World Book Day Creative-writing Competition Winner

An Unexpected Outcome

I knew it was a bad idea but I was set to commit one of the most talked about offences in school: plagiarism. On the eve of the World Book Day 2008 competition I had not yet managed to muster a credible storyline. An up and coming young writer such as me had to enter a competition of this nature to showcase my unmistakable talent. Unusually I hit a ‘writer’s block’. It was like Manchester United star Cristiano Ronaldo was being given the ball and constantly failing to hit the target.

240 Year 11 students had recently been given a thick, bright red booklet entitled “Examinations Guidance for Students and Parents”, which only seemed to mimic the drab assemblies in which we had been informed of this; and played a part in deforestation. No doubt placing many into a category of having no recollection of receiving such a document.

It read:

“THE WORK WHICH YOU SUBMIT FOR ASSESSMENT MUST BE YOUR OWN.”

“YOU MUST NOT COPY FROM SOMEONE ELSE OR ALLOW ANOTHER CANDIDATE TO COPY FROM YOU.”

If these rules and regulations applied to examinations, then surely there must be some kind of implication here if caught. It was not a problem. Who would notice if I pinched a few minor storylines from a fellow entrant to boost mine?

The following morning, as I stepped into the earsplitting, raucous setting that was the Learning Resource Base, I was ready to carry out what I had intended to do. Distract Mr Richardson and succeed.

The LRB manager, Mr Richardson, wearing the same grey sweater for weeks on end had assumed his usual position of sitting perched behind his one man desk typing frantically with one hand and a pen in the other. His head seemed to shift itself away from the computer screen for the first time.

“Sir, could you find me Of Mice and Men?”

“Yes, just let me finish this first,” he replied tiredly.

His apparent lack of enthusiasm for the job made him seem like one who simply did this job for the motivation that it put money in his pocket, rather than the joys that he would get in coming to school every morning.

Checking that I was in no danger of incriminating myself, I rummaged through the heaps of papers scattered across his desk. But it was to no avail as I found no one’s stories to give me an idea.

As the clock ticked by seconds turned to minutes.

Mr Richardson returned.

“Here you go.”

“Oh it doesn’t matter, sir.”

His reaction was one as if it would take him a year to return it to its place.

As I scanned a quick glance at the coloured dials encrusted on the face of my leather watch, it read 11:15 signaling the end of break. An unanticipated physical education lesson loomed.

I trudged out despondently, my feet moving at a rate which even a tortoise could rival. It had arrived. My idea was here.

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