BIG WRITING CHALLENGE 2025
Orion Publishing Group proudly shares the winners of the 2025 edition of The Big Writing Challenge, a creative writing initiative run in conjunction with London Metropolitan University’s Department of Creative Writing and English Literature and the institution’s Widening Participation and Outreach team.
Alexa von Hirschberg, Publishing Director for Weidenfeld & Nicolson, speaking on behalf of the judging panel, comprising three Orion editors, commended all of the shortlisted writers, noting ‘It was a privilege to read these entries. The stories were inventive, lively and showcased a wide range of voices and points of view. It was a wonderful reminder of the infinite capacity of storytelling.’
The two runners-up were Aliyah Mandell from Barnet and Southgate College and Saarah Gilani from St Bernard’s Catholic Grammar School, Slough. Alexa described Aliya’s piece ‘The Shame of an Icarus’ as ‘…a vivid, relatable and very human interpretation of the myth’ and Saarah’s submission, ‘How Scales Change’ as ‘…a moving and well-crafted story about displacement’.
The overall winner was ‘The Crimson Veil’ by Nicola Pieczak, from St Bernard’s Catholic Grammar School, Slough. The writing impressed the judges with its superbly creepy historical story set in Barcelona’s gothic quarter. Alexa noted that from the first paragraph this piece conveyed ‘…a clear sense of place, introduced us to a well-drawn central character and presented us with a mystery to be uncovered. We all felt the story had real promise and enjoyed the evocative, atmospheric sentences.’
Congratulations from the entire team at Orion to Nicola and to all of the participating young writers in this year’s Big Writing Challenge.
Shortlisted young writers in this year’s programme visited Carmelite House in June 2025 to celebrate this year’s Big Writing Challenge.
THE CRIMSON VEIL
Nicola Pieczak
In the dimly lit crevices of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, where the streets coiled like ancient serpents beneath the weight of history, Clara’s hands stitched quietly in the faded light of her humble workshop. She had known little more than the sound of needle kissing thread that kept her tethered to the earth. Her life was one of small dreams, cheap fabric and dull nights. She thought her mother’s legacy—once revered amongst the finest seamstresses—had long lost its stitch until that letter arrived, sealed in wax, its contents shrouded in promise and mystery. It was from Don Luis Valverde—a name whispered in circles of power, a name synonymous with ancient grandeur, one she knew her mother had been familiar with before her death. He offered her what she could never have imagined—an opportunity to design dresses for his niece, Isabel. A chance for fame and fortune. How could she possibly refuse?
The mansion stood in silence, stone walls wrapped in shadows. It was as though time had forgotten the place, its foundations weighed down by lost riches and broken promises. Clara crossed the threshold, feeling a chill on her skin, a presence that lingered like smoke.
Don Luis met her at the door, his face pale, his eyes too sharp. “Welcome, Clara,” he said, his voice a low, magnetic hum. “The work here is not for the faint of heart. You must have the soul of one who dares to see beyond the fabric.”
The words felt heavy; a promise wrapped in mystery. He led her inside, where the odour of dust mingled with the faintest trace of something darker. The mansion was a labyrinth of corridors and forgotten rooms, where mirrors reflected nothing but the weight of time.
Clara’s task was simple: to design dresses, breathtaking in their beauty, for the enigmatic Isabel, of whom she had a mere portrait to guide her. As she stitched, the atmosphere of the house began to unravel her thoughts. She was drawn into the very threads she worked with, pulling her into a dark tale of resurrection. Isabel had died years ago—of that, Clara was now certain. But whispers of her unfinished existence lingered in the halls.
Each dress Clara crafted grew more intricate. Gossamer lace. Silken velvet. But something more insidious worked its way into her hands. Her reflection in the mirrors began to change. Her eyes, once warm, turned cold. Her breath caught on the edge of something nefarious. Inevitable.
One dread-soaked night, Clara found a book hidden beneath the floorboards of the workshop. It was bound in leather, its pages yellowed. It chronicled the history of the Valverde family, their power, and their tragedy. Within its pages, was the story of Isabel—of beauty and of terrible sorrow. She had been the youngest of the Valverde line, cursed by the blood she carried, the same blood that had condemned her to a life of darkness.
Isabel had not died, she had become something between the living and the dead, a creature bound to the night by the dresses Clara was now creating garments stitched with thread spun from the hair of the dead and sealed in blood, each one woven to anchor a soul just shy of the grave. The fabric wasn’t just cloth; it was a vessel, a tether to a world beyond the veil of death. Isabel was not gone—only waiting. The old spell had quietened her, bound in fabric too weak to hold her soul. But Clara’s new dresses, unknowingly shaped to the same cursed pattern, had begun to wake what never truly died. And Don Luis dared to finish what was once started.
Clara’s breath quickened as the realization took root. The transformation was not only for Isabel—it was for her too. The mansion had become her prison. She could feel the darkness inside her, creeping like cold tendrils beneath her skin. The glow of the silk, had begun to call to her, whispering her name in tones she couldn’t resist.
Clara had unknowingly sewn her fate with each stitch. The dresses she had created were more than garments; they were the final rites of an ancient curse that sought to claim both the dead and the living.
Isabel would return.
The night was one of silence. The air grew thick with the scent of rosewater and decay. The shadows in the corners of the mansion deepened, as though the house itself held its breath. Clara saw her—Isabel, draped in the final dress Clara had crafted—midnight silk stitched with shadow lace and sealed in silken ash.
Isabel’s eyes were hollow, yet full of a mournful beauty. She walked slowly, each movement deliberate. Clara could feel the pull of her, the terrible allure of immortality. The two women stood together, the living and the dead, bound by the crimson veil that hung between them.
She was no longer Clara the seamstress. She was Clara the transformed, the eternal.
“Join me, Clara.” Isabel said, her voice a sweet invitation to the abyss. “Together, we will walk in the shadows forever.”
Clara’s mind teetered on the edge of reason. The transformation had already begun. The mansion, the dresses, the very fabric of her existence—she could feel them all urging her to embrace the darkness that had once seemed so foreign to her.
As the crimson veil settled over Isabel’s shoulders, Clara felt herself take a step forward—toward a fate from which there was no return. Her hands, once steady with needle and thread, now trembled with the power of destruction and creation.
Clara understood that there was no escaping the consequences of her craft. It was too late. She had sewn herself into the very fabric of this eternal dance between life and death. As the final dress was donned, the last stitch was pulled tight.
And Clara became another shadow in the mansion’s eternal gloom.
