Clifton LitFest Young Writers’ Competition Winners

The first ever Young Writers’ Competition was launched by Clifton LitFest in September as part of their new YA strand.

Creatives from across Bristol took part and we were thrilled when it was announced that two Clifton College students won the top prizes in their categories.The theme of the competition was ‘The Library’ and students could choose to enter a piece of writing (of up to 800 words) in either a fiction or non-fiction category. Kathy won first prize in the Sixth Form category for her dystopian tale of the monetisation of death, which featured a sinister library of memories. Daria won the Year 9 to 11 prize for her striking non-fiction piece, ‘All the World’s Wisdom’, a philosophical essay on the human quest for answers.

Both students attended a special prize-giving ceremony at Clifton Public Library on 15th November. They each won £100 and excerpts of their work were read aloud by the award-winning actor Paul McGann, best known for his leading roles in Doctor Who (he played the eighth incarnation of the Doctor) and the cult comedy Withnail and I (1987).

Congratulations to both students! The winning pieces can be read below:

The Library - Kathy

Your story never ends: it evolves

Six refined, polished words were lathered across a colossal gilded mahogany sign, eagerly beckoning each passerby into its deep and portentous halls. Under the dim evening glow of London’s sky, it almost looked beautiful. Yet, all I saw was the fruition of the purest and rawest form of mortal tyranny. Commercialised death, or rather “Attenuation” they’d call it; mask it with a fancy, vaguely scientific word and the facade of honoring death is sealed for the uneducated, consumerist drones. Millennia of ignorance, materialism, and corporate gluttony have driven society into a pit of oblivion, where the collapsing world around them feels no more significant than gum stuck to their shoes, spawning short-lived trends like ethical cannibalism, corpse couture, and, in this case, memory extraction.

When first introduced, the concept of The Library appeared itself laughable to me: a business splicing the essence and body of a deceased human being, allowing the exposed mind to be dissected into fragments of memory, “Mementos”, and auctioned off. It was morbid and sadistic to me, especially the name — a sick and perverse metaphor mirroring the mere vastness of Mementos harvested. But it seemed as though empathy and emotional sensitivity had become out of fashion, much like all its predecessors, as this new service immediately became the next-big-thing buyers would spill blood for, both hyperbolically and verbatim. Admittedly, I never understood the pleasure of recycling humanity.

Open all working days 7am-11pm
Weekends 8am-6pm

The whole business held a sort of pathetic humour: its sardonic title and the insensitive, industrial notices and announcements plastered all over its dystopian walls. I guess that just reflects the kind of person my father was: acerbic but always slightly satirical. His thirst for wealth I deeply resented, yet he saw what most couldn’t. He saw the value of death. He knew his judgement was justified because in the end, his business prevailed long after his demise. In the end, the ostentatious sign that hung proudly atop, looking down distastefully on humans was right. Profits don’t die with us – we can always be exploited. Hence, from the moment it came into existence, the library no longer signified a place where people could browse through books and literature, but instead a collection of memories from the dead, celebrities and strangers alike.

“Looking into The Library services, dearie?” The woman guarding the door seemed impatient, flashing a disingenuous, tight-lipped smile my way.

“I’m alright, thanks” was what I responded with, habitually as a reflex.

She glanced at me and then down at my hands, disgusted, “not thinking of a cremation are you, dearie?”

“No,” I replied.

There came no acknowledgement of my presence after that, only an occasional dismissive nod towards me once she noticed I’m still there, standing. Thus, the somber silence of the English night swallowed me once more into its empty abyss as I took one more look at the gleaming letters before me. More than mocking, it felt foreboding. The sun will dusk today and dawn the next, but the future of humanity may never rise again.

Your story never ends: it evolves

And so there I stood, in front of the very gates of my creation, holding a miniscule urn in my hands, where my father slept soundlessly amidst the only pulverised remnants of his life.

All The World’s Wisdom - Daria

We, as humans, don’t know everything. And I doubt we ever will. I doubt that we will ever find and name every creature on the planet’s surface. I doubt that we will ever cure all of the diseases that hound us. I doubt that we will ever map, and explore each square inch of this land. And I doubt that we will ever stop trying.

We try. We always try. And I think that, that, as a species, is our fatal flaw. That we never, ever stop that constant search for answers.

And where we find those answers can vary. Whether it is from the mouth of an elderly lady, lying on their deathbed. Whether it is from the eager, hushed whisper-shouts of an excitable child. Or whether it is hidden, deep in the tales that dictate our society. Those fables of old that have been brought down to nothing but simple bedtime stories. I fear that the majority of the time the answers are right there. Right in front of us, dancing and frolicking in the air, laughing at our stupidity, our willing blindness. Our inability to ask the right questions.

So we remain ignorant. Never realising how close we came to the truth.

But there are ways. If we look. There are massive buildings full of answers. Full of questions. Full of all the wrong answers, all the wrong questions, full of everything and anything, life and death, love and hate, stories of the old and new, of cities made of gold, of slums full of dirt. Full of all that you want, all you could ever need.

These buildings hold worlds to dive into that defy reality.

Buildings that hold in them all the world’s wisdom. The wisdom of everything and anything, the wisdom of life and death, of old and new. The wisdom of all those people who sought answers and made questions.

The people who try to find and name all the creatures on this planet's surface, the people who seek to cure all the diseases that hound us, the people who seek to explore each square inch of this land.

These people are the designers of our world. And they were born surrounded by mountains. Mountains filled with stories. Mountains filled with information. Mountains filled with the fables of old. Mountains of books. Books of all kinds. Books that are dark and gory and all things wrong, and books that are all things light and sun and love.

And these books are found within those buildings. Those buildings are full of all things good and bad, full of those answers that jump to the wind, full of our history. Full of things that do nothing but spark our curiosity - the curiosity that has hounded us since our birth.

But I wonder. If you had time. If any of us had time, would we seek to tumble into that never ending cycle of questions and answers, and questions and answers and questionsandanswersandquestionsandanswersandquestionsandanswers. Would we let ourselves fall prey to that beast which hunted our ancestors since the dawn of time. That prowled, and sought to eradicate us. Curiosity truly is a dangerous thing.

Those buildings, those massive buildings full of all things, have a name. A name that I truly don’t think captures their majesty, their power. Their name doesn't show them as what they truly are, a shield against reality, a cool drink in a desert of unknowingness. All the answers and all the questions. Their name doesn’t do them justice, but I think you should know what it is.

These powerful buildings filled with mountains are called libraries.