Dundee’s next generation of writing talent was honoured at Dundee City Chambers.
Grove Academy pupil Amy MacLeod, 15, won the third annual Burgess Short Story Competition for her story Solemn Silence with a Stranger.
The competition is open to third year pupils across Dundee and this year’s event received 63 entries. Pupils were asked to create a story with the theme “Ambition, Aspiration and Achievement, Dundee – A City to Discover”.
Rose Porteous from Menzieshill High School came second, and Holly Dunbar from Craigie High School took third place.
Cara Kidd from Grove Academy were given honorary mentions.
Each of the three prize winners were presented with a book token and a copy of Lewis Grassic Gibbon’sA Scots Quair by depute Lord Provost Christina Roberts.
Amy said she was surprised to have won the competition.
“I was just nervous about reading my story,” she said. “I really like writing and I’d like to do something to do with writing when I grow up.”
The winning entries
First: Solemn Silence with a Stranger, by Amy MacLeod
Dundee isn’t a well-known city.
When you think of Dundee, you don’t think of spiralling skyscrapers reaching endlessly towards the sky, glinting in the sunlight. You don’t think of new opportunities, or second chances. You don’t think of “all the things you could do” in a brilliant place like Dundee. Because, quite frankly, and despite the protests of its council, Dundee is a simple place. It’s a simple town, with simple everyday people, and simple everyday shops.
I’m not saying that being simple is a bad thing. In fact, it makes what I do all the more fun. All the more important. I’m an artist, you see. It may seem strange I know, and I understand why you would think it is. If anything, an artist should have a complex city as their muse, right? A city like New York or London, a place with never-ending back alleys, countless sceneries to gawk at and bright city lights to blot out the unimportance of people lying on the streets without a home, of people just getting by.
I’m one of those people by the way. A person who wakes up every morning with the dull mind set of I’m just getting by I’m living, but I don’t feel alive. It can be very daunting sometimes, to have that thought constantly constantly at the back of your mind, interfering with day to day activities, reminding you that this was not how you planned to live your life, this was not your dream, this was not how things were supposed to be. It lets life pass by like a timeless blur, and eventually, you lose a sense of yourself, of those past ambitions you used to have. However, l am human after all, and humans survive by any means necessary. When things get tough, every individual person on the planet earth has their own method, their own way of coping with things And this is mine. Standing in solemn silence on a deserted pier in the middle of the night, with nothing but an old, abandoned ship creaking against the waves to keep me company. And the old man wearing a tweed jacket. But mainly the ship. I run a hand through my hair, brown and greasy, and allow myself to be curious about this stranger, with his old fashioned clothes, thinly framed spectacles and hair whiter than snow. We’ve been standing together in silence for well over half an hour, now. It would be futile to try and spark up a conversation.
“A’richt” He speaks for the first time, startling me with a thick Scottish accent. “Whit’s eating awa’ at ye, lad?”
I tuck my hands in my pockets. Never talk to strangers, I hear my mum’s voice echo in my mind, and maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t slept in three days, or the silence of the world at this hour that urges me to speak out, or the thrilling idea of taking risks for once in my life but I reply, and I reply honestly.
“Nothing’s going right, sir.” I say with an exasperated sigh.
The man chuckles. “A’ve bin thare, laddie. Ah ken tis nae easy.” He pauses. “Bit it gets better. It steals a while whiles, ‘n’ loads o’ solid wirk, bit it gets better.”
I look up to see the man standing in front of me with an outstretched hand and a boyish grin on his face. “Th’ name’s Patrick. James Macintosh Patrick.”
“James Cooper.” I reply, taking his hand and smiling slightly: we have the same name.
“Och! ye jammy fellow. Ye git tae be cried efter th’ maist braw jimmy ah ken… Me!” He laughs heartily.
I stuff my hand in my pockets again, turning to look at the ship. The Discovery was painted on the side in white letters. It’s a nice name. I glance at James, blinking in shock when I see how pale he is his skin is almost translucent.
“Ah dinnae hae muckle time, laddie. Time isnae kind fur a soul lik’ me.” He says. “Bit ah dinnae git mony visitors, let alone at this time o’ nicht, sae a’m waantin’ tae hulp. A dinnae ken whit ye’r gaun thro’, ‘n’ ah ken it micht be solid, bit ah promise it’ll git better. Tis nae th’ maist helpful thing tae say, bit tis a guid thing tae keep thinking aboot. It’ll git better. Ye keep workin’ solid, ‘n’ ye’ll mak’ it.”
I can’t stop the grin from slipping onto my face. It was nice to hear these words from someone; it was nice to hear that somebody believed in me. “Thank you, sir.” And I meant it, really.
I’m not sure if I imagined it all. When I turned back, he was gone without a trace. But I thank him.
Second: Ambition, Aspiration and Achievement. Dundee a City to Discover, by Rose Porteous
I wake up. I rub a bar of olive oil, water, coconut oil, palm oil, sodium hydroxide and shea butter round me and drown my hair in shampoo. Then I suit up in work clothes. I sit down to some breakfast of toast and coffee and burn my mouth as I try to down the coffee when it is still lava. I am running late. I just make it to the site (with the time to watch Usain Bolt to spare), saying ‘good morning’ to people I see along the way; a guy on the corner smoking (why? It stinks.) with a name tag embroidery saying Mickey, a woman named Charlie and her dog (which was disposing of waste fluids at the time) and someone in a Boots uniform.
I work as a construction plant operator on the renovation of Dundee’s Waterfront. I know, what a mouthful. My job is on the brand spankingly newly named Slessor Garden where I’m installing cables and pipes for utilities. Fun.
I wake up. I wash then suit up. I plonk my but downwards to the same toast and coffee and set alight my mouth as I try to consume lava. I’m always rushing for everything. I just make it to the site in time, saying ‘good morning’ to the people I see along the way Mickey (still mitting fumes), Charlie and her dog (who I’ve noticed urinates a LOT) and the person in the Boots uniform.
For 49386 years I put in the cables and pipes but, finally, it is finished and now I’m laying the trails the shoppers and walkers and workers will follow. My fellow rocketeer Fiona is working on the roads next to us and we exchange words sometimes when her roller rolls past.
I wake up. I dispose of dirt and then put on my work designated body cloths. I sit down to toast and lava. I’m still one Usain from late. I make it to the launch pad, saying ‘good morning’ to the usual’s; Mickey the crane driver (again releasing gases), Charlie and The Colonel (peeing) and the guy in the Boots uniform.
The trails are still ongoing but I am inserting overgrown broccoli around the area and you’ll never guess who christened (or fertilised) about seven of them (thou trees named Ed, Jeff, Bill, Ted, John, Phil and Zoe) as him and his mistress walked by.
I wake up. I Scrub up. I dress up. Toast and lava finished, I speed to the site imparting a ‘good morning’ to the predictable; Mickey (what was he doing? Yes, you’re right) Charlie and The Colonel (christening/fertilising yet more broccoli) and the Boots uniform dude.
On this day the salient nature carpet arrived in a convoy of council trucks. They were royally rolled out, what a splendid sight when we completed it. I had a scone and tea in my lunch break and my bus was late going home/ what a terribly British day.
I wake up. I shower and then put on my suit. I sit down to Rice Krispies and orange juice and enjoy the lighting of day. I look at the time, time to go, and slip on my shoes then leave
It is the opening day for the renewal of Dundee’s Waterfront. As I walk down Fiona’s road on the corner there is no crane but I smell smoke. I pass Ed, Jeff, Bill, Ted, John, Phil and Zoe and see they’re growing well. I feel weirdly patriotic as I stroll along the grass to the stunning V&A.
Third: Knee Deep, by Holly Dunbar
Stuck. She was stuck, entangled, ensnared. Trapped. The noise and dust clogging her senses, trapping her in her own mind. The aimless never-ending work dragging on and on through the day, even nights when necessary. Luckily for her employers, she was a women who ‘deserved’ very little pay, unfortunately for them, she was a women who refused to be treated this way. A pawn in the money making empire of Dundee, ruled by kings, queens, knights and bishops, dispensable and weak.
If only the other women would stand with her, they outnumbered the men, they could rise up and take charge, be given more pay, better working conditions, anything. A woman wandered past her, shuffling through the Stour. Caught in a bubble even worse than some of the rest, deaf to the world. She wouldn’t stand for this! Men with their pompous arrogance and pride, as if they could be outsmarted and overcome by the brainless, clueless slaves that so cheaply worked to the grave. Her fingers were aching and she could no longer stand watching the horrors before her and the small bony hand reaching once again into the nearest machine to clean its inner workings, he’d already lost one finger.
Flinging down her work she crept around the station to the back door. Her storming form travelled the road without her even thinking about it, the Tay glistened even with the heavy grey clouds from above, Fife lay across the water, dots of houses covered the green and squatted peacefully awaiting the return of their occupants. The small cottage near the river was silently beckoning her in with curling waves of smoke which sluggishly oozed from its crooked chimney. The door creaked familiarly and swung shut behind her as she approached the women swaddled in blankets in a chair by the fire which was reflected fiercely in a frail old face.
‘I have no pity for those who wallow in their own.’ Her tone was sharp and like a cold slap in the face, Grandma was not a patient women and had standards to uphold, even in her Granddaughter. ‘Penelope, you should be at work, I didn’t lose a hand just for you to slack when it was your turn!’ Her face softened, she patted her leg and Penny curled up at her Grandma’s feet and placed her head in her lap. Grandma was the only one who understood her silent communications, always had.
Penny’s own Mother had barely managed before she died. She was a mute, a freak, but that didn’t stop her trying to prove herself. She knew her job had been given out of pity and knew there wasn’t much she could do to help the cause she cared for, at least not with words. Her anger drained as she realised with devastating clarity, she was powerless to do anything. ‘Don’t lose hope Penny-wren, you’ll get your chance, all women will. These men won’t always get what they want, one day this line they’ve drawn will be erased and there won’t be anything they can do about it. Just keep your chin up and make me proud. Come along now, get going, the ‘she-town’ needs you.’
The twinkle in Grandma’s eyes told Penny all she needed to know, grinning at her Grandmother she swept from the room with a kiss to the cheek and a slammed door. Penny sped down the streets dodging bicycles and people, glancing back at the Law and its solid presence, the Tay drew nearer and Penny ran down towards it. She took in a deep breath of the salty water which gleamed with a new light, she gazed up to the sky. Sunlight began to shine through the rain clouds, holding her to the silent promise, she was determined to keep.