Hay Festival 2013: the winning stories from Chris Evans's 500 Words contest It's our great pleasure to print the two winning stories, both on the dark side, but finely crafted, and full of observation and feeling. Our congratulations to Roxanna and Olivia; and our continuing thanks to Chris and the 500 WORDS team for putting in the spade work to keep this inspiring competition going. Long may it continue. The Starlings of West Pier The further I trudged down the deserted beach away from my parents, the unhappier I felt. The weather matched my mood - cloudy, gloomy, miserable. I was still in the dark clothes I had worn to my beloved Granny's funeral. We had been too fond of each other to part, and she had died before I could say goodbye. The more I thought about it, the more I felt a sob well up in my soul. I stopped, and looked across the darkening waters of the English Channel. The West Pier stood in the bay, black and rusty. My Granny had told me stories of her past, when the pier was new and beautiful and she had danced in the great ballroom. I tried to picture it now - beautifully decorated. The furniture, elegant, vintage designs. The dancers, gliding around, waltzing without a care in the world. And my Granny, a little girl like me, dancing through the legs of the adults, smiling and free. But all that is left of the pier now is a steel skeleton, all its history lost. A rustling sound startled me, the noise of thousands of tiny wings, beating in and out of time. The West Pier starlings were returning home to roost. Over the sea they came, a cloud of black, slim bodies, all focusing beady eyes on their destination. They flew past the sun, which was sinking into the murky depths of the Channel, and flocked around the rafters of the West Pier like a ball of living smoke, twisting and shifting in the evening air. It must have been a trick of light - for as I watched the starlings seemed to take the form of men and women (or so I thought), who each found a partner and started to dance. They moved with the same beauty and grace my Granny had so often described, and as I watched I imagined the music they danced to and felt an urge to plunge into the sea and swim out to the pier to join them. Then I saw a figure among the movement - a young girl who looked about the same size and age as me. I watched her, this girl made of starlings, slipping through the silent dancers and moving towards me. She stopped at the end of the pier facing me, then she smiled and waved. Looking at me. Waving at me. I raised my hand and waved back and felt warm comfort flood into my heart as I finally said my goodbye. Then the birds found their roosts - and the little girl melted away. 9-12 WINNER: Olivia Hunt, 12, Somerset Your Life December 31st 2013 I sit up as the alarm rings through the dormitory. 6am. Up and dressed by 6.15, along with all the other girls. My label says 1068G. That's my name, has been for three years now, ever since the flood. Our town was destroyed, they said, and the rest of the world just seemed to disappear, so we moved straight into the vaults. Breakfast is at 6.30, as it's a 15-minute walk away. The place is vast. As I enter, I notice B, my only friend here, across the room. Most people here don't have friends. If they do, it's usually with the person above them in the dormitory, but I can't ever seem to get a word out of the girl above me. In the night I hear her whisper her parents" names into the darkness. None of us see our parents any more; they have different time schedules. Sometimes I see my little sister standing in the queue for the canteen but I don't think she recognises who I am any more. It was by chance that I met B, or 1069B, to give him his real name. We were queuing to get in here after the flood, and he was opposite me in the line. I smiled at him and he smiled back; we've been friends ever since. I push my tray of food along the canteen, and sit by B, whose plate is full. I glance down at mine. Porridge. Eugh. We eat quickly in silence. We don't talk much, sometimes dream about escaping. Only ever dreams, though. After breakfast, we head down to our jobs. As I exit, something catches my eye. A flashing, like a camera recording. I shrug this thought off and head to textiles. That's what I do, repair outfits and bed sheets and make new things. It's hard work, but at the end of the day we always come back to our evening meals, which are usually pretty good. And I get to see B. But today, something is different. A guard patrolling the corridor catches my arm, and warns me that we're all going to the main hall. This is odd; we only go there for ceremonies. I follow him inside and sit. The room is packed with people. The hall is silent, before a hollow, expressionless voice rings out. "For three years now," the voice begins, "you have been of great scientific use to me. But that time is finished. You are worth nothing any more. The lights blink out as the gas valves hiss open. And that, folks, is the last ever episode of Your Life, where we explored the effects of underground living. Next week, tune into our new reality series, Watching Us. A family snuggles close as the credits begin rolling. Thousands of metres below, two terrified children lock hands in one final desperate human motion. With a careless flick the TV screen turns blank.