2024 BBC Young Writers' Award Showcase with Katie Thistleton

Hello, I'm Katie Dussleton and I'm the Chair of Judges for the 2024 BBC Young Writers Award with Cambridge University. Which comes from five amazing writers from all across the UK with story themes including neurodiversity, AI, human desire, jealousy, and the power of story.

In the first of our shortlisted stories, an experiment with goslings leaves an artificially intelligent robot with a decision to make. A human, a robot, and a gosling walk into a post apocalyptic bar is written by Basmila Alcala. It's too sunny a day to be holding a funeral. The human Julie remarked, as they watched the surroundings with a careful eye.

There was barely any wind, but the day was humid and the sun beat down like a hammer on hot iron. The robot continued to dig without an answer. External conditions do not matter. Its voice was not its own, but rather its creator's mother's, who sang like the angels of the heavens. Still, the human said, shrugging. It's a goose. Phew I'd get it if it were rainy or whatever. That might screw with your hardware.

The robot could take no offense. The human, with hair bright as a fox's fur, stared at the goose with a certain gaze. The robot would have wrinkled its nose if it had one. Yes, but it is still a living being. It deserves a proper burial, so that the soul may enter heaven. The robot picked up the lifeless body, which seemed heavier than before, and gently laid it in the three-foot-deep grave.

Oh, dude, what sort of religious preacher programmed you? The human asked, sighing deeply as they watched the robot place the goose's body in the dirt. Burials are for humans anyway? Falsehood the robot hummed, and the human would have argued that it sounded smug if they could. Plenty of animals were buried particularly by younger females of your species, before the apocalypse. Why are you so indifferent to it? The human's gaze seemed to harden. I don't have luxuries like panic or grief.

Especially for animals as The robot continued burying the goose, not apologizing because this did not need an apology. The human would be back to their usual self in a minute. This was usual. It had been normal for months ever since they met. Later, when they had gone back to their base, the robot's eyes, or rather its motion sensors, seemed to catch the movement of something moving near where the goose had been killed by a fox.

The robot, not wanting to bother the human, who had seemed less than happy about the burial because they argued that they could have eaten the goose, chose to explore and check the movement itself. Ah it said, mimicking the sound of surprise it learnt from the human. The feathery ball of yellow and brown that was staring curiously up at it. A gosling The goose was protecting her offspring. The screen on the robot's face started displaying tears and a downturned mouth.

Oh Tragic You have lost your mother, little one. Yo the human called from where they were making themselves a meal. Who are you speaking to? A gosling, the robot replied. It noticed the chick peeping helplessly at it, so it picked it up, held it near its chest, and turned its internal heating on. The chick huddled closer, quietening down, and seemingly content. The robot's screen face displayed a soft face and a cooing sound, as is the expected reaction. It hatched!

The human groaned, rushing over and staring quietly at the sleeping chick. Oh man I was gonna have it for breakfast tomorrow. What? The robot may not technically have any feelings or emotions, meaning it cannot form attachments, but it still felt a need to protect the chick that slept contently in its hands. The human shrugged. I saw the egg before you insisted we buried the mum, so I left it under a blanket so no other animals would get to it.

You were planning to eat it, the human shrugged in response again. If it could, the robot would have groaned. Alas, that was not one of its programmed sounds. Let me see it, the human said, reaching out to the chick. The robot, only slightly hesitant, handed the chick over. And it did not like that. But the chick started chirping and peeping and pecking helplessly at the human's hand, who seemed slightly offended.

As soon as it was back in the robot's hand, it hummed to a silent sleep again, hungry. Uh Mood the human said, only slightly shocked. It's imprinted on you. The robot ran a quick scan of its dictionary and it thinks I'm its mother, it said, only slightly confused and panicked. But I cannot rear it properly. I am not a goose.

The human seemed delighted with this turn of events, judging by how they could barely contain their laughter. Well then, they said, chuckling. You better start reading and learning because geese Imprint for life? They patted the robot's shoulder and sauntered vaguely off, going back to their food. The chick stirred in its hands and looked up expectantly. It chirped in what the robot assumed to be a request for food or Oh.

Dear me, the robot said to itself, as it began searching for what goslin's It was going to be a long thing. A human, a robot, and a gosling walk into a post-apocalyptic bar by Basmilla Al-Khalaf was read by Barty Patel and was produced by Andrew Smith.

Here's Basmiller to tell us how she felt when she was shortlisted, to give us an insight into what her story is about and to reveal the influences behind her writing it. When I was first called by the BBC, I was When they told me about being shortlisted, I was overjoyed because I'd never thought my story would actually be in any way shortlisted or a winner or anyway. So getting that like shortlisted and news, I was absolutely ecstatic.

I was so tempted to tell like one of my friends at least, but I tried to hold back and I know it actually only told my mother and my dad because they're the ones that only need to know. I didn't tell any of my siblings or anything. because I knew they'd like start badgering me with questions or they'd go and tell their friends. So I was just like I was very nervous not telling anyone'cause I felt like I needed to, but I just I kept it in.

And like I'm just very excited to tell them when the news does come out on the V V T. I think the person that would be the most excited about my story is the friend who encouraged me to write the story.'Cause We got the paper for the Young Writers Award together and we were like

If you write something, I'll write something and we'll both submit it at the same time. And he was very insistent on me writing it'cause he knew he he's read my stuff before and he liked it. So I think when I tell him he'd be he's gonna be ecstatic about So my sh short story is about a human and a robot being friends.

and finding a small animal, a gotling, within their home. And basically what they do is they then have to take care of it because the robot has been programmed to be kind of motherish and so it doesn't go too deep into taking care of the gospel because obviously it's a short story. But if I were to write about it more, I would include a lot more details about the Gotham. I think what inspired the story is I've always loved

post apocalyptic story. It's such a diverse genre I guess because it can be anything from a love story to a horror story.

And for the Gosling part, which is probably the weirdest part, I kind of got that from my psychology class where we were talking about how Goslings will imprint on the first things they see and the first things that read. I have a ongoing stories that I wanna write but I haven't really gotten deep into so it ranges from like fantasy love stories to coming of age to general like just not horror.

more paranormal. I write a lot of fantasy. The next story on the short list for the 2024 BBC Young Writers Award with Cambridge University is a story about a priest who is seeking the perfect sinner. But Confession is written by Vivian. The church was always cold. How can it not be? with the large doors constantly open, allowing the frosty wind to whirl through the great halls.

weaving its way through the pews to the altar, and echoing off the grey stony walls until the chill eventually fills the lofty hall. The decision was made over a year ago now to keep the doors to the abbey open. Numbers of worshippers had begun to dwindle, and the clergy believed keeping the doors open would help to make the church appear more inviting. A futile attempt, in my opinion, its gothic design and daunting size deterred most of the residents from even going near it.

This feature of my dear home, however, acts in my favour, as the abbey's forbidding nature helps to filter out those less committed to Christ. as well as those who don't feel the undying need to repent. And I just love it when people repent. Today was particularly bleak, however, winter has finally started to settle in, and the morning dew had made the room damp, and the icy droplets hung in the air, creating waves of shivers. Amongst the faithful.

Despite the weather, however, the congregation was larger than usual, Not surprising, I suppose, with the fire at the Brown's residence a few nights prior, many unfaithful worshippers were shaken and desperate to find solace in their sorrow. I begin to scan the parish from the ambulatory, Father Gabriel's over long sermon fading into white noise, allowing me to concentrate on my analysis.

Father Gabriel and I have never particularly seen Eye to Eye. He prattles on about his vision, and the need to modernize our sacred Christian ideologies and practices. He is young and over-ambitious He does not yet understand the order of things, the necessity of tradition. But he will soon learn, and if not, there are always ways to get around that. I work my way through the faces, immediately clocking the usual brethren among the foreign crowd, discounting them from my list.

My method is structured, logical, but most importantly, just. Our Lord requires sacrifice, balance to be restored, and I will do as he commands. I am his servant, after all. But whose blood is spilled to tip the scales? Well, that decision God delegates. The more sinful the sinner I dispose of, the more purity is restored therefore from the flock the lamb which I choose is crucial. I returned to my task, having dismissed the faithful, leaving a ripe selection to pluck from.

My eyes fall on the first of the bunch of the water. a young man of large stature, expensive clothes finely pressed, and perfectly flattering his sculpted physique. Self assurance oozing out of every pore, creating a sour odour which crinkled my nose. Greed. Pride. I glanced down at the cross around his neck. Gold, obviously, so shiny the glare of it was practically blinding.

Clearly new, which begs the question why a man of such wealth and success would suddenly feel the need to attend church and display his devotion with that abomination of a necklace. Gilt What have you done, sir, to make you come to this hallowed hall? What pain have you inflicted for which you need to confess? I ponder these questions as I move along my list, most of which consist of mourners of the Brown family.

Unfaithful subjects, perhaps, especially if they weep at the demise of those miscreants, but not the hardened sinners I crave. Just as I find myself ready to select one of these delinquents, I hear footsteps at the entrance of the church. The unmistakable two syllable impact sound of the shoes against the stone immediately draws my gaze up.

High heels. My pupils require dilation to fully take in this striking woman. Her pathetic attempt of wearing designer clothing to mask her cheapness is transparent. She approaches the congregation, the clip clop of her heels getting louder and louder until it drowns out Father Gabriel completely. Like a clock ticking down. Rather fitting, I suppose. The fumes of her perfume diffuse into the air and into my nostrils as she inches closer.

A fire is lit in my stomach, and I'm transported back in time. My mother's perfume, a potion she used to entrap men, as if she needed it, as if her disgustingly flirtatious nature wasn't enough to enchant them. A fan fatal, a temptress, a slut. and, unfortunately, no longer with us. She takes a seat near the back of the hall. Further away than is preferable, but close enough that I can still detect the nervous fumble of her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed.

Downwards, avoiding any sort of eye contact with anyone, almost as if she wished she was anywhere else in the world but here. And yet she is still here. What secrets lie beneath that pretty face? What sin can that fragile little body commit? These thoughts ensphere me, and the fire inside me grows fiercer, each question asked and answer unknown fueling it more. Her it has to be her. It is only the sound of the organ playing that breaks me from my trance as people begin to stand for the hymn.

I glance back over to glimpse the tremble in her legs as she stands, fear and uncertainty plastered on her face. The song draws to an end, and the congregation begins to file out. all except my little lamb, who instead heads straight to the confession box at the back of the hall, I am there in seconds and immediately enter the booth, anticipation consuming me as I hear footsteps approaching. Enter, my child, I command in the softest voice I can muster.

The door creeps open and she perches on the chair. Just the screen separating us now. Not for much longer. Silence fills the air until she mutters. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Confession by Vivian Hall was read by Tim McInerney. The producer was Rick Wasker. With a bit of background to her inspiration for the story, her favourite books to read and what she loves to do in her spare time, here's Vivian. So my story is set from the perspective of a priest who sees it as his responsibility and his right to cleanse the world of sin and he does this by killing people that he views as sinful.

And it's kind of his breakdown of what he thinks when he sees the different people in the church that have come. And eventually he picks this young woman who reminds him a bit of his mother. His view on his mother was that she was sinful, so he picks this woman as his target. And eventually she goes into the confession booth and says that she has something to confess. This kind of story I wrote is generally not the kind of thing I read really.

I like to read more fantasy novels. My favourite author is probably at the moment Sarah J. Mas. I really like her books. I find them very, very entertaining. I'd say my favourite book is Where the Crawdad Sing. I'd definitely recommend that because it hits so many different genres and ideas. I just I thoroughly enjoyed that book.

I like Eleanor Olivan is completely fine. I thought that was really good. It was a book that wasn't really action packed but you managed to connect quite a lot with the character. So if you're looking for something and you're not as bothered about something I don't know, high steel action filled, that's quite a good book. I'd recommend those too, probably. I love singing.

That is probably my favourite thing to do. I like doing gigs but I do singing lessons and stuff. I'm currently trying to do my grade eight but I keep pushing it back'cause I keep not practising because I'm doing schoolwork. I like stuff from musicals because they're really fun to sit and

But I really do like Amy Winehouse or Soul Music. I like all the commitment covers. Chain of Fools is my favourite one. I do acting as well. I also like to paint. I do a lot of painting with my mum. Those are the main things I like to do.

Our third story comes from Elgin in Scotland and is written by Aidan Vogelsang. His story, Natalie's Flatmate, is about a woman who brings home her new romantic partner, much to the displeasure of her judgmental flatmate. When Natalie first brought him home, I thought that it would simply be a one time thing. They would work on their project, Natalie taking up the cozy armchair, her knees pulled up to her chin, whilst her guest would take the cheap lilac sofa.

She would hum, disinterested, as her compatriot would open a book, or take a sip from a chipped mug Natalie had provided, or do whatever else university students did on a wintery January evening. But this is not what I had predicted. She was laughing at his jokes. They were not particularly good ones, but they had her twirling her auburn hair around her pen and battering her eyelashes at him.

He stands up, after about ten minutes of their pathetic attempts at flirting, before running his hand through his hair and standing up, he was leaving. Thank God, she had seen some sense at last and kicked him out. Really, he was not her type. The girls and guys she had usually brought home were always like her. Softly spoken with larger than life eyes that seem to give away every emotion, the types to wear their hearts on their sleeves.

But him he was tall, lanky. He moved sangras, as the French would say, or as I would say, more like a giraffe on roller skate. He was brash, loud, uncultured, and quite frankly, an idiot. I was glad to see the back of him, and hoped this was just another phase of Natalie's, like those god-awful highlights she tried back in eighteen. He opened the door to the cramped flat, before throwing up a hand, pausing, and leaving.

As soon as the door shut, taking a couple of extra seconds to do so, due to it being a fire door, she slumped back in the chair and smiled. I somehow got the feeling I would be seeing a lot more of this absolute oath of a man very much against my will. My predictions were proven right, as they always are, the next day, when he entered just after my breakfast. The lanky man somehow looked even taller as he approached me, before promptly ignoring me and throwing a smile at Natalie.

Glancing at her with such admiration, it was as if he thought she had hung the stars, moon, and whole galaxy. Natalie reciprocated the smile, tilting her head and offering for the two to take a seat. Instead of sitting on the love seat as before, he took my seat. A lovely sunny nook on the windowsill where you can see the people go past on the pavement below and the birds flying high above. Later that night, in revenge, I made sure to knock over some of her nice china. It's what she deserves.

She truly was in love, and every day as he continued to visit, the signs were clear. She gave him the nice mugs in the cabinet, instead of the ratty ones she had brought from home. She began to teach him her native language. She would obsessively clean the flat before his imminent arrival, often moving me in the process, and she spoke about him to all the other poor friends she brought home.

Sasha, Antony, and even the mailman had been forced to hear about her insipid love life. There was simply no hope. No matter how many times I told her late at night about how really it was not love, it was truly some sort of messed up Stockholm syndrome she was feeling. She never listened. One day she left the flat. It had felt like ages since she had gotten out and got air. Maybe she would get some vitamin C in and realise her feelings for the lofty idiot were foolish.

After what felt like hours, she returned from wherever she had been with the oaf in tow. She seemed angry, and paced forwards. He followed, reaching out to her shoulder. She pushed his hand away. She starts to raise her voice, speaking in that defined and clear cut way only she can about feelings and other boring things I feel no joy in recalling to you, dear reader.

He says something quietly, and she turns around, taking a few cautionary steps forward before grabbing his neck and forcing him downwards into a Kiss. How grotesque! She seems happy, however, and that makes me somewhat content to watch as she pulls away, smirking. He, on the other hand, just looks lost. Before they both sit down in their respective seats, he has the decency to not take my spot this time, and they have an extended conversation.

He talks about her smile. She talks about his kindness. and they share a tender, sickeningly sweet look, before he reaches out and grabs her hand, guiding her into a second, more careful kiss. She breaks away first and smiles, and for the second time I realize that perhaps this fool of a man was going to be more of a fixture around our house than I would prefer. After that, it was almost as if he was a permanent fixture in the flat.

He would be there in the mornings, placing tender kisses in her hair. He would be there in the afternoons, silently working on the couch as Natalie reads in her seat. He would be there in the evenings making her a cup of tea in her favourite mug while she watched some TV show. He was there on the good days, the bad days. And really? He was there just about every day, slowly lulling Natalie into what I assumed was a false sense of security.

But to day, as he places more food in my bowl, scratches me just behind the ears, and calls me a good kitty, I realise he may not be as bad as I once thought he was. I'm still not learning his name though.

Ian Dunnett Jr. was reading Natalie's Flatmate by Aidan Vogelzang. It was produced by Claire Ewing. Here's Aidan to tell us more about his story, his influences and what he wants to do in the future. Natalie's Flatmate is about kind of the story of a new romance told through the eyes of a very, very judgmental flatmate of this woman, who turns out to be her pet cat. Who really does not like her new partner. Though I'm not sure if there was an inspiration for it, but I have a cat myself.

um who is incredibly like well, he he does what most cats do, which is kind of judgmental glances and not being incredibly happy if you've not fed them on time and I guess that was sort of my inspiration for it. I like writing suspense. I actually when I first came across the BBC Young Writers, I was like, Oh, I'll do something more like thriller-y, something more like suspenseful, because I don't usually write more like happy romantic things. So

I do like writing suspense stuff, but I just kind of felt the vibe of the story from the beginning and it just kind of went from there. A lot of my influence in that sense comes from a family friend named Margaret Mansfield. Who cheated me? When I was quite young. She was originally like a classics teacher, but she really helped me with most subjects. Unfortunately, she died quite recently.

It's really a shame she didn't get to see this because she would be really proud, I think. Luckily, I'm at the point where I can start thinking about my future. I have to pick my A level subject soon. So I've been thinking about that quite a bit and I would love to continue writing but I think writing will stay as always a hobby for me. Um in the future I enjoy helping people and I'm quite a

socially conscious person so I'd quite like to go into something like human rights law or international law. Unfortunately my school doesn't do a politics A level because I think I would have picked that and I would have been I I enjoy an analysing things. Um but at the moment I am thinking of taking English literature, history, French and

Sociology. The fourth entry on our shortlist is called Special and is written by Lulu Frissen. In this story about neurodiversity, a young student's life is changed by a suggestion from her teacher that she should take up a new hobby. Everything is relentlessly execrably loud. You sit in in the back corner of your English classroom, heart racing to the tap, snap, crack of Biro pens and the mocking creak of the radiator.

The itch of your jumper is a scorpion's sting, your sweaty hands a crab's clammy claw. Everything too loud, everything too much. It's like your body is drowning with its ears above the water. It's like Star like bright white light shining, voices crashing, crushing yeah, see you tomorrow yeah an incessant ping twitch ping a Bikettian affair. Did you do the homework?

Star like bright white light like shades of shaved sun, voices bleeding in rivers of red ink, yellow ink, blue, grey, green, ping, twitch ping, too bright, too white. Too light, chairs scraping as the bell rings for lunch, and Hey, do you mind staying back for a second? Mr Capoe, your English teacher. He pulls up a chair as the hum of the projector screen recedes. From the door your desk partner gives your bright red face a pitying look and leaves you for lunch.

I just wanted to check in with you. I've noticed you seem to be struggling a bit in lessons. He pauses. You know, aside from teaching you English, I work with students with special needs. I'm not special, you say. Well, everyone is, he smiles. But special needs just means you might see the world differently. you shake your head. No, I mean I'm not special, you reply. Special, synonymous with weirdo or nutcase, is the word the boys use when you don't get the joke.

When you go mute when called on in class, when you mumble sentences and fidget with the hair bubbles on your wrist and can't meet their eyes. Besides, to be special is to be different, and you think yourself entirely painfully average. You don't need to be anything in this classroom. Here you're dressed Welcome, Mr Kapoor says softly. He watches you closely. Hey, do you like to read, by any chance? I could really do with someone to read some books I bought, before I try them out in lessons.

Be shrug. You can't remember the last time you read outside of his English class. Give the books a go, Mr Capor smiles. I think you might like them. And so over the next few weeks he lends you countless works Ocean Vong and Shakespeare, Claire Keegan as well as the Bronte sisters, At first you read them obligingly, like opening a gift from a distant aunt.

But after Caleb Azuma Nelson's open water You begin to understand what it means to create art from the building blocks of verbs and nouns, to condense the universe and make a masterpiece with its bones. With every book you read, with every new artist you encounter. You want to ask, why do you see the world like this? How come I can't? As time passes, you become calmer, brighter, the classroom's noise at last comfortably symphonic.

One Monday, in a snatch of calm before your English lesson, Mr Kapoor asks if you've ever tried writing. You're reading Max Porter at your desk, with the watered sun outside like pathetic fallacy. I could give you feedback on your work, he suggests, and you hesitate. For to be read is to be known, and you're not quite sure you're ready for that. In January, though, fresh faced, you tentatively turn to him with an empty pocket sized moleskin, and the resolution to try something new.

Mr Capoe is an assiduous teacher. Through him you learn syntax in snatches of time and the imagery as the English light across his desk dances a waltz. Writing soon becomes your favourite activity. Each day at lunch you find an empty classroom where a quotient of your brain can at last be quieted, and write worlds into being until the school bell rings.

You bury every emotion in the pages of your notebook, imagining your words to hibernate hedgehog-like in the soil of each poem you write, like little living bodies. Because they are creatures, and yours are the hands of a river, holding their heart beats without spilling over. Because this notebook is a womb, whence your letters grow into tangibility, because words are clay and yours are the hands of an artist. And because what is writing, if not an act of creation?

She's really coming into herself, Mr Capo mentions at Parents Evening in February. Her writing's done her a world of good, really. It's lovely to see she's becoming more confident in class. In March, he pins a poster to the door of his English classroom, an advert for a writing competition. A similar one appears in the corridor, then another in the school hall, before you realize the wordless gesture. It's a dare. And you take it.

As you write, the world becomes a green screen, your imagination a second hand camera, film developing into images of everything you wish to have and be. You write of beauty, of bejewelled fruit and syrup pooling on hot pancakes. Of characters that wear daisied blouses and no shoes, of falling stars painting tender fields white as they kiss the earth upon landing.

You write of the sky berthing buttered peaches and honeyed oranges into scenes steeped in sea salt air. Just because you like the way imagery feels as formed from your fingertips. Just because you like the sound of sibilants when you write of sunrise. In the end, your story is a stop-motion animation of your world, of yourself. And maybe all stories are really this a search of the soul disguised as cinema or art. Maybe to write is not a plea to be known, but a prayer to know oneself.

You submit your story online nineteen minutes before the competition deadline. You don't win, but when you share it with Mr. Kapoor, he calls you special. And for the first time, The first time. You really believe it. Special was written by Lulie Frison and was read by Kimberly Cochrane. The producer was Rick Wasker.

With her reaction to what it felt like to be shortlisted, the authors she loves to read, and what she enjoys doing when she's not writing, here's Lulu. It felt very surreal to be shortlisted for the BBC Young Writers. It was definitely unexpected. I'd almost forgotten that I'd entered. So it was a really lovely surprise and it's been a really lovely process since as well.

it was very difficult not to tell anybody. I think when you first find out that kind of news you wanna like share it with the world, share it with all your friends. But I haven't, I've kept it secret, so it'll be very exciting to share it with people that I I think would appreciate knowing. My story is about really falling in love with writing and falling in love with being creative and expressing yourself through words.

So it follows the story of somebody who's a bit more quiet, somebody who is neurodivergent and who doesn't really enjoy school necessarily, and she kind of gets guided by a teacher that she meets and that helps to fall in love with reading and then from that with writing as well. It's kind of about finding yourself and finding

what you enjoy but also yourself through words. I think the first person that came to mind was O Chun Vong. Um so I'm half Vietnamese and I think he's always been a writer that I've really looked up to as in the way that he uses imagery and poetry and

It really hits every single piece that I read of his. And then I also mentioned Caleb Aziman Elsen in my work and I think his work open water, that's something that I always come back to time and time again. I've been trying to read a bit more classics, so I I've read like Virginia Wolf over Summer, which is it's it's really nice to kind of read very different writing styles and think about how you can use that in your own work as well. I play the violin. I really like

to play in chamber music groups. So a lot of my friends play music and sometimes we'll just find a piece that we like and play a duet or a quartet or whatever together. I think that's something that I really enjoy doing. I like to go on walks, really long walks. just with a podcast or with music or with a friend. And then something I've really gotten into the past Yeah really is just doing stuff for my school community. So I'm a house captain at school now and I've just really loved

doing activities of the younger years, running house meetings and doing things like friendship bracelet makings with them at lunchtime. I think that's something that really inspires me and that brings me a lot of joy. The final story shortlisted for this year's BBC Young Writers Award with Cambridge University.

is an eerie tale about the power of silence in a world where everyone will do whatever it takes to keep the peace. The Quiet is written by Amman Foyez. Um because it was quiet. She liked the quiet. So Alice had come through the trees. They were meandering and clustered, seeming to carve their own path for her to follow. The trees dwarfed Alice. But they were silent, so they did not frighten her. She liked the quiet. The forest had its own special kind of quiet than anywhere else.

The forest had a quiet that made Alice happier than anything else. The silence was dense and tight around her, which made Alice feel comfortable and safe and warm. Noise was not good for her. Not at all. Grandmother felt the same way. Grandmother's face would change in the most unpleasant way when there was noise. Grandmother would look afraid when there was noise. That did not bother Alice because she liked the quiet. There is no such thing as fear when it is quiet.

A bird sang in one of the trees until it was silenced. That's good, thought Alice. I like the quiet. Alice continued walking, occasionally hopping and often skipping. It made her appear happy. Of course she was happy. Everyone was happy. She liked the quiet. The forest stayed silent. chanced upon some other creatures of the wood. Luckily, they were not like the stupid sparrow, whose song had shattered the silence. That had been unfortunate.

They had to like the quiet just how Alice and grandmother, and mother and father, and brother and sister did. Everyone liked the quiet. She liked the quiet. Alice was nearly at the end of her journey, her footsteps beginning to falter in posture and precision. She could disturb the quiet if her footsteps were not good and proper. The Qui would not like that.

She almost let out a breath when grandmother's house finally peeked through the foliage. Alice should not breathe, though. It is wrong to breathe. If she breathed, the quiet would be unhappy. Alice tiptoed across the threshold of grandmother's house and into the kitchen. There was no door, the door made noise. The door was dangerous. Grandmother waved. Alice waved back. Grandmother moved her hands as she saw the cakes in Alice's basket to say Thank you. She took a cake and ate happily.

They were both happy. The Quiet made sure of that. Alice began to move her own hands. Tell me the story of the olden days again. Grandmother watched the movement of Alice's fingers. She smiled happily and began. They're used. Be talking. There used to be laughter and There used to be song. There used to be. Noise. Grandmother's face changed in the way that Alice knew was not happy. Then they told us they did not like what we said. They did not agree. They made us stop

They told us it would make us happy. No more talking, no more laughter, no more song, no more noise. Just. Quiet. Grandmother's face changed back to how it always looked. Happy. Just how Alice and the Quiet liked it. Hurry on home now. Grandmother handed a cake back to Alice. Alice nodded with a smile, leaving the other cakes with grandmother. She was happy that it was still quiet in the woods. She liked the quiet. As Alice retraced her steps, almost back home, a wolf emerged from the thicket.

She looked at it thoughtfully, noticing its ribs and bones as it stared right back at her. You look starved, she thought. Perhaps you would like a cake. You have been quiet. That deserves a treat. That will make you happy. And the quiet wants us all to be happy and Careful to not make any noise, Alice approached the wolf, offering a cake in her hand. The wolf brought its nose close to the cake, but did not sniff. It took the cake, it chewed slowly so it would not disturb the quiet.

Slowly the wolf closed its jaws around Alice's fingers, the cake already consumed. Tentatively, the wolf took a bite, not breaking any bones. There was no noise. Alice knelt and settled herself on the forest floor, checking for any twigs or sticks. The wolf continued to eat, removing the skin and muscle and nerves and ligaments from her hand. She had not disturbed. The quiet, That's good, Alice thought to herself as she lay flat on her back, the wolf delicately tearing at her clothes.

I should not make noise, she thought, as the wolf reached her small intestine, and No one had disturbed the quiet. Everyone is happy. Alice liked the quiet. Alice is happy. I am happy, Alice thought to herself. The wolf swallowed her liver. The quiet liked that.

The Quiet by Amand Foyez was read by Phoebe Campbell and was produced by Belinda Naylor. Here's Amman to tell us about the books he would recommend to others and what he wants to do in his future career. So the choir is about a girl called Alice and she is walking through a forest and everything around her is just totally, totally quiet, almost eerily quiet, and eventually she comes across A big bad wolf you could say. And despite getting attacked by that wolf, she never panicked.

She almost just allows it to eat her. And I think that final shocking part of the story really resonated with readers, especially when I was. going through it and showing some of my teachers my initial story plan, they were all really shocked by that ending. I was really happy with that ending, punching you in the gut almost, where she didn't panic and she was completely fine with the wolf eating her.

I think definitely Coraline. I think it's one of my favorites. I haven't read it in quite a while. Definitely gonna go back to it. But one other that I really really enjoyed. I remember reading it for school actually. I really liked Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde actually. It was one of the first classics I suppose you could say that really interested me because a lot of those classics were very grounded in reality whereas the curious case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had this element of

supernatural little bit of fantasy elements in there in how the personality shift happens and those kinds of stories that are grounded in reality but have that little bit of something's not right here really interests me. One of my biggest aims for the Young Writers Award. If I did make the top five shortlist, I knew that would come with

the opportunity to meet with publishers and things like that. And I feel like in the publishing world getting that big break is super, super difficult because there's so many writers out there and often quite a lot of talent actually falls through the net. They just don't get that chance they needed when really they've actually got a

killer story on their hands. So yeah, being a published author, that is one of the ultimate dreams and I'm really hoping that I can be a vet in the future. Veterinary medicine has been one of my other big passions since I've been quite young, along with being a writer.

And there we have it, our fabulous shortlisted stories for this year's BBC Young Writers Award with Cambridge University. Aren't they just brilliant? To hear more about these stories and the amazing writers behind them, tune in to BBC Radio 4's front row at 7.15 PM on Tuesday the first of October, where we'll be celebrating in style the tenth anniversary of the BBC Young Writers Award, and I'll be announcing this year's winner.