, Dale?”
“Eleven minutes.”
“Eleeeeeeeven minutes!” Handler shouted, while the crowd whooped in appreciation. Eric cast an eye over them and spotted his wife and daughter standing by the cotton candy cart. He gave them a wave, which went unnoticed, and he returned his hand to his stomach, which unfurled under his belt comfortingly.
Handler had similar introductions for each of the competitors – Patrick ‘Big Man’ Menchetti, 8 pounds of baked beans in under three minutes; Joseph ‘The Eclipse’ Dodd, 23 grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes; ‘Lovely’ Linda Leeler, who wasn’t so lovely after cleaning six plates of spaghetti bolognaise in a little over five minutes – before he made his energetic, hyperbolic way down the table to where Eric sat, sweating into his stretch-waistbanded shorts.
“We have a very special competitor here today, ladies and gentlemen!” Handler screeched into the microphone “Some of you may recognise him from previous events such as the Annual Mudpie Eating Contest, the inaugural Deep-fried Twinkie Challenge, and many, many more! Tell us, Eric,” he said, his mouth close to his ear. “What’s your personal best?”
The answer changed every year. The 1982 State Fair had been the start, where he’d been the skinny 150-pounder who’d taken on the infamous ‘Blazing’ Bob Crawley and emerged with $150 in his back pocket and twenty-two Frankfurters in his stomach. It was as if the world had been opened up to him – he spent the minutes he wasn’t washing dishes at Tony’s Fish Plaice scouring local newspapers for mentions of competitive eating competitions, where he would stroll in and use his God-given talent for inhaling food to collect the prize money. It was at the Saturday afternoon carnival where he won his title of Hard-boiled Egg Champion (67 in 6 minutes) that he met his wife, Sonja, who had been back then a fresh-faced beauty serving french fries. More and more competitions followed, their challenges and titles blurring into each other, 121Bananafritters-19slices16”pizza-46crabcakes-23peanutbutterandjellysandwiches-34BigMacs-2gallonschocolatemilk89dillpickles6lbspam, until Eric “King-Pin” Cavalli was possibly the most famous competitive eater in all of California – ‘Possibly,’ one hushed article suggested, ‘in all of America. Possibly,’ even more hushed, ‘in all of the world.’
“Uh,” Eric said, detesting George Handler. “I would probably have to say my 2002 win at the Jalapeño Hoedown.”
What a night that had been. Eric could still hardly think of it without wincing. The actual competition itself had been surprisingly easy, with a mountainous pile of jalapeño peppers on his right and twelve knock-kneed teenagers on his left. 177 jalapeños went down that night, and Eric had lasted just the fifteen minutes it took to declare him the winner and grant him his trophy before he was on his hands and knees in the dirt, crying like a baby, streaming what he was sure was pepper juice out of his eyes. He was too terrified to go to the doctor’s in case his worst fears were confirmed about his stomach actually having caught on fire, so he spent the next three days feverishly hovered over the toilet drinking pints of milk to calm the burns in his throat. That was the night that Eric had started to lose his fervour for the competitive eating competitions, and it had been a downward slope to disillusion ever since. Sonja, of course, couldn’t understand it – he was making thousands of dollars without even trying, and he had “always been such a pig anyway, honey.” They could afford to live in a comfortable house and send their daughter to the best school in the neighbourhood, just like men with proper jobs did. Only Eric was starting to feel as though there were something those men had that he didn’t, like pride or integrity, a feeling which both Sonja and his manager, the effusive ex-boxer Connor Lee, were quick to dismiss. Eric had gone to visit Connor the night before to enquire about pulling out of this year’s competition, and found him predictably, persuasively unyielding.
“You’re no different from the average working man, Eric,” Connor said, lifting his shades and surveying him with two different-coloured eyes. The story went that, aged 26 in a fight against a 7”1 Puerto-Rican, Connor had been punched so hard in the left eye that it turned from brown to blue. Eric had always believed this story because he had no reason not to, but as his mistrust for his manager grew, so did it for his far-fetched stories. “In fact, you work harder than he does. All he has to do is make a few phone calls, check out the secretary’s legs, doodle some memos. You, on the other hand, you’ve got to push past every pain barrier known to man, you’ve got to amaze and trump every sonofa that dares to compete with you! It’s a noble profession, my friend, one which you should be proud of. Count your blessings that the Virgin Mary chose you for this.” With that, Connor leant back in his chair and blew a cloud of smoke at the framed portrait of a thirty-years-younger self, bobbing and weaving against the great Fists LeFevre. He hadn’t lasted longer than three minutes in the ring.
If there was one thing Eric was certain of, it was that his profession was anything but noble. All of the Californian competitive eating circuit may have been familiar with his face, but it was a face covered in oysters, spaghetti, clotted cream, chicken drumsticks, and, on one occasion he would rather forget, pig liver.
The Jalapeño King forced a smile for George Handler and then for Chad ‘Bonestripper’ Podelesky, who was sitting next to him, meticulously folding his napkin (which was ironic, Eric thought, given his notoriety for being one of the messiest competitors of all). He didn’t even acknowledge Eric, perhaps remembering his crushing defeat the previous year at the hands of the Kingpin in the National Raw Cookie-dough Eating Semi-Finals (4 lbs versus 7.2). As Handler shouted for the “DEEEEEEEEEEEEEELICIOUS DOUGHNUTS!” to be brought out, Eric swept a flickering eye over the crowd, most of whom wore ‘Kingpin Cavalli!’ T-shirts (priced $15, half of which went towards buying Connor Lee a new condo). Twenty-five carts of doughnuts were wheeled out and placed behind each competitor, and the usually thrilling aroma of food carried on the air and made Eric gag.
“May God be with you all,” Handler said into the microphone gravely, and began the countdown. “3… 2… 1… go!”
Mechanically, Eric reached for the first doughnut. It was the same as always, he thought, and ripped it in two. This was the Kingpin method which had stumped hundreds of opponents throughout the years. Rip it in two, dip it in water and swallow it, fast. He had been disgusted to see Venetia enjoying her teatime snack in a similar way a few weeks before – not disgusted with her, but with himself. It was time to get out, he had thought then. It was time to get out.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t believe what I’m seeing! Eric ‘Kingpin’ Cavalli, the man we all thought would walk away with the title of Californian Doughnut Eater of the Year, is flagging behind! Yes, that’s right, you heard me! The Kingpin is on NO doughnuts! Nada! Niente! Nichts! This is truly a momentous day! We’re all waiting with bated breath to see what this once-great star will do – meanwhile, ‘Damaging’ Dale is on eighteen doughnuts already – how can he possibly live this one down?”
Eric looked down at the doughnut in his hand, almost surprised at his stasis. He hadn’t consciously made the decision not to compete, but found the idea of it strangely repugnant. He knew that even after having lost his head-start, were he to start Kingpinning it now, he would win easily. There was nobody like him, and every single one of the twenty-four other competitors knew it. Bonestripper was smiling next to him with a mouth daubed in powdered sugar and bits of dough as he shovelled in doughnut after doughnut.
“You’ve got a little something just there,” Eric said to him as he stood up, ignoring the gasps and jeers which followed from a crowd that had already forgotten its hero. He picked up another doughnut in his hand, walked calmly over to George Handler and introduced the hated man’s face to it.
It was a sunny afternoon in early Autumn and Eric Cavalli was forty-six years old, with a gut and no back teeth and greying hair, but for once he had a different taste in his mouth than hastily swallowed crab cakes. It could be, he thought happily, self-respect, which to him was worth more than the prize he would have received for inhaling a cartload of doughnuts. He turned over an unpaid bill in his pocket and remembered the planned trip to Morocco, and the school fees, and Sonja’s love for expensive jewellery, feeling his self-satisfaction slide off his face. Shoot. It looked as though he’d be attending that Macaroni and Cheese Fest in Riverside the next day after all.

It was still now, but not silent. On the deck lay a long box of wine-red wood, studded with tiny, tarnished mirrors. From within came a soft but insistent knocking.

I walked towards the box shivering with fear. I wondered what could be inside but couldn’t bear the thought of it being something bad that I had unleashed. I slowly, but carefully, lifted the box and tried to look through a tiny crack that was in it.

The boat started to sail away and before I knew what was happening, I was in the middle of the sea. I was crying and crying and threw the box into the sea.The box opened and I saw at the bottom of it five little objects. I reached out and brought the box back into the boat.

I tipped the box over on to the deck of the boat and out fell: a door knocker, glove, rag dress, strings and a flower.

I wondered why such eclectic objects were in that box and what did they all have in common.

People always said that I have a vivid imagination so I thought and thought and thought, and then I realised that all these objects could have been from fairy tales. The door knocker could be from Alice in Wonderland. Alice could have had a door knocker and then decided to get a doorbell, so the door knocker ran away as it was no longer needed.

I liked that idea, but what about all the other objects? What fairy tales did they come from?

I love the story about Cinderella, it’s my favourite story and maybe the rag dress is Cinderella’s because when she became a princess she didn’t need her rag dress anymore so it ran away because otherwise it would have gone in the bin.

So then I thought about the glove. Why the glove was in there and why was there only one glove?

Peter Pan! I remembered that Captain Hook only had one hand and so only used one glove. The hook didn’t need a glove and so the glove also ran away.

I finally understood all of the items. But I didn’t understand why the strings and flower were in there. I couldn’t remember any fairy tale with flowers in it.

I looked down at my hands to think and I saw my thumbs. Well there are no fairy tales about thumbs so that’s no help. I couldn’t get the word thumb off my mind, it must have been a clue. What fairytale’s name starts off with a thumb? It took me quite a while to figure out what it was but I did eventually remember Thumbelina!

How could I forget - that was such a lovely story! When Thumbelina went to live in the house with her mummy, the flower that she was born in never got seen again so it must have run away as well!

All of these objects must have been very sad to all run away. And the strings must have run away as well. The only story that I could think of with strings in it was Pinocchio, but why would the strings run away? I wiped away my tears from earlier and one of my tears hit the wooden box. That was what made me realise that Pinocchio was once wooden but turned into a real boy and so he didn’t need his strings to operate him anymore.

I was glad that I had worked it all out. It probably wasn’t true but I liked the idea of it all. I felt so sorry for all of these objects that they were once in great stories and got taken out because they were no longer needed.

I decided to write a story about them in my notepad to show my Mum and Dad when I finally got off the boat, but after a while I gave up. It was too hard for me to write such a story. I was only in Year 2 but my Mum always said never give up, so I didn’t. I carried on trying to write a story. I was found by the police the next morning. My Mum and Dad were really worried about me and had called the police asking them to help look for me!

I was taken home but left all of the objects lying on the bottom of the boat. When I had gone the boat carried on sailing away. I left my unfinished story there as well.

For homework at school we had to write a story, so I did a story about all the objects I found in the boat that never got to be in a story until the end without disappearing half way through. But they finally did.

And that is the story you have just read.

Abby Posner (10) Hertfordshire

It was still now, but not silent. On the deck lay a long box of wine-red wood, studded with tiny, tarnished mirrors. From within came a soft but insistent knocking.

“I must say, you’re taking the whole thing remarkably well.” The voice came from my guide in the shadows. She held a towering scythe and her robes were pure darkness, gradually fading into the shadows. It was as if someone had smudged her around the edges, to such an extent that you couldn’t tell where she ended, and where the night began.

“Thank you. It did come as quite a shock. I mean, I never would have expected to wake up, well, dead.” Even though you wanted it? Of course, I was sad to be dead, even if the little voice in my head wasn’t sympathetic.

A wistful sigh caused Death’s hood to billow. “I still remember how it was like when I was still alive,” she reminisced. Then, gesturing to the wooden craft, she continued, “Anyway, the afterlife can’t be held up on our account, so after you, if you please.”

I approached the side of the quay nervously, and clambered into the tiny wooden craft, doing my best to avoid seeing my reflection in the water. You look a right state! mocked the little voice in my head. But I was used to the barrage of insults by now, and I just let them wash over me, pretending I couldn’t hear them, a task made all the more difficult when the criticism followed you around.

Looking for an escape, I focused instead on the box. At this proximity, the soft thuds were clearer, and I could feel heat pulsing from it with every beat, almost as if it were alive.

Once safely on board, Death pushed off from the quay and we began to travel upstream, unaided by motors or oars of any kind.

“Do you mind if I take this off?” the voice of Death wrenched me from my silent musings, as she pointed at her hood. I nodded wordlessly, holding my breath in anxious anticipation of the terrible sight that awaited me. Maybe she was a devil, and I was in hell for being such a useless person during my life, a reflection the little voice was quick to agree with. However, my imagination was cut short with one deft flick of her wrists, when a pair of blue eyes, set in a round face, blinked out at me from under a thick mop of brown ringlets.

“Are you trying to catch flies?” she asked, and I realised my jaw had dropped.

“It’s just that you aren’t quite how I imagined a harbinger of doom.”

“I get that all the time,” she sighed, crestfallen. “None of my colleagues take me seriously!”

“But- That is to say- You were quite intimidating in your uniform.”

“Now you’re just saying that to make me feel better!” she wailed, hiding her face in her hands.

“No! I was genuinely petrified,” I exaggerated, doing my best to console her. A glimmer of hope flickered across her eyes, peeping out from between stubby fingers, and I did what could to nurture it: “Really.”

Slowly but surely, the hands fell, exposing a face now glowing with bashful pride. It was nice to know I was good for something, despite what the little nagging voice would have me believe. “Well, if you’re sure,” she mumbled, beaming, “Besides, I’m not technically a Death yet. I’m more of an understudy.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you mean by the “colleagues” you mentioned?”

“Why, the other guides, of course! Wait a minute,” she laughed, noticing my disbelief, “Did you think there was just the one?”

“Well… yes. I assumed Death was an exclusive job.”

“In The Beginning, when the population was smaller, maybe, but nowadays there’s no way the boss could deal with all this. So he delegates. A lucky thing to, or I’d be out of work!”

“So what, your boss only deals with VIPS? I don’t know if I should be insulted,” I huffed, only half-jokingly.

“Don’t take it too personally. You see, you’re a special case. Particularly tricky. The thing is,” she continued, pulling a roll of heavy parchment out of one of her sleeves and unfurling it, “you’re not on The List.” The names crammed on the paper were illegibly tiny, yet she held it up for inspection all the same, as if to prove her point.

“Which means?” I urged her on.

“Which means nobody’s sure you’re meant to be dead.” Except you, because you know you don’t deserve to live! But I ignored this, clinging onto every word the Death said, my hopes mounting steadily. Did I still have a chance to get back?

“Normally, I’d just ferry someone across the river, and let them go to their fate. However, in your case, where an “administrative error” has occurred, so to speak, there’s an astounding amount of paperwork waiting for the department that takes you,” she hesitated, her tone apologetic, “And as you can imagine, no one likes paperwork…”

“You mean to say,” I clarified, “that no one wants me?” She nodded her affirmation grimly. “Not even hell?” Another nod. You see, I was right, you’re an unwanted, good-for-nothing- “Oh, well, that’s… disappointing,” I commented.

“But it’s not all bad news! I’ve been sent to find out what’s wrong, and, if possible, remedy it.”

“No offence meant, but why you? I mean, you’re an understudy, right? If this is so important, why not send in a pro?”

“Excellent question! You see, the Powers of the Mystic aren’t allowed to intervene in mortal matters, but, seeing as I am an unofficial Omen, I can! In fact, it’s the general consensus that you died by mystical interference, and for this reason you can be brought back without excessive damage to the fabric of the universe,” she explained reasonably, as if this was the most natural concept in the world. “But, no need to worry about my qualifications: I’ve been given a checklist. This should narrow down the cause of your untimely demise. So, first question: Are you allergic to shellfish? No? Alright, an X there. Penicillin, nuts or gluten? All no? Fair enough. What about polyester?”

“If it’s any help, I’m not allergic to anything.”

She smiled gratefully, flipping over four pages. “Number 127: Do you hear voices?”

Do you ever? I hesitated. If you tell her she’ll think you’re a freak, and they’ll put you away in a padded cell to rot. Not that anyone would miss you. Just like they don’t now you’re dead! And I answered, just to spite him: “Yes, I do.”

“And how long has that been going on for?”

“Two months, give or take.”

“And this voice, would you describe it as passive or aggressive?”

“The latter. Very much the latter,” I whispered.

“What does it say?”

“It-” My voice caught in my throat. Go on and say it, you useless lump. Or aren’t you able? You always were too much of a coward to face up to the truth about yourself! You’re just a stupid, ugly, fat- “Things that aren’t very nice! LIES!” I surprised myself by shouting. I obviously surprised the voice too, because for once, there was silence in my mind. But Death’s Apprentice didn’t seem surprised in the least. In fact, a smile had spread across her face, and she was pulling a fistful of coloured sand from one of the deep folds of her robes. Before I even had a chance to close my mouth, she blew the grains at my head, leaving me to splutter in protest.

“As I suspected,” she announced triumphantly, her gaze locked above my right shoulder. Turning to see what could possibly be so interesting, I was confronted by an amazing sight: A tiny black-winged creature, almost a fairy, but with rows of sharp teeth and an unpleasantly pointed face, frozen in mid-air, coated in sand. “This is what was causing the problem. Made any wishes lately?” And then it dawned on me. “I wish I were dead,” I remembered crying, one night the voice had gotten particularly nasty. And my wish had come true.

“Anyway, it should all be fine now. All that had to happen was for you to find the confidence to contradict the little weasel, and you managed that very well, indeed. And the moral of the story is…?”

I rolled my eyes, but joined in the chorus with her: “Be careful what you wish for. So, what happens now?”

“Well,” she said, pocketing the angry little creature, “now you go back! It’s very simple, really. This box,” she knocked on the lid, “contains the life spark that fuses your soul to your body. Just open it and wait.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again, then?”

“You never know, some day I might have a nasty accident.” I opened the box, and felt a tug, pulling me away from the boat, back to my life.

“I’ll be waiting,” she grinned, and for the first time she was truly terrifying.

Kate Cosgrave (17) Co. Cavan, Ireland

The pebble skimmed the water, skipping across the surface like bare feet on cool grass.
“One! Two! Three! Four!”
“Five! Five!”
“No way was that five.”
“It so was!”
“So wasn’t!”
“You’re just jealous.”
A pause.
“What?” The voice was cooler now, the edge of heady laughter smoothed away with the ripples on the water. The pebble had disappeared into the depths.
“Just ‘cause I found something I’m better at than you are!”
“That’s not true.”
“What isn’t? That you’re jealous, that I found something I can do better than you, or that you’re better than me at bloody everything?” A new pebble was thrown with force into the water, sending up droplets that caught the sunset and burned an angry red.
“Don’t swear.”
“See? You’re doing it again. You always think you’re better than me.”

I shook my head to dispel the memories before they could continue. The sun-flecks on the water blurred and shimmered, and for a moment I wondered whether they were drawn across the surface of my eye rather than the surface of the water.
It was so horribly familiar. New place, new time, but the box itself was just the same. It was as if it radiated memories, a sickening heat that reached me even here, at this distance. The reassuring safety of sunlight was rapidly disappearing behind the skyline and I tried to back away and leave that wine-red box where it was, glinting in the dusk, but my feet were rooted as if they grew from the wood of the quay itself.
Each tarnished mirror reflected back a shattered sunset, warping and twisting it until it became something blood-red and clotted with cloud, losing its pastels and gentle glow. The fear grew stronger until I could almost smell it against the most amicable scents of the warm, summer’s evening. Knock. Knock. Knock.

“I came here with you to be nice.”
“Oh, I feel so privileged!” Anger and sarcasm, punctuated by the heavy splash of stones thrown with vehemence into the water.
“Stop acting like a child.”
“You’re fourteen! Stop acting like an adult!”
“I don’t even know why I came.”
“To be nice – remember? I’m your latest charity case.”
“Why do I bother?”
“Perhaps it gives you a nice warm, superior feeling inside?” another angry splash.
“You’re not worth it. Everyone was right – messed up, malicious… just like your parents.”
Clenched fists, squared feet.
“Shut up!”
“What, you’re going to fight me? Sure, that’ll prove me wrong. Grow up.”
“Leave me alone.”
“With pleasure. Good luck with living up to your family traditions, Matt – perhaps I’ll see you on the news one day. Arsonist, rapist… what’ll it be?”
A roar, anger itself embodied in sound. A pushing hand, a scream of protest laced with fear and horror, the last, taunting words still hovering in the air as their creator fell against a backdrop of sparkling blue water.
A splash. She hadn’t sunk like the stones, she’d…

“I hadn’t even meant to! I hadn’t known she couldn’t sw…” I stopped myself, brought back to the present with a nauseating jerk by my own outburst, and looked around furtively. There was nobody nearby to hear my damning words. The memory was worse after being so locked away, every detail carefully preserved. I could still feel the roughness of her denim jacket on my palm as I pushed, still hear the echo of those pinching, biting insults as they took charge of my muscles and moved me on impulse.
I returned to the present, and to the box. It was still there, shifting gently as the water beneath rippled and swelled. Knock, knock, knock. I willed it to disappear but it refused, glinting horribly like a freshly honed weapon.

“Not another ‘true’ horror story…”
“What, you chicken? C’mon, Matt! Let your sister talk.”
The air was crowded with anticipation and smelt strongly of cheap alcohol.
“Ready, everyone? I don’t wanting anyone crying. Or screaming. The neighbours’ll come, nosy buggers.”
Tittering. The sound of shifting bodies suggests a cramped space.
“Go on. We’re not scared.”
“Ever heard the phrase guilty conscience?”
“Yeah.”
The sound of a plastic cup splitting under a foot or in impatient hands.
“There’s a cure for a guilty conscience that any murderer knows. You want to know what it is?”
“Yeah.”
“At moonlight, you’ve got to build yourself a box from wood of a tree someone was hanged on.”
Scoffing. The girl’s voice continued regardless. “Serious – if you can’t find one of those, it has to be from a really old tree, that’s seen a lot in it’s time…”
“This is so made up.” More shifting.
“No way. It’s all from an ancient Roman scripture. I saw it on my school trip to Italy, see, so I know all about it, but not many people do – it’s a secret. It’s called the Liber Noxiae – the book of guilt.”
They were willing to allow this, their logic and cynicism dulled by alcopops and the introduction of something plausible in Latin.
“So you build this box, right, and then you fill it with all the bad stuff you’ve done. You have to think of it really hard and then spit into one corner of the box. In the next corner, you have to let a few drops of your own blood fall. In the next, you have to put something that shows how you killed the person – a sliver of steel if it was by sword, a drop of poison if you tainted their food…”
A communal shiver.
“…and you leave the forth corner empty. That way your guilt goes away.”
“Then?”
“Then you have to take the box, right, and throw it into the sea.”
A yelp as a foot connected with a shin. Her audience was becoming restless.
“But there’s always something the murderer hasn’t accounted for. It’ll work a few years, right, but on the very last page of the scripture I was saying about… it says ‘pulsat’… ‘It’s knocking’. Then – in Latin, right – it says…”
A pause for effect. The room was silent, the air thick.
“When the past comes knocking…death’s on his way.”

Knock. Knock. Knock. I was shivering all over, covered in goosebumps. My box. I’d made it, following my older sister’s words to the letter, straining to find the memory of what I should do to wipe the guilt away. Perhaps I’d truly believed that by throwing it into the sea, from this very quay, I had disposed of it forever.
I hadn’t bargained for it following me.
For months now, it had been simply everywhere. I’d turn, glance in a shop window, and there – perhaps covered in a tartan cloth, but to me unmistakable – that wine-red box I’d been so sure was gone for good. I’d take one look and flee, the soft, unrelenting knocking echoing back and forth between my ears until it was drowned out by the panicked pounding of my own blood as I ran.
But now… I couldn’t. My feet seemed to move of their own accord, as my hands had done on that horrible, summer’s evening when the taunting words had captured my body and moved it without my consent. Perhaps, I thought, I could climb down and throw it back into the water where it belonged.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My breathing was quick, my palms sweaty. I was afraid that my trainers would slip on the wet rungs of the ladder, so I jumped, bracing myself to land in the wooden rowing boat that waited just a few feet below me.
The water slammed shut over my head. There was no boat. There was no box, except perhaps the rotting remains of one, inexpertly made and tossed into the depths some fifteen years before. There had only ever been a guilty conscience, and the knock knock knock of a frightened heart.

Beth O’Leary (15) Winchester