Winner: 11-13 age group - Felix

I breathed in, shakily. Calm. You’re not even in the ring yet. Deep breaths. I could just make out 
the golden ring on the pedestal in the Aristocrats’ Box. The prize for executing the best leap: 
fame, the blessing of the gods, and an extraordinary ring worth more than everything else I’ve ever 
owned put together. The sweaty crush of taller and stronger competitors was stifling and sickly, 
intesified by the brutal sun, I felt like I was in a stove.

I peeked through the crowd to watch the current competitor sprinting towards the bull. He grabbed 
the bull’s horns awkwardly. The bull jerked its head up, as it was trained to, but the leaper’s 
hands were slippery with sweat, and his hands slid off. He landed on the ground with a thump and 
was too slow to escape the bull’s hooves. I turned my head away and tried to wipe the sweat from my 
hands on my leg. It didn’t work. I swallowed dryly.

A voice rang out clearly through the garden. “Timoleon.”

I have never been more terrified to hear my own name. The crowd parted for me, and I stepped 
forward into the arena. I held my hands above my head, palms up and murmured a quick prayer to 
Nike. The handlers released the bull. There’s something about a bull that commands one’s absolute, 
undivided attention. Particularly if one is charging at you.

I couldn’t breathe properly, air coming in shallow gasps. I forced myself to run towards it. Slow 
enough to have time to think, but fast enough to look impressive. Don’t think about the last 
leaper, think about your training. You’ve done this dozens of times before. Hands out. Not too 
early…now! I grasped a horn in each hand, and the bull jerked its head back, violently. Let go, 
legs tucked in. The world was a blur of colour, heat and the smell of the beast. I’m upside-down 
now, so legs out. The world seemed to go far slower than it normally does. The bull had already 
passed beneath me. I felt my feet tickle the dusty floor. I bent my knees and landed in a 
half-squat.

I stood and took a bow. The crowd cheered loudly and the judges seemed impressed. Good. The rest of 
the competition was a complete blur. I went to find some shade. Eventually, the administrator stood 
up, “The winner is…Timoleon, Son of Gnipho.”

My life changed in that moment. My limbs moved of their own accord, and I walked to the 
Aristocrats’ Box, my mind reeling. The administrator slipped the ring onto my finger. The gold was 
hot, heavy and frankly uncomfortable. But it symbolised so much. Pure ecstasy ran through my veins. 
This was what I had been training for, for years. And now I had it all. Fame. Fortune. And the 
favour of the gods. I kissed the ring, then raised my hands to the sky and shouted a pure and
victorious “Yes!” into the blazing sun.