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500 Words' gold winning story from the 5-9 age category for 2020 was won by the fantastic Shachar A, for a story called The Winning Goal. They wrote an incredibly inspiring tale about football and life in a refugee camp. This is a great example of what a 500 Words story could look and sound like - it was even read by the superstar Dua Lipa!

The Winning Goal

"Oh! Here's Fajar, she shoots! What a goal!"

"The crowd roars. Look at her dramatic celebration!"

"What a powerful tackle! Here's Fajar again, the goalie goes in for the save, and she shoots! What a powerful shot! It's another goal!

"The ref whistles for full time. Syria have won!"

"Time for bed," mama interrupts. "Have you filled the water bucket?"

"Sorry mama," I groan.

"You aren't playing those fantasy games again, are you habibti?"

I lumber into my scruffy tent and dive onto my decaying sheets. I wish I was a real footballer, then we could afford to live in a proper house. Not in a lousy refugee camp!

I hardly sleep a wink that humid night under the Syrian moon. I am too busy remembering the bright green shutters of our old home, but that's gone now.

Boom!

I wake with a start.

"We need to find cover!" Mama cries. "The alqanabil are coming!"

Bright, burning flames crash against the dry earth. Scarlet ashes scatter as if they are being hunted down. The earth shakes under the weight of the thunderous weapons. The noise is deafening. We slip and stumble away from the camp, trying to find cover.

"Quick! To the mountain! I know a route up there!" I call out to mama behind me.

As we clamber up the steep cliff I hear a high-pitched scream. I shudder. Death is on the doorstep for us all.

We find a craggy cave hidden behind a tattered tree atop the mountainous rocks. We lie huddled on the rough floor, wondering what to do next. I wake at dawn, shivering from the cold. I sneak out, careful not to wake mama. Under the horizon I can vaguely make out the shape of the camp, blackened and charred from the alqanabil. Sadness overcomes me. This is the second time my home has been destroyed. I look around to see if there is anything to eat. I distinguish a cluster of figs high up in the branches of the tree. I stretch, but I can't reach them. What should I do? Then I spot a rusty can amongst the rocks. I pick it up and place it about a metre away from the edge of the cliff and kick it as hard as I can. It flies up above my head, faster and faster. Then finally it strikes the middle of the branch the figs are on. The branch begins to shake, then it snaps, and the figs fall into the soft bushes below them. I feel proud as a peacock, as if I have scored the winning goal!

"Mama! I found us something to eat!"

Mama stares at me, speechless, then hugs me weakly.

We eat gleefully. Pulp and seeds go everywhere.

Maybe I will be a famous footballer one day, but for now I have mama to care for, and I have hope. That's a great start.

The End.

By Shachar A

NB: Habibti means darling in Arabic and Alqanabil means bombs.

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