IN PARTNERSHIP WITH
First Story changes lives through writing. We believe that writing can transform lives, and that there is dignity and power in every young person’s story. First Story brings talented, professional writers into secondary schools serving low-income communities to work with teachers and students to foster creativity and communication skills. By helping students find their voices through intensive, fun programmes, First Story raises aspirations and gives students the skills and confidence to achieve them. In 2018 we awarded 48 student fellowships to attend intensive Arvon residential writing courses to inspire and hone the skills of First Story’s most committed students. The residential allows young people to experience programmes of professional quality that have a life-long impact on their personal and writing development. The following anthology includes student writing produced during the residential week at Lumb Bank, The Hurst and Totleigh Barton. For more information and details of how to support First Story, see www.firststory.org.uk or contact us at info@firststory.org.uk.
ARVON Arvon produces residential and city-based creative writing courses and retreats across a wide range of genres, led by highly respected authors. Founded in 1968, it has three writers’ centres – Totleigh Barton in Devon; Lumb Bank, the Ted Hughes Arvon Centre, in West Yorkshire; and The Hurst, The John Osborne Arvon Centre, in Shropshire. Arvon offers a ‘home for the imagination’, where anyone, regardless of writing experience, can step away from their normal routine, immerse themselves in the creative process, be inspired by experienced writers and release their imaginative potential. Each year over 40 of Arvon’s courses are with schools, youth and community groups and arts organisations, many from the most disadvantaged communities in the UK. www.arvon.org
First Story Residential Anthology 2018 Published by First Story Limited www.firststory.org.uk Omnibus Business Centre, 39–41 North Road London N7 9DP Copyright Š First Story 2018 Typesetting: Avon DataSet Ltd Cover Designer: First Story First Story is a registered charity number 1122939 and a private company limited by guarantee incorporated in England with number 06487410. First Story is a business name of First Story Limited.
First Story Residential Anthology 2018 An Anthology By The First Story Groups At The First Story Arvon Residentials
‘We all have a voice. Some never discover it. We all have stories to tell. Some never tell them. First Story has helped all these young writers to discover their writing voice, and in so doing has helped them discover themselves.’ Michael Morpurgo (author of War Horse) ‘First Story is a fantastic idea. Creative writing can change people’s lives: I’ve seen it happen. It’s more than learning a skill. It’s about learning that you, your family, your culture and your view of the world are rich and interesting and important, whoever you happen to be. Teenagers are under increasing pressure to tailor their work to exams, and to value themselves in terms of the results. First Story offers young people something else, a chance to find their voices.’ Mark Haddon (author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time) ‘First Story not only does an invaluable thing for the young and underheard people of England, it does it exceptionally well. Their books are expertly edited and beautifully produced. The students featured within are wonderfully open and candid about their lives, and this is a credit to First Story, whose teachers thoroughly respect, and profoundly amplify, their voices. The only problem with First Story is that they’re not everywhere – yet. Every young person deserves the benefit of working with them.’ Dave Eggers (author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) ‘First Story is an inspiring initiative. Having attended a school with a lot of talented kids who didn’t always have the opportunity to express that talent, I know what it would have meant to us to have real-life writers dropping by and taking our stories seriously. And what an opportunity for writers, too, to meet some of the most creative and enthusiastic young people in this country! It’s a joyful project that deserves as much support as we can give it.’ Zadie Smith (winner of the Orange Prize for fiction and author of White Teeth)
As Patron of First Story I am delighted that it continues to foster and inspire the creativity and talent of young people in secondary schools serving low-income communities. I firmly believe that nurturing a passion for reading and writing is vital to the health of our country. I am therefore greatly encouraged to know that young people in this school – and across the country – have been meeting each week throughout the year in order to write together. I send my warmest congratulations to everybody who is published in this anthology.
HRH The The Duchess Duchess of of Cornwall Cornwall HRH
Thank You Melanie Curtis at Avon DataSet for her overwhelming support for First Story and for giving her time in typesetting this anthology. HRH The Duchess of Cornwall, Patron of First Story. The Trustees of First Story: Andrea Minton Beddoes, Antonia Byatt, Aslan Byrne, Beth Colocci, Betsy Tobin, Charlie Booth, Edward Baden-Powell, James Waldegrave, Katie Waldegrave, Mayowa Sofekun, Sophie Harrison, Sue Horner, William Fiennes. The Advisory Board of First Story: Alex Clark, Andrew Adonis, Andrew Cowan, Andrew Kidd, Brett Wigdortz, Chris Patten, Derek Johns, Jamie Byng, Jonathan Dimbleby, Julia Cleverdon, Julian Barnes, Kevin Prunty, Mark Haddon, Rona Kiley, Simon Jenkins, William Waldegrave, Zadie Smith. Thanks to: Arts Council England, Alice Jolly & Stephen Kinsella, Andrea Minton Beddoes & Simon Gray, The Anson Charitable Trust, Arvon, BBC Children in Need, BBC Radio 4 Appeal & Listeners, Beth & Michele Colocci, Big Lottery Fund, Blackwells, Boots Charitable Trust, Brunswick, Charlotte Hogg, Cheltenham Festivals, Clifford Chance, Danego Charitable Trust, First Editions Club Members, First Story Events Committee, Frontier Economics, Give A Book, Hollick Charitable Trust, Ink@84, Ivana Catovic of Modern Logophilia, Jane & Peter Aitken, John Lyon’s Charity, John R Murray Charitable Trust, John Thaw Foundation, Lake House Charitable Foundation, Letters Live, Liz and Terry Bramall Foundation, Old Possum’s Practical Trust, Open Gate Trust, Oxford University Press, Psycle Interactive, Robert Webb, Royal
Society of Literature, Sigrid Rausing Trust, Sir Halley Stewart Trust, The Stonegarth Fund, Teach First, Tim Bevan & Amy Gadney, The Thomas Farr Charity, Walcot Foundation, Whitaker Charitable Trust, XL Catlin., our group of regular donors, and all those donors who have chosen to remain anonymous. Most importantly we would like to thank the students, teachers and writers who have worked so hard to make First Story a success this year, as well as the many individuals and organisations (including those who we may have omitted to name) who have given their generous time, support and advice.
Contents LUMB BANK My Brothers My Wolf Friend Chaos My Life Until Now My Brother History in Motion Joy Sometimes My Bedroom Knows Sadness Planet Alopecia Where Am I From? My Thoughts Goldilocks I’m From Me? Cancer
Alisha Ali Belle Vue Girls’ School Arsalan Malik Dixons Allerton Academy Dominic Baldwin Titus Salt School Courtney Day Sirius Academy North Ellie Davies Titus Salt School Ellie Dean Melior Community Academy Eva Barraclough Appleton Academy Faith Jukes Brigshaw High School Ione Radcliffe Hull College Jasmine Cooray Komal Iqbal Grange Technology College Kyrylo Lodge Hull Trinity House Academy Nik Perring Reo Stutt Malet Lambert School Terri Wood Risedale Sports and Community College Zane Greaves Malet Lambert School
14 15 16 22 24 26 28 30 32 34 35 36 38 39 40 41
THE HURST: A Week-Long Family Collective Piece Sabirah Tahir Wembley High Technology College Nature at its Finest Amy Hollier Raine’s Foundation School Greg’s Game Amy Hollier and Talia Bunting Raine’s Foundation School and Highgate
The Serpents of My Mind/Muse Something’s Along the Way… Stuck From Me to You How Places Are Shaped An Appreciation, from the Sidekick Whispers The Visit The Letter I Never Sent What Can I Tell You? Yusra’s Hands A Poem to My Mother Joe
Wood School Ahoura Bakhtiari Cranford Community College Faatimah Ilyas Pimlico Academy Fajr Dyaeldin Pimlico Academy Hamda Abdi Chelsea Academy School Madalena Magalhães St-Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Naerah Chaudhry Fulham Cross Girls’ School Natalia Antova Woodside High School Oluwatoniloba (Toni) Williams-Awobajo Saint Gabriel’s College Rachel-Grace Akodu St-Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Sabirah Tahir Wembley High Technology College Samiyah Salahuddin Pimlico Academy Sinthuya Veerasingam Wembley High Technology College Talia Bunting Highgate Wood School
44 45 46
47 49 51 53 55 57 58 60
61 62 63 64 65
Sunset A Dream Destined to Be Answered
Unaisa Juairia George Green’s School Warda Khalif Cranford Community College
TOTLEIGH BARTON: T-Pose @Totleigh If You Don’t Know Then Andreea Matache Don’t Say Anything Sutton Community Academy Red Carol Pinto Nottingham Academy Greenwood Campus Colour Chart Chloe Bartholomew Lincoln Castle Academy Comforting Words Cole Burnet Witham – A Priory Academy A Letter to a Mother Deborah Omolegan-Obe Fairfield High School Breathe Elana Walker St Bede’s Catholic College Colour Charts and Me Emil Dutkowski Hans Price Academy Why Aren’t Well-Made Emily Cooke Top Hats Most Sutton Community Academy Fashionable in Today’s Society? Small Comforts Erica Lees-Smith Judgemeadow Community College Loving You Keeley Nicholas Severn Vale School Tongue Nehanda Ngozi City Academy Bristol Hamburger Seamus Bonner All Saints’ Academy The Unknown Visvaldas Prastienius Haven High Academy
68 70
72 75 76 77 78 79 80 81
82 84 85 86 87
LUMB BANK
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Alisha Ali Belle Vue Girls’ School
My Brothers My brothers know protectiveness, a protectiveness which makes them nag me every time I’m out, even if it is just in the garden My brothers know sadness, a sadness which results in sleepless nights and a box of tissues they refuse to use My brothers know extreme laziness, a laziness which makes everyone around them suffer tremendously My brothers know cold anger, a cold anger which ends up with the group of us not talking and that’s the only thing that truly breaks my heart My brothers know braveness, a braveness that even with tears rolling down their cheeks they still manage to crack a smile. My brothers know love, a love which is unconditional and everlasting My brothers know everything, but best of all they know me.
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Arsalan Malik Dixons Allerton Academy
My Wolf Friend It was finally the day I could go and pick out a brand-new toy for my birthday, but I was confused by what to choose. Dad and I went to the shop that sells loads of different toys, but one toy caught my attention. It was quite high up so I asked Dad if he could get it for me and he slowly lifted it off the shelf and passed it to me. When it was in my hands, it felt very warm and fuzzy. I didn’t want to let go of it, but Dad said I couldn’t have that toy because it would be too prickly for me, but I loved it. We had to leave it and go back home for my party, but as soon as I left the shop I tried to convince Dad that I could keep it because I would look after, it but his answer was still no. We set off home, hoping that we would get home in time for the party. I was really sad, I wanted to see the wolf one more time because he meant a lot to me; he was like my best friend. And then I heard someone calling my name. It sounded like a person. And then I looked out the window and, to my surprise, it was the wolf from the shop. I grabbed it and jumped into bed but there was a note on the side and it read, ‘Take care of Bob, he was my best pal’ but it didn’t say who it was from. So I put him next to me and fell fast asleep thinking this was the best day ever.
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Dominic Baldwin Titus Salt School
Chaos Talos woke to the sound of screaming. First, horrible dreams plagued his life like amplified cancer, the Black Death and necrosis all rolled into one, and now this. He got out of bed and walked swiftly towards his broken window, which had been punched the night before by Talos in a raging fit. The nightmares spoke the truth. The truth that made Talos’ life unbearable. He looked out of his window. All he could see were massive flames, towering over him. His face was immediately scorched, and his courage was fleeting. He saw a familiar-looking warrior charge through the flames. He was heading straight towards Talos’ hut. Knock Knock Knock Without even waiting for a reply, the man charged straight into the hut, literally. Talos’ door fell from its hinges, and it flew backwards with enough force to knock out a minotaur. The man was breathing heavily, his face red and sweaty. ‘They’re here,’ he simply said. With a loud thud, he fell down onto the ancient stone floor. Talos observed the man. It was his best friend, Dalen. Dalen’s big, brown, bushy beard had remains of previous meals stuck inside. There were mouldy bread crumbs and ham fat from the meal they had shared yesterday around his lips. His brown hair was cut jaggedly, as if it had been done quickly in the dark and without much thought. Talos couldn’t see Dalen’s blue eyes, that 16
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he always thought were filled with lots of sorrow, guilt and loneliness. Then Dalen woke up. He immediately jumped up and put his hands on Talos’ shoulder, like they were father and son. ‘T-talos… Th-they’re here!’ Dalen stuttered loudly. ‘T-the ones y-you mentio-nn-ned in your dr-eam!’ Talos had no idea on what to do. He paced up and down the room, frustrated. Then he opened a secret trapdoor underneath his messy carpet. ‘Come help me here,’ Talos grunted, and Dalen came around to help, picking up a heavy chest. Talos then chose a sword and shield for himself from the chest, and Dalen chose a spear that he made himself. ‘We can take them,’ Talos muttered encouragingly, but in reality he was trying to convince himself. All of a sudden, the flames surrounding Talos’ hut parted by his door, and five men holding swords and shields came charging in. Talos recognised Ralof, who was standing at the front of the other four men, from his dreams. ‘Talos, I’m glad we finally meet in person,’ Ralof said calmly, yet his face was scowling. ‘Son of Athena and Zeus, son of traitors to their vows, Hera, the queen of the heavens, sends her best. And unfortunately for you, the best she feels like sending right now is death.’ Ralof’s voice was incredibly annoying, with his smug posture. ‘Son of a…’ Dalen muttered. ‘Oh, I see,’ Ralof smiled. ‘You brought your little pet, the one who can’t even care for his own family.’ Dalen was enranged. He threw his spear at Ralof, ready to kill him. However, Ralof was too fast. He caught the end of the shaft with amazing reflexes and snapped it in half. ‘I made that myself!’ Dalen said angrily. 17
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Those were Dalen’s last words. ‘Oh really?’ Ralof replied with mock politeness. ‘Such a shame to die by the spear that you forged.’ He picked up the half of the spear with the spike still on, and he rammed it straight into Dalen’s heart, until you could see it from the other side. Talos immediately started crying. His best friend, one of very few who cared for him, was dead by his own spear. And it was Talos’ fault. ‘I’ll… I’ll kill you all!’ Talos screamed and charged them, weapons ready. Talos took down the legionnaires. He stabbed one in the head and blocked an attack from Ralof. He then grabbed a throwing knife from his bedside table and threw it at another person. Three on one now, Talos thought. So unfair, they should have an extra 100 people to stand a chance. He evaded a second strike, parried a third. He whacked his sword’s hilt into another person, and he knocked another one out with his red shield. Then there was just Ralof left. Talos wanted him to suffer. With two master strikes, Ralof’s arms were chopped off. Blood squirted everywhere, including onto Talos’ face. I need to get out of here, Talos thought. The sooner I get out, the less these people will suffer. Talos ran outside, since the fire was still parted. The surrounding fire still burnt him, but that was nothing compared to the emotional pain he was feeling. His best friend was dead. Dalen was dead. Talos couldn’t believe it. After all those days of despair, Dalen trusted Talos. And he couldn’t even save him. This can’t get any worse, Talos thought. He was wrong. He heard more screaming, whilst three men on horses charged at a husband and wife. Talos recognised those two. They were his foster parents, the ones who took him in as a child and raised him as a good warrior. He had to save them. 18
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As he charged through soldiers like a rugby player, a smart soldier backed out of the way and then stabbed him in the foot. Yelling in pain, Talos fell down, and saw his foster parents. His father was holding a short sword and shield, fending off the attackers. He parried with amazing skill. He slashed like a master. One soldier dead. Two soldiers dead. Maybe he could defeat them? Talos inched towards them, still on the ground due to his broken foot. His mother was in tears, her home burning to pieces. She could barely even stand straight without falling over. At the same time, his father was starting to lose the fight. He picked up a spear from a dead soldier and rammed it into a horse. He then picked up another spear and chucked it to his wife. She charged into the warriors and screamed like an enraged banshee. But she wasn’t looking where she was going. Tripping over a dead body, she fell forwards straight into her husband, spear first. She impaled her husband with a spear. ‘No!’ Talos cried, more desperate than ever to save them. ‘Son… it- it’s too late…’ his foster father said, and he fell down, dead. The soldiers laughed as they stabbed Talos’ foster mother in the brain. Time slowed down, and the scene replayed in his head. He fell down unconscious, and the last thing he saw before closing his eyes was his parents dying, a wife accidently killing her husband. Talos didn’t wake for centuries. He had nothing but dreams about his life. About his secret. The king of the gods, Zeus, had a daughter called Athena, who was the goddess of wisdom and battle strategy. Zeus somehow fell in love with Athena and impregnated her. Zeus’ wife, Hera, made it her goal to kill Zeus’ and Athena’s child. The other gods called Talos the child of broken promises, since 19
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Athena was supposed to be a maiden goddess. The only benefit of being the child of Zeus and Athena was that Talos was extremely strong, smart and good at sword-fighting. He also dreamt about Ralof warning him. A few months before the attack, he had dreams of Ralof talking about how Hera would send her minions to go and kill Talos and everyone close to him. He warned Dalen of this, and that led to Dalen being the one to warn Talos. And then dying. Talos woke up in the 2000s. Of course, he didn’t know this. He fell asleep whilst in the Ancient Greek times, and he woke up on the side of a road, with cars driving by. Standing up, Talos saw a beautiful woman with stormy grey eyes floating above him. He recognised her from his dreams. ‘Mother Athena?’ he asked. ‘Yes child,’ she replied, even though Talos was a fully-grown man. ‘Where am I? Where is this place? What have you done!?’ ‘I transported you to the future, to sort out this entire mess with the gods. Hera and Zeus are at each other’s throats, and Hera is trying to get to me by letting out my enemies like Arachne, despite it not being my fault.’ ‘Well, how can I sort this all out?’ ‘You make Hera see reason. You defeat her minions, and she will stop attacking Zeus and me.’ ‘Okay then. So where do I start?’ Talos tried to sound brave, but inside he was trembling. He had seen how many people were attacking his village. And if this was the future, then Hera’s forces would have increased even more than before. But he had to do it. To avenge his friends and family. Secretly, he didn’t even care about Zeus and Athena. They left him in a ditch and did close to nothing helping him. But he had to do it. For the world’s sake. 20
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‘Oh boy,’ Talos said. ‘This is going to be like the Fields of Punishment.’
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Courtney Day Sirius Academy North
My Life Until Now I was four years old when I started knowing what my mum was really like. My mum never let me go out the house, not even into the garden. It was like I was in prison. The curtains were never open and whenever I tried to look out of the window or go in the garden I would get the belt. My mum always told me that it was dangerous outside and that I was forbidden to ever go near a window or door again. If we needed shopping, she would always lock me in the house and leave me alone by myself. It felt like I didn’t mean anything to anyone, like I was there to be a rag doll or a target that is always aimed at. On my fifth birthday there was nothing to look forward to. No cake, no presents, no family time – no fun and no love at all. The only thing I had to look forward to was living. That was the only thing I had to hope for. Every night I prayed to God, asking him for someone who would love me and care for me coz my mum did no such thing. I was a glass half-empty. I had been growing up with low self-esteem. And with no one there to help me and be at my side, I had no defence. I felt like a glass window about to be shattered, already broken down. Everyday darkness engulfed me and only me. One night my mum caught me praying to God and she shouted in my face, saying that there is no God and that if you try praying to him you will only have bad things coming. It was only what I got every day of my life. More pain to look forward to. 22
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It’s been six years now and I’m finally with a new family. I have a baby brother and an older brother. I now have a family that will love me and care for me. I still have some cuts and bruises from the belt. It’s my birthday tomorrow and I can’t wait. Last year, we spent loads of time together and had loads of fun. Tonight I shall pray to God, thanking him for this wonderful gift and telling him that I have never felt this way before. And this is how I begin my life.
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Ellie Davies Titus Salt School
My Brother He has blonde hair as white As the inner core of the sun. Stood next to me he is A fly next to a giraffe. He has a grin as evil as Maleficent herself. His cheeks may have belonged to A hamster in a previous life. He is cheekier than a monkey Celebrating April Fools’ Day. He is a naughty hyena Whenever he giggles to himself. He has the humour of An ape swinging through the treetops. He runs like he’s On a constant sugar rush.
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He is like a playful kitten Rushing round and round the garden. He makes me like a boomerang Whizzing this way and that. Life without him would be like Watching a kitchen tap drip. Pointless.
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Ellie Dean Melior Community Academy
History in Motion Superheroes? Not real. Nobody zooms around the world in a multicoloured spandex suit, screaming, ‘Do not fear, for Notreal Girl is here!’ I don’t believe in superheroes, but I do believe in superpowers. Or you can just call them really strange talents. It’s your choice. I bet you’re wondering why I’m convinced superpowers are real but not the heroes. Well, it’s because I have a power. Don’t be misled into thinking that ‘superpowers’ means ‘superhuman strength’ and ‘mind-reading abilities’ (I don’t have lasers for eyes and Kryptonite doesn’t kill me) – they aren’t all that generic. Anyway, I won’t leave you guessing. I can jump into pictures and paintings as easily as you walk through doors and can watch the history of them roll out in front of me. Boring? Most definitely not. I discovered this strange ability of mine on a family trip to France. We were in that famous museum (don’t ask me what it’s called, my memory is terrible!) which was surprisingly empty. Of course, I had to see the Mona Lisa, my favourite painting. I was in absolute awe, transfixed on her mouth, trying to decide whether or not it formed a smile; then, in the blink of an eye, I was somewhere in Italy, surrounded by paint and brushes. I was as confused as you are, believe me. I hid behind da Vinci’s stack of discarded canvases to spectate. Who knows what would’ve happened if I’d been caught… It turns out the Mona Lisa was 26
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edited many times and the actual woman looks nothing like the painting. Is this a sixteenth-century version of Photoshop? What a shocker of a revelation. And that was my first picture-jumping experience. Since I acknowledged this power of mine, it’s become quite a problem. Everything I look at I end up inside. It’s a nightmare reading stories to my little sister; I always end up in a world of dinosaurs in underwear. You don’t even want to know what I saw when I found my big brother’s magazines – I’m still recovering… Maybe you’re wondering why I’ve written this in a journal. I’d be wondering the same thing but it’s simple really: I just want to remember everywhere I go. Perhaps one day someone will read this and discover they aren’t alone, if they happen to have this power too.
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Eva Barraclough Appleton Academy
Joy I walked past that tunnel every day on my way to school. One Thursday morning, I thought I saw a woman in a bright purple dress, which was like a bluebell blooming in a field. Her hair was the vibrant colour of a skin of a lemon. She looked like a fairy, I thought. I walked over to this fairy-like girl and asked her if she was OK and if she needed any help. Before she even opened her mouth, I could instantly tell what she was about to say. And when she moved her thin lips, out came the words, ‘I’m fine thanks, are you OK?’ I just stood there and smiled. This distraction had already made me miss my bus to school. I can’t believe I actually went over to talk to her. She probably had just been on a hen do or something. So, I started walking back to school along the cobbled road. I heard a voice. ‘Where are you going? I haven’t told you my name yet!’ I shook my head and kept walking. ‘My name’s Joy, in case you were wondering?’ she said. I heard the echo travel through the tunnels. I wondered why she was so bothered about me. I turned and approached her and said hi. Hours passed. We just sat there (in the tunnel) talking about everything we knew. I skipped school that day, but I could see she was the most joyful, enthusiastic person I had ever met. She taught me skills no one had ever done before. She taught me how to live life in the right way, tell jokes which brought laughter to 28
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the world and see beauty in the unseen. I’ll never forget the day that I met Joy. I never saw her again but I didn’t need to, she showed me everything I needed. I guess it’s OK because I see joy in the world every day. That was the day I met the emotion joy.
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Faith Jukes Brigshaw High School
Sometimes Sometimes I wish the wind would catch me, carry me away, let me soar with the birds. I wish the night sky would swallow me, let me lie with the moon, let me be someone’s star. Sometimes a lump in my throat or a tear in my eye takes me back. Back to hospital walls, that bed, to the endless conversations with nurses who kept trying to relate. They couldn’t; they hadn’t sat for hours feeling the way I had. Their knowledge was great; medicines, functions of the brain, the reason my hands do that damage to myself. But really, they had no idea. They knew my brain, not me, Knew a few chapters, not my whole story, They didn’t know me. And they didn’t know what it was like to wake up not knowing where you’d be falling asleep. Perhaps it’d be that bed, or my bed, or maybe the bathroom floor after the tears and the pain were over for the night. Sometimes I wish the waves would capture me, pull me out to sea, let me swim with a bumblebee goby. Sometimes I wish I was somewhere else, Somewhere so far that we wouldn’t drive past that place, so I wouldn’t have to see my mum looking so guilty as she tried 30
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to teach me to love myself by repeating her kind words and forcing a smile. But my mum’s heart isn’t big enough for the both of us.
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Ione Radcliffe Hull College
My Bedroom Knows Sadness After Malika Booker A tear-stained sheets kind of sadness A stale air because I won’t open the window and face the outside world sadness A shelves dusty, carpet messy because I can’t find the energy kind of sadness. My bedroom knows the sadness where I leave books unread and drawings unfinished because splotches soon take over the page My bedroom knows the smell of Gabrielle by Chanel so I look like I care, kind of sadness My bedroom knows quiet cries, deep sighs in the middle of the night kind of sadness My bedroom sees my cycle of anxiety attacks and dissociation under the covers kind of sadness My bedroom sees my hand shakily reach for sleeping medication in the middle of the night kind of sadness My bedroom sees me go through this sadness and asks: Why are you doing this to yourself? My bedroom sees my sadness and whispers: Please, talk to someone
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My bedroom sees me on my worst days, in my bedroom wake up at noon kind of sadness. Yes, my bedroom knows my sadness, all too well.
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Jasmine Cooray Planet Alopecia After Bowie It began with one patch, a bare circle like a pale coin, the sun beating down, scorching. No one thought much of it, but then came more, more. Wind flew through the gaps like someone whistling through teeth, and there was the cold, rain, each drop acute as a root canal. When the surface started to look like mange, like an inverse leopard, others started to notice, scramble for remedies to halt the progression: ointments and injections, chants, incantations, but the illness, ripping through the body, was too strong for medicine or prayer. When there was nothing left, the last of the hair gone like a tropical forest uprooted by hurricane, what remained was a smooth skull, cool, like a planet far from a star. The world as I knew it had died, and borne a new one, open to the sky, vulnerable and more honest than I had ever been before.
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Komal Iqbal Grange Technology College
Where Am I From? I’m from a loud, crowded house. Bursting with shouts and cries from my siblings but giggles too. My house is awfully small and to get peace I go to the library. In the library I read books and inspire myself to write like an author. The smell of fresh books is almost as refreshing as the spices that my mother adds to the food she cooks. It was five years ago that my baby sister was put on breathing machines. Two months later we found out she couldn’t survive. I felt ultimately sad. I had lost someone so special. I am from crowded beaches with the cold sea splashing its waves onto the sand, making it damp. I often see smiling children playing with colourful beach balls and eating fresh, soft ice cream. I’m from the unknown street that nobody comes out to play on. No cars pass by. Not even shouting from next door. I am from practicing roller skating and then moving to ice skating. That was fun. The gliding makes me feel free as the ice, as cold misty air blows into my face. I remember my tenth birthday, it was a blast. I believed my cousins when they told me we were going to a wedding. That made me feel like a fool, but I got home to find myself crying happy tears. They surprised me! I come from quiet friends and a very loud school. Having more siblings, isn’t that cool? 35
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Kyrylo Lodge Hull Trinity House Academy
My Thoughts My thoughts know isolation, Alone – no one to talk to. The sitting by myself with my thoughts isolation, The isolation that brings anxiety and a flood of emotions with it isolation. An isolation that overpowers, Overcomes every feeling of joy: strangling, twisting it. It’s the phantom gun that pushes me, Pushes me closer and closer to the edge. Slipping now, yet only suffering answers, at least for now. Weights upon my shoulders, I cannot bear this burden alone, I’m bound to fall, destined to fail. Yes, my thoughts are old friends with isolation, one friend happy, joyful – the other cruel and twisted. Covering head-to-toe, false confidence, false smiles… False me. 36
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Will they ever learn of this disease, My thoughts a slave to this isolation? This isolation – the one that rips me to shreds. This isolation – the one that does not care for others. Now I’m close to the edge, ready to jump isolation. Will I jump isolation? Or will it stay isolation? Now jump, isolation, Jump without me. Left for eternity isolation… My isolation.
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Nik Perring Goldilocks My sister the mother bear who handed down Goldilocks hair, lemony, to her cubs and who invited me into the cave as happy as a nursery or fox cubs or kittens chasing yarn and who reached over oceans China to Manchester to show uncle to son wrapped up warm in your love and I think that life would be too big or too small without you all and now it’s just right.
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reo stutt
Reo Stutt Malet Lambert School
I’m From I’m from running through wheat fields with cousins while farmers came stumbling after us, I’m from the smell of Sunday dinner cooking and the homely scent of candles and oh so ‘fresh’ scent of wet dog. I’m from the scent that hangs in the air once you leave the plane in a foreign country, from going to a different restaurant every night and exotic kinds of servings. I’m from cinema trips and counting up money, from playing in the park while the weather’s still sunny.
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Terri Wood Risedale Sports and Community College
Me? I’m from dirty street walks and parks full of kids who run screaming, throwing glass bottles with no lids. I’m from long running queues to get to the loo… Making large cups of tea, Mum says, ‘Can you make us a brew?’ I’m from games of kerby and knock-a-door-run. When Mum finds out we really gotta run. I’m from brothers going away and Sergeant Major Dad looking serious on his parade. I’m from tears and heartbreaks sometimes, undone by lonely nights crying about a loved one dying. My family don’t know it but they’re all like one, Arguing over what to watch. Not that rubbish on BBC One.
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zane greaves
Zane Greaves Malet Lambert School
Cancer It wasn’t the main event that frightened me, it was what was coming at the end of the day – the moment – the end of my life as I knew it. I can still remember the day, you know. In my tiny, size two sneakers, walking over to my toy soldier as he had just lost his own battle. I walked and stood before him. ‘Close your eyes soldier – you’ve been through enough.’ Then I turned away, cause he was awful just to touch. All his hairs had abandoned his body – his skin was yellow. ‘Is this our soldier?’ Yup… it was… it was my heart – and it was dying. Even though he had his own, he was mine. He was my heart, and we’d both just lost a battle. I stood before him as my mom had told me to say my final words. At the time, what was happening wasn’t clear – but I knew that I had to say one last goodbye to my fellow toy soldier. I bent down before him and told him I loved him. He didn’t tell me he loved me back as he was past the stage of being paralyzed, up to the point of just not even knowing my final words to him: ‘I love you Dad.’ Have you ever lost your toy soldier? Because I lost mine. And he didn’t even hear me say I love him. And like I said, it wasn’t the main event, it was the ending. Not only had my dad died of cancer and finally left me after suffering in pain – but because the cancer had reached its final stage, he was paralyzed, so he couldn’t hear me. Now tell me: Have you ever said I love you and not heard it back? Like I said, it wasn’t the main event – it was the fact of 41
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knowing, for the rest of my life, that my dad had died, and didn’t tell me he loved me before he did.
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THE HURST: A WEEL-LONG FAMILY
first story residential anthology 2018
Sabirah Tahir Wembley High Technology College
Collective Piece I mean the title (‘A Week-Long Family’) says it all! At the beginning we just all sat on the coach, secretly inspecting everyone and now we share a house together. So, I thought ‘let’s dedicate a piece to the group’. But, because of our bubbly personalities this meant I would be here until the next year’s First Story residential. Malika Booker started us off with haiku and so I thought ‘let’s write a haiku for our week’: Too loud for our ears. Screaming just for chocolate cake. Out of pitch singing. Thank you for picking up this book and taking the time to read it.
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amy hollier
Amy Hollier Raine’s Foundation School
Nature at its Finest I watch as the trees sway lightly, Calm as a gentle stream slowly flowing down a small hill. Flies dance like delicate ballerinas, A buzzard climbs higher and higher in the sky. Wisps of cloud seem inanimate, Butterflies flutter past with the grace and elegance of swans. So, here I sit in my corner, under my tree, Listening to the world around me. Buzz of flies and shake of trees, Clicking crickets and the tweeting of birds, Hooting pigeons and calls of the buzzard. A cold breeze sweeps through, dark clouds fill the sky, Birds and butterflies disappear, Not a sound. A sudden rustle in the forest, Eyes watch, but I do not see.
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first story residential anthology 2018
Amy Hollier and Talia Bunting Raine’s Foundation School and Highgate Wood School
Greg’s Game Endless hand waving, Watch the hand, they say again, I watch them, intrigued, Endless hand waving, Watch the hand, they say again, Frustration begins, Endless hand waving, Watch the hand, they say again, Blood boils inside, Endless hand waving, Watch the hand, they say again, They’re rooting for me, Endless hand waving, Watch the hand, they say again, It clicks, watch the hand.
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ahoura bakhtiari
Ahoura Bakhtiari Cranford Community College
The Serpents of My Mind/Muse The beguiling sunset, Of Aurora’s light, Just might, Neglect my mind, Of its farcical shackles, On a starry night. Incarnation being my Joyous euphemism, I ponder and wonder: ‘All of this because of the richness of my skin?’ Not much more I could have been. The flicker of the high tide, I want to join, And keep my remaining grains of pride. Like a moth to a flame, My wings have burnt. I can chastise with the bitterness of my tongue, But what’s the use? When life has wronged me for so long. I can breathe the words of those hot-tempered, I can stick my hand into an oven of a thousand degrees, 47
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But nothing will ever Be as hot as the icicles that adorn my Callous, callous heart. My young body, A piece of melancholy opposed, To my forever-aging soul. The wretched mechanism, That is my heart – It bleeds, I want to breathe the end, But I’m not far, From the start. Medusa rises, Rises boldly from the ash, Her ominous eyes, Sharper and darker, Than the sinister truth, Of my own dark demise. Her serpent’s coil Around my worn-out eyes, And she takes a final step, And says, I’m ‘Wrongly bred’. She hands me my forsaken noose. And then life is all but a game – I say, ‘I lose’.
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faatimah ilyas
Faatimah Ilyas Pimlico Academy
Something’s Along the Way… A tripping trek of travellers, Walking through the woods. A Monopoly-turned-warzone. ‘The most beautiful view in England.’ Blackbirds in the greenhouse with vine-swinging grapes. Tofu frying in a music-filled kitchen. Talking to sheep, ‘Baaaa’ ‘Yeah, me too, mate.’ Love Island is a mess, As are our sleep patterns. Rolling down hills in our PJs. Dreams of hiking up the mountain. This place is a library in disguise. Sofas to sink into, I write where the round table resembles King Arthur’s. 49
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Haunted rooms, Singing in the study, ‘MarQuisha BarQuisha LaQuisha’ Slender Man in the forest, Pictures of pictures, Make-up lessons, Storytime, food stashes, Lost girls, Late girls, Black Magic, Friday’s sleepover, Thunderstorms shroud the lunar eclipse, Spiders fighting spiders, A week-long family on a long journey home.
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fajr dyaeldin
Fajr Dyaeldin Pimlico Academy
Stuck I woke with a start. Everything was a blur. Thoughts crushed into each other. My body was an icicle hanging in the wind. A sudden stench prickled my nose, it was strange and felt familiar. I broke out into a cold sweat. Shaking… Silence. Anyone would think I was alone, but as my eyesight cleared I noticed three bodies lying next to me. They were strewn all alongside me on the floor, looking dead, each with the colour drained from their faces. As I took in my surroundings, I realised that the room stretched out to where I could no longer see, helped only by the one flickering light bulb. Darkness surrounded me like fire, and I realised that this place wasn’t anywhere I knew. This was bad news. I was lost and alone with three bodies beside me with no idea how I got here or how to get out. Then I heard it. I thought I had imagined it at first, but then it started getting louder. Someone was coughing like a strangled chicken. I started to get up, wearily; ready to attack at any moment. I let the voice lead me to its place just one body away from mine. As I leaned in to get a closer look – prepared to find an unexpected face – what I saw was totally different. ‘Kieran!’, I said, staggering back. No way was this true. Could this actually be him? Was I hallucinating? Was I dreaming? 51
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Here was my friend. The same one with the same short-cut brown hair, jeans, Adidas top and shoes right in front me. I regained my footing and stepped forward again. His light brown eyes flicked open, scaring me as he suddenly sat up, headbutting me along the way. He was on top of me in a few seconds, strangling me until I saw death right in front of me. ‘Who are you?’, he shouted. ‘What do you want? What am I doing here?’ I was terrified that I might fall unconscious again, until I felt the hand ease off. As I sat up, choking, I watched the realisation register on his face. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. ‘Aidan’, he muttered. ‘Is it really you?’ I sensed the bodies beside me starting to twitch. One slowly lifted its head and I realised it was Kayla, my girlfriend. This was getting too crazy. If Kayla was here who else was? Just then the other person started speaking under their breath and, as I went closer to see who it was, I heard something. Something that made my blood chill. I looked into the distance that stretched out in front of us. Then it fell.
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hamda abdi
Hamda Abdi Chelsea Academy School
From Me to You I was desperately in love with you. Or maybe I loved the idea of you, I’m still unsure which it was. Your undivided attention, my favourite drug. I knew it was slowly killing me. Yet I couldn’t help but crave more. Lazy nights on your sofa and camping, in your back garden, was bliss. My wounds healed under your delicate touch. So, when you kissed her, venom seeped into open wounds your touch could no longer heal. What did she have that I didn’t? Maybe she had the self-love that I’m lacking. It’s 3 a.m. on a chilly Wednesday morning, as I gaze among the blinding streetlights that illuminate London. 53
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It’s clear you need her more than you need me. And yet my mind always wanders back to you. It’s always you.
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madalena magalhÃes
Madalena Magalhães St-Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls
How Places Are Shaped I let myself daydream, wonder how far I can go… How long I take to come back and feel what’s beneath my feet, once again. Sometimes I surprise myself. How did I end up in the right place? I let myself daydream, once again, about how blind people go about their days, with only a memory of how places are shaped. And then – I let myself close my eyes and experiment.
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Little by little, I explore what’s known to me, in a foreign kind of way. And then – I realise… if my vision was gone I would have to start living, once again.
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naerah chaudhry
Naerah Chaudhry Fulham Cross Girls’ School
An Appreciation, from the Sidekick These hands have creased and hardened from the long years of manual labour. These hands have spontaneously caressed my pounding forehead, Patiently waiting for my impatient soul to rest, To fall into an immersive sleep. These hands that are displayed with nude nail polish, Masking cracks and breaks inflicted over the years, Show those goblins their menacing acts haven’t stained them! These hands remind me of an awakening, Beautifully painted and constructed Elegantly nurtured daughters. They are My Mother’s Hands
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Natalia Antova Woodside High School
Whispers Pain takes over. My heart is ripping apart, my skin is burning, I hear screams in my head – all I see is black. I’m cursed. I don’t know why or by who, but it has changed my whole life. One evening I was playing outside my house. I lived with my parents and sister in the countryside in an old wooden house. Then suddenly I heard whispers tickling my ear. I didn’t know what they were saying and how important it was until now. The whispers began to rise, rise into voices, voices that sounded familiar, but I didn’t know whose or where I’d heard them before. They hissed and spat like fire. I tried to run far from the voices, however it was impossible. I hit the ground! Looking around, I saw darkness. I ran into the forest, the forest that everyone avoids, due to the rumours of witches living there casting dark spells. I tripped over a root sticking out of the rough, hard soil. How did I get here so fast? I’ve been lost in the forest ever since. It’s like the maze of trees keeps changing. My bare feet are pumping with blood as twigs and rocks stab at them remorselessly. I don’t understand any of this, and I had no idea anything like this was possible. I keep hoping it’s just a nightmare, but every day it turns out to be real. Right now I am dying. Dying a slow painful death, without 58
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any good memories to think about. The whispers were warning me about my life and death. Pain takes over.
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Oluwatoniloba (Toni) Williams-Awobajo Saint Gabriel’s College
The Visit Mary walked down the entrance to Louisa’s house. She had come to see her grandchildren: Noah, the fifteen-year-old boy, Michael, the seven-year-old boy, and Grace, the five-year-old girl. She knocked on the blue wooden door; it was opened by Noah. A smile fell on his face. Noah gave Mary a little handshake. Michael and Grace ran towards Mary. Mary high-fived Michael multiple times and then hugged Grace and spun her round. She made her way down the white and blue hallway into the kitchen. She entered the kitchen to see her daughter sitting on the kitchen island. Louisa was crouching over a bottle of wine. There were two empty bottles beside her. Her mother looked around the kitchen. It was in a mess – plates scattered all over the kitchen table. The bin was full to the brim with rubbish. It smelt of rotting food and stale smoke. She slowly washed all the plates, putting them in their places, taking out the bin and replacing it with a new bin bag. With a heavy heart she dragged Louisa to her room and put her to sleep. Then she made dinner.
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rachel-grace akodu
Rachel-Grace Akodu St-Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls
The Letter I Never Sent This one’s for you, the way you made my heart cry like sinners’ pleas. This one’s for you, when roses shrivelled in fear. This one’s for you, the apple rotted and disintegrated into my nightmares. This one’s for you, the vine of stinging nettles that strangled my thoughts. This one’s for you, and the thorns pierced into this so-called love. This one’s for you.
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Sabirah Tahir Wembley High Technology College
What Can I Tell You? I can tell you that the rose is red not to symbolise love, but to symbolise the blood that was lost by soldiers. Soldiers who fought for this country; soldiers who fought for our lives; soldiers who fought for our freedom. I can tell you that the stem is a vivid green, a colour that signifies the harshness that nature put them through. The soggy, wet conditions; the mud up to knee height; the stretcher-bearers making the impossible, possible. I can tell you that the stem is not covered in thorns to prick someone but is thorned so the memory stays embedded in our blood stream, covered so that we remember the troops that gave us life. Our country is special and so are our soldiers.
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samiyah salahuddin
Samiyah Salahuddin Pimlico Academy
Yusra’s Hands This hand curls its fingers around mine as it sleeps This hand spreads Vaseline all over my mirror This hand wears a sparkling Disney princess ring This hand throws the remote across the living room This hand grabs her face and solemnly falls to the ground in despair, just for attention This hand touches my nose straight after I’ve touched hers This hand touches my face and says ‘Goodnight. Love you!’
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Sinthuya Veerasingam Wembley High Technology College
A Poem to My Mother These hands put my lunch together Making sure she doesn’t leave out any of my favourites, You know, Cheestrings, chocolate, cheese and onion crisps. Her soft hands never go a day without painting her delicate nails a glossy crimson, Her hands often brush through her sleek, straight, black hair, Those gentle hands that bathed me when I was younger, Those gentle hands that fed me rice when I was six, Those gentle hands that used to tickle me, These hands are my mother’s.
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talia bunting
Talia Bunting Highgate Wood School
Joe I remember him as he was, With the guitar, a jolly man, soon to be seventy, Content with his lot, Then it all changed when she told me, Ashen but optimistic, ‘Cancer’ she said. Her voice a cool breeze in the room, He doesn’t want you to know, Don’t tell him I told you, But it’s not looking good, He had chemo and drugs and we thought, The sun was beginning to rise but alas, Then I heard a conversation, I listened in as she said, Phrases like ‘bad’ and ‘wrong treatment’, And ‘misdiagnosis’. I felt like I’d followed a map to a dead end, They had him on the wrong treatment, Even though they fixed their mistake, put him down the right path, By then we knew he was dying, 65
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We visited week after week, First whitewashed hospital wards, then care homes with patronising nurses, Then the hospice where his fate was finally sealed, Then a month later I was called out of school, Pity on their faces that took Me to him, And there he lay, pale and still, On a bed still warm, only dead For an hour at least, They cleaned him, made him presentable, Covered in a white blanket, like an object, In a museum display case, But it wasn’t him I was looking at, It was an empty vessel, just sleeping, With no one to pilot it to life, I wasn’t devastated or shocked, We all saw it coming, I just felt like a glass, transparent and empty, We all went to Israel for the funeral, Bundled up on the first plane, Said our goodbyes, That’s when I cried huge tears, In the scorching Israeli heat, We mourned, 66
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Then three months later we hired a room at a restaurant, Celebrated his seventieth birthday, I baked a cake, It was unforgettable, his friends came, From all over and smiled at happy memories, Laughed and cried together, The only thing missing was him, And when I look back at what happened, I just think that he shouldn’t have had to go through all that, The misdiagnosis, the pain, being moved from place to place, Nobody should.
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Unaisa Juairia George Green’s School
Sunset I remember the clear sight of dawn. The peaceful sound of prayer the beautiful sight of a sunset I like to watch the sunset It’s better than the sunrise I dislike the sunrise I don’t know why Don’t ask me why I guess it’s because it’s the start of the day. But I love the ending of the day. It’s all about the sunset. Watching it is like my hobby. I like watching it peacefully and quietly. I like staying on my own, the majority of the time. Some say it’s good some say it’s bad. I think it’s good. You get to know yourself a lot better. When I’m on my own… I’ll pray I’ll dream I’ll write I’ll watch the peaceful sunset, 68
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shimmering in the dark, but beautiful, atmosphere.
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Warda Khalif Cranford Community College
A Dream Destined to Be Answered I dream of a world where I will not mistake Salt for sugar Sweet for sour The ethereal melody of a brown hummingbird For the mighty bellicose roars of an ant, I dream of a world where I can gaze up To the shining stars and wish They listen, I dream of a world where my roaring voice Could disrupt the suffocating noose around my neck, I dream of a world where I won’t feel pain Pain like the wart between his majesty’s toes being Stabbed by a steel toothpick, I dream of a world where I am not limited To only eating five grams of gloopy glowing porridge Where I can spread my wings to try gallons of Weetabix, Coco Pops, Weetos, For I am a sly leopard, That shall never be tamed
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TOTLEIGH BARTON: T-POSE @TOTLEIGH
first story residential anthology 2018
Andreea Matache Sutton Community Academy
If You Don’t Know Then Don’t Say Anything I wake up in the morning and my sister just keeps on talking, she’s like, ‘No point waking up, you little person. Let me tell you something, a little girl like you can’t really say or do anything. You are weak!’ and then she shuts the door so loud that my dead grandma can hear her from the sky, love you Grandma, it’s just my sister Olly. What kind of name is this? Like she is laughing about her stupid name, why not? She just thinks that she is the best, and sometimes I’m like, ‘Why don’t you go all the way to the Sun? The Sun at least is a big planet for your negative feelings but you will die’, I’m so angry. But I love her. Or not, I don’t know. You know, I don’t care, I’m leaving. I need to pack everything. I should not leave even one breath in here because – trust me – my family would destroy that breath. Don’t trust them. OK so a private aeroplane would be nice, but I don’t have the money that I need. I can steal my mum and dad’s card or something. I need to find a way. But first I need to find a way to get out of this prison. I slowly sneak out of the dark house. My friend Ella is helping me. I know she is twenty-two and she is not the best person, but I need somebody to get me there.
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andreea matache
After Five Hours We are here, finally. It took her ages to just take me from my house and to the bloody airport. OK, I guess all I have to do is to get in the private aeroplane and wherever it takes me it takes me, I don’t care, I’m away from that family. I slowly run into the aeroplane and when I get there everything is white, sparkling windows, and shiny chairs. The flight only takes six hours. ‘Quite long,’ the other lady said. She sat on my right. Seriously, quite long? Those six hours felt like six years. I get off the bus and look around me. Nothing familiar, just lost people and dogs and homeless kids. I have fifty bucks in my pocket so I need to find somewhere to sleep and a job. Ohhhh, no, I step on something – God bless me and in what I step. Good, a small room that I just got for free from this old lady. I’ll help her, and she’ll help me. When I walk in, everything smells so bad – cigarettes and alcohol – and I’m like, ‘What is the matter with this old lady?’ She comes in with a bottle of vodka and asks, ‘What is a sweet girl like you doing here? You are so innocent, little poor girl, I think you should go back home.’ I say ‘no’, of course – who would actually go back there? First I am like, ‘I can live with it,’ but after three months of hard work and not getting paid back, I think I’ve had enough. So yeah, eventually, I’m going back home. Ohh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss them; and I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, I know it sounds stupid and all that, but I don’t know, I feel like a stupid person but this old lady is being so weird, and now people are telling me what to do. I feel my family paid these people, I give up on people. I’m in my bedroom turning my mind upside down to find a way to go back home, to find a key to a door that says, ‘HOME’. 73
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After an hour of trying to find a way, something shiny came. Yeah how did I forget? ‘A private aeroplane!’ I shout. The lady comes so fast, like a crazy teenager looking and trying to get signal on their phone, and she starts to ‘blah blah blah’. I’m sure you don’t want to hear what she says. But after she leaves, I keep on thinking about the private aeroplane. I don’t know, I feel like I need my bedroom. After Ten Years Phew. I’m back. Those ten years were OK: a nightmare, a good dream. You know, the old lady died, so her house is mine now: prettier and cleaner. To be fair, all these years I was thinking about my family. I always thought that they would find me; I had this hope. But now I am going home. Five hours in the aeroplane are quite good, just babies screaming for their mums and people talking. I get home, and when I get out of the car I look straight at the door, hoping for my mum and dad with their arms wide open to hug me, but no. The door is broken: you can easily get in. I am scared even to look at it. The beautiful roses are now black from the sadness. I decide to walk in. It smells like dead rats in the living room. There is only one chair, hmm? And now: ‘Wow, you’ve come back,’ my sister says. She is dirty, her white clothes turned into a disgusting grey, and she had red eyes. I ask, ‘What happened, where are Mum and Dad?’ ‘They left,’ she says. ‘Why?’ You know, there are so many questions, but more answers. ‘Well, when you left, Mum and Dad got mad at me for being rude to you,’ Olly says. I am confused, my face is white. I’m lost. 74
carol pinto
Carol Pinto Nottingham Academy Greenwood Campus
Red It’s fire, it’s passion, seemingly once in a lifetime summer romance. Colours of the lips clasped over the Coca-Cola bottle. The colour of the ribbon that tied her chestnut hair up, hints of chocolate on her tongue. Her umbrella, her bikini, her lollipop, her lips, her nails, her glasses, it was her. It was her, her colour. No thought of it wasn’t accompanied by her. Everything was her. In better words, she was your everything. Her dress, her shoes, her lips when it was all white. It’s a funny colour associated with anger, all you see when you’re angry or when you’ve hurt yourself. But for you, this colour didn’t evoke this feeling, it made you happy, happy as one can be when a baby is on the way.
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Chloe Bartholomew Lincoln Castle Academy
Colour Chart If my life was a colour it would be Summer Rain, You would find it in the deepest puddles because there is so much depth to my life. If my brain was a colour it would be Evergreen, You would find it in endless fields where hopeful crops try to grow. If my dreams were a colour they would be Stardust, You would find them in the never-ending night sky where there are no limits.
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cole burnet
Cole Burnet Witham – A Priory Academy
Comforting Words Burned holes working their way up to the neck just waiting for the time to consume It burns and tears And leaves nothing behind but ashes that fall to the ground It burns and tears And makes us wait until the never-ending pain is over It burns and tears And says that the suffering will end soon They burn and tear And I fight back because I know that they are wrong They burn and tear And I don’t know if I can still hold it off I burn and tear And take comfort in the fact that I was right Because it burns and tears and waits and leaves but it will never end even after I’m gone
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Deborah Omolegan-Obe Fairfield High School
A Letter to a Mother Words cannot fathom your indescribable beauty, Not just from your exterior but an enchanting fire that radiates from within you. Your mind is a masterpiece, a vast collection of fabrics and paints far more exquisite than any of van Gogh’s works, Your heart is the purest gold, not to be bought or sold but to give out all you have in hope that I never encounter hardship, Your hands are dream-makers, softer than any foreign silk, warmer than the glass of milk by my bedside, safer than anywhere else in the world, They cradle me as I try to sleep, They tuck me into bed at night, They clap together at my graduation, They raise their glass at my wedding.
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elana walker
Elana Walker St Bede’s Catholic College
Breathe The pictures, triggering so many feelings, yet they are nothing but a mere memory printed on a tattered piece of paper. My knees collapse, falling to the ground, which feels so far away yet so close that I’m suffocating, burning, the oxygen flooding through my veins like tiny fires igniting inside of me. Breathe – in and out, like the calm waves below as I stand at the edge of a cliff with you. Everything is so peaceful, I feel like I control the world and nothing can come between me, you and the cool breeze. But the breeze isn’t real, you aren’t stood next to me. It’s all a figment of my imagination, just like every memory, scattered on my floor, the pictures.
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Emil Dutkowski Hans Price Academy
Colour Charts and Me My life, summarised by Wildflower – search in fields and forests, not my eyes. Never cage me, flower blooming, free. However, my mind, Mint-Crisp, smells the breath of those who learn, clarity. Yet my dreams are Big Apple, peace, looking in nature, orchards of thoughts.
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emily cooke
Emily Cooke Sutton Community Academy
Why Aren’t Well-made Top Hats Most Fashionable in Today’s Society? Sir David roamed the humble streets of London, wearing his finest suit – adorned with jewels of sky blue and a silver handkerchief. Sir David adored his most magnificent suit; however, there was a huge problem: Sir David was bald! This troubled Sir David deeply. He knew that he needed a top hat to hide his sparkly head, yet all his previous top hats had fallen prey to the power of the wind. Sir David thought to himself, ‘Why aren’t well-made top hats most fashionable in today’s society?’ He’d seen plenty of top hats in his years (an abundance of them at Ingoldmells Market); however, all of them seemed to be shoddily-made, pound-shop quality. As the man contemplated all his previous top hat purchases, he finally decided to go and buy a well-made top hat!
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Erica Lees-Smith Judgemeadow Community College
Small Comforts The freshly made, authentic Italian pizza, its base thin and crispy, barely upholding the heavy, four-cheesy burden; The mellow breathing flowing from the bold brass of the saxophone as I play, beautiful sounds igniting musical fire in a listener; The creaking city of Stratford – genius ideas performed anew, accompanied by the irresistible scent of fresh books and their beckoning pages; The dramatic harmonies of the West End, complemented by the skilled orchestra, knocking at the door of jazziness – such liberating, quirky noise; The soft comfort of my burgundy hoodie on a biting winter evening, emblazoned with the defining words,
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‘I speak fluent sarcasm’ boldly shouting a known identity; The wise words and parables shared by the foundations of my faith, perfection shedding a light on the imperfections of the world.
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Keeley Nicholas Severn Vale School
Loving You The sighs in your eyes when the sun burrows through, And the crack of your knuckles when waiting in a queue, The bittersweet recollections of salt on your tongue, And the lingering of ash plastered within a hug, Deafening silence after a night out, Clump in my throat after arguing with you.
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nehanda ngozi
Nehanda Ngozi City Academy Bristol
Tongue I speak with words, words that describe time but also a place, words that come alive and don’t get taken away, words that live to concur. Period. I speak with power, power that is not amongst others but not any less, power in me and not you, power that brings you up and not down. Period. I speak with courage, courage that brings my head held high, courage that you can see a lot further than before, courage which gives me energy, a lot, so you can see. Period. I speak with words, power and courage – which reminds me, these are some of the things which makes my writing me. Period.
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first story residential anthology 2018
Seamus Bonner All Saints’ Academy
Hamburger Two sultry buns waiting to be caressed. One beef patty burning with flavour, ready to explode with beef intention any second. Lettuce savour the moment, relish the juices, if you missed any ketchup. Turnip for what?
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visvaldas prastienius
Visvaldas Prastienius Haven High Academy
The Unknown A broken astronaut helmet, an object that can no longer be used in a place like space. It is not trash, not something that can be thrown away, but it is precious to my being. So, it remains as a memorial of my past. Once in a while, the mirror beckons and taunts me as the clock ticks forward, leading my life closer to its end. My grandchildren, though, give me a sense of hope for the future; the way they play their music box, listening to joyous tunes. Suddenly, a slow knock on the door alarms me. I take my time to walk to the corridor. A tall, well-built figure enters the corridor, wearing full black with its facial features completely obscure to my eye. The lamppost just outside the window begins to flicker, and the tune from the music box ceases. My heart begins to pound more heavily as adrenaline pumps into my veins at the realisation that the door which led the figure inside had been locked for the evening. ‘How is this possible?’ I ask myself. However, at the revelation of this man’s identity, I immediately understand how he is capable of such a feat. His face is of a precise, strong appearance. He also stands a whole head above my own stature. ‘Sir George?’ he speaks, with a deep tone. ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘That is my name.’
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first story residential anthology 2018
‘I would like to ask you some questions, if you do not mind the intrusion at this hour.’ I glance over my shoulder, to the open storeroom where my artefact lies, before inviting him inside. After comfortably sitting on the sofa, he opens his suitcase, which is full of formal papers, although they do not mean a lot to me; no, not to me. ‘So, George, are you ready?’ With a final burst of confidence, I answer. ‘Yes.’
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