I really enjoyed the huge amount of exuberant, playful, clever imagination in these stories. And the large number of remarkable mothers – one who thinks so much her head explodes, another who is an alien, and a third who, to the consternation of the main character's father, is flying to America to get married.

I was impressed by how few of these stories were imitations of the familiar stories we've all read a hundred times. Guardian readers obviously prefer the original and the unexpected in their stories. Well done to all the writers.

Winner 7 to 11 years: Rose Burdon, age 9

I love Rose's character Sophie, who doesn't believe in half measures when it comes to getting herself expelled from a series of schools. I also love that her mum doesn't mind and that her dad is driven to desperation. But most of all I love the line, "Harwood was the most awful, scary, strict, boring, posh, horrible school that you can possibly imagine." Only a good writer would put that "posh" in there.

Read Rose's story:

Dad was flabbergasted when I told him the news… "You were what?" he thundered, his face turning redder by the second. "But you can't have been, you've only been there a week!"

Mum was humming a joyful tune not at all concerned about my news. "It's not too bad dear," she said, patting Dad on the back. "Do calm down you look like a beetroot. Now Sophie dearest, as you've no school tomorrow shall we go shopping?"

Dad was now shaking with rage and bellowed "What 's wrong with the pair of you – Sophie you've just been expelled from the fifth school you've been to this year - and Sarah, you're her mother! We should punish her, not take her shopping! Sophie WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"I was only being artistic," I said, defensively. "I painted my name beautifully in pinks and greens and really brightened up the grey school walls."

Mum burst out laughing. "I quite agree Sophie, it was a miserable school."

Dad looked as if he might explode he was so angry. He held up his hand and counted on his fingers:

"School 1 – You stole your teachers car, crashed it and ran over her cat.

School 2 – You crept into the kitchens dressed as a ghost and frightened the cook who set her hair on fire.

School 3 – You poured syrup over the chairs in the staff room and put exploding coke bottles in the teachers fridge.

School 4 - You sent letters to the parents saying that school would be closed for a week due to the very contagious and dangerous Teacherlitis disease.

School 5 – Graffiti! ... Well that's it." Dad was really yelling now. "You're going to Harddown boarding school tomorrow."

Mum and I froze. "No!" I said in a very small voice. Harwood was the most awful, scarey, strict, boring, posh, horrible school that you can possibly imagine.

"Oh please no," cried Mum.

"You both need to be taught a lesson and if you make a fuss Sarah I'll send you to boarding school too."

Dad stomped away leaving me and mum crying in the kitchen.

The next morning my eyes were bloodshot and blotchy from crying. At 9am Mum and Dad drove me to Hardwood. I walked slowly into my new school dragging my heavy greyish bag behind me. Nothing could be worse. I walked straight into assembly and the whole school looked at me. Just then Mum ran up to headmaster, grabbed his hands tightly and started to dance very fast.

I was more embarrassed than is possible. Dad rushed over and dragged Mum away and I heard the doors lock behind them. I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole.

When I looked up the headmistress was staring at me with steely eyes. Then she blew a loud whistle, disco lights flashed, music started playing and the whole school started dancing.

"With a mother like that," the headmistress said, "You'll do fine here, welcome to Hardwood boarding school!"

Winner 12 to 14 years: Pastora Morgan, age 12

Pastora's story has a simple structure, but it skillfully explores a very important moment in the main character's life. As Molly is questioned by her father about the gold locket she claims to have found, we are reminded that for some people the choice between right and wrong is a complicated one. The physical details of the scene are strong and vivid, which makes the emotion of the ending even more powerful.

Read Pastora's story:

My dad was flabbergasted when I told him the news; there was a loud clatter as the armful of kindling he'd been carrying fell to the floor. He turned to face me, eyes transfixed on the object swinging in my hand.

"Where'd ya get it?" He asked suspiciously. "Molly, I told you before not to go pinchin' things. We can't sell the stolen stuff, it just brings us trouble. God knows we're doin' bad enough as it is-."

"Pa!" I interrupted.

"I ain't stolen nothin'!"

He raised his eyebrows at me.

"Where'd ya get it from then?"

"I found it."

He laughed, snidely.

"I did, honest! I was up the Thames with the other mudlarks this morning. Thought we'd go to the quay for a change. Me an' Lizzie were fightin' over a net caught on one of the barges when I saw something glintin'; all tangled up in the rope it was. I dived under for it. Ya should have seen Lizzie's face when I came up with the locket, an' her just standin' there all wet and holdin' a ripped fisher's net!"

He stared incredulously, then stepped towards me, scrutinising my face for any sign of a lie. There was a long silence as he scratched his beard thoughtfully. I held my breath ...

"Well you can't sell it to ol' Pilcher. He'll never give you a fair price." He smiled, and I gulped a relieved lungful of air.

"I know a pawnbroker up Market Street. We can go there tomorrow; he'll give us a good price. That beauty will fetch a fair few coppers…" he paused.

"Can I see it?" he asked, nodding at the locket. I held it out to him.

Even in the dim light given off by the dusty oil lamp it shimmered, the gold case scattering ripples of light across the walls. He held it up to his eyes, his thumbs tracing the delicate silver roses which swirled around the clasp. His thick stubby fingers fumbled between the rose petals, and a dirty yellow nail drove between the rims snapping the locket open in his calloused hand.

"There ain't no portrait" he said frowning.

"No. There weren't nothin' in it when I found it."

"I wonder why they threw it out?" he asked, watching my face carefully.

I shrugged feigning innocence as I slid one hand into my pocket to check that the crumpled miniature was still there. It was the likeness of a baby, the Lady Mary, daughter of the Duchess, it was the only portrait of her ever painted, finished just days before she died. The Duchess must have noticed the locket was missing by now, but I doubted she would even remember the beggar girl she had stopped to toss a copper at.

I heard my brother coughing next door, his wheezing cutting agonisingly through me. He was dying. The locket would buy medicine. What was a picture of a dead child worth, if it could buy another's life?