%20(3240%20x%203240%20px).png)
Runner up: Josephine Bingley Age 17
Thurston Community College Sixth Form
Josephine says: “When I entered the competition, the idea of getting anywhere with it was more of a fantasy than anything. Something I'd think, hypothetically, would be fantastic if it actually happened. Then it did! Needless to say, I am so very honoured to have been awarded runner-up, and flattered (or maybe, flattened, in the best way) by the idea of having my work seen and published. My next steps are a creative writing degree and hopefully a career as a writer, and this has really boosted my confidence - thank you!”
Nicola Upson, judge of the 14-17 Category says: “This is such an ambitious interpretation of the brief. I was particularly struck by the way in which the central theme - the worlds within and beyond the front door - is emphasised through lots of small but effective contrasts: the storybook knight and the reality of the present moment; the flowers and the autumn twigs; the self in the photographs and the person who’s now looking at them. All those details build cumulatively to create a really powerful sense of melancholy and despair. There’s some beautiful writing here, and some of the imagery took my breath away. Just occasionally, it's overwritten: phrases like 'the redistributed weight of your meagre body’ are a bit too contrived; ‘the weight of your body’ would sound more natural and would give the more intense moments space to breathe and really make an impact on the reader. But it’s a fearless, unsettling, moving and brave piece of writing, and it’s really stayed with me.”
Beyond My Front Door
by Josephine Bingley Age 17
You wake, as always, with a headache. Your bed, as always, is too comfortable for you. You feel that the pillows will suffocate you, but you cannot bring yourself to move away from them. Your room is too bright, even with the heavy curtains drawn snugly over the panes of glass, shielding you from the glaring colours of Outside as the knight in your childhood's favourite stories would shield the princess from the dragon.
You can't help but sigh as you prop yourself up onto your elbows. The mattress sinks under the redistributed weight of your meagre body. The capsule of bitterness rattles weakly as you pop its lid and lift it to pour its contents into your hand. Empty, now. That means you need to leave, to go get it refilled. The dragon from the stories hisses at you with flame-flavoured breath that it's just talking. Nothing particularly taxing, you know, but the thought of leaving the safety of seclusion to do it has you biting back a hiss of your own.
The vase filled with what resembles autumn twigs stands solitary in the corner of your room, watching you judgingly as you swallow what's in your hand and pull back the covers and get up and wriggle into your crumpled clothes from where they lie, dying, on top of your chair. You remember when you first moved here. You bought the vase, and the flowers, and you stood them right where they would look happiest in your room. That was a month ago. They don't look happy anymore. They look like human skeletons.
Comments