Here are the stories from this year’s DylanEd writing workshops. The workshops comprised sessions of work with Year 8 groups in three schools.
The stories have not been edited strongly nor overly proof read. Hopefully this gives a more honest sense of the work.
This year, many children choose to work on their stories in their own time. Their enthusiasm was clear.
In total, over 64,000 words came back to me. To put that in context, that’s more than twice the word count of my last novel.
As this is a representative collection, I’ve cut the longer stories that grew into ongoing ‘books’. These stories are marked ‘Extract.’ I hope the young authors forgive me.
It was a pleasure to be involved with the project again. My thanks go to the staff in the three schools, and to the pupils for their genuine engagement in the sessions.
Enjoy the stories.
Cynan Jones
The Treasure of the Landmarks [Extract]
Rhys D. Evans, Bro Myrddin
Prologue
As William Riddell looked out over the chaotic, churning waters, he felt strange. Was it nausea? No, he hadn’t eaten yet. The only thing he’d had that morning was a bottle of water, handed to him by his loyal pilot Guido. It had tasted weird but with jet engines blaring near by it was hard to focus. But it couldn’t be vertigo! William had jumped from many, many miles higher. You see, William Riddell was a daredevil. He had jumped off the Empire State Building, the Pyramids, the Great Wall of China and even Mount Everest! But this would be another incredible stunt. Jumping from a plane, two thousand feet up into Niagara Falls! This would also be a significant memory for him for another reason. On this day, fifteen years ago, he and his late wife had met. Her name was Clair. She had meant the world to him. They had one child before she died in a tragic accident in New York. Jamie. He was fourteen now and at the hotel, watching his father risking his life on TV. William had become a daredevil after Clair had died. It had made him realise how short life could be.
As these thoughts were buzzing in Riddell’s head like an aggressive swarm of bees, he had failed to hear a voice shouting over the whirring engines. It was Guido. Guido Mario Babolli was his full name. He had long, slick black hair, drove a Lamborghini and loved pizza and pasta. He was a walking, talking Italian stereotype.
“Mr Riddell!” he shouted with a thick accent. “The reporters are getting anxious!”
“Right, ok!” Riddell replied. And he jumped.
This was his favourite part of the stunt. The free-falling down with no worries or cares. As he came close to the enormous target, he pulled the string to release the parachute. But nothing happened. He pulled again. Nothing. This was horrible. He had no control. He was plummeting. Plummeting to his death.
In the plush, luxurious hotel room, Jamie Riddell tried to look away as he saw his father’s corpse float down the waterfall away from him. Forever. If someone on the site of the accident had looked to the sky closely, they would have seen a small, white aeroplane fly away into the distance.