Secondary: Literary Humanities Week – Short Story Competition

We are delighted to showcase the winning entries from this year’s Literary Humanities Week Short Story Competition. Students were invited to explore the competition theme through original storytelling, demonstrating creativity, imagination and strong literacy skills. The competition provided an opportunity for young writers to express their unique voices and share their work with the wider school community.

Congratulations to our winners Shanum Talib (10C), Ameera Bagher (11B), and Sidra Muntaha (11G)  whose engaging stories stood out among many impressive submissions.

We hope you enjoy reading their work and are inspired by the talent and 

creativity of our students.

Short story competition

Laugh. Laugh NOW

A group of girls sits on the grass, all giggling at a joke. Their makeup is flawless. Their hair is perfectly styled.

She laughs with them.

Too Loud

She softens her voice and lets it blend in.

Perfect

At home, she sits on her bed.

Hair down.

Face bare.

She reads her favourite book. The one with the worn cover. The one that transports her to a worldso fantastical, she almost forgets to come back.

This is nice

She forgets her day, preferring to believe that she had spent it in the pages instead.

But she hadn’t.

She spent it laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny. Jokes that were cruel. Callous.

“Look at her hair!”

“Why does she look like that?”

I am not a bad person.

…I think

She’s back at school, fit right into the circle of friends, the spot saved just for her.

Smile. SMILE.

Look normal. Just look normal.

She paints the smile onto her face. It doesn’t quite hold. A grimace slips through. 

She fixes it back into place.

To her, it seems that the other girls have effortlessly blended into each other. Laughing. Joking, at the expense of another person.

Wait, what were they talking about?

She was lost in thoughts of her book. In characters brave enough to let the smile disintegrate.

I should listen.

She listened. The character of the book still in her mind. And for a second – just a second, sheopened her mouth. Ready to speak. Not to add to the joke, no. To speak up. 

To fight. To stand.

Yes

But only for a second. One second. One fleeting second. Gone before even the thought had fullycrossed her mind.

No

And so the joke carried on without her.

Between the perfect melody of the chorus…

…She’d be the crack in the harmony.

Ameera Bagha, 11B

Irrelevant Change

6AM

I push my curtains aside, revealing the darkness of the dawn.

The first thing I notice is the obnoxious notifications that flood my phone. Influencers going live. New beauty standards. New slang. Another day. Another chance to make a change in the world. But instead of being ecstatic, I only feel numbness and hopelessness I rose from my bed, the shroud-like, scratchy sheets pooling around my waist, their embrace resembling a dying person clinging onto their loved one for the last time. My eyelids rest heavily on my eyes, like a warm blanket inviting me to sleep again. softly. Just 5 more minutes they whisper insistently. Five more minutes of being no one.

7AM

I would much rather endure the pain of discipline than the slow rot of regret. Much rather feel uncomfortable for 30 minutes than the entire day. So, I get to work before the house even stirs. Thirty squats. Thirty crunches. Thirty push-ups. Each movement burns, but it’s a clean precise burn, nothing like the flaming humiliation of gasping for breath after barely running thirty metres in P.E, lungs desperately collapsing under the pressure.

Then comes the makeup. Concealer erasing imperfections, blush warming my cheek bonesand contour reconstructing my soft features into more defined ones until I look sharper, cleaner; confident. I refine. I correct. I improve.

I meet my gaze in the mirror.

Today will be different. I decide.

I will be different.

8AM

Breakfast is this “detox smoothie” that I can’t bring myself to stomach.

I tell my mum - between her wiping my brother’s hands and cutting someone’s crusts off - I get my test back today. She says “Mhm.” the way she does when she hears the reverberation of my voice, but not the words.

I say it again, louder, as if I’m gently nudging the words to finally land, and she just replies, “That's wonderful.” but then someone spills something and the moment is wiped away before it was even really there.

I leave my half empty glass on the kitchen counter.

Half-finished. Half-noticed.

I grab my bag and step outside the place that ever almost heard me.

9AM

First period.

I sit up straighter than necessary. Speak clearer than required. I answer precisely justenough questions; enough to be seen, enough not to be labelled as annoying.

Still, the teacher’s gaze attention wavers from me and onto someone else.

The teacher calls on them. They slouch, their words unravelling with every syllable, woven together by uncertainty and incorrect terminology.

“Excellent.” The teacher beams, as if excellence had bestowed its light upon all of us.

I look down at my colour coded notes.

Better. Clearer. Correct.

But why wasn’t I excellent?

10AM

The tests are placed face down on our desks.

I flip mine over, expecting a triple digit number, only to be met with a mere 93. I stare at it for a long moment, the teacher's neat scrawl almost taunting me. I check my answers and realise that none of them are incorrect. They are all properly structured, worded and adhere to the question. So how did I manage to get a 93 when I studied for hours upon hours?

I inquire the teacher about their mark scheme and they reply with

"You deserved full marks” they say airily. “But I want to push you further. You could’ve included more real-world applications.”

The words settle in my stomach queasily.

“But-”

“It is for your own good,” They interrupt my sentence as if I had never spoken, “I am not a villain.”

A gasp behind me breaks me out of my trance.

I swivel. Her paper is messier. Simpler. Less.

And yet-

“97,” the teacher announces proudly, “highest in the class.”

My paper is crumpled and at the bottom of my bag before I even realise.

11AM

Bell sounds for recess. My best friend sits next to me and without any hesitation takes her mouthful from my lunch box, like she is entitled to.

“So” – she wipes her mouth – “how was your weekend?”

“It was-”

“Oh my God, did I ever tell you-”

The words are stuck to the roof of my mouth. I keep smiling, making the appropriate nods while she speaks, talking about recognition for doing the minimum required from one, about future plans that include no place for me in it. I make another attempt to get a word in but miss.

What’s the point in having an enemy when you have a friend who doesn’t notice that you are gone?

12PM

Group work.

The collaboration process makes the classroom seem smaller as all of the desks are crowded together. I’m leaning forward, prepared.

“Maybe I can do some of the research?”

A quick glance.

“No thanks. We’ve got everything covered.”

Neither unfriendly nor friendly; merely decisive.

They divide our – their roles and talk effortlessly among themselves.

“How about the ethical considerations?”

I begin to speak; too late.

My name appears along with theirs.

A contributor.

In theory.

1PM

By lunchtime, the ruckus has settled into something more contained. Something more peaceful. I slide into the seat next to my best friend and listen to the same stories once more.

I look down at my food and try to finish it.

It’s the only thing that I can complete.

2PM

English class always humiliates me.

“Today we will be talking about our identities.” The teacher pauses. “Write down five sentences on your own identity.”

Identity.

Who is this person that you are supposed to write down five sentences about?

I stare at my empty page.

“I am someone who—”

I stop writing.

Someone who does what? Adapts? Changes? Disappears?

How can I write five sentences when I can barely write five words about who I am?

My gaze flicks over to all the students, heads bent over papers, pens moving with precision, and confidence radiating, as if the answer lied within them.

Purple hair.

Nose piercings.

Sketch books.

Air pods.

Dark eye liner.

Every single one of them had something unique. They all looked like their own person, unashamed of who they truly are.

As the bell rings, a feeling of comfort takes hold, not because the assignment was completed, but because I no longer had to struggle to answer a question that everyone else answered swiftly.

3PM

The bell rings for home time.

“Are you coming?”

The question lingers in the air.

Just not for me.

When will it ever be for me?

4PM

My shadow follows me home.

Perhaps it is the only thing that will ever be mine.

5PM

As usual, the house greets me in its inattentive familiarity as I put down my bag beside the door and head up to my room, closing the door with unnecessary finality.

The mirror waits patiently, just as it always does. I go up to stand before it, taking in my pains takingly constructed image that had taken me hours to create, each stroke deliberate and each movement aimed at refining me into something perfect, without drawing any unnecessary attention to it.

I bring up my hand and run my fingers across my cheek, watching the precision give way beneath my fingers as the layers of makeup wash off, leaving behind something less perfect but certainly no less.

This time, I don’t take the time to straighten out the test paper on my bed.

Or myself.

6PM

The final streaks of daylight fade away from the dark canvas of the milky way. I find myself at the window, reflecting on the way I started my day, hoping that today would finally be the day where I would be the person worth remembering, worth cherishing, only to live the exact same day on repeat. I stared at the last remnants of the sunset, the stars speckling the sky and realisation finally hit me.

The sun rises every day. 

The sun sets every day. 

But it never looks the same every day. 

The difference between irrelevant change and relevant change is the intention. The starsdon’t force themselves to look a certain way every single day. They just… appear. They just try to show up, and people flock like birds to admire them, to study them, to draft 

books about them.

Resting my forehead against the frosted glass pane, I let the orange glow of the setting sun take over. For the very first time in my life, I granted myself the liberty not to re-write the day, as I acknowledge that there is going to be a tomorrow when I would no longer strive to become a whole new self. The mere thought of it makes me uneasy, but also curious. What difference could an intention make? I guess I’ll have to find out tomorrow.

I pull my curtains together, concealing the darkness of the dusk.

Shanum Talib, 10C

Indicates timeskip

I am nameless.

In a world where the sun never sets, I was born from the roots of The Mother, a byproduct of humanity’s relentless abuse of Her graciousness. What once was green and lush has turned to barren land. Resources are scarce, and not much is left of human civilization, 

with conditions so unliveable. 

Past the human lands, across Her roots that curve and twist into the void, lies the Edge of Forever, where my kind grows abundant. Us rootborns are the physical manifestations of Mother’s pain, and we emerge from the Edge to cleanse the world of humanity. and yet, I harbor none of the vitriol that my kin do. 

Instead, I wander aimlessly by following Mother's roots, leaving a trail of glistening orange resin wherever I go. And soon, I find myself nearing human civilization itself, no matter how dangerous it is for a being like me.

Wastemoor is the name of the settlement, as displayed on the rusting metal welcome sign five feet above my head. It is a small, rundown place -- everything is made of tin and rotting wood. Yet, it remains lively, with a makeshift bar situated in the remains ofan old aircraft.

Avoiding the man at the watchtower, who is asleep next to two bottles of cheap beer, I sneak into the town around a small shed. Before I know it, I am face-to-face with a young human, grinning up at me. I jump slightly.

“Shhh! I won’t tell anyone you’re a rootborn.”

The human’s hair is so matted that it looks like she has a nest atop her head. I nod slowly, still tense, unable to vocalise a response due to my lack of an oral orifice. Yet that only seems to please the human, given that her smile only widens.

“But that’s only if you do a little something for me!”

I tilt my head slightly, curious and sceptical. A human that has appeared completely out of nowhere, is now asking me -- a rootborn -- to do something for her, as if her kind do not hunt mine for sport. She does not look wary at all.

“I need you to deliver a package to someone at Fort Edge watch.”

“...”

I stare at the human blankly. What is Fort Edge watch? What package? Who? She starts laughing, as if seeing an expression on my featureless face.

“Northwest of here, there’s a place called Fort Edge watch. It’s a former military aviation base, but now it’s a settlement. Go there and find Veri, and give him this parcel and letter- oh, and tell him it’s from Felis. When you’re back, this house is alllll yours!”

The human gestures to the small shed we’re standing next to, dumps the parcel and letters into my arms, winks, and runs away. I remain standing, dumbfounded.

I have nothing better to do anyways…

After hours of walking with the large parcel strapped to my back, the towering pillars of Fort Edge watch pierce through the fog, like the trees that once made up the forest of the area. The fortress is held up high, facing the Edge of Forever, reminiscent of its name. I take the lift -- which is a platform connected to a trebuchet-like structure with ropes --up to the fortress and am immediately met with dual blades to my neck.

I flinch slightly at the slur. Two human men stand in front of me, glaring, their bodie shidden behind battered aluminium shields. They seem to be the guards of the fortress. I awkwardly point to my parcel, and their expressions seem to relax somewhat, but they snag it off me. The taller man looks down at me, his eyes unreadable.

“Can’t trust you monsters, so we’re checking’ the bag.”

I nod slowly, at which the man seems a little thrown off. However, after their inspection, they let me go, albeit tailing me. I keep my head lowered as I wander the fortress in an attempt to locate “Veri”, careful of the rotting planks in the flooring so as to not fall through the floor.

After a while of perusing the alleys, I come across a smith’s shop, with a beast of a man hammering at the anvil, his hair and beard a jet black. While he works, I hear a younger person -- an apprentice, perhaps -- call him “Master Veri.” Recognising the name, I cautiously approach, afraid of his stature.

He looks up at me, his eyes widening and then narrowing.

“A rootborn?!”

I show him the letter Felis gave me, hands trembling. His brown eyes hold a great magnitude of suspicion as he slowly takes the letter and unfolds it, scanning the contents. His expression softens as he finishes reading and he looks back up at me.

“I thought that the merchantwoman had swindled me. She never delivered my purchase, but a delay does make sense, with the circumstances at Wastemoor. Thank you.”

I nod, and I hand him the parcel. He smiles at me, still rigid, but grateful nonetheless,with a certain curiosity to his gaze.

“Well, if Felis sent you as a courier… may I ask you for a favor?”

I nod, unsure of what he will say. He smiles, holding a packaged axe.

“Can you take this to the Volkov Line? I have a friend there; his name is Lance. I am unable to return his axe as I’m busy with work… and Felis seems to trust you. I’ll pay you a handsome sum of teeth if you do.”

I hesitate, staring at the axe, but Veri elaborates.

“The Line is an underground railway that ends at the Edge of Forever. It’s mostly outlaws who live there, and it’s damn unsafe compared to Edge watch or Wastemoor… but Lance should keep you safe. You can stay with me until night, because it’s easier to travel then… cooler temperatures, and no one will see you.”

I nod slowly and take the axe. He grins, sending an unpleasant shiver down my roots.

Time passed quickly with Veri. Eventually, I am set to leave for the Volkov Line. It takes a while, but eventually, I approach the cave-looking entrance, with broken railroads leading inside. A lone torch hangs on the wall, flames burning brightly to dispel the darkness.

I enter cautiously, remembering Veri’s words about potential danger. I stick to the walls like Mother's roots snaking across them, walking along the rails until I come across a small camp settlement.

There are tent-like structures made from cloth strewn across metal pegs, surrounding some sort of bonfire. My steps slow as I approach the tents, package inhand.

There are not many humans, and all look very tired. While looking around, I notice a young human man in the attire of an outlaw with exhausted purple eyes; he matches the description of the friend Veri told me about.

I approach him slowly, tapping his shoulder to get his attention. 

He looks back at me gloomily.

“... Scram, rootborn. I don’t feel like killin’ ya.”

I gesture to his name, “Lance”, written on the parcel, and then I point at him. He nods in surprise.

“That’s me. What’s in that thing?”

I hand him the package, letting him open it and watching him hold his axe. “Huh. Thanks, take this.”

He throws a palm-sized mirror at me. I catch it quickly, looking down at it, noticing my reflection for the first time. I look up at him again, mildly confused.

“What’re you looking at me like that for? Yeah, I’m a dirty criminal, but I do fair trade. That’s just how we are, here at the Line.”

I nod slowly. He crosses his arms, side eyeing me.

“Anyways, you should get back to wherever you came from. This place ain’t safe for you.”

I nod again, turning to leave.

After a long, long walk, traveling from the Volkov Line, back through Edgewatch where I claimed my bag of teeth from Veri, I finally approach Wastemoor, and am jumped by Felis.

“You’re back! Here’s the keys to your home.”

She throws me the keys and runs off again wordlessly.

I head inside, but while entering, I trip on a protruding ledge and drop the mirror in my hand, shattering it. I recoil, a sinking feeling in my heartwood.

I gather the shards, sitting down and glueing them together with my resin, the bright orange standing out against the reflective pieces.

Oddly, they remind me of all the places I have been to, and the people I have met across the land. Each piece is broken in a specific way, and my resin fills up the gaps and joins them together, almost like my place-to-place parcel delivery escapade. And as I gaze down at my repaired mirror, I see someone staring back at me.

Someone that is more than just Mother’s pain. Someone who reflects all the people that they have ever met. Someone who now has a name --

I, who am no longer nameless, as I am Nameless.

Sidra Muntaha, 11G