The First Story Residential Anthology 2017 by First Story

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 2017 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 2017 Published by First Story Limited www.firststory.org.uk Omnibus Business Centre, 39â&#x20AC;&#x201C;41 North Road London N7 9DP Copyright ÂŠ First Story 2017 Typesetting: Avon DataSet Ltd Cover Designer: First Story Printed in the UK by Aquatint 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 2017 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 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and across the country â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 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, Anne Elizabeth Pryor Colocci, Antonia Byatt, Charlotte Mary Hogg, David Anthony Stuart Stephens, Sue Margaret Horner, Sophie Dalling, Mayowa Sofekun, Edward James Baden-Powell, Betsy Elizabeth Tobin, James Victor Waldegrave. The Advisory Board of First Story: Andrew Adonis, Julian Barnes, Jamie Byng, Alex Clark, Julia Cleverdon, Andrew Cowan, Jonathan Dimbleby, Mark Haddon, Simon Jenkins, Derek Johns, Andrew Kidd, Rona Kiley, Chris Patten, Kevin Prunty, Zadie Smith, William Waldegrave and Brett Wigdortz. Thanks to: Allen & Overy Foundation, Arts Council England, Jane and Peter Aitken, Tim Bevan and Amy Gadney, Arvon, Blackwells, Brunswick, Cheltenham Festivals, Clifford Chance Foundation, Beth and Michele Colocci, Ernest Cook Trust, Danego Charitable Trust, Cathy and Richard Dobbs, Robert Gavron Charitable Trust, the First Story Events Committee, the First Story First Editions Club, Frontier Economics, Give A Book, Goldman Sachs Gives, Kate Kunac-Tabinor, Lake House Charitable Foundation, Letters Live, London Book Fair, John Lyonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Charity, Peter Minet Trust, Andrea Minton Beddoes and Simon Gray, Old Possumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Practical Trust, Open Gate Trust, Oxford University Press, Penguin Random House, Psycle Interactive, Laurel and John Rafter, Richard Reed,

Rothschild Foundation, Sands Family Trust, Sigrid Rausing Trust, Royal Society of Literature, Sir Halley Stewart Trust, TD Securities, Teach First, Betsy Tobin and Peter Sands, Stonegarth Fund, Robin and Liselotte Vince, Garfield Weston Foundation, 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 worked so hard to make the 2017 residential a success, 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 Memories Five Types of Friends You May Meet General Dreams Hidden Realities Her True Body Building a Home What If ? Safety I Shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Have to Put Things in the Compost Bin Reflective Glass Medals Spooning a Confession Estaria Empty The Mafia of Sicily Just a Doormat

Abbas Khan Dixons City Academy Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy Courtney Sefton-Appleyard Brigshaw High School Courtney Sefton-Appleyard Brigshaw High School Courtney Sefton-Appleyard Brigshaw High School Ellie Worthington Titus Salt School Ellie Worthington Titus Salt School Henna Ravjibhai Appleton Academy Henna Ravjibhai Appleton Academy Jamal Khan Grange Technology College Josh Cole Sirius Academy West Josh Cole Sirius Academy West Kiana Harris-Pitt Leeds West Academy

16 18 19 20 22 24 25 27 28 29 30 32 33 35 37 41

Life of an Equestrian Inspiration My Chosen Weapons Against Wet Sand Oceans and Fires How to Become a Hoarder Mirror Why Do We Need That? If Home… Never Fall Out of an Aeroplane Candle Dancing The Artist ‘You’ve Got This!’ Hi, I’m Steph Come Back Love Once I Told a Lie Come Back, Part Two

Kiana Harris-Pitt Leeds West Academy Kira Clayton St Mary’s College Kira Clayton St Mary’s College Laura Stewart Titus Salt School Laura Stewart Titus Salt School Lillie Blanchard Winifred Holtby Academy Lillie Blanchard Winifred Holtby Academy Niamh Moffat Sirius Academy West Niamh Moffat Sirius Academy West Phoebe Hewes Skegness Academy Shahrbano Iqbal Belle Vue Girls’ Academy Stephanie Allen Sirius Academy North Stephanie Allen Sirius Academy North Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls

46 47 51 52 53 54 55 56 58 59 70 72 73 76 78 80 81

THE HURST Car Park Connectivity Breathing Underwater The Ring Around Saturn September Our Glorious Tribe How to Survive the Digital Detox: A Twelve-Step Programme Let’s Go! Martian Poem About Unknown Objects It Has Changed Too Much Hallucinations Joy Not-So-Quick Question Haikus Death and Life Something Else Entirely The Lie

The First Story Group at The Hurst, Led by Francesca Beard Joy Mrakpor St Mary’s and St John’s CoE School Joy Mrakpor St Mary’s and St John’s CoE School Clara Klein-French Highgate Wood School Clara Klein-French Highgate Wood School Renee Hibbert St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Renee Hibbert St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Drin Rrhamani St Mary’s and St John’s CoE School Jesse Prince Wapping High School Abdullah Mian Wembley High Technology College Abdullah Mian Wembley High Technology College Kesar Valera Wembley High Technology College Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

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Adventures of My Hand Who Here? My Hand Once The Human Consumes Diving In Learning to Swim Breathing Underwater Acid Soaked Sleeves Bleed Autopsy Twenty Ways to Be My Hand Once Have You Ever Felt? Breathing Underwater

Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy Jessica Hegarty Saint Gabriel’s College Jessica Hegarty Saint Gabriel’s College Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Samirah Yasmin St Paul’s Way Trust Samirah Yasmin St Paul’s Way Trust Samirah Yasmin St Paul’s Way Trust Romana Aghaie Pimlico Academy Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

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The First Story Group at the Hurst, Led by Russ Litten

TOTLEIGH BARTON The Forgotten Sight Family Both Sun and Moon Judgemental Walls Welcome, Ghosts Breath Bristol Accent Curious Pen Bristol Poem Curious Dog Common Cow Don’t Stay with Me What Would You Say If…

Luke Tonks 128 Lincoln Castle Academy Luke Tonks 129 Lincoln Castle Academy Rose Halward 130 Lincoln Castle Academy Rose Halward 132 Lincoln Castle Academy Rose Halward 134 Lincoln Castle Academy Dionne Goodman 135 Farnborough Academy James Lewis 137 Bridge Learning Campus James Lewis 139 Bridge Learning Campus Micky Bartley 140 Bridge Learning Campus Micky Bartley 142 Bridge Learning Campus Jessica Willmott 143 Sutton Community Academy Jessica Willmott 145 Sutton Community Academy Maja Czumak 147 Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road Maja Czumak 148 Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road Maja Czumak 149 Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road

Our People

Hale Duru Queen Elizabeth’s Academy Hale Duru Queen Elizabeth’s Academy Shau’ri Wiggins John Cabot Academy Shau’ri Wiggins John Cabot Academy Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy Mohammed Abdoel City of Leicester College Mohammed Abdoel City of Leicester College Grace Power Nottingham Academy, Greenwood Road The Wild Cage Grace Power Nottingham Academy, Greenwood Road The Man Who Speaks Once Phoebe Lees Farnborough Academy Save Me Phoebe Lees Farnborough Academy Rose Raspberry Ruth Nattrass St Paul’s Catholic School Me… Sumayyah Nadhir City of Leicester College Deprived Sumayyah Nadhir City of Leicester College The Gateway Vinnie Otterbeck Fairfield High School From a Friend The Walk In Defence of a Kitten – How Could You Resist? Water Droplet Joe’s Attempt at Romance The Never-Ending Tale of the Depressed Toilet Roll The Cattle Battle of Squishy Traps The Oryx Tree With Frightening Ash Comes Optimistic Flame My Time as the Table Head’s Advisor

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Lumb Bank

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Abbas Khan Dixons City Academy

Memories It is quite often that I am bored, I get bored very easily. When I am, I read at the top of the hill, Full of rattling trees. Leant on the isolated tree which stands apart, On which I lean and read in peace. As I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seen anyone else with this tree, I have labelled it mine. It has seven branches, Is jagged all around, Except for the one spot where my back has indented its visit multiple times, The ridges, now smooth, Once creased my shirt. My childhood memories are being deleted, The older I am, The faster time feels, Suddenly one year feels like six months, Later itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll become two weeks.

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Hopefully, My indentation will not be removed, And at least some of my childhood will remain.

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Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy

Five Types of Friends You May Meet Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the smart one, Always acting as if Google is in their brain, Giving advice that you never want, Being oh-so smug when you ask them for help. Next you have the interesting one, The one who is always on holiday in another country, So very knowledgeable about the world, The one you sometimes you wish you were. You almost always have a fun one, They wear their heart on their sleeve, Speak as if they have a loudspeaker lodged in their throat, Almost always involving you in danger and excitement. Then you have the rare one, The leader you unknowingly follow, Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if they have charisma in their blood, They are the ones you follow into childish battle. Maybe you have the quiet one, The always reliable one. 18

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Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy

General Dreams Life is a battlefield, Always fighting just to keep the status quo. Your dreams are your general, But you only ever see glimpses of him, His heart is surrounded by an iron cage, And you feel he’ll never let you in. You start as nothing but a lowly soldier, But then you slowly start to crawl up, In just a few years you start school, But thank God they don’t care about merit. Well done, you made it, You finally met your goal but what now? Now you’re a captain you have no reason to fight, A soldier without a cause isn’t even a soldier. Well done you’ve finally become a general, Your heart soars like the mighty eagle, Now you know what it’s like at the top.

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Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy

Hidden Realities They speak as if bullies are the victims, They act as if I attacked a defenceless cat, They say that I should have told someone, Yet when I speak my voice is ignored, Yet when I shout it’s like I’m speaking to a wall, Yet when I scream myself hoarse, All I receive in return is a sore throat, All I receive is a headache from the insanity, All I receive is a beating for snitching, No matter what happens, I stay quiet, No matter what happens, I hide the bruises, No matter what happens, I never let the tears fall, All around me, I hear laughs and snide remarks, All around me, I see the hidden smirks, All around me, I feel nothing but the ocean crushing me, Finally, I’ve had enough, Finally, I snap like a rubber band wound too tight, Finally, I see heaven as my fist crushes his nose, Everyone’s afraid to look me in the eyes, Everyone’s afraid to say something, Everyone’s afraid I’ll remember them, I’m told what I did is wrong, I’m told they’re from troubled homes, I’m told to forgive and forget, 20

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They speak as if bullies are the victims, They act as if I attacked a defenceless cat, They say that I should have told someone, So I kindly forgive, So I am never bullied again.

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Abdul Rauf Khan Dixons City Academy

Her True Body Her body is crafted from soil, Her body is covered by the shimmering river, Her hair is green like a rainforest, Her body is surrounded by an intangible aura. Her skin is golden like the desert, Her muscles are red like passion, Her bones are a shining steel, Her brown blood is fertile like a farm. Her body is clothed by the sea, Her clothes are still like a cup of tea, Her clothes are raging like Neptune, Her clothes are as erratic as the ocean. Her green hair surrounds her body like a field, Her hair is the freshly mowed lawn, Her hair is the still moss growing on castles, Her hair shines with the beauty of her soul, Her body is protected by the winds of the world, Her body is loved by the hand of Zeus, Her body is clutched by thunder, Her body is caressed by billions. 22

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On her flesh are trillions of chapters, On her flesh a trillion more will be inscribed.

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Courtney SeftonAppleyard Brigshaw High School

Building a Home In order to understand what home means to me it would take a thousand pages of paper and a week-long speech. Family is the most important thing to me. My home has enclosed screaming arguments, babiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cries, happy laughter, heart-rendering sobs and sarcastic teenage years. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seen days I wish could be erased from existence and times I wish I could relive over and over. The only essence of this you could imagine is caught on the wall full of framed pictures. My home has seen seven babies grow into individuals, yet share the same inherited family nose. At the heart of it, the same woman who gives a new meaning to the word mum.

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Courtney SeftonAppleyard Brigshaw High School

What If? If he’d opened his wallet and seen the happy smiling faces of his now morbid family, perhaps then he would have had longer to question his choice. He wouldn’t have had to plead any more, his mistaken begging for attention understood and acknowledged by others. Mask his sadness with a façade of smiles and fake laughter. When he reached his ‘curtain call’, I imagine he might have wished that he had never had the thoughts at all. You see, if my mum didn’t have to wake in the middle of the night to a child’s cry for missing him, I wouldn’t resent him. If she wasn’t left to pick up the pieces perhaps I wouldn’t either, yet I resent those who seem to be back to their reality and normal day to day life. My mother shushing the words ‘I remember when’ because they played constantly on my younger brother’s lips but couldn’t seem to escape hers. ‘Time’s a healer’ the dreaded three words anyone could say. It really isn’t. It grows more painful. At times it can be like a yo-yo; you have good times and times you just want to escape the world and be left alone with your thoughts. That can be the most dangerous thing. Walk past a smell and remember a meal you shared, the smell of popcorn a reminder of the terrible movie trip that didn’t go as planned. Your mind is like a constantly-full 25

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suggestion box of things you could have done to change everything. But you can never have the answers to the questions of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;what if?â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

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Courtney SeftonAppleyard Brigshaw High School

Safety Walking down the high street, her tiny palm in mine. Tiny shoes patter against one of my great steps. She takes four steps and stumbles. I reach down, pick her up, stand her straight, brushing down her mucky hands and kissing the palms better. I scoop her up and place her comfortably on my hip. We set off again. I hope that she doesn’t have time to think of the pain. Shop windows pass by an array of pinks, blues, reds, greens and purples. Slowly her head gives in to the lull of my shushes along with the warm breeze of the sunny day, she places her head on my shoulder, I look to her a plea in my eyes as I wish that she wouldn’t grow older. Will I be there when she falls each time? No. I won’t be there to keep her safe. I won’t be there to protect her from bad decisions in the future. For now, I can comfort and hold her.

first story residential anthology

Ellie Worthington Titus Salt School

I Shouldn’t Have to Put Things in the Compost Bin I shouldn’t have to put things in the compost bin because the flies might startle me, causing me to chuck/drop the lid, scaring Ned (my cat) maybe making him shoot inside and knock my dad who could drop a glass of water, my mum could then slip in the water and hurt herself. My brother might then come upstairs to see what the commotion is about and accidently drop his Xbox remote in the water and tread on a piece of broken glass, we would then have to visit A&E and it would be all my fault. So really I shouldn’t be going anywhere near a compost bin for at least seventy-five years.

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Ellie Worthington Titus Salt School

Reflective Glass Over here! No… not there… behind you! Yes, that’s it. I bet you never noticed me before – why? Because I am an object that reflects your vanity and beauty. I just show you yourself, no lies, no airbrushing just the plain truth of what you are. I see into the mess that is your room every day and you are happy, contented as you chat to your friends about the latest styles and how they are in that particular shop I can never remember the name of. Even whilst you do your homework I hear you hum a tune from the Big Top 40. Then you walk past me. You notice me. You look deep into my soul. Then you whisper softly ‘Not perfect’ It is only when you look at me that you look disappointed, upset. I want to reach out to comfort you as tears come to your eyes but I cannot, I cannot tell you that you are truly beautiful, inside and out.

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Henna Ravjibhai Appleton Academy

Medals Natasha fumbled through heaps of old, dusty items in her attic. Like a machine, she separated them into ‘keep’, ‘bin’, and ‘charity’ boxes, each item landing with a thud. The ever increasing amount of dust blurred her ability to see. Old math sheets, books and formulas went straight in the ‘bin’ box along with other keepsakes from years ago. A glimmer of light reflected in her glasses and caught her attention; curious to find out what it was, she tip-toed through the mess and crouched down to notice a little case full of medals. She opened the case with an urge to hold them again. Memories overflowed like a tidal wave. She was consumed by the beat, the music and the steps of her old dance routines. The lingering smell of hairspray clung to the medal as tightly as it did to those ringlets, loud cheers from the audience echoed across the silent attic. No more was Mrs Brown, the thirty-eight year old boring maths teacher: she was a performer. Delicately, she held up the last gold medal she received before her life changed. Another wave of memories hit her and transported her to when she and her best friend, Shanell performed their duet. Shanell was the beautiful one, she had a bright future and was the ‘next big thing’, she would have been a West End phenomenon. She was like a big sister, they were always getting each other into trouble but they had the best of fun; messing around with costumes in the props cupboard and 30

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dressing up in funny outfits. But now, Natasha is twenty years older. The only memories of that night were the blinding headlights and the screeching of car tyres. A single tear fell onto the gold medal. Natasha wiped her eyes and put the medal away.

first story residential anthology

Henna Ravjibhai Appleton Academy

Spooning a Confession If someone decides to put me in their filthy mouth one more time, I will scream. I’m constantly being poked around, getting dunked into coffee or some other shit like burning hot tomato soup. Why can’t they use their fingers to stir? They’re long and thin and it wouldn’t cost a penny. But, oh no! Their precious little finger would be burned. Have they ever thought of me burning myself? My only revenge is getting washed up. My perfect curves brilliant for unexpected splashes of hot water in the face. Their expressions are priceless! But poor them, boo hoo. They don’t understand that I am the one who gets burned Every. Single. Day.

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Jamal Khan Grange Technology College

Estaria The wind blew strong over the country farm, the air damp and cold. The sheep were finding shelter from the fierce blow, the cows standing strong, eating grass, the pigs sleeping in the barn oblivious to their surroundings. But Ace knew that there was a problem. The flock of sheep showed signs of a disturbance in the west and stayed in the east of the farm where they found themselves more secure. Ace feared that the beasts were closing in. The treacherous magicians who have betrayed the king and the people, have gathered and summoned familiars who they send to wreak havoc on the villages in the countryside and he and his family might be next. He decided to confront his father about his feelings and how he might become satisfied with what precautions to take. He searched every room from the living room to the kitchen, then from his bedroom to the bathroom. He was nowhere to be found. Come to think of it, where was anyone? Ace ran down the velvet carpet to the garlic stained staircase, then out the beige coloured doors into the cold. A storm began its fierce downfall, beating hard on his back, forcing him to the ground. A figure of a woman picked him up and threw him into the house, leaving indents from her nails in his arm. Her long chestnut hair falling over her face, hiding her features from the world but he already knew who it was. Because she had been with him his entire life: it was his mother. She was beaten and 33

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broken, crimson red stains ruined her beautiful white dress. The thick liquid dripped to the floor as Ace searched for a feeling of bravery within himself to get up and aid his mother but none could be found. He stood there staring at her ruined body and stained hair without a word. With lightning accuracy, a pale hand shot through his motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chest and gripped her delicate heart and squeezed until it was drained, the small holes in his skin absorbed the sorrow that leaked from her heart and eyes as the tears spurted out of her. The smell of iron and the sight of her dead body was overwhelming for Ace and he slowly slumped and screamed with pain and realisation that his only sanctuary was gone.

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Josh Cole Sirius Academy West

Empty The man waited, lying under his bed with his blankets and pillows filling every gap around him with whatever he had. This wouldn’t help his situation but calmed his trembling hands. He didn’t look like the type to be curled in isolation while the rest of his community were outside. This large mass of a man reduced to that of a snivelling child. Throughout his life he always believed that his rectangular room was a fair size. It definitely wasn’t the largest room nor was it the smallest. Of the large range of rooms available on the ship, he had got a decent space for himself. This was now becoming quite small. The four walls that once gave the man comfort now served as confinement. He heard a drop. A small splash of water against the pine floor. This seemingly small sound served as ample distraction from the howls of pain from up above. He rocked slowly, in a pattern. Back and forth, slightly out of time with the rhythmic rocking of the boat. Hesitantly, the man broke down the pillow wall that he had made to shield himself. He edged his way out, shuffling along the planks of wood. As he stood he ensured to firmly grasp the metal bedpost in case his knees buckled under his weight. It was then when he noticed that it was unnaturally cold, tendrils of icy wind stretched its ever growing fingers outwards, clawing its way along the walls. Hairs stood on the edge of his skin in apprehension. Numb hands fumbled over the door’s lock and handle. He could hear no noise, no droplets of water. He gained an unnatural 35

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vigour and a longing to open the door. He was lucky. If he were a minute later, he wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have been able to see the hulking body of metal that was consuming the ship. A stern, steel face twisting as it threw chunks of the boat within its gaping mouth. Upon seeing the tiny man in his room the creature contorted its face into what was most likely a scream, but without any sound. Its own way of celebration before its next morsel.

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Josh Cole Sirius Academy West

The Mafia of Sicily The last remnants of sunlight casually dazed through the gap in the curtains. Jean wandered over to a solitary window and opened it. The gentle Sicilian breeze drifted through. This partially cleansed the room of the musky cigar smoke from earlier that day and allowed the rest of the artwork to dry. Paintings of all varieties littered the workshop, with a larger number of frames also scattered. The paintings would serve their purpose well enough, not for their aesthetic values but their practicality. The average painting he made could conceal 10,000 Euros worth of contraband from the Sicilian authorities. Jean’s thoughts were interrupted as his door was opened. ‘Mind if we come in, friend?’ one of them said. Although most likely having good intentions, his question seemed hateful and vindictive. ‘No, not at all.’ Jean muttered, knowing full well that his answer wouldn’t affect what the men did. Several large men entered the room and began to fill the picture frames with their illegal substances. They didn’t take much care in their actions and scuffed the corners of several frames on their way in. At least one tube of paint had been trampled into the carpet, leaving a permanent streak of red. The men fulfilled Jean’s stereotypical view of gangsters, crisp black suits and greased black hair paired with a frame that easily filled the small workshop. They looked damaged, with small burns and cuts that were scattered across what bare skin they revealed. 37

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‘How’s the painting going?’ one of the bigger men asked. Jean recalled that his name was Christopher. It was a strong traditional name that no doubt enabled him to go far within the family. Christopher’s voice carried a sincerity that almost convinced Jean that he cared about his art. ‘It’s coming along okay,’ Jean mumbled without making eye contact. ‘Just make sure you get them done,’ he said, putting a heavy arm on the artist’s shoulder as he stood. From that cold contact alone, Jean received warning not to disappoint him. Although the men appeared to be friendly, dressed in their professional attire, their brutish movements indicated the underlying violent tendencies typical of the Mendoza family. Despite this, Jean was somewhat grateful for them. They were the ones, after all, who initially funded his creative work and protected his business from the other families of Sicily. With the amount of artists in his area rapidly declining, it was the perfect opportunity for his work to be unveiled to the public. After months of dedication, Jean was beginning to worm his way into the selective family. He had experienced late nights of poker on a Thursday night, wine dinners on Sunday and introductions to some of the fairer members of the family. Although they treated him well, Jean still felt anxious towards his new brothers, more specifically the emergence of vicious crimes in their area. By that nightfall, the paintings were shipped off to Italy and in return the Mendozas received a hefty profit. This also meant that the bills for Jean’s club were paid for a couple of months. Although his bills were paid, the Mendozas still required Jean to paint upon more canvasses on a regular basis. This meant that he had to paint through his lack of inspiration and continue to stroke despite his aching hands. Jean felt he would rather spill his emotions onto the page than spill his blood onto streets of some 38

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dingy back alley. The family made a point of demonstrating their wrath to Jean, from the scenes he saw Jean learnt that they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the type of people to betray. The hazy summer morning started out much like any other. The restless easel stood frozen in apprehension for the painting to come. The window was opened allowing Jean to listen to the daily murmur of the marketplace. Unlike yesterday, there was no gust of wind, only stillness. With his equipment set, Jean too was ready to release his creative flow. The first sketch of his new piece was discarded. As were his second and third attempts. After taking a break, Jean returned and created his fifth copy, which also ended up in his filled bin. The once relaxing hum of the outside world quickly became an annoyance. Jean sat back down on his wooden chair testing its rusty fixtures with his leant back weight. He sat and took several breaths attempting to calm himself. He swallowed and attempted to clear his mouth of the acrid taste of sadness. Wetting his dry brush he began to stroke the page, sharp bristles caressing a rough canvass. From his trembling brushstrokes a scene appeared, a woman waiting at a table, outside and alone. The crisp wind was the only accompaniment to her loneliness. Swirling darkness descended upon the scene, her patient face clouded by shade. Jean picked up the spilled glass of water and threw it across the room, shouting. The crash of glass on brick alerted the market at his disappointment. No passion was felt for his painting, only sorrow and misery. No matter how hard he tried, he could muster nothing but disdain and disgust towards his work. Every piece was ominous, lacking the colour and vibrancy of his other pieces. The canvas was next to be thrown across the room, its wooden frame snapped and broken. His shaking hands lit a long forgotten, bent cigarette. He spluttered a cough of smoke out of the window, lacking the finesse of his usual self. His cheeks were touched by the bitter 39

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cold wind, as a single plume twirled into the sky. Burdened by the guilt of his crime, Jean felt as though he could no longer create beauty. His love of painting had been tarnished.

kiana harris-pitt

Kiana Harris-Pitt Leeds West Academy

Just a Doormat Betty walked into the tea room promptly at noon. The best and only tea room in the whole of Heptonstall. She greeted Louis â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a rather odd-looking young man with thick blonde hair that covered at least a third of his crinkled forehead, contradicting his age with the lines that arched around the edges of his face. His skin was clean but spotted and his lips always formed a crooked smile that joined to the dip of his dimples when addressing customers. He was stood behind the counter precisely adjusting the location of each triangular slice of Victoria sponge cake. With the gracefulness all elderly women possess, Betty seated herself on the chair by the window, carefully removing her favourite book from her hessian bag. She turned to the page where ripened jam had settled into the words reddening them and the bottom corner was creased previously via confusion. Louis brought over a cup of tea containing milk no sugar along with a signature slice of Victoria sponge and quietly set it down onto the table in front, collecting the one pound eighty-five change Betty had neatly stacked; before serving a couple of young, doting teens. An hour passed. In that time Betty reached the end of the book and with the tragic, mournful ending, silently wept onto the page. She then looked up and out of the window in hope that the slither of light sneaking past the white fluff of clouds would dry her eyes, whilst intentionally avoiding contact with the soft, round emerald ones belonging to Louis. However,â&#x20AC;Żwith the 41

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closing of the book, he already rehearsed his tentative walk over. ‘Betty, enough reminiscing for one day, eh?’ he supposed in his calming, common voice. ‘It, it’s just the end that always gets to me. You know that. I’ll be perfectly okay once I’ve got this lovely cup of tea in my belly,’ she convincingly replied in a mature, slightly croaky voice. ‘Here, let me get you another one, it’ll be freezing by now and we can’t have you going out into that weather having had a cold cup of tea now can we? You’ll catch your death.’ Having paused in an awkward silence for a few moments after attempting to lighten the mood, Betty duplicated the warm smile he made as he sprung back to the counter. Arriving home, she wiped her faded beige pumps on that torn, faded beige doormat creating a crinkling noise as a thin layer of snow melted onto the ground. The doormat read ‘HOME’ in big, black, bold letters. It was a present from her husband who presented the gift to her when she returned from her occupation as a nurse after the war, symbolising their renewed life together outside the strikingly grand house Graham had bought for the two of them. Now, it was the only reminder Betty had of him after his death and the robbery. Despite memories. Like the time they both competed in a game of scrabble, betting whoever lost had to pour their bottle of gin down the sink. She did nothing more that evening than warm up a shepherd’s pie for one, watch the nine o’clock news on the family sized sofa and settle into bed laying on top of the sheets so cold they felt damp. The morning after, Betty was going about her business when a man smothered in dirt, oil and grease charged into her freshly weeded garden. He was sure of his entrance, as he didn’t hesitate towards the front door. He also didn’t knock. Instead he bent down in his baggy, grey, paint-smothered trousers, in turn 42

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revealing inches of skin at the back and a gap of material at the knee. Emerging from the side of the house Betty asked the man what he was doing. ‘Taking this piece of junk,’ the man replied in a deep, abrupt voice as if it was obvious to all. She stared, eyes fixed on his unshaven plum face. ‘It’s just a doormat,’ he retorted. As he craned himself to his feet, Betty shuffled – with a marching intention – closer to the nonchalant man. Although time had hunched her back slightly and decreased her prior average height so that she was barely level with the man’s extra-broad shoulders, compared to her fragile skeleton. She was not intimidated or scared. The thought of anyone attempting to take her beloved doormat infuriated her, making fire surge through her veins and set them alight. With two words telling him exactly what to do, she pointed with her bent, wrinkled finger towards his van containing: baths, bikes, clocks, chairs, and even a toy piano to signify the urgency she demanded. ‘Haven’t seen you around here in a while Betty, where you been?’ mused Louis, his voice light and playful as he turned his head to the ringing chime notifying him the little, old lady was hobbling into the tea room. ‘Oh well, I’ve been at home you see. Doctor’s order. But my legs are still able to move so I decided to come for tea at my favourite spot and have a natter with you, perhaps, if you’re able?’ ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ She nodded insistently, closing her eyes as she did and revealing the ghostliness of her eyelids. ‘Sit down and I’ll be right over, as soon as I’m finished.’ Betty read a different book that she’d promised she would read to her child, had she been lucky enough to have him. She didn’t initiate another conversation with Louis whilst waiting as the tea room was particularly busy 43

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that day. Five or ten minutes later, as Betty was finishing her cup of tea with one sugar, she looked out the window and had to do that second glance you do when your eyes need assuring of what they visualised. ‘That beastly man!’ Betty shrieked weakly. There he was, pulled up at the lights teasing green. ‘He’s got my doormat!’ Within a split second, Louis pounded out of the shop (being cloned in that moment would have resulted in him imitating a stampede). The light turned green quicker than Louis imagined, allowing the van to drive on. So he ran. His feet paddling outwards at an intense pace – for him at least. He caught up, jumped and snatched the doormat from the top of the collected pile. His breathing just back at a physically reasonable rate, he walked into his workplace and handed Betty the doormat back before returning to work. The two chatted after his shift that night, highlighting the most grave problems in society like recycling, social media, men who steal doormats, global warming, and people who don’t know how to make a standard cup of tea. The problem about tea and doormat stealing men being the only matters they both wholly agreed on. The others subjects Louis just agreed with or laughed about for the sake of Betty, even though she could easily accept and defy opposite opinions. They found out a lot about each other that night. Louis asked ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how come you never had kids?’ ‘I was never privileged enough to be able to conceive and make it through the pregnancy. A tilted womb. Still I’m fine with it as that is what God chose for me. When I think about it, I reckon that my children and hopefully grandchildren would have been just like you. Intelligent, funny and full of love.’ * 44

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The following Saturday Betty was unable to attend the tea room. Having phoned Louis and asked him to come over for a cup of tea, he arrived within fifteen minutes. Apparent that something was the matter, Betty discovered that he had been sacked for deserting the tea shop in order to retrieve her doormat. ‘I am both eternally grateful and sincerely apologetic. I feel terribly awful. Hopefully you will consider the offer to attend my house once a week to organise tea for us both and perhaps endure a chat? Of course, payment will be taken care of.’ ‘That’d be great,’ he sympathetically exclaimed. He visited the old woman’s house, reducing the number of days she spent alone. From six days, to five, to four; until eventually, he was visiting her house every other day despite finding himself another job. An icy Thursday afternoon Louis turned up at Betty’s house unarranged, to update her about the lady he had met the night before. Upon arrival, his eyes fixated downwards to the doormat where a white envelope lay wedged under addressed to Louis Meadow. Opening it, it read… Dear Louis, This may appear as a shock to you but my health is not what it used to be. I’m taking it that you are reading this letter on my passing. I want you to know that I have been living out my days focusing on the time we so regularly spend together. I have been alone and weary for so long that I am tremendously grateful for your company. You are a delightful young man and I hope that you live your life to the full. You were the grandson I never had and never had the opportunity to love. Attached to this letter you will find my will. It states that you have been left my estate, money and of course the doormat. I am telling you in this letter because they will phrase it all in unfathomable language. My only wish is that you lay the doormat outside the household you decide to settle at, hopefully when you have found love, away from that wretched doormat stealing man. Goodbye dear boy… 45

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Kiana Harris-Pitt Leeds West Academy

Life of an Equestrian A world where you wish money grew on trees, And the chores and activities make you falter at the knees. A place you go not for fun but company, Not for the people but for the sheer bliss of the hobby. When I drive up that dirt path I have one thing in mind, To see him and (of course) brush that muddy behind. The twinkle I endure as I meet him in the field, His confidence, power, charm, how is he not wild? But he’s not, he is tamed and he is strong, And when I look into those big brown eyes I know it’s here I belong. The out of proportion workload even through the pitter patter, The stench and the fatigue to me it doesn’t matter. I am in a partnership – I am an equestrian, What’s so great about a horse? Is that really even a question?

kira clayton

Kira Clayton St Mary’s College

Inspiration My pen taps irregularly on top of my pale brown notebook decorated with beautifully drawn forest animals leaping around the cover – protecting the contents from any nosey and curious passers-by. Except. The notebook was empty (excluding a small doodle of a star at the bottom left hand side of the first page – hardly something to protect). I’ve been sat here for almost an hour trying to think of something, anything, to write about. I have nearly remembered every different inequality on this plain white wall presented in front of me. I sigh. I glance at the clock – 1:30pm and 25 seconds; 20 seconds since I last looked at the clock: a new record! Although I may seem preoccupied, you must be reassured that I am not straying from the task at hand – I am not oblivious to my deadline looming above me. The sand timer steadily dripping away nearing my time for completion. But nothing is coming. Frantically I glance around for a sliver of inspiration – anything to bring me through this remaining hour and… two minutes and 43 seconds. My head is buzzing with nothingness, no ideas, nothing arriving from the depths of my subconscious thought. Why won’t my fortress of a brain let anything out… does it want me to fail? I can feel the defence in my head strengthening, no ideas will be let out without a fight to the death, and that is what I’m unwilling to do no matter how much I need the idea there’s no use for it if 47

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I cannot use it. Guns rise in my mind as I attempt to access the ideas that I’m sure are encased inside my fortress of thought. Unable to enter, unable to use. Again I stare at the wall looking at the dark scratch around the top left hand side of my vision and the yellow smear in the centre evidently from a dirty hand left unwashed after painting. Maybe they were creating the next masterpiece of our century to sell at auction for millions and then the painter will sit in their private jet on the way back, with excitement pulsing through their veins as they stare out of the plane window in dizzy wonder as they prepare to begin their new life of luxury and riches – houses bigger than towns, trips more costly than a normal man’s life savings. Maybe at first they will be a selfless wealthy man and give money to all those who need help and ensure all are as happy as they are but maybe after a year or two they will become greedy, wanting more money, more fame, more of everything. Soon they will become evil and destructive knocking down anything in the way of what they want including those who they once helped. Losing their wife and children due to their greed never coming home for weeks due to the ‘needed’ money, missing birthdays and other vital events in their young son’s life and soon die a lonely and unhappy death. Or maybe the smear was from a young child painting flowers to be stuck on the fridge. I spin on my chair, gazing around the room, looking at the mirror briefly and wondering about the story behind it but it’s probably nothing of interest – a woman called Sara thought that it just looked nice at a market stall sold by a little old lady called Joyce. She loved her stall but as she sold that last mirror she did not know that would be the last one she ever sold. Later that evening the mirror was hung with careful hands. Sara loved that mirror but that was long ago back when the Whittons owned this 48

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house. Or maybe it was bought on Amazon a couple of years ago for this purpose. My face reflects back at me a mixture of annoyance and boredom plastered there. I continue my voyage around the room, glancing at all the other sights a window facing out onto a field covered with green stalks growing outwards from the ground a single old man picking his way through each one selecting the weeds and pulling upwards ruthlessly. I wonder why he is there… maybe he was once a world-known scientist pulling new groundbreaking ideas from his mind every day, creating the impossible with ease… but maybe one day he discovered a diabolical idea, one that would destroy many and he had to live through its use, maybe with no regret, no regret until the end when he couldn’t sleep as the regret consumed him day after day knowing what he had done and that’s why he left the world of science to go and do something where he could cause no destruction and now he lives his mundane life everyday filled with regret of what he had done pulling up weeds from an eight acre field an endless and unrewarding job. Or maybe he is just cold after this hard day’s work. I spin once again, this time gazing at the ceiling – a white painted one with a simple salmon pink light shade. I wonder what it is like to be a lamp shade hindering light’s passage and yet allowing people to see, maybe it’s fun knowing how contradictory your job is watching people go about their daily jobs cooking, cleaning and sleeping while your responsibility is to protect their soft sensitive eyes from the dangers of light. Or maybe they’re just inanimate objects. The clock passes my vision and I realise the time: 30 minutes and 23 seconds left. My breath pace increases and stress consumes me, what will I do? My time is running out and not a single idea has emerged from my sea of what once was ideas; today my 49

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imagination has failed me and why – why today of all days? Again I look around every small corner of the room for any inspiration, anything I can write about. I see a small hole in the wall how did it get there maybe when the Whittons lived here they had mice that would not leave so maybe they broke a hole in the wall so they would be able to ambush the mice from all angles. But maybe it was an easy accident by a young boy and some football boots. Each tick of the clock seems to echo throughout the room like the cries of a thousand birds at once; a constant reminder of the time left: 20 minutes and 45 seconds and my page is still blank nothing to protect nothing to write. I close my eyes think, THINK! Nothing, not a single word boards my train of thought. Again I spin around and around and around until my head turns into a dizzy mess of nothingness imitating the blur I can see around me except one thought one vital thing I feel my eyes light up and childlike giddiness pounds through my veins, finely: an idea. My hands shake slightly as I put pen to paper for the first time in the hour and a half I’ve been given and slowly inscribe my first sentence: ‘My pen taps irregularly on top of my pale brown notebook…’

kira clayton

Kira Clayton St Mary’s College

My Chosen Weapons Against Wet Sand 1. A hairdryer on full power to blow it away 2. A fan to dry it and allow it to fall off 3. The sun to prevent it 4. Removing the sea – take the supplier away from the criminal 5. Harness the wind to dry it 6. Learn the dark arts and stop it 7. Go to Hogwarts they will teach me there 8. Put a towel down to stop it from reaching me 9. Bring a sponge to soak it up 10. Create an invention to remove the moisture 11. Hire some people to drink the moisture from the sand 12. Buy sand to place on top – no more wet sand in sight 13. Play hide and seek with it when it hides you don’t find 14. Learn to bear it 15. Wear shoes to avoid it 16. Pick up each individual grain and dry them one by one 17. Dance a tribal dance to remove it 18. Set up a peaceful protest against it 19. If it fails set up a less peaceful protest 20. Ignoring it… maybe it will go away.

first story residential anthology

Laura Stewart Titus Salt School

Oceans and Fires The tears streamed down her face. She wept oceans and made seas appear on the floor. Nothing could bring happiness back to those eyes, her smile lines and the twinkle in her eye were gone forever, blocked from existence, never to be seen again. Her tears showed the people sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lost, their memories would die with her. The fire still burned bright in her mind, the flames devouring the doors, though the last embers had died long ago along with all she held dear. Tears still flooded the piles of ash and oceans still occupied her eyes.

laura stewart

Laura Stewart Titus Salt School

How to Become a Hoarder Buy useless things that seem useful now, Keep all your childhood toys, Never throw away those blurry photos, Be the one who gets all the dead person’s stuff, Never get rid of broken stuff, Keep your favourite (and hated) clothes from ten years ago, Ignore all charity bags that come through your door. Shove stuff in the attic. Fill every spare room with junk. Keep all your ‘precious mementos’ Buy at least ten things at every car boot sale and never sell anything on.

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Lillie Blanchard Winifred Holtby Academy

Mirror I am a mirror. People stare at me like I am a thing of beauty, of elegance. Playing with their hair, doing their tie, undoing their tie (angrily) and then throwing it at me. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never believe this but, they wink at me, making me feel very uncomfortable indeed. They point, and wink at the same time, and whisperâ&#x20AC;Ś you got this. Oh how I long to be a window.

lillie blanchard

Lillie Blanchard Winifred Holtby Academy

Why Do We Need That? Millie: Why do we need that? Max: We need that because it helps me sleep. Without it, I can’t. Do you want me to keep you up all night playing My Chemical Romance to send me to sleep? Millie: Sleeping mask it is then. Max: Are you okay? Millie: Yeah, I’m okay. I mean, like, I’m excited and everything. Why? Max: You seem off with me. You never look at me anymore. I mean dead in the eyes. Millie: Oh, you know me. I just get like, kind of nervous— Max: I can tell you’re off. You haven’t helped me pack. I’ve a good mind to let you do the rest. Millie: Oh no! Don’t. I just don’t feel, like, too well, you know? Max: Okay, if you’re sure… and you are sure, right? Millie: Yes! Of course.

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Niamh Moffat Sirius Academy West

If Home… If home was a warzone, I would be an evacuee. If home was a peace treaty, I could be completely free. If home was a sanctuary, Then that’s where I’d be. If home was an open door, I would not need my barricade. If home kept out the arguments, I would not need to forcibly fade. If home was an onslaught, Then there’s no reason to be slayed. If home allowed me to be me, I would not live in fear. If home was a welcoming or accepting place, I would not shed another tear. If home wanted me with them, Then I would not be here. If home was a loop, I wish it would end. If home was an insomniac, 56

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I wish it was on the mend. If home was an isolated space, I wish the mirror wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t my only friend. If parents are to argue, Should I know the difference between open palms and a fist? If parents are to blame, Should I have to look at them through the clouded mist? If parents are to break Should I be the one to run away to the sweet abyss? If my future is decided, Do you care that your child is depressed? If my future is set in stone, Then I barely have time left. If my future is to end, You have no choice but to lay me to rest.

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Niamh Moffat Sirius Academy West

Never Fall Out of an Aeroplane Never fall out of an aeroplane No. Never let this occur Never fall out of an aeroplane Your limbs could all tear. Never fall out of an aeroplane No. Never let this take place A friend of mine once did All that was left was an aloof face. Never fall out of an aeroplane No. Never let this betide A friend of mine once did Nothingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left to see. No nothing as they died.

phoebe hewes

Phoebe Hewes Skegness Academy

Candle Dancing The smell of roses filled the room. Kyle sat cross-legged in the middle of his double bed, listening carefully to the music and imagining himself dancing in the midst of a beautiful garden. The flowers had all bloomed into various bright shades and the grass was freshly mown. He was dancing barefoot, not wanting his trainers to ruin the lush green grass. His footwork was delicate to match the music and the scenery. People watched on in awe, like a small child would watch a butterfly. This was always the time he wished that he had the guts to perform for people in real life – not in a candle induced fantasy. It was then, when Kyle had sense of the music and how he could dance, that he stood and started to actually dance. The fragrance and the dance fit together so fluidly and the hours of practice he had put in over the years, at the now abandoned, shut down studio, really did show. His bedroom door creaked open and he thought that it was his mother so he already began to reply without her saying anything. ‘Yes Mum, I know. Stop making so—’ ‘I’m definitely not your mum.’ It was Tony – his best friend. Tony was the only one who knew about Kyle dancing, in general; his mum paid for a few months of lessons but after the studio closed, she wanted Kyle to pursue something that could produce a ‘fulfilling and safe’ career. If Tony was the only one who knew about him still dancing, he was obviously the only one who knew about him, as he called, ‘candle dancing’. 59

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‘You candle dancing again?’ Tony asked. Kyle mumbled an affirmation and nodded his head. ‘I still don’t understand how you turn a smell into an entire dance.’ ‘Here let me show you,’ Kyle suggested and beckoned towards his bed. ‘Paint splattered combats off first though. I learn from my mistakes.’ Tony laughed, short and loud. ‘Now, sit cross legged.’ Kyle instructed. ‘Close your eyes and take a deep breath in and think about where the smell reminds you of.’ Tony didn’t answer straight away and Kyle started to regret offering to show Tony. What if Tony didn’t understand? What if Tony laughed in his face? What if he lost his best and longest friend through this ridiculous thing? ‘A flower shop.’ Tony exclaimed after a moment of contemplating quiet. ‘Now think about how you would dance in a flower shop.’ Kyle said. ‘I can think about how you would dance but not me; I have two left feet.’ Tony wiggled his feet. ‘Fine. Think about what you would paint in a flower shop.’ Kyle compromised. ‘Okay. Right.’ Tony thought for a moment. ‘There’s red roses, white roses and those, you know, peachy coloured roses. There’s loads of other flowers.’ ‘Yeah,’ Kyle egged him on. He felt like a proud teacher. He hadn’t shared this with anyone and the fact that it was working for Tony was a sort of validation, proof that he wasn’t crazy. It set his nerves at ease and calmed him. ‘The front desk’s decorated with that red picnic blanket material.’ There was a familiar face stood behind the counter, looking right at home amongst the bright colours, wearing a blue chequered apron and a smile to rival the sun but he didn’t say that. ‘Now, I understood how you can draw so much inspiration 60

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from something as simple as a candle. You’re a genius.’ Tony applauded lightly. ‘I can’t tell whether you’re being sarcastic.’ Kyle laughed nervously. ‘Don’t be so nervous. I was being serious.’ Tony laughed, putting Kyle’s nerves at ease. ‘Well, thank you.’ ‘And on the talk of candles.’ Tony fished around in his bag. ‘Surprise.’ He handed Kyle a candle that smelled like vanilla. ‘Even if it doesn’t inspire a dance, it smells pretty good.’ ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ Kyle placed the candle delicately on the shelf with the others. ‘Did I ever tell you why I started “candle dancing”?’ Kyle asked. ‘Never.’ Tony answered. ‘One day you just went candle shopping and I was like “oh cool” and didn’t press you about it.’ ‘You put up with so much from me Tony. Thank you.’ Tony did always just go along with Kyle, no matter the situation, no questions asked. ‘Well after they shut the studio down, I wanted to carry on dancing but Mum didn’t want me doing it in the first place so she wasn’t going to pay for any more of it. One day, I was sat downstairs, Mum’s old bass RnB music was playing and her old blue candle was lit. I saw the flame and I couldn’t help but think that the flame was dancing. So, I bought candles and started imagining I was the flame. But, there was this one time where I smelled the rose candle and I imagined dancing in a garden. Et voila! Candle dancing was born!’ Kyle finished with a dramatic wave of the arms. ‘So you didn’t just start dancing with a candle lit one day?’ ‘No!’ Kyle laughed. Then Tony laughed. Then they were in fits of laughter over the fact that they were laughing over something that wasn’t all that funny. Kyle’s mum shouted up to him. ‘Coming!’ Kyle was still trying to recover from laughing. 61

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‘Wait here, I won’t be long.’ Tony nodded. ‘Kyle, are you still dancing?’ His mother asked him, his younger sister stood behind his mother with a sly smile. ‘No?’ Kyle tried lying but his mother could read him like an open book. ‘Kyle we’ve had this conversation before.’ His mother sighed and shifted all her weight to one hip in order to properly give him ‘the look’ over her glasses. ‘But Mum, dancing is what I want to do.’ Kyle defended. ‘It’s my passion!’ ‘Passion doesn’t pay bills!’ His mother argued back. ‘I’ll get a job as an instructor. People with money would pay an arm and a leg to be able to get rid of their two left feet!’ Kyle reasoned. ‘You need a real j–’ ‘What working in some high rise wearing a monkey suit so I can live the fulfilling life of a corporate slave?’ Kyle interrupted, raising his voice. ‘Yes!’ His mother matched his volume. ‘Well, I suppose that this is a terrible time to tell you that I got an audition at a dance school.’ Kyle revealed. ‘What?’ His mother’s voice was quiet again. ‘I sent in a video of myself dancing and Sol, my old dance instructor, put in a few good words.’ Kyle told her. ‘Good luck then but you’ll have to make your own way there.’ Kyle’s mum walked into the kitchen but not before Kyle heard her mumble, ‘I’m not going to be there to watch your dreams crash and burn.’ A small snigger was let out of his sister’s mouth before she pranced away, smirking. *

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Kyle paced around his bedroom, worrying aloud to Tony who was still sat cross legged on his bed. ‘What if she’s right Tony?’ Kyle fretted. ‘What if I crash and burn? I’ll end up working as a corporate slave in a high rise somewhere until all I can think about is jumping off of that god damn high rise.’ ‘Kyle, obviously you’ll do great. I’ve seen you dance and you’re flawless. They’ll have to let you in.’ Tony reassured. ‘Also, no one is jumping off of any high rise whilst I’m around so don’t worry about that either.’ ‘But on top of all that, the dance school is two hours away so how the hell am I going to get there without my mum?’ Kyle collapsed on his bed and buried his face in his hands. ‘Listen,’ Tony lifted Kyle’s head from his hands. ‘Because I’m your super cool best friend who knows how to drive and has a car, I’ll drive you there.’ ‘You’d do that for me?’ Kyle had to ask, just to clarify. ‘Of course,’ Tony replied sincerely. ‘You’re my best friend. My dream is to get my art into the world and that’s happening – I get that many commissions that I can’t keep up with them. It’s your turn.’ * The car ride to the audition was so much fun that Kyle almost forgot what he was worried about. Tony’s huge selection of CDs were as much fun as anyone could ask for and Kyle surmised that they would span over a week if played consecutively. Kyle had once asked how Tony had so many of them and the simple answer was Tony’s dad and a huge love for The 1975. They didn’t hit a huge cluster of traffic so within no time they were there. The tall white marble of the arts school stood proudly 63

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next to them as Tony roamed around, looking for a parking spot. The music was turned down to a quiet hum due to the densely populated area and Tony’s general nice nature. ‘Tony, I’m nervous. I can’t do th–’ ‘Yes you can; I didn’t drive all this way for you to give up.’ Tony reversed into a space and Kyle was surprised at how much reassurance he could give and how much attention he could pay whilst parking a car at the same time. ‘You can’t come in and watch you know?’ Kyle looked at Tony. ‘Sucks doesn’t it.’ Tony huffed. ‘But I think I’m going to get more art supplies. But I’m a fabulous friend so I’ll walk you to the door.’ They both exited the car and Kyle slammed his door a little too hard earning a disapproving look from Tony. ‘Sorry.’ He squeaked quietly, now nervous even under his best friend’s gaze. They walked in comfortable silence. Well, mostly comfortable as with each and every step, Kyle got even more nervous. They were at the door. Kyle looked up at the towering building and gulped. Tony turned to Kyle. ‘You can do this. Set the stage on fire.’ Tony reassured. ‘Are you sure?’ Kyle questioned apprehensively. ‘Positive.’ Tony answered in a heartbeat. ‘I’ll be waiting here,’ he gestured at the reception area. ‘In about an hour.’ ‘Tony wait!’ Kyle called as Tony walked away. ‘This will probably sound weird,’ Kyle began. ‘But can I have a hug? You know… for reassurance.’ He didn’t have time to add further explanation because he was enveloped in a bone crushing hug. ‘Good luck. You can do this.’ Tony said once more before Kyle stepped through the door. * 64

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Inside was magnificent. There was really no other word for it. An elegant modern look danced with themes of the original design. There were pristine white walls with silhouettes of people dancing or a paint palette or a classic clip art camera. The front desk was white marble and a black metallic lamp and a sleek black laptop sat prettily atop it. There were no curtains to filter the sunlight that streamed through the windows, polished in golden rays. It seemed like something from a children’s tale – beautiful. ‘Can I help you?’ A high pitched voice came from a room behind the desk. Kyle hadn’t even noticed the white door; it blended into the wall so well. ‘Um yes, I’m here for an audition.’ Kyle replied timidly, expecting a woman dressed in a fitted blazer and a black pencil skirt to walk out and tell him to go home. Instead, a woman smaller than him emerged. She had her hair cut into a short bob, animal print glasses and silver snake bites underneath her pink lips. She was wearing black leggings, a black vest top and black and white branded trainers. Kyle suddenly didn’t feel dressed down anymore, stood in his black jeans, white shirt and black trainers. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’ She had sweeter voice now he knew what she looked like. She dropped him off at the auditorium and told him to go straight in. He opened the heavy doors and, rather embarrassingly, stumbled. ‘Your long journey best not have gone to waste Mr Write.’ A petite woman with long black hair, wearing a backwards cap, looked at him. He panicked for a second… or two… or three… or maybe it was an entire minute. ‘Mr Write?’ Kyle snapped out of his frozen state. The man behind the woman rolled his eyes. ‘Just call me Kyle.’ He replied, instinctively holding out his hand. She shook it. 65

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‘Okay Kyle.’ She started. ‘My name’s Katie and I’m the head of the dance department. This is Roy.’ Katie gestured to the man Kyle now knew as Roy. ‘He’s head of drama but he used to dance so he helps me run auditions.’ Katie informed. ‘If you’d like to stand on the stage and we’ll go from there.’ Kyle followed the instructions. * It was a big stage. It was big stage and there was lots of empty chairs facing him. Of course he was nervous. But he couldn’t deny the need to perform. He needed to share his passion and an audience of that many people was a dream come true. He could get over his nerves. ‘Do you have your own music?’ Katie asked. Kyle nodded. ‘I have it on my phone. Should I play it through that?’ ‘Anything that suits you.’ Katie responded. Kyle nodded again, words running away from him. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ Kyle pressed play a few seconds later. Then he closed his eyes and, waiting for the music to start, imagined what it would be like if all the seats were full. What if hundreds of people were there just to watch him? They would have no prior opinion of him and he could just dance for them. That thought alone drove him to start moving when the music started. It was a routine that he had been doing for nearly a year now and he was happy with how precise the movements were and how they fluidly moved together. He completed his piece. The music ceased. The only sounds heard were his laboured breaths that echoed in the empty space. He saw Tony walking out. He frowned. Tony looked at him with a smile on his face. A smile that immediately fell the second he saw Kyle. 66

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‘I didn’t get a place.’ Kyle mumbled lowly. ‘What?!’ Tony asked, shocked and ready to protest to whoever he needed to. ‘I didn’t get a place because I GOT A SCHOLARSHIP!!!’ Kyle revealed and dropped the sad façade. ‘Oh my God! Well done! That’s amazing, obviously!’ Tony congratulated. ‘I knew you could.’ He added quietly. * They were in the car, driving home, boot laden with paint and canvases and new paintbrushes and backseat taken up entirely by yet another art easel. ‘How many easels do you need?’ Kyle laughed. ‘I only have five!’ Tony defended. ‘Six now.’ He corrected himself. ‘Yeah, and here I was thinking you only needed one.’ Tony laughed out loud. ‘An artist can never have too many easels.’ Tony did a laugh that was mixed with a contented sigh. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’ Kyle sighed. ‘What do you mean?’ Tony nervous chuckled. ‘Well, I’m not going to commute for two hours am I?’ Kyle joked. ‘True.’ Tony agreed, something else in is voice that Kyle couldn’t put his finger on. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll miss you too.’ * The news of his scholarship wasn’t well received by his mum. ‘You got a scholarship?’ His mother dropped her pen on the table, again looking over her glasses. 67

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‘Yes. I did it, Mum.’ Kyle was still happy and confident despite his mother’s obvious apprehension. ‘So, is this scholarship going to pay for you to travel every day?’ His mother didn’t seem to be all that bothered by any of the news. ‘About that…’ Kyle started. ‘I’m going to have to move.’ ‘Oh no you’re not!’ And all of a sudden his mother cared. ‘I’ll put up with a certain amount of your nonsense but that is a step too far!’ ‘Mum!’ ‘What do you expect me to say?’ His mother shrieked at him. ‘I want you to be supportive!’ Kyle shouted. ‘Well, I don’t want you to be on your own!’ His mother retaliated. ‘I’m gonna have to grow up some day!’ Kyle protested. ‘I don’t want you to!’ Kyle fell quiet. His mother’s words replayed in his head. ‘Oh.’ Kyle stepped slowly towards his mother. ‘Mum, we’re all going to grow up.’ ‘You’re my son Kyle. I’d do anything to keep you in my pocket.’ His mother’s voice was no longer raised, but quiet and timid. ‘I’m not moving countries away.’ Kyle said. ‘I’ll visit as often as I can.’ ‘Is this really what you want to do?’ His mother checked. ‘With my entire heart.’ ‘Okay, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop you anyway am I?’ His mother laughed and Kyle shook his head. ‘Just promise, you’ll come to me if you run into money troubles.’ ‘I will.’ Kyle assured. * 68

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Kyle’s things were packed into a moving van and he was stood at his front door. He got a surprisingly heartfelt hug from his sister, a soft, reassuring hug from his mother and a breathtaking hug from Tony. ‘Man, I’m going to miss you.’ Tony whispered. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ Kyle laughed. ‘Keep in contact.’ ‘For sure.’

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Shahrbano Iqbal Belle Vue Girlsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Academy

The Artist Swirls of striking shades of scarlet light the spark igniting the canvas and through the flames The lavender does grow poised in perfection through its sweet scent and the lightness of its touch And the deep azure of all that moves a living body with a missing heart Yet the paintbrush hovers over the blooming flowers does every rose have thorns and every thorn have roses? For it takes one stroke and the lithe form of the raven soars above 70

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Alongside the expectations that extinguish the spark and his freedom lies in the cage of his existence A strike of poignant grief the melody falters and the darkness of the ink fades

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Stephanie Allen Sirius Academy North

‘You’ve Got This!’ With the audience cheering, my big banana smile shrinks into a frown as silence falls. My sigh of relief glides into my throat, brushing past the gaps in between my teeth. My mouth collects the harsh that were busily ringing in people’s ears. The words slowly become more like velvet sweeping from my tongue to my lungs. My heart thuds violently like I’ve just ran a marathon. My skin drinks all my salty sweat that’s climbing gently up my body. I walk backwards off of the stage to sit in my allocated seat with my hands trembling and fear swimming through my veins. I then sit down and stare at a dusty, unswept floor and wonder if anyone will enjoy my performance or if it’s even good enough for the eyes of the curious. I look up to my friend who is sat beside me with a weird look of excitement on her face. Her mouth opens wide, ‘You’ve got this!’

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Stephanie Allen Sirius Academy North

Hi, I’m Steph Hi, I’m Steph, Has anyone ever noticed that there’re always things in life that make us cringe? Mine are usually when people moan or whinge. Or when people scrape their chairs across floors and you feel that scraping sound ring through your ears and stay there for eternity. But there’s one other thing… One other thing that really bugs me a lot. It bugs me how much of a taboo it is, and it’s not like you can get much hope from Google. It bugs me how much you’re slated and hated, used and abused and misunderstood for being bad instead of good, unloved for being you. Right, let me ask you a question. What do you think of when you hear the word ‘ill’? ‘Well that’s when you have a cold or a fever or something worse like cancer.’ Hmm, let’s try adding the word ‘mental’ in front. What then? ‘Nah, that’s when like people stab ya for no reason and put you in a straightjacket and that, innit?’ 73

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*Laugh* Let us take a second to imagine a scenario. You’re sat in a stuffy old class, completing your work. One minute you feel fine and the next, your heart starts thudding like a large footstep across laminate flooring. Your skin becomes wet with sweat and you’re losing your breath. Voices start whispering in your head and what makes it worse is that you can’t even tell what they’re saying or why. Then everyone in class sounds louder and it suddenly becomes a competition between them and the voices of who can be the loudest. More sweat pours from your brow and you can no longer even think or breathe. *Huh, huh, huh!* Just stop! And it does. Everything just… stops. Everything that had purpose just becomes meaningless. Your emotions just evaporate into nothing. And before you start thinking that I’m making this up or trying to scare you, I’m really not. I’m trying to state, and educate you, that being mentally ill doesn’t mean you’re a freak. Mentally ill doesn’t mean you’re an emo. Mentally ill doesn’t mean you’re a psychopath in a straightjacket. Being mentally ill just makes you human like every other being in this world. So we don’t deserve to be slated and hated. 74

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We don’t deserve to be used and abused. We don’t deserve to be misunderstood for being bad instead of good. We deserve to be respected, and supported and maybe even be told once in a while ‘I’m here for you.’ Because how can you truly define something if you haven’t even experienced it? So I’m taking a stand and showing that you don’t have to be afraid. You can take off that mask you made. Just hold your head high and let the judgements fade. Because being you is okay. In fact, let me start again. Hi, I’m Steph, and I have anxiety, depression and psychosis.

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Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls

Come Back Here I am through the darkness my hands struggling to stop shaking and all the blood in my veins pausing for a second. My nails have gone white and at once I stand: my ears hearing all the blood vibrate. The glass window just shows a fiery burning sunset making the room flood with golden light in every bleak area. I don’t recall walking to the piano, but now I’m back at it, staring at the black and white keyboards. I wipe the dust from the top and I lift it up. My hands lightly press the keys and it feels like I’m back with him. We were both young and in love, the crowd was smelling of beer and sweat as they danced all around us. We decided to sit on the seats since we were so isolated. We felt the warmness on each other’s skin. As I press the key and he then guides me, holding my hands lightly and he plays above me, his eyes strictly on the piano. I could see him perfectly then, angular jaw, golden skin, eyes as golden as the sun and hair a golden brown. He presses the keyboard and I look at the notes that swirl through my mind delicately, slowly, like an everlasting taste in my mouth. The music is slipping through the floor boards and my heart is playing to the beat. I still remember the notes he played. I press on the keyboard so slightly, it makes the tiniest of sounds. I press again to make it louder, and soon my anger is poured through my hands, playing continuously, weaving through the notes quickly as I hear his voice and he listens to mine like it’s 76

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a symphony. Then I hear his voice, quiet hoarse and slow. His breaths are so audible as I hear him. ‘I’m sorry, but this is it.’ His eyes are full of agony before it leaves and the rough lines of his face go, and I can see him again, I can still smell his scent. And he left. I never knew when I would I accept his death. I never knew when, but it was just a matter of time. I fling open my eyes and I let go of the piano the coldness ripples through them and I can still see him, still see his dance with the song all around the room, hand in hand. He left me. And soon I feel something dripping down my cheeks. Tears. He left me here, I need him back. I want him back, please.

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Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls

Love How to define love: listen to every word they say, take in their voice, take in the way they say their words, listen to every syllable, be so entangled into the words, let them engulf you. Let them change: feel them grow and flourish but still let them dissolve in your presence, let them love you and take in you, let them know theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re loved, let them know that throughout all the pain embedded in this world, you will provide a place where they can melt under your arms. Argue: say whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on your chest, be angry at each other, but never in the world leave them wondering where you are, or if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve found someone else, never leave them crying, clutching onto the pillow, 78

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instead, give them love poems, cheesy ones, let them laugh. Let you love them back: you cannot turn your back, let them hold you, let them look at you like youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a goddess, and let yourself melt under their hands. for you cannot expect trust, if you do not give them that.

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Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls

Once I Told a Lie And they believed it. The artificial light was all around me and I could taste the remains of sugar I had. The room smelt of the herbs and spices. It felt as if the whole world was crashing down on me. My hands were sweaty and the sugar started to taste of blood. I said nothing happened and I was just checking the doors around the house, and her expression hardened that made her lips turn into a thin line. I inhaled a sharp breath and turned around before she could see me cry. Just when I was about to run, her hand caught my wrist and I turned around surely but slowly. Her hardened lines soon disappeared and her expression softened. her smile reappeared her face. ‘I believe you,’ she whispered and she told me to go to my room. I rushed up to my bedroom as the cold air blasted through the window, I rushed forward out of the windowsill where his golden hair was still there, his blue eyes shown in the moonlight, he held a battered football in his hand and I smiled and shook my head, I could see he was disappointed but I never wanted to feel that ever again. I waved him bye and he went through the back door and he disappeared into the night while the cold air above was still whistling softly, like a silent calling for me to sleep. I closed the window and I shut the curtain, I was shivering, but I wasn’t sure why. It was cold but I felt as if the sweet he gave me still lingered in my mouth again. I never saw him again after I moved house. 80

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Winnie Chinyadza Newland School for Girls

Come Back, Part Two I remember looking at his dead body and his blue, cold, pale fingertips and skin. I try to do everything, I make him his favourite tea with two sugars, mixed and dissolved fully, with a dash of milk. I watch some of the contents go to the side of his mouth down to his pale neck. I put my two fingers on his wrist and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear anything, all I can hear is the humming of the fridge. I look at his carelessly shut eyes. What am I doing? I tried to battle with him, I tried to cheat death, I tried to bring him back up with his tied roots to the world. His eyes fling open.

The Hurst

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The First Story Group at The Hurst, Led by Francesca Beard

Car Park Connectivity Whole group Like tiny planets transmitting through Space, It was unnatural. We speak in riddles sometimes It didn’t make sense It’s like we spoke, it was The only way to interact unsure when the connection Had broke Sometimes it was understanding that you share. Sometimes pain. It feels like I’ve been walking past a bunch of strangers Even though I know these people I wonder what they were thinking When they looked in my eyes It’s a very bizarre thing I found that I wanted to become tiny And clamber onto the space between their eyes A hardened stare, a penetrating gaze An exploring journey into the eyes of One another It was like trying to read a book Without words, or sing a song, Without lyrics. And yet there was a 84

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Certain understanding about it like There was an unsaid meaning Behind each look and a form of acceptance Each time someone left. So I let my gaze linger, not staring But silently communicating Some thing, nothing, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really know At least when I turn my eyes away from yours I gain something. Maybe an unspoken mutual understanding? Or an acquaintance made out of almost nothing I look at you and disappear. I am you, staring back at me. Or maybe, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m just dead inside. What do I see when I look in your eyes? We made soul contact in the car park Deep brown soul on light blue. I felt as if I was the last person left in the universe A conversation without words, a connection. An Exchange unadulterated by the impurity of the human tongue.

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Joy Mrakpor St Mary’s and St John’s CoE School

Breathing Underwater Breathing underwater in an air-filled cave. Bubbles pop when they reach me, appearing wave by wave. The crimson seaweed and the jade-green seaweed. Miniscule fish briskly sprint around the sea. Breathing underwater is an enigma for most humans. But I do it with ease and others are left clueless. The cave is eerie yet feels similar to home, The squishy ground shows much resemblance to foam. ‘How did I get here?’ you wonder, ‘down to an underwater cave.’ Well it was a simple journey; an easy path to pave. What seemed like minutes ago but was probably more, I was sitting cross-legged on the seashore.

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Joy Mrakpor St Maryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and St Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s CoE School

The Ring Around Saturn A hardened stare. A penetrating stare. An exploration into the eyes of another. Slight giggles and nervous shuffles cannot draw attention from the universe in our eyes. No matter how hard we resist The iris is an invitation into deep space. The face and the body are nothing. The look in our eyes is all. A hardened stare. A penetrating gaze. Do I search too deep? Do I hold it too long? Does the other person see what I see? The two of us dancing rings around Saturn.

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Clara Klein-French Highgate Wood School

September The intensity of looking into someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes and seeing was insane. Like trying to read a book without words, sing a song without lyrics, or paint a picture without colour. And, yet, there was a certain understanding. A meaning unsaid behind those eyes, and a form of acceptance each time they left, like the fading of summer and autumn setting in. I felt stripped of this face that I wear like a mask. And people saw me. They really saw me.

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Clara Klein-French Highgate Wood School

Our Glorious Tribe It’s crazy isn’t it? The sixteen of us sitting here today, despite the endless amount of variables that could change this now, everyone and everything has aligned perfectly to form this outcome. I mean, think about it. Between us we’ve had the most different backgrounds. One of us spent her first six years in Russia, another, the first eleven in Dubai. For others it’s more in their parents, grandparents and ancestors. There are those who lived in Pakistan, others in Jamaica, and yet here we are sitting in Shropshire listening to this. Then there’s me. Well, first my parents had to meet, at a common friend’s wedding. No. Before that, my mother had to get to the UK, through India, America, Israel. And her father and mother before that. My great, great grandfather, with his son escaping Nazi rule moving to Sweden. Imagine the freezing cold day at the dock, raining, my seventeen-year-old great-grandfather soaked to the skin, his father behind him, waiting for their boat out of hell. And back again to the time of the cave men when no language existed and they spoke in art and dance, hunted gathered and lived. Then to the time when dinosaurs walked the Earth. I have thousands of questions for that time, but the closest I’ll ever get is the Natural History Museum… And further still, rewind to a time where only one living 89

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organism was around and then to the Big Bang, the start of time, the start of us. Before we came here most of us had never met, yet we found the same tribe, and now we are sixteen kids staying in Shropshire, no service, no city, no sanity, but living in each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lives. Briefly, but burning bright. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crazy isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it?

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Renee Hibbert St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

How to Survive the Digital Detox: A Twelve-Step Programme Let’s Go! 1. Take your devices and put them into a bucket, pour concrete on top and throw the bucket in the Thames. 2. Find something to occupy your mind such as reading or knitting (no you don’t have to be old to knit). 3. Build a tree house or find a secret location to avoid others. 4. Learn how to write letters/send signals or train pigeons, so you’re able to communicate with others. 5. You must also discover the joy of leaving questions un answered (yes that means you need to forget about Google). 6. Photos – how about you learn how to draw your family and friends? Hmmm also learn how to do self-portraits and you’ll never even remember what a selfie was. 7. Now before you get rid of your device learn all the words of a soundtrack, or you could just take up an instrument, your call. 8. Games – forget about candy crush, crossroads, piano tiles and subway surfers – why don’t you just play hopscotch or a game of cards have some patience people!! 9. News – grab a newspaper or you can just make your own fake one why don’t you name it… your own fake news. (Never thought of that one did you?) 91

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10. Twitter – go outside and I’m pretty sure you can hear the tweeting of the birds but you know. (Shrug shoulders.) 11. The like and dislike on social media – how about you pay someone a compliment or just tell them what’s on your mind? Be that good friend, if it’s negative well you’re not really that good if you’re planning to say ne… anyways. 12. You know what, I don’t think I can even deal with this digital detox so you might as well come with me, get a new phone at Carphone Warehouse. What do you want, iPhone, Samsung? It’s up to you, no one told you to throw your phone in the Thames weird people.

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Renee Hibbert St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Martian Poem About Unknown Objects I see something with many eyes which never seem to blink. From three eyes to seven eyes, I think They make so much noise on the ground Never really see them in the air Spaghetti somehow peeps out of the eyes and make the number eight with two lines In homes they sleep wherever they are put They watch the ground like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a cinema Most of their life they seem to love the floor they always seem to be kissing it.

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Drin Rrhamani St Mary’s and St John’s CoE School

It Has Changed Too Much War wears a pitch-black hoodie that leaves his face unknown, War’s reaction to everything is best left alone, He decides to walk around at night, but during the day War drives a car because he knows it’s not right, his joy is to spread darkness where there is light, to feed himself, he hunts down meat and steals chocolate cake, if only he knew how to bake, during the day he hides his face, By being covered by a hood black and scary, It’s almost like it is a race to escape, he does not flirt, he lives someplace eerie, left forever alone, no place is ever like home, War listens to heavy metal, and has an old phone, where he lives there’s no service, so his entertainment is spectating and creating the crisis, he wakes up after an hour and gets straight to breakfast, everybody hopes his time here won’t last. Kosovo had been peaceful before, you woke up to the cheerful birds singing in harmony, perched on a tall, apple tree. Everybody there was happy. You would never have to worry about a thing. 94

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You could see the man walking down the clean roads with Coke in the hand with a golden engagement ring, walking with a smile on his bright face. You could see a woman putting up laundry to dry in the sun with the shape and heat of a fireball. The cats explored the quiet city under the luminescent crescent moon. I was sometimes driving over the meandering rivers which calmly flow through Kosovo, basking under the sun. In 1999, a war erupts. Bullets fire, falling down like rain. Thunderstorms threaten the battlefield, Kosovo, with their weapon of choice – lightning. War quietly sets a fire in your living room to watch another home turn into a sad lump of bricks. Soldiers storm into the country, slowly ripping apart families like ripping a piece of paper, scrawling over the map of people’s lives until it no longer exists. Tears fall down his cheeks and onto the rubble. Some come to London, in order to make their lives better – better than their lives better in Kosovo, better than anywhere else. Chimneys stand and tower over you. I look over the destruction, walking around on the rubble, looking around and seeing greys; the grey sky, a storm rushing in like the soldiers rushing into war. All the tall and short buildings were destroyed, left with only some brick on the floor hiding in the rubble and smoke. ‘How could you?’ I ask, as War steps inside the building. I face away; I can’t bear to see what has ruined everyone’s lives. ‘I cannot believe that it was you who singlehandedly caused what we are standing on. Another country turned to ash; this was another home for many. But you still decide to steal so many lives, tear apart families and ignore my country!’ I blindly shouted in anger ‘How could a heart be so cold?’ My eyes pooled with tears. ‘Destruction will come, it must. Evil will always stay within 95

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this world. I like to create that evil,’ answers War, as he lights a cigarette, which was creating even more smoke. I turn around and I see that he had a blank face, a blank slate, which I couldn’t see properly due to the dark building and the hood he wore to keep his identity unknown. ‘Why? Why do you choose to do this? What do you achieve? What pride do you feel?’ I demand as those pools of tears were rolling down my cheeks. ‘I have… Never realised—’ he murmured as he looked at my tears, the rubble and the smoke rising to the dark clouds. ‘How? Look around you, look at what you are standing on!’ I scream. ‘I never meant to do this. I would look at what I cause, I—’ ‘You don’t show any remorse, do you?’ ‘I hate it but I guess it’s a harder feeling than pure anger,’ quietly said War. I could see a glimpse of his face, covered in scars and burns that tell another story, but there are never any tears. He turns around; looking into the real world, he took off his hood and showed a smile. Everything is happier. He vanishes, the world around me vanishes, the anger vanishes… I gasp, open my eyes and sit up. I look over to the framed photo on my desk, the shining smiles of our family. I guess that War could change. I wish that War could feel something positive, turn a new leaf or open a new chapter in a new book. If only he had taken away all the destruction before it was too late, before it becomes irreversible.

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Jesse Prince Wapping High School

Hallucinations For me, it was not love at first sight with coffee. My juvenile head could not understand this drink, why it was so beloved to all, yet so bitter and disgusting. Part of me wanted to like it. But as much as I tried to like it, as much as I tried to feel mature, this exotic drink could not captivate me. I stopped trying to like it, and, like an intimidated cat, when I left it alone, it came to me. When I was thirteen, my Dad walked out of a café with a medium flat-white and offered me a sip. Not willing to decline, I went up on tiptoe, cupped his hands, which were familiar and warm, from the heat emitting from the cup. My upper lip surmounted the rim, and… Poured heaven down my throat. So bitter and delicious. This is to say that love had arrived by that point and it was in the form of a double latte with FairTrade Kenyan beans organically grown, steaming into my face twenty-one years later, and a mysterious figure sat alone in a booth across the café. He had a circular head, upon which sat a beanie cap, shredding, murky grey. He wore a thick beige fur coat. It was summer, and a hot one at that. Unless it was hidden under the beanie, other than the stubble on his chin he had no facial hair. He wore khaki trousers. He wore Adidas trainers. He wore a Dora the Explorer pack, slung loosely over his left shoulder, resting on the seat. 97

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It was as if he came from a pick-&-mix, stuck weakly together with masking tape and PVC glue. ‘Mysterious’ I called him earlier, I think. I would like very much, with your permission, to change that actually. ‘A peculiar character sat alone in a booth across the café.’ So I’m sat there, staring, Kenyan coffee glued to my lips, wondering who he is and where he comes from. Is he homeless? Maybe. Wait, no, look: he has a pair of keys next to him on the table. Pink keys. They look like they’re from a kitchen play set from Toys R Us. Well, he’s not homeless, is he a hipster? I don’t think so: he only used one word when he ordered coffee. I was so deep in thought I didn’t notice the creaking of the floorboards as he left the café. And that was it for a month, Every time I was there, he would be absent. I thought that was it. Until I saw him walking in the rain, early one July morning. It was instinct, pure animal reaction that I followed him. Down three blocks, through Mile End park and up to a small house painted grey. When his door closed behind him, I took cautious steps up to it. His door smelled of petrichor. I knocked. When the door finally opened: ‘Finally, there you are!’ he said, grabbing my wrist and leading me inside. There’s confusion, wonder, thrill and mystery, like when you secretly hope the car you think is following you is, because you’re desperate for something interesting to happen. Darkness inside. Damp, cold; fungus grows on the walls. Although there are no creaking floorboards. ‘Who are you?’ I ask. ‘A friend.’ Tea awaits us on a table, two cups already poured out for both of us. It wasn’t black, but empty, like the pupils of an eye. 98

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‘Why did you come?’ he asks me. ‘You’re intriguing.’ ‘Here’s some advice.’ ‘Okay…’ ‘Life’s shorter than you think.’ (pause) ‘Sorry?’ ‘You have seconds left.’ ‘I’m getting out of here.’ I push my chair back and leave the room in a hurry, until I’m pinned to the wall, his hands at my throat. Please, please, why? Please! My head was bashed on the wall, knocking me out. There was a brief feverish tension and heat. Light. Breath. And… coffee all over my shirt! ‘You alright, sir?’ There’s a waitress standing over me. Dreams may not be real, but they don’t feel any less than. There’s no point in a dramatic ending, because nothing dramatic happened. So I went to change my shirt.

first story residential anthology

Abdullah Mian Wembley High Technology College

Joy Joy wakes up at seven in the morning Joy has pineapple and Nutella for breakfast Joy puts on a glossy purple suit And a bright orange hat made of velvet As well as the usual pair of classy red high-heels Joy wears rings on his fingers that spell out BE HAPPY Joy drives an ice-cream van And hands out free lollies Joy has 772 children And a wife, whose name is Love Joy reads picture books And his favourite: Dr Seuss. Joy shops at Asda, And buys fondant fancies every time. Joy has 7 fish, 6 parrots, 5 cats, 4 hamsters, 3 dogs, 2 frogs, And a Komodo dragon. Joy lives in a mansion, 100

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And rides a tricycle to the kitchen Joy sleeps at 1am, In a SpongeBob onesie, On a bed of nine thin mattresses, After watching Peppa Pig. Joy will never die, Because that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be Joy.

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Abdullah Mian Wembley High Technology College

Not-So-Quick Question Can I ask you a not so quick question? Can I ask you quite a few? Have you ever really been in love? Do you know what love is? Where would you find love? Who would you share it with? If love was a person, would you be their friend? If love was killed or lost, what would happen? Would you die? Live? Suffer? Have freedom? Are loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reins on you? Has love saddled you up? Is love the spur that keeps you alive? Or is it the knife that rips through your life to make death? Does love exist elsewhere, apart from Earth? Can Mother Nature feel love? Can you feel it? Can you escape love? Does love have a conscience? Does it even need one? Do morals come from love or does love come from morals? Is love merciful? 102

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Does love create or destroy? Is love defeat-able? Or is it a dictator with totalitarian power over the universe? What is love? Is it real? Have you felt it? Can you feel it now? Does it even exist? Who or what made love? When? Where? How? Why?

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Kesar Valera Wembley High Technology College

Haikus Writing Writing is my time, To shine my mixed emotions, In many different ways. Sleeping Sleeping was fun here. I did not have my brother, Snoring next to me. Cooking Apples and crumble, The perfect pudding duet, That I loved too much. Reading Never Let Me Go Is the book Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m reading now. I would treasure it.

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kesar valera

Sharing Today Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Logan, Yesterday I was myself, Soon Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be a star. Making Friends Spending lots of time, With seventeen friends I made A new family. Walking Wet grass and dry moss, Footsteps go down rolling hills, To castle ruins. Night The night is still young, The crows caw in the moonlight, And waves crash with rage. Winds The wind blows gently, The trees shake side to side and, Flowers sway with pride. Haikus First, five syllables, Second, seven syllables, Last, five syllables. 105

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Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

Death and Life Death looks much like you’d expect him to, I suppose. He says he likes the image. He felt a pang of regret killing the person who invented the Grim Reaper, he told me. I sent him straight to bed with a thermometer and a hot water bottle. In the morning, he carefully applies some face paint, a black Nirvana tee and plain black jeans, before putting on his cloak and scythe, proudly hung by the front door. He then reluctantly goes to meet Fate for his daily list of norm ‘chores’. (He gets free rein on flies and ants though.) Death taunts monks who can see through the veil, making them think he’s come to collect them. Death tries to stay up playing C.O.D on his Xbox, but ultimately ends up blowing it apart with rage. Death tries to dream, but only sees darkness. Life doesn’t look at all like you’d expect her to, I guess. She says she doesn’t need an image. She couldn’t have cared less about creating the person who invented that, she told me. I just told her to go outside. In the morning, she carefully takes off her face paint, and puts on her favourite neon smiley face tee, and bright red jeans, before taking her cape and wand stored in a nondescript cupboard by the front door. She then eagerly goes to meet Fate for her daily list of ‘activities’. (She gets free rein on flies and ants though.) Life compliments the monks who can see through the veil, and reassures them if Death has come by recently. Life goes to bed early, doesn’t watch TV. Life dreams all night, and all her dreams are light. 106

madalena marcal-whittles

Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

Something Else Entirely The beginning that was everything, The end that was nothing. The life that was a dream, The dream that was meaningless. The kitchen knife that was death, The death that was a final hope. The note that was an obligation, The obligation that was secretly amazing. The long nights that were a favour, The favour that was the end of a friendship. The soul that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really a soul, The soul that was nothing. The beginning that was nothing, The end that was everything.

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Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

The Lie Blaise loves Jennifer Langston. Sad, but true. He says he doesn’t, that she’s just a good snogger, but I know that’s a lie. I always know when Blaise is lying. But just Blaise. Other people are confusing. If he was going to lie to me, he shouldn’t have told me he was gonna marry her. But I’m not mad at Blaise. I know why he lied to me. He thought that I would think that she would replace me. Which is true, she has. So I’m mad at Jennifer, for taking Blaise away from me, and I’m mad at myself, for not being good enough for Blaise.

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madalena marcal-whittles

Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

Adventures of My Hand My hand once got painted green, (resulting in a detention). My hand once held a bow, and used it to play the cello. My hand once held a bow, let go of the arrow: and bullseye! My hand once tied some laces, first time ever on new light-up shoes. My hand once doodled in my English class, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not my fault it was so boring. My hand once picked up a book, how was I to know it would change my life?

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Madalena Marcal-Whittles Pimlico Academy

Who Here? Who here is an atheist? Who here believes in God? Who here likes pineapple on pizza? Who here thinks it shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist? Who here wants to go to sleep and never wake up? Who here canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even close their eyes? Who here pours cereal before milk? Who here puts the milk first? Who here is a person?

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jessica hegarty

Jessica Hegarty Saint Gabriel’s College

My Hand Once My hand once climbed a tree… it failed me later and led to my leg snapping in half as it hit the ground. That was the day that I knew my left hand couldn’t be trusted. My hand once touched my mum’s as we crossed the road. I knew that she wouldn’t let me go until she knew I was safe. My hand has pushed people away. Even people I didn’t want to go. My hand once drew my first picture the second I figured out how to grasp a pencil. My hand once grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced open my finger just because I wanted to see how bright my blood is.

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Jessica Hegarty Saint Gabrielâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s College

The Human Consumes The shark consumes the seal The seal consumes the fish The crocodile consumes the buffalo The buffalo consumes the grass The tiger consumes the deer The deer consumes the green leaves of the trees The bear consumes the fish The fish consumes the algae The owl consumes the mouse The mouse consumes some seeds The human consumes everything else

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nicole charles

Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Diving In You love me so, I take you for a fool. I want more Than you have to give, So I take advantage. You offer me affection, So I turn you away. You kiss me So I suck out your soul. You’re giving up, But I’m diving in. Please! Don’t leave me, I can’t live without you, I love you, Anyone else would take you for a fool.

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Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Learning to Swim Yesterday you pulled me close, I watched you grin before, Your arms wrapped around myself, Yet… Today your eyes flickered past mine, Left me cold and alone, Like I’d been left on a shelf. And I wonder, Is it me or is it you? Do you Maybe Possibly Secretly Feel as I do? Like when you’re in, My presence, You feel out of your depth, Like we’re learning to swim And you can’t catch your breath.

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nicole charles

Nicole Charles St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Breathing Underwater Breathing underwater, Like sweet surrender, Letting go of every breath youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever held, As water floods your lungs, Finding its level, With every one of your slowing heartbeats. Are you really breathing now? Because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as though Each attempt at a breath Pulls at your eyelids, They fight to stay open, Until they give up, Then so do you, Surrendering to the calming ebbs, Which tug on your soul, Freeing you from your body, No longer drifting But breathing underwater.

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Samirah Yasmin St Paulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Way Trust

Acid Soaked Sleeves Liquid fire, Division. Removing fear by inflicting it. Eradicating difference, Hunting it blindly. The pain of the innocent, Becomes the defence of the guilty â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Fear-borne hatred, Ignorance. Home, turned into a battleground. Brother against brother, Separated by the pallor of their skin, The tune of their voices, Their clothing, now an abomination. The troubled youths, Once pure, Tremble with anger, Throwing their fury outwards. Scarring, Burning, Marking. Disfiguring one another, From borough to borough. 116

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From thriving teens, To brainwashed soldiers. Fighting a war, Unseen, Misunderstood, Undeserved. Not just for the victims. Blindness, Fire in their eyes, Engulfing them, Washing them with grief-stricken Violence. But also the offender. They point their fingers and cower, A provincial hand blocking their Sight; Shielding them from the truth. When you go for someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face, You mark them forever. But you also mark yourself â&#x20AC;&#x201C; You mark your soul, And that is a stain you can never remove.

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Samirah Yasmin St Paul’s Way Trust

Bleed The world slows, As your flesh is cut clean in half, Exposing A raw nerve. Your secrets spilling out with every crimson drop, Revealing innermost thoughts, Hidden to even yourself. It feels as though you can sense each miniscule loss of that scarlet poison, Your shroud torn away, Exposed To the light, Though you desperately wished to stay in the Dark. One-way glass; But you can’t help but fear, That they can see the wounds, And that they can see the deep redness, Staining the floorboards, It’s all in your head, But your head is a labyrinth, With beasts to defeat at every twist and every turn. You don’t have enough weapons in your armoury, But you’re too afraid to borrow, Because you don’t want to let them see you Bleed. 118

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Samirah Yasmin St Paulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Way Trust

Autopsy Eyes look, Not just at my face, But at my very being. I feel as though my soul is being analysed; Every corner, every little frayed detail. A conversation without words, A connection, An exchange unadulterated by the impurity of the human tongue. Eyes look Inside my core, My heart, My brain. I feel as though my thoughts are displayed above my head in some kind of speech bubble. I feel the urge to look up, They see it too, Yet there is nothing there â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Nothing tangible at least. My eyes Looking at them. Memorising every feature, The plains of their face.

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Looking beyond those glassy pools that see right through me, And I see echoes of smiles, Tracks of tears, Traces of cries of pain. My eyes, Observing, Noticing, That they are just like me.

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romana aghaie

Romana Aghaie Pimlico Academy

Twenty Ways to Be On a milky blue planet, on a vast continent, in a beautiful country, in a sweet green a field, near a chocolate box village, in a big stone house around a round table are twenty different people. The first likes to educate others about Theresa May’s ascent to power. The second is the pastor of an apple-crumble cult. The third… SHUT UP PATRICIA The fourth is interested in anything and everything. The fifth likes to take a break from adulthood sometimes. The sixth likes to die sometimes. The seventh is the Holy Mother of the second person’s cult. The eighth laughs spasmodically and dances when you tell her to. The ninth was killed by Sadness. The tenth is the lost person in KFC. The eleventh likes to see the sunrise but never makes it out of bed. The twelfth is the iPod shuffle of the group. The thirteenth is quiet but shady. 121

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The fourteenth always wonders what is real and what is not. The fifteenth laughs a lot but writes about depressing things. The sixteenth personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cheekbones slay so hard they could cut you. Not the first, not the second, not the third but the seventeenth is coming home. The eighteenth is T-shirt goals and likes to write about Theo. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know who Theo is either. The nineteenth is a portable Tumblr. The twentieth is sitting there quietly thinking how lucky she was to have found something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

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aziza brown

Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

My Hand Once My hand once tickled my baby cousin, coercing a smile and a laugh and a little ‘Zee zee!’ My name or hers? Little Zariah-Marie. Stole my nickname and my heart. My hand held hers, the day after she was born. I slid my forefinger into her tight grasp and rubbed my thumb against her wrist, internally begging her to never cut it. Telling her how special she was to me even in that moment. My hands lifted her high into the air when she ran to me with her waddling steps and clasped her to my chest. How she remembered me from five months ago, I don’t know. ‘Zee zee!’ she giggled.

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Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Have You Ever Felt? Have you ever felt isolated? Like, extremely lonely. So lonely that you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even notice people entering the room? Or that their presence is so late that it is irrelevant? So lonely that even your reflection is an unwanted intrusion? So much so that you leave all mobile mirrors facing the wall? So lonely that you avoid certain areas of your house because you know that the emptiness will become suffocatingly small? So lonely that your friends just look at you perplexed when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all sharing advice and you tell them how you feel? Anyone? Anyone felt like they were subpar? Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s felt like they are always second best? To their sister? Who fell in love with their best friend then proceeded to give them relationship advice? Good advice at that. Someone? Nobody. Nobody here has ever felt inadequate?

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aziza brown

Aziza Brown St Martin-in-the-Fields High School for Girls

Breathing Underwater I am walking on the bottom line of the ocean floor. I breathe. Bubbles of sanity escape my lungs, taking with them the pretence I keep up. The smiles with the smothered, suffocated eyes. The strangled fake laughs. All gone. I inhale seawater. I cough. I burn. I feel it sloshing around inside me. Feel it taking over my mind feel the sound of it taking over my mind. Feel the sound of it turning me around. Flipping me every which way, bashing my head against rocks. What comes next is a welcome escape. An everlasting nap, where I no longer have to smile and nod and pretend that I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear screaming in my mind when people ask after my wellbeing. No more pretence.

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The First Story Group The First Story Group at the Hurst Led by Russ Litten

Our People Our people are everywhere, Well recognised for their large population, Where the oldest existing language is spoken. Our people come from the long march forward, Looking back into where our people come from. Our people come from a wound, From a city cleaved in half, But can you really tell? Each neighbour shows love; They exist in trace, like a palimpsest or nuts, Knowing too much about who once loved who. Some are obsessed From the flight to the dive, They say is controlled, Suffocating traditionalism In place of life. Our people are the noise from the street below; They are still human, They never get it right. No one is a stranger; I know thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to believe. They come from the largest country in the world; The land of those with forever working souls.

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first story residential anthology

Luke Tonks Lincoln Castle Academy

The Forgotten Sight I used to believe with sight we see Our world upside down But when I was near light Of projection which blackened me and Words began to leave blurred remnants in their place And even an eye patch couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hide my corrupted Vision however When one is damaged the other improves And so Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m saying words with ease This even amazed my teachers and now I can read books faster than I could I feel as if I can see the world right side up

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Luke Tonks Lincoln Castle Academy

Family I remember when you were here Not having a can of beer like your son I remember the Stories of when you went 101 mph Just to prove a point and yet you have A reward plated in sliver I remember the time when you used your Magnificent instruments in Service to the queen like your father Before you I remember the day When you were offered to be Brandished in red and black and fuzzy hat But you turned it down for your wife and family I could remember the flying coffin and flying Tonks 5 The vehicles you named But When I heard these stories Then where on your final day In a Casket of wood I remember the day When I heard Your cold fragile body Eyes open Had finally reached your eternal sleep 129

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Rose Halward Lincoln Castle Academy

Both Sun and Moon The medical note from the doctor was contorted burned in the fire that they tried to quell with their own tears the same flames that were ignited when suffocation became an epidemic â&#x20AC;&#x201C; When an armada of doubt marched past the lines that were scratched into the floor with broken nails and bleeding fingertips. You tried to force a battle plan into motion but the fears that littered the bedroom floor multiplied and blotched out the ink. Daylight was used to exorcise the demons that clung to the inside of cupboards. Moonlight was used to muffle the sound of an erratic heartbeat. You used light to outcast the shadows that bore through your lungs and raked your heart with claws that tightened with every beat. Because living was no longer about happiness, it was about surviving the day that stretched far beyond 24 hours. It was you against an entire army, coming with a new boat load of enemy soldiers 130

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with swords clutched in their hands, a war chime beating within their chests that shook the foundations of your eardrums. The war never ceased, for when the clock struck midnight the dead were exhumed. Never ending, until you waved the white flag in submission.

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Rose Halward Lincoln Castle Academy

Judgemental Walls When no one is around, they breathe, they bulge with life as if lungs are buried deep within the bricks, you can feel their breath and hard stare on the back of your neck. They see, they have no eyes yet you still feel watched, observed like an animal suffocated by chains â&#x20AC;&#x201C; chains that connect you to the past. You can no longer distinguish between memories and expectations. They hear, they have no ears yet they still listen as your mind screams, when it writhes in agony due to the persistent onslaught of an overactive mind. They hear your mumbled thoughts as you sit in bed and the sound of your blood pressure rising when you sleep. They smell, they have no nose yet they know the scent of your fear, they smell the sweat that clings to your skin, the perspiration that mattes your hair, sending shivers vibrating down your spine.

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They speak, they have no mouth yet they say words, somehow dictating your thoughts whilst being in a stagnant state of existence â&#x20AC;&#x201C; their voices rebounding off your walls, echoing within the hollows of your chest.

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Rose Halward Lincoln Castle Academy

Welcome, Ghosts Welcome to my home, flood it with your presence, fragrance it with your essence so that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m no longer alone. Be with me as I walk down the stairs to an empty table, when I wake up from the terrors that are more like memories. Listen as I tell you how my day went, how I overcame so much with little recognition as I conquered my own mind. Be a comforting hand on my shoulder when they crack under the weight of society â&#x20AC;&#x201C; embrace me with warmth when I am in need of reassurance. Welcome, Ghosts.

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dionne goodman

Dionne Goodman Farnborough Academy

Breath Have you ever had that feeling? That warm achy one that resides in your throat, that feels like you’ve been punched in the neck, a blunt force that surges through and past your ears procuring an almost-silent humming noise that screeches through and through you like the rapid snare roll of a mid 90’s rock bands number one hit. Well let’s pretend you have, and let’s pretend that you understand as I say that this feeling you are now familiar with is an as accurate representation as you will ever understand of my short and painful surge of hate for my mind and my confusing feelings, up until this point, how I hated myself because it is a sound no one had heard, a feeling no one had registered, a pain so short lived it is not worth thinking about, that you are not worth thinking about. This feeling is followed by the overwhelming tension and tautness in your chest that they had never taught you about in the (I wish) ‘how to manage a panic attack 101’ class. And your muscles that eventually string you up like a ready guillotine or a loaded catapult and your body urges forward to drop the rope in a body engulfing movement like your heart wants to be consumed by your stomach and that your skin wants to cover you whole though you cannot be your own blanket of comfort, though you wish it would. Your muscles jerk you forward as to ensure your failing lungs 135

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are failing you are not. Failing. Them. That they are getting enough oxygen to ensure that you are providing for your body that you wish would just forget. Your muscles jerk you forward again to get even more oxygen into your system as the last jerky moment was not sufficient enough for them, you still hear the snare roll of white noise in your head and if you didn’t you’re pretty sure you can hear your heart strings twanging and your lungs shrivelling as to make enough room for the sound to be created and echo to spread through your semi-hollow chest, you surge forward even more managing to gasp in air, as much as you can, but the amount of air you had taken in was enough to keep a small rodent alive, but it would be hard to live off the small gasp alone so you lunge forward again and you feel them now, you feel the warm tears your body had decided to create without warning and you’re pretty sure you look stupid that if anyone saw you they would think it’s pathetic, that you’re pathetic, and the warm feeling slowly fades and there the sluggish half-hearted trail, once warm, is now chilled by the cold air failing to fill your lungs, softly grazing your face in smooth motions, you lunge forward again and gasp shakily for the cold air but only produce a small whimper or a slight bleeding chord that spreads itself around you and dissolves in the room’s corner surrounding you, you want to scream but can barely manage a breath. (I’m sorry this piece is not done, and that it was not a lot of fun, but thank you for your time, it was divine).

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james lewis

James Lewis Bridge Learning Campus

Bristol Accent Have you heard the Bristol accent? It’s my favourite so you see So I’ll describe a little of it. Init like We like to watch Eastenders, Emmerdale might do We like to eat crumpets, And a cupper is splendid to. Bristolians, Roll their ‘R’s They drive about in ‘carrrs’ They go to ‘barrrs’ And buy honey sold in ‘jarrrs’ Down in Bristol it’s ‘Gert Lush’ Which means it’s really good, And would you ever scrage yourself, A Bristolian would. Proper becomes ‘Praper’, To be led down is to lay, Be careful MIND mid-sentence, Is something else they say.

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I ‘casn’t’ write much more, I’ll fareway soon my lover, I looks and feels tired out, ‘Babby’ there’s another. Bristolians aren’t the wurzles, They are not all famer Joes Taking their mighty accent, Wherever they may go. There so you have it, The Bristol dialect Fine West Country call This here is my most favourite Accent mind of them all. LATERS.

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james lewis

James Lewis Bridge Learning Campus

Curious Pen Dear Pen Do you ever wonder why We use you to write in a book? Do you ever wonder why We use you as a weapon of the law? Are you curious about the Words we write? Do you judge us on our ability to write? Dear Pen, Do you wonder why you play such an important role in our lives, or why we need you to express our feelings?

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Micky Bartley Bridge Learning Campus

Bristol Poem Dear ya’ll people, Ya may wonder why us Bristolians dress like chavs and sound like farmers or why youngers think they’re all it when they’re taking all these drugs. Walking through these streets seeing burnt patches everywhere I go, people outside their doors wid their proper big dressing gowns on smoking a fag and a cuppa too. Dogging people up everywhere we go! Wid their chav Nike jumper wid their hoods up too! Can’t forget the joggers mind. Hearing people telling their kids ‘Watch out for the needles they’re everywhere in that park!’ To that popular chip shop with that gert lush curry sauce. These old buildings to the new buildings with smashed windows that little kids thought were funny until they’re paying for the repairments. The black city of Bristol, council gates with those people on the TV wats their names again? Ahhhhhhh I remember ‘can’t pay, we’ll take it away’ – classic in these parts init. Going through the Filwood path that was new and fancy, going through the broken skateboard park that was once popular and the burnt trees surrounding the area. Coming to Hengrove Park with McDonalds and KFC. Cawhh, could do with a large chicken legend with fries. The rats running in and out of the bushes like no one care anymore. Getting close to the centre, still rough with drunk lads wid 140

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they’re drunk girlfriends init mind. More McDonalds I see. Ahhhh more places to get fat. But you lot the places in the city centre has loads of options like fatty foods to healthy diets. Let’s not forget the place that sells fresh duck egg pasta! Pasta Palace. Oh I almost forgot the chav shop JD. Oi you better not take the mick out of JD, I got my banging trainers from there. The creative inner-Bristol from all the street musicians is propa gert lush mind. The ranges of clothes to Fred Perry to Ralph Lauren you see. So come down to Bristol you’ll have a splendid time wid me.

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Micky Bartley Bridge Learning Campus

Curious Dog Waking up to the smell of bacon Always waking up to the smell of different types of food Patiently waiting for the leftovers Some days my humans doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take me to work I will wait and wait and wait for him to get home. Chewing on this tasty bone Wasting my time for my human When the clock turns 4 My human will be at the door Then he will cook with my other human Today they had fish and chips Hmmmmmm chips Watching my human while he watches his BBC news at 10 Curious if he actually cares about me Wake up this morning to the smell of sausages rolls Today is my lucky day! My human is taking me to work Feeling the hot air blowing in my face from his van Watching the all the wild dogs go past me Today I was the curious dog But my curiosity will be also be generosity

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jessica willmott

Jessica Willmott Sutton Community Academy

Common Am I common because I am not a dictionary? Because I do not try to be eloquent? Because I promise that my mind is not a simple game of Pictionary? I just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find much faith in elegance. Am I common because I have not yet been sought out by a Norse, Greek, Roman God? Or another powerful being that I should by now have met? I am not yet the owner of Zeusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lightning rod. Am I common because there has not yet been a disaster, an apocalypse in which I can prove my worth? Saving millions of lives via physical strength, faster than any mutant, easy to up-turf. Am I common because I write at night? Ink-stained and cramping through the words that never seem to come without a mental fight; words that I use so carefully, letting them fly like a once trapped bird.

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No I am not common â&#x20AC;&#x201C; my world is the only one and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not prepared to let self-deprecation win. I will write and sing until all is gone, except for my words and the stories within.

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Jessica Willmott Sutton Community Academy

Cow What defines a cow? Is it their distinct ‘mooo’ in the spring breeze? Or their wide, innocent, unsuspecting eyes? Or the fact they are kept in captivity?

Let’s look at Hey Diddle Diddle. Do cows jump?

No. They spend their lives in service to their owner, their master, their (for the most part) man. Forced into pregnancy. Forced into using their milk as currency for their lives. Their children. Slaughtered. And once they cannot become pregnant, they are sent to the chopping block. Their man no longer has a need for them. They are replaced by their daughters. How do we define a cow?

Martyrs for the human race. Victims of the patriarchy. Food. Beef. Tasty?

Hey diddle diddle. The cow conquers the moon. She is in control of her femininity. Her life is hers. But only in, literally, a rhyme. 145

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What defines a cow? Nothing but their milk and meat. At least a cow is too stupid to realise that they are subjected to the most horrific torture possible. Or are they? The cow. Tasty. Yours to control and devour whole. I could eat a cow right now, couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you?

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maja czumak

Maja Czumak Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road

Don’t Don’t be normal, Because being normal means being simple, And nobody likes simple puzzles, Don’t be normal, Because being normal means no fun, And nobody likes boring parties, Don’t be normal, Because being normal isn’t you, And nobody likes fake personalities.

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Maja Czumak Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road

Stay with Me Stay with me, Keep holding my hand and never let go, I want to see your smile while I take pictures of us, I want to do what we haven’t done yet, Travel the world even if it takes years, Stay with me, I want to hear your heart beat, Your voice, So don’t close your eyes, Don’t let go of my hand, Don’t make me wear black till the end of my life.

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Maja Czumak Nottingham Academy, Ransom Road

What Would You Say Ifâ&#x20AC;Ś What would you say if he looked into your eyes? As if searching through your soul. What would you say if he took hold of your hand? As if he was going to hold it forever. What would you say if he came closer to your face? As if he was going to confess without warning. What would you say if he just disappeared? As if he was just a perfect dream, but-so-real. Would you look for him? What would you say ifâ&#x20AC;Ś?

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Hale Duru Queen Elizabeth’s Academy

From a Friend Dear friend, my friend, one of my closest friends. Whose name I should not name. Because they might be reading this. Well, actually, I’m not sure that you’re reading this. Anyway I’m getting off topic; you know what I’m like. This subject, that I need to address, is so important, and I’ve been feeling conflicted about it. I’ve decided that I’m going to refer you as Diana. Not because this name suits you, certainly not because you like this name because you probably don’t. Diana is not who you are but who you could be. I chose the name Diana because it sounds strong. It sounds fearless. As Diana you could look at them and not give a damn. You’re probably wondering why I wrote this; well it’s because of them. The bitches who act like queens. Who were once our friends. The one so called queen who ruined it all for you. I can’t stand that she did these things but what I can’t accept is that she will not acknowledge what she did. And I hate that you won’t confront her. So I’m writing this because Diana would. I don’t want you to change because you are one of the best people I’ve ever met, you’re brilliant but this is more than just a quarrel. So please, in this situation just be Diana. Be brave and tell her what needs to be said. If you don’t, then you won’t be able to bottle it up any longer, all these unspoken words will be thrown at her with rage. And there will be no friendship left to salvage. I think you would feel regret, and pain. So be her, even if it’s just for a minute, even if it’s just for a second. Try to 150

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fix this and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be there for you afterwards if it all goes wrong or if it all goes right. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be the friend you need.

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Hale Duru Queen Elizabeth’s Academy

The Walk I inhaled the air through my mouth, usually I breathe through my nose – I didn’t want to, here. I wanted to taste the fresh country air on my tongue, inhale. It tickled my taste buds. I could feel my lungs expand as the oxygen, from the trees around me, filled them. The green leaves varied from light to dark depending on where the sunlight hit them. The wind made them rustle against the leaves of the other trees. The wind was powerful today as was the rain. Both crashed against me. The wind roared in my ear and rain collided with my once dry skin. I almost couldn’t hear the melodious sound of the birds singing merry songs to one another. As I walked through the horrendous stench of the cow pat, I could hear water rushing rapidly. It was a muddy river, stretching so wide that a bridge hade to be built to cross. The bridge was old, ancient. It was covered in crimson rust and emerald-green moss. The wood was decaying due to an infestation of despicable wood eating creature. They made it unstable and dangerous. Nonetheless it was a sight of beauty.

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shau’ri wiggins

Shau’ri Wiggins John Cabot Academy

In Defence of a Kitten – How Could You Resist? How could you resist having a bundle of fluff tumbling around your sofa? On the blankets you set out, that you pretend that you bought for the kitten, But really you just want your furniture to stay clean. On a bitter, winter night you can snuggle up on these blankets with your kitten, And just appreciate them as they cost more than your entire bed. How could you resist, their pink, jelly bean paws that spread out when you press your thumb into them? Those paws who pad around the floors, never, scratch the curtains and will one day bring you a mouse – dead – yay! But for now, your little joy swats at the toy mouse on a string as you flail it around near their face, Hoping, just hoping that they won’t catch it so you won’t have to free their claws from it while their glistening teeth smile menacingly. How can you resist laundry day, oh, that jumper, poor jumper, which is embedded with those kitten hairs? You’d think they were trying to make a new brand of clothing, 153

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Or, as most of their excuses are, ‘I’m just trying to help, make you comfier!’ Like last week. When they knocked over and broke my vase to free the flowers that were, ‘stuck’. Or, in summer, when they swatted the wasp into my leg so it ‘didn’t’ sting me. But, I can’t complain; at least they haven’t yet brought back a dead mou… Oh, oh no! How? How could you resist?

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Shau’ri Wiggins John Cabot Academy

Water Droplet What’s happening? Suddenly, I am kicked out of my candyfloss bed and tumbling down through a blue ocean. Oop. A green leaf caught me in its broad palm to cushion my fall. The veins of this leaf are magnified under me, giving it a colourful tint. It’s wonderful. I can see swifts and swallows duck and dive above me, their haunting, beady eyes glaring, orange like that bright vortex in the sky. I’m starting to roll forwards and I leave this hand and, ow, hit the ones next, next, next, ooh! I’ve stopped. Now I can see knuckled branches coming off of the thing that this hand belongs to. There’s yellow moss on some parts, like coral; in the ocean. I know about that. There are even fish with wings sat near me. I never knew that fish could sing! No bubbles even left their mouths and they gave out a cheerful song! It’s gone quiet. What’s that? It sounds like a howl, from a wolf, but it’s all around. Ah! This leaf is shaking! Ah! That’s cold! Going, going… Drip, drip. I’m now on another leaf! This one is more soft and rounded. Now I can smell a fresh scent of a river and growing grass. But the mud is mixing with the lake creating an oil spill affect across it. I want to swim, swim. It would be a great luxury to be away from these leaves and be with my own people, where there are no smelly, weird brown patches on the ground. Or any land whales, cows? I think… They look like killer whales with legs. What’s that? Oh, oh no. Oh dear. That’s what those smelly piles on the ground are. Get me to the 155

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river fast! Yay! I started rolling away, down the rough arm of the tree, down the next, across the hand. Smack! I hit the soil on the bank. Nooooooooooo

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joseph fox

Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy

Joeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Attempt at Romance For hours I have worshipped, scanned your every detail, But to this day I see no flaw, and so I must unveilâ&#x20AC;Ś The amazing way you make me feel, when I see those eyes, How badly I want to kiss those lips, but that would be unwise, For I am a face among the many, a whisper among the screams, So I ask myself why you? You thing made from my dreams.

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Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy

The Never-Ending Tale of the Depressed Toilet Roll The story of the toilet roll, shall be spread forever long, The sadly depressing tale, captivating as a song, Of the once happy toilet roll, with energy and with sass, Isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it a shame, he was used to wipe an ass.

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Joseph Fox John Cabot Academy

The Cattle Battle of Squishy Traps As I squelched cautiously through the freshly wet, blade-like, pale grass of the countryside, I breathed in my freedom. As I leisured in this luxury, I also felt confinement… the confinement of the wildlife. The cows which depressingly grazed there, dayin, day-out, in the vast, flat, rectangular field of boredom were surrounded by the jagged fence of rusted barbed wire and damp wood, which even humans struggled to climb. But this wasn’t just an ordinary rectangular field of boredom… it was also an active war zone. Landmines, everywhere, scattered, hidden in the grass, planted by its inhabitants, waiting for a trespasser to fall for their squishy trap. I tip-toed under the cover of the seemingly infinite grey clouds, which spat on me their wet shrapnel of disgust, while my udderly conniving enemies stared eagerly, waiting, planning, brewing their next attack. ‘Watch out!’ my fellow soldier cried as I felt the tip of my muddy Wellington boot crack the thin layer of the splatted turdlike landmine beneath me. I had made a terrible mistake. I looked around to see the enemy in their overly-large black and white camouflaged poncho, still watching keenly, while their eyes, squinted and suspiciously dull, mooved around, staring at my friends, feeding off their worry. That was when everything froze 159

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and I began to recall every single moment of my life. My memories surrounded me like animal faeces would your foot. I was ready. I looked around at my comrades with a face of shame and sincerity. I slowly pulled my foot off the trigger and squinted my face in fear of what was to come. Deactivated! It was deactivated! (Stale, to speak in army code). Never had I thanked Cheesus more, he had saved my life and so he was truly on my side. It was a trying attempt, and I had been tested. I was ready to break my moolicious enemies like a Spaniard would a bull. Instantly battle plans began to form and I peered at my cheesy foe opposite through my telescope-comewitches broom – come – magic stick of cow-pat flinging. Still they made no movements… I was suspicious. Tiresome minutes passed and I began to become ever wary of the still, slightly bored grazing of my promiscuous counterparts. I pulled back my army-coloured cowl and curiously itched the cow-lick tuft which perched on my head in defiance like a cowardly soldier would his duty in battle. It mirrored the fear which I still felt. But I realised my duty and ignored my emotions. I put king and country before anything else and stayed proudly at my post like a milch cow, trapped for a wider cause. That night I stared up at Milky Way, wondering if this war was ever going to end, how many more boots were going to be ruined by this destruction, and when my fellow ‘soldiers’ were going to finally realise that the ‘enemies’ were just cows. Wait! If they were just cows… then what were the landmines…?

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mohammed abdoel

Mohammed Abdoel City of Leicester College

The Oryx Tree 8th August 1648: I was walking through a forest with someone close to me. I made a promise underneath an Oryx tree to them. That was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. 9th August 1648: Tonight, I saw what I can only describe as… Spectres. I believe them to be the spirits of the deceased, but how are they linked to the Oryx tree? 10th August 1648: The Spectres don’t seem to be around tonight, save for some voices I should investigate. Thankfully, she is sleeping peacefully. I’m back and what I found was rather disturbing. The Spectres left my living room as I entered it. They left a dimly lit lamp with a note attached to it. It read: Keep this flame lit with the oil of the Oryx tree on the third night. Everything changes then. I went back to bed and looked out of the window. The nearby forest seems to have moved, but I’m probably imagining it. 11th August 1648: I was right! The forest was moving and it’s coming towards me. I tried to run through my door, but a tree was blocking it. I took the lamp, dashed upstairs and fell out of my open windows. A bush caught my fall, but the lamp shattered. XXth XXXXX XXXX: The flame went out. That was decades ago now. I don’t remember how many times I’ve repeated this 161

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to myself, not that it matters. Not anymore. For all these years, I’ve been an Oryx tree. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can’t blink and I can’t warn anyone else. I promised my daughter that I wouldn’t leave her side. But the Oryx tree broke that promise…

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Mohammed Abdoel City of Leicester College

With Frightening Ash Comes Optimistic Flame As the echoes of lives dance like wildfire in the night, Frightening ash is all that remains, Of a diverse home for many, They undoubtedly felt immense pain, And though the tears fell, so did the leaves, As if no part of the forest still believes, Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I believed until I noticed a tiny flame, It must be wracked with grief for the losses it caused, Everything it touches flares to a crisp, Almost everything, except for this, The flame burnt out as the wind blew, Concealed was a sapling in bloom, And through this experience came a saying, With Frightening Ash comes Optimistic Flame.

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Grace Power Nottingham Academy, Greenwood Road

My Time as the Table Head’s Advisor Based on a true story

Directed by Mohammed, he took to his throne like a grape to a vase – his control, his ruling mind all natural. Elected by the Green team, he was to be the HOTT (head of the table) for the meal. Dear Mohammed placed a Bible on his plate and after a reading, we all began to eat. ‘Yes, Grace… you are quiet, I’m sure you have an evil side.’ The king… er… I mean the HOTT fixes me with his cunning, olive eyes, eyebrows raised, a pout tugging at the corners of his lips, a wine glass hanging lazily from his hand. The force of his expectance, the stern posture of his regal frame spreading over his velvet throne, was all directed towards me. ‘You shall be my advisor.’ A nod of the head and the decision is made, for to refuse the HOTT is treason, a crime punishment by death. ‘Come sit by me, you shall whisper in my ear.’ The envy in the station’s glare burns a hole in my heart as I take my position beside my king… I mean the HOTT. With a mind of steel and a limp wrist, the king ruled his table with swift and harsh punishment, rewarding loyalty, crushing opposition. People feared him, his court adored him, I was there 164

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to watch it all. I was his shadow, the advisor to the king, the bearer of a privilege with a burden. Before the end of the main course, the king’s once dear friend Jim Hall was sentenced to a slow, gory death – overseen by both the executioner and the royal torturer. After Jim’s death, his tyranny only grew, with each new course, he instated a new law, a new underpaid servant to carry out some terrible duty. As the minutes dragged on, many began to detest the king, his subjects turned – small, deliberate acts of disobedience. The servants drank the finest wine; the torturer refused work, Mohammed ran away with the Bible, the station gave false facts, but still I watched on. Matters grew so dire that the HOTT feared for his safety, so he fled the dining room, leaving me, the silent advisor to take charge. I took to the head chair and order was restored. A deep calm fell over the diners as though the great table where we all sat had finally fallen asleep. Those closest to him mourned his loss (of course) but they couldn’t deny that dining was better without the tyrant HOTT screaming at them to laugh. I doubted his return, his name setting was removed, destroyed to eradicate the uncomfortable memory of the flamboyant boy with olive green eyes. With the coming of the final course (dessert) stomachs rumbled, LED candles flashed, the kitchen door was thrown against the wall. We all turned to look, fearing who it might be. There he was, fury in his footsteps, disgust written over his ice cream. A pointed finger, ‘You! My most trusted subject!’ The king was back, followed by a flustered looking Mohammed announcing his presence (as well as the coming of dessert). I begged forgiveness, claiming only to be taking care of his table, protecting his subjects – I say this only to protect my life. 165

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Reluctantly, I was forgiven, the king realised I was more use to him alive than dead. There were new dynamics to explain, role change, a different seating arrangement. Despite his forgiveness, he never did quite trust me the same again. It would appear that all was lost, team Greenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Thursday meal ruined. But then, Hale arrived, a mighty queen. She won over the diners and overthrew the HOTT with her wit and sharp tongue. She banished him to the kitchen, carrying dirty pots and pans, forcing him to clear up the destruction of his rule. His steely mind tasked with labour beneath him. Olive green tears flowing over the suddy dishes. And still I watched on, silent advisor, now to a fiery queen.

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Grace Power Nottingham Academy, Greenwood Road

The Wild Cage I have housed many over my time – murders, thieves, dark creatures (all of them). So, though I stand still, I am always on the move. I hear their stories of crime, a life of the run and I live those lives with them. Riding through a desert on horseback, my skin raw from the sun and flayed from the sand kicked up by the beat of my animal’s hooves. Deep in a forest, thick leaves above my head, cold dirt beneath my feet. The chirp of birds and the crackle of a low fire. I hide in plain sight, a cap on my head, and dark sunglasses on my eyes. Strolling down a busy road, skyscrapers to either side – bright sunlight reflected off of thousands of windows. A beautiful lake, far away from any city, miles and miles of meadow all around. Wild flowers reaching for the light, a mirror image of the sky reflected in mirror like water. I feel sand beneath me; I hear the roar of the waves, the howl of a siren. I can smell the crackle of lightning as it sprawls across the dark sky. I feel the wildness of being wild.

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Phoebe Lees Farnborough Academy

The Man Who Speaks Once There once was a man. There still is a man. There are many men. There’s one man in particular, though. He’s quite a matured man, a man in his late thirties. This man is called Dimitri Jonathon. This man is a special man. He has a problem. Although, in Dimitri’s opinion, it’s not a problem as such, more of an inconvenience, really. He can only speak a single sentence a day. Sure, he can jump in loopholes like texting and writing but he can only say one sentence. Sometimes it would be a single word like ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’ and sometimes it’s a phrase like ‘How are you?’ or ‘Have a nice day’. Not being able to speak much has made Dimitri respect the world and all the things in it. ‘Hello,’ he greeted to one woman. Dimitri decided to describe the woman as experienced, not wanting to call her old. She had a head full of short, white hair. He’s heard the children of his street call it a ‘candy-floss-fro’. ‘Hello,’ she had responded, ‘How are you?’ she then asked. ‘Good. You?’ he voiced. But only in his head. Upon receiving silence, the woman grew frustrated. ‘Are you going to answer me?’ she asked. Dimitri then realised she didn’t know of his inconvenience. ‘Are you always this ignorant?’ she asked. Blinded by the sudden wave of hurt crashing throughout him, he didn’t notice his approaching friend. 168

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‘Hey Mrs J! What’s the problem here?’ Olly, Dimitri’s friend, asked. ‘Your friend is being extremely rude and ignorant, dearie,’ she answered, ‘Do you not know of his problem?’ Olly asked, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulders. Dimitri frowned at the way his friend worded his explanation but listened politely nonetheless. ‘What problem? Ignorance?’ Mrs J questioned suspiciously. ‘Not at all, he’s actually anything but that. He’s got a rare psychological problem that only allows him to speak a sentence a day,’ Olly explained, tightening his grip to offer comfort to his friend. ‘Really? I’m extremely sorry for my behaviour!’ Mrs J rushed to apologise. Dimitri nodded, mentally thanking her for the apology but finding himself unable to accept it. Her words hurt. You shouldn’t assume anything. You have to get to know someone before you judge them.

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Phoebe Lees Farnborough Academy

Save Me Stay with me, my friends. Stay, we’ll all talk. We can hide our problems and talk about that TV show we once watched. Stay, we’ll all plan for next week. We can hide our struggles and plan to go into town next Wednesday. Stay, we’ll all eat together. We can hide our issues and eat all of the food we possibly can. Stay with me, my friends. Stay, we’ll all hide our true selves from each other because for some reason, that’s what friends do.

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ruth nattrass

Ruth Nattrass St Paul’s Catholic School

Rose Raspberry Jayen Juicer was replaced by a new one; Jess. OMG the sparks flying between her and Oliver Orange and so there they are visible. Like flipping hell. Papaya Phoebe and Micky Mango have arrived and Jamoon James. Veitchberry Vinnie and Juneberry Joe are always cracking Jokes and fruity twerking. Gooseberry Grace is very distant but very interesting to talk to. Monster Munch Maja and scissors Shari are the closest of friends even though they are so opposite. Melon Mo and Dragon Fruit D are so chatty like Blah Blah Blah Blah and Blah Blah Blah and I’m like SHUT UP seriously we don’t care about Donald Trump’s corn on the cob hair or how we left the EU. But then we have Lemon Luke who does nothing but read and sleep and be quiet we both come from Tesco so we met in the trolley. Mayo Mayo is very kind to all of us, and our fruity leaders all tell us nighttime stories. Like Jelly Jim will tell us poems about someone called Kanye. Sanjida Salad tells us scary stories about lots of humans. Lasagne Lusangu makes up nerdy poems. You could say that they are in loco-pineapple but then Egg Ellie came and caused a few fights.

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Sumayyah Nadhir City of Leicester College

Me… Love me, hate me… Choose me, use me… Hold me, scold me… Feel me, heal me… Breathe me, leave me… Save me, crave me… Want me, hunt me… Take me, forsake me… Whatever you do just please don’t break me…

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Sumayyah Nadhir City of Leicester College

Deprived No more wood, No more people. No more good, No more evil. My flame is gone, My flame is out. My flame’s not shone, There’s nothing to talk about. They burn me with water, They leave me to die. They make my life shorter, But why? Oh why? The next day comes, I try reaching higher and higher. They throw more wood on, And that’s why I am no longer a deprived fire.

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Vinnie Otterbeck Fairfield High School

The Gateway Ava woke up in the hot, dry grass, with the breeze tugging at her clothes like dragonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath. She knew without looking that her shoulder was still bleeding, and her stomach ached as if there was a creature deep inside of her, slowly scraping with long, sharp claws. Forcing herself to sit up brought on a storm of black fizz which clouded her eyes and made her groan loudly. Everything was as she remembered; the wild, wheat-coloured field surrounding her, littered with the electric yellow of dandelions and chalky lilac of thistle flowers which burst up from the earth as if on a sugar high, and, about a mile due south of her position, the small, overgrown glade of trees, awash with every shade of green imaginable: their leaves of deep jade, waxy emerald and paler tones of dried peas and green tea powder stood out like flames in a coal mine against the claustrophobic, steely grey hue of the sky. Avaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s next step was to stand up. Rolling on to her stomach, she pressed her good arm into the ground, drawing her limbs together and transferring her weight into her knees so that she could uncoil upwards into a standing position. Recovering from the resulting head rush, she assessed the throbbing angular wound on her shoulder, a half-inch deep tear into her deltoid, which was pouring/spewing crimson blood down her arm. Ava hissed in pain and pulled off her jacket, winding it tightly around her shoulder to compress the blood flow. After she had secured the 174

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knot, she noted with satisfaction her dead assailant lying a few metres away, with a red sea of his very own spilling from his belly and dyeing the surrounding grass a beautiful wine colour. ‘I’m sorry’, she said to his corpse, ‘but you weren’t the first to stand in my way.’ Even with his superior fighting prowess she’d still managed to bury an axe in his gut. Ava turned away adamantly, and continued her trek towards the glade without a backwards glance. As she made her way south through the brittle vegetation, the pain in her stomach burning persistently, Ava thought back to the tiny stone house she’d finally found two months ago. She’d discovered it after over a year of searching fruitlessly, chasing unfounded rumours and fairy stories. It had been hidden five miles into the mountain range next to her grandmother’s village, tucked into a sheer cliff-face of dark grey slate and wild heather. Ava remembered the words of the old man she’d met there: ‘Go to the place where two worlds meet,’ he’d said, the firelight in his dim house making strange shadows on his wizened face. ‘Go to the place where sunlight first met water, and gold was married to silver. Through the gateway you’ll see the thing that you wish for, but beware of the gatekeeper, and take care to steal no more than a glimpse, or you’ll lose far more.’ The thing that you wish for. Ava could picture the thing that she wanted with tantalising clarity, even now. She had taken, and was prepared to go, great lengths to retrieve it. Still, the old man’s warning of loss nagged in the back of her mind, stinging like the wound in her shoulder. The gatekeeper lay dead in the field behind her, his attempt to prevent her reaching the gateway cut short, but Ava couldn’t imagine what more that she could lose. Stop, she told herself, and buried this eventuality. She buried her grief, and her exhaustion and hope. She began to walk faster through the dead grass. She would not lose him again. 175

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In ten minutes she’d reached the glade, and its entrance through a small, trodden path. The bloom of trees loomed above her as she started into their midst. As she walked, the ground grew thick and swampy, and Ava’s feet sank into rich, doughy mud that oozed like chocolate cake mixture. Cool air diffused through the coffee-black mass of tree trunks, alive with sweet, liquid sounds of birdsong, and the smell of damp soil and decaying plant matter, laced with hints of wild herbs, perforated upwards from the ground. Ava felt as though she’d taken a wrong turn and found herself in a tropical jungle. After a short journey. picking her way through the overgrown trees, Ava reached the middle of the glade. She’d arrived at a shallow lake, deep black like a devil’s tongue, its surface speckled with a snake-skin green growth of pond weed. At the lake’s centre, a large basin of rocks glowed faintly in the light that cracked through the canopy of trees overhead. Ava stopped in her tracks. This was the place. The place where two worlds met, exactly as she’d heard it described in so many fairy tales. She was so close. The shadows around the lake suddenly seemed so close as to be suffocating. Breathless, she took her first step into the icy, consuming waters, feeling the heat drain out of her body like blood from a wound. She shivered and stepped in with her other foot. The weeds on the surface of the water drifted languidly away from her as she waded slowly to the lake’s centre, submerging first her ankles, and then her knees and then she was in the water up to her waist. The birdsong in the glade had been replaced by silence and not even the faintest breath of wind disturbed the air. Ava’s shoulder felt numb, and her skin was covered in a veil of gooseflesh. The cold was stifling. As she pushed further through the lake, now submerged up to her chest in freezing water, she realised with terror that her vision was retracting and the gloom was closing in. Ava panicked 176

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and lurched forward, making a desperate grab for the basin that was just a few metres away, and her hands closed around its solid stone rim just as everything went black. She gripped the stone determinedly and she hauled herself, trembling violently, on to the basin’s surface and collapsed, gulping for breath as the weak sunlight warmed her limbs. Lying on her back, Ava’s vision returned and she found herself staring up through a hole in the tree canopy, revealing a radiant blue sky. The breeze had returned and she felt herself becoming calmer as it moved over her shaking body. Ava knew she had found the place. Before she even turned her head, she could feel the ancient presence that resided here. In the centre of the basin there was a pool, glittering diamond white, from which a single flower grew. In the pool was a fish, and its body was a knife-blade silver, the colour of Ava’s hair. The fish was moving. As Ava watched, the fish’s movements intensified gracefully, as did the flower’s. They mimicked each other in a strange dance through wind and water, the fish’s soft pink belly catching the sunlight as it dodged around the slender jade stem of the flower, which itself moved wildly as it whipped and whispered, golden petals flying in the gusty breeze. Ava pulled herself closer to the pool’s shimmering surface, and saw the glassy reflection of a face; a face with gleaming dark eyes, calloused ebony skin and a tangle of black hair. She saw the reflection of her brother.

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