Bury St Edmunds Literature Festival 2025 announces creative writing winners from Tollgate Primary School, St Benedict’s Catholic School and County High School
The winners of an annual creative writing competition have been announced as the Bury St Edmunds Literature Festival gets under way.
This year’s competition received a record number of entries, with organisers impressed at how many adults decided to get involved.
Those taking part were set the challenge of coming up with a piece of creative writing, under 500 words in length, from the prompt ‘lost in a book’.
The six winners were chosen by authors Jill Dawson, Ashley Hickson-Lovence and Serena Patel, who were delighted that the standard of writing from all ages was ‘universally high’.
Elaine Waterhouse was the winner in the adult category with her piece Inside the Cover.
Judges described Elaine’s piece, which explored the profound value of novels, as a ‘moving, assured and understated story’, calling it ‘our unanimous winner’.
Elaine said: “I am both surprised and delighted to be selected as the winner, which is truly humbling.”
Thanking the judges, she said: “I’m so grateful for the opportunity to participate in the competition and this recognition has strengthened my confidence and determination to continue developing my writing.”
Alongside the runner-up in the category, Nicola Walpole, Elaine won tickets across the events at the literature festival, this weekend.
Both have been given a place at the festival’s Gold Dust Creative Writing Workshop Day, on Saturday, at the United Reformed Church in Whiting Street.
There were two winners in the young people category for those aged between 13 to 17.
Jasmine Wales, who is home educated, was praised for her vivid and poetic story: ‘The Road to Discovery’.
As her prize, Jasmine chose to attend the creative writing workshops.
Her fellow winner was Alexis Rose Josy, a student at St Benedict’s School.
Alexis was the winner of the competition’s free school’s event.
This means she will get a special visit from East Anglian-based, award-winning, author Ashley Hickson-Lovence.
Ashley will visit St Benedict’s Catholic School to give a talk on his novel Wild East.
While at the school, he will speak to students about the power of using verse to tell their own story.
County High School pupil, Florence Atkinson was one of the winners in the children 12 and under category.
Florence and her classmates will also receive a visit from Ashley.
The Year 7 pupil wrote Bookworlds: The Portal Between Stories, while at Risby Primary School.
Judges described it as an adventure story they could see becoming a whole series.
Florence said: “I am so pleased to have won this competition as it meant a lot to me.”
“I really enjoyed writing the short story, and because I would love to be an author when I grow up,” said Florence.
”I am looking forward to trying to develop it into my first full book.”
The youngest winner in the competition was Oluwadarasimi Huldah Fajuyi, a Year 6 student at Tollgate Primary School.
Oluwadarasimi was the only writer to win with a piece of creative non-fiction: Getting Lost in a Book.
The judges said her writing was ‘very thought-provoking and interpreted the theme in a really interesting way’.
Oluwadarasimi has won her school a visit with author Serena Patel, author of the Anisha Accidental Detective series.
Serena will run an interactive assembly around her recent hit novel for young readers, Pia’s Pet Club.
All of the competition’s school events are funded by the adult category entrance fees and the Wensum Trust English Hubs.
The trust is funded by the Department of Education and supports schools in Suffolk and Norfolk to achieve excellence in teaching reading and early language development.
This is part of the Bury St Edmunds Literature Festival’s charitable mission to engage with children and young people throughout East Anglia through reading, in an accessible and exciting way.
The festival, which starts today and runs until Sunday, features a programme of author events, workshops, walks and film screenings.
Children’s events at the festival include interactive storytelling for toddlers at Waterstones in the arc Shopping Centre on Saturday.
Serena Patel will be running Pia’s Pet Club for children aged five to 12 at Bury St Edmunds Library on Sunday.
All of the children’s events are free; however, booking in advance is recommended.
There are plenty of author events for the adults to enjoy, hosted at locations including the Abbeygate Cinema, the Unitarian Meeting House and the United Reformed Church.
On Saturday, authors Ashley Hickson-Lovence, Emily Buchanan and Katie Ward will host East Anglian Voices at Bury St Edmunds Library, starting at 1.15pm.
The next day Daisy Buchanan and Nikki May will talk to fellow author Isabelle Broom about the power of reading for pure pleasure.
The event, Read Yourself Happy, will start at 1.30pm at the Unitarian Meeting House.
A full line-up for the literature festival, and booking details, can be found at: www.burylitfest.co.uk/boxoffice
Winning entries
Inside the cover, by Elaine Waterhouse
She had to ask three times. Honestly. Three.
Frankly, if there had been any other free seats, Edna wouldn’t have asked at all.
The boy was in urgent need of a haircut.
A tattoo leaked beyond the sleeve of his Iron Maiden T-shirt.
Holes ventilated the knees of his jeans which were in any case about two sizes too large, and his left ear was pierced so liberally that it reminded her of the curtain-pole in her dining-room.
Twenty, maybe. Samuel had never looked this way. She had to count her blessings.
Worse, this lad looked decidedly peaky. The complexion of a serial video-gamer – pale, drawn, haunted.
Although the reddish rings around the eyes hinted at something darker. Drugs, no doubt. Such a waste.
The familiar nausea stirred. No. Don’t go there.
“Excuse me.” Her voice was louder now.
Several other passengers turned, and she met their glances with a withering stare.
Out of embarrassment or annoyance she wasn’t even sure herself. Is any of this my fault?
His ears were plugged with small white lollipops, the quintessential accessory of youth.
They wore them everywhere. Heaven knows what would happen in the event of a fire alarm.
A whole generation could be burned alive.
He was slumped down in the seat, knees propped up against the one in front – a pose that anyone above the age of twenty-five would consider torturous.
But more remarkable yet was that, propped up on his thighs, was a book.
He was reading.
The bus lurched. Steadying herself against the handrail, Edna leaned over and poked the young man’s arm.
He started so violently that, had she been less exasperated, less tired, less jaded, she might even have laughed.
“Please move your bag.” She over-accentuated the words, jabbing a finger repeatedly at the seat beside him, as if his removal of an ear-lollipop might not be sufficient to remedy his apparent stupidity.
Replying in kind, the young man held up a hand in apology and tossed the bag to the floor, completing the manoeuvre with a grin and a thumbs-up before returning to his book.
Edna shuddered. His nails were painted black, potentially disguising a multitude of germs and filth.
At least he wasn’t the hand-shaking type. She’d have needed her Marigolds.
She lowered herself into the seat as the bulbs above her head flickered into life.
It was already dusk outside. Her neighbour repositioned his book towards the light.
Hardback, but definitely second-hand: dust-jacketless edges softly fraying and a legacy of dog-ears splaying the pages.
She squinted at the faded cover. Middlemarch.
She sniffed. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.”
“Excuse me?”
Now he hears me. The young man was looking at her expectantly, one earbud still absent.
“Oh – just talking to myself.” She opened her bag to look for nothing.
“Sorry about before. Noise reduction.” He tapped his ear, sensing further explanation was needed. “Blocks out all the chatter so I can read.”
Laughter erupted from the back of the bus, and he raised his eyebrows in silent vindication.
Edna smiled and her eyes fell back to the book.
“You’ve read it?”
She sighed. “Forty years ago. Are you enjoying it?”
“Not my usual genre.”
You don’t say.
He slid a purple-tasselled bookmark between the pages. “Present from Mum.”
“She likes Eliot?”
“Yeah. Eliot, Austen, the Brontës – but Middlemarch is her favourite.” He smoothed his hand over the cover. “Well – was.”
“Was.”
“Died last month.”
Another wash of nausea. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Stupid thing is, she gave me this years ago.
Said she’d look forward to talking about it together. I thought it was a dumb idea. What the hell did some old novel have to do with me.”
He cleared his throat. “And now – it’s too late.”
Edna gripped the seat. Too late. The feeling was familiar. “But you’re reading it. That’s what she wanted.”
“Yeah. Well. Irony is, I love it. Get lost in the story. Feels like she’s still talking to me. All the underlinings. God, she would have killed me for writing in a book. Bloody hypocrite.”
He brushed his cheek roughly. “Said Eliot could teach us all a thing or two. Look.”
He turned the book and pointed. The line was marked with asterisks.
*What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?*
And Edna was back there. Ten years ago. The hospital. The tubes. The whispers. Samuel. Accident. Overdose.
Such a waste.
And when she looked up, she no longer saw the tattoo, the piercings or the ponytail. She saw the mirror of her grief.
“I think Eliot wasn’t the only one to teach us something.” She spoke so quietly that she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
So she took his hand.
Getting lost in a book, by Oluwadarasimi Huldah Fajuyi
The birth of a child is the happiest feeling of both parents. Especially the ones that want to be present in their child’s life and are willing to be intentional in carrying out their duties in the upbringing of the child.
However, the interracial marriage of my parents has brought about my struggles with “identity”. I don’t know where I belong.
There are questions that need to be answered, every day I go about my life, I find myself wandering and getting lost.
I have found myself “getting lost in a book” of my life.
How do I identify myself to friends and family? What is my story? How do I write my story? What is my history?
Am I British or Nigerian? What language should be primary or secondary? Is it English or Yoruba? What culture is paramount? What are my beliefs, morals and societal expectations?
Traditionally, I am supposed to identify as a Nigerian because my dad is a Nigerian, but I left Nigeria since I was six years old.
The culture is no more vivid, my tongue has changed to the British accent. I have not visited my father’s country since I left.
Who am I? Can anyone tell me? Never mind, playing the racial card?
No my skin has cheated me, so I thought.
When it is summer, I don’t know whether to use sun cream or not because I have got the interracial skin, my hair is different, my lifestyle is unique. I live a double life.
Culturally, I am brought up to embrace both cultures of my parents but if I am to choose I find myself “getting lost in a book.”
While wondering and “getting lost in a book” of my life, I discovered that irrespective of where I originate from, I do need to identify myself as a human being who has got potential and the power to become whoever I choose to be.
It doesn’t matter where I come from or who my parents are, all that matters is that I love myself and identify as human before I claim to be a Nigerian or a British.
I believe racial war can be minimal and possibly end if the foundation is right.
Kids do not know anything about their identity, it is what they are thought they practice. To make the society a better place for us all.
It is important that parents teach their kids to be human before they are identified with their origin or the colour of their skin. Love is not learnt.
Love is what we see that is practiced around us and it sticks when it is reiterated in every day of our lives.
The world is evolving, I believe our values should as well. Let us make the world a better place for us all, where we can live freely and not be subjected to stereotype and prejudice, let us practice inclusion and equality. Love is not forced, it is imbedded in actions.
Action speaks louder than words. I want to fit in everywhere I go irrespective of who I am. “Getting lost in a book” shouldn’t be my place of resolute, finding myself and rewriting my story should be.
Bookworlds: The Portals Between Stories by Florence Atkinson
There was a book. Not a normal storybook like the one you’ve just imagined. This was a special book filled to the brim with adventure. A skunk lived in this book, always going through his daily routine of waking up, climbing snowy mountains, hacking through dense jungle, sailing across piranha infested lakes then going back to sleep, again and again and again.
Our story starts on a regular day for Simon, sailing across the lake when the old chest in the middle of the boat, that had always been there, caught his attention.
At that moment, something inside him clicked and even though his story hadn’t ever told him to open the chest, he went over to it and slipped open the catch.
There was a swirling mist in the bottom. Curious, he went closer and suddenly began to fall, without warning, into an abyss of crow-black darkness, with only the sound of his own breathing to accompany him.
Falling, falling, falling. Simon stared around him, then suddenly he felt an almighty jolt and he was slammed onto something hard and unforgiving. Metal? But he didn’t have time to think, because out of nowhere came an almighty rumble and a voice; “3…2…1… BLAST OFF!!!”
Simon’s feet lifted off the ground and after a few minutes of being bounced around like a ball everything went still. Still like a cheetah ready to pounce. Still like a world that had stopped moving.
The only movement was Simon thrashing wildly to get back to the floor. Then out of nowhere a hatch opened to his right and he was sucked out into what looked like space. It couldn’t be, could it? This wasn’t a place he recognised from his story!
Simon didn’t know how long he had floated around past planets and stars, but he did know someone else was coming towards him.
A badger floated next to him, staring at him curiously. “Um…hi? Who are you?” asked Simon.
“ I am Neil, badger adventurer extraordinaire.” replied the badger confidently. “You?” “Um, I’m Simon just a skunk.”
“Well, hello Simon, just a skunk!”
“ Um, no it’s just Simon actually and can you help? I’m lost.” Simon’s words came out hurriedly.
“Of course! Follow me!” Neil beckoned for him to follow. As Neil led him past asteroids, blackholes, planets and stars he explained to Simon how he had got here. “I was just starting my adventure story as normal, climbing the mountain I always climbed, when I got distracted by a cave and was then sucked into a black emptiness. When I stopped falling, I was here, lost. All I’ve managed to find is this huge library, do you think that could help?”
“That’s exactly what happened to me!” exclaimed Simon, ignoring Neil’s question.
He noticed he was now facing a grand building with the letters INTERGALACTIC LIBRARY written out in shining light.
“Here we are!” Neil announced.
They stepped inside and Simon headed for a section labelled TRAVEL.
He ran his paw along the spines until he reached a book labelled BOOKWORLDS. He flipped open the delicate cover, skimming, to a chapter called Book Portals. It read:
Book Portals can transport characters to other books. They are often described as a pool of blackness which suck you into them. They usually are used when someone in the story strays from the plot and is then pulled through. To get back to your home book you must simply find the nearest Book Portal and pass through by imagining the world you live in.
“So….… that’s what we fell through?” asked Neil.
Simon nodded.
“I think I’ve seen one!” said Neil. They both stood there until an idea struck Simon like a bullet. “Well, if we head to the portal, we could both try and find a way to our homes.” said Simon. “OK” agreed Neil. So on they soared, past more stars, planets, asteroids and blackholes. They stopped at a swirling mist of light that glowed bright among the black of space.
The portal. They floated forwards, closed their eyes, and imagined their home stories.
There was an almighty lurch and they fell, once again, into the inky darkness. They tumbled out, with a…splash?
This wasn’t like the lake Simon had left, it was different! Then they spotted it. A gargantuan plesiosaur rising out of the waves towards them snapping its deadly teeth.
There was nowhere to go. In a hurry and in a panic, Simon seized Neil’s paw, dived back through the portal, and thought hard about his home.
Their surroundings changed again and this time Simon fell onto something familiar. Home.
He was in a luscious North American woodland. Neil landed next to him, everything looking familiar as he suddenly realised, he was home too.
My Second Home, by Alexis Rose Josy
I curled up on the broken-down, ancient sofa with the moonlit rays seeping in through my window. The soft hum of the radiator filled the room, a familiar sound that melted into the quiet solitude of the night.
With a sigh, I set the mug of hot cocoa on the table, steam curling into the air, where unfortunately I lost some marshmallow soldiers along the way, victim to the dusty carpet. Lying back, I tried to decide what to do that evening. I could go to the club with a couple of my mates and have what they would call a night away on party island and meet a tall, dark stranger who would sweep me off my feet, like my overly optimistic friend Ruth dreamed and gushed about.
However, my inner introvert reeled at the thought, and I shuddered physically at all the exhausting concepts I would have to mutter about to a random person who wouldn’t understand the word “No.”
Then my body caught the comforting yet faint aroma of my books scattered invitingly on my towering bookshelf which took up more space than my kitchen.
I stepped up and slowly floated like a ghost towards the bookshelf. I stepped on the creaky floorboards, and it woke me up from my trance. I looked in front of me and immediately my mouth stretched wide in a teary smile as I saw my favorite friends. Oh, the troubles, though what book should I pick?
Should I pick, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? Or Alice in Wonderland? What about Little Women or another of these literary masterpieces that had a special place in my heart?
I settled on my childhood friend though, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I hurried back to my sofa and the sofa let out a wheeze of annoyance as I jumped excitedly on the makeshift fort of blankets and endless supplies of biscuits and hot cocoa.
I opened the book, and my body relaxed as if I inhaled Slughorn’s Felix Felicis and my eager eyes read the small print that held the comfort of a little 7-year-old girl who wanted more friends and was too shy to ask.
My eyes blurred when the book came to describing Hogwarts, a place where I used to dream that I lived there and went down to Hagrid’s hut with Harry, Ron and Hermione and laughed and teased with them three about all the wicked adventures that we had been on.
Sighing contentedly, I glance around the room where I used to envision my time at Hogwarts and various other worlds. Where my dreams became reality and magic was as real as Earth.
My eyes seem to tire out as they are on the last stretch of the book marathon: a contagious yawn rises in my throat threatening to drag me away from the exciting book. I chuckle as I read the last words of my book “I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...”
I make my fort cozier by cranking up the heating as the cold winter threatened to take this moment of comfort away from me. I feel satisfied, as if I’ve had the medicine to make it all right again in my imagination.
I realize that it was a much needed read and a tall, dark stranger can wait as my childlike reading essence had some fixing to do to the present me.
So, waiting for tomorrow I welcomed sleep as I visited my literary home.
The road to discovery, by Jasmine Wales
I was driving home one day when I noticed it. A turning I’d never seen before, lined with trees, stretching off into the unknown. It stirred something within me, an explorer’s instinct dulled by years of office work.
All of a sudden, I felt like a child again. Formerly a careful driver, I raced down the road, as though drawn by some indescribable impulse.
The trees, branches animated by the wind, whispered sweet nothings in my ears. The road was miraculously devoid of cars. I was Odysseus, setting out on a voyage of discovery. I was Alice, heading down the rabbit hole.
Gradually, the trees gave way to buildings. I began to wonder how such a picturesque town could have been on my doorstep for all these years without me knowing. The houses were crooked, reminiscent of a fairy tale.
Most, however, did seem inhabited; they had a jolly air about them that abandoned houses never seem to. I slowed down, out of respect but also curiosity: I wanted to soak it in, this mystical place I found by chance and might never reach again.
Then I found somewhere to park and started exploring on foot. Near me was a square of shops, all enticing, mostly still open. But the one with by far the strongest allure was in the furthest corner: it was a bookshop. I still can’t explain my rationale, as I barely read in my free time as I barely had any. Since my childhood I hadn’t set eyes on a novel.
Somehow the shop seemed to invite me in, daring me to change. So in I went, and I savoured everything about it; the covers of the books, the smell of the pine shelves, the shop signs, all in the same spindly hand. I was the only customer.
I saw both floors of the shop, a little tower of a building. I closely inspected every section, from gardening to romance to classics. I wasn’t looking for anything particular, but it felt fulfilling all the same.
After seeing it all, I felt I couldn’t leave empty-handed. I wandered over to the classics section and tentatively picked up a copy of Don Quixote.
I remembered reading a short version of it as a child and telling myself when I grew up, I was going to read it all. While this was easier done than most of my forgotten dreams, which included becoming an astronaut, life got in the way.
When all I read was paperwork, I lost the joy of reading. Yet nothing is irreversible, I told myself, marching up to the counter and paying for my purchase.
Book in hand, I wandered back round the square, listening to the birdsong and wishing I lived here.
Finding the car again was like bumping into your jailor while on parole, but I acquiesced that I really should be getting back.
On the drive home, I took my time, wishing I could paint the trees as they swished past, their emerald leaves waving goodbye.
At the end of the tree-lined road I was back on familiar terrain. I was almost home, but the true adventure was only just beginning.
That was Friday, I thought, now I have two whole days to get lost in my new book…