Find out who got to meet John Green at the weekend!
I find that I repeat myself when announcing competition winners on Movella - there is always another comment about the high quality of entries. Well, excuse me while I repeat myself: what an unbelievable selection of entries!
Maybe it was John Green who brought out the best in all of you, but this really was closely contested. Below you can read the UK winner, the talented julietthehuman, who attended the John Green event in London yesterday (and will be blogging about it for us later this week!). There are also links to the 10 runners up, make sure you have plenty of tissues because there will be tears.
Congratulations to all the winners and well done to everybody who entered!
“Okay, everyone gets something, right?”
“Huh?” I answer, looking up from my book. Felicity and I spend most of the lessons we have free together by the school’s courtyard, sitting on the bank by the river as the surface glistens in the sunlight. She enjoys sketching while I read; sitting back-to-back despite the fact that the cotton of our shirts are pressed against each other, making the skin between our shoulder blades turn pink – like a secret sunburn beneath the layers.
There's something in the silence of the night that smooths the edges of all that seems harsh in the day. We lie on the roof buried under sheets and the heavy summer air. His hand is intertwined with mine, his thumb idly traced the fate lines I hope he's included in. Stars hang above us, pinpricks of light murmuring of places far away from this rooftop.
3rd: A Letter to a Soul
I don’t like writing. Well, no. I don’t like the idea of other human beings reading what I write. It’s as if I’m scooping out my insides and laying them out on a table and screaming “THIS IS WHAT I’M FEELING OKAY NOW LOOK AT IT.” The thought of that makes me want to lock myself in a closet and die. The reason I am quiet is because I am selfish and if I start talking my opinions will trip out of my mouth and tangle everyone in them and I won’t be able to stop. But I must write. It is the only way to stop myself from becoming the very thing I promised I would never be.
I stare at the walls, the silvery grey walls; the ones which I am to never see the other side of because I am trapped, here, in a care-home for the insane. I'm stuck in a mental hospital.
"Miss Annie Davies," the evillest voice I could ever imagine snarls in my ear. I turn around to face a tall, black-haired man with grey eyes that prove he is the insane one; and I'm not.
My name is Harvey Wust.
I am twelve years old and three months and six days. I like Aliens and Maths and Marine Biology and I do not like football or cabbage or love.
I have an Autism Spectrum Disorder which is called ASD for short. A lot of people like my sister Pippa and my Mama, think that I do not like love because I have ASD.
They are wrong.
I do not like love because of these reasons:
1. Love is irrational.
2. Love hurts.
3. Love is with other people.
4. Love has falling in it.
5. Love has sex
6. Love is not ever easy.
I walk through the wet grass, watching random blades stick to my boots. Memories of better days flash through my eyes, as I see the woods. The woods I went on so many adventures on with him.
One particular tree catches my eyes. It is tall and spindly, like a skeleton, its arms reaching out to the other trees around it. My mind goes back to a cold, Autumn morning. The air was bitter, and the wind was strong. Rain spattered down on us, but we didn't care. We were explorers, unafraid of the rain. We had bigger things to fight off than that. We dragged up our hoods and cycled against the freezing wind. My hands were numb and raw-pink, and my legs ached, but it felt good. Something about cycling with your best friend in the rain and cold felt sort of nice.
Is there something wrong with me? Is it wrong to pray that my heart finds its way to his, trampling over the others that may stand in the way? He’s like a full-force stampede, constantly charging through my mind—ruining all sanity I have left.
I prayed for sanity, and then switched up and prayed for nothing but his undying attention. What does that make me? My mother said don't worry about it because I'm still in-bloom. But only if she heard my midnight thoughts as they derailed my mind; my constant wishing on stars; or counted all the dandelion stems I have locked in a shoe box, stored at the top of my closet. Am I sane? Not since I met him.
“So,” she says. “Are you still in love with me?”
I take the first genuine spit-take of my life at that moment, spattering the drink on the table. As I fumble for napkins, she stays calm, looking at me with a steely and curious gaze.
“I’m sorry?” I say, shaking my head as I ball up the soiled mess on the corner of the table.
“Well,” she says. “Are you?”
I take a deep breath, letting the question seep in.
I spent the majority of the car journey wondering what kind of parents would name their daughter after a fruit. “You’ll love Cherry,” Kate burst my train of thought with another replay of reasons why tonight was my lucky night, and why ‘Cherry’ – whether she was a crimson coloured beverage or a legitimate person – would soon make me join the group of smitten delusionals also known as the couple who had dragged me out. Already I’d established a handsome sum of reasons why that was truly not the case. The most prominent one being the stinging text message burning into the palm of my hand that I couldn’t stop reading;Sorry Art, it’s over. M x x
Aurora had been Aurora once, cradled in her mother’s swan-neck arms, with wisps of hair like raven feathers curling around her head. There, swaddled in a nest of hospital blankets and christened with kisses, her mother had sing-songed “Aurora”, before falling swiftly asleep.
Perhaps she’d have been Aurora all her life, if her mother had woken up again.
What is the present?
A crinkled newspaper rustles, the elderly man in the corner turns a page as he stuffs the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. Steam rises from behind the counter, the coffee machine whistling while the waitress taps impatiently with her long, manicured fingernails.