In alphabetical order:

• Aradhya Adeesh, ‘The Rising King’
• Lily Baalham, ‘The Cracked Flame’
• Jude France-Hunt, ‘An Urban Wasteland’
• Evie Hornsby, ‘Pottery’
• Nova Oehlers, ‘The Wind Bird’
• Lottie Vinson ‘How to Never Die (for beginners)’

Two winners were chosen from each Key Stage. You can read their winning entries below.

A further 13 young writers were shortlisted or received commendation from the judges (in alphabetical order):

• Sammir Amani, ‘Emotional Weather- A Symphony of the Soul’
• Poppy Gray, ‘The Secret Friend‘
• Connor Hallum, ‘Life Through the Eyes of ASD’
• Lily Herring, ‘The Women of Ships’
• Florence Leeder, ‘A poem about Mary Anning’
• Timothy Madders, ‘Dying to be rich’
• Gabriella Malver, ‘The Beauty of Ambience’
• Tessa McNamara, ‘Sea Change’
• Nma Onwuli, ‘The Beauty of Nigeria’
• Hollie Richards, ‘Why Our Wonderful World’
• Jess Sayers, ‘Daydreams’
• Ezra Sturgeon, ‘Daphne’
• Megan Tsui, ‘Chivalry and Crabs’

Hannah Garrard, Learning & Participation Programme Manager at NCW, said:

‘The Young Norfolk Writing 2024 has been very special this year. It’s the first year the prize has been open to 10-year-olds and our youngest entrants have shown such promising talent. We also made extra effort to ensure the prize felt accessible to young people who identify as neurodivergent—because powerful writing is about voice and originality of ideas, not spelling and grammar.’

 25% of entrants in 2024 identified as neurodivergent.

The Wind Bird – Nova Oehlers

Melodies dancing in the spring.

The keys guide them through,

Unlocking blossom trees.

Meadows and fields leaving chords behind.

The wind birds chime their songs.

They dance along hypnotised by the tune,

Only to live as long as they dance.

An Urban Wasteland – Jude France-Hunt

In the shroud of mist, in a forgotten world, was a city lost to the time which people no

longer remember. The urban wasteland was filled with rugged nature spreading

dread and consternation throughout the unoccupied municipality. Ruined

skyscrapers and meaningless signs of a once powerful metropolis. This land was a

severe punishment for the soul, mind, and body. It was so fatal, pain and sorrow had

millions of children here, who haunt this forgotten land of a jester’s intolerable idea of

endings.

Could it end? Maybe no one ever asked, why would they? Life was natural until then

but now it was a sign of pollution. Life lost meaning. Colours faded away, earth was

now hell, hell was heaven, and heaven was earth. People started killing themselves

more than others did, after all what was the point to live now? The law of mankind is

a jest here in marshes of corpse and rubble; no ruler but someone who controls a

fleet of death.

The monarch was now death, but it was no tyrant. It was cold and relieving because

people had accepted death but still reject it. if it spoke, tears would dance, and

wisdom would be revoked. Unless it would curse, what it meant no one knew. Why

would they? It was divine!

Jagged rocks were shrouded by the landscape, uncut nature growing wildly while

being pushed by mean winds howling in laughter; it couldn’t do a thing. The area had

a burning tingly smell of putrid vegetation and rotting fruit accompanied with bugs

crying and birds battling. Mesmerise, fumes polluting, should be pristine lagoon

harbouring great foulness. Even a demon god who feasts on pain would cry here in

the country of corpses, where ravens die and doves cry, jackals feast, and machines

recreate the voids of the place lower than hell. Where cannibal starve, pacifists

punch, optimist cry and honest men lie.

In the darkest shadows of dawn, someone was ready when a mysterious

abandoned cargo, essential to life, fell into the pitch-black void. This mysterious,

armed entity dashed before he lost it to someone or something else. The being was

prepared with a baseball cap, a bandana, twin blades and wearing raged clothes that

were ripped because he’d grown out of them long ago, who was he? That is the

question that even he did not know, he like everyone else had long forgotten his

identity. A poet maybe? For a poem was all he had in the parasite that calls itself God’s world.

The Rising King – Aradhya Adeesh

It comes gleaming and beaming

It is charming and dreaming

A golden crown of jewels

Soaring higher than eagles

Peering through a curtain of cloud

It chuckles aloud

In sweet chorus of birdsongs

The world glows

Finally, the sunlight pours in

All its glory revealed

As the sun alone

Sat proudly on his throne

The king of our world

Emerged

The Cracked Flame – Lily Baalham

She lay broken,

yet her shadows still dance and play,

the woman’s cracked soul does struggle, day by day.

Her mind a haze, where darkness reigns

A labyrinth of fears, where her hope fails to compare.

Her eyes, like pools of sorrow,

reflect the pain she cannot hide.

Her heart, weighed down and tight,

a battlefield where her courage fails to take flight.

The world outside, a blur of noise and dismay,

an abundance of demands, each and every single day.

Yet in her mind, a silence reigns,

so much that her soul cracks, more and more each day.

In dreams, she finds escape,

a world of wonder, where she can believe,

although when she wakes, her pain returns,

a weight that lay heavy on her chest, her spirit cracked.

Yet she still rises, each morning light,

like a warrior strong, and full of might,

for in her heart burns a fire so bright,

the flame of her hope, that guides her through life.

Though the shadows may seem dark and deep,

She knows that she is not alone,

For in her mind, a voice whispers low,

a voice of love, that only she can know.

Pottery – Evie Hornsby

Aging smiles painted on porcelain faces

Fade and fracture. Separated by canyons

Of a momentary accident.

How quickly it shatters into bits

Large and small, varying in size and importance.

If you save the integral parts, the chips barely matter.

The crumbs are essential.

They provide a structural integrity to the piece,

Strong bonds forged within the mind and its actions.

Superglue could hold these pieces together

Tight knit knots of remembrance.

But they’ll never truly be the same.

Water will drip through the cracks

In some way or another.

No matter how much you cup and sip

Cup and sip

Cup and sip

Eventually the bowl will lose it all.

Paintbrushes glisten with damp paint, in

Shades of baby blue and pastel pink,

Swipe and sweep across the dry bones

Of clay. Set wet to cling to each particle of colour.

To savour every moment spent together.

When something is lost, we can always find solace

In making something new.

How to never die (for beginners) – Lottie Vinson

Step one: Lure death.

You may go about this however you like.

You could get nice and old,

shaped, and creased by your time alive,

look casket ready.

Really sell it by reading the papers,

playing chess, regular hospital trips and

listening to copious amounts of vintage jazz.

Step two: Befriend the flatline.

Much of our clientele use flattery or romance to win over death,

but we would suggest seducing it in a private way.

For the centuries it has roamed it will have heard many prayers and begs

and pleading for it drop its scythe and sell its cloak and leave me alone.

But might we implore the other way round?

Perhaps you could have the humanity to pray for it.

Beg for its life, not yours,

understand it has no other choice, as it understands you have no choice but to die.

It will surely be not used to that.

Step three: Give it some time

Don’t look too vulnerable, or it might pity you and take you quick

Look pensive, thoughtful, you might intrigue it. It might talk to you

It could take up the white pieces and play a chess move

Or hum along to the Ella Fitzgerald on the speakers

Show it the pictures in the newspaper, explain the big words

It is just as clueless as you

Step four: Bite the hand that feeds

Well done! It is your friend!

Now you can stay rid of it forever!

Disgust it, shout at it, bang, scream, cry, spit

The others might look at you funny, but they will die and you will not

Death fears you

It closes its eyes and covers its ears.

You have tipped the chess board over and the hard pieces hit deaths feet

You have ripped its skin with papercuts

Death has been tricked.

They’re scared. They’re confused

He’s alone again. He will leave you now. He will not take you.

You will never die.

Congratulations.

Photography by Lucy Roffey.

The Young Norfolk Writing Prize is supported by Norfolk County Council and Arts Council England. It focuses on engaging young people to become more involved with the arts while celebrating the writing talent in the region. Entries can take the form of stories, lyrics, narrative for games, graphic stories, poems, spoken word, scripts, podcasts, plays, articles, journalism, or essays.