Some 924 entries were submitted in the Hall Caine Prize for Creative Writing.
This year’s theme was Echoes.
Read the winning stories in each of the categories below.
Duck Quacks Don’t Echo by key stage 5/ University College Isle of Man winner Charlotte Darbyshire
26th December 1985.
IT’S NOT FAIR. I want a duck. I asked Father Christmas for a duck.
I wrote a very polite letter to him asking for a duck. What did I get? This stupid thing!
What am I supposed to even do with a Dictaphone? I’m 10! I will get a duck. I will. I WILL!
Mum said that I did get a duck because I got a cuddly one. I’ve named her Dianna and we’re going to go on adventures together.
I also got a book with the different breeds of duck in it. Dianna is a Shetland duck; apparently they’re ‘domesticated, dating back to the Vikings’.
I like the idea of bad ducks taking over the world; it’s the sort of thing that could definitely happen in the future.
Alien ducks replacing the Queen – yes, that would be fun.
I also got a chemistry set yesterday; it’s really cool. There are all sorts of chemicals that you can add together to make slime and explosions and other messy stuff. Mum said I couldn’t play with it yesterday because I’d make too much mess.
That wasn’t fair - if she didn’t want me to make mess she should have told Father Christmas not to get it.
I think it was all a cover up and she actually didn’t want me to accidently blow up grandma when we were tucking into our Yorkshires.
I sat through dinner wondering what experiments I could do. I quite fancied trying to turn my sister into something a bit nicer, a rabbit maybe? No! A duck!
Grandma said that if I did that I’d be half way there to getting ducks to take over the world. Maybe she’s right- maybe I’ll be the duck leader.
All hail Donald, King Duck, Ruler of the Universe!
This morning, I decided I’d just make some slime (even though I dreamt of alien ducks). The green stuff went all over the carpet and then the dog ran through it.
Dad just laughed and put a rug over the top. Mum went nuts. I think green complements cream quite well though.
Do you know what my sister said before? We were playing a game where we had to guess if these cards were truth or lies.
Chloe said ‘duck quacks don’t echo’ in her horrible, squeaky voice. Ducks - my area of expertise. I said true; everyone knows that duck quacks don’t echo!
Everyone apart from all of my family and the stupid idiot that wrote the game. Chloe hasn’t stopped teasing me about it since it happened - an urban myth apparently.
I just want her to go away. I will prove that duck quacks don’t echo, and she will have to take it all back!
26th December 1990.
Testing...1-2...1-2...Mum’s not in a good mood so I’m staying out of the way and doing some homework.
Chloe got her school report and it obviously wasn’t as good as mine.
She’s getting shouted at for bad behaviour in class and leaving test papers blank; meanwhile her brother is getting full marks on every exam.
People say I just took to science like a duck to water.
I’ve upgraded my chemistry set into something a bit more substantial at the back of the laboratory at school.
As you well know, I’ve been investigating sound waves so that I can compare them to ducks using the sonic boom mic I made last week.
The experiment was set out perfectly in the lab and my classmates were gathered around ready to watch me make history.
The department had even bought me a duck for the experiment – they said it would ‘help me focus on other subjects’, whatever that means.
I was just about to poke the duck when I slipped and, diving to save the duck, smashed into the break glass point and set off the fire alarm.
As I glided across the floor the duck flew out of my arms, wafting his wings in my face like he’d been ‘tangoed’.
We were ushered out of the school whilst the piercing ding of the alarm echoed around my head. I was in such a flap that I forgot to save any of my equipment.
My conclusion is not yet reliable, as I have no results, but I can confirm that it is still possible that duck quacks don’t echo.
26th December 1995.
Is this thing on? Yes – wonderful. So today I was kicked out of my local hospital.
You might ask why? Well, it all started last week when my lecturer told me that I needed some data to prove my hypothesis; obviously.
What type of scientist scrimps on data? The problem was, and the lecturer knew this, was that my data was slightly unattainable – a thesis on duck genetics is still revolutionary in this day and age.
So I had to show some ingenuity and invent a fool-proof plan to obtain all of the information.
Firstly, I needed a duck. That was simple enough as I kept some in my bathtub.
I needed to select my subject carefully and unfortunately none of my ducks were up to the challenge, so I had to look elsewhere. I nabbed one from the park.
You’re probably wondering how all this ended up with me forcibly removed by some rather cutting nurses.
The answer to this lies within some expensive neurology equipment. And a sizeable amount of duck poo. And a fire engine.
I was attempting to look at the Broca Area of a duck using a series of finely detailed MRI scans.
Unfortunately, the radiographer didn’t like the idea of ‘vermin contamination’ and called immediately for the decontamination team.
The SWAT team turned up in a flap and I panicked – I wasn’t intentionally holding the duck hostage. The duck also panicked, hence the poo.
And the fire engine? That happened about an hour after I had left, when the scanner had overheated due to the pressure I had put it at to collect the data.
Suffice to say that I’ll probably be presented with a hefty bill for the equipment, and maybe a court order, and maybe even a TV interview...
So my findings for the day are unclear but I can conclude that it is still possible that duck quacks do not echo.
26th December 2000.
It’s absolutely inconceivable what occurred to me this morning.
The only thing that would make the day worse would be if this stupid Dictaphone stopped working.
Anyway, I was collecting some secondary data for my PhD by unwinding some duck chromosomes to detect the gene responsible for the quack genotype.
I have previous experience with Restriction Fragment Length Polymorphism so it appeared to be the obvious choice of experiment for the thesis.
For once, there were no disasters emerging from the study and I was on track to finding the answer to the age-old question about duck quacks.
I was just inserting the agarose gel for electrophoresis when all of a sudden the hybridisation process malfunctioned and I was left with a large hole in the laboratory ceiling.
There were several fellow scientists in the laboratory at the time and I was left mortified. Somehow, and I’m still not sure why, the enzymes had exploded and the solution had bubbled out all over the laboratory.
The floor was covered in green, toxic liquid and for once in my life it was too late to hide it.
My reputation hung in the balance. I hung my head in shame and was shocked to see a large hole slowly melting through my shoe. I screamed. I jumped up and down in horror. I fell. I fell into the glass apparatus and knocked it all over.
There was another reaction; then there was a hole in the roof.
It was quite clear that there weren’t any significant discoveries to be made by the end of the day, so I began a search for a man to fix the roof.
I can summarise that this investigation provides evidence that duck quacks might not echo.
26th December 2005.
Radioactive ducks. I think that explains what happened today although I’m sure you’ll want a full explanation.
I’m not quite sure what actually happened myself.
After being largely unsuccessful with the DNA profiling I decided that I needed to take a break and go back to basics.
In a room packed full of famous scientists I knew I needed to prove myself and the toxicity of my minions was a sure fire way to do this.
The experiment was proving successful – I was on the cusp of a scientific revolution!
A round of applause filled the room, people from the telly were patting my back and congratulating me, the world seemed to be a better place.
And then someone shouted ‘DUCK’. I presumed due to the nature of the experiment that they were just so overwhelmed with the success of the investigation that they couldn’t help but chant my lucky subject’s name.
It didn’t occur to me until I was hit in the face by rogue roof tile, that they had in fact all fallen to the floor to avoid the debris released by the overheating flask.
It was a disaster – I nearly even dropped this daft Dictaphone (although that would be a great excuse to buy a new one)!
Once again I ended up in hospital and once again my experiment ended in failure.
Conclusion for the day – duck quacks might echo.
26th December 2010.
Am I recording? That pause button is sticking again!
I was at the end of my tether with all this duck business this morning.
My life had been dedicated to a search for the answer to an argument with my sister. She didn’t even care! Water off a duck’s back, apparently.
I was young and it was her job to tease me. I felt like I had been hit by a ton of bricks when I heard this.
It’s not everyday that you realise your life’s work has been a waste of time. I was furious with myself for getting so carried away.
I decided to lift my mood with a duck joke.
A duck walks into a chemist and asks for some chap stick. When the pharmacist hands it to him, he says ‘put it on my bill’. Ba dum chh... Somehow, it didn’t seem remotely funny any more.
I sat at my desk and began to clear away some equipment, stopping momentarily to appreciate the bin full of paper scraps that were once ideas that could have changed the world.
I was about as happy as a duck in the desert.
Then my nephew asked me why I didn’t take a more traditional approach to my investigation.
At first I was dismissive. My whole life had been dedicated to sophisticated research methods and expensive equipment.
But then, he did have a point. Why hadn’t I put a duck in a cave?
Our arrival at the cave just off the coast of Antrim was overdue.
We had brought twenty of our precious ducks – we had nothing to lose, except maybe my dignity.
My nephew shouted the obligatory “hello” and we both listened as it came back at us.
Then we heard the sound of what seemed like one hundred agitated ducks, their calls bouncing off the walls, enveloping us in a cacophony of quacks.
Finally, I had closure - an answer to one of life’s great questions. My big sister had been right all along.
And the conclusion to my scientific endeavours?
Duck quacks definitely echo and it’s about time I invested in a new Dictaphone.
Hour glass by key stage 4 winner Xifong Christian
I have a glass. The dust held within has never passed to the other side.
Instead it lies impatiently, endlessly shifting between myriad forms, layered impetuous wave upon wave, ripples of collapse pulsing across its face.
Bestial forms rise to roar only to dissipate in a sea of sand, kingdoms and empires grow, latent towers thrusting up towards their heavens, but for an indecisive shake of the hand to push them down.
Its boundaries curve to the contours of my hand, trapping amorphous shapes who cycle through birth, innocence, joy, love, anger, regret and death in just a breathless minute. Yet these limits spawn limitlessness.
Somewhere between the strata, in some lost crevice or waiting at the bottom of an ever-deepening hole, is a kind of magic; it softly whispers promises of boundless freedom.
When the hiss stops and silence reigns, the soft green powders entice with the promise that any moment they touch would just go on forever.
Except it doesn’t, does it? How could some lifeless sand just flip reality?
I have a glass as well, every drop has drained through the hole, and yet time never ceases its sole rhythm - the blades still move, relentlessly slicing time into steady portions.
Last night I had a dream. I looked and every transient star was a face... no a million million faces.
They each sat at the pinnacle of a ladder, rungs stretching beyond measurability into the hazy tendrils of mist far below.
And everywhere abounded in light, great beams of light took flight like graceful birds migrating between sources, unfurling curled wings, feathers of flames tearing away.
One landed upon its starry perch and there it crumbled away, to be replaced by another more urgent kind.
Except this was unique since the source of light had waned and pinched in; it had contorted and twisted but then closed throwing shadows and panicked voices in rising swellings of grief and loss.
Muttering and stammering accompanied the flight of this ensuing bird as it moved from light to light casting a nebulous dark cloud like an expanding ring of gloom, suffocating the world and the gazing faces and the cold stars and the timeworn patterns with impenetrable shade.
More voices; high and low, relief, disbelief or mourning - chattering like a flock of crows.
I saw the stars quieten, their cries passing away into a reverie of memories and ancient songs, for now it was the moment that had been implicit from the very start.
Only the tides of peace crossed the amnesiac shores of my wakefulness.....
That willow, I remember, was greying with age, spiralling arms reaching down desperately to grasp and hold the reflection it had gazed upon all it’s life.
The fragments of our mutual understanding had dropped, sinking to irreversible bottomless depths, for that had been a place where nothing like that should ever have been known.
Invisible movements swept across the lake surface dredging up long-forgotten thoughts and infinitely miniscule muddy connections.
I would find myself there to embrace the ennui of childhood but instead I had found my father.
His eyes were quick-sinking mud, drawing back into itself before I could even reach out and run my hands over its actuality.
In that moment I knew and the air screamed out in my torment, coagulating into clumped bubbles floating away and taking my breath with it.
My brother was going to die and nothing could have changed anything. A strange noise slipped between my father’s lips, a kind of soft oozing gasp which had been torn back just before its departure.
A held back tremor, borne aloft by the wind and then a terrible moment when it was released, hitting the Earth to enslave us to our madness.
Those unflinching reflections, mocking caricatures of our inner life, shattered, exploding the willow tree and the sky into a tumultuous eruption of hanging shards and unfeeling barbs.
I see her there. Her brows furrowed in obeisance to the unknown, eyes wreathed in another world.
By her lies a book: her journal, a portal to another life.
She radiates something like the glass, only more like a sacred shrine to some intangible deity.
Perhaps she also comes from there.
Her presence is made plain by the rushing warmth that envelops those around her and the trembling hands and the quickening pulse.
She is never alone because an army of figures, made of sand, trudge after her, desperate to be acknowledged.
But somehow, whenever they stumble into her sight, they are swept up by the knot that has replaced my chest - a knot which tangles around all my words, pulling them back and rolling them together into meaninglessness; I gasp for the simplest connected thought.
Would it all vanish, the hold over my own world eluding myself, if I but invited her to it?
Or could I transfix the fleeting giant and hold it in my palm for a single moment?
All the broken lines, imperfect moments, all the unexplored recesses and unproven facts, all the missing thoughts and lost time could be fixed or found if she just came to the door.
The world we could inhabit together, watching as the seed of our creation grew - the product of that timer’s withheld magic.
My grasp discovers, even seeks out, the glass and I ponder.
He had been part of my world, his strange scattered mind self-evident in the abstractions and lucid fantasies populating it; his great works were each one a magnum opus, so what he had made stretched on to the horizons, those limits of human invention.
His existence was as disjoint from others as an architect is from an arch, their simple logic rendered absurd next to the grand labyrinths of serpentine thought which he would erect to make sense of a ‘mere’ butterfly; his was full of unseen clarity and beauty, like the lake with the perfect reflection.
What he had built merged intricately with mine.
I see him now. The pale, mottled skin stretched tight across his cheek, it’s every premature wrinkle, a contour of some distant future.
His eyes swell into faltering lights, telling me to protect and treasure his creations, that they would fill the longing and it was all going to be right.
But it can’t be, the universe would twist back in on itself and the ground would fall away, releasing me to drop into oblivion; he is more than just what I can preserve.
If he was gone I would stumble through the world and find nothing but hollowness, not being able to make sense of any of the miracles and the beauty would retract from my hands.
The knot would have gone, taking with it my brother and leaving behind an empty cavity.
I feel the eruption again, the hanging shards ready to swoop down and cut me in a thousand places from the inside, the pressure growing as the air threatens to burst my head.
The glass will make this better, it will heal the scars of life, it’s got to, that’s why I have it, that’s why I found it. Now it must be done.
The dust, sensing the long-awaited motions, passes to the other side, hissing and writhing, softly murmuring its promises.
The moment does pass forever, still falling, it will keep on plunging for eternity and my brother will live on.
There, there, there. Stars blinking out of existence, relinquishing their power one after another - each one a billion voices and faces.
For all they had done, for all they had become, for all that they represented, the last rung of ladders that can be traced back to the mists of time, each mind had stood on the back of the previous, yet there could be no averting the end.
The terms of existence are set, implicit in our creation is our demise.
But then the last drop of sand fell through, landing noiselessly and my brother was gone.
A man lies on his bed, a sheen of miniscule droplets clinging his face - the last of the energy his frame could coalesce.
His skin is a wintry landscape of the past, continuously shifting vales march across the flaky snow, raising their last defiant spears against the inclement sky.
The tensing clenching sinews and rhythmic thrash of life relax, succumbing to the allure of lasting rest.
A diaphanous haze of last words and final thoughts drift translucent, shimmering urgently in swirling patterns of regret only to blur into the thirsting shadows.
Each cell cycles through its last of a seemingly perpetual act; the final shattering bubbles embrace the coldness of the air.
Perhaps she was right, perhaps we do just come into this life and dance a dance, a delicate balancing between movement, force and silence, rippling through this life gathering strength; strength that will renew our waning courage in the face of an inescapable dusk.
The man exhaled for an instant and lay still.
Echo by key stage 3 winner Amy Jade Hawke
What’s happening to me? The darkness is surrounding me like a hug, except it’s so cold.
Why is it so cold? Last thing I remember; I was driving with my son Damien. We were singing along to his favourite song on the radio.
I really didn’t think his match would still be on so late and in the middle of winter.
Although he insisted we go and find out. The roads were so slippery, so dangerous.
I didn’t want Damien to know I was scared, so I kept driving but the inevitable blizzard engulfed us, and the haunting echo of Damien’s terrified shriek was unforgettable.
I knew the match wouldn’t be on but I would do anything for my boy.
My boy! Damien; where is he? Is he alright? Hello?
Why can’t anyone hear me. My name is David Blakemort. I need some help.
Nothing, not even a speckle of light. The darkness isn’t comparable to anything I’ve ever witnessed.
Not even having your eyes plastered shut or the darkest memory you remember, this blackness is the worst.
Help me, please. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Please! My son – Damien, is he alright? Am I alright? Why isn’t anyone answering me?
The silence roaring in my ears is definite. It’s similar to that of a deaf man. I can’t hear my own heart beat or my own breathing!
It’s just me, the darkness and the silence.
What’s that noise? There is definitely a noise there. Is it a voice? What’s it saying?
It sounds like a voice although I can’t hear what its saying! It’s like I’m hearing it through water or multiple layers of fabric. What is it saying?!
The sound has remained neutral for what seems like an eternity now and the thing making my blood run cold is the swirling flame of light about 2ft across from me.
The pin prick has grown and is now the size of a football. Since I have no control of my ligaments, it would be impossible for me to go over to it.
Although there’s now an indescribable motion around me.
I’m not too sure if it’s hurtling towards me or I’m moving towards it.
I’m almost at the edge of the illuminous globe-shape now. The silhouette of three bodies together, clasping each other’s hands are all I can make out from where I am now.
I’ve never felt so hopeless and so dead-limbed. I need to look into the room I seem to be hovering above.
I know I’ve seen it before – it’s inescapable. The room is so familiar although I feel like I’ve never been in it, everything seems so new.
Maybe these people know where my Son is. Maybe they are sat around that table to help him, well it looks like a table at least.
Why can’t I see properly? It feels like my eyes are missing something! What’s happening to me?
I seem to have subconsciously moved closer. Why do they all look so sad? Why are they holding each other’s hands so tightly?
Maybe they know something I don’t and it’s about me ... or my Son!
They all look so sad!
There’s that noise again!
That woman’s talking right there at the head of the table! Although the words are still unrecognisable the movement of the woman’s lips is obvious. She is talking.
‘I summon the echo, the spirit, the life-force that was, Mark Blakemort! Come, shade of Mark Blakemort, be here with us in this room. Your loving family would know of you! Give them a sign that you are well!’
Suddenly I realise what I’m seeing. This is a séance. That women is a Medium.
And those other two people are my family! That’s my wife! And Damien! My son, Damien! He’s alive!
Thank God! But why aren’t I ... oh ... of course. Damien survived. But I didn’t. They’re summoning me. I’m the echo they’re calling.
‘Give your loving family the peace they seek spirit! Let them know you are well and happy and everything is good,’ intoned the old woman.
Well? Happy? Good? NO! None of that is true! None of it! This is a horrible place. I’m cold and alone! I hate it here! I’m so scared! There’s nothing but the endless, empty darkness and the crushing, oppressive silence!
The awful, never-ending, coldness! The loneliness! The eternal, haunting emptiness! I’m screaming the words at them but I can’t hear myself.
‘I can hear him!’ the woman is saying. ‘He has a message for you. I can hear his voice! He says ... Mark says ... he wants you to know ... that he is ... happy. So very happy. And at peace.’
NOOO! That’s not what I said! I’m NOT happy here! You can’t really hear me can you?
You’re a fake! A charlatan! That’s not what I said ... No! They’re leaving now. The woman has said the spirit has left us so they’re leaving me. They’ve gone into another room and I’m alone with this stupid old woman who’s cheated my family!
The old woman looked up at the ceiling. Directly at Mark Blakemort.
‘No Mark, I’m not a fake. I heard every word you said. I can see you and hear you even now.
‘But really Mark, do you want your family to know what the Afterlife is really like? They need to live on Mark. And not be afraid of death. If you knew what it was like when you die would that have made you feel better?
‘So we lie to the living so they can get through life. We all do it Mark. What choice do we have? We can’t tell them the truth. I’m sorry.’
The woman blew out one of the three candles and the opening to her world shrank.
She continued talking, ‘I know you’re scared. I know you’re alone. In the darkness. And the cold. I will talk with you when I can Mark.’
She blew out another candle and the hole got smaller, it was barely visible at all now.
‘But you have to face the facts Mark. This is your existence now. Cold, empty, eternal blackness. I’m sorry ...’ pffft.
And then there was nothing. Just the echoing emptiness of eternity. Forever.
Echoes from the Baie ‘n Ooig by primary winner Scarlett Christopher-Everett
Sharp and glass-like, the sand bit my aching feet like a shoal of hungry, piranha fish.
I sprinted towards my friends; Katie, an odd girl with chocolate brown eyes, and Steve with masses of spiral ginger hair, all wet as he climbed out of the salty, foaming sea.
I gazed hypnotically across at the bright fairy lights which spanned the distance across Port Erin bay.
The rolling purple fog emerged from behind the hills above like a pair of velvet curtains closing for the evening.
Our golden plan was to sneak surreptitiously this special Hop-tun-nae night to the arcane beach caves and investigate the unaccountable, echoing noises that screamed through the walls as the roaring waves licked the beach and rock pools hungrily.
Some Manx old folk created gossip and wild rumours about the strange, high pitch wails being singing Manx fairies imprisoned in the watery tomb, or Tarooh Ushtey, the water bull who lived below the muddy waters.
This particular night, we shuffled to the dark, shadowy caves.
I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, it was spooky, creepy and terrifying as we crept... silently... in the blackness until we stumbled across a secret door. We opened it slowly ... and suddenly we were blinded by gleaming, golden coins and a mountain of treasure!
Then we heard hissing echoes coming from the other caverns, as the salty sea lapped against the rocks.
Maybe the tinny whispers were the wispy fairies singing sweet hymns to their mistress Queen.
Or maybe the sounds were the greedy waves lapping against the rocky caves, swishing and swirling.
Suddenly, Steve screamed in terror.
‘Be quiet,’ said Katie ‘We don’t know what could happen. I thought that fairies didn’t exist in the real world’.
Again, I heard a sharp banging, smashing noise like a glass shattering against a solid, wooden wall. What happened?
Was it an angry fairy trying to tell Katie that they did exist? Or was the smashing noise the angry river bull trying to escape the darkest, watery cave which imprisoned him.
I started to limp across the rocks, feeling tired and weary. Then we heard Katie’s mum calling her in the distance.
So off she ran, leaving Steve and I behind to solve this incredible mystery.
I spotted a bright light, and a rainbow of fireworks exploded -pink, purple and green.
Suddenly we saw a pair of massive feet. Steve peered up and saw a huge fairy with golden hair and a gathering of little fairies surrounding the Queen fairy, all singing beautiful melodies, just like I thought.
So this was the mystery of the hollowing echoes that had plagued Port Erin’s abandoned coastal caves for years.
As I stumbled away, I thought to myself ... one day, when I am much older, I will be a famous Manx author and write a story about my childhood adventure on Port Erin beach.