Schoolwork showcase-secondary short stories

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A selection of the best short stories submitted by secondary schools for the SUR in English Education and Learning special

Friday, 13 March 2026, 14:42 | Updated 16:39h.

Best secondary short story

Only When I Believed

The door wasn’t there yesterday. I was sure of it. I would’ve noticed it. The wall has always been blank, painted the same quiet, unmoved shade of routine, of hesitation, of everyday I told myself “maybe tomorrow.”

Something changed today though. The door appeared.

It wasn’t grand, It wasn’t glowing. It wasn’t calling my name. It simply existed, quiet and patient as if it was waiting for me to finally see it. I stood in front of it for a while, uncertain, almost afraid to understand. I hadn’t applied for anything. I hadn’t been chosen. I hadn’t been invited. Nothing has dramatically changed.

Except me.

Yesterday, I said yes to something small. I spoke when I’d usually be silent. I took a different route home without needing a reason. I put my phone down and read. I laughed without fear of judgement. I let myself exist without apologising.

I hadn’t realised the universe was listening. As if it was rewarding me for giving it more chances.

The door wasn’t labelled as “happiness” or “sucess”. It was simply open.

Open because I was.

That’s the moment I realised that the door was a reflection of permission I gave myself. Permission to fail. Permission to try. Permission to live inside a moment instead of letting it pass.

Yesterday, the door wasn’t there because I wasn’t looking. It was because I kept waiting to become a braver version of myself.

Today, I know I didn’t need to become somebody else. I had to step forward as I was. Accept that accepting imperfection is the only way to grow. I walked through the door but for the first time it wasn’t locked and frightening. It was open and I stepped through because I finally knew I could.

Pola R. Age 16. Sotogrande International School

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Runner-up secondary story

Oriana. Strangers to Best Friends to Memories

When I returned to my room that evening, the door was there, narrow and white, standing between the wardrobe and the mirror where there had only been a blank wall. I didn’t panic, life in a new country had already taught me to accept unfamiliar things. New languages, new routines, new versions of myself, new surroundings, new people, all can become a fresh start. Yet I knew with quiet certainty that the door had not been there yesterday. For a long moment I sat on my bed, surrounded by the faint smell of her, and thought about how we used to know everything about each other, even the smallest details, even our smells, vanilla shampoo, that comforting mix of perfume and a warm embrace that once meant home. Now those memories felt distant, blurred by time and separate lives.

Before I could reconsider, I opened the door. Inside was our old boarding school room, messy and alive, music playing, clothes scattered, two girls laughing with the effortless closeness of people who believed nothing could ever change. Us. I stepped forward, but the air felt thin and distant, as though the scene existed behind invisible glass. They didn’t see me, memories are not made for visitors. I stood there anyway, watching the version of us that still believed in forever, until I finally closed the door. Back in my quiet room, the wall was blank once more, and for the first time I understood that we had not left at all, we had simply become strangers who once shared a life. Not actual strangers, but people who used to spend every living moment together, did everything together, and were always asked where the other one was, and now it is all behind that door, and sometimes reminiscenced by a rare call.

Emilia, age 15. Sotogrande International School

Special mention secondary story

Untitled

Wake up. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Out the door. Something is missing. Back through the front door, through the living room, through your bedroom door. Of course. Your watch. Back through the bedroom door again — which door? There shouldn’t be two doors. There were never two doors before. Check your watch. You’re running late. Through the regular door, then. Through the front door. In the car, and off to work. Boring day. Back to your house. Eat dinner. Same as always. To bed. In bed. In the dark. Waiting. For nothing. Door’s still there. Work’s still tomorrow. Your boss is mad at you. Says you’re underperforming. You’re going to be fired. Fall asleep.

Wake up. You’re going to be fired. Get dressed. You’re going to be fired. Eat breakfast. You’re going to starve. Out the door. You’re going to die on the streets. In the car. It’s going to be painful and slow. Off to work. You’re going to be fired.

Back to your house. You haven’t been fired — not yet. But tomorrow you will be. You can feel it. Eat dinner. Same as always. To bed. Door’s still there. You are going to be fired tomorrow. You do not have a support system. Door’s still there. Out of bed. Grasp the handle. Let go. Back in bed. It’s not worth the risk to. It’s not worth the risk not to. Grasp the handle. Turn. Open. You don’t know what’s on the other side. Step through the door. You will never know. Grasp the handle. Pull. Click.

Wake up. Go to work. Go to sleep. A minute passes. Wake up. Go to work. Go to sleep. Another minute. Again. And again. And again, and again, until the clock strikes seven.

Wake up.

Go to work.

Go to sleep.

Jake Mackenzie, age 15. Atlas American School

Selected secondary story

Untitled

The door wasn’t there yesterday. The boy is certain of it, because he knows every tiny part of his bedroom, every mark on the walls, every creak of the floorboards. But now, just before midnight, a narrow wooden door appears where his cupboard should be.

In the beginning, he believes he is imagining it. The day has repeated too many times already, always ending with the clock on his wall striking midnight and dragging him back to the morning. He has learned not to trust himself and his senses. But as the ticking grows louder, he notices scratches around the doorframe as if someone or something had been attempting to force it open many times before.

When he opens the door, he steps into a dark room containing nothing except a single clock identical to the one in his bedroom. The air is cold and heavy, and the ticking echoes loudly, surrounding him. As the clock strikes midnight, its hands begin to spin violently, and panic drives him back into his room.

Desperate to prove what he had seen, the boy wakes his parents and brings them to his bedroom. But when they arrive, the door has vanished, replaced by a solid wall. His parents deny the incident as a nightmare, and the boy is sent back to bed, confused and scared.

He wakes the next morning trapped in the same day once again. The door is gone. The room is normal. Then he remembers the clock and realises the whole truth. The door only exists at midnight, and time resets when it disappears!

That night, instead of running, the boy waits. As the clock strikes twelve and the door returns, he steps through, determined to face whatever lies beyond it, even if it means never returning to yesterday.

Kye Gibson, age 14. English International College

Selected secondary story

Lost Chance

The light of the early morning sun seeps in through the sheer tulle on the windows, the half-closed curtains doing little to nothing to stop the sunlight enveloping the room. As I sit up—rubbing my eyes from a long night of sleep. I make my way out of my room and into the hallway. With a yawn, I turn the corner, feeling something brush against my arm. I glance to the left, only to find that it’s a door handle—nothing out of the ordinary. Just as I’m about to continue walking, it hits me: the realization that there is, in fact, something very out of the ordinary.

Slowly, I turn back around and approach it. I reach out, hesitating. After what feels like an eternity of conjuring up scenarios of what could happen, I make my decision. I shove open the door before I can convince myself otherwise.

I feel myself go white. I stare at a copy of myself, grinning, standing in a hallway identical to this one. Well, no, not identical. It's… better. On the wall behind the copy of myself hangs a diploma, and several awards and medals “If only you’d studied,” she drawls. I slam the door shut.

After a moment, I reach out tentatively and pull it open again, expecting the same image. This time, the copy of me stares back with tears. Tears that are enough to constitute any words. The hallway? Ruined; cracked walls, flickering lights. I slam the door shut.

I blink several times in confusion, feeling my head throb. As I reach out once more, my hand hits the wall.

Nothing.

No door, no handle, no alternative life.

Valeria S. age 15. Swans International School

Selected secondary story

Lost and Found

“Hurry up Nancy, your room is like a black hole!” Mum shouted exasperated. “Sorry Mum.” I sighed admitting defeat. She was right, my room was a mess and I couldn’t find my ukulele for Miss Bennett’s music class.

Rushing around I noticed an unusual black circular door. “That wasn’t there before.” I thought. Suddenly in a bright flash I was sucked in, bounced back and forth and whizzed through a long tunnel. Reaching the bottom I was both frightened and excited when a cute grey mouse appeared waving cheerfully with a familiar sock on its head. My sock! I was bewildered.

Tall trees swayed above, their branches covered with random objects. My random objects! An ant scuttled past clutching my highlighter pen cap as a handbag.

“Cool.” I thought noticing all these little creatures reusing my lost property in a very imaginative way.

“What have you lost today Nancy?” a friendly, prickly hedgehog enquired.

“Hello, um, who are you?” I mumbled stunned. “I’m Helga Hedgehog, master of finding things, at your service!” Helga announced proudly bowing down.

“I’ve lost my ukulele, can you help me please?” I pleaded. She paused, her little eyes flashed with an idea. “The old oak tree of music,” she pointed excitedly “wait here.” After much rustling and grunting she emerged triumphantly clutching my ukulele. “Oh thank you Helga!” I exclaimed. Her little cheeks blushed as I hugged her.

I could still feel the slight sting of her prickles as I rushed downstairs into the car. “What took you so long?” asked Mum. “I fell down a black hole, but I found these!” Mum looked at me quizzically but was delighted as I handed her her lost sunglasses, I didn’t tell her I had found them on a DJ squirrel’s head. Who would believe that?

Nancy Graham, age 12. Sage College, Jerez

Selected secondary story

Above the Willow Tree

I’m driving myself insane. Surely I must be delusional, right?

Before I could even realise what was happening, I was sprinting down the stairs, desperate to get away from this place. At first it was all fun and games, but now I’m really starting to think this isn’t a joke anymore, and even if it was, it is not funny. I had been stood in the same spot yesterday, and I couldn’t remember seeing anything like that eery, black door. The image of its silvery doorknob engraved with one word, ‘GO’, would be forever stuck in my head, haunting every inch of me.

This little getaway was supposed to be a fun opportunity for family-bonding, until my idiot of a stepbrother decided that taking advantage of the situation, to get back at me for playing that stupid little prank on him, was his idea of fun. Now, I want nothing more than to get out of this freakish vacation home.

So I continued running through the house, the wooden floorboards creaking noisily with every step I took. It was as if the walls were slowly closing in on me, ready to engulf me completely. My head pounded, and that with the sound of the incredibly harsh wind outside made it impossible for me to hear my own thoughts. I kept running. I didn’t know where my legs were taking me, nor did I know where the rest of my family was. Frankly, I didn’t care either.

Once I had finally reached the front door, I found myself outside, nearby the huge willow tree I had once admired. As I sat on the green grass, I gave myself a minute to let my heartbeat slow.

There was only one minor detail I’d missed- the open window above me.

The last thing I heard was shattering glass, before I blacked out.

Sadie W. age 12. Sunny View School

Secondary story

Vox Avium

"It is, objectively, a little funny how stupid birds can be at times." James thought to himself.

He was sitting at his desk next to his bed, which had been pushed up against his door as a makeshift barricade. He wasn’t hiding from anything, he just didn't have a lock for his door, and no other decent way to keep his family out of his private space. And it’s not like it did much of anything, anyways. The bed was so light, even his little hatchling of a sister could reasonably open his door without too much trouble.

It’s the thought that counts.

If James knew one thing about living in The Nests all his life, it’s that making a statement can mean more than actually doing anything sometimes.

‘Of course, in The Nests can manipulate the birds easier,’ He thought, stretching his wide, blue wings out of boredom.

‘More proof of how stupid the birds there are.’

James opened his sketchbook.

Something that he had found himself drawing a lot lately is monkeys evolved to look like how birds do, as if they had become the dominant species on the planet instead of birds.

He wonders if they would have created a nation like The Nest. Where idiotic birds (or monkeys, he guesses) get to choose the leader of the biggest and most important place in the world.

He wonders if they also would have voted that braindead Icterus galbula into office, just because he was popular and rich.

He wonders if the monkeys would have also frozen other monkeys and fed them to alligators to ‘Get those damn migrators out of our nation.’

James scoffed to himself. ‘Those hypocrites,’ He thought as he doodled in his book. ‘Their entire population is migratory birds, why would that orange idiot want to keep them out?’

The worst part is that James knew that he was lucky to be able to leave the nest, but it also feels like he didn’t have a choice.

His mother always had a phrase for when James was feeling this way, “when one door closes, another will surely open.”

But, there's no doors anywhere, and the room is slowly filling with toxic gas and alligators, and some birds are clawing at a door that isn't there and never was, and some birds are getting slowly eaten by the alligators and getting suffocated by the gas, and some birds, the worst birds, are sitting in a corner with their eyes closed and pretending everything is fine.

‘And only my family bothered to check if there was a window.’

J. C. age 15. Almuñécar International School

Secondary story

Untitled

I won’t fight back if insanity chooses to take me. Actually, I think I’d enjoy the feeling of it. All of a sudden, I'm pulled out of my thoughts as I hear a knock on my door.

“Sir, we have been called to look through your building.” I sigh as I walk from my living room to my front door. I open it

“Yes? Why?”

“One of your neighbours said they heard screaming from inside your house.” I smirk at the thought; things like this have been happening almost every three days, which is another reason why I think I'm going crazy since I never hear these screams.

“How peculiar - I haven’t had any people over in weeks.”

“Well, we will still need to look around. Could you let us in?” I sigh dramatically and step aside, allowing the officers to enter the house. I sit back down in my living room as they search my house. After a few minutes, one of the officers walks towards me and I look up.

“Can I help you?”

“We have found a locked door in your hallway, I’d like to have the key to open it.” I raise an eyebrow. Locked door? That's strange, since I never lock any of the rooms. I get up.

“Can you show me which one?”

The officer leads me to the main hallway and stops in front of one of the doors, a dark, rusty brown one. Very different from the other white ones. I stare at it. Why is there a new door in my hallway? Are they messing with me?

“What is this?”

“This is the door we can’t seem to open. We need you to give us the key.”

“How could I own a key for a door that wasn’t there yesterday?”

Zoe K. Age 13. Sotogrande International School

Secondary story

The Last Time She Waited

She stared at the wooden oak door, waiting for the one person she always did. Her mind raced faster with every second, filling her with so much joy, yet cutting her deep. Her deep brown eyes watched carefully, and every second made her jump with unknown excitement. She had done this before, waited for him too long, had been hurt by his disappearance. Even after all of this, she still goes back to him, back to the thought of finally being happy. It consumed her. She never looked at anything else; her mind was set that he was the one.

Her thoughts drifted to the times she was happy, she was with him. His laughter and colours filled her memory. Butterflies in her stomach with a slight touch were the best feeling. She remembers all the times he comforted her in the pond, splashes of water all over her floral dress.

“Don’t be that way,” he reassured her. “It’s only water.”

She was moved by the way he said her name, captured in his presence. The way he ever so lightly lifted her chin when she was feeling down.

“It’s not that it’s… it’s nothing. Don’t worry, my dear.”

She could never be mad at him, never want to upset her love.

Not all her memories are good. Some are meant to be kept away, never to be spoken about. It’s not worth thinking of them; it only scars her more.

“Who was he?” William bellowed, slamming the door open.

He grabbed her by the neck, holding her in place, squeezing tighter every second that went by.

“Who is who?” she choked, gasping as he dug his strong, firm hands into her neck. Her face grew red as the life slowly escaped her. He let go. He always let go. That’s what she told herself.

As her thoughts slowly dissolved into pain, she stepped back into reality.

“I don’t have to do this,” she whispered to herself, a tear rolling down her cheek at the thought.

“I can leave.”

She looked at the door once more and slapped down any nervousness. Then she walked away, from any hope or chance she had ever given him.

Abi H. age 14. Sunny View School

Secondary story

The Future Prometheus

Victor led the research team behind a creation enabling precise transit through time using a glass vessel.

He thought time was a primordial gift given by the gods — entities carnated from omnipotence, but absent when you needed them most. It was during the slow death of his father that he realised that all the praying was futile and that time was a finite resource, that maybe he could defy the gods and exploit the essence of time.

The years of hard work and testing led to the eight final hours before the release to the public, a routine maintenance check was passed perfectly, except for the pulse-like ripple felt on the surface of the transparent slidable door, it was as if the glass itself was breathing. Faint sounds of scratches quivered through the clean door, teasing ears with the promise of life. The following maintenance check was issued barely minutes after the first, with disturbing results: fleshy protuberances coalesced and eyes sprouted from sockets absent just moments before. The continuous sound of scratching intensified.

“Don’t do it…” It writhed like a humanoid embryo.

It seemed as if the being just submitted to the inevitable transformation; what stood there wasn’t a glass door, it was a door that wasn’t there yesterday. Despite difficulties, Victor insisted on releasing the vessel anyway; however, the product sank without a trace. Amidst all despair, he attempted to use the machine to regress to the day of release.

The vessel locked him inside. It transited him back to the wished date, but somehow he was fusing with the door. He was looking at himself hours before. He tried scratching his way out of the door, but it was in vain. As a last resort, he sputtered the words, “Don’t do it…”

Chenham Zhu, age 13. English International College

Secondary story

Admired Placebo

Tick…Tick…Tick…Tock… again, and again, round and round. The clock mounted on the wall painted a discomforting shade of yellow, muttered, every single second of every single minute, of every single hour. It got annoying. Each tick, a servant for a reminder that time will never work in one's favor. The wait for each class's conclusion seemed eternal. The endless murmurs and mumbles of ignorant students did not aid the clock in its motion. I stare across the courtyard, my mind wandering beyond the glass window, beyond the monotony aura from this institution I unwillingly reside in. Further than where the sky and the rugged ocean greet to shake hands, to where the stars blur into the void. My mind swims with purpose, with a longing to be anywhere else but here.,

With my hand holding up my resting head, with my disobeying eyes that refuse to look away, goosebumps grew mountains on my arms, gates began to flood, my lonely consciousness stirred a flame, a spark ignited, the clock's ceaseless ticking halted, for just one moment when I was met with a figure. A door. My life seemed to gain its calling. There it was, standing in its own solitude. A brown rectangular, wooden door. My arm dropped on the table, my posture awoke from a slumber, my vision focused clearly, all solemnly on the object in front of me. The enraging curiosity pained my every blinking moment. A doorway of possibilities evidently calling to me.

But why?

It only took one slap by a teacher conveyed through a book, to return my attention that wasn't there to begin with. Without the acknowledgment from my humdrum mentor, little did they know,I figured out my purpose. To find out what is behind that door.

Mia Lee, age 15. Atlas American School of Malaga

Secondary story

Untitled

A door appeared. Not loudly, not dramatically – it just was, peeling between the wallpaper in the hallway, like it folded a secret within the walls. I stared. My stomach churned.

It was wooden, dark as wet soil; the brass handle gleamed as if it remembered someone else’s hand. My finger slid tempted by its dangerous promise.

Beyond was my childhood bedroom, yet not exactly. My art desk waited patiently, scarred with those doodles, memories, and mistakes. There she was -me with my ordinary messy French braids. Holding the scratch book I’d lost in anger the day I quit art club.

“Hey,” I breathed.

She looked up, eyes wide, warm, unafraid and able to conquer the world, if she wanted. “Do I know you?” She asked.

No. I knew her. Too well.

She was so alive, so impossibly herself, yet to be broken by the mistakes. My gaze drifted to the calendar tacked behind her animal book collection. Circled at least three times was May 14th, 2016. I could never forget that day; the day I lied to my mother, leaving my childhood, choosing my pride over honesty. The day my entire life changed. I’ve always wondered what I would have done, if I hadn’t lied.

“Tell her,” I let out, “Tell mum everything.”

“Who are you?”

“Trust me.” I continued.

“I can’t.”

“Sometimes,” I paused, “Sometimes, you have to say it, to let it go.”

Just before I could tell her anything else, everything went black. My heart hammered in my chest. A warm hug. Maybe I did tell my mum. I slowly opened my eyes to my mother.

“Thank you,” I said to myself.

Nicole, age 15. Novaschool Sunland International

Secondary story

The Circus I Called Home

The familiar cacophony echoed around the gigantic tent. Gymnasts fluttered around me. I had grown up in harmony, under the vibrant tent. I trained day and night to be an acrobat.

I was sharpening a feat involving leaping through the air and gliding through a narrow doorframe. I practised in a secluded area where the blare was only a hum.

“Dahlia,” The acrobat instructor called my name. “You got this!” His words of encouragement gave me confidence.

My feet left the tall platform. I sailed through the air with positioned arms. concentrating on the door. I shot like an arrow. My eyes closed as I entered the frame.

“Dahlia!” A girl shouted.

I jumped back, and spied around us. I was sitting in a cramped classroom, filled with other kids my age.

The professor shot me a glare. “Can I go to the bathroom?” I kept my voice from trembling.

I arrived in the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, staring into the mirror with troubled eyes.

“Dahlia.” A shallow voice murmured. I whipped around to see a lucid figure. “You have a decision,”Its eyes narrowed. “This is still your life but another path, a more.. Typical path. You may choose to stay.” I picked my jaw off the ground before taking a breath. “Leaving the circus?” I asked. “The circus never existed, you won't remember it.” The form gave a smirk.

“Never.” My eyes turned to slits. “You're sure? A pure life here, in this universe.” It drifted closer.

“I don't care, I want my circus, home!” I howled. The forms grin widened and with a nod-

“Dahlia!” My eyelids flickered open. Amenity washed over me when my instructor was standing over me. “You hit your head hard there.” I beamed around. The great tent surrounded me.

“I’m home.”

E. W. age 13. Almuñécar International School

Secondary story

The Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday

“Had that door always been there?” Serenity asked, “I don’t recall ever seeing it…” Serenity raised an eyebrow, confused. She’s always been at the school, ever since she was small, but she had never seen that door, never recognised the room number. An ethereal glow emitting from the door ignited a magnetic feeling, and before she realised her hand already laid on the knob.

“Open it.” A voice whispered in her ear, the knob slowly twisted. “Open,” click, “it.” The door creaked open, a serenade rang out, flowers bloomed: beautiful and graceful, the river: sparkling and glistening, people laughed, sang, smiled. The door could only lead to what she assumed was a paradise, a utopia. Without a second thought she sprinted in. Her world was hell; parents fought constantly and only stayed together for her younger brother Milo. She hadn’t always been popular with others as people’s glares usually fell on her, and she hadn’t always been the prettiest of the bunch. This world was a heaven, a haven which opened its gates for her.

“A whole new start…” She whispered under her breath. She looked at this new world; it glared back at her. People stopped talking, stopped laughing, stopped singing, stopped smiling and glared at her. The flowers wilted, the water grew murky and its clear blue colour had faded into this muted greenish-brownish colour, and the serenade grew quiet. “Outsider.” Somebody stated. “Who? Me?” Serenity inquired. “Outsider.” “Outsider!” “OUTSIDER!” “OUTSIDER!” “OUTSIDER!” “OUTSIDER!” The people roared. Serenity cowered, scared, confused. “Outsider…what an ugly word. Wouldn’t you agree, Serenity?” “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Serenity yelled, her hands covering her face, teary-eyed. “Only a fool would look at the front cover, and assume they know the contents of the book.”

Miranda M. age13. Sunny View School

Secondary story

The Final Visit

One day, I appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of a building, pressed against a grey, crumbling wall in a hollow, silent lobby. I stood there isolated and misplaced.

By the next morning, a group of young, tender students surrounded me, laughing obnoxiously. I felt judged and odd. They turned on my doorknob. It churned on my wooden chest, but I wouldn’t open it. I was the anomaly, and I cannot deny that.

I was not like the other doors; I was here for a reason, for someone.

He passed me that morning, moving quickly like he was late. He was a tired man who lived alone on the thirteenth floor. Three months ago, his wife lost her life to cancer and with her left his happiness. The loss made him a quiet person whose heart was very heavy. He always feared meeting new people, as he was scared to lose them. He couldn’t bear another heartbreak…

Every day, I climbed a floor. People stared, some people mocked. Some stood still, like they were mesmerised by me. Their shadows danced on every wall I looked at, and when I glanced at them, I could only think of what sad news I would bring to the man on the thirteenth floor.

The day I reached the thirteenth floor, I wasn’t in a cold, lonely hallway; I appeared inside the old man’s apartment. The apartment was surprisingly colourful and bright, given its opposite appearance. This time, a note rested on my chest saying, “Open me when you are ready to leave”. The old man stared at it, trembling. He knew what it meant; he just didn’t want to believe it. And so I waited, patiently, knowing that one day grief would roar inside him, and he would turn the doorknob willingly.

Gabi M. age 14. English International College

Secondary story

Untitled

I was woken by the sweet chorus of mockingbirds. Outside, the sun ascended painting terracotta orange hues over the extensive horizon of lush green waves. I milked the cows, released the chickens and fed the dogs. The day was perfect until the unimaginable occurred

From my breakfast table, I observed a ferocious army of trucks advancing towards the farm. It was clear that this was their next conquest.

“What’s going on?” I asked politely. Whatever it was it was going to be big. “The council has ordered that we build a housing estate,” announced a builder. “But, what about the farm?” I blurted.

“That’s not my problem,” he retorted without sympathy.

Machines growled and the air, once clean and open, thickened with dust and the sour scent of cement. What had been still and green had now been fenced, measured and claimed.

At dawn, the view of the meadows was blocked by a door that wasn't there yesterday. That was the last straw. I walked to the town council like a lamb to the slaughter.

Irrationally, I decided to take a stand, protesting. However, I learnt that it’s much less effective with one person.

“Stop building! Stop building!” I passionately chanted. Pedestrians strolled past confused, judging and shocked.

Hours passed. Nothing occurred. Gradually my enthusiasm dissipated, converting into desperate tears. I was about to give up – until a little girl who had been observing me, stood up and joined.

“Stop building!” sweetly sang the girl.

One by one more stepped forward - first a murmur, then a ripple, until the silence broke into a tide of voices moving as one.

“Stop building!” they chanted.

The next morning, the newspaper arrived as per usual, but today's headline was: “Girl saves her farm.”

Mia Pickford, age 17. Novaschool Sunland International

Secondary story

Untitled

I rush home as fast as I can, stumbling over the pencils and brushes I left on the floor this morning when heading to my art studio, not wanting people to see my exhausted, drained-from-colour face. As quick as a flash, I slam the door to the shared apartment shut, my chest heavy from sprinting, and I let a shaky breath escape my sore throat. My roommate rolls out of his room, headphones still on, his black hair long and messy over his drowsy blue eyes.

“Watcha runnin’ bout? Ain’t no need to make so much noise, eh?” His voice comes out rough and hoarse, most likely from yelling at his teammates for losing his precious matches.

“None of ya business, Ostenburg’. Get a life...”, I grumble under my shaky breath.

I slowly make my way to the bedroom at the end of the narrow corridor, the floor beds creaking underfoot. Without a care, I swing the door open, a stench of dried acrylics and wet paintbrushes hits me right in the face as I step into the disordered room. Unconsciously, my mouth angles up into a small grin at the familiar scents of home: belonging. But I am quickly whipped out of my comfort when I hear a faint noise behind me. I spin around as quick as a flash and in the corner of my eye, I see a small door creak open.

I edge to the mysterious opening in the wall, my hand stretching out towards a miniature handle, covered in something black and mucky. Cautiously, I grab at it and pull it towards me, opening the door wider, only to see a pitch black void inside.

Suddenly, something flashes in the darkness. A glowing pair of eyes stare at me with a frightening intensity. I stumble backwards, tripping over a few of my acrylics causing me to fall to the floor. As I crash, my head hits the beaker of cold, paint stained water and my consciousness begins to slip, my eyes fluttering shut. Just before I am knocked out, an inky figure crawls out and, as slow as a tortoise, makes its way towards the exit.

The world falls dark after that…

Daria N. age 12. Swans International School

Secondary story

The Doorway to Disappearance

The rain thwacked the terra firma below rushing down the empty street. A young juvenile named Hektor with rapid steps paced down the sidewalk with a carmine red umbrella close above their head. Eventually pausing in front of a butter yellow house, paint tearing down the sides; vegetation overgrown in the lawn. He gulped, walking sheepishly to the door pulling down the handle and entering the house. The umbrella wrapped up in its casing, he tip-toed towards the close to rotten oak staircase. Rock music was playing on full volume in the distance and Hektor attempted to avoid his parents. His parents were benighted people and lacked care for Hektor since birth. Being at home was like a labyrinth he needed to navigate through without stumbling upon his so-called parents.

Eventually he was in his room, it stank of smoke and heavy rotten wood but he was used to it by now. The bed was only a 5cm high mattress with several punctured holes within it. He settled in a wooden chair facing the window with a view to the garden. He glanced outside, the plants towering across the fence with a shed in the corner of it all, the door had been kicked off due to a recent incident. Side-eyeing the shed Hektor received a sudden shiver and the urge to hide away, he hadn't really been in the ancient looking shed since his father found him hoarding some of his precious belongings in there. Which was also the cause of the door's disappearance.

The next early dawn Hektor noticed a modern door, way too expensive looking for his family and he decided to investigate. He had opened the door and entered cautiously, apparently never to be seen again. Or at least that’s what the newspaper had said.

I. F. age 12. Almuñécar International School

Secondary story

Untitled

The door Wasn’t there yesterday I’m sure of it. I would have noticed; I’ve been living in this house for three years. The wall at the end of the hallway has always been plain and boring. There has never been a door there but this morning when I walked out of my room, I almost walked straight into it.

It was small and made of wood. No handle - just a thin line around the edges showing where it had opened. It was old as if it had belonged to another house. I stared at it for a long time. I knocked on it three times. It wasn’t hollow like a normal door; it sounded deep solid real. I told myself not to open. I really did.

But I still opened it.

The door slowly swung open without making a sound. On the other side was a hallway. It was my hallway - the same rug, same pictures, same lights on the ceiling but everything looked weird somehow. The walls were dirty, the paint was peeling, the air looked dusty as if no one had cleaned in years.

Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hall. It was me but not exactly me. My hair was messy, my face pale and my eyes looked tired and scared.

“You shouldn’t have opened it,” I said to myself.

Behind her something as tall as a giraffe moved in the shadow. At this point I was terrified, my heart banging in my chest as if fighting to escape. I slammed the door shut behind me.

It’s still there - the door. Sometimes at night I hear knocking. Three slow taps. Waiting for me to open it again.

Ariadna Márquez, age 13. Novaschool Sunland International

Once Upon A Corridor

The school was bustling with students hurrying from their lessons, snatching books from their lockers and hurriedly making plans for their weekends. Girls with silky soft hair and bows tottered around, giggling, and boys with undone buttons and loose ties leaned on the lockers, talking loudly and laughing maniacally.

Kate waded through the crowd, trying to avoid pushing anyone as much as she could, though it was nearly impossible in the crowded corridor. Finally, she made it to her locker, and started struggling with the lock, gripping her textbooks and clicking the lock uselessly. Hmm. She could go and chat to the other girls, maybe, but she wasn’t exactly popular with them, so going over there could be a bad idea.

Instead, she sorted through the books and folders, slammed her locker and made her way toward the exit, skilfully dodging bags and elbows.

A flicker of dark brown caught her eye, and she turned her head involuntarily. A large, dark brown door with a golden handle stood in the middle of the corridor, towering over the students. Its shiny wood was glistening, its handle seemed to be cleaned to perfection, and it looked absurd in the middle of a school corridor. Kate looked around warily, not completely sure what she was looking for. No one else seemed concerned by the giant door that hadn’t been there in the morning.

Kate shook her head to clear the uneasiness. It was just a door, after all. Should she check it out? No. People always do that in horror movies, and it never ends well. I’m not that stupid.

Kate swung the bag over her shoulder and headed toward the exit, humming a cheerful tune. Someone else can check it out, she thought. It’s none of my business.

Elina N. age 11. Swans International School.