Creativity Comp Winners

This term, students were invited to let their imaginations run wild in The Mary Word’s 2025 Creativity Competition — and they truly delivered! Inspired by the theme “Celebrating the Past, Creating the Future,” entries reflected on memories, milestones, and the dreams that lie ahead, with each submission offering a unique perspective into the creativity and spirit of our Loreto community.

A huge thank you to everyone who took the time to share their ideas, narratives, and artworks. Your imagination and heart made judging an absolute joy. After much deliberation, we’re excited to announce this year’s winners with our first and second place pieces being featured below — congratulations to our talented creators!

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Our Winner

When You Wish Upon A Lantern by Evelyn (Wing Huen) Yeung 

The town of Dunbrook was small and old, just another town that people never mark down on itineraries when planning for road trips. And really, what was there to be interested in? Its

train station, once crowded with hopeful gold miners set on fortune, had been shut down decades ago. The factories had long since been abandoned, withering into scraps of metal that

creaked in the wind.

It was a town where the children often left far too early and returned far too rarely, spreading their wings and expanding their horizons in bigger, brighter cities.

But Dunbrook was a town old enough to have traditions of its own. Every year, on the first Friday of April, hundreds of fireballs rose simultaneously into the sky. A hauntingly beautiful scene that resembled the ghostly melody of a town that once flourished in the 1850s.

The Lantern Festival had been celebrated annually for nearly two hundred years, ever since the first ancestors had built the great wooden bridge across the mighty river of Elen. The Bridge wasn’t just a means of transport, it was the heart of Dunbrook’s tight-knitted community. Families held Sunday picnics and birthday parties on the wide wooden planks; monthly marketplaces were held there; fishermen stood at the edges to cast their lines; and generations of young lovers left initials engraved on its railings, leaving behind tales even after their bodies were long gone.

This year, Amber stood at the bridge. Hands trembling as she clutched the half-finished lantern in her hands. She was fifteen this year, caught between lingering memories of childhood and the defiant belief that she knew enough now. She gazed down at the wrinkled cloth in her hand, green eyes more troubled than someone of her age should be.

Her parents expected her to take the scholarship in the city, but her dear grandmother – Nana, as everyone called her – had wanted her to stay here, in Dunbrook, to carry on the family business of lantern crafting.

“You don’t have to decide anything.” Nana had rasped, two months ago when Amber had seen her alive for the last time, “Decide when the Lantern Festival comes, my sweet gem. By then, you will know what to choose.”

But that was Amber’s problem. Her heart yearned for the city with its bright lights and bustling streets, but her love for her grandmother told her to stay right where she was and carry out Nana’s last wish for her.

The Festival began like it always had. The local bands played old folk songs, the familiar melody of every Dunbrook resident’s childhood lullaby filling the warm atmosphere. Stalls lined along the riverbank and across the bridge, their little tapered roofs looking like fairytale cottages. The air smelled of lamingtons and fairybread and the pavlovas Amber had adored since she was in kindy. She bought one, but it tasted like sawdust in her mouth as she wandered down the main street.

In the town square, standing atop the same small, portable platform with peeling yellow paint, Dunbrook’s town historian, Mr. Harrison, began the same tale that had been spoken annually since Amber could remember, yet there was still a mystic beauty to the legend that never faded.

“It was the year 1851,” Mr. Harrison’s voice carried well over the hubbub of murmurs and, as the crowd gathered like moths to a flame, as they did every year, “The river Elen was strong and wide, cutting off one side of Dunbrook from the other. Our ancestors could not trade with each other, and families could only visit if they could afford a boat, which was impossible back in those days!”

Amber followed along silently, her lips shaping the words etched so deeply in her mind. She knew them off by heart. How many times had she begged Nana to tell her this very tale as a bedtime story? How many times had she fallen asleep to the old, old folksong that spun this legend into music?

Mr. Harrison continued, practised and sure in a way Amber wished she could be, “So on the eve of autumn, the townspeople came together. Every person, young and old, brought a plank. And every person, young and old, hammered in a nail.” Here he paused to sweep his hand out towards the direction of the bridge, “Thus, our Bridge Elen was born.”

At the end of the Festival, the lanterns would be released on this very bridge. Lanterns that Amber’s father crafted for the whole town. Lanterns that Nana had hoped Amber would one day take over making.

The more Amber thought about it, the more her head seemed to spin.

She found a quiet spot in a less crowded part of the Festival, hauling along her sad, crooked lantern. It had been her first attempt at making a lantern without help this year, and it was evident from the result. The cloth was unevenly cut, and the paint had dried in clumps. She didn’t want to release it with the rest of the people, with their perfectly proportioned lanterns and their happy, sure smiles.

Her hands fumbled with the matches. The first one didn’t even light, and the second one extinguished almost as soon as she lit it. But finally, on the third try, the tiny flame blinked bright. Amber moved it to the lantern, filling it with light.

She watched with bated breath. Maybe her lantern wasn’t that bad. After all, appearance doesn’t matter if it served its intended purpose, right?

But the lantern didn’t lift. Instead, it sagged. And before Amber could react, it was a sodden piece of cloth bobbing down the river, carried along by the currents. She splashed after it until she was knee-deep, her dress wet from the water, but it was already too far downstream.

“Not a very successful try, is it?”

Amber turned around. A boy stood around the area where she’d been standing just then, a tote bag over his shoulder. He was her age or maybe a year older, with dark curls and that careless, charming smile that Amber’s friends all had a thing for. She didn’t remember seeing him before, which was rare. Dunbrook rarely had visitors or new residents.

“Oliver.” He said, sticking out his hand as she clambered towards the bank, dress soggy and the ends of her hair damp, “I saw you from the fairy floss stall. You looked like you needed some company.”

She took his hand. It was warm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she returned the greeting, “My name is Amber.” She replied, “And I don’t look like I need company.”

Turns out, Oliver had vivid dimples when he smiled. “So, you want to tell me what was going on with your lantern? To my knowledge, they definitely don’t collapse in on themselves before drifting down a river to God-knows-where.”

Amber’s cheeks heated, her hands balling into fists, “It was supposed to fly.” She muttered, trying in vain to wring the water out of her dress.

“Supposed to, huh?” The boy echoed her words, glancing at his own lantern, draped over his arm. Unlike Amber’s, his was all sturdy frame and crisp folds. The perfect work of Amber’s father, “Well, sometimes they fly. Sometimes they don’t. What you can do is just hope.

Maybe in ten tries, only four would be successful.”

Amber frowned, “Are you visiting or new here?”

Oliver shrugs, “Sort of. I moved here last week. Dad got a job renovating the old mill.” He glanced at the faint smudge that was Amber’s ruined lantern bobbing on the water, visible by the many paper lanterns strung across houses, “So… you planning to make a new one?”

“I don’t have time.” Amber mumbled, kicking a loose pebble into the river.

“The Festival runs until midnight.” He pointed out, “Time’s all we have.”

Amber didn’t know why she said yes. Maybe it was the way Oliver’s smile was easy and his questions didn’t probe too deep, or maybe it was the way he spoke as though he’d been here in Dunbrook since birth. But she took his advice.

She led Oliver back to her family’s house, tucked quaintly in one of the less noisy streets. Her father’s shed – it’d be hers one day, both he and Nana had always said – was still filled with lengths of slim bamboo and neatly cut cloths. It was a cramped space, but Oliver didn’t say anything about it.

“So how were things back at where you came from?” Amber asked curiously as she measured out the bamboo lengths, “Audrey said your mum flies airplanes and your dad builds massive skyscrapers.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” Oliver grins, watching as she cut off the excess bamboo, “My mum’s a pilot, and my dad’s a builder turned-renovator. In fact, Dunbrook’s mill is his second big project.

As she worked and he watched, he continued to tell her places he’d lived in and things he’d seen. Noisy suburbs where each weekend was marked by a barbeque in a neighbor’s backyard; crowded cities where no one ever seemed to sleep; towns that seemed to exist

along the highway and would be a blot behind you if you blinked. But Dunbrook, he said, felt different.

“Like it remembers itself.” He explained, “Most places usually forget.”

Amber lapsed into silence at that. Oliver liked Dunbrook, the same dull, gray town Amber wanted nothing more than to escape from. For years she had desperately wished to flee to a great big city, to towering skyscrapers and cafes everywhere. Yet at the same time, a part of her feared being swallowed; of becoming just another forgettable face in the crowds.

When Amber finished her lantern, it was still wonky and looked as though it was about to collapse, but it was hers and she was proud of it. When she told Oliver that, he gave her that dimpled smile again. “Are you going to write anything in it?” He asked her.

That gave her pause. In all her years of releasing lanterns, never had she ever written something inside it, “I didn’t know we were supposed to.”

“Oh, no. It’s a little thing I made up for myself. You write yourself a wish, a memory, a promise… That way, for me at least, I’m not just sending fabric up into the sky. I’m sending a part of myself as well.”

Amber hesitated, then picked up her father’s pen from where it had rolled to the ground earlier. In small, careful letters, she wrote down her wish at the corner of the lantern.

I want to find where I belong.

The final event – releasing of lanterns – came soon, the church bell tolling thrice. This time, Amber stood with everyone on the bridge, shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver. On the shot of the pistol, hundreds of lanterns rose into the sky.

This time, Amber’s lantern didn’t fail. It bobbed and swayed precariously, but eventually joined the rest of the townspeople’s lanterns. Laughing, breathless and giddy, she cheered along with everyone else.

Perhaps tomorrow, she would know where she really belonged.

But for now, she was living in the moment.

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Our Runner Up

The Crimson Star by Myra Vasudev

Syria trudged through the clearing, the sun-touched blades of grass sinking between her toes and the melodic chirp of crickets ringing in her ears. Shades of pink and blue melted into a cacophony of colours above her that formed the evening sky, a stark reminder of what awaited her in the night.

Every year, the city of Lyrica held an annual tradition dating back centuries. A night when the townsfolk gathered beneath the clear azure heavens to see the stars shift— weaving a faint vision of those that came before them. For some, it was to honour the past. For others, it was to remind them of whose footsteps they were supposed to follow. 

Syria was the latter.

Her aunt Veroca had led the ceremony every year, the dreamy grin on her face mirroring the vibrancy of the red robe she wore. She spoke with such conviction as she calmed the stars and peered through the glass of her wooden telescope, as if this is what she was made to do.

“Soon, it will be your turn to guide the heavens,” Spoke her aunt’s voice in her head, dusted with

nostalgia and weariness. “And when you do, I’ll be right there beside you.” 

Veroca used to tell her the stars were storytellers, painting a colourful picture with their luminescence and exchanging wicked secrets through their secret language of fleeting winks. She never questioned her beliefs– until the day the stars held their breath for the moment Veroca exhaled her last.

A searing gust of wind violently whipped her cheek, snapping her out of her trance. Her eyes fell to the flickering lamplight that blanketed comfortably over the cobblestone streets of Lyrica. A hefty fog smothered the entrance, the dilapidated bridge that stood over the murky lake almost indistinct.

Night had fallen and almost resembled a treasure trove, storing twinkling diamonds which were the stars and the solitary pearl that was the moon that hung in a velvet skyscape. 

Butterflies came alive in Syria’s stomach, swirling hysterically in a giddy whirl as she clutched her leather satchel impossibly tighter.

As Syria entered the streets of her hometown, her nose was bombarded with the thick scents of spice and burning cedar that mingled together into a stuttering aroma, curling into the dusk. The laughter of children pleasantly rang through her ears, which almost calmed her. Around her, people were already hanging lanterns on iron hooks, the whole town buzzing with an unquenchable anticipation.

Heads started to turn, and bright smiles started to spread across the peoples’ faces, their eyes glimmering with hope. They looked at Syria as if she had hung the moon itself. Although, she couldn’t help but not miss the pitying glances that people threw her way, leaving an uncomfortable twist in her gut.

Her aunt’s passing had occurred a year ago, just after the 250th annual Festival of Constellations. She had died of old age, and people were always reassuring Syria, “It’s not your fault – It was her time.” Truth be told, that didn’t bring her any comfort or solace. Not one bit.

She glanced at the clock hanging in the tower in the middle of the town square, its usual idyllic light suddenly appearing almost menacing.

The right hand pointing to the dragon.

The left, pointing to the rose.

It was almost time.

One minute.

Maybe less.

The suffocating whispers soon died down, floating into a dead-quiet hush, save for the wood croaking beneath Syria’s feet as she ascended the steps to the wooden stage. Her flesh pricked with apprehension, her heart hammering. A telescope stood in the center of the platform, its very presence haunting as a ghost from the dreaded horror novels sitting on her bookshelves that collected dust.

She hesitated for a moment before letting her quaking fingers run over the glass lens. Her gaze swept over the crowd, their unflinching gazes sending shivers down her spine.

A satisfying tock sounded from the timekeeper. Syria drew in a breath as the air grew terrifyingly still. She lifted her head to the heavens, and for a moment, the stars blinked back, almost as if they were as anxious as her. They waited for her judgement.

And with that, the festival had started.

She bent down to peer into the glass, focusing her energy into the stars’ movement.

The stars paused— and after a few seconds, slowly started to shift. As they slid into place, threads of blinding light flared out between their heavenly bodies, creating constellations of historical events, people, and some formed images of close family. Cries of delight echoed from the audience, ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ that served as a satisfying reassurance.

How beautiful, A man cooed.

Mommy, mommy, will the stars remember us? A child chirped excitedly.

Yes, dear, that’s why we hold this ceremony. A woman replied, her voice resonating with kindness.

Syria let out a breath she barely knew she was holding. Everything was going according to plan.

However, one star did not move from its original position.

Instead, it glowed a vibrant red.

Syria frowned.

A star was not meant to be that colour, and it certainly was not meant to move that way. Syria inclined her head as murmurs of confusion rippled through the audience, watching the crimson star relocate itself. It grouped with a couple of other twinkling orbs that were all of different colours – navy blue and gold.

Once again, strings of light unfurled from one star to another, forming a picture that no audience member could place. It painted a silhouette of a young girl, holding a torch of fire among many other individuals. The girls’ smile radiated with hope. A smile that she recognized.

Suddenly, recognition flared through her body, heat rushing to her face.

That smile —

It was her smile.

A soft gasp escaped the crowd, then seamlessly erupted into joyful applause.

This time, the stars did not paint a picture of the past.

It created a vision of the future.

The night pressed against her eagerly, conveying the faintest hum of energy. It felt as if the heavens were guiding her— offering her a path for her to follow. A chill ran through Syria’s veins as she finally understood the weight of being seen. Her chest swelled, a slow, awestruck spreading across her face.

She had never seen anything like this before.

The heavens gifted her a promise – a sacred pledge to lead the people of this town. The night thrummed in sync with her pulse, evoking a delirious wonder. She took a firm step forward, drawing her shoulders back, and was met with a thunderous applause. A soft laugh bubbled from her lips..

This reminded Syria of her favourite stories – The same ones her aunt used to tell her before bed. Only this time, she was its author.

She whispered a final prayer to the stars.

“And you’ll help me write it, won’t you, Aunt Veroca?”