Surfing the net and embracing new technology has brought success to 11-year-old Atherva Abhyanker (Atty), who recently received the Young Author of the year award from social network site SuperClubsPLUS for his short story The Forest.

Sponsored by Intuitive Media and Scholastic UK to celebrate the National Year of Reading, the competition encouraged children aged six to 11 to show off their writing talent.

Atty, who attends Cassiobury Junior School, learned of his success via email while visiting relatives in India.

He says: “I was very surprised. I didn’t think I was going to win. My parents were quite happy.”

Judges Dan Freeman and Rachael Wing, both published authors, read through more than 1,000 entries to declare Atty the overall winner. His prize was a notebook computer, which was presented to him at school last week.

Headteacher Alison Campbell is very proud of his success. She says: “We knew he was a fabulous writer already but it’s lovely for him to get the accolade.

“We subscribe to SuperClubs because it provides a safe social learning environment for children.

“Atty is a very motivated little boy and his story was way out in front of the competition. He’s done really well and we’re very proud of him.”

As well as penning short stories, Atty plays cricket for Watford District, football for Nascot Wood Rangers and tennis for Cassiobury Tennis Club, which probably explains why he likes writing action stories so much.

“It’s something I like to do because I’m quite good at it. I wouldn’t write anything emotional.”

Atty’s award-winning story is about a small boy Tom who, alone in the forest encounters the last wolf in Britain.

“It’s about a boy in the woods on holiday who gets chased by some kind of an animal but he gets away in the end,” explains Atty.

“I like writing. It’s my favourite subject. I quite enjoy writing stories as I like making up stuff from my own imagination.”

For information about SuperClubsPLUS go www.superclubsplus.com

The Forest by Atherva Abhyanker

The crisp morning breeze was a welcome change to the congested and polluted London air. His family always came to Misty Treetops, a quiet village bordering the Forest. The Forest was well respected throughout the rural north of England. This was one of the last forests however, that hadn't been victimized by deforestation.

Tom loved coming to the Forest. He loved the Forest more than Mum or Dad, or his sister Julie did. He loved running about, with the wind in his hazel hair, climbing trees and making dens in secluded corners using fallen branches.

This year, he had done the same. He had emerged from his bed, raced out of the ancient inn that his family were staying in and flew into the green, mossy congregation of wildlife.

The leaves seemed to go on forever, and Tom could only see a few tree stumps, where wood had been used for bonfires. Tom climbed up his favourite tree, right in the middle of the forest, and rested on a high branch, the soft spring sunrise warming him. He watched as a bird darted off from the trees. Warning him, perhaps?

Then he heard it.

A slow, almost mournful howl, echoed around the Forest. Tom knew instantly what it was. Many had dismissed it as a myth, another stupid piece of folklore, but Tom believed it.

The Last Wolf.

The wolf population had died out in Britain, but legend had it that one wolf-cub had survived. It had lived with a family of foxes, but soon ran away. Now it prowled the countryside of England, forever searching for food.

And what better food than a ten-year-old child? Nice and big, but it didn’t have as much power as a full sized human, which made it a better pick!

Tom watched in horror as the sleek, grey mammal, its eyes full of malice and mouth dripping saliva, came to the very tree he was sitting in. Tom thought he was safe, until the wolf gripped the tree, its claws digging in, and bizarrely, began to clamber up. When it reached a branch, it leapt to the next. Then the next, and then the next.

Tom had no time to think. He dived out of the tree, and hit the rough ground rolling. He began to run. The Wolf howled and dropped down and chased. A salty liquid was running down Tom’s face, perhaps it was sweat, perhaps it was tears. It was probably both. Tom stole a quick glance at his hand, which was throbbing unusually and gasped. A huge gash from a tree branch ran the length of his lower arm. Tom felt like stopping, like giving in, but inside him, something had awoken, it wasn’t fear, it wasn’t worry. It was anger. Pure, animal anger.

“This wolf had no right to ruin my holiday” he thought.

He was going to teach the Wolf a lesson. He ran like a bullet, nearing his destination. The destination was a den he had made two years ago. It was collapsible, as Tom hadn’t made it well, and if you dislodged the right log, it would fall to the ground.

He was there. He den had a narrow entrance, just wide enough for the Wolf to enter. He turned and faced the Wolf, which had paused, waiting to strike. It pounced. In a storm of teeth, howls, cries and struggles, Tom somehow managed to pull the log as the Wolf careered into the entrance. The den collapsed, trapping the Wolf. It howled furiously, but Tom didn’t worry. He bolted towards Misty Treetops.

When he got there, he collapsed in a heap and began to cry. He was bleeding profusely, and mentally shocked, but Tom didn’t care.

He was free.