Meg wins an Author of Tomorrow Award

Many congratulations to Meg Lintern in Year 12 who has won an Author of Tomorrow Award for her short story, An Adventure at Sea, which journals a young refugee’s near-fatal attempt to cross the Mediterranean Sea with her younger brother.

The Author of Tomorrow Award is designed to find the adventure writers of the future. Part of the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize, it is an annual competition open to young people, aged 21 and under, who have completed a short piece of adventure writing in English. Meg’s story won the 16-21 yrs category and will feature in the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation’s 2019 anthology, Survival, Spirits and Submarines. Ten Tales of Remarkable Adventures.

It is the third time this year that Meg’s writing has attracted critical acclaim. Earlier this year her piece entitled Lest we Forget was one of 10 Highly Commended entries in the UK-wide Young Walter Scott Prize for writers interested in history and writing. Following this Meg won a Keats-Shelley Young Romantics Prize for her essay on Manfred: Glory and Ruination.

“Meg is so incredibly talented, and it has been wonderful to see her developing as a writer over the years, expanding her range, exploring different forms and really finding her ‘voice,’” said Mrs Bruton from the English Department here at KES.  “She is a fantastic role model for many of our younger writers in the School, so many of whom come along to Creative Writing Society and enter our annual poetry and short story competitions. We hope they will take inspiration from Meg and send their stories out into the world.  These young KES authors really are the  voices of the future!”

You can read Meg’s winning story, An Adventure at Sea, below.  Ahead of that we caught up with Meg to find out more about her writing career and what inspires her.

When did you start writing?
The first time I wrote a proper story was in Reception. We got to write and illustrate our own books - I have no idea what I wrote about, but I can remember how proud I felt to see my own laminated story.

Tell us a little bit about some of your recent pieces of writing
As I’ve been entering into different competitions over the past year, I’ve been writing about a range of things. Each competition has a unique theme or topic, so I’ve been trying everything from war stories to poetry essays.

Do you have any advice for some of our young writers here at school, in the Junior School or Lower School, say?
The key to a good story is to write about things that really interest you. If you’re passionate about a subject, it will come through in your writing, making it much more interesting to the reader. More importantly, it’s the only way to enjoy writing!

How have teachers here at school helped you with your writing?
It wasn’t until Mrs Bruton’s lessons in Year 7 that I really learnt about writing techniques. She taught me how to use imagery and descriptions to bring words to life, and she passed onto me a love for writing that’s stuck with me ever since.

What is your favourite book? 
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel

Who is your favourite author? Or one who has inspired you and why?
My favourite author Margaret Atwood. Although she’s best known for The Handmaid’s Tale, I love her for her short stories and essays. They are crammed with meaning and messages to make you think twice, and her unique perspective has made a huge impact on my own way of viewing the world - especially when it comes to topics like feminism!

What is your favourite subject at school?
My favourite subject would be either History or English. I think the two have a lot to teach us about where we’ve been, where we’re going, and who we are.

What does 'adventure writing mean to you? Why did you choose to try your hand at an adventure story? 
Adventure writing means transporting yourself to a new world full of new faces and bringing the reader along for the ride. I wrote my story to expand my own writing abilities, and because I thought it would be an interesting opportunity to present a powerful message in an unexpected way.

If you could ask an author anything, what would you want to know?
As a writer, there are always new ideas spinning around your brain - how do you motivate yourself to stick with writing a single novel until the end without getting distracted?

Who would you consider one of your heroes and why? (This does not have to be a writer…)
Yuval Noah Harari is an icon of mine. His way of sharing his opinions in such an accessible way despite the immense profundity of his messages is a talent that I hope I can learn!

 Where do you find inspiration for your stories? (Books, historical events, famous adventurers/explorers, news etc.)
I find current events the most motivational. There are so many real-life adventures and horror-stories unfolding every day, and they inspire me to try to create pieces of writing that encapsulate the struggles of everyday people in a captivating way.

An Adventure at Sea by Meg Lintern

The light wakes me up.

It turns my eyelids red as I squeeze them shut, blinding me briefly. I cast one hand to my eyes, shielding them from the torch. With the other, I reach for Hadeem in the dark. I find his pudgy cheek squished against the floor, fogging the matting with his quiet snores.

Mama’s voice rattles as she swivels around and strokes my hair, whispering that we need to get up. That there’s nothing to fear. That the journey’s over now; we’re here. Her cheeks are moist with sweat, her palms clammy. When I brush my fingers over the hair she touched, they come away damp. My tummy lurches towards the floor. I want to be sick.

Instead, I squeeze Hadeem’s shoulder until he stirs. It’s getting skinny; the angular ridge of his shoulder blade prods the palm of my hand. I guess it is time to leave, after all. I watch him blink awake and prepare myself.

The van doors are splayed open, letting in the first fresh air I’ve tasted for hours. It dilutes the stench of sick that has percolated this stagnant space. The combination of sixteen unwashed bodies is a rancid one.

“Everyone out,” growls the man outside. His throat is a bristle of unkempt beard, and hairs sprout from his shirt buttons like mould spores. At his side skulks a rifle: its dull metal seems as taut as tensing muscles, primed to spring into action. Hurriedly, I drag my gaze to the ground as the hollow pound of my heartbeat thrums against my ear drums.

Bodies stir in the space in front of me as numb limbs unfold and stumble outside. Tugging Hadeem up like a rag doll, I shake the sleep from my muscles and do as I’m told. We follow our parents outside and, with a stagger, step on real ground again. Just as we pass the door, the man squares up to Papa. “Pay up,” he hisses.

“We were told to pay as we board the boat,” replies Papa. His words are strained, his fists balled at his sides.
The gruff man laughs. It sounds more like a snarl. “You think I care what you were told? Hand it over. No money, no boat. That’s how it works.”

Fishing into his pocket, Papa pulls out a wad of creased paper. As he passes it through the window, his hands tremble. This is the last he’s got.

Up ahead, a crowd of shadows shifts in the dark. Some hold hands, others cradle children, and the rest cling to a solitary piece of luggage. All are stooped, their shoulders contorted to a curve. We are in an old dockyard, abandoned but for the dozens of figures drifting between shipping crates. There is something unsettlingly spooky about this place – or, maybe it’s just the fear radiating from those who inhabit it.
Hadeem squeezes my hand anxiously. “Where are we?” he asks, eyes wide. We told him a story before we came here, we promised him the Faraway Lands and a beautiful new home. That is not what we’ve given him, and the mistrust is evident in the pout of his lips.

It’s time for another story.

We’re on a secret mission, Hadeem and I. We’re going monster hunting. The objective? Make our way past the Shadowmen, kill the great Beast of the Dock, and run away in our rescue boat. 

I pull Hadeem close to the ground and we perch on our heels, plotting our route. Craggy mountains of scrap metal and corrugated crates loom around us. Craning my neck, I can just make out their peaks, dark against the milky moonlight. Quick as thieves, we tiptoe into the shadow of a shipping container. Squinting in the darkness, I can see the stream of Shadowmen trickling through the maze of boxes. I can’t see where they’re going.  

“Papa!” Hadeem bleats, waving a dimpled finger. I follow his gaze. A hundred metres ahead, our parents are filing into the queue and gesturing us over. We nod a wordless command. Three… two… one… go!

Hand in hand, we dart away from our cover, quiet as can be across the pockmarked tarmac. We zigzag from one container to the next, obscuring ourselves from the sickly moon. As we race to the next corner, we stumble into the view of the Shadowmen. “Go, go, go!” I whisper to

Hadeem, stumbling over my own feet as I hurl myself in the opposite direction.

Oh no! Are they gonna get us?” Hadeem whimpers, his face paling.

He can sense my fear, but I shake my head. “No, of course not! We’re too quick! We’re too brave! They’ll never catch us! Now, let’s have a race… who can get to Papa first?”

Hadeem giggles, buying into the game. He tears his hand from mine and pulls away, pulsing his arms like the sprinters on TV. I speed up to run at his heels, egging him on. Cold sweat dribbles down the back of my neck. I can feel the Shadowmen watching me. 

“Look!” I murmur, glancing high into the sky. “The monster!”

“Wow!” Hadeem exclaims. It is a great beast of a thing: fangs tumble from its gleaming lips, salivating in the torchlight. It towers above our heads at five hundred feet – no, a thousand! – and I can hear it growling. It turns a beady eye on us, ever-watchful. Criss-cross patterns weave across its metallic hide. Sitting firm in its resting place, it surveys the dockyard, poking its head above the range of manmade mountains. Hadeem shrinks at my side, transfixed by its unnerving stare.

“You need to be quiet, Hadeem! Super quiet, or it’ll eat you up! Yum yum!” 

I seize him by the shoulders and he startles, wriggling in my grasp and batting at my clawed fingers as he supresses a shriek. I shush him with a smile and we are back in the adventure.

I crouch over to make myself as small as possible as I take silent steps across the tarmac. With each step, I lunge out as far as I can, like some sort of long-legged insect. I hold my wrist to my mouth; it’s a walkie-talkie. “Eyes on the target?” I ask Hadeem. “Over.”

Hadeem cocks up a sniper rifle, training the sight on the head of the monster. “I got it! Over,” he radios back.
We sneak closer to one another, keeping our place in the line of Shadowmen as we fix our aim on the beast. I peer through my own sight, matching it up to the eye of the creature. It blinks knowingly.

“It’s seen you! Mira, it’s seen you! Over,” Hadeem blurts. Ever the professional, he keeps his rifle trained on the monster, his fingers playing with the trigger. 

“Okay, shoot on three. Ready?”

We count down together as the monster rears up, baring its jagged, grey fangs. It snarls, and a wave of cold air soaks both of us. The next thing we know, we’re shooting, spraying a stream of bullets across the otherwise silent dockyard. The beast roars in pain and blunders backwards, batting at its wounds, as we… 

Amira! Be quiet!” Papa commands.

The shriek dies in my throat and I lower my arms. My rifle fades into the dusk and the monster settles itself. It is nothing but a crane.
I can see where we’re going now – the gruff man is leading us down a rotting pier towards the churning sea. A worn boat bumps its nose against the planks of the dock, the inflated plastic rim screeching in protest. Inside, a dozen people have already gathered. They huddle at the far end, one atop another, as yet more people pile in.

Salt brine burrows its way up my nostrils and bites at the back of my throat. A cold sea breeze bowls over the waves and into my face. I tug my scarf up to my ears and press Hadeem’s cheek to my coat, covering his ear with the heel of my palm to block out the growl of the waves. The water below us writhes like a pit of snakes, with crests of foam darting about like milk-white vipers. The wooden planks protest with each step I take. I move more tentatively – nothing scares me more than the idea of plunging through the deck into the roiling waves below. 
Another gruff man materialises from the night to block my way. He fixes a glare on Papa. “Money,” he barks, offering an open palm. His teeth glint hungrily.

“Money? But we already paid!” Papa exclaims, incredulous.

The man pretends not to hear. “Money,” he repeats more loudly, turning his unblinking gaze to mine. I stare at him, transfixed. The whites of his eyes are cobwebbed with angry veins – too much time spent in this salty wind. In my peripheral view, Mama unhooks her watchstrap and hands it over.

More,” hisses the man. “This ain’t gonna cost you cheap.”

Papa blanches. “What kind of…”

Before he finishes, Mama unhooks the earrings from her ears and slides the metal bands from her fingers. They shimmer gold and silver, beacons in the darkness. “That’s all I have,” she stammers.

With a wolfish snort, the man recoils into the darkness and leaves the path clear. We move closer to the boat. It is crowded with even more faces. They watch me with hollow eyes.

More rifle-armed men crowd around the edge of the dock, brusquely tossing more and more trembling figures into the rubber dinghy. The orange plastic recedes further into the black water with every new foot that steps into its shadowy depths. The queue ahead of us is shrinking as, one by one, other refugees are swallowed up into the belly of the boat.

Mama’s clammy hands are on my shoulders, guiding my steps across the wobbling pier, until suddenly they’re not. Blindly, I spin around in the darkness. I am trapped. Between Mama and I stands another bearded man. A knife glints at his side. It winks at me, mocking.

“Boat’s full,” grins the man. He leers at Mama, his toothless mouth a yawning chasm in the night. “Next one in six hours.”
It’s just like the fairy tale, “Three Billy Goat’s Gruff.” Here is the baby goat. There are the parent goats. Between us: the troll.

“What do you mean, the boat’s full? The boat was full ten minutes ago, but that didn’t stop you. Surely there’s space for two more. You can’t split us up!” Papa protests. His voice is panicked now. It sparks butterflies in my own tummy – not the nice kind, whose papery wings flutter with my pulse, but a hoard of grotesque moths that pummel my stomach until bile burns at the back of my throat. My breath comes fast and shallow, as if my lungs are trying to run away without me, to sprint home and leave my useless limbs behind.

But behind my parents, I see the queue lengthening with yet more sunken faces. In the distance, the rattling cough of an automatic weapon splits open the sky. Hadeem wraps his fingers around my thumb. The choice is impossibly simple and simply impossible all at once. We’re so close to the Faraway Land now, I can almost feel the earth between my toes.

We need to get out of here.

“It’s okay, Papa, we’ll see you on the other side,” I say. My voice sounds as weak as I feel.

His ashen face fixes on mine. “No, Amira, we’ll wait together. They can’t split us up.”

Between us, the bearded man’s grin cracks wider. “Well, then, you’ll have to move to the back of the line,” he chuckles. “We’re running a tight schedule here.”

This is just another game. I know how to play games. Six hours to the other side. Papa’s words ring in my mind. Six hours. That’s not too long. “It’s okay, I’ll look after Hadeem,” I assure him. “We’ll be fine. We’ll wait for you on the beach.”

Papa’s face bleaches white. “No, Amira, I don’t think that’s safe…”

“Let the girl be,” interjects the strange man, with a smirk. As a fresh wave of panic overwhelms Papa, doubt creeps across my mind, but the lump in my throat blocks words from passing and leaves me mute.

Coarse hands wrap around my wrist, dragging me to the edge of the deck. “Time to go,” snarls a voice in my ear. I feel my feet lift from the ground before I tumble down, down, down into the deep belly of the dingy. It smells of acid, salt, and something sticky. I push to stand but am barred by a mesh of human limbs. I push again, then again. Each time my cheek slips back down against the damp plastic, my chest squeezes tighter. I can’t breathe. The air down here is rancid, thick with heat and brine and fear.

Somehow, I find a gap in the knotted mass of torsos and slip my head into the open air. I tip my chin up and gulp at the sky as salt spray flecks my tongue.

“Mira,” something whispers, small and fearful. Crushed against the rim of the boat, Hadeem’s wide eyes glimmer like beacons. “Mira,” he calls again, waving a soft hand above the tide of necks and shoulders. I reach across and seize it.

It’s time for another story.

We are adventurers on the high seas. 

The colours of dawn leach across the horizon and set fire to the waves, sending crests of flame tumbling our way. There is nothing but me, Hadeem, and the endless expanse of emptiness. 

“What can you see, captain?” I call over my shoulder. The wind snags at my ponytail, pulling strands into my eyes. It’s a good day for sailing.

Hadeem calls over from starboard, his telescope fixed far in the distance. “Over there, Mira! Over there!” 

“What is it?” I ask, straining my eyes. Across the ocean is a black dot of movement, a skull-faced flag dancing atop a creaking mast. 

“Pirates!” Hadeem shrieks. “Pirates!”

They are heading straight for us, the boards of their ship slicing through the waves like a knife through sand. The gusty breeze carries with it the throaty chorus of a sea shanty. I can hear the clatter of swords and a commanding cry to ready the canons. 

I duck beneath the prow of our mighty ship. “What’s the order, captain?”
“Climb the crow’s nest!” Hadeem yells. His gaze stays fixed on the oncoming vessel as he stands stoically, one hand on his hip, the other testing the wind with a single raised finger. I dash across the deck towards the looming mast. Shielding my eyes from the sunrise, I squint at the ladder that leads to the sky. It sways with the waves. With a breath, I reach out to grab at the thick netting. One step lifts me from the plankboards onto the writhing ladder. One, two, one, two… I chant a rhythm in my head as I propel myself upwards into the gold-rimmed clouds. Rope tears at my hands as I urge them on, hauling myself higher and higher. The tossing of the waves is stronger here, so high above the deck; I am thrown sideways as the ship lurches over each wave. I’m jolted from the rope like a flee shaken from a dog. My feet lift briefly from the ladder, suspended in open air, one hundred feet above the deck. My sweating fingers tear from the coarse rope – but I yank myself up with two frantic lunges until my palm lands on the smooth, wooden railing of the crow’s nest. Heaving my aching limbs over the edge, I collapse for a moment, relishing the feel of the wood beneath my cheek.

What are we up against?” Hadeem hollers from below. Around him, our crew members scuttle between stations, manning the cannons. 

Focusing my spyglass on the approaching boat, I gulp down a wail. Twelve sturdy cannons swivel our way, each stuffed with a ball of merciless iron. “Twelve of ’em, Captain!” I relay.

“Fire in the hole!” 

The ship reverberates as she spits out a globule of solid metal. For a breathless moment, the eyes of the entire crew are fixed on its arching trail across the sky. It cuts open the dawn, shredding through wisps of low-hanging clouds, until suddenly it bites down into the other boat. With a terrific crunch, it burrows its way into the chest of the pirate ship, tugging her downwards. The silence that follows is eerie: no singing drifts across the breeze now. Instead, a foreboding emptiness is suspended between us and them. 

Then, with a roar, the rumble of foreign cannons splinters the quiet, preceded by the hiss of lit fuses. Squinting with one eye closed, I peer through the spyglass at the oncoming bombardment. Twelve glittering spheres careen through the open air towards us, diving down with practiced precision. I recoil, curling myself deep in the bucket of the crow’s nest, awaiting the inevitable destruction when – SLAM – the first cannonball strikes.

As the mass of metal shreds through her deck, our ship groans in anguish, tossing me against the railing as she rolls to the side. I lock eyes with Hadeem, down below on the deck. Despite the onslaught, his jaw is set in stoic resolve, his fingers coiled at the hilt of his sword. He is fearless…

But he isn’t.

This isn’t a game anymore.

The cannonballs fade, replaced by water. The ocean yawns towards us, threatening to swallow us whole with each new wave. Moans of terror accompany the crashing of the ocean, shaking me awake from the daydream. Hadeem has stopped playing pretend. Instead, he is staring into the black depths of water, stricken with fear.

The boat is struggling under our weight. It complains bitterly as it collides with the next wave, then the next, until saltwater starts to pool around my ankles. The cold seeps into my skin like acid, burning away my flesh and chilling me to the bone as my teeth chatter uncontrollably and I grip the orange plastic with white knuckles. To my right, someone is sick, and their bile adds to the murky well at the bottom of the boat. We are thrown up and down and up again, soaring into the air with each wave-crest before plunging back down towards the water. We are the playthings of the ocean; it tests its strength like a god of ancient times, flaunting its power and taunting us with death. The mutterings of prayers do nothing to appease it.

As the next wave hits, the angle of the boat shifts. She turns to the side to shirk the next pummelling of water, instead hitting it side-on. Rather than gliding over the top, the dinghy thrusts its way inside the wave. I can do nothing but watch as the sea rushes forth to claim us.

It hits with the force of a freight train.

I kick out my feet but find nothing to stand on—only a shifting wall of water. It burns me like a flame, scorching my skin with its iciness and squeezing the air from my chest. It crushes me flat until my lungs surrender their oxygen. Bubbles escape my lips by force, before dancing through the darkness towards the air. I try to look, to open my eyes, but the salt stings them shut. I feel possessed, as if some great demon has crawled inside my body to manipulate my limbs – they jolt and spasm of their own accord, my fingers clawing at nothingness and my feet pushing against empty space. Breathlessness has never felt so painful; the absence of air eats me from the inside, its teeth tearing at my ribcage. I kick and fight and lash out at the water with everything I have until finally, finally, it releases me. My forehead breaks the water and I thrust out my chin, opening my mouth wide to gulp air. But then I am yanked back down, filled with seawater in the place of air; I am choking with all my might, convulsing with rib-splitting coughs. I open my eyes wide, oblivious to the salt-sting, searching for any glimpse of the way out.

Sunlight cracks through the water above me, and fresh resolve seizes my legs. I pulse and push with feverish strokes until I break through the surface again. I splutter the seawater from my lungs and feel the burn of stomach acid at the back of my throat as I gag uncontrollably. My head spins, oxygen filling me with cool relief. For a moment, I lie spread-eagled as air soothes my burning chest and the ache of lactic acid fades from my muscles. The sun has risen higher now, the dawn progressing to the beginnings of daylight, the sky crisp and fresh with reborn colour. The horizon is as empty as it is broad. In the distance, a speck of orange.

A boat.

The boat.

Salt makes my voice hoarse as I yell, “help!” my arms screaming afresh as I drive myself forwards, cutting into waves with desperate strokes as I battle towards the dinghy. It is bobbing away from me almost mockingly, but I cannot – will not – stop swimming, because Hadeem must be waiting there for me.

As I kick my legs for the thousandth time, I realise I must be gaining ground. I can hear the survivors now, I can hear their desperate cries as they skim their fingers through the water, searching for the hands of their loved ones in the deep. They call out names, but I can’t hear my own.

“I’m here!” I call. The words scrape at my throat as I force out the sound. They come out weak, overwhelmed by the sea’s own sighs. I call again, “I’m here! Over here! Help!”

Each new shout is a little louder and a little more frantic. I alternate between swimming and shouting as a deep aching spreads through my arms. Pushing farther, kicking faster, I grind my teeth against the pain. As I come up for air, I am met with a hush.

On the dinghy, the refugees are silent. They are listening.

“I’M HERE!” I holler. I chant the words like a prayer, over and over until they hear me. Finally, they hear me.

And then, across the vastness of the ocean, I hear the voice that will carry me home.

“Mira!”

Strong arms haul me skywards. The water loosens its grip. I am saved.

Nestled at the bottom of the boat, sodden and shaking, I revel in Hadeem’s warmth. The dinghy is less crowded now – I was not the only one tossed overboard. The few who remain watch the water with blank stares. Hands fidget anxiously, bereft of another to hold, as the desperate round of name-calling starts up again. I was the third they pulled from the ocean. It will release no more.

Hadeem whimpers. Though wordless, he speaks for us all. Our hearts whimper with him.

Tipping his head closer to mine, Hadeem whispers something. He asks for a story. He wants an adventure, one to take us far away from here. But I only have one story left.

We are refugees. 

Trapped in the middle of a boundless ocean, we are helpless. Behind us is nothing but water, in front is only the sea, and in between is an endless expanse of waves. But still, we’re moving forwards, because nothing can be worse than what we left behind.

The sun is fully risen now. It lifts away the water from my cheeks, leaving behind a crust of salt. My tongue feels dry and swollen, my throat parched. I’m wracked with shivers from the cold. 

There are roughly thirty of us here, all of us running away – or, rather, running towards. We are running towards the Faraway Lands, where there are hospitals and schools and acres of supermarkets. We are running towards streets that are free from the rattle of gunfire and rubble-filled craters. We are running towards the future. 

“Mira,” Hadeem whispers, gesturing to the horizon. If I squint hard enough, I can just make out a black line at the edge of the sky, like someone’s scribbled on the clouds. 

The prayers have quietened now, replaced by dazed mumblings as we squint at the shape in the distance. We gasp as one, afraid to speak, holding our hopes close to our hearts before the ocean can dash them once again. But the closer it gets, the clearer it becomes. It’s really there. Without thinking, I rise to my feet, clinging to the side for support as I wave one arm high in the air.  

There it is.

“Land.” 

In 2017, 5000 refugees died at sea.
Approximately 600 of those were children.