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WELCOME
What is a creative writing magazine for? Or
perhaps a better question might be: WHO is it
for?
Theres a simple answer: this creative writing magazine is
for YOU. Whoever you are.
Chess is for you if youre a student who submitted work; you
will experience the frisson which comes with seeing your
lovingly-crafted words in print. You will also, I hope, take
pleasure in reading the pieces either side of yours; do you
like the juxtaposition? Does it add something new which
hadnt occurred to you when you wrote? Or does it bring out
new colours, subtle nuances which were perhaps halfformed as you worked to make your writing as effective as it
could be?
Chess is for you if youre a teacher here you can see some
of our liveliest and most imaginative minds at work, free of
the shackles of the classroom and joyously exploring the
many possibilities that come when they put pen to paper, or
fingers to keyboard.
Chess is for you if youre a parent you might be able to
read something written by a son or daughter, or perhaps
you dont know the writers. Either way, you will, I feel sure,
join me in delighting in the sheer quality at work here.

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And Chess is for you if you just happened to pick it up, on the website or at somebodys house. If this is you, welcome to our little cosy corner of the school community. Pull up a chair, settle down and
enjoy a glorious hotchpotch of fantastic writing talent.
So here it is the inaugural issue. Well done to all those who submitted and especially to those whose fantastic pieces of writing
ended up making the final cut. The magazine goes out both in paper format and electronic copy to students, staff, parents and
friends of the school. I hope you enjoy reading the pieces that feature. I also hope that many students will be motivated to get writing
and submit their own piece of creativity for a future edition.
We are delighted that the Art Department have kindly allowed us
to complement the terrific pieces of writing with some equally
stunning pieces of art, which you will see interspersed among the
sections. Many thanks indeed to Mrs. Blythe for providing such
fantastic reproductions of there. Many thanks also to Mr. V Lakhani
for his generous assistance with the technical side of the magazine.
And thanks, finally, to all the writers and artists whose splendid
work appears in these pages.
Enjoy!

Mr. AE OSullivan
Chesham Grammar School
July 2016

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Page 4

Why is this magazine called Chess?

Is it because we really like the 1500 year old, twoplayer strategy board game played on a chequered board with 64 squares arranged in an eightby-eight grid?
No. We know our rooks from our knights and our queens
from our bishops, but well leave this particular game
to the experts. Thats not why its called Chess.

Because were big fans of the 1984 musical with

music by ABBAs Benny Andersson and Bjrn
Ulvaeus which involves a politically driven,
Cold War-era face-off between an American and
a Soviet grandmaster?
No. Much as we enjoy musical theatre from time to
time, were not so mad about it as to name a magazine after it. Thats not why its called Chess.

Because Chess is the name of the river which flows

through our Buckinghamshire town, and which is
commonly thought to give its name to the town and,
by association, our school?
Thats right. Thats why its called Chess. Its a good
name, isnt it?

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Part One: Travels in Time and Place

Mia Lund (Year 7) Were all going on a

Isabella Inga (Year 9) After-party

Amy Wells (Year 7) Marbella, Spain

10

Gabriella Rose (Year 8) The Spirit of the Place

11

Isabella Thathapudi (Year 8) Trespass

12

Hannah Williams (Year 8) Trench Diary

13

Part Two: The Dark Side

Mabel Lucas (Year 8) Trick Or Treat

16

Isabella Thathapudi (Year 8) Spooked

19

Saoirse Hinchy (Year 7) Tough to Beat

20

Karthik Govindarajan (Year 8) It Isnt Over Yet

22

Hope Wise (Year 7) The Hearts of Humans

24

Rukshia Sritharan (Year 10) Anthropomorphic

26

Louis Eikheim (Year 10) Spree: A Novel

30

Victoria Parker (Year 8) Promise

34

Roisin Kelly (Year 8) We Turned Around

36

Part Three: The Creator's Eye

Oscar Cowper (Year 8) Monotony

42

Rosie Field (Year 7) Poppies

43

Matthew Barnett (Year 7) The Inverted Lily

44

Amy Wells (Year 7) A Chef in the Kitchen

45

Ella Watson (Year 7) The Glass Sculptor

46

Izzie Kidd (Year 8) The Forgotten

47

Front cover art: Prav Simakumaran / Mr. Vee Lakhani

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Jack Whitaker (Year 13)

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PART ONE: TRAVELS IN TIME AND PLACE

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Were all going on a

If you ever decide to travel to Cornwall, these are some things youll
probably want to know. First of all, youre going to have to get up early
to avoid rush hour. Then youre going to have that difficult negotiation
of squashing everything into that tiny boot that looked at least a metre
bigger the night before.
When you finally pull away from the driveway, 45 minutes after you
were hoping to, you have that sudden rush of panic that you forgot to
turn off the lights. For the first hour, everything is OK. The kids are
plugged into their modern technology and the roads are clear. Thats
when you realize youre running low on fuel. You pull into the nearest
petrol station, and fill up the tank. Back on the road you join the two
mile tail back and the dreaded, Are we there yet? chorus kicks in.
The kids are bored and bursting for the loo, the traffic just isnt moving
and youre wondering why you bother to go on holiday every single
year.
When youre back on the move you get stuck behind a tractor going up
a winding one-way lane. Great. Then it starts to rain, and your Sat-Nav
loses signal. The map is old and faded, so all hope is lost. Up ahead
theres a service station, which you head into to get some coffee. You sit
there for a bit, listening to the rain hammer down on the roof. Once it
eases off, youre back on the road, but then one of the kids is sick and
you have to turn around and go all the way back home.
Never mind. Maybe next year.

Mia Lund (Year 7)

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After-party
The enormous mansion was situated on the outskirts of town. A tremendous marble fountain, on the most perfectly mowed lawn you have ever
seen, had been bombarded with drunken teenagers; and there was an
obvious stench of vomit everywhere. As I walked through the front door, it
hit me. The music had been turned up so loud I couldnt think, yet I could
sense a tiresome atmosphere, impending over the havoc it must nearly
be the end of the night. I snaked my way through hordes of continuous
crowds until I had found my way to the back of the house. Everywhere I
looked was rotten; there were shattered lightbulbs and broken doorframes. There were puddles everywhere, and the wet, decaying structure
of the house looked like it would collapse any second. How could anyone
survive here?
Then I saw her. She was a mess. Crouched down at the end of the corridor, cigarette stub in one hand, her head in the other. The floor around
her was littered with at least a dozen drained beer bottles and the odd
mound of shattered emerald glass. Most of the lights were switched off,
but you could still make out her ghostly, drunken features. The young
girls head was covered with lustrous, strawberry-blonde, almost golden
locks; yet I could sense they had been perfectly arranged beforehand.
You could barely make out her sunken, turquoise eyes but they still had
the angel-like glint that was distinguishable anywhere. A warm, orange,
silk shirt and mini-skirt was fitted to her bruised, broken body, and a pair
of red Louboutin heels beside her. She was wearing such warm, loving
colours in such a cold, dank, morbid place. She was too young to be treated like this, like me. She has her whole life ahead of her, but had chosen
the one path she would forever regret mine.

Isabella Inga (Year 9)

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Marbella, Spain
As we walked bare-footed along the hot, crowded streets of Marbella, the
sun scorched our backs and necks whilst we looked around. We had only
been in this country for (nearly) an hour and we still hadnt found the
apartment we were renting. It felt like hours walking along the sunheated, marble paths passing shop by shop. Restaurant by restaurant. We
had no choice, but to sit down in an outside ice-cream shop called La Fabrica. There was nothing I could do except to sit down out of the beaming
rays of the sun, eating an ice-cold mango sorbet, or to moan the whole
journey about how hot it was, then to still end up sitting down out of the
beaming rays of the sun, eating an ice-cold mango sorbet.
Of course we had a hard time ordering the ice cream because the waiter
was Spanish. Buenos dias, Senior and Senioritas! was what he seemed to
say every time he came over to check if we needed the bill. Finally we
finished up and left. As we started our journey to find our apartment, we
noticed a group of African men selling knick-knacks such as sunglasses,
bags and bracelets. Even selfie sticks. Eventually we found our destination. It was a grand and very tall building, painted pale yellow (it reminded me of sand) with big, bold, navy blue letters spelling SKOL. It was obvious it was our hotel because I found myself heading towards it.
Hours later, we were all settled on the balcony watching the tide come in
and the boats starting to head to the harbour. It was an astonishing view
from where we were. Watching the fading sun drop slowly downwards
like a spider descending downwards on a fine thread. It was a great feeling, the wind in my face and hair. To feel it flapping my clothes and my
hair in a cool evening breeze. You could almost taste the salt in the sparkling, turquoise ocean. The smell of barbeques on the sandy beach and,
faintly, the chlorine from the large pool below. No-one made a sound. It
was like the whole world had gone silent just for this occasion. I love the
way the Spanish people come to life in the evening, refreshed from their
afternoon siesta.

Amy Wells (Year 7)

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The Spirit of the Place

Walking down that road again was like travelling into the past back
to that fateful day. The empty streets, where children once played,
were now eerily quiet as if even the wind was too afraid to blow. In this
forgotten town, where laughter used to ring through the air like bells
there is now only dust and the dark remnants of grand buildings. Why
did it have to come to this? The world asks itself such question, but noone is brave enough to answer.
I stopped my walk outside an old park where a broken swing was
swaying mournfully back and forth. Yet, there was no wind; not even
the whisper of a breeze. Another entity perhaps, the memory of all of
the death and destruction that took place here. A memory waiting for
some recognition, for someone to step forwards and honour all those
who had to die for a dishonourable cause; waiting for someone to care.
We wont move forward. Well just continue to let this broken town
and all of our mistakes haunt us until someone demolishes whatever is
left in an attempt to remove this ugly scar from our history. It will fade,
but scars never disappear completely.
Gabriella Rose (Year 8)

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Trespass
As our tiny, helpless excuse for a boat floated silently through
a curtain of miserable, grey darkness, everything seemed as
though it had been awakened from a deep, peaceful slumber.
The trees, draped in a blanket of sunlight, gave us a menacing
stare, as the impertinent breeze nipped at my skin. The wind
began a haunting whisper an almost sweet, whistling sound
that soon faded down a long path to nowhere. Plants began to
sway, as though they were attempting to lead us in the wrong
direction. We were trespassing in Mother Natures territory.
Although everything was constantly alive and moving, it all
seemed still. Not a peaceful still an uncomfortable still. The
sort of still that makes you think someone is watching you.
There was a slight chill in the atmosphere. The disturbed ripples of water gently yet cunningly drifted us away from the forest, only to be disappointed by the strength of our oars, pulling us back in again. The huge willow tree that stood in the
middle of the clearing grew even more melancholy. Leaves
rustled, as though frustrated. The air rang with anger and sadness. It did not take long for it to drive us away.
Isabella Thathapudi (Year 8)

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Trench Diary
Dear diary,
My frostbitten fingers tremble as I write this. They are blue and I cant feel
them. Many of us here will not live another day, never wake up again. Its
just nearing blackness but I will not sleep. It is the fear that keeps me
awake, the fear that I wont see the beautiful world again. The birds are
chirping their lullaby to drift my friends away. Its funny that they still sing
in the trees, in the middle of a horrid war.
We soldiers have every illness you can get. But our helmets protect our
heads to keep us sane. I dont want to die, Diary. Im only 20. Sorry about
you getting wet. I cant contain the river that is forming in my eyes. Ill
weep forever, forever remember this. I think I can hear Tom crying
now. I want to go and comfort the young soldier and tell him everythings
all right. But if I said that I would be lying to my best friend so I wont.
There were four attacks today. I want to stick my head over the top of this
pit. To see all my men that died for their country. If anything I want to die
like them. I already have one shiny medal. Its ribbon is in the English flag.
I wear it proudly in battle and I know that, with this, God will keep me
safe.
How everyone wishes in the trenches. I wish that I will see my parents
again. Tom wishes that he will see his Joy again. He showed me a picture
of her and she is beautiful. I wonder if Fritz feels the same. They are people too. Just like us. There will never be another war like this. I hope that
we are Germanys friends when I am older. If I get old that is, and survive
this petrifying war. I walked over to Tom just now and put my arm on his
shoulder. Dont cry, old boy, I whisper, and he says, Im not crying,
Sam. Hay fever. We share a laugh.

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We tell stories and jokes for a while and then sleep engulfs us whole and
in the morning I wake up. Im still here! And I shake Tom vigorously but
he wont move. HELP! I cry. I dont have hay fever. Im crying tears.
Theyre falling down my mucky uniform. Sergeant Tibbs comes over to
me and pulls me away from my friend. I try to fight against him but hes
bigger, too strong. I feel like a child, powerlessness overwhelms me as
two men carry Tom away. Tibbs tries to comfort me but nothing works so
he leaves my behind lines and lets me rest. I cry my eyes out sitting there
in the sunset. It was a crisp and sunny day but I was hardly happy.
Then the firing starts and I get up ready for action. Fritz killed my mate; Ill
kill him. My rifle fires. Im doing well until I feel a sharp pain in my head. I
fall and then I know Im injured. Tibbs looks over, drops his gun and runs
to me. He lifts my fringe and looks at the wound. Stay strong, Sam, he
whispers in to my ear. Then he carries me to the hospital room and places
me on a bed. The doctors run around me and I know Ive got no hope. The
last thing I see is a doctor and Tibbs peering over me and then black.
But I wake up. Theres a bandage round my head and it half-covers my
eye. I squint to see. Theres a man coming towards me. Tibbs, its Tibbs!
Sam! We thought you were dead, he smiles and I smile back. Then he
produces something from his pocket. I found these In Toms pocket. It
didnt feel right to take them but he showed me a medal and a picture.
It was Joy and the medal was Toms. Tibbs pinned the string to my uniform
and put Joy in my Pocket. Youll live to see another day, said Tibbs and I
knew he was right. Thank you, I said.
And, for the first time in the War, I felt happy.

Hannah Williams (Year 8)

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PART TWO: THE DARK SIDE

Hannah Whitaker (Year 13)

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Trick or Treat
They made their way joyfully across the dark cobbled pavement, examining
their nights haul. Belinda and Johanna had been trick-or-treating earlier that
evening and theyd had great success in robbing the inhabitants of the nearest
houses of most of their Halloween supplies. They were just on their way to a costume competition in the centre of the graveyard with high hopes of attaining the
top prize for Spookiest Costume: a jar full of their very favourite sweets. After
spending two hours the previous night sewing, cutting and fraying their ghoulish attire and the same amount of time that night slaving over each others faces,
each plastering the other with whites and greys and deep sticky reds, they had
created horrific, warped, gaunt versions of themselves littered with patches of
rotting flesh. They were zombies. The shaggy hems of their thick cloaks
brushed the glistening floor as their high-heeled shoes made contact with the
ground and the sound of metal on stone resounded into the surrounding heavy,
ominous darkness which always seemed to come on Halloween night. As their
footsteps harmonised they made their way across the still night in silence.
Isnt it thoroughly disconcerting how one moment everything can be fine and
the next your world has been flipped and, in a second, you are in mortal danger? This was Belindas later thought as she watched her sister fall suddenly to
the ground like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. But before Belinda,
shocked into the silence and rooted to the spot, could begin to aid her motionless sister, Johannas splayed figure suddenly sat up, rigid and straight.
Slowly, the bones in her neck cracked and shattered as her zombified head
twisted sickeningly in a full 180 degree rotation. Her head still back to front, she
got up, her unseeing eyes still fixed upon Belinda. As Belinda looked into her
sisters eyes she no longer saw the warmth and laughter that was held inside
them. They were cold and soulless. She knew that this was not her sister.
Belinda fled. She flew through the forest towards the graveyard, the leaves
brushing her face and the trees gnarled fingers grabbing her backcombed
hair. Then she heard more movement beside her and there was her sister; she
had followed her without making as much as a rustle on the forest floor. Her feet
seemed to glide across the woodland debris as she ploughed onwards towards
her prey.
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But she was not alone. Equally grotesque figures emerged from the shadows and exposed themselves to the light of the full moon that filtered
through the leaves. There was now no way out. Belinda and the zombies
had reached the steel gate sectioning off the village graveyard and the
latter were closing in, a look of hunger glinted red in their dull eyes.
Belinda screamed. Her voice combined with the twelve chimes of the
nearby clock tower to make an eerie, piercing noise which they seemed
to absorb. The sound of pure terror was feeding their very souls. Belinda
fell, defeated, to the floor and closed her flooding eyes, clear warm and
salty tears rolled down her rotted cheeks.
Then the last sound that she ever expected to hear reached her ears:
laughter. Her friends fell about laughing as they pulled off their masks,
looked thoroughly thrilled with themselves. Realisation suddenly dawned
upon Belinda: It had been a prank!
Her friends helped her up and they walked home together, arm in arm.
How did you do it? Belinda asked. She was itching to know, it had all
seemed so real.
Do what?
Well, Johannas head of course! tutted Belinda impatiently. I saw it turn
one hundred and eighty degrees! Where is she anyway?
Johanna? We didnt know that she was with you. She certainly wasnt with
us.
But then ? Belinda and the others looked around. Fear settled upon the
group like an icy blanket. They all instinctively huddled closer together
like a pack, jerking twitchily around at the slightest rustle.
You mean to say, began Belinda, that you dont remember her being
with you at all?
Her friends silence was all she needed to know.
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A hoarse, ancient voice spoke to them. The panic-stricken group began

to look at each other now, for the voice seemed to be coming from the
centre of their midst. It had begun a haunting chant, every ghostly word
engraved in their brains for eternity:

You mock us with make-up and masks

But all the while you help with the task
That we complete each Halloween night:
To possess a human and cause a fright.
The girl has truly done us proud:
She whipped us up a terrified crowd.
But since she now has sold her soul,
To let us next attain our goal
Her weakened frame will never now be whole.
Upon that last icy word Johannas delicate shape came into view. Her
once-golden and flowing locks were now matted and glued to her scalp
by old blood. The make-up was now all gone but her face no longer
looked much different. Parts of torn shadow were quickly rising from her
body. The ghost that had taken up residence within her body was leaving her.
Johannas body never moved again. Her eyes would never again look
upon her sisters face. Never again would they hold warmth and laughter.

Mabel Lucas (Year 8)

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Spooked
Night was closing in. A thick blanket of mist hung over the endless rows
of what remained of the houses, enclosing them in dense clouds of darkness. The moon was a glistening diamond against a dusty, coal-black
sky. The only sounds were the sounds of silence. The village was isolated. All one could see outside was miles and miles of a purple, moonlit,
desolate landscape, trapped in a world of emptiness. It soon became
clear that no-one lived here. That meant no places where we could stay
for the night. I knew this expedition was a terrible idea.
As we lethargically trudged down the never-ending road of darkness,
something quite extraordinary stopped us in our tracks. A gigantic monster, frowning down upon its victims from its great height. The few bricks
visible beneath a robe of ever-growing ivy were a faded black the colour of a cloudy night sky. They had been worn away by perhaps years of
rain and storms. The crooked roof, hanging on for dear life, seemed like
it would collapse at any moment. The windows (the ones that werent
shattered) had become a murky green colour. This house was slowly falling apart. However, despite its decrepit appearance, it still seemed
majestic. Something that would send chills down the spine of even the
bravest of souls, which I certainly wasnt. When I pressed my nose
against the window, all I could see, past a surface of grime and my own
ice-cold, cloudy breath, was a curtain of darkness, cobwebs and dust.
We only really had one choice. We had to knock on the door.

Isabella Thathapudi (Year 8)

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Tough to Beat
The moon was on fire and the trees were screaming at the sight of it. It was
like my surroundings were emitting a poison and it was clawing at anything that moved. Never would there be clean air. Never would I truly live
again.
The ground surrounding the forest were nothing but pits of mist and unknown terror. Eyes from nowhere, howls supposedly from the wind and
breaths creeping down your back were only the smallest of your worries.
This was a devils hell.
Let off with no torture but to be trapped in a world of endless fear and
hope turning to dust. You thought you would be free? No, there were trees
in orderly lines, only to step out and trip you up and the drum of a heart
beating in your mind going round and round eternally. Only a mind so
powerful and evil would create such a place.
If one went to the edge of such a hell, one would see what used to be their
paradise. Lands of flowing green meadows and clear water, a rare occurrence in the nightmarish land behind you. The trees would sing melodies
so sweet you could laugh, and the sun would never stop beaming down,
apart from when it was replaced by a sky of stars and glowing planets. But
turn around and there would be the land of eternal darkness, a place with
dying trees and pits of death. This was not your average nightmare.
If you dare run your fingers over the once-blooming flowers surrounding
the trees, you would first feel the strange texture, which was like shrivelled-up skin. Until you felt spikes of poison running through your body. It
would be more painful than 1000 bee stings why, it would be more like
the pain was travelling through your body, playing games with your heart,
until it struck and took the final blow.

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The whole world was terrifying and it was a dungeon. You were playing a
game. But you werent the players, hell played you and hes a tough player to beat. You were simply an ingredient which was placed in the furnace
and was left to burn. If you tried hard enough, you could sometimes hear
screams. Perhaps they were your own.
Saoirse Hinchy (Year 7)

Michael McCorry-Avila (Year 12)

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It Isnt Over Yet

When I was younger there was a ravaged building at the bottom of our cryptic street. All of the kids in the area kept well away from it, because the rumour was that it was hexed. The concrete walls of the old two-story building
were cracked and crumbling. The windows were shattered and shards of
glass fall every time it is sunny.
One evening as a test of courage, Tom (my best friend) and I decided to explore the creepy old place. We climbed in through a dusty, decaying window
at the back of the building. The whole place was filthy, there was a thick
green fog blanketing then entire room and the decaying wooden floor board;
it was a death trap. As we hiked ourselves out of the room we looked up and
dismayed to see that someone had written the words: I am Dead. On the wall
which was crumbling faster than King Tuts body. Probably just some teenagers, I muttered.
Yeah, probably replied Tom.
We explored more of the rooms on the ground floor. In a room that appeared
to have once been a kitchen of enigma, we found more writing on the wall.
I am in a room upstairs.
We walked up the creating stairs to the second floor. I led the way valiantly
with Tom following close behind. After a while Tom was starting to get a bit
jittery.
When we came to the top of the stairs, we turned left and walked cautiously
down the dark narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway was a closed door
with some more ominous writing.
You will find me in this room.
By now my friend was shaking with fear. To be honest I was quite creeped out
too, but it was too late to turn back now.
I gently turned the handle and the strident door creaked open. We stepped
in the room and found it completely empty. There were two closed doors on
both sides. There was more creepy writing on the wall.
My head is on the left and the body is on the right.

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As soon as my friend saw this, he completely lost his nerve. He screamed

like a little girl in those old black and white horror movies. He turned and
tried to run luckily I caught hold of his arm. But his itchy rigid jumper was
causing a bit of friction. I had no choice but let go. He fled out through the
open door. I heard his feet moving frantically.
I held my ground. I was determined to be brave and overcome my fear.
Mustering all my courage, I opened the door on the right and walked inside cautiously. I walked to the other side of the room and on the wall
written in tiny letters were four words.
My body is underneath.
I looked down at the floor. I was standing on some more writing on the
floorboards. I stepped back and saw more words.
My head is coming from the room behind you, Turn around.
I head the door behind me creak, I quickly turned. There was an anonymous figure moving vividly. Suddenly something rolled into the room and
came to a rest against my feet.
It was Toms severed head.
His dead, dun eyes seemed to stare at me. Screaming in horror, I flung
myself out through the eroding open window and fell two stories to the
ground.
I landed on my side breaking my arm. In agonising pain, I ran home
weeping and yelling for my parents.
The police were called and they investigated the old ravaged building. At
first, they found nothing. There wasnt even any writing on the walls anymore. They combed the house top to bottom, but didnt find any traced of
Tom.
Just as I left the building, I heard a deep petrifying voice whisper: It isnt
over yet.

Karthik Govindarajan (Year 8)

Page 24

The Hearts of Humans

The sun disappeared over the dimming horizon. The night pounced, a beast
waiting to swallow the darkening world. There were no stars, no glimmers
of any hope that wasnt about to be consumed by shadows. A dense layer of
grey fog covered my feet in a veil of ice-cold vapour. The only was provided by a full moon, the eye of the heavens. However even that was obscured
by clouds. The gravestones cast long, disfigured shadows over the cracked
earth, and the trees were like tong, gnarled limbs, reaching, grabbing. For
me. Death hung in the air, a blanket of gloom. On the path trailing through
the tombs, like blood seeping from a wound, was a large splash of something horrifically Vermillion, dried to the cobblestone, a constant reminder
of the war that raged here a millennia ago.
The church at the far end of the grounds loomed in the distance. Its roof was
caved in, rotten with the many years gone by. The windows held little glass
and the leftover fragments were sharp daggers, weapons to the night. The
door was sending groans echoing across the vast, empty plains. It swung off
one hinge, clinging, with any strength left in it, to the frame that was like a
mother to it; supporting and caring for the decaying wood. I could smell the
spine-tingling aroma of putrefying flesh. It filled my lungs, blocking them
for all eternity, as fear raked its icy fingers down my spine and beat a terrifying rhythm on my heart.
I took a tentative step forward, only to find my face covered in sticky, silvery
strands that reflected the dying moonlight like knives would reflect blood. I
clawed at my face, panicked, confused. I couldn't see, ear or breathe and it
paralysed me with ever-growing terror. Suddenly was free and relief
washed over me. I opened my eyes, in the hope this nightmare would end,
but was still in the same isolated, derelict graveyard. The tombs seemed to
loom larger, more prominent shapes in the dark whiteness of the mist. The
church, however, seemed so much further away, like I was destined to never reach it. Always moving; forever stationary.

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A spider crept over an especially derelict stone, minute, darting in the

cracks. The night was so deadly silent, I could hear its tiny feet scuttling
across the once-smooth marble. The only sound that truly overwhelmed the
tapping was my own heart, thundering like a shadowy horse, creating a
path of chaos in its wake. The putrid scent of rot, decay and fear was overpowering, knocking me almost off my feet. I felt the familiar panic-stricken
horror as my vision was obscured by layers of shadow and mystery. I could
almost taste the death; it lingered in my mouth, everlasting.
The hellish wilderness was swallowing me. The shadows were claws, monsters that forced their way down my throat, possessing me with wild horror.
The church was staring at me with its cold, heartless eyes, showing no mercy. The skeletons of once-vivacious trees were now broken, passed over
into the next life of death. The crypts were the hearts of humans some
shrivelled and dead, some of life and immaculate. The velvety firmament
was dark, like a black hole wanting to swallow anything that was foolish
enough to challenge its immense power. The moon was a glimmering eye,
the watcher of the world, the seer of all. Glittering in the sky, thousands of
tiny fireflies soared and then promptly died, their
light fading to leave everything under them in
shadow.
Hope Wise (Year 7)

Julius Little (Year 12)

Page 26

Anthropomorphic

(Ascribing human form or attributes to a being or thing that is not considered human)

This is the 7th case, isn't it? Constable John asked, turning to his companion, who was staring at the dead body on the floor almost as if in a
trance. The body was at least a couple of hours old, and dried blood covered the remains of his white shirt.
Indeed, said Constable Poppins, looking up and covering his face with
a white handkerchief to mask the odour of death hanging in the air.
The sun was beginning to set, and the sky looked a pale peach compared
to its usual vibrancy. The air was cold, with the evening breeze sending
chills down the constable's spine. The sound of the police sirens pierced
the air and the sound of murmuring shoppers passing by had reduced to
a ghastly silence.
The crime scene was too horrific to describe. A limp body was found on
the floor, propped up against the garbage disposal bin, flies buzzing
around the open flesh wound across his chest. It was missing the chambers of the heart and the valves had been chewed at savagely. A pinkishgrey lung had collapsed into where the heart should have been. There
were professionals photographing the wound at various angles whilst the
van was being readied to take the lifeless form to the autopsy room. Forensic scientists on the scene immediately start taking samples of blood
from wherever they could. The detectives were also searching around
for any clues or objects that the offender had left behind.
I don't understand, Constable Poppins said. The culprit seems like he
has no desire to cause any damage
He paused.
Well, as little as possible beyond ripping their heart out. His intention
seems different. In every case we've dealt with so far, only the heart has
been taken from each victim. But why? he wondered aloud.
Page 27

Constable John didn't react to this, but instead, let out a sigh and walked
out from the alleyway. The constables were met by the shoppers and bystanders, restrained by the crime scene tape. Reporters talked over each
other, trying to dispatch their news story to the public. Like a moth to a
flame, they immediately swarmed around the two constables as they
tried to exit.
Excuse me, Constables! Any news that you could give us?
Constable John, a few words, please?
Constable, can we know more about what happened?
Constable Poppins sighed irritably and Constable John pushed his way
past people, trying to get to his police car. Constable Poppins followed,
swatting away the microphones shoved into their faces and they both got
back to the police car.
We can deal with this case tomorrow, Constable Poppins. We'll get the
results back from the forensic department and we can carry on investigating and catching this perp.
Constable John sighed and Constable Poppins agreed. The car started
up, and they drove away from the crime scene.
Shall I get the previous cases up for you so we can look at that tomorrow? Constable Poppins offered. Constable John nodded. The car wass
silent for a few moments before Constable John spoke up.
Shall we go out for dinner? Its been a long night.
John turned the bend and braked sharply. Both constables surged forward before being thrown back by the seatbelt into their seats.
They saw a young girl on her own, standing in the middle of the street.
The constables gave each other a look of confusion before Constable
Poppins got out of the car and walked towards the girl.
She looked no older than seven. Her hair was in pigtails, tied together
with pink ribbon, which had drooped downwards scruffily. She wore a
Page 28

peach pinafore dress with a plain light yellow top inside it. She had her
light pink ballet flats in her hand, but had on her yellow stockings, the
bottoms wet from walking on the damp tarmac underfoot.
Hello, do you need any help? the constable asks softly, looking down
at the girl, trying to look friendly and comforting, not wanting to scare
her away. She had been crying; her eyes were swollen and her cheeks
were flushed red.
I-I-I'm lost, she said and she breaks down crying again. She was softspoken but her accent was thick. Her hand curled into her palm whist
the other gripped onto her shoes tighter.
Okay, calm down. I'm a police officer. I can help you get home to your
mummy and daddy, the constable said gently. He crouched down and
he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
T-Thank you...
The constable smiled at her.
No problem. Now, tell me where you live, he said.
I live on 33 Marlborough Street, she said.
But we're on Marlborough Street...
Can you walk with me until I get home? It's scary, she pleaded. He
nodded.
John, could you park the car there for a second? Ill be right back.
Constable John nods and reverses the car before driving away to find a
parking spot. The constable and the little girl began to walk away and
the constable looked around for a quick surveillance of the area. Everything seemed to be in order but after tonights ordeals, the fragile silence had made him restless. The walk down Marlborough Lane was
silent, yet ominous. The sounds of their footsteps were pounding inside
the constables head. His eyes were flittering around nervously, and his
palms were sweating. His heart was thumping. His mind was racing. The
Page 29

girl suddenly tugged at his sleeve and he averts his gaze to the alley she
was pointing at.
I live down there, she said.
He walked in the direction of the alley in front of the girl to check for anything suspicious. He saw a shining gold pendant and he crouches down to
inspect it. His fingers wrapped around the cool surface of the pendant, he
placed it into the pouch with his gun. Then the constable felt a poke on his
shoulder. He looked up to see the little girl smiling at him, before her expression turns demonic. Her teeth glinted in the moonlight.
Just a minute later, the girl walked away as if nothing had happened.
Rukshia Sritharan (Year 10)

Catherine Turner (Year 13)

Page 30

Spree: A Novel
CHAPTER I: ONCE UPON A TIME IN ENGLAND
Farseer Manor, Lancashire Street, Yorkshire, England, 1925
Annabelle Higgins was a small girl when she died. She was only seven years
old. She had had bright blonde curls that fell below her small forehead and
possessed the most beautiful, shining, India green eyes that would make
even the most well made dolls jealous. That is, if they could be jealous. The
young girl glanced around her room, admiring it; the olive green wallpaper,
dark oak bed with a white cloth cover, the butter-coloured carpet, the black
curtains and the beautifully crafted chest in the corner of the room filled with
her toys.
Annabelle, do come down and have your supper, else it shall get cold! Annabelles nanny, Catherine Sanders, called, her voice echoing up the stairs.
Wordlessly, Annabelle sprung to her feet, her white frock decorated with
pink and yellow flowers whirling around her, leaving the dolls that she had
previously been playing with motionless on the floor in a heap to be played
with later. She bounded out of the door of her lavishly decorated bedroom
and flew down the stairs to join her nanny in the dining room, where the butler, Daniel Forbes, was just finishing laying the patterned table cloth and setting the cutlery and plates. A single blue hydrangea had been put in a vase
and completed the look.
vegetables, a gravy boat, lightly roasted potatoes, a lemon cake and a crystal pitcher of water to match the one already on the table.
He gave her a pleasant smile and bowed slightly before pulling out a
chair so Annabelle could clamber up onto it, pushing it back in when she
was comfortable and tucking a serviette into the hem of the girls frock so
it covered her front.

Page 31

Daniel The little girl peered up at her manservant.

Yes, Miss Annabelle? The butlers smooth cockney accent rang through
the large hall as he poured water into her glass.
When is mummy getting home?
Daniel hesitated. Shell, uh, be back soon, Miss Annabelle.
Annabelle, seemingly satisfied with the response, nodded happily and
turned back to the table. Okay.
All three occupants of the room turned to the door as the Lawrence the
cook barged in, pushing a long trolley just ahead of him, its surface laden
with steaming food; roast beef, boiled Annabelle smiled to herself,
breathing deeply, inhaling the smell of food, the sweetness on the topping of the cake, the cloying honeyed smell of the onions in the gravy.
The smoke seemingly rose off the whole trolley itself.
Lawrence twirled one end of his magnificent moustache before taking a
deep bow and declaring in his thick Irish accent, Dinner...is served.
Lawrence took a large ladle and spooned some potatoes and vegetables
onto Annabelles plate and some thick slices of beef before pouring some
of the deep brown gravy over the whole thing. He presented her with a
knife and fork, a patronising smile plastered over his face. Miss Higgins.
Annabelle snatched the cutlery from Lawrence and began eating quickly,
shoveling food into her mouth.
Catherine smiled at her, enjoying the simplicity of which Annabelles life
consisted.

Page 32

***
Three hours later

Annabelles eyes sprung open, bringing the deep sleep she had been in to a
swift end. She slowly sat up, wiping the sleep away from her eyes, and,
clutching the moth-eaten old teddy bear her mother had given her - or rather
that Catherine had got for her to present to her daughter - made her way
slowly over to the large bay window on the other side of her room, peering
into the darkness outside. She couldnt see anything out the window save the
black outlines of trees and the stables positioned at the bottom of the garden.
She placed a hand on a pane, but snatched it back instantly as the water that
had condensed on the inside touched her hand. She shivered, wiping her
hand on her white and pale blue nightgown. She sighed quietly to herself,
turning around and walking slowly back towards her bed, dragging her doll
along behind her. She pushed the plush cream carpet she was stood on between her toes, enjoying the softness of the material. She paused as she heard
a sound behind her, and turned back around. Her eyes widened and she
screamed, the bear dropping from her grasp and bouncing on the floor beside her.
***
Catherine dashed up the stairs, smacking into the door headfirst. She
groaned, rubbing the spot on her head where it had impacted into the wooden door. She shook her head to clear the spots from her vision and grabbed
the iron door handle, pushing it open forcefully and screaming, a hand
clasped over her mouth as she saw Annabelles body lying, motionless on the
floor, blood leaking from the gash across her throat and the scars covering
her once beautiful face, spilling onto the ground. The blood covered her
gown and spattered across the floor and the immediate wall around her.
Catherine fell backwards onto the wall, her vision going blurry as Daniel
sprinted up, pausing in the doorway to yell, Lawrence!, before moving over
to Annabelles corpse, gathering her up in his arms.
He bit back a sob, gawping down at the young girls face. The manservant
cleared his throat, but yelled out in shock and fear as Annabelle wheezed and
her eyes focused on Daniels face.
Page 33

She tried to reach up to him. Da--

Blood gurgled out of her mouth and ran down her chin and onto her
dress.
Catherine bent double and threw up all over the floor, retching until her
throat was sore, tears stinging the back of her eyes, sweaty locks of hair
clinging onto her before hurrying over to Annabelles body, tears
streaming down her face. Annabelle She could barely get the little
girls name out. Her voice was breaking from crying and her eyes were
bloodshot and red. She stared down at Annabelle, dying in Daniels arms,
the tears making their way slowly down her cheeks as she remembered
all the happy times that they had had together: Meeting her for the first
time when she was hired; Catherine teaching the little girl how to ride a
horse; taking her to London for her first trip to anywhere but the grounds
around her house. Annabelles eyes fluttered as she tried to focus on
Catherine, but it was too late. Annabelle Higgins was dead.
Louis Eikheim (Year 10)

Page 34

Promise
Stupid. Ugly. Worthless.
Those are the words that I see in the graffiti that has messed up the walls
along the pier. Thats probably not what the graffiti actually says, but I can
barely think straight nowadays, what with all the rumours flying around and
accusations being pointed in my direction, jabbing me in the side whenever I turn the corner in the corridors at school.
I grip the iron bars with my hands, the sharp edges of the peeling black
paint poking at my skin. Leaning over the edge, dangerously close to toppling over, I watch the strong current crash against the supports of the
boardwalk. I definitely wont survive if I jump.
What are you doing, love?
I spin around and see an old man sitting on a bench behind me.
N-nothing, I stammer.
Well, come away from that bar. We dont want you falling over the edge
now, do we?
Of c-course n-not, I reply. If only he could see the thoughts running
through my brain. I look back down at the sea, take a deep breath, and
walk away. The old man smiles at me as I walk off. I still cant think straight
though. The sea air makes my head feel fuzzy. The graffiti catches my eye
once again.
Stupid. Ugly. Worthless.
Before I know what Im doing, Im sprinting back to the end of the pier, my
heart racing, my head pounding. The cold nights air stings my warm
cheeks. The iron bars get closer and closer. Finally, I am within arms
reach.

Page 35

I imagine the wind rushing through my hair as it trails above me and I

feel the foam of the waves wrap around my ankles. I imagine plunging
into the water.
I imagine sinking to the bottom. I let out my last shaking breath and feel
my life slip away, then I open my arms and embrace death.
Thats when I realise that I wont keep my promise. Because Ive just
changed my mind.

Victoria Parker (Year 8)

Meggie Pendered (Year 12)

Page 36

We Turned Around
I could have sworn I had gone to bed, last night, so how could this feel so real? I'm almost certain that nightmares aren't so accurately detailed, and absolutely definite that faces nor objects can be seen, yet how is it so difficult to
believe?
It began with desire for entertainment. Boredom had overcome me and
where better to receive satisfaction than the study? The best way to assist my
rest is with a distraction. I remembered the gradually stacking up pile of letters waiting to be stamped, and so that's just what I did. Seconds went by.
Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. I still
couldn't relax! I knew something wasn't quite right, but I couldn't figure out
what. I decided to just stay focussed and carry on working. It didn't scare me.
I was used to working in the dark, anyway. I mean, stuck in the middle of a
forest with no light but candles, you kinda get used to it. It still doesn't solve
the problem of being here alone in that huge house in the middle of a forest,
though. That, you don't get quite so used to.
I had got through all the letters but one. One discoloured, old looking, letter.
It looked completely out of place with the other clean-white letters. It could
just be decoration, I thought. I told myself that I'm almost done and it won't be
long now, but some part of me didn't want to stop. I liked the distraction. It
made me feel like I wasn't alone and then it made me think of my mother,
when she used to do this with me. She would stamp them and hand them to
me to put into the delivery bag. She used to tell me stories, as we worked, to
cure the boredom.
All these thoughts strived me onwards. I opened the last queer looking letter,
had my hand out to grab the stamp, when in the corner of my eye, I noticed a
name on it. It read:
explored the possibilities of what could have happened to him, but nobody
truly holds the answer. She told me that he could have a bit too much to drink
sometimes, and often came home drunk and confused. That was one theory,
that he had gone out to drink afterwards and got confused so something happened. There wasn't a proper ending to that one even though it was probably
the most realistic.
Page 37

Dear Mr. A. Jenkins,

It has been brought to my attention that the Post Office bills have not yet
been paid nor accepted.
I needed to read no more than that to understand what had happened. I
glanced at the writer's name at the bottom of the page, reading Lord Henry Walker. Mother had told me that A. Jenkins (I assume, Allan Jenkins)
was my Grandfather's brother. She had said that one day he went to deliver the letters, after stamping the post, and never returned. Some of her
many stories explored the possibilities of what could have happened to
him, but nobody truly holds the answer. She told me that he could have a
bit too much to drink sometimes, and often came home drunk and confused. That was one theory, that he had gone out to drink afterwards and
got confused so something happened. There wasn't a proper ending to
that one even though it was probably the most realistic.
The other possibilities were all sorts of crazy things, like being haunted
by a previous owner of this building. It used to be a post office, a very
long time ago. It must have been about the time of his death that they decided that they couldn't afford to keep it. Grampa loved it dearly and he
wasn't exactly keen on the idea of giving it up, so he kept one job: stamping and delivering. The trouble was, like I said, it's a huge house in the
middle of a forest and so the walk is long, but I guess it keeps me fit and
busy.
Anyway, from what I know, nobody knew of the matter that the post office
was in debt so I presume it's never been paid, but how come I haven't
heard anything? That letter couldn't have been recently delivered. It was
ripped and clearly discoloured from age.

Page 38

Morning was creeping up on me. I put the letter to one side and in doing
so, I saw that it wasn't the same postage number as the others in the stack. It
really wasn't surprising but it was reassuring to know that it was definitely
old. I stepped towards the book shelf and lay the letter on a fallen book, No
Returns. For some odd reason, at that point after reading the title, a spinetingling shiver went through me. It was a peculiar sensation which left me
thinking about Mr. Jenkins' no return and wondered if it was just a coincidence that a title of a book which I happened to place the letter on could
have such a strong link with the story behind it.
Peering at the old oak grandfather clock in the corner of the study, I read
the time to be 5:30. Where had time gone? Seconds no longer felt like
minutes. Seconds felt like milliseconds. Minutes felt like seconds. Hours felt
like minutes. I had no time to be wasting it. I needed to leave right away to
deliver them. After being reminded of this story, it made me feel anxious.
What if the same happened to me? No, what are you talking about? For a
start, I don't drink. Nor do I own a Post Office in debt.
I set off with my bag clutched in my left arm, as usual. The ten mile walk out
of the forest somehow felt much shorter this morning. Maybe because I ran.
Past every whispering tree, I ran. Past every crunching leaf, I ran. Past every lingering creature, I ran. Once every guardian of the forest was out of
sight, I steadied my pace into a slow jog. In fact they werent guardians.
Guardians are protectors which means that they were protectors of the forest, but they werent protecting anything. Quite the opposite actually. It
wasnt them I was afraid of. I was afraid of the unknown. Not knowing what
would happen when I return home, if I ever did.

Page 39

Houses were coming into sight, now. I could see the first delivery stop: Mrs
Dawkins dainty little cottage on the corner. Cooper, Mrs Dawkins dog, was
barking at me as per usual. He acted all cute and innocent in front of her, but
to me, he was a pest. Ive never had much luck with pets. I like them but they
just dont seem to show much affection to me. Its typical, bark at the postman, every other dog does it. Old Postie wont mind. Well I do! Im fed up
with it! I felt like shouting at the dog but I didnt want to get on Dawkins bad
side. I mean, when youre nice to her (and Cooper), shes a lovely lady, chatty and kind and caring but get on her bad side, I dont even want to go there.
Ive heard that she once banned the Milk Man from dropping the bottles
right by the door and ringing the bell as it meant that she had to wake up
early from her beauty sleep to collect the bottles. Apparently, she told him
to drop it off at the top of her driveway so that she could collect it in her own
time when shes awake. Mini Cooper didnt like it either, he got woken up
too. Haha, thats my nickname for the pest. Hes a very large dog so mini
Cooper is just a joke I have.
I made it past the dog quite alright and stayed on Mrs Dawkins good side
but my work wasnt done. The letters wouldnt post themselves, unfortunately! Every corner I passed was another one off the list. Until, finally my work
was done. There were a couple of dogs on my journey but they seemed
much calmer than Cooper, and a few cats. They are the worst! If I breathe,
they start chasing me with their sharp claws ready to pounce and attack, but
they kept their distance. Although their eyes were locked on me every step I
slowly took, they remained where they were.
My journey through the forest was approaching soon. One step further and
the evil guardians would begin their quest to catch me, again. So I ran. Past
every whispering tree, I ran. Past every crunching leaf, I ran. Past every lingering creature, I ran. When I got back home, I swiftly ran through the door
and made sure it was locked. I ran to the study, the bag trailing behind me.
By this point, I felt more relaxed. Home again. I peered at the blood-stained
letter on the shelf and I'm sure I felt a chill in the air straight after. No, what
am I thinking? It's just a letter, it won't hurt me. I tried to calm myself down. I
told myself what I wanted to hear, not what I needed to. It must have worked,
though, because I strolled straight up to the letter and, the next second, it
was in my hand.
Page 40

I regretted it immediately as there was a knock at the door. The study

door. The study door that could only have been accessed through the front
door, which I had locked. I was filled with fear, my enemy. Enemies or not,
the one thing we agreed on was that our worst nightmare was whatever
lurked behind us. Then, we turned around to face our foe...only I remained. I didnt see it, the creature, I mean. I could make out a humans
face, but I knew it wasnt. No human would have entered without me knowing, which lead me to no answer. It was gone in a flash; blink and its gone.
I couldnt blink, but I still couldnt make it out. What was it? I couldnt help
but to assume that the letter had something to do with it, but it must have
done. Coincidences arent even that unrealistic. Fear was gone, now it was
hope.
Nothing.
Nothing but darkness.
Nothing but darkness, and hope.
Hope is all I have. Whether I like it or not, its not leaving me.
Storms. Light. Blink and its gone. Dont blink, still gone. Sound. Growling
and rumbling. Never-ending. Then, silence. A discomforting halt in the
night. You may think that it would be much easier to sleep, but you are
wrong. You (like me) may think that you are asleep. That, I cant respond
to. Only one creature truly holds the answer.
I lie alone, waiting for a sign to tell me if Ill ever leave. The idea of being
alone here is frightening but the idea of not being alone, now, is petrifying. Knowing that if someone or something could be here right now just
makes me think that I could be gone, too. Just like him.

Risn Kelly (Year 8)

Page 41

PART THREE: THE CREATORS EYE

Aisling Ward (Year 12)

Page 42

Monotony
The painting hangs
The people walk

The years go by

The cameras flash

The people stop coming

The painting sighs

The gallery closes

The years go by

The sun falls

The tears leak

The spiders spin

The cleaners sweep

The vines creep

The sun rises

The ceiling falls

The spiders spin

The days repeat

The lovers, gone

She still stands

The loved, doomed

She thinks and thinks

The painting reflects

She pities herself

She still stands

The seconds go to hours

The sun expands

The earth fries
Her only thought:

The hours go to weeks

The humans die

The weeks go to years

The animals too

The years go to centuries All but the cockroaches

And her, her too

The end.

Oscar Cowper (Year 8)

Page 43

Poppies
I walk in a drifting daze,
Blood-red they hit my gaze,
I am absolutely bewitched,
Their ruby red colour so enriched,
Those red graves so long forgotten,
They dance and sing for a love so long forgotten.
I idly walk and move about,
They show no sense of self-doubt,
Their black eyes fixed on me,
Their proud heads shake away; Free,
Their red manes a bright beacon,
Standing for a moral long forgotten.
All feelings go numb,
Their constellation of red printed on my mind,
Red of blood spilt long ago,
Red which helped these plants grow,
They nod their heads like going to sleep,
Dreaming of blood shed long forgotten.
They are strong,
I am weak,
The death long ago all to bleak,
The death of mother and of brother,
Turning their heads to a long dead fighter,
Thinking of a war long forgotten.
Rosie Field (Year 7)

Page 44

The Inverted Lily

Once upon a time there lived an
ordinary white lily. It lived in a
small hollow of trees where all
of the forest animals came to
meet.
One time when the animals
came together for an End of
Winter party there was no
moon, making it very dark. The
white lily said, If I bend my
petals back you can light one of
my stigmas and use me as a lamp. So that is what they did.
After the party the head of the badgers put out the stigma but the plant
still stayed a light orange because it had been stained by the flame. Also,
because the leaves had been bent back for so long they stayed bent back.
Five years later the head badger came running to the lily and explained in
a rushed voice, There is a forest fire and we need to warn the other animals! What can we do? After thinking a little the lily suggested, You
could tie a message to my stem before tying a carrier bag to my petals
and lighting one of my stigmas so I fly off like a Chinese lantern to warn
the other animals. So that is what they did.
All the other animals became friends with the lily. After that had been
done the lilys stigma was put out but the flame had stained it even more
so that it was the same shade of orange that it has remained ever since.

Matthew Barnett (Year 7)

Page 45

A Chef in the Kitchen

We took our seats at a table in one of those posh restaurants, where the
napkins are in little shapes so that they neatly wrap around the polished,
silver cutlery. When it was time to order, my eyes started to wander, from
the menu to the individual tables, with happy-looking customers chomping and grinding on the hot, freshly made food. Eventually my eyes drifted
and fixed on a chef working hard in the kitchen.
We were close enough to see exactly what he was chopping and frying in
his working space. My gaze focussed on what he was doing and how precisely he was slicing the ingredients. I eagerly watched with full attention.
I noticed how elegantly and fluently he sliced the raw meat. How he accurately chopped the uncooked vegetables such as carrots, onions and
broccoli and threw them into a piping-hot saucepan. He chopped with
such skill it was like he wasnt even trying. As if he knew what to do off by
heart, he sliced every ingredient, occasionally sliding through the kitchen
to reach into a cupboard for equipment. Finally, he found a beautiful ceramic plate for the finished product.
He shouted a single word which was drowned out by the background
noise. I watched a waiter take the food away, while the chef moved
straight on to start another dish.
Amy Wells (Year 7)

Page 46

The Glass Sculptor

The shop was covered from floor to ceiling in glittering glass figures. Behind the counter a man was sculpting the glass. It must have been burning
hot because the man was wearing protective gloves and I could see he
was missing two or three fingers. He went about his sculpting with great
skill, touching and fingering until it became too hot to touch, then repeating again and again. His movements were quick and certain, and his fingers danced across the surface of the glass.
After a while he began turning his creation over and over, seemingly finding fault with areas that to me appeared flawless. Out of that shapeless
lump of glass emerged a creature, beautiful in every way, and sparkling
like a polished diamond. Its delicate wings were stretched out, its tiny
feathers ruffled slightly as if soaring amongst the clouds. The man looked
at his creation, satisfied at last, before placing it next to him and starting
again.

Ella Watson (Year 7)

Ben Harris
(Year 13)
Page 47

The Forgotten
I never foresaw this moment. I never imagined the stories could ever be
true...not really. They were too horrible ever to be believed. But I guess I
was wrong. I was too naive to understand that, no matter how much I
hoped and prayed, the world was unfair and that this was the reality for
men like me: we were bound to be forgotten. I used to believe that Allah
controlled our fate but now I know the truth our fate is in the hands of
men, men of a higher status. Men who have power, men who have control
over people like me. No. My fate is not mine, my fate is in the hands of the
powerful. I am just a slave of the law, engulfed in a storm. A storm impossible to escape. Its like I dont even exist...when I die I will be just that;
another man who died like the other billions of men before. I will no longer be a person but a statistic written on paper and forgotten. And that will
be it. I will no longer exist. It will be like I never did.
My name is Wajid. I am a refugee from Syria I used to have a wonderful
life filled with love. It sounds so pathetic when you say it like that, but I
never realised what an amazing life I had until it was taken away from me,
with no warning; no sign from God. And now Im here; in a godforsaken
place, alone, without anyone in the world. I know my story is not an important one and I realise that people would rather hear a story about a
hero who saves thousands of lives. But in a way, I am. No, Im not going to
save millions from an atomic bomb and I wont save a group of orphans
from a fire but I will save people with words. If I can save just one man,
woman or child my work will be done. If I can stop anyone from making
my mistakes or running from what they know then I hope this will stop
them. I know its unlikely and that I will just be another refugee but I
wish someone had helped me. Or I wouldnt be here.

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It all changed one year ago, when my life was turned on its head. I was living with my wife Majia and my two sons Mo and Sakime. We lived in a busy
town near the border of Syria; it was a beautiful place, filled with colour and
life; everyone knew and liked everyone else we were like a family. The
buildings were intricate and adorned with lavish decorations, the houses
quaint and homely. There was a huge park, holding a large pond filled with
water, clear as crystal. When it was at its hottest, the children would bathe in
the pond. We were happy in our own little bubble, isolated from the bustle
of cities and the horrors of what was going on further in. But then the bubble
burst and we were no longer alone in our haven. An army stormed our tiny
walls, more soldiers entering each day. They took many people, burnt our
homes and stole our possessions. We tried as hard as we could to hold them
off but they were too strong. We werent built for this. We were built for
peace. No one was safe and from then it was every man for himself; a phrase
I had never dreamt I would say. As the days went by, more and more children were orphaned and found sleeping on the streets, often dead from dehydration. It was a horrible reality and many couldnt handle it.
After two months of living in this hell, families began to leave, trekking
across Turkey in an attempt to get to Europe. At that time I joined the resistance, and started fighting the enemy. That was probably my biggest mistake. I moved up the ranks, becoming more and more important in enforcing peace but we were getting nowhere. I had a pivotal role and yet I was
failing. Failing my family and failing my country. But I had to continue. Each
day I would walk down the streets and each day I would see all sorts of horrible things and know that I had no choice but to continue. But by doing that
I put my family in even more danger. After a couple of months, it all got
worse; more soldiers came in and the streets became more dangerous. So I
made a decision: I would leave the resistance and flee with my family to
England. I had realised how much I had put myself and my family in danger
and knew I had no choice but to leave and never to come back.

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Then began a treacherous journey. We travelled through Turkey by foot,

exhaustion threatening us at every turn. My son became dehydrated but
after a dose of luck we found a small ravine with a stream running through.
We had not drunk properly for several weeks so took the opportunity with
gratefulness. Then we continued. After a series of painful days and nights
we finally reached the coast, our morale improving gradually, along with
many other desperate families. We, along with a group of around 60 people from our village managed to get our hands on a boat. It was no cruise
but after all we had been through we couldnt give up. After a few days of
haggling with shop keepers for food and blankets, we boarded the boat.
But something awful happened. A few stragglers must have got on too because some of the original 60 didnt manage to get on including my wife
and two sons. I tried... I really did...but I couldnt help them. We left the
dock. I felt tears slipping down my face but I wiped them away with my
sleeve. I looked at my wife. She looked back, her face glistening in the sun.
She smiled mournfully as she held my sons. I looked down, in the hope
that I would wake up from this nightmare but I didnt. After what seemed
like an age I looked back up but they were gone. I had company and yet I
was alone.
The next few weeks were horrible. The boat was cramped and a foot of
freezing water had seeped into the bottom. I was so cold. Not just because
of the conditions but because of the deep hole that had been torn into my
heart; I knew that I would never see my family again. I lost count of the
days I was on that raft; each day just seemed to mix with the next. There
was no release from the pain I felt I just had to wait. Wait and pray.

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Then finally we arrived in Germany, frozen, traumatized and unstable. We

stood in a huge queue, the cold wind, biting maliciously at our skin. Doctors were coming around, checking if we were healthy. At last one of the
doctors got to us and, one by one, either sent us into a tent or put us into
another queue. She got to me and stared. She felt by hands, which were
blue from the cold and, looking flustered, sent me to a tent, telling me that
I was a priority. They gave me a quick exam and wrapped me in a bundle of blankets. I sat down on a chair, exhausted. They began to explain
that I had a severe case of pneumonia and that I wouldnt live. Everything
after that I didnt hear, too wrapped up in my thoughts to care I felt a tear
run down my face, leaving a streaky line across my cheek. I was going to
die, and they couldnt do anything to help me.
But I did live. I lived to tell my tale.
Izzy Kidd (Year 8)

Maryam Jellal (Year 13)

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Carousels and galloping horses,

Candy floss clouds caught up and twisted.
Paper lanterns drifting skywards,
Smoke from trains, glasses misted.

Parma Violets wrapped in plastic,

Children playing, adults laughing.
Wafer cones topped with ice cream,
Marshmallow hearts, beating, beating.

Victoria Parker (Year 8)

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