The UNICEF Student Team Maastricht has organized in the Month of April a creative writing competition. This time the topic was: ‘Rebirth, renewal and childhood’. We wanted to encourage writers to create and share their work while also raising awareness of our mission as USTM this year. We received many submissions, many were creative and enlightening! Through careful consideration, we selected our winner: Osadebawem!
This was by a writer that will be anonymized, their work was named “Oh, how the spring flowers bloom each year…”. Please enjoy their work below.
Congratulations to Osadebawem, and once again thank you for your submissions.
Oh, how the spring flowers bloom each year...
The artist sat facing her windows, an empty canvas resting on its easel and a paintbrush already dipped in its colours. She slowly closed her eyelids, one after the other, as the sounds of chirping morning birds and rustling leaves of trees blew in through the open window and flowed into her ears.
In her mind, muddled by emotions and hazy images, she saw a little girl sitting in her spot, however, her canvas was marred by thick, ugly lines. She heard the little girl huf in dissatisfaction, as what she saw was a futile effort of recreating the scenery she adored and captured with her eyes, now beady and round with tears as they glared at her monstrosity of mixed colours and stained skies.
The artist’s eyes remained shut, frowning at the memory.
The artist raised her hand, grazing the canvas with her fingertips, the hold on her paintbrush reluctant yet firm when suddenly, a light breeze blew into the room, bearing the weightless, delicate scent of spring blossoms in its arms and pushing her paint to the canvas. And she painted, as if magic rushed through her veins, muscles tensing and loosening, recreating the same lines she drew all those years ago, but this time with patience, with detail, and, above all else, with love. She hadn't opened her eyes yet once her hand had stopped on its own, reflecting on her previous efforts, on the mounts of paintings crafted every year of the same scenery, discarded and hiding in the attic.
Nonetheless, the artist smiled. A glimmer of hope flickered in her heart, prompting her to open her eyes once more. And what she now saw, plastered on the once blank canvas, was a blossom of spring flowers stretching over a meadow. The colours burst out from every corner and every side, blooming and embracing its form of majesty.
What she saw was a re-attempt.
What she saw was a rebirth.
Her rebirth.
- Osadebawem
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