The theme was 'Fairytales' and the top ten short stories chosen by the independent judges were read to a bumper number of attendees before the winners were announced. The creativity and original twists on the theme of 'Fairytales' was amazing, ranging from traditional stories to modern, even dark tales of the little folk.
Out local MP Richard Harrington attended the event for a short while, but was unfortunately unable to stay for the announcements or present the trophy.
The First Place went to Carolyn Storey for 'The Seeker' an charming story about a little boy who goes looking for fairies and is convinced he saw one.
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| Carolyn Storey - talented writer and winner of the 2015 Richard Harrington Trophy |
Second Place was 'The Alley' by Louise Broadbent and the Third Place was shared by John Ward 'The Return of the Tooth Fairies' and Paul White 'A Cereal Offender'.
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| Louise Broadbent - Second Place Winner |
Now you may be asking how did my entry do in the writing competition? Well, gentle reader, I scraped in 10th by the skin of my teeth. So please find below my competition entry 'The Storyteller', which I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I had fun writing it.
The Storyteller
He slipped unobserved through a side gate in the blistering
heat of the desert noon. But within a
few short minutes the news was sweeping through the city like flames licking
through dry straw.
‘He has come,’ they cried on the market stalls, in the
workshops of the artisans, the hovels of the poor and the cool marble halls of
the palace.
By the time the sun began to sink behind the distant
mountains, they had gathered in the main square to wait for him.
The warm dusk air was fragrant with the delicious aroma of
food being cooked on the many fires that had been lit. Babies were soothed, children were hushed as
the huge crowd continued to wait in patient silence.
The first stars were beginning to prick the night with cold,
diamond light when a diminutive figure wrapped in a snowy, crisp robe and
leaning on an intricately carved cane padded through the squatting crowd and
sat on the cushion which had been placed there for him.
The crowd sighed their relief as he carefully composed
himself and arranged the folds of his robe around him.
He was here at last.
Many had thought he was a myth; like one of his tales. Not a real man but a story; such as the ones
he had once weaved at the feet of the mighty Sikunder as he led his conquering
armies through the mountains of the north.
It seemed hours before the Storyteller began to speak, but
as soon as the words started flowing from his mouth they were caught. His voice
rose and fell, snaking through the crowd like a fine silk scarf brushing their
cheeks and lightly ruffling their hair.
The crowd listened silently; spellbound by what they were
hearing. They laughed, they cried. They
felt the pain and were swept by feelings of love. The Storyteller led them into the tale with
the skill of a master chess player, each word carefully chosen and enunciated
until it became their story, their life, and their emotions.
‘As the Prince rode into the courtyard, he looked up to the
top of the tower where he could see his beloved sitting before her mirror. Her hand was reaching for the golden comb
dipped in poison that her step-mother had given her.’
The Storyteller paused to look at the spellbound faces of
the crowd.
‘He called her name, but she did not hear him. She lifted the comb and pulled it through her
glossy, ebony tresses. She was so
beautiful, so perfect, in that moment before her mirror, but seconds later she
collapsed on the couch and his love was dead.
The only comfort the Prince had was the promise she would be placed in
the heavens as a star, so her beauty could shine on the world below for
eternity.’
The listeners cheered their appreciation, but when they
looked again the Storyteller’s cushion was empty.
