Original English Prose and Poetry Competition 2008

JARS OF CLAY Original English Prose and Poetry Competition 2008

Cirkevná základná škola Narnia Bilingválne gymnázium C. S. Lewisa

The writings appear in their original form, although spelling errors have been corrected.

Church Elementary and Middle School Narnia, Bratislava, Slovakia CS Lewis Bilingual High School, Bratislava, Slovakia

Editors: Rebekah Miller, Saša Petrisková

Children who created these beautiful ceramics which illustrate this booklet, are members of Ceramics Club

Bratislava 2008 JARS OF CLAY Original English Prose and Poetry Competition 2008

Cirkevná základná škola Narnia Bilingválne gymnázium C. S. Lewisa Dear friends,

We are happy to share with you this unique booklet. At the beginning of the seventh year of the competition we collected a list of ideas for this year OEPPC competition. And final decision was… “JARS of the CLAY” – a topic for all lovers of literature in 2008… The author of this idea is Jenni Josifek, ESI teacher at Narnia, who shared with us her inspiration: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” (2 Corinthians 4:7) Whenever I read this verse, I got a picture of an old, dusty clay jar – nothing special to look at on the outside; but on the inside filled with the most wonderful treasure imaginable. The image of a clay jar being lovingly formed on a potter’s wheel is a favorite of mine as it reminds me that I am a work in progress, still being formed. In the same way, each piece of writing is like a clay jar, loving formed by the author, a work in progress, not yet finished. May you enjoy all of these jars of clay.

Seven members of the Judge Committee had a very difficult task – to judge the works submitted. They received 52 submissions from 21 schools, students from 10 to 18 years old. One message came from over the ocean: Matt Patrick, musician-writer-sin- ger, from Minnesota wrote: “They were ALL good and quite difficult to judge. Please tell them all they did a fabulous job.”

All of the JARS brought many fresh ideas, beautiful images, accurate rhy- mes, incredible stories, deep feelings, a lot of inspiration… Thank you for your open hearts and all the effort you put into your creative writing. Enjoy reading these Original English Prose and Poetry…

Jenni Josifek, Saša Petrisková

THE PROPOSAL

Oh Lady, sit near, Near by me, 9 And fill my vacant heart, With fragments of wild spectrums bright As though a color chart

And Lady, dear, Sit by me near To fill my empty head With wisdom and perception clear Until I drop down dead

But Lady Sweet Below my feet, Is no ground I stand, And when I crumble into dirt, Will you give me your hand?

Hey, Lady, hey What would you say To my proposal sweet? To marry a Jar of clay Empty and incomplete.

Tamara Nižňanská, age 17 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – F, 1st PRIZE THE NIGHTMARE

In lines the jars 10 Stood in sequences arranged And in my nightmare stood the guards Grotesquely Deranged

Each jar a different shape and form Never to be divulged When metaphysics hide within No need to be indulged.

Until I passed And tapped a jar From whence came a scream And of such tremor, fright and terror No entity would dream

Then the other, let a whisper Chilling to the bone And one louder, firmer, crisper Left my soul alone

The greatest jar Let out a groan Of lowest bass – A vindictive moan! That set each guard In motion wicked Towards me – from stone. And as the guards in monstrous dances Beat upon my core And shaped my heart, Deformed my mind To chain my spirit sore Inevitably distorted, I Still do not know how Came to be a form of Clay The Jar that I am Now. 11 When others stray down to the valley Of darkest nightmares grand; Down to the long and winding alley Where the guards still stand; With trepidation touch me gently, With apprehension wait, And no second would be shorter – But I don’t hesitate – I shriek and let my demons out Their psyches I desecrate. I give them chance to alter what They have been and are So they would not wind up as I, An empty damned clay jar.

Tamara Nižňanská, age 17 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – F, 1st PRIZE UNTITLED

“Nous sommes les jarres de glaise…” 12 He said As if he wasn’t such himself. Le cauchemar, il dit I know, I responded.

He said it as to ratify The content of the world: We are empty, Vide He said, But I’m a modern girl. Enough to know that emptiness Is now a common fact, Of world where all reality Is merely just an act. I don’t need any savior – faire For you to comprehend, That on the inside you are bare Tu es a jar of clay, my friend.

Tamara Nižňanská, age 17 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – F, 1st PRIZE

Funeral jars

Whenever I travel statues trace me. 13 Asia Minor aches with sepulchers, As contagious tumours. Beneath the dunes that rise like Mercury in a thermometer History is subsumed in Mesopotamian Funeral Jars.

The dead died again on seeing Camouflage to be their new lament.

Even Cassandra stays silent when Ishtar and Nergal wince in Wedding dances’ tumult. Oracles would shudder to see Our Alexander in the bloody baths Of Babylon and our Diogenes Giving another, Commercial assent.

Wine jars grope for a regal mouth To crack in haste and to ex – Pat to a private museum.

Strange people! You are not in Iraq, But battle in Babylon.

A tired leader faints: He who drinks from Nebuchadenezzar’s jars. And slights the inscription. 14 The sky is slit open With a daily flight Washington–Baghdad, Number AV Enge 9/11.

The feverish dune swells with Papyri that do not recognize A new – faced god embossed in clay.

Strange people! Not even in Babylon: In Canopic jars In the Pergamon Museum.

Jegor Lanovenko, age 16 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – F, 2nd PRIZE THE JARS OF CLAY

These jars stay on the highest shelf. Cookie – crammed, they tempt, glints deflect 15 From their glazed sides. The jar’s self Remains lidded. It doesn’t recollect.

Anything or anyone. The fast Atoms, set to lapidary Pose of clay idol and amassed, These ionic angels don’t vary,

In charge of support they escort The jar’s form till a rift do them Part. The jar, I recall, was sort Of short, a humped pottery gem,

Devoted to its cookies. At night I sidled to them, the shade – cloaked Hand stole into the jar – chamber, a bite Into the crisp sweetness evoked,

The wafer’s smack. I remember standing there: A newcomer to the gardens of clay, With the candle’s beeswax glare Falling off, I couldn’t stay.

Alexander Jasincki, age 17 The English College, Prague Category Prose – F, 3rd PRIZE Silent Witnesses

They’ve got something mysterious 16 We will never know Their look is so serious It couldn’t be ever shown

They live like monks In purity and silence Every jar with its life songs And a load of remembrance

Made by lovely hands They own some strange power Looking at people’s ends They become lower and lower

Waiting for something Bodies of frozen clay Once all living Now staying in another way

And suddenly IT entered! The air was dirty and cool! It was the symptom of death My senses quickly got dull

I just can’t defend myself Against falsehood of the world My soul doesn’t understand me My heart is getting very cold

I am only another memory Settled in their minds For time long and temporary Closed in the parts of broken jars

Petra Kukóová, age 15 Gymnázium F. G. Lorcu, Bratislava Category Prose – E, 1st PRIZE Memories

It is like yesterday. Years are going very fast. 17 But all the memories last, In the modest jar made of clay.

All the broken places, tired faces; All the holes… Nothing can repair All the lost souls.

Something is wrong – The table is wet. It is only a bad memory Flowing from the head.

It’s like a never – ending train No one can pretend. Will shards ever come together again? Is it definitely the end?

The sun is high. The future is still there. Glue is found – Another day is in the air.

Zuzana Krnáčová, age 16 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – E, 2nd PRIZE Wishes in the jars

Every single day in the morning, 18 I insert my wishes into the jars from clay. However this is not what I wanted to say, So I have to wait for another day.

I woke up with my eyes opened, As they watch the pouring rain. My unfulfilled wishes were my pain, Nevertheless I cannot complain.

The sky was even darker, And it tried to obfuscate my wishes. Everything begun to be suspicious, I only hoped the jars are not fictitious.

I have to.

Jehtro John Dimeo, age 16 Gymnázium Juraja Hronca, Bratislava Category Poetry – E, 3rd Prize Me

As I form my clay jar, I think of what its made. 19 Particles of sand, and water Like a mother and a father. Sticky substance holds it all together Like siblings to a family

Since the jar sits on the wheel Going round and round, I think of what its like. A moving life, a changing life.

When I put my hand on one part, It tilts to the side. Like a friend who has troubles that affect you And if I touch the other part, It slopes… As if a teacher has been pressuring you

I wish for my jar to be balanced, shaped evenly. I look at the people in the world And see what would work for me, Maybe round, or slender and tall.

It must be able to hold smiles, Love, voices, memories, And even sadness and tears When I find a shape I try it out, It doesn’t work so I pound it away And try something new.

I must have order, and control My clay jar will be part of my future. Strong and lasting When I turn twelve, 20 Thirteen, Fourteen, I am finishing my clay jar. Decorating it with glazes Like the clothes that I wear Giving the message of who I am. Thinking of what I want to be, My own unique person.

Madeleine Paugh, age 14 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – D, 1st PRIZE JAR OF CLAY

Pallet’s turning round and round Potter’s sitting down and bound 21 Jar is growing up and up Water’s spouting plop plop plop Jar is getting smoother face Everything is getting place Flowers snaking edge to top On the stem birds singing pop Symphony of colors’s shining In the stove is fire burning Jar is getting scarlet touch Fire’s heating more and much Fire don’t burns any more Potter’s leaving work – rooms door

Alexandra Szomolányiová, age 14 Cirkevná základná škola Narnia, Bratislava Category Poetry – D, 2nd PRIZE Jars of Clay

As I sit on my stool 22 Softening clay I think what I do Day after day.

The wheel goes round Forming the jar I think of my soul At the bottom… so far.

I move my hands up And I can’t help but think If I could put a soul in a jar Would it have to shrink?

The clay starts to get shape I think whats inside Maybe a free soul But trying to hide.

The jar starts to form I try to figure out Why my life is so small Why I want to just shout?

My hands move in I wait for time I’m totally speechless Just like a mime.

I smooth the clay Swirling the pot Where do I stand in life? I sadly forgot. My hands feel the jar Showing my past 23 How could it Run by so fast?

I finish the pot But I long to be free Not to be trapped Bye a lock and a key.

I sit by myself And the pot is done And just for tomorrow I’ll just go have some fun.

Asya Mamaeva, age 14 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Poetry – D, 3rd PRIZE Jar of clay

You nice jars of clay, 24 Why don’t you play? With the golden sun ray? It is a wonderful day today.

We are sad Because people are too mad.

You nice jars of clay What do you say? Why don’t you play?

Because we are sad. Why are some people so bad? We don’t understand that!

You nice jars of clay! You must pray And all children will be nice and play.

Michaela Depešová, age 14 Základná škola Jána Pavla II., Bratislava Category Poetry – C, 1st PRIZE Jar of clay

One day, when I was a young boy, my mum said me, 25 “This is my jar, be careful, it isn’t a toy.”

I went for the water, went so far, suddenly I stumbled, and I broke my mum’s jar.

I was afraid, and I cried, “jar is broken, and I can’t lie.” In a moment I saw a girl, she was nice like a pearl.

In her hands she had something for me, “but what is it? I couldn’t see. ” “What are you holding in hands?” I say, I’m surprised, it was a new jar of clay.

Now, after twenty years, I have a nice wife, she hold a jar with pears, and we have children five.

In our house, on the table, is a jar of clay with label: “With love…”

Filip Zemko, age 14 ZŠ Lachova 1, Bratislava Category Poetry – C, 2nd PRIZE Jars of clay Jars of clay

What do you want to say? 26 Why did you brake? I don’t know, you’ll have to say. Why do you have these strange paterns? Why do you have so many colours? I must think about it. I’ll find out because I am clever and fit. Jars of clay say: “I am the past key. The nations fought because of me, and then archeologists found me.” Thank you, jars of clay I like to pray. Thank you God for this thing, thank you for everything.

Pavol Kadlic, age 14 Základná škola Jána Pavla II., Bratislava Category Poetry – C, 3rd PRIZE My life with jars (of clay)

Sometimes people tell me “You’ve acted like a fool” 27 But I don’t let them decide What I would like to do

I live in an old hut This life is as hard, as a hard nut I live from making clay to something No clay means, doing the whole day nothing

I do this for my living, I do this for your use, This is my job, You can’t make an abuse

I’m just an old man living in a hut Living my simple life, but there’s always some BUT Mine’s is that people abuse Me for being useless

Everybody has his job A job that fills his life A job that helps him to survive To feed his children and his wife

The filling of my life, is to make some vases Lots of them from clay This clay is somehow special, Cause it’s collected from a bay

The bay is down by the river, Where every piece of soil is precious, Where the clay makes every sip of any liquid Very very delicious Then comes the shaping 28 The clay becomes a form Every form is different As the one before

From the beginning to the end, Vases remind of people and the fact, That they change during their life, And at the end they are done with experiences and shape line

But something is left Let’s call it the end The shape is saved So that the identity is save before a theft

Filip Čúzy, age 14 Cirkevná základná škola Narnia, Bratislava Category Poetry – B, 1st PRIZE

Τσίριγμα του πηλόσ

n the forlorn, deep realms of Athens, where only intoxicated men, pros- titutes and street clowns, made clowns for their deformed appearances, 35 dare venture, there lays a shop. It has no name, no owner, and none many go inside. So long it has stood there that no one questions its existence, Ias if an era of the ancient golden, long lost times, seeps from every corer of it, every wooden plank. Lying on the street of Execution, Τσίριγμα του πηλόσ is its name; people pass and go with little notice, too intoxicated, ignorant to care. The streets all lined with cobblestone, towered over with by white clay houses, face the ridicule of brothels, pubs and cheap one – night hotels. Once beautiful and intricate, smooth and innocent, these clay buildings have had to endure many spilled glasses of wine, countless broken bottles and blood spilled in vain. No matter what the hour is, sane or not so much, loose women tread the streets, in all their seductive sensations, appearances and such. The senses of those who inhabit the area, the filthy trench of Athens, no longer have a moral touch. No longer can the sailors, drunkards, burglars and such, see what truly ensues round them, the haze of sin too thick to see through- out. Τσίριγμα του πηλόσ is its name they say, although no sign, no symbol stands to mark it. In the last eleven years, eleven visitors it has had. Eleven customers seeking, was it curiosity?, what lies beneath the shop’s shroud. On the outside, like a painting frame, no special trait meets the eye. A corner shop on Execution Street, a door, a window, a handle too. Dark wood that in the night almost blends in with the murky skies creates the shops skeleton, no special frame it is. One might say the only thing that exceeds the ordinary, who defines ordinary?, is the misty orange light behind a plum tinted curtain in the only window the shop has. Every evening, once the hour late enough for drunkards gets, the misty orange light sparks into life, flaming till His clock strikes twelve. Yet the misty orange light, behind the plum tinted veiling curtain, does not stand alone as testimony of life with in the shop. There is one more item, one more sound. From dawn till dusk, each day, each week, each month, each year, a sound softly escapes the timber planks of Τσίριγμα του πηλόσ. From dawn till dusk the sound continues, never stopping, halting for some rest, as if coinciding with Apollo’s constant travel from east to west. The difficulty of sound description with realistic portrayal is not one we have here, for the sound that floats from within the shop is, frankly, that of a pottery wheel. And yet, once again, the steady sound of the pottery wheel is ignored by all the people round. Not even the distinct stench of wet clay infused with 36 indefinite ingredients can seep into the noses of those, who so captivated by their lifeless ways, aphrodisiacs and booze, tread on past the shop’s timber door. Today it is the twelfth day, of the twelfth month. Of the twelfth year from when the people took to perceive the corner shop on Execution Street. Twelve minutes before dawn it is and down the street a maiden treads. The daughter of a courtesan, twelve she only is, has not yet come to descry the surroundings she lives in. A drunken sailor in her mother’s room, fights and screams and lies, have not yet become reality in the young maiden’s eyes. Not yet been touched or imprisoned by any crude man, her soul is stainless and her eyes are pure. Walking down Execution Street on the twelfth day of the twelfth month, twelve minutes before dawn it is, she savors the peaceful- ness of the always – crowded filthy streets. Abruptly, unexpectedly, a peculiar stench seeps in through her nostrils, into her mind. Inquisitively, she bends her head around and sees, a door, a window, a handle too. For twelve seconds the maiden stands and ponders, then softly at the timber knocks. Twelve seconds no reply and then a click!, a creak, the door creeps open. At first nothing can be seen, the room is dim and dark, but soon the maiden’s eyes perceive the inside of the shop. Mesmerized she stands and watches, then takes twelve steps inside, before the door creeps back, unnoticed, trapping her inside. The room is humble, a perfect square, the ceiling flat as the smooth stones lining the Aegean Sea. In the room’s exact center there stands The Pottery Wheel, and behind it there sits a man, a man with a clay beard. The aura of the man so tantalizing is, that the maiden does not notice that on the walls are mounted two timber planks. Upon which rest eleven jars, eleven jars of clay. Jars of such appearances that words fail to describe, gro- tesque, fantastic, tall and small, shapes of faces, bodies, souls, colors, odors, scents and more. Yet still the aura of the man, whose clay beard eleven inches long hangs loose, still more magnetizing is, that the maiden does not note one empty spot on the timber planks, big enough and small enough for whatever may there rest. “What is your name, young maiden sweet?” a voice said from behind. “Pandora, sir” she timidly replied. “I am Zeus. Come next to me, beloved, gaze inside my wheel.” Twelve hours later, once the pedaling began, he rose up, beard one inch longer, in direction of the timber plank. In hand, a clay jar of most exquisite de- Valentina Kasperova, age 16 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Prose – F, 1st PRIZE sign. Placed it upon its awaiting spot, the lone beautiful jar now there stands, revealing and disguising all pleasure, excellence and sin. Left there for some- 37 one else to discover, destroy and unleash. Unlikely that someone outside the Τσίριγμα του πηλόσ will ever know, that their guilty pleasures, unawareness, destroyed Pandora’s soul. But not crushed

obert’s shoes crunched over broken bottles. He adjusted the one remain- 38 ing strap on his backpack. He looked around the street. The street wound in between giant domino apartments. It led out from the buildings, past the deadfishstinking river, over the tracks, and up to Rthe decaying school. Broken glass from a hundred drunken nights littered the pavement outside The Narwhal. Robert passed The Narwhal without noticing the neon sign showing a bottle broken over and over – “Nonstop.” When he came out from under the shade of the apartments he squinted his eyes against the morning sun and wrinkled his nose against the river. He felt the broken glass under thin sneakers. Robert was a lanky teenager, stooped under the weight of a broken backpack. His hair was cropped short and hidden under a baseball cap. A light beard dusted his chin. “Hey! Robert my man, wait,” came a shout from behind him. Robert turned to see Kevin running towards him. “Man what a night. I can’t believe you’re still walking man. And you know what man? You reek like cologne.” Kevin pierced Robert with shining eyes hidden behind dark circles and a mass of curly hair. Kevin hefted his books in a plastic Tesco sack. “Yeah whatever, when did you get back?” asked Robert. “Sheeeite, I dunno man,” Kevin scratched his curly mop. “I know it was pretty effin late ’cause I feel like I didn’t sleep like a second, man. You got that home- work? I gotta copy some of that or I’m gonna get dropped from Math. That teacher man, he doesn’t get it.” “Get what?” “You know,” Kevin shifted his Tesco bag and gestured expansively at the river and the apartment blocks behind them. “This garbage. The only stuff that mat- ters is like last night man. Look, when I get out of this effin school I got a job like my dad no questions asked. On Fridays we’ll go out with the boys and it’ll be all good, man. Find a girl or two, you know.” “So what does this have to do with math?” They mounted the steps over the tracks. A green train flashed under their feet. “That’s the point man,” grinned Kevin and he slapped Robert on the back. “Math doesn’t matter. I can add two plus two and get four, man. I’m educated.” The day passed slowly for Robert. He spent it staring out the window past the dusty playground at a point in the distance. He trudged through the corridors from class to class until the final bell. “It’s Friday, man!” yelled Kevin across the street as they parted near the river. “See you at Narwhal!” Patrick Till, age 18 Beskydy Mountain Academy, Frýdlant nad Ostravicí Category Prose – F, 2nd PRIZE

Robert waved and plodded on. The smell of the river wasn’t as bad in the cooler spring afternoon. A light breeze played with a plastic Tesco bag in the 39 middle of the street. A horde of shrieking kids rushed by, waving sticks and shoving each other. An old grandma hobbled across the street, supported by her walker. Her walker’s wheels made a scratching sound as they skittered on the broken glass. Friday night passed in a haze. The Saturday sun rose unnoticed and crept silently back into Saturday night. On Sunday morning Robert shoved off his tangled sheets. He stretched, ran a hand through his hair, peeked in the mirror. Pausing only to shove on sneakers, he flew from his bedroom, across the kitchen, past his snoring father, onto the dirt encrusted landing, and out into the Sunday morning street. Crunch, Crunch, Crunch went his shoes all the way past The Narwhal. He crunched over the train tracks and past the school. Finally, he came to a qui- et shopping district. The sun was shining down with a harsh glare. Robert stopped in front of a stall selling cologne. Robert looked around the street at the shoppers and coffee sipping shop- keepers. But his eyes didn’t take in any of them. His eyes were glued to a car that pulled up directly across the street from the cologne stand. The car door opened. Out stepped a girl. She stepped down onto the pavement, her white skirt swirling around her high topped shoes. She pulled down her sunglasses. The girl was walking down the street toward a small stone building at the end of the street. She was a firefly disappearing into the night. She reached the stone building. Robert squinted in the Sunday morning sun. A church. She disappeared through the door, leaving only a shimmering image engraved in Robert’s mind. Suddenly he was sprinting down the street. He kicked a half broken bottle out of his path and slid to a halt. Before him stood the door. She was some- where behind it. A church bell was ringing from up above. Robert didn’t hesitate. He pulled the door open. Jars of Clay

vening approached. The sun began to sink, casting long shadows on 40 the trees and sleepy animals. Easily weaving between the branches, a female creature said goodnight to the forest. Oh, how she loved the sunset! Leaf – shaped ears protruded Eout of her shiny charcoal hair. A silver gown adorned her and complimented her silvery butterfly wings. Giving a sigh, the fairy smiled. Amelie landed in a clearing and stepped barefooted on the forest floor, with an object safely tucked in her hands. She kneeled and carefully set the object amongst the leaves, as she began to sing. As the song progressed, Amelie removed the jar’s top. A transfixing light illuminated the night forest. Amelie sang. She sang angelically; even among the fairies few could match her voice. The light in the jar strengthened. Stooping thus far, she suddenly rose up and began to prance and flutter about the forest floor. Wherever her bare feet touched, new life sprang from the ground. Observing the dance from a distance, Amelie’s brother gazed after her. He often watched the maiden, and admired her skill. At times he was jealous; he did not have the natural gift that she possessed. Joshua brought out his own clay jar and set it next to the other in the grass. Carefully he went through the steps and sang quietly. The moon shone with a bright light. Amelie danced as gracefully as ever. “Have some fun!” Amelie shouted with a smile. Joshua sighed and, trusting his sister, left his pride behind. What a wonder it was to behold – two graceful creatures dancing and singing in the moonlight! The forest blossomed under the feet of these fairies. The light in both clay jars steadily grew brighter. Unknown to the siblings, others were also observing, just as Joshua had been watching Amelie. As he spun, Joshua saw four fairies in the shadows. He suddenly became self – conscious, and his feet would not do what his brain was commanding. The fairy voice cracked, and the light in his jar of clay waned. He tripped over his own legs and fell. Anger got the best of him, and he yelled at the hiding spectators. “Don’t you have any sense of privacy?” Joshua lashed out in a loud voice. Amelie was startled and stopped her happy song. A cloud passed overhead and covered up the moonlight. Joshua shook with anger. As he raised himself, a dark patch appeared under his right hand. His head bowed, the anger swelled up inside him. He breathed heavily. When Joshua raised his head, the agitators were stunned. His eyes were no longer a charming grey but a dark ash. He took a step forward. Jumping Patty Tyler, age 18 Beskdydy Mountain Academy, Frýdlant and Ostravicí Category Prose – F, 2nd PRIZE toward one, he grabbed him by the collar and thrust him to the ground. They both stared deep into each other’s eyes. The fairy shuddered at the strange 41 darkness and tried to shake off Joshua’s firm grip. A few steps behind, Amelie stared wide – eyed not at her brother, but into his clay jar. A dark flame was growing inside at a rapid pace. She had never seen anything like this; weren’t the Jars of Clay meant to hold life – giving light? Suddenly, a horror came over her. Reaching for the lid, Amelie hurriedly at- tempted to seal the flame. But it was too late; as she leaned over, a jet of flame exploded and washed over her. A high – pitched scream woke Joshua from his trance. He let go of his vic- tim and turned around to see his sister engulfed in a dark fire. Amelie lay on her back staring up into the night sky. She was alive; however her wings were no longer pure. Ripped and torn, they were covered with burns and scars. “Brother,” the fair maiden’s voice strained. Joshua fell to his knees and began to weep. Why had he let it go this far? Warm light returned to his eyes as they were washed with tears. His hands returned to normal. The ground no longer blackened under his feet. He over- came his rigidity and rushed to his sister. He laid his hands on the frayed wings, and suddenly felt the urge to sing. It was a sad song, and was not sung in any human language. As the melody resonated in the night, Joshua’s jar of clay returned to its white, pure light. The dark flame was no more. Joshua continued to sing amidst the tears over his sister. He felt strength return to him – but this time it was a different strength. Not strength to dominate, but to protect. He closed his eyes. “Brother,” a voice cracked, “Please, don’t ever do that again.” Joshua’s tears glistened in the moonlight. Reaching out, Joshua picked up and cradled his sister. Slowly he rose and laid her against the trunk of a nearby tree, lifting his eyes to the sky. Where could he find hope? Not in himself. He had failed. Retrieving both jars, he set one on either side of Amelie. Joshua continued his song, head bowed. This lament made his heart ache. Slowly and faintly, Amelie joined in, tears staining her cheeks as well. The forest was silent; every creature listened. All through the night their song could be heard, and steadily their life – bringing lights grew. The Path of Clay Jars

n impulse of light woke me up from my dreams. I couldn’t concentrate 42 anymore on that feeling without thoughts. I wanted to find the reason of pain but I feared what I would see when I open my eyes. Nothing in my whole life could prepare me for the things I was about to see. My handsA were covered in deep wounds around which blood started to scab. I tried to move one of my fingers and to my big surprise, they all moved gradu- ally! I closed my eyes again. Why did I have to wake up? I’m trying to remember how I did get here. How long have I been lying here? The problem is that my memory is missing out some of the important chapters. I’m trying to stand up, I bounce back from the sand and I’m standing on my toes, finally. From this kind of perspective it all seems even stranger. It seems as if the time has never existed at all – nothing moves. I feel like an intruder in a scene filmed in advance. Is there anything that makes sense? Something material? “What’s life all about?” suddenly a voice can be heard right next to me. That voice, so ice – cold and deeply easeful at the same time knew what I was thinking about. Where did it come from? I looked around. There was absolutely nothing. Am I going insane? Have I really lost all of my sane thoughts? “Who are you?” flies out of me. My voice is echoing above the plain and in regular periods it returns back to me as a resonance. “I’m the one who asks questions here,” speaks the voice again. “How much do you think is your life worth?” My life? Sometimes I have the feeling that all this is just a dream and when I come to the end, I will wake up and will have to start all over again. When I close my eyes, everything will stop for a short moment. I’m in the mood for screaming “I’m done with this!” But even if I stop half – way through, some invisible force will push me forth to the end. Everything’s maybe one big mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have been here, perhaps this isn’t even me, who knows. I’m just observing the whole scene and I’m manipulating some huge porcelain doll with a speechless expression on her face. “You are here and the only way out of here leads through understanding why it has to be you,“ the voice woke me up from my reflections. “The time has come for you to take this path.” The scenery in front of me suddenly changed and only one path remained. I step forth, uncertain. I start to sink to my own world again when a clay jar ap- pears out of nowhere. I step closer to it and only then I find out that the path is lined with hundreds of the same jars. They differ in one thing – a different name is written on each of them. I continue examining the names while walking near them. Later I start re- cognizing some notorious names. I’m maybe half way through when sud- 43 denly it speaks again. “Do you recall her?” Who did I have to recall? But then I saw it. Same as every other around, but with a chalk name on its clay surface. It read Emma. No, that couldn’t be her, but what if it was? Emma, Emma, I kept repeating her name over and over again. Please, forgive me… I couldn’t… I didn’t know how… I am crying… I’m sure you would have understood. You always understood me so why didn’t I understand you? Why did you feel alone when I was hugging you? Why wasn’t my love enough? “Do you still think it’s all your fault?” asked the voice, emotionless. “And isn’t it? I couldn’t see she was in the need of help. I should have known it! I loved her!” I screamed into the empty nothingness. “If only I could hug her for one last time and tell her what I feel. Without her my life has no meaning.” I stopped. What nonsense am I talking to myself? Memories of how I managed to finish school, how I kissed so many women. I promised her that I would never forget her and instead of it… “She didn’t expect that from you. Remind yourself what kind of person she truly was. Imagine her smile, not her death.” There was a girl standing in front of me. She could have been nineteen years old with black hair and smiling with those peach lips. Emma, I whispered and raised my hands so I could touch her. But her image faded. I must keep on going, I stepped forth once again. Names of old friends accompanied me all the time and I felt worse with every step I made. I wasn’t able to help anyone of them. I failed. “But maybe not. What if it was supposed to happen? So you could be?” it asked. “Me? I don’t understand what it has to do with me.” “Everything. Do you really think that if all you saw didn’t happen, you would be standing here? Or would it be somebody else instead of you? With different thoughts, feelings, himself?” it answered. I had to think about it. Was it necessary to cause so many deaths and make so many people suffer in order to become what I am now? Are all those jars the victims? “You are wrong,” it laughed. “You were also a part of their lives. Even you Lucia Zajdelová, age 16 Gymnázium F. G. Lorcu, Bratislava Category Prose – E, 1st PRIZE

changed them in the same way they changed you. Perhaps it should have 44 been like this.” I can’t take anymore. The reality draws me down. I’m coming to the end. And in the middle of the path there stands a jar with my name on it. “Do you finally understand?” it asks for the last time. I nod. I don’t even ask what is all this about, because I know the answer. I close my eyes and tear down the cover. I feel like… I incline forward and … I’m falling down. It was eleven o’clock p.m. The nurse from the psychological clinic was about to end her duty so she decided to make one last check. She shivered. Someone had left that window open again. Time to Clean (Jars of Clay)

he creature known as ’human’ appeared on Earth about 40,000 –50,000 years ago. According to Darwin’s evolutionary theory, Homo sapiens 45 are considered as a man. They were first classified as a full man. They had one thing that was different from other animals: They could use Ttools. Scientists say that presence of the thumb is the most important factor that makes humankind completely different from the animals. With thumbs, people could grasp tools. The first humans were gatherers, gathering berries, flowers and anything they thought edible. Sometimes, they died after eating poisonous plants without knowing it. As humankind became more logical, tools developed and hunting started. First, they started off by killing rabbits. Preys got bigger and bigger, huge elephants and fierce cheetahs becoming their targets. They left leftovers on the ground after ’meals.’ The leftover would root and grow or travel with the wind to find a better place to root. People never farmed, depending on those wild growing grains and wandered to find those spots and preys. As hunting tools became sharper, people started to make jars with clay, which was abundant everywhere. This meant another thing, too. Now, they could store and protect their grains and meats from insects and fast rotting. The agriculture of humankind had begun. The jars of clay became a safe for the most precious thing, grain. The need for wandering around for food disappeared and people began settling to form small villages, and later a civilization. The jars of clay have been changed to different forms to store most precious things of the time. Grain was the most important thing in the ancient time when people were busy looking for food. After they settled and formed cities, civilization also started to form, because, now, people didn’t have to worry about food as much as they did before they formed a city and got some free time to develop some craft. People started to save some extra grain, which later turned into wealth. With the extra grain, people started to trade with goods. However, goods usually didn’t have equal values. For instance, you needed tons of grain to exchange for a tiny piece of gold. So people began to use some other mediums to trade with things. Such mediums were shells, stone ’coins’ and metals, and especially gold. Gold was and is valued for its unchanging color and shape. It has been valued high from prehistory, before the written history. Egyptians made funer- ary mask for royal mummies. Columbus left Europe and sailed for two months, hoping to find the land of gold. Eighty thousand people in the United States Seo Hee Park, age 15 Quality School International, Bratislava Category Prose – E, 2nd PRIZE

got involved in the Gold Rush during 1800s. All these movements had one 46 purpose to fill the jars of clay with the most precious thing, which was gold at the time. Then, in the late 1800s, the Industrial Revolution came on to the surface, breaking the delusions of people and making them to face the reality. With- out distinction of age and gender, people leaped to their feet to work. Kids went to factories instead of school and adults worked for more than 12 hours a day under terrible sanitation with extremely small amount of pay. Many people died and injured from dangerous machines. One significant reason for working hard was to save money. The ultimate goal was to fill the jar until it overflowed, but, in reality, they barely covered the bottom of the jar. Have you ever considered what the most important thing is to us now? There are many people who are trying to fill their jars of clay with money and gold, but now more people are trying to feel the jars with knowledge and good deeds. There is an old story from Judaism. There was an ugly but wise rabbi. A princess always made sarcastic about his appearance. One day, the rabbi asked the princess why she had her wine in ugly jars. Embarrassed, the princess ordered the servants to change all the potteries to golden jars. After few days, her father, the King, had a small party, where the rabbi was invited as well, and tasted the wine. The king ordered to find what happened to the wine. The princess came without knowing what happened to the taste of the wine. The king scolded the princess for changing the jars without his permission. The wise rabbi taught her a big lesson that things are not supposed to be judged by their appearance, but the inside of it like she belittled rabbi with his appearance and not looking at his interior, and changed the ugly potteries to golden jars. No matter how the jars look on the outside, if they serve their role well, they are good enough. It is important that jars do their jobs well, but the stuff inside the jars is important as the jar as well. Humankind have just tried to fill the jar of clay whether it is gold or blood and tried to make the jars look beautiful regardless of what they are containing. We empty our jars that were full of abhorrence and start to put in meaningful things that will help us to forget about old, abhorrent things. Now it is time to clean our jars of clay. JARS OF CLAY

ars of clay are as old as mankind itself. They remember the time when man was surprised every day because of discovering something new, the 47 time when the last mammoth has been killed and even the time when the Black Death was killing thousands of people every hour. We, as peop- leJ are their creators. But aren’t the jars of clay in some moments creators of radical twists in our lives? It was hot, sunny, Mediterranean afternoon on Wednesday, in the middle of July. Sun was at a high angle on the sky, taking away the very last bits of water and everything that did not manage to hide away before. Plants and trees were trying not to give up the fight with the powerful competitor. Their branches and leaves were bent down. Two dogs were lying on the incredibly small area where a little piece of cool shade could be found, under the olive tree, which also remembered many various things. A cat was sitting on the parapet in the window of the white painted house, enjoying the heat coming towards her fur directly from the Sun. Everything was calm, no one was one the streets of the small Grecian village, hidden away from the civilisation in the mountains. The village was relatively small; number of its inhabitants was small as well, only about fifty people. They were like one big family living close to each other, day by day. They had no secrets between them, at least no one knew about the secrets of the others. They had no privacy, no private money, and no private properties. But because the history of this community was so long and because no one of the people living there was that old to remember how it was like to live in civilisation between “normal” people, they did not find their lives odd or impersonal. They did not know the life with computers and mobile phones. All they used was charcoal and a paper; they were herding their goats in the area around the village to get some food. They were happy with the situation as it was. Or they at least seemed to be happy. Days in the village had a very strict order. When someone broke the rules, he has been put in the room without windows for long hours. This was why everybody was doing the good things, according to the system and the things which the leader of the community told them to do. Because this afternoon was not different from the others, all of the inhabitants were having their “siesta” break, again according to the daily order. The “siesta” break was essential part of their days because they had to wait from noon until the sun went down a little bit. After the sun changed its position they were able to work again, to live again. But until that moment their lives stopped. All they could do was sleeping or chatting with each other in their 48 small white houses. Simply somehow survive the long hours of nothing. Anakletos, seventeen years old boy was evidently bored by the hours of endless waiting. His parents were sleeping, his younger sister as well. But he could not. On that day, something in his brain did not want to allow to his body to fall asleep and have beautiful dreams about Ambrosia, the girl from the neighbouring house. He was desperate. He sat down on the chair near the wooden table with chipped paint and drew a charcoal sketch of the land- scape which he saw from the window. His long bony fingers were swinging around the paper, leaving the accurate lines behind. After few minutes, he stopped drawing, looked on the picture and realised that he did not like it. Then he sat near the window and coupled with his cat, they were watching the “dead life” outside. His brown, almond like eyes were blinded by the glar- ing light outside. He was also lying on his bed for couple of minutes, trying to fall asleep. Even this did not help. He got up, went to the table again and wanted to add something to his diary. He took the charcoal in his right hand again, by his left hand he raked his black hairs, looked around the room. He wanted to start writing when suddenly; the jar of clay on the holy altar on the small table in to corner of the room caught his attention. He knew very well what was inside – ashes of the builder of the house and the honourable member of the presbytery – his great grandfather. “I have never seen the thing inside.” Was the only idea that crossed his mind at that time. He knew why he hasn’t seen the human remains inside – it was absolutely forbidden to look at the ashes of dead people. According to the rules, people could only watch the jars, not the material inside. The closest contact with the people inside allowed was when the woman of the house took the jar in her hands, wiped dust and other dirt away and put it back to its place. Anakletos was forbidden even to come closer to the holy place. And he knew why. But during that siesta break, when he had nothing to do, he started really thinking about how it would feel to have the object in his hands, looking directly inside. “How does it look? I really want to know…” He looked around the room. Parents and sister were still sleeping. The only awaked living creatures in the house were Anakletos and the cat sitting on the parapet. It seemed that it could read one’s mind because immediately, after the idea about the jar crossed Anakletos’ mind, the cat turned its had, looking directly in Anakletos’ eyes. It was like the cat knew what the slim, tall and strong young boy wanted to do. Its sight was saying “do not do that, you know the consequences…” Michaela Nuežilová, age 15 The English College, Prague Category Prose – E, 3rd PRIZE

Anakletos was looking in its eyes for couple of minutes. His brain was working at the highest speed – “shall I do it or not?” these were the only questions 49 running through his mind. It was an internal fight. After few minutes of the difficult decision making, he stepped forward, went near the altar and reached out. He took the jar of clay full of the heavy stuff in his hands and looked inside. “It is nothing special, I do not understand why it is so protected…” was all he thought about it. Consecutive sequence of events was incredibly quick. It was like the idea which crossed Anakletos’mind after he took the jar in his hands immediately woke his mother from her sound sleep. For her, it has been like Anakletos said the sentence loudly. More than loudly. For her, it was like he was shouting the sentence out of the window. She sat up on her bed, looked in the corner where he was stranding and shouted: “Anakletos!” Anakletos, facing the wall, not the rest of the room, was obviously shocked. He was so shocked that he jumped above the ground and dropped the jar on the floor. The sound which the jar made was something which neither he, nor the rest of the family will ever forget. When it touched the ground, it broke into pieces. The holy ash was on the floor. The holy jar of clay was broken. Mother was crying, father was shouting. Sister was confusedly looking around the room because she had no idea about what has happened. The rest of the community was in their house immediately. Everybody, having eyes almost popped out of their heads, covering their mouths with dark hands was silent, watching other people and the ash on the floor… … Anakletos was outcast from the village. He travelled through the forests, mountains until he got to the civilisation. He is still trying to get used to the life in the city. He is missing his family and the life in the mountains but he knows that he cannot return. This is all what one small jar of clay with human remains can cause… Jars of Clay

riiing!” the timer signaled that it was time to take her pills again. 50 She feebly stretched a long bony arm across the bedside table and reached for her pills. As she drew her arm back, pills in hand, she knocked against the clay pot that had been balanced precari- ously“B on the edge of the table. It toppled to the floor and shattered, spilling its contents of soil and a single flower onto the floor. “Oh!” she cried out in alarm. “Not my violet!” As quickly as her weak limbs would allow, she crept out of bed, careful not to pierce her bare feet on one of the shards. Slowly, she knelt beside the heap of dirt and picked up the tiny, frail plant. Fingering its delicate leaves she brought it up to her nose and breathed in its scent. She inhaled deeply, hoping the smell would somehow transport her back to the day she had received the violet as a gift. It had been one of the days when she hadn’t felt well enough to sit in the garden. Though the blinds had been pulled down to block the sun, somehow its rays could not be stopped from poking mischievously through the cracks. Her husband had sneaked into the room while she had been dozing off. “Dear, are you awake?” he asked in his low crumbling voice. “I have something for you.” She rolled over to face him. He held out the violet, with its roots dangling and damp clumps of earth still clinging to them. “I decided that since you can’t go to the garden, that the garden should come to you.” Smiling sleep- ily, she took the plant and brought it to her nose to inhale deeply. The warm, earthy aroma of spring filled her nostrils, stronger than the musty smell of sickness and rubber gloves that filled the room. Again she drank in its scent, remembering how she had then asked her husband to bring her the clay pot her son had made for her. Making pottery had been one of his “phases.” He had had a carving phase and oil painting phase too. He could never decide on one medium for his artwork. He was forever experimenting with something new. But her favorite phase had been the pottery phase. Although his pots and platters were often lopsided, she had carefully kept each one and wrapped them in tissue paper. She had lovingly patted the soil around her violet, tucking it safely into the clay pot her son had made. Now she saw that same pot, its pieces scattered on the floor as if a careless child had been playing, and suddenly losing interest in his game, left them there. She picked up a shard of the pot and traced the places where her son’s fingers had molded the clay and shaped it smooth. It had been so long since she had seen her son, but she could still remember his tiny hands as a baby. How there had been a crease of baby fat around his wrist. She thought about Lucy Rose Till, age 15 Zakladní Škola Komenského, Frýdlant nad Ostravicí Category Prose – D, 1st PRIZE how over the years his hands had elongated and grown bony with prominent knuckles and veins. He was no longer her baby when his wide long hands 51 could easily envelope her own freckled hands. She hadn’t seen those large knuckled hands for a while now. Ever since her husband had passed away, he hadn’t made much time to come see her. She rose, flower in hand. Oh well, she thought, my pot was never going to last forever anyway. She still felt a pang of sadness for it. But look: a glass of water already stood on the bedside table as if anticipating the accident. She breathed a faint sigh of relief. At least her flower would live. Though the pot had been homely and rather misshapen, her son had made it after all. He had used those great hands of his to fashion it especially for her. A FEW YEARS LATER

ne day Giles had to go out to the hills to get clay form the founding of 52 the hill. So as Remisse worked she thought about how he would like the shape she was creating. When she was done she put the pot into the oven and waited for it to cool. But before it was even finished a strangerO came to the shop. It was a policeman. He came to give her the sad news that Giles had died. He had just fallen and fatally hurt his head. Remisse cried sadly. It was a true loss for her. It took her some time to calm herself down and think about what Giles used to say about her parents, how they would be free and watching her. She tried hard to think of Giles as a friend who will now always be with her, no matter where she is. Remisse was now the new master potter of the village but no matter how hard she tried, she felt that this was a place that cannot be taken by her. She couldn’t take Giles’ place. One night, she made up her mind that she was going to leave. She left with nothing but a few pennies and the deep blue colored shard that her mother had once given her. She walked till she got to a new town, called Tellerton. The city was cold and unfriendly and she spent her night on the street. Sorrow had returned to her once again. Suddenly she made a quick move, paced up and down a few times and said, “Yes, I must! I must!”. She decided she would make one last pot, a very special one. She went to the potter of the village and got permission to use his oven and wheel. She started and made a long beautiful jar. Before she put it in the oven she stuck the blue shard in the center. When the jar was done the potter told Remisse that it was the most beautiful piece or work he had ever seen and said he would buy it for a good price. But she refused. She said that this pot was going to hold something very special, for a very special friend and for all who come across it. She thanked the potter for letting her use his premises and left. She walked until she got to the hill where Giles was buried. With much care and patience, she dug a hole near Giles resting place and buried the pot in it. Years passed and many people passed that place. It was said that many friendships were made in that spot and joy was brought to many hearts. That hill came to be known as the place of rejoicing, as somehow any one who came across that place experienced a sense of joy, love, loyalty and happiness. One day, children who were playing at the bottom of the hill, and digging in the ground, found the beautiful jar. They showed it to the village potter, who by then was an old man. When he saw the jar, with the blue colored shard, his face radiated with joy. He lifted it up in the sky, looked at it deeply Celeste Buckingham, age 13 Forel International School, Bratislava Category Prose – D, 2nd PRIZE and said, “This is the jar of clay that has been holding something special for years, and that special something has been bringing us love and joy.” 53 He lost no time and built a beautiful pillar at that same spot and placed the jar on it for every one to see and enjoy. Below the jar, in beautiful handwriting, he engraved these words: “A jar of clay, a true treasure, source joy, friendship and loyalty, this is a gift of love made by loving hands!” Jars of clay

hen I was a young girl I loved staying with my grandparents in their 54 house. It was in a village, where people weren’t really rich. But they lived every day with all of their hearts, which made them happy, actually much happier than people in town. I still remember the smell Win the house and the feeling when I woke up before sunrise. You could hear just the ticking of the clocks and the singing of the first birds. One morning when I woke up so early I heard some noise downstairs – in the kitchen. It was my birthday. I dressed up quickly and went down. I saw my grandmother brushing up two jars of clay. “Good morning, granny.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up.” “You didn’t. I wasn’t sleeping. What is that? I haven’t seen it before.” “You couldn’t. They were locked in our wardrobe. It is a family treasure.” “This? Well, it doesn’t look like a treasure. I mean it is not expensive.” “It is much more valuable than you think. It is of big importance for our family.” “Really? Tell me about it.” “This story started with two people in love – Michael and Jane. Michael was a potter. He made wonderful things. Things full of love and happiness. He gave them emotions, so as to be more like masterpiece, than just simple pots. When he met Jane, he had a feeling that his life had changed in all ways. He would give her everything. Jane loved him, too. Every next day their love grew stronger and stronger. The longer they knew each other, the stronger was their mutual respect. They were not yet married, when Michael became very ill. Many people thought that he wiould die. Then Jane said: “I will marry him.” Her mother and all her family convinced Jane: “It is not very clever to marry him now, don’t you see that he can die soon?” “I said I will marry him. And you will not change my decision. It is my duty to take care of him.” “Who is forcing you?” “My love.” She married Michael. His illness got worse, but she didn’t give him up. She stayed with him every single night and day. She was filling him with her love and hope. Michael trusted her absolutely. Both of them believed that he would become healthy again. But the days were going and Michael started Bilyana Vezenkova, age 15 Bulgarian School, Bratislava Category Prose – D, 3rd PRIZE to get up from his bed. He stayed on his legs and walked, too. He became stronger and in a couple of weeks he started to live normally again. 55 Then Michael – my grandfather, made these two jars of clay with a great thankfulness to Jane. They are symbol of their love and their message is to remind us that love can do everything when we are strong. We have to remember it whatever happens and not to give up our love at the first hindrance.” “Did my parents forget about it?” “I’m sure. They didn’t want our jars when they got married and they had nothing to remind them: It is not hard to fall in love with anyone, but to keep this love in hard times is something really important. Write it in your heart and do never forget it.” It was the prettiest gift for my birthday. And I will remember her words forever. Jars of clay

t happened one month ago, but I still cannot believe it! It had to be a mira- 56 cle! However, let’s start from the very beginning. I live in America with my parents and one sister. She is elder than me and unfortunately, shehas a very unusual illness. I don’t know how it is called. IIt has a very long and difficult name. My sister needed a very complicated operation that was of course very expensive. Our family is not very rich. We live in a small house… well, we have everything what we need, but we didn’t have enough money for my sister’s operation. One day, when I was sitting in the living room and I was watching one bor- ing programme, the telephone rang. I stood up and went to answered it. It was my grandmother. “Hello, grandma! How are you?” I asked. “Not very well, my dear. I have got a flu and I am very weak. I have to be all day in bed. Can you come, cook some food for me, and do some house chores? And when you come, could you clean up my cellar, please? I can’t do it myself,” she said. “Oh, grandma, of course I can do it! Wait one hour and I will come!” I told her. “Oh, honey, you are my best grandchild!” my grandmother said to me. So, I had to go and help my grandma. I was looking forward to it, because I always had a good time, when I was at her house. When I came, my grandma hugged me and said: “Now, I will go to bed. I feel so sick and I don’t want to infect you. Please, iron my clothes, hoover the floor, wash the dishes and then clean up the cellar. If you find there something beautiful, something that you want, you can take it. There are so many interesting things in the cellar.” “Thanks grandma! Now, please, take some rest and go to bed. I will do everything,” I replied. I started to do the housework. When I finished everything, I went to the cellar. The dust was everywhere. I started to sort the things that were in the cellar and put them into paper boxes. There were so many old things and I had to laugh when I remembered grandma’s words: If you want something from the cellar, you can take it. “Which of these things should I want?! Everything is only old garbage!” I thought. While I was sorting another bunch of things, my eyes rested on something that was very beautiful. In front of me there laid three jars of clay. They Jana Abelovská, age 16 ZŠ Matky Alexie, Bratislava Category Prose – C, 1st PRIZE looked very old but also very beautiful. The clay was painted with colourful sings – red circles, orange rectangles, green lines, yellow triangles and with 57 other shapes. I have found three amazing jars of clay. But how could these jars, which seemed to be very very old, get to grandma’s cellar? How grandma said, I did. I got what I wanted – three painted jars of clay. On the next day I went with the jars to our local museum. I wanted to know, how old they are. When I showed them to the director of the museum, he opened his eyes and mouth widely in amazement. “Whhere ddid you… ,” he stammered, “gget these jars?” “I found them in the cellar of my grandma.” I answered. “Do you know, young lady, anything about these jars of clay?” he asked with a nervous tone. “No, I don’t know anything about them. That is why I came to the museum. I wanted to discover something about the jars. Do you know anything about them?” I asked him. He replied, “Of course I know! These jars are about forty thousand years old! It is a work of Native Americans, who were the original inhabitants of America! You found an amazing part of our history, young lady!” “Really?” I was surprised. “My mother told me that our family has some ancestry in Native Americans… And all of the girls in our family have got long and strong dark hair. Like the Native American girls!” “I have to ask you something. How much money do you want for these jars, if the museum wants to buy them? It will be a sensation! In our museum and jars of clay from Native Americans!” he said. Do you want to know, how the story finished? We sold the jars to the museum and lots of tourists came to our town to see them. However, the most important thing is that we had enough money to pay for the operation of my sister! I am so happy! The doctors said that the operation was successful. Couple of months later, my sister was like every other healthy woman in the world! It was a miracle, wasn’t it? JARS OF CLAY

hen God created a man, he created him of clay. God created people 58 like jars, each jar for some different purpose. Initial clay was pliable. God made a man – jar from it. But now, clay is asking his Creator: “Why I? Why doesn’t anybody other do this hard work? This is very Whumiliation for me. Oh, Lord what are you doing to me? I’ve believed you all my years.” It although, that the jar carries some gorgeous things like aloe or ordinary thinks like water, the jar is still of clay. It isn’t more or it isn’t less. It is clay, and this clay isn’t sophisticated. It is very fragile. Once upon a time, and it was very long time ago, in small town… The town was ordinary, like others, it was full of people, who were poor and rich and who lived in poor or rich houses. And, a church there was in town. I don’t know what was its denomination. But it isn’t important for this story. One man was going to the church too. He was proud, as a peacock, and his head was always higher than heads of people around him. He was wearing suit with starchy shirt, and he knew that in this clothes he looked very good. He always took a small suitcase with himself. It was swinging next to his legs. Small children told, that is was full of money. Later on, on a preach he suddenly believed, that Jesus lives. He became a Christian. Then he had his head as high as the other and he smiled, from time to time. Other wise nothing has changed. Small poor family was going to this church too. They sat in the last bench. Young mother was a widow… Her husband died only one year ago. She was wearing dowdy clothes. She and her two small children… One of her children was only a baby. His mother him always hugged. The older girl was a bit shy and she sometimes looked around frightendly. But her mother’s glance always calmed her. Man started to talk with God. They become very good friends. From time to time, they talked about things, which worried them. The man worried about his job and God worried about people. The man smiled. Indeed God is ubiq- uitous and he knows all. But the man wanted help Him and he gave some money to mission in India and poor countries like this. But God said: “No, You didn’t understand me. You’ll go to family, who goes to church every Sunday and you’ll help THEM, please.” Man in thought. Family didn’t come three Sun- days ago. He was overcast and said: “But… but… God, you can’t want me to go to their house… in their house is dirt,… rubbish…” and he looked on his beautiful shoes. God sadly bowed his head. And man continued: “But… I don’t know, how I would help them.” “I’ll show you,” said God, and hope was burned in eyes. “Hmm… Er… I have work… I’m very busy… I work very hardly. I have 59 work… very much, yes, very much…” whispered the man, like to an apologize and quietly shaved off his face. God said nothing. A few days passed. The man was coming back from his job… alone. Sud- denly he lifted his head. Opposite him, a small procession was walking from the church. The first was the preacher. Behind him were some people who carried a small coffin. Next to the coffin was the poor woman indowdy clothes. She hugged the small baby. She cried and the baby cried too. The man recognized her. Now, he knew, who was in coffin. In the coffin was her small daughter. She followed her father. “God!!” said angrily the man. “Can’t you see? This woman has nothing. Why did you take her small girl?! Why, Lord? You say to yourself, that you are good dad, who knows love…?” “I wanted help her,” said sadly and silently God, “but nobody hared me…” The man was surprised. He looked around at the small procession. Tears ejected from his eyes. He ran to church and he sat to the last bench. “God, what will I do?” cried the man, “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize… You know that… Oh, sorry… sorry, Lord, I am only a man, a man of clay, you know… only of clay…” “I know. My son,” said God, “come on, I will show you what you will do…” “Yes! I know! I will give her some MONEY,” shouted the man and stood up. “No,” said God, “stop, come, I will point you what you will do for them.” The man came slowly. They walked over the town. Suddenly God said: “Look, what you can see.” The man saw a small window and a small door a small shop. He came through the door. He was in dirty, dark potters workshop. Potter had wrinkles on his face and he had lovely eyes. He was looking at his new work. He drive potter circle by his leg. Under his hands was growing up a small jar. Potter finished his work on one minute. He put the jar among the rest jars, to dry up. Man was surprised. He never saw so many jars. Some jars ware beautiful and a they had decoration, with gorgeous colors and they had different shapes. Suddenly the man noticed one other ordinary jar. “You will take this one,” said God. “What? I don’t need it. I want that, which have beautiful decoration and beautiful… ” uncompleted that man. “You want to help that poor family, don’t you?” asked God. “Er… hmm… maybe yes…,” said the man uncertainly. Miriam Tichá, age 15 Základná škola, Blatné pri Senci Category Prose – C, 2nd PRIZE

“This jar isn’t ordinary, this is work, which I’ll woke up love…,” said God 60 secretly. “What? I don’t understand you!” said the man. “Don’t worry, you can not understand. And go to them on your feet…,” said God. “Only on my feet?!!” asked man outrage. “Mhm, that way isn’t long,” said God. The man took the jar and walked through the town to them. The family lived in a small poor cottage behind the town. The mother with her baby lived in this poor cottage, now. When the man went in the town next to the fountain, God said: “You’ll fill this jar”. That man didn’t already object. He filled the jar and went further. “Stop! And you’ll buy these lilies!” said God, when they walked around a florists. The man bought a few of lilies and inserted then to the jar. When he a came to the cottage, he knocked. But nothing happened. He knocked again and again nothing happened. He slowly came in. In an opposite corner sat the woman, in dowdy dirty clothes. She hugged her baby. She had bowed head. Man was touched, when he saw, that tears tricked on woman’s fair checks. That man put the jar with flowers to the middle of the table, which was covered with small turned tablecloths. The woman lifted her head. Her and mans look has met. That man smiled. That woman stood up and came nearer to the table with lilies. “I’m sorry… it… it what has happened…” whispered uncertainly man. The woman looked at his face and she said: “I know… me too… thank you.” “You and your small daughter will meet in heaven. It’s a wonderful place. You two will there forever together. I am sure,” said that man. “Yes… forever together…” said the woman and smiled too. Warm smile poured on her face. The man understood. You can’t help to people only with money. People need love. We are of clay, but we can give to love somebody. AFTER THREE years, you can see that man. He wasn’t alone. One of his hands held a small boy, who capered and of his hand held the young woman, who had long brown curly hair and she had warm smile on her face. She was wearing beautiful bridal dress and she carried lilies in her hands. The man was wearing black smoking. They slowly walked to the church and the church’s bells ringed… And God smiled: “You’ll be in my heart always – man and woman, jars of clay.”

The Pots of Clay

he country of Nothing. The country of sadness, hopelessness, darkness. In that country there lived a boy who once had the following 61 dream: The cruel ruler of the country has forbidden his people to be happy Tand even to smile. The people, however, did not want their happiness to be taken away from them. The ruler had to think out another solution. He decided that everyone of his subjects must have a big pot of clay in which he must hide his happiness, love and hope. Only one person dared to ignore his decision. A little boy who hid himself in his pot of clay when the soldiers came and took away all the pots. And this boy grew up. One day he heard the Sun speaking and asking him to go and seek the lost happiness of all the people. And the boy promised to do so… The potter’s son awoke from his dream when he heard his father’s voice. He realized that the dream must have been about himself and that he must change this dream into reality. He left his home and watched the Sun setting in the West. He smiled because he was alone and in his loneliness he was free. He was fully conscijous of this fact. He knew that inside he WAS free. And that the source of his freedom is Love… He held the pot of clay in his hands. His name was written on it. He knew that it belonged to him. He felt it and was full of joy. Nobody can take away his pot of clay. He was sure that he would not allow to take away his happiness as all the others did. He felt pity for them. The next moment, however, a big black bird flew to him with great rapid- ity. It had sharp claws and a big bloody beak, it was a horror to look at him. It started to pick at the pot with its strong beak and wanted to snatch it away from the boy. The boy fell to the ground, holding his pot with all his might and he said with a frightened voice: “I love you, but I shall not give you my happiness.” “How is that possible? I hate you and you love me? How dare you to tell me such a nonsense!?” “All of us were created by Love,” said the boy. “And that is the reason why I love you. Love is stronger than Hatred.” After these words the big black bird with the dark cloud surrounding it, disappeared. The boy had to face many challenges. Quite often he was very afraid and scared, but he did not turn back. The sun showed him the way. He had to hur- ry. He knew that the Sun was going to set soon. After many advantures and hardships a Woman came to him. She was very beautiful, dressed in a splendid robe from the most beautiful cloth, she had a crown on her head and every- 62 thing on her glistened.A strong radiance was spread by her. She asked the boy: “Are you my child?” The potter’s son fell on his knees. He answered her a little bit ashamed and in a humble voice: “If only I could be your child… If only you would be my mother… Oh, I would be so happy that you are my mother and that my love to you would be too great for this pot of clay. It would overflow the brim of the pot all the time.” “But I tell you, my child, that you are my son. And my love for you is too great to fill even the biggest pot of clay.” At that second the boy stood up, opened his arms and embraced the woman. He was happier than never before in his life. He was so happy that he forgot about his pot of clay which fell out of his hands. The pot of clay broke into hundreds of small pieces. The boy got frightened very much, but he still embraced his mother. A teardrop ran down his face. She dried it with her loving fingers. “Don’t be afraid, you have not lost your happiness. On the contrary, my child, you have found much more of it than you had before. The pot of clay broke into many pieces, but all that Happiness which you hid in it and all Love which was inside is now in you, my son. It has deep, really deep roots in your heart. None of my children needs a pot of clay. On the contrary, your hands are free now and thus you can sow Love and Joy all around you. You can stroke and caress, your hands are free to do so. You are free. You yourself are now instead of that pot of clay – it is a pot which cannot be broken. Take great care of that pot which is written in your heart. If you continue to believe in Love, noboby will be able to take it away from you.” The boy blushed. “You know, when I saw you at first, I wanted to call you my Queen, but at that same moment… It seemed to me that I know you from the very beginning, that you are very precious to me and I wanted to call you my Mother… I am sure that on all the earth there is not one single person who would not wish you were his Mother, a mother belonging to him alone. I am quite sure of that.” On Mother’s face a tear appeared, running down the face, resembling a pearl. On the place on the ground where that teardrop fell down, a little flower began to grow. “Could it be possible?” asked the son. “Do they refuse you? They refuse you as they refuse Happiness and Love? It must hurt you, I am sure. But do not be afraid, I know for sure that Love is stronger than Hatred…” “I know, my son. But it is not possible to make people love by force, you know that, don’t you?” 63 “I know, but it can be awoken in their heart, I am sure.” The smile on both of their faces was clear and beautiful. “Sure and that is the reason we are here now. Have you heard about the Son of the Father in Heaven who is my son? Through him I am the mother of all people, and yours as well?” “Up to the present I have never heard about Him. I know only that all the flowers and all the trees and birds are singing about their Creator, the one who lets them live. At that time I could not understand, but now I do. And is HE your Son? Is HE the one giving us Love, Happiness and Hope?” “Yes.” “It means that he is my brother?” “So it is.” The boy felt so happy that he laughed and cried at the same time. “He is my Lord. And you are my Mother.” She caressed him very gently. “Look, my child, can you see this?” And she pointed at the sun setting in the West. He nodded his consent and remembered the promise he had given in his dream. His Mother encouraged him with the words: “He is your Sun and he will show you the way.” “Yes,” he whispered. “I believe he will do so.” At the same moment as he said this he found himself in a beautiful garden full of trees. And under those trees there were… the pots of clay. “So it is true after all,” he thought.There were jugs, plates, cups and pots… Each one of these was full of Hope, Happinness and Love which the inhabitants of the Country of Nothing had been forced to give to its cruel ruler. But the boy’s Happiness, Belief and Hope that Good will be victorious had an unbelievable effect on the enchanted garden. All the cups and pots of clay were bursting one after the other and at the end all of them were broken into thousands of pieces. And the Hope which was hidden, the hope that we are not alone, the hidden Love which nobody was seeking and all the Happiness overflowing began to cover the barren ground. The boy could not believe his own eyes. He had to cover his face because he saw everything sparkling and glittering. It was a real miracle. Love created little fountains which then changed into brooks and those into rivers flowing through all the country… Martina Mercellová, age 15 ZŠ M. Olšovského, Malacky Category Prose – C, 3rd PRIZE

The cruel king felt horribly thirsty, so he went to the river. It was very hot. 64 As soon as he stepped into the river, bent down and started to drink, the veil which covered his eyes disappeared and he could see all the beauty of the world surrounding him. Everything was as harp as a knife and his eyes started burning. Love entered his heart, but it was so very hot and burning that he could not receive it. His heart failed. For so a long time he was separated from Love and he had rejected love. And now… now it was too much for him. Too strong for him. Love burnt him. At that time the young woman took a jar and went to fetch water. She came to the river and filled the jar to the very brim. A longing was born in her heart not known to her so far. She entered the house, filled all the cups and everyone of the family drank from the clear water. The veil fell from their eyes and they were able to see all the Beauty around them. And they began to laugh from joy. Love made them feel nice and warm, the walls of loneliness isolating them tumbled down and fell apart. And they were feeling only love for one another. Thus Love returned into their hearts, they were happy and smiling and the country in which they were living was no more called the Country of Nothing, but the Country of Everything, because Love includes everything in itself. And Love, at the same time, is the beginning of everything. Jars of Clay

e panted heavily as he approached the door, muscles tensed like cor- rugated iron. He was clutching the Jars of Clay like his life depended on 65 it, which it did. He opened the door with his free hand. The old wooden door moaned like an old cat as he pushed it aside. Inside the room was Ha small boy in his teens, with grubby dark hair. He was snoring lightly and lying in a small single bed. The room smelt of disinfectant and the maroon walls were splattered with posters of pop stars. There was an ancient – looking wardrobe right next to the latest laptop that was sitting on a small desk. The man in black overalls, wearing a full – faced balaclava knew his work had to be done perfectly and efficiently. He approached the desk, muttering something about the crazy company he worked for. He carefully placed the two Jars next to the computer, and whispered, “Good luck, kid.” He smiled. “You’ll need it,” he added, as if he was talking to the sleeping boy. The man tiptoed away, quickly sweeping past the kitchen and heading out the door, happy that he had done his work. The money he was going to be paid would be enough for his retirement. Later that morning the boy got up with a grunt. Half asleep with his eyes closed, he blindly trotted towards the bathroom. He had a long bath then changed into a pair of jeans and a white t – shirt. Then he went downstairs for breakfast. His mum was up and dressed in a suit. She was having eggs and bacon with a cup of steaming hot coffee. As she wolfed down her bacon and slurped down her coffee, she let out a long satisfied sigh. “Hello James!” his mum happily greeted. “Hi mum.” he replied, not as enthusiastically. “I’m sorry dear but I have to go to work now. Your breakfast is on the kitchen bench.” As James got his breakfast, he waved goodbye to his mum and kissed her on the cheek. A while later James stomped up to his bedroom, only to find two Jars of clay on his desk. “What the …“ James managed. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. His lips were stuck together. He couldn’t move anything. His heart raced, as he was drawn towards one of the jars. He wondered if it was all a dream, that was until he felt a surge of extreme pain rush through his body, like he had suddenly been torn apart. His body was being sucked into the pot, like an object being sucked up by a vacuum clean- er. He twisted and turned helplessly until he felt a weird feeling. A feeling like everything had slowed down. He drifted through a never – ending hole of 66 darkness. “James, James!” an eerie voice whispered. “James! James!” his mother called. James shot up from his bed. He got out without thinking, running down the stairs. “James! It’s 8:00! you’re going to be late for school!” his mother called. “What date is it?” he asked his mum eagerly. His mum laughed. “Have you been on another planet?!” “No!” James replied bluntly. “It’s the 7th of February.” “Seventh? Seventh?!” he said in shock. “Before the Jar incident it was the 21st!” he thought to himself. “What’s wrong?” his mum asked. “Oh, nothing, I thought it was the 6th,” he lied. “Ok,” she paused in a trance. James slapped himself. There was a ghostly, foggy image of his mum, her brown eyes, everything. She was moving at normal speed but her ’ghost like’ image was wavering in slow motion. He ran towards his room, scared and interested at the same time. He slammed the door behind him, panting madly. He didn’t notice the man hiding under the desk until it was too late. The man jumped from the desk in one fluid motion. He lashed out his fist, striking James in the stomach. James replied with a series of punches, ignoring the pain in his stomach. He saw another ghost image of the broad man with scruffy hair move slower. He was confused which one to hit. The real guy launched a kick into James’s stomach, his ghost image followed. James, having learned karate for two years braced himself. As the kick struck him, James felt nothing, until the ghost image caught up. James flung backwards and sprung back up. He was breathing heavily. James had an idea. He walked forward. The mans breath smelt of rotten eggs. “Stay away!” the man warned. James didn’t listen. The man produced a glimmering steel sword. James gulped. The next few minutes would be a matter of kill or be killed, or so he thought. The man suddenly lunged forward. James watched with horror, as the man stabbed him. His ghost was catching up. James grabbed the man’s sword, watching the ghosts image stop in horror, without a sword. The man stared in disbelief. “No, no!” he cried. James lunged forward. Nathan Hur, age 11 Forel International High School, Bratislava Category Prose – B, 1st PRIZE

The man fell. But there was no blood because he had hit him with the hilt. “Go away!” ordered James. 67 The man ran for his life. James suddenly realized something and smiled. He could see into the future. The secret of the Jars of clay had been revealed.

THE END Jars Of Clay

he door on grandma’s house opened. 68 “Hi grandma!” Susan yelled as she came inside the house. “Hi, my little sweetheart!” Grandma called back. “Where is John?” “He will come in a while,” Susan answered. The doors swung open Tagain. “Mom said you will show us a treasure!” John said with an excited face. “OK, but tomorrow. I need to find it,” Grandma answered. That night John and Susan couldn’t sleep thinking that tomorrow they would see some gold or silver. They were really excited. The next morning when John and Susan woke up, they quickly ran down the stairs. “Where is it? Where is the treasure?” they asked. “Wait! Patience please!” Grandma said. She took a jar with three blue stones on it from a shelf which was lined with jars. “This is it?” Susan asked. “It is just a jar!” “Maybe the treasure is inside it!” John said quietly to his sister. He put his hand inside the jar but didn’t feel anything. He looked inside but he couldn’t see anything. “Nothing is in there! You said we will see treasure!” John complained. “Now I will tell you a story about this treasure jar,” Grandma smiled. “When I was a young woman and I was getting married I needed an endowment as a present for my next husband’s family. If I didn’t give them the endowment I couldn’t get married to their son. I had my endowment in this jar. There was gold, silver, necklaces, rings, and bracelets. One night before I was supposed to get married, robbers came to our village. They came to our house at night and stole my endowment jar. The next day when I found my endowment wasn’t on the shelf, I told my father and we started to look for it. We looked in the house, in the yard, we asked our neighbours if they had seen it. We couldn’t find the jar anywhere. The day after, we went to look for it in the woods and in the caves. We decide to split up and meet at our house. I looked in the forest and my dad looked on the rocks and caves. My dad saw the jar on one rock, because the jar had three blue rocks placed on it. He went closer and took the jar. It had all my valuable things in it. When he went to return the robbers saw him. They beat him and took the gold, silver, necklaces, ring, and bracelets. My dad was senseless for an hour or so. After he awoke he struggled back to our house. Sadly he eventually died of his bad injuries. I still have the empty jar he returned with. I didn’t get married to this man but to a nice sculptor. His Andrea Srnáková, age 10 Forel International High School, Bratislava Category Prose – B, 2nd PRIZE parents didn’t insist on an endowment, but I gave them a nice painting. We had two children, your mother and uncle. Your grandpa died when you were 69 little.” “And what is the treasure in this jar?” Susan asked quietly. “Courage, love, generosity and the other virtues my father demonstrated when he tried to get this jar so I could be happy. I will always be thankful to him for that.” Grandma smiled with a tear in her eye. Jars Of Clay

ne day I went to beach to go swimming. It was nice sunny day. I ran 70 to water but suddenly I fell in the water. I hit something with my leg. I looked into the water. The water was nicely pure. I saw blood coming out of my toes and I saw also ancient vase. Actually it was a jar. Jar madeO of clay. “Mom! I found something,” I shouted. “What is it?” asked mom. “It is an ancient jar!” “Wow, show me it,” answered mom. I brought the jar to mom. “Nice… Where did you find it?” “In the water,” I replied. “Keep it.” I left it on the grass and went swimming. When it was late we went home. I put it on my shelf. “What did you bring?” asked dad when he saw the jar. “It’s some jar, I found it on the beach.” “Wow, I guess it is ancient greek vase,” commented dad. “It is very rare, don’t break it or lose it,” adviced dad. It was late so I ate my dinner and brushed my teeth and went to bed. I couldn’t fall asleep, until midnight. I heard some noise so I went to check the jar. It was shaking. I touched it. It was freezing cold. Suddenly it shrinked me into the jar. For a while I was in the dark, twisting and spinning around and then I fell on the ground. I was in a forest. I was still holding the jar. I looked on my wrist – watches. It was nine a.m. Suddenly I observed a man with a spear and shield. Wow! It is a greek soldier! “Erhm, Hello!” “Good morning,” answered the warrior. “Am I in Greece?” I asked. “Sure,” said the warrior. “Could you take me to the city?” I asked. “No problem,” replied warrior. “What’s your name, warrior?” “My name is Leonidas and I am the ruler of Sparta.” “I am Šimon and I don’t rule anyone.” Lets go to Sparta. After two hours of walk we got to Sparta. Sparta was very nice. “But we have one problem,” said Leonidas. “We are in war with Persia.” “Could I help you in the war?” “Maybe,” answered Leonidas. Šimon Petriska, age 12 Cirkevná základná škola Narnia, Bratislava Category Prose – B, 3rd PRIZE

“Can you swordfight?” investigated Leonidas. “No, not really,” I truly answered. 71 “So we have to teach you… Well, the training starts tomorrow. Now go rest.” I went to my room which a slave showed me. So I went to sleep. The next morning when I got up Leonidas came to my room and told me that the training is starting. “Where is the training?” “I will show you. Follow me.” I did what he wanted. He led me to a place where many warrior were swordfighting. A trainer started to teach me the beginnings of swordifighting. After a weak training I was very good. One day Leonidas announced me that the war between Sparta and Persia just began. “Cool!” I said very excited. We went to the battlefield with the warriors. We were fighting a year and after a year we won, but Leonidas died in the battle. He said that I should be the king of Sparta. With tears we buried him into a golden grave. I became the king of Sparta and I ruled a long time. But then I remembered that I should go home. I had the jar in my king’s chamber. At midnight I grabed it and left home. When I got home it was midnight of the same day I got to Sparta! I got up in the morning. Was it a dream? No, I still have the jar, and I still can swordfight very well. JARS OF CLAY

nce upon a time, there was a jar of clay. It had a magical ability. It could 72 create special dust. However, the dust’s power was unknown. And so our story begins… It was the beginning of the summer in 2003 and Johnny was playing outside with some friends. The fun ended quickly asO his father yelled: “Get back here, little hooligan!“ Johnny was now dull. He said goodbye to his friends, crossed the yard and walked into the house. His father was sitting on the old couch in the living room. Johnny stood behind him. His father, Trent, turned and looked at him. “Sit!“he said with an angry ring in his voice. “What’s the mat…“ “Shut up!” he interrupted his son, “Shut up and listen! I don’t like how you’ve finished the school year. Your marks are awful, no, not awful – terrible! Maths – B , Literature – C. What on earth were you thinking!?!“ “Well,…” “What well!? No excuses! That’s it, you’re grounded, you’re grounded for life!” “What? But… But why?” Johnny was stunned. “Because you barely made it to the seventh grade. You can’t afford failure next year. Now go to your bedroom and start studying for God’s sake. End of conversation.” Trent left the living room and went to the shopping mall. Johnny went upstairs. He was now even more dull. “You can’t afford failure… blah, blah, blah,” he repeated his father’s words with a tang of irony. He entered his bedroom, slammed the door and dropped on the bed. He stared at the ceiling for 3 hours. “I wish I had better marks. I wish I could change the past…” he thought. “Really? Are you sure about that? Do you really want to change the past?” An old man suddenly appeared from nowhere. He was standing in the dark corner. “Who the hell are you? Go away! I’ll call the police!” Johnny shouted threat- ening. “Take it easy, boy. I’m not here to harm you,” the old man explained. “So, what do you want from me? And who are you, anyways?” Johnny asked the man. “What do I want? The question is what You want. I heard you wanted to change the past and here I am to help you. Oh, and they call me the Oracle by the way. Nice to meet you!” the Oracle explained. “The Oracle?!?” “Let’s not discuss my name, okay?” “Whatever. And how exactly you are going to help me?” Johnny asked full 73 of scepticism. The Oracle turned around and pulled a small jar out of the big pocket of his coat. “Here you are. Use this jar. Okay, I’ve got to go. Good luck, young man!” he scattered purple dust around himself and vanished. “Wait!” the boy shouted, “How is this going to help me? Come back!” But The Oracle was already gone. Johnny looked at the pot and decided to examine it. It seemed that the jar was made of clay and full of the same purple dust the Oracle used. Now Johnny had to reveal the jar’s power. He decided to go to the park to think. He dressed up and caught the bus to Regional Park. There he found a tree and climbed it. “Now what?” he asked himself. He didn’t think of anything and the weather was getting windy, so he decided to go home. As he was getting of the tree, powerful winds blew and he fell. The jar’s purple dust scattered all over the place. Johnny was dazed, but okay. He started gathering the dust. He put it in the jar and picked it up. The next moment he was standing in the yard, holding the jar. His friends were around him, playing. His father called him: “Get back here, little hooligan!” The Oracle appeared behind him: “Remarkable! You’ve unlocked the jar’s secret.” “What happened?” Johnny asked. “Don’t you see? You’ve already experienced this moment. The jar can turn back the time. By scattering the dust and putting it back in the jar you can turn back the time,” the Oracle explained. “Now I’ll leave you. Good luck!” The old man disappeared the same way he appeared. “Turn back the time, huh?” Johnny said. “Let’s give it a try!” The boy emptied the jar. He was now sitting at his school desk. He looked around, his all his classmates were writing something. It was the final school examination. Johnny looked at his paper. It was empty. The time was up. All students rushed to give their papers. Johnny decided to rewind furthermore since his paper was blank. He was now in his room. “I see now. If I study harder than before, I will score better marks.” Johnny figured it out. And so Johnny studied harder and took his exam with an overall mark of Luchezar Valkov, age 13 Bulgarian School, Bratislava Category Prose – A, 1st PRIZE

A+. His father, Trent, was happy with his son’s success. Johnny wasn’t grounded. 74 He enjoyed a wonderful holiday with his friends playing, having fun. About the magical jar of clay – let’s just say it changed its owner.

POETRY

Tamara Nižňanská Quality School International, Bratislava 9

Tamara Nižňanská Quality School International, Bratislava 10

Tamara Nižňanská Quality School International, Bratislava 12

Jegor Lanovenko Quality School International, Bratislava 13

Alexander Jasincki The English College, Prague 15

Petra Kukóová Gymnázium F. G. Lorcu, Bratislava 16

Zuzana Krnáčová Quality School International, Bratislava 17

Jehtro John Dimeo Gymnázium Juraja Hronca, Bratislava 18

Madeleine Paugh Quality School International, Bratislava 19

Alexandra Szomolányiová CZŠ Narnia, Bratislava 21

Asya Mamaeva Quality School International, Bratislava 22

Michaela Depešová ZŠ Jána Pavla II., Bratislava 24

Filip Zemko ZŠ Lachova, Bratislava 25

Pavol Kadlic ZŠ Jána Pavla II., Bratislava 26

Filip Čúzy CZŠ Narnia, Bratislava 27 PROSE

Valentina Kasperova Quality School International, Bratislava 35

Patrick Till Beskydy Mountain Academy, Frýdlant nad Orlicí 38

Patty Tyler Beskydy Mountain Academy, Frýdlant nad Orlicí 40

Lucia Zajdelová Gymnázium F. G. Lorcu, Bratislava 42

Seo Hee Park Quality School International, Bratislava 45

Michaela Neužilová The English College, Prague 47

Lucy Rose Till ZŠ Komenského, Frýdlant nad Orlicí 50

Celeste Buckingham Forel International School, Bratislava 52

Bilyana Vezenkova Bulgarian School, Bratislava 54

Jana Abelovská ZŠ Matky Alexie, Bratislava 56

Miriam Tichá ZŠ Blatné pri Senci 58

Martina Mercellová ZŠ M. Olšovského, Malacky 61

Nathan Hur Forel International School, Bratislava 65

Andrea Srnáková Forel International School, Bratislava 68

Šimon Petriska CZŠ Narnia, Bratislava 70

Luchezar Valkov Bulgarian School, Bratislava 72

CHURCH ELEMENTARY AND MIDDLE SCHOOL NARNIA

If you like English, working on creative projects, creative and innovative teaching in CES – Narnia is the right place for you. Our school provides elementary education for children aged 6 to 15 and offers a special language program. From the 1st grade children are taught basic English followed by other content subjects taught in English from the 5th grade. Inseparable parts of our school have already been mentioned: short and long-term projects and activities that support children’s creativity and critical thinking. Of course, we can’t forget to mention the annual ‘School in Nature’ with our British and American teachers. ENGLISH-SLOVAK CS LEWIS BILINGUAL HIGH SCHOOL

Do you like the idea of the Narnia School described above: studying English and other subjects in English, having native speakers as teachers, but the only problem is that you are 8th or 9th graders? CS Lewis High bilingual School is the answer to this problem. A five year English program in this school provides a bilingual education that prepares students for university studies in Slovakia as well as abroad. Named after the Christian writer and educator CS Lewis, our high school also aims to educate and lead students toward responsibility, honesty and independence. The curricula of both schools are in accord with the regulations of the Ministry of Education in the Slovak Republic and qualified Slovak teachers and teachers from the United States of America, Canada and Great Britain guarantee high quality teaching of English and other subjects. For more information click on www.narnia.sk, www.bilgym.sk Beňadická 38, 851 06 Bratislava, Slovakia. SPECIAL THANKS

Special thanks to all, without whom none of this would be possible:

JURORS: Mr. Scott Boesser – Master of Social Work, Minnesota Mrs. Debbie Johnson – Missionery from the United States of America Mr. Scott Legan – English Teacher at Quality School International, Bratislava Dr. Tony McCutcheon – English Teacher at Comenius University Ms. Rebekah Miller – English Teacher at Bilingval High School of CS Lewis, Bratislava Mr. Matt Patrick – Musician, vocalist, writer, Minnesota Mr. Paul Till – English teacher at Beskydy Mountain Academy, Frýdlant nad Orlicí

SPONSORS: ARTFORUM bookshop Mrs. Svetlana Číčelová and Calder design community Microsoft Slovakia, s.r.o. Municipal Office Petržalka, Dept. of Schools, Youth and Sports Valko&Partners

OUR GUEST: Mr. Huw Jones – Director, British Council in Bratislava Mr. Edward Kemp – Public Affairs Officer, American Embassy in Bratislava

OTHERS: Students and teachers from 21 Middle and High Schools in Bratislava, Prague and Frýdlant nad Orlicí.

SUPPORT: Karin Curry, Janka Detvajová, Darla and Victor D‘Ettorre, Jenni Josifek, Renata Kubáň, Rebekah Miller, Zuzana Mojžišová, Katie Owens, Erika Ozábalová, Katka Podlucká, Janet Williams, René Zabloudil.

MANY THANKS, WE APPRECIATE ALL YOUR EFFORTS! Saša Petrisková, Coordinator Nice greetings from the Administrator of CS Lewis works

Recently our school received a letter from Mr. Walter McGeHee from Ox- ford. He read our Booklet of Original Prose and Poetry Competition, with the topic The Secret of the Wardrobe. He was pleased and expressed his support to our competition.

Walter McGehee Hooper (born March 27th, 1931) is the Administrator and Advisor for CS Lewis literature. He was born in North Carolina, taught English at the University in Kentucky. Later he became the personal secretary of CS Lewis. Since November 1963, after CS Lewis‘s death, he has been working on the message of CS Lewis works. Now he lives in Oxford, England.