The inaugural Stonewall Young Writers competition 2015 was on the theme “LGBT equality: changing hearts and minds” and writers aged 14 to 17 years old submitted their work in two categories - Poetry and Stories.
The entries were judged by bestselling thriller writer SJ Watson, poet Dean Atta and Stonewall CEO Ruth Hunt and the winners each received £150 book tokens.
We are proud to reveal the two wonderful winning entries here:
A note on reclamation by Mikey, aged 17
The first time I got called
“gay”
was by a girl with braces
and puppy fat clinging to her face.
Her mouth sharpened sour
by years of torment,
she hurled the word at me
like I was meant to be
ashamed.
Through the sudden sting of impact
my fingers clenched in retaliation;
Shaping my mouth around the sound,
I forged myself a weapon.
The first time I got called
“faggot”
was through cool glass and plastic
and the silent ring of cyberspace.
The stick and click of
hate and ignorance
echoed through my bloodstream.
I couldn’t sweat it out
for weeks.
To memories of schoolboy taunts
my mind jumped upon worst case conclusions
Recognising my worst nightmare,
I shook myself back to sleep.
The first time I got called
“queer”
was by a kid with tattoos
and green hair shorn shorter than my own.
Neither girl nor boy,
a fellow misfit,
they offered me a name
I had not known was mine
to take.
Beneath the sound of sweating palms
lay a deeper form of understanding;
Embracing my uncertainty,
I first felt myself take Pride.
The thing about words with
meaning
is they never lose their sting,
just change their direction of impact.
You gave them power
with your careless tongues,
now we shall steal it back.
This is not karma, but
justice.
These words were ours to begin with
or maybe we just made it seem that way
You stole our names and cut our tongues
So we boiled our blood to gold
You expected us to crumble
but instead we built up from the ruins;
We have stolen all your bullets.
They can never hurt us now.
Washed off on the coast by Georgia, aged 15
I wrap my hands around the mug of hot coffee in front of me. Snow falls rapidly outside, drifting from the skies and landing on the roadside in white flurries. Bringing the mug to my lips, I blow on it to cool it down before taking a sip. I place the mug back down, and watch the steam float up and create patterns in the air in front of my eyes. My gaze is pulled away when I hear the chime of the door. Just another customer with her kid. Not surprising, as this is one of the most popular coffee shops in town.
“Mummy, why is that man wearing a dress?”
Shit. That’ll be me, then. I stare down at my lap, hoping that the mother doesn’t make too big a deal out of it. Sure, it stings being called a man, but she’s just a kid.
“Because, darling, he is a sinner, who is going against God’s plans,” I hear her say. Wow.
I grab my rucksack and swing it over my back and start to leave, not wanting to hear any more of this when I hear another voice speak up.
“If your God was so great, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let people get stuck in the wrong bodies.”
Slowly turning around, I see a flame-haired barista stood with her arms crossed against her chest, a cocky yet pissed off look on her face.
Awesome.
The woman from before looks as though she’s about to explode with rage, ranting about how God doesn’t make mistakes, and she was disgusted with how the shop could let people like me in here – it’s a family place, after all – and how she was certainly never coming back.
Her kid looks slightly terrified, so I shoot her a small smile. She cowers behind her mother’s leg.
Ouch. I roll my eyes.
“Listen, if you want me to go, I’ll go. I’ve had my coffee anyway.” I put a few pound coins into the tip jar, mouthing ‘thank you’ to the fiery barista and open the door. Just as I exit the shop, I feel someone tugging on my sleeve. I look down to see the little girl, and realise her mother is still yelling at the barista who looks like she couldn’t care less.
“Your dress, it’s, er, v-very pretty,” she stutters out before running back to her mother.
I smile, because she’s right.
My dress is pretty, and so am I.
Congratulations to Mikey and Georgia for your stunning entries. Find more information about the Stonewall Young writers competition here.
