“The story was gripping, rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth. I loved how the writer communicated the idea of home as a mother’s arms. There were powerful lines, such as, “Why should I live in a place where young souls don’t live life, but fight for it? Where hearing police sirens is no different from hearing the ice cream van?” These lines packed a punch and left a strong impression.” John Bernard, Coventry Poet Laureate, spoken word performer and Orwell Youth Prize 2024 judge
It’s funny, isn’t it? How life works out. One minute, you’re writing the next chapter of your story; the intent of remaining untold when really, it’s a story made for both the brave and the bold. The next, you’re sitting down having ice cream with the one who could be ‘the one’. It’s funny how life just sort of…switches-up like that. After all, I still remember the day my life switched. The day I escaped from the Devil’s playground.
I remember it was cold. Colder than cold. The sharp breeze pierced my spine, which for a second, I mistook for one of the blades held tight by the hooded bloodhounds that stalked me that night. I remember the rain washing away the deep maroon ink that came gushing from the rigid gashes formed on my knuckles. So thick, so rich, so pure it would surely satisfy his sweet tooth. Ink travelled down my hand, down my finger, all the way down to the damp pavement, leaving a trail of horror upon my clumsy footsteps. A path only he can walk – a twisted game of hopscotch, where each jump could lead to my final moments.
I legged it down the alleys and roads only known by locals, past playgrounds and churches, housing both the tough and the feeble, where children write stories of cats that wear hats, and grown men who can fly, and avoid tales like Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Tales full of broken souls – too lost in their own wonderland of guns and roses, leaving them no room for ‘happy ever after’.
Eventually, my steps began to soften, as my heart steadied, tucking the phone deeper into my pocket, to be sure it hadn’t fallen in my frantic escape. Confident I was no longer in sight of the hooded hounds, I pulled out the jewel they had all set out for. Holding it tight, fragments of myself still came pouring out, seeing her name. Mum. Calmed and collected at the familiar sight of the screen’s bold lettering, I could feel her warm embrace. I steadied myself to tell her of the night’s events, but as I turned the corner of another alley, I saw something unexpected. A bed of flowers lay neatly beneath a dimly-lit post. Like the scatter of maroon on my hand, these too were rich and pure, as if He himself had sent them down from grace. Gut instinct urged me to walk on, but curiosity struck. Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I slowed until I stood parallel with the bed. In the middle lay a small card with a polaroid attached, of a young boy no older than me, jet black hair and a smile which could make even Frosty melt. Written above in thick ink: ‘RIP Ben’.
This wasn’t a gift from grace, nor a symbol of comfort, but a reminder of both the cruelty of His work and of this cesspool we call home. And that’s when it hit me. Why should I live in a place where young souls don’t live life, but fight for it? Where hearing police sirens is no different to hearing the ice cream van? Where we build skyscrapers taller than the giants which live in the
sky, yet we still have people outside begging beneath them?
Through all the questioning and contemplating, I hadn’t realised my footsteps had taken me to the bridge. The one across which Dad taught me how to ride my bike. The one where Nan and I would take morning walks. The one my granddad would tell me stories about; the planes he would fly during the war like Superman. As a kid, I always wondered what it would be like to be Superman. To be like my granddad and fly.
Once again, I stopped and looked over the river, flowing with an aggression emphasised by the dark clouded sky. In a way, it was like looking in a mirror. After all, a halfhearted boy has a life of halfhearted promises. A halfhearted boy with only half his story done; only half a chance for a happily ever after. I looked to the sky, gripping the bridge’s side. What would it be like to be free from fragility? What would it be like to fly?
Silence. Everything stopped. The stars had broken free from their clouded shells to write me a new story. A new yellow brick road.
“Mum? When are we going home?”
Time cracked; the moment split; there he was. A young boy (much younger than me), pulling and pleading with his mum to go home. A word I had heard more than my own name, cast aside and written off, had suddenly made me stop, made everything stop. Letting go of both the bridge’s side and the collage of pent-up rage within, I walked towards my street. A street which housed my clumsy footprints, my endless attempts to build my other half, to construct an acceptable image: a story to be praised rather than avoided.
Through my reminiscing, I had arrived. Nausea and panic washed over me. Mum. What would she say seeing her perfect gift bruised, battered and bleeding? I breathed deep, preparing for the scold.
There she was, shining. Golden hair flowed gently down her shoulders; her eyes glistened in the hallway light as she looked over me. It was as if God (the very same creator of the mountains, the stars and the seas) had looked upon his world, and decided it needed you. Something so beautifully crafted, it would make Geppetto tear up. I hid my face, hiding my burdensome shame, but before I could move, her arms wrapped around me.
“What happened? Are you OK?”
Breaking, I crumbled into mum’s arms, clenching onto her, not out of desperation or need, nor sadness or hate, not because of the pain in my knuckles or the blisters on my feet, but because I finally realised what it meant.
“Nothing, Mum. Don’t worry. I’m okay. I’m home.”