We were excited to announce the return of our Creative Writing Competition this summer 2026. We ran two competitions, so there was an opportunity for every age group to take part.
- Junior Competition — for writers aged 5–13 (Years 1–8)
- Senior Competition — for writers aged 14–18 (Years 9–13)
This was a brilliant opportunity for students to build imagination, sharpen writing skills, and gain creative confidence over the summer.
See below for this year's winning entries!
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Junior Competition (Ages 5–13)
This year's theme was "Mystery", and the children could write any story on this topic or choose from one of the suggested titles below:
- The Secret
- The Mysterious Sound
- The Storm
Who was eligible to enter? Children aged 5–13 (Years 1–8)
Word limit: Up to 800 words
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Senior Competition (Ages 14–18)
This year's theme was "Other Worlds". Participants could interpret this theme however they wish, or choose one of the suggested titles below:
- A Planet Quite Unlike Our Own
- The Invisible Society
- A Place for Sorcery
- The Strangelands
Who could enter? Students aged 14–18 (Years 9–13)
Word limit: Up to 1,500 words
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Inspiration
Finally, we provided some great advice to students on how to get started with the help of two of our expert Creative Writing Tutors, Steph, and Rory. They created short informative videos, which you are welcome to view here:
Competition Rules
- Writing had to be original and not have been submitted to any other writing competition.
- The story had to be written in English prose in response to the set theme.
- Entries had to be solely the work of the participant.
- Stories were judged on their creativity, narrative voice and ability to entertain, as well as their structure, eloquence, and SPaG.
- The use of AI was forbidden at any stage of the process. All entries were thoroughly screened for the influence of AI and any story found to have been completed with AI were disqualified.
Prizes
- Winner: £100 Waterstone's voucher and a one-to-one Creative Writing Masterclass with a Keystone tutor.
- Runner-up: One-to-one Creative Writing Masterclass with a Keystone tutor.
- Every entry received brief tailored feedback from a Keystone tutor.
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Winning Entries
The Secret, by Leo (aged 9) (Junior Winner)
I was the only person who knew the secret that was lurking in the old quiet forest. A secret which hid in-between crispy leaves and branches, watched and waited until no human was around. Only at this time, normally at dusk or dawn, did the secret emerge to hunt, to drink, to observe.
How did I find out about it?
It was a rainy, dark, dull day and I was all alone, wandering in the woods and suddenly, there it was. Towering above me at a remarkable height. The instant I spotted it, every part of me screamed to run, but my legs locked beneath me as though the mud had swallowed my boots. Its brutal size filled the space between the trees, blotting out the grey sky, and I knew that if I made even one sudden movement it could reach me in a heartbeat. I forced myself to stay still, barely breathing, while the rain tapped against the leaves and the creature loomed over me like a living mountain.
As it stood there, silent and unmoving, I noticed clusters of twisted trees growing from its pale grey back, their roots gripping into the rough stone-like skin as if the creature were part of the earth itself. Moss clung to its shoulders in dark green patches, and thin streams of rainwater trickled down its body like tiny rivers running over a cliff face. None of it made sense. Everything I knew about nature told me that something this enormous should not be alive, yet I could see the slow rise and fall of its breathing. How could a whole forest be growing on its back? I had read about the old myths of Norse trolls, creatures made of rock and mountain, but those were supposed to be stories. Were the myths true? Was I really staring at one?
I sank down onto the wet carpet of leaves and studied it through the thick, breathing darkness, hardly daring to blink. For hours I watched its huge shape blend with the shadows, its back rising like a stony hill beneath the twisted trees that grew from it. Whatever it was, it felt older than the forest itself, something supernatural and impossible. When I looked again, a cold blue electric light began to crackle around its body, flashing between the branches like trapped lightning.
Beneath its enormous, mud-caked feet, tiny beetles disappeared with faint cracks, and a wild boar that had been snuffling through the undergrowth let out a terrified squeal before being crushed into the soaked earth. Each step made the ground shudder, sending ripples through puddles and shaking loose leaves from the trembling branches above.
The creature slowly lowered one colossal hand, its fingers as thick as tree trunks, and scooped up a deer as if it were no heavier than a fallen leaf. The animal kicked and twisted helplessly, but the creature only tilted back its massive head and dropped it into the black cave of its mouth. I heard the sickening crunch echo through the trees, followed by a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in my chest. Then, without pausing, it lumbered forward and tore a young tree straight from the ground, roots and soil dangling from its grip. It shoved the whole thing between its jagged stone teeth, chewing through bark, branches and leaves as though the forest itself was its food.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my battered mythical creature classification guide from my coat pocket, its damp pages sticking together in the rain. I flicked frantically through sketches of giants, trolls and ancient forest spirits until one drawing made my breath catch. According to the faded notes beneath it, the creature standing before me was a Jotun: the largest and most dangerous kind of troll, an ancient being of stone, earth and hunger.
I decided to keep still as my guide says it was 60 metres tall! Which made me feel a shiver down my spine.
As the giant strider wandered off, I thought about what I needed to do next. Who would I have to tell, would they believe me? As thoughts criss-crossed my mind, I knew I would have a hard time getting out of these woods. What I had just witnessed was unbelievable. I ran and tried to find a way out…
The Invisible Society, by Katherine (age 15)(Senior Competition Winner)
At first glance, St. Edmund’s College was everything an English boarding school ought to be. Long before any of its present inhabitants had been born, boys had trudged up the winding gravel drive beneath the watchful gaze of weather-blackened gargoyles, had filed through the great oak doors with trunks far too large for their rooms, and had left some years later convinced that nowhere else in the civilised world could porridge be made with quite such determined hostility.
The school itself was located somewhere in the depth of the English countryside, in an old country estate whose original owner (according to a brass plaque in the entrance hall) had intended it to be a “peaceful residence devoted to learning.” Time had achieved only half of that ambition. Learning, certainly, flourished in every corner of the estate. Peace, however, was another matter entirely.
From the front, the manor possessed the reassuring dignity expected of any respectable establishment. Tall, mullioned windows overlooked immaculate lawns, and ivy crept up mellow stone walls. Beyond them stretched the cricket pitches, the wide green stripes looking quite quaint in the morning sun.
Inside, the corridors smelt faintly of beeswax, old books and parchment paper – a pleasant combination which, after sufficient exposure, every pupil came to regard as the natural scent of education. Portraits of forgotten headmasters frowned from dark wooden panelling, each seeming rather disappointed in boys they had never met, and somewhere, at every hour of the day, a master could be relied upon to utter the words, “Now then, what is the meaning of this?”
Life at St. Edmund’s proceeded with admirable regularity. Chapel was at eight. Lessons ‘til luncheon. Every hour had its appointed purpose, every boy his allotted place within the machinery of the school, and every master the unshakeable conviction that discipline, properly applied, could cure nearly any defect of character.
It was, therefore, a matter of considerable irony that the most organised body within St. Edmund’s had absolutely no interest in organisation whatsoever.
Officially, the school recognised only the Debating Society, the Natural History Society, the Chess Club and a distressingly earnest committee devoted to improving table manners.
Unofficially, there existed another society, one whose meetings were never advertised, whose members never acknowledged one another in public, and whose existence had somehow escaped the notice of generations of master’s despite operating, with remarkable confidence, almost directly beneath their noses.
Among its members it was known simply as the Invisible Society.
Its founding principles had never been written down (partly because written evidence had an unfortunate tendency to be discovered by prefects) but they were universally understood. No member should perform work that might reasonably be avoided. No problem was ever to be solved by straightforward effort if an unnecessarily elaborate alternative could be devised. Above all, any plan, however ridiculous, was preferable to the intolerable indignity of simply getting on with one’s prep.
The consequences of these principles were extraordinary.
Where an ordinary boy might sit quietly for half an hour and complete his Latin translation, members of the Invisible Society would devote an entire evening to determining how the translation might instead be borrowed, intercepted, duplicated, exchanged, mislaid, rediscovered, and finally returned to its owner without anyone involved ever admitting to having seen it in the first place.
Remarkably, they considered this the less laborious option.
---
Arthur’s invitation arrived tucked inside his copy of Treasure Island.
It was not, strictly speaking, an invitation. It consisted of a playing card – the three of clubs – upon which someone had written:
“Come alone. Eleven o’clock. The old boiler room. If followed, deny everything.”
No signature accompanied it, since after all none was necessary. Every boy at St. Edmund’s had heard whispers of mysterious notes appearing in books, blazer pockets and, on one memorable occasion, inside a suet pudding. Most dismissed them as folklore, rather like the rumour that the Headmaster smiled once in 1927.
Arthur, however, possessed the unfortunate quality of curiosity.
At precisely eleven, he slipped from his dormitory, padded through the silent corridors and descended a narrow staircase. He came face to face with a large oak door, behind which came the unmistakable murmur of debate.
“...which is precisely why Henderson ought not to be trusted with string.”
“He tied an overhand knot.”
“Exactly.”
Arthur knocked quietly on the door, and the room fell silent. After what seemed an age, the door creaked open just far enough for a spectacled face to appear.
“Password?”
“I... wasn’t given one.”
The boy sighed with theatrical disappointment.
“They never are.”
The door swung open.
The boiler room bore little resemblance to the gloomy cellar Arthur had expected. Someone had furnished it with battered armchairs rescued from forgotten classrooms, a long oak table scarred by generations of pocketknives, and shelves overflowing with files labelled Successful Diversions, Unsuccessful Diversions, and, rather ominously, Do Not Repeat.
Around the table sat perhaps a dozen boys, all wearing expressions of profound concentration.
One was sketching what appeared to be a floor plan of the mathematics corridor, whilst another was measuring a length of fishing line.
At the head of the table rose a tall Sixth Former whose tie possessed the effortless untidiness peculiar to those important enough to ignore school rules without consequence.
“Arthur Pembroke,” he said warmly. “Welcome. I’m Julian Ashcombe, current Chairman of the Invisible Society.” Arthur blinked.
“You actually exist?”
Julian looked faintly offended.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “we’ve existed since 1911. We simply make every effort not to.” He gestured towards the empty chair.
“Now then. We have a crisis.”
A ripple of solemn agreement passed around the room. Julian produced a sheet of squared paper as though unveiling evidence in a murder trial.
“Mr Blackwood,” he announced gravely, “has assigned twenty geometry proofs.” A collective groan echoed around the cellar.
“He expects them tomorrow morning.”
At this statement, several boys quietly removed their spectacles in despair. One muttered something about tyranny. Another crossed himself.
Arthur looked from face to face.
“I thought,” he ventured cautiously, “you might... just do them?”
The silence that followed was almost painful, punctuated with the sound of someone dropping a pencil.
Julian stared at Arthur with a look of genuine pity.
“My dear Pembroke,” he said, “if we begin doing homework, where does it end?”The question, it seemed, was entirely rhetorical.
---
The operation itself unfolded with magnificent precision and catastrophic results. A staged plumbing emergency flooded the mathematics corridor, three prefects were lured in opposite directions, and Mr Blackwood spent the better part of the evening attempting to explain why a bicycle had somehow appeared on the chapel roof. By breakfast, not a single member of the Society had touched a geometry proof.
Mercifully, neither had anyone else.
The headmaster, citing “last night’s regrettable disturbances”, postponed all homework indefinitely.
The Society celebrated another flawless victory.
Arthur, quietly folding the completed geometry proofs he’d absent-mindedly finished while waiting for the meeting to begin, decided that ultimately genius came in many forms, and that he was not one to judge.
The Secret, by Emir Yanik (age 13)(Junior Competition Runner Up)
Every day, in the town of Prosetia the rustic clock-tower loomed over the town: a silent sentinel firmly asserting its dominance. As majestic as a castle, but as ominous as a haunted mansion. Its spire reached up into the heavens, piercing the clear, teal sky. The ancient guardian featured fissures of oxidised copper, sewn together into a metallic, turquoise cobweb. When the clock struck 12:00, a distinctive ding would resonate against the windows to call for midnight. I trod carefully along uneven, jagged cobblestone, winding up towards crimson bricked houses.
They consisted of mudstone flower-pots full of daisies upheld by orange-glowing iron lanterns: they looked like magma in a container of molten glass. Smoke curled out of rooftops towards the clouds like a finger, beckoning us into its hospitality. I glanced across at Braos. His expression was etched in a roadmap of worry lines and deep violet bags sagged under bloodshot eyes. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he gazed towards the clock-tower. I heard him swallow. He had a messy entanglement of curly chestnut hair with its tips tinged white. It looked like it hadn’t been combed for weeks.
I inspected him thoroughly with sympathy and suspicion.
“How’s life been lately? How’s the clock-tower?” I questioned. My eyes glinted with determination to glean whatever information he was concealing as we strode alongside the chaotic noise of the market.
“It’s been good. I’ve been going to it daily. It’s upholding well, and hopefully it’ll last a few hundred more years.” The edges of his mouth creased into a forced grin while the bland, putrid scent of fish and sizzling sausages pierced our nostrils.
Braos was my friend since I was five years of age. In our nine years of friendship, I had never seen him in such a poor state. I looked at him with curiosity and concern.
“In that case, I would love to visit.” I gazed at his features as his smile faded and his eyes glazed over into charcoal for a second before the whites of his eyes reappeared.
“Yeah, that’s completely fine, Zaden. You can come if you’d like,” he replied as a muscle in his jaw ticked. Once. Twice. He fidgeted with his silver necklace.
Nausea cascaded through me as I noticed Braos’ arms. They had an unnatural amount of stringy hair for a casual teenager. The breakfast in my stomach threatened to resurface as vomit. Thankfully, only a lingering taste of eggs and bacon was left in my throat. Something was wrong with him.
Anxiously, we approached the brass knocker which offered entry to this masterpiece. The knocker was intricately carved into the face of a wolf. Braos opened the door with his key.
Intricate stone carvings appeared and sapphire sunlight bled as ribbons of light through the slitted, jewelled windows. Despite this beauty, there was an eerie aura attached to the building. I brushed my hand against the coarse, cold stone. A chill raced through my veins. Braos hastened towards the staircase leading to the upper level. He was evidently in a hurry.
“I’m right behind you, Braos. You go; I’ll catch up!” I called, my voice echoing across the spacious room. He merely shrugged in response and paced upstairs. Left alone to investigate my discovery, I inspected the doorknob, yet it was attached to a patch of hard, rock wall. My heart pounding in my throat, I gripped the doorknob and pulled. Stone creaked slowly to reveal a dim staircase. Fear wrapped its skeletal fingers around my lungs and I panted in short, ragged breaths as I crept down the steep steps. Intensely focusing, I gripped the wall tightly in order not to fall. Suddenly, a beam of blinding light appeared ahead of me; I sprinted down the winding staircase towards it. I almost tripped over, but I regained my balance.
As I reached the bottom, I gasped at my surroundings. It… was a laboratory? My huge discovery was that! My excitement died down as I reluctantly trudged through the lab. Then, I saw stringy silk everywhere around me, in the corners and charcoal silhouettes with beads of red lurked in dark shadows. Then, all I saw was black.
A bell erupted in my ear, and a splitting headache throbbed. I was stuck in something soft and slimy in a dull chamber. I squirmed for purchase, but the string mercilessly didn’t unravel. I was surrounded by lifeless carcasses hanging from the ceiling in cobwebs. My eyes widened as I saw their bodies… it was as if their souls were drained from their pale corpses. In front of me was a humongous spider with onyx eyes, rimmed with red irises. A pearlescent silver necklace caught the light around its neck and the tips of its hairs were tinged opal white…
All Streams Run to the Sea, by Ishan Ahlawat (age 14)(Senior Competition Runner Up)
Anton liked his life best when nobody reminded him that it was real. He liked the silence in his apartment, the polished marble floors, and the view from the thirty second floor. It made the city look small enough to own. He had just woken up, made himself his usual coffee and sat down on his couch when he heard a knock at the door.
Reluctantly, he put his coffee down and headed towards the sound. He couldn’t believe someone would interrupt him at this hour. He opened the door, annoyed, to see the mailman leaning against the wall. Anton had always looked down at him. He didn’t have respect for uneducated people; he saw them as barnacles on a boat.
The mailman had handed Anton his newspaper and some mail, which Anton presumed were bills or taxes. Without a word of thanks, he closed the door in the mailman's face. He hated the mailman for his scruffy looks, uncombed hair, and unusual attire. As he finished critiquing the mailman, Anton stared at the paper. The title was ‘Brezhnev dead from Heart Attack!’ He couldn’t believe it. “Another decent man dead,” he thought to himself, while sipping his coffee.
He put the paper down in disbelief and couldn’t help but stop when he saw the name on one of the postcards. Aleksandr Petrov. His father’s name. He hadn’t spoken to him in years. Perturbed, he put the mail down and got ready for work.
He walked to work, unable to pass his driving test, but admired himself for the physical prowess necessary for the ten-minute commute to work. As he trod through the streets, resembling a bear with his slow, heavy steps, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted. The poverty in Leningrad was repulsive, with beggars at every corner, and even the employed habitants appalled him by haggling for food.
Seeing his country go to infernum bruised his ego, but he prided himself with the fact that he was carrying his country on his back. He continued walking, staring at his feet to avoid looking into the eyes of the street merchants, as he was wise, and knew that was how they got you. He, who was above them, above everyone, knew everything about their tricks and ways of manipulating you into buying their cheap objects, and it pained him that no-one had ever asked him for a piece of his mind.
Still, he ambled to the foot of the massive, dreary building which he worked in. When he got to his office, he found his desk, sat down abruptly, and got to work. He was an accountant and he despised it, but he knew it paid a lot and when he retired at sixty, he would have
enough money to live the life of a tsar. But for the moment he would have to live with this job for another decade, so he bowed his head down and started writing.
When he reached his residence after work, he slumped back down on his couch. He tried to avoid the letter on the table facing him, but his eyes betrayed him by darting back towards it constantly. Disgruntled, he reached for the card and tore it open.
The letter itself was cheap, commercial, and he almost tore it from simply taking it out of the envelope. He began reading it. “Dear Anton,” it said, “I hope things are going well in the city. I know you do not want to talk, but you will need to come back to Petrayarvi. Your mother is dead. The funeral is on Friday. I expect you to attend. Signed, A. Petrov”
Anton lay back on the couch. He felt as if his emotions were leaking but suppressed them with a sigh. He couldn’t believe it. Even when he wrote, his father’s tone was condescending. And so, he started packing his bags; he would leave for Petrayarvi, his childhood home, the next morning.
He stared at a crack on the glass instead of the view from the window as the train headed north. He couldn’t believe how cheaply made even the main mode of transportation was. Again, he sighed. He was worried; he had sent a letter to his boss informing him of the situation but left without getting a reply; in hindsight a huge blunder.
As the train came to a halt, he walked out to find the familiar landscape he grew up playing in, which as he looked back was a waste of time. If he had worked harder maybe he could have been the boss, maybe even the Ispolkom. But instead of procrastinating further, Anton broke into his steady gait, his familiar travel back home.
He shivered as he grew closer to the front door of his childhood residence. He contemplated his decision to come but knew that it was the right thing to do. Anton grimaced as he looked at the house. It was the same as all those years ago. Nothing had changed. The grimace turned into a forced smile as he knocked on the door, a trick he was taught by his first employer. He missed being young but agreed internally that it was in his best interest to get out of manual labor as soon as he could.
An unknown woman opened the door.
“Hello! You must be Anton! Lovely to meet you!” Anton despised her cheerful tone, her wrinkles, cascading like a waterfall; her eyes droopier than the branches of a weeping willow.
“Yes, hello. Where is my father?” He replied, sternly, he wanted to understand the financial situation, as he was his mother’s only legal heir, therefore he gathered that he inherited her money.
“In the forest, getting firewood.”
“And excuse me, who are you?” Anton queried.
“Oh, Aleksandr didn’t tell you about me. I’m Yelena, his and your mothers’ friend. I’m helping him organise the funeral.”
“Nice to meet you. You don’t mind if I head into the forest to find my father, then you maybe bring my luggage inside.”
“No problem. You know where he gets his firewood?”
Anton nodded, dropped his bags, and sullenly headed into the forest. Dry leaves crunched under his feet as he observed his surroundings. The forest had always given him a certain calm, one which could not have been found in any city. He paused. This small path reminded him of something. He couldn’t place his hand on it. He was curious so he changed directions and passed through the narrow walkway.
Twigs, like whips, struck his gut and dome as he pushed through the bushes, curious to reveal what lay behind them, similar to a child opening presents at Christmas. He pushed through the last bit of shrubbery to reveal a miniscule pond, reflecting the sun into his eyes, which bothered him slightly. He brushed himself to avoid having any of the hedges on him and sat down on a purposefully placed log, which acted as a bench.
He looked around and grinned proudly as he remembered what this spot was. Anton would come here every Sunday morning with his mother in the winter, and they would skip rocks while enjoying some freshly made Vatrushka from the bakery, a bun filled with cottage cheese.
Anton slowly and precisely approached the pond. He saw the sun in it, yellow, shining glimmering, but his smile faded when he looked below it. Who was this old, fat, repulsive man staring back at him. It took him a few minutes to process what he saw. He stared at himself, at his reflection like it was an extraterrestrial being of some sort.
What had happened to him? This wasn't him. This wasn’t Anton. Anton would have never let time pass him by like this; Anton would have never let himself turn into, well... his father. Anton sat back down on the wood and rubbed it with his fingers. This log, old, dead, whose only purpose in life was to allow people to sit on it, but it wasn’t unique. There were
millions like it. Only then did Anton realise he was sitting down on himself. He now yearned to be the mailman. Scruffy, yes, but young, muscly, confident, much like himself before.
He choked on his tongue. It felt as if he had fallen from the top of his apartment building. He gasped for air. This time crawling, he looked back into the water. His mother was next to him, stroking his hair. Ripples formed in the water, warping his face.
What if he never looked? Would he have realised?
Anton shuddered, lay down next to the water, and stared at the sky, tears trickling down his face. He placed his hand in the water. It was cold. He took it out after a while and stared at it, admiring it. He cried more.