Hey guys! What could be better? I’ve just won a writing competition and now I’m launching my own for y’all to enter! Emma from BookEmma recently did a little contest over on her awesome blog and I entered. She chose me as one of her three winners and I am really honoured. Thanks Emma!
As most of you probably know, I am crazy about writing. It’s on my mind all the time and it has such a hugely positive influence on who I am and my hopes and dreams for the future.
Writing goes hand in hand with reading, anything wordy and you’ve got my attention! I love to read and what I’d love more than anything is to read other young bloggers writings. That’s why I have decided to launch my very own writing competition, inspired by the lovely Emma, of course.
First I’d like to share my winning piece with you, I hope you enjoy it. At the bottom you will find a contact form to submit your entry through. From experience, I know that if you are reading this on WordPress reader or in your feed the form may not show up. So please click ‘visit site’. Thanks!
But, without further ado, I give you:
The Busker by Gracie Chick ❤️
The white page stares out at me, the lines to write upon run just like prison bars across it. Trapping in my words, holding in my emotion. I cry out, but my voice just chokes and I realise that I too am confined to silence just like the ghostly page. The tears glint in my eyes and I know that the reflection in them will be that of the view through my window.
Rain falls at an angle and collects in puddles on the road and pavement. The sky is neither stormy nor still, just……grey. The houses that line the street drip water from their leaking gutters and the windows with shattered glass seem to look out at the scene in a depressed manner, their eyelids drooping. One single leaf clings to a twig on the big, black tree that grows on a patch of dying grass, Then it falls, spiralling down to the ground.
I step out into the street, wrapping my shiny, black waterproof coat around me. My shield, not just from the weather, but from the people, the strangers. I don’t want them to see who I am inside. I am a writer, I feed off of the crazy inspiration that wells up inside me, demanding to be pinned onto paper. So when I can’t write, I don’t know who I am. I feel like a sort of spirit of a past writer, who wanders with all purpose lost. Who seeks a new identity.
I round a corner and lean against the dirty concrete wall, glad of the shelter. I keep looking down at the floor and suddenly another pair of shoes comes into my view. They are old, worn brown boots, laces tied with messy bows and blue striped socks. I raise my gaze up a little, over purple corduroy trousers, a huge baggy red jumper, a torn white scarf and finally a friendly, bearded face. The man has a set of twinkling blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose, his beard is rusty orange and his mouth curves into a sort of wry smile. He nods at me and takes off a small case that was slung over his shoulder.
Carefully, with the love of a father to his child, he takes out an instrument, a ukulele. He lays the polished yet wrinkled case out on the ground and begins to tune it, plucking finely at the strings. I watch, hardly daring to lift my eyes above his hands, wanting to look at his face, but not having the guts.
He stops and looks at me from out of the corner of his eye. I look down immediately and hear him chuckle quietly. I think about moving on, but somewhere in my heart I like him, I like his company and I wonder if he likes mine.
Then he begins to play and I can’t believe I ever considered leaving. Some of his songs are woeful and some are cheerful. He rouses my heart and lets it drop. I recognise none of the songs, I guess they must be his own. I sit there for hours, silently listening. I think I know him the best I’ve known any other person in my life. I know how he struggles, how he finds hope, how he spreads light to others and how his music is his best friend, how he loved a girl and let her go. And we’ve never even spoken.
It’s dark and he finally lets his fingers rest on the strings. I can hardly see him, except for the smouldering end of his cigarette in the city dusk. I think he’s finished and I start to get to my feet. “Wait!” he calls softly. I spin round in surprise. “This one is for you.”
And he plays the most beautiful tune I have ever heard, no singing, just a slow, steady rhythm that rings out through the night, accompanied by a gentle drone of traffic in the distance. As I walk away, I hope he doesn’t see the tears streaming down my cheeks.
I am suddenly overcome by a fierce wave of determination. I will tell his story, weave it with my own in a spider’s web of words. It’s the least I can do for him. I kneel down in the middle of the street and raise my eyes to the blackness of the sky beyond the city lights. “Thank you.” I whisper. I have been saved by The Busker.
Da da da! The End!
I have decided that the closing date shall be in two weeks and that is, *calculates* 1st May!! Perfecto! Please do enter, can’t wait to read all your writings!
Note that there are no strict rules or regulations. You can write poetry or a short story (preferably max 750 words, but if you just have to add that last sentence, I may just allow you). There’s no age limit either and you don’t have to be a blogger.
Anyways, looking forward to hearing from you all soon. What did you think of ‘The Busker’?
Bye for now,