Echoes of a Life

Echoes of a Life

An anthology of writing to honour the legacy of William Shakespeare, whose First Folio was published 400 years ago.

Contents Fiction (‘All the World’s a Stage’)

1. ‘Forays into the Occult’ by Matthew Wadsworth, p. 5.

2. ‘Dramatic Irony’ by Bea Hersch, p. 16.

3. ‘Exits and Entrances’ by Ethan Y. Wong, p. 25.

4. ‘Our Own Music’ by Elfriede Wong, p. 30.

5. ‘A Cold Grasp’ by Annabelle Godson, p. 39.

6. ‘Puppet’, by Sophie Laugharne, p. 44.

7. ‘Hand in Hand’ by Rupert Navias, p. 50.

8. ‘Flashbacks’ by Florie Dawe Schmeisser, p. 55.

9. ‘The Mystery of the Missing Manuscript’ by Christopher Docton, p. 60.

10. ‘Play, Right?’ by Emily Sbuttoni, p. 64.

Poetry (Legacy)

1. ‘Your Ancestors’ by Katelyn Road, p. 8.

2. ‘A Stump’ by Lauren Casling, p. 9.

3. ‘Before and After’ by Esme Hersch, p. 14.

4. ‘Unseen Currents’ by Will Roberts, p. 15.

5. ‘Rich in Experiences’ by Alice Dalton, p. 21.

6. ‘Foundations’ by Eleanor Gillard, p. 23.

7. ‘Too Late’ by Eve Jotcham and Bea Meier, p. 24.

8. ‘Emma Watson’ by Millie Sharkey, p. 28.

9. ‘Everyone Has a Legacy’ by Ben Lowe, p. 29.

10. ‘Grandad’ by Zoe Minor, p. 35.

11. ‘No One Will Forget’ by Freya Lane, p. 36.

12. ‘Footprints’ by George Allibone, p. 37.

13. ‘I Wrote This Poem for You’ by Lollo Caveen, p. 38.

14. ‘ABBA’ by Alice Wright, p. 42.

15. ‘Leaving a Legacy’ by Issie Sumner, p. 43.

16. ‘A Mother’s Love’ by Darcy Weston, p. 47.

17. ‘Jos Buttler’ by Benjamin Douch, p. 48.

18. ‘Make a Difference’ by Laura Pearce, p. 53.

19. ‘A Girl That They Loved’ by Matilda Lang, p. 54.

20. ‘In Our Wake’ by Erik Brown, p. 58.

21. ‘Remember Me’ by Theo Elias, p. 59.

22. ‘Nana’ by Vivi Cotton, p. 63.

23. ‘Remembered?’ by Tanwen Jefferson, p. 66.

24. ‘Once I Am Gone’ by Isla Black, p. 67.

25. ‘The Platypus’ Philosophy’ by Will Butterworth, p. 68.

Script

1. ‘The Village Fete’ by Freddie Williamson, p. 10.

Forays into the Occult

Matthew Wadsworth

Flashes of lightning lit up the glowering clouds that plagued the sky, pelting the skeletal shapes of the trees beneath them with sheets of pugnacious rain. On the high ground where the trees parted, a group of three women stood hunched over a raging fire, wrapped in dark cloaks with hoods that drooped over their faces. They were chanting a mysterious incantation and pacing around the fire and the pot on top of it, thunderous gales whipping around them.

At least, the wind ought to have been thunderous, but it lacked rather in this department, being more of a light breeze. In fact, thought Mother Pestilence-ofthe-Heart, the lightning was far from satisfactory as well, stopping almost as soon as it had started. The rain was up to scratch, though. Perhaps too much so. In all, the storm lacked drama, being more wet than anything else. Eventually, the witches ceased their chant and huddled around the fire.

Mother Pestilence-of-the-Heart, Jane Alder to everyone in the village, had set up the Snorington Parva coven three years ago now, and felt that she and her witches had made very little progress. She had been looking for something to do with herself and her father had made it quite clear that he would not have her sitting around his farmhouse doing nothing for much longer. He had taught her to read and provided her with the best sort of education he could, in the hope that she would be able to help run the farm of some wealthy suitor. Snorington Parva, however, had shown itself to be singularly deprived of young men and of other jobs for a nice, clever, unmarried young woman. At the age of twentythree, deciding that she was running out of time, Jane had discovered that the post of village witch was vacant, at least in that Snorington Parva had not had a witch before, and didn’t really know what one was. To Jane, witching had seemed to be a moving industry. She had heard reports of large witch trials in East Anglia and in Scotland, not to mention the considerable interest that the King was said to take in the trade. She had ridden to the big town and had got hold of two books on witchcraft and a play by a man called Mr Shakespeare and with her friends Mabel and Emily – now Sister Pestilence-of-the-Body and Sister Pestilence-of-the-Mind – she made her first forays into the occult. Their early days of witching had, she admitted, not been easy. Firstly, the general image of a

witch was that of strange, ugly, old woman with bad teeth who talked to themselves and isolated themselves from society, not three charming, goodlooking, intelligent girls who had been well-known parts of village society from the day they were born. Secondly, the duties of a witch did not necessarily fit with the practicalities of village life. Killing swine was all very well, but in a village where everyone knew everything that went on and most people kept at least one pig round the back of their cottage, it could land you in very hot water. Thirdly, their resources were limited, as none of them had a cat and the common near the village had to serve as the ‘blasted heath’.

Mother Pestilence-of-the-Heart turned back to the kettle that hung over the fire – a cauldron would have been nigh-on impossible to boil in this weather – and pulled her cloak more closely about her. This was one part of the job of which she was particularly glad. One of the books had said that witches practise naked, but when they tried it in Mabel’s back garden, two-thirds of the coven ended up in bed for a week with a chill. The witches concluded that here spoke male fantasy, not witching lore. Jane had decreed that her coven would henceforth always be fully dressed, complete with large black cloaks. They certainly helped keep the rain off.

She gestured to the other two witches to open the kettle and see if the concoction therein was ready. ‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog’ and so forth had proved to be difficult to obtain, as the animals in question had protested bitterly and the witches had been limited to the more vegetable elements, leaving them with ‘root of hemlock’ and ‘slips of yew’ and very little else.

Sister Pestilence-of-the-Mind ladled out what could only be described as a boiled salad into bottles, with which they hoped to curse some local fruit trees. Emily Wright, as she was otherwise known, had really come into her own as a witch. In all other parts of life, she had been outshone by Jane, who was more beautiful and more intellectual, and by Mabel, who was more logical and more pragmatic. In witching though, she could chant the spells better, mix the potions better, and wear her cloak better than the other two combined. She may only have been Emily by day, but by night she felt that she really was Sister Pestilence-of-theMind. What they did in these meetings really mattered to her and, quite frankly, she felt that the other two did not put enough effort into being a witch. It was almost as if they did not fully believe in what they were doing.

From the beginning, Emily had always led what they did as witches, ensuring that her companions always understood the arrangements for their meetings, and came up with the ideas for many of their finest exploits. It was she who had suggested enchanting the farmers’ pitchforks to destroy their haystacks and it was she who had suggested cursing the bench by the market cross so that all who sat on it would turn to stone. Whilst it was true that neither of these things worked, that fact mattered little to her.

Mother Pestilence-of-the-Heart shouted to Sister Pestilence-of-the-Mind that she was pouring the potion down the sides of a bottle and Sister Pestilence-ofthe-Body blew her nose on the hem of her cloak. The bottles having been filled, the three witches corked them up, put out the fire and set off for home. The rain was easing off now, and the first light of morning was softening the blackness.

Your Ancestors

Katelyn Road

The tale of humans dates long back, Cast in stone our ancestors drew. Tales of hunts and tales of who –Who they worshipped, who they praised, Where they spent their last ever days. Humans are funny things, We rule the earth and soar the skies with mechanical wings. The legacy of our ancestors shines, Through our blood and through these rhymes. We may never meet the ones who came before, But of one thing I am sure: Wherever you go and whatever you do, Your ancestors’ legacy will always be with you.

A Stump

Lauren Casling

There was a stump the size of four regular trees. This stump belonged to an old, white oak tree; It had been cut down thanks to human intervention And all that remained was a round stump. The tree had been alive for hundreds of years, You could tell by the rings on the inside of the log. It had left so many saplings, each one still growing strong. The oak had so many children of all different shapes and sizes. She loved them very much and was sad to part with them, But left them great memories and wisdom so they could grow up To be just as beautiful as her.

The Village Fete

Freddie Williamson

[The scene is set for the Darlington Village Fete. The vicar, Reverend Weedbee, is a useless organiser and is even worse at keeping control. He is a tall, pale man, long past his sell by date and, despite his best efforts, the village green soon descends into chaos.

The fete consists of the usual village types, all of whom the vicar secretly detests. There is the American businessman, Mr Lorenzo, someone who has made a fortune in the world of pizza deliveries. Making the most of his riches, he has only recently moved to the village and, as such, is the topic of much gossip and rumour. With a broad American accent and a brash fashion sense, he is sure to stand out from the other locals. He is accompanied by his two young boys, Cody and Brett, both of whom are apt at causing trouble wherever they go.

Next is the stately galleon, Mrs Trilby, a lady of substantial presence. With a booming voice, she never fails to command a captivated audience. Now approaching seventy, she has just achieved the remarkable feat of visiting every country in the world, something which she takes great pleasure in talking about.

Major Bowles is the village’s gruff churchwarden and someone who takes his duties extremely seriously. Always dressed immaculately, he has a slight limp, which he says is from his army days (it’s really from that nasty fall he had at the supermarket last month).

Lastly, the schoolboy Alfred Pincher, someone who successfully bores the entire village with his constant, virtuous preaching about anything and everything. With slicked back hair, he has the air of always knowing better (and never fails to remind you of it.)]

REVEREND WEEDBEE [stuttering in a hopelessly weak voice]: Welcome, everyone, to Darlington’s annual village fete! [He is aware that not many in the small crowd are listening to him.] I … errr … it’s great to see everyone on such a magnificent day. [Again, he’s aware that this isn’t true; the sky is full of clouds and there’s a distinct chill in the air.] I do hope you will all enjoy yourselves [yes, he is also aware that many only pretend to like one another, so any genuine enjoyment is highly unlikely] and, please remember, all the money raised will go to the new church spire [he has currently raised £12.42 (mostly in bronze coins) of an estimated £40,000].

MRS TRILBY [interrupting, in a booming voice, having already started on the sloe gin stand]: So let the festivities begin!

[The vicar now proceeds to mingle with the villagers, something that he tolerates only in order to secure the vital donations for the church spire. He decides to head for Mr Lorenzo; after all, he is rumoured to be made of money. Meanwhile, Cody and Brett Lorenzo head menacingly towards the bouncy castle.]

REVEREND WEEDBEE: Good Afternoon.

MR LORENZO [in a broad American accent]: Well hey there, Weedbee!

REVEREND WEEDBEE [rather taken aback]: I do hope you’re enjoying the afternoon’s festivities – so wonderful to have everyone together [his facial expressions tell another story]. I wonder, now, would it be possible to have a conversation about funds for the new church spire? You see, we really do need to…

MR LORENZO [interrupting]: The church spire, you say? Well, yeah, course – I’d love to! How much you looking for then? Five? Ten? Twenty?

REVEREND WEEDBEE [rather disappointed]: Well twenty pounds would be fantastic…I suppose.

MR LORENZO [enjoying the vicar’s ignorance]: Twenty pounds? Twenty pounds?! Don’t be stupid, when I said twenty, I was talking in the thousands. No one’s doing nothing with only twenty pounds; you couldn’t buy a decent Bible with that, let alone fix the whole damn church!

REVEREND WEEDBEE [with one eye now constantly on Mr Lorenzo’s two young children, who are dominating the children’s bouncy castle]: Well, that is most of generous of you, I cannot thank… [he comes to a halt as he sees Cody wallop Alfred Pincher, also aged seven, over the head] erm… thank you enough. [He’s not quite sure what to do; Mr Lorenzo is clearly oblivious to the carnage breaking out on the bouncy castle but, then again, he doesn’t want to risk losing Mr Lorenzo’s generous donation – he decides he’ll go for his usual approach and simply ignore the bouncy castle situation.]

MR LORENZO [as predicted, oblivious to his children’s antics]: Well, no problem! I’ll send the cash straight through.

REVEREND WEEDBEE [in a grovelling drawl; money has completely won him over to Mr Lorenzo]: Thank you, thank you – it’s a miracle!

[Before the conversation can continue, the vicar is ambushed by Alfred Pincher, something which he had been desperately trying to avoid.]

ALFRED PINCHER [in a priggish, know-it-all voice]: Vicar, are you aware that £40,000 on a church spire is an absolute waste of money? Don’t you know we’re facing a climate crisis? Don’t you know that we’re losing our wonderful planet, but all you’re interested in is some poxy tower?

REVEREND WEEDBEE [desperate to avoid confrontation]: Yes, but you must understand, the church is so important for the local community. It’s what brings people together.

ALFRED PINCHER [smugly] And tell me, Vicar, exactly how many people do you have in your Sunday congregations?

REVEREND WEEDBEE [exasperated]: That’s not the point, is it?

ALFRED PINCHER [curtly]: I would have thought that was exactly the point!

REVEREND WEEDBEE [looking fervently around, desperate to escape the presence of this awkward child]: Well thank you for such an enlightening chat, it’s been a pleasure, [sarcastically] as always. But I really must go and talk to Mrs Trilby.

[The vicar heads towards Mrs Trilby (she is in charge of the sloe gin stand). However, he is again interrupted, this time by Major Bowles.]

MAJOR BOWLES [extremely annoyed]: Vicar, you listen here! For the past twenty-five years I have collected the collection. Collecting the collection is simply what I do, but I now hear you’ve agreed for the children to do it this year! Listen here, I fought in the war! [The vicar looks at him baffled – what war? He was part of the food corps, based in Plymouth, during the Falklands.] I won’t have my duties to this parish ruined by a bunch of grubby little children.

[Without waiting for a response, the major storms off to the cake stand. The vicar hasn’t even said a word, though he is a glad it was only a short encounter. He can now head over to Mrs Trilby, who he can see is slowly losing the use of her legs.]

MRS TRILBY [in a slurred, but nevertheless commanding voice]: Ahh, Vicar! Good of you to turn up to my little stand. Your really don’t know the trouble I’ve gone to securing all these bottles for the raffle later; I almost had to force the Major to hand a couple over!

[The thought of Mrs Trilby threatening anyone simply terrifies the vicar, who simply smiles politely.]

MRS TRILBY [taking a seat, she continues talking, without taking a breath]: Now, have I told you about my recent trip to Mongolia?

REVEREND WEEDBEE: I believe you have, Mrs Trilby [under his breath], several times.

MRS TRILBY [seemingly oblivious to the vicar’s response]: Where to begin? Where to begin?

REVEREND WEEDBEE [again, under his breath]: Preferably near the end.

[MRS TRILBY now enters into a long-winded account of her travels, with the vicar no longer trying to hide his exasperation.]

REVEREND WEEDBEE: [to the audience]: Surely, this can’t get any worse?

[The scene ends in a tableaux, the vicar stuck in conversation with Mrs Trilby. In the background, the Lorenzo children are continuing to cause chaos on the bouncy castle; this time the Major is attempting to control the situation. Alfred Pincher has caught Mr Lorenzo in conversation, presumably grilling the poor man on the eco-credentials of that new car of his.]

Before and After

Esme Hersch

My mum told me the same story every night before bed when I was little;

I am now 14 and can still recite it off by heart. I learned to love hockey because my oldest sister loved it first. My dad did my hair for me until I was 7, and I now do the same technique he taught me. My second sister always told me which friends she liked and didn’t like. She was always right.

My cousin and I danced to “Walks Like Rhianna” in my living room when I was 4.

I still listen to that song when getting ready for school. My grandma taught my sisters and I “Ouma’s rules”, which one day I want to use to keep my children in line. What I do and how I do it, is because of who I learnt it from. And that person I have known and loved has been remembered. I carry them on, without even being aware of their impact.

Unseen Currents

Will Roberts

Legacy. Not a ripple in a bathtub, But a tremor felt in the river’s flow.

Calm on the surface, yet unseen currents turn, A small shift where only water knows.

Not a hand reaching for grand pronouncements, etched in stone, But a quiet touch, a life brushing against another’s soul. A seed of kindness, scattered free, taking root unseen, Blossoming in stories whispered on the wind, yet to unfold.

Walk with purpose, be it grand or small, And watch the ripples dance without a sound. The world remembers, hand in hand, not etched in stone, But in the echoes of the life you found.

Dramatic Irony

Bea Hersch

My life started the day I met him – my best friend, my world, my reason for living. Memories of before were hazy, as if I had only just woken up from a sixteen year slumber, through the intense magnetism of love pulling my lonely half heart into his. We completed each other, each flaw cancelled out by the other’s strength, so that we became one – one perfect, enamoured being. It was as if we were blessed by Aphrodite herself, as if she had crafted Eros’ arrow with pure passion and guided it to each of our hearts. Whether it was fate, destiny, or by a higher power’s hand, I was given light in the form of my Hermes.

I trudged into school, my freshly polished shoes weighing me down like shackles, head and eyes intently focused on the floor. I didn’t want to be there: I never had and I never would. Bracing myself for the bone-chilling screech of the morning bell, I tensed each muscle and rooted myself into the ground. The surge of school children meandered around me as if I were a rock in its course –inconvenient, but insignificant enough to be almost completely ignored. This was how I was used to being treated: everybody knew of me but nobody knew me. I was always present in the moment, but never in memories. I was good, just never good enough.

But then my ears were gifted with the sweet siren song of a voice that I had not heard before. Looking up, my curious eyes met with his, already staring beyond my features, beyond my flaws, beyond my insecurities and into my soul like he was telling me he wanted to know me. He wanted to know me. Caterpillars morphed into butterflies in my stomach, writhing and flying crazily, high on the drug of desire. I was only sixteen, but with Hermes I felt as if I were living a hundred lives by his side, his love immortalising me.

I was getting myself ready for our first date on a dark, winter evening. With each stroke of a makeup brush on my cheek, my heart beat louder, harder, more passionately. Echoes of my father’s spite reverberated against each cold wall of my house, attempting to seep through the cracks in my skin and infect me. No. Nothing would or could ever turn me against my love, for the only way I could ever hate him was if I hated myself. My anticipation and exhilaration diffused out through my skin as perfume, as all in my presence absorbed my joy. Never before

had I felt so beautiful, so loved, so alive. In fact, the childish idolisation I once had for my parents now felt distant, and I struggled to grasp ever feeling it, ever feeling satisfied with it. Though we had only met two months prior, I knew Hermes would be my epic love, and these feelings were supported by His voice in my head, the feeling in my heart, and the obviousness that He was trying to push Hermes and me together.

As I waited at the front door, like a child waiting for Christmas to come, He spoke to me, His words a comforting blanket. “You are waiting for Hermes: he will come soon. You are excitedly nervous for your date, but you know all will be well – he is your soulmate.” This reassurance was exactly what I needed to hear and so, lacing my hands together and looking up to the sky, I shut my eyes and mouthed a sentiment of gratitude. He was right: I was going to be fine.

At the restaurant, we were greeted by a beaming hostess, who showed us to our table with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent advertising a house. It was easy to get lost in his eyes – the great pools of azure reflected a tranquil lake I could swim in all day and never get tired of. His eyes crinkled when he smiled at me, filling me with sweet relief, as if he were an oasis and I a wearied traveller in a desert, dying of thirst. Before we knew it, the clock hit midnight and we realised we had been talking, satiated by each other’s company, for over four hours. Never did I notice someone come in, nor did I see anyone come out while my love and I were dining – for all I knew, we were the only people in the restaurant, in the world even. I cannot remember a single word uttered as, each time I try to go back, I discover my memory glazed over as if covered in honey, so all I can think about is the joy, the sweetness, the nauseating, overpowering knowledge that I was in love.

Before I knew it, it was mine and Hermes’ six month anniversary. Then it was our one year. When I was with him, his warm embrace shielded me from time’s unforgiving grasp and her covetous attempts to cut our precious time short. Each time a new obstacle flung itself into our path in a quest to stifle our blossoming future, I laughed and so did He, as we knew that only death could come between me and Hermes.

After surviving the year, Summer was idly approaching, taunting us with tastes of sun before hiding again. I had never been happier, I had never been more in

love, I had never been more comfortable, especially with Him giving me directions and order in my life.

And then one day, the one thing no amount of money could ever replace was stolen from me.

I remember exactly where I was when I got the phone call. How naïve was I to be sitting cross legged on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling on my phone while I was waiting for Hermes? My phone rang, a ceaseless string of numbers lining the top of my screen, catching me off guard. At first, I was intending to ignore it as I had assumed it was a spam call, when His voice boomed through my body, “You pick up the phone. You are confused – who could it be?”

Whenever I wasn’t sure what I was thinking or feeling, He always told me, He always showed me the way.

Anxiously, I answered meekly, “Hello, this is Sasha Lewis – can I help you?” Frost spread from the other side of the phone into my ear, freezing the very blood that had once run wildly through my veins. Paralysis spread through me and I could no longer support my weight or hold onto my now steel phone. My knees buckled and I crumpled to the floor like a rag doll that has nobody to play with her anymore.

“Hermes,” I spluttered, “Hermes is dead.”

In a flurry of mania, one calm thought came to me. Not from Him but, for once, it came from deep within my now leaden heart. I knew what to do. I flew into the kitchen and found it, the gift that would allow me to see him again. The silver glint of the blade called my name seductively, intoxicating me with the glorious promise of heaven. As I held it at arm’s length, I made peace with Him and braced myself for the fleeting sensation of agony I knew I was about to experience. It would all soon be worth it. Momentum built up as I plunged the dagger into my heart and awaited the soothing waterfall of blood.

“CUT!” An all-too-familiar voice screamed. “That was NOT in the script!”

I opened my eyes, startled and lost. Wait. Where was the blood? Where was the pain? Gingerly, I pulled the knife out of my chest only to find it spotless and plastic. Plastic? Terrified, I darted my eyes around until they landed on the source of my confusion. That was Him, the one I pictured in my head, the one who gave

me guidance, the one I looked to for answers. But in the place of the floating ethereal being I had envisioned, was a middle aged man propped up on a high chair, a megaphone pressed to his thin lips. My entire world came crumbling down; the house in which I had lived and chosen to die fell, exposing a vast sheet of green. Grass? I reached out my trembling hand and immediately withdrew it. It was not grass, but some kind of fabric. The sun that doused me in gold and joy now blinded me and, after shielding most of its attack with my hand, I noticed it was hung, hung on what appeared to be a large rope.

“W…w…what?” I stuttered.

It fell on deaf ears, as the man just rolled his eyes and said, “Jennifer, have you been talking to the on-site therapist like I told you to?”

Nausea started to rise from my stomach, causing a blockage in my throat. My name wasn’t Jennifer!

“Jen, please stop this, you’re scaring me!”

A little girl was huddled behind a row of seats, her eyes red and puffy. I didn’t know her, right? Her voice rang alarm bells through my ears, déjà vu’s familiar tone rousing dormant brain cells I never knew I had.

“My sister! My sister? But my sister is…”

I was cut short by the most horrific sight to ever come across my eyes. My ‘sister’ along with the people I called my parents were perched in front of dazzling mirrors, surrounded by ladies laden with makeup brushed and other various tools. Like an owl, my head spun back and forth between my false reality and my real reality. I didn’t know what to do – He usually told me what to do. But He wasn’t real, nobody was. Was I even real? Unconsciously, I leapt from the platform that had been invisible to me for as long as I could remember, my bare feet whacking the crisp floor with a thud.

I went crazy. My breathing became shallow and rapid, my teeth chattered and my eyes leaked furious tears. I screamed. I screamed until my throat was hoarse, until my skull shattered into fragments, until I felt two large hands pin mine behind my sweaty back.

“What are you? Who am I? Where am I? What have you done to me?” I bawled into the expanse I had once called my home. Just as I thought my frenzy would cause me to snap the cool bracelet now binding my wrists together, I felt a sharp pinch just below my shoulder. Immediate relief washed through my body, cleansing me of all the madness I thought would never leave.

I breathed a sigh of relief before uttering, completely dazed, “Are you going to take me home?”

The gruff sound of a man’s voice answered. He said, “Yes, sweetie, you are going to your new home. I’m sure you’ll be much happier there.”

Rich in Experiences

Alice Dalton

Am I forgettable?

When I die, will my death have an impact?

Will people cry or be happy I’m gone? What will I leave behind?

Money and footprints, good memories or bad ones?

When I die, what will my life become?

Will I be a doctor, lawyer, athlete, entrepreneur?

Will I change people with my views, energy, words, or will people hate me or forget the next day?

Every choice I make has an impact on my future. Do I spend my life being unsure that I am making the right choice?

Or do I live in the present? Here. Now. Travel, have kids, friends, dreams.

My life is finite.

So is yours. You will die. When you die, what will people think of your life? Wasted, ideal, average, impactful. You can change the world. Will you?

I want to live. Thrive. Experience.

Sunset on a beach in Mallorca, feet in the sand, breathing in fresh air, hearing the waves lapping. Belly laughs with friends.

I want to be rich; not in money – in experiences.

Hike through rainforests in Thailand, ice skate on a lake in Canada.

No pressure, just enrichment.

Life is beautiful and I am going to LIVE in it.

Foundations

Eleanor Gillard

Like a golden staircase climbing upwards, one generation carefully build their step and all-importantly lay the foundations for the next.

Or perhaps every event is a stepping stone in the fast-flowing eddying river of time, left behind for those who come after.

Small bridges mark events, and people travel through a labyrinth of ravines; each slip could spell the end

Every life a stitch in an intricate tapestry, some more prominent than others. But all here to form a beautiful yet confusing work of art.

Or is each life like a silver penny in a wishing well, sending ripples spiralling across the inky black surface? Splashes, some so big they rock all the water?

And thus when the starlight curtain of time falls, after the leading performers take their bows, as the audience waits in perfect, crystal silence, what will be left behind?

Why the tapestry, the well, the stepping stones? The stairs that lead up and spiral to where?

Why do we build a bridge to leave for no one? Will they laugh, cry, clap at the end of the play? How will we build our beautiful legacy, ensure it doesn’t end today?

Too Late

Eve Jotcham and Bea Meier

Will planet Earth mourn when we’re not here?

Will it cry out loud or shed a tear?

For us to fix it, it’s too late, I fear. Our answer is quite clear.

Sea levels rising, the oceans churning, the animals dying, their habitats burning. When will the men in orange start learning? It’s time we focused on saving, not earning.

Black fumes of smoke smother the air, but in the state it’s at, people still aren’t scared. A clean, clear planet, that’s fairly rare.

So is this enough to make you care?

Exits and Entrances

Ethan Y. Wong

In the beginning, I created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And then I moved upon the face of the waters. And I said, “Let there be light”: and there were stage lights. And I saw the light, that it was good: and I divided the light from the darkness. And I called the light stage, and the darkness I called backstage. And the evening and the morning were the first play…

How now? I am William Shakespeare, and I am known as one of the greatest writers in the English language. I have written myriad comedies, tragedies and historic plays, such as: The Tempest, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, As You Like It, and of course, Hamlet. I wrote my first play, King Henry the Fourth, Between the years fifteen eighty nine and fifteen ninety one. It was in three parts.

Even before you speak, I already know what you will say, for I know the plans I have for you, Shakespeare. You will be remembered in the far future, when humans will defy the rules of nature and soar above the stage that I have created. Schools will study your works (my works: I created you and all that you have done is mine), and four hundred years after your first folio is published, there will be a writing competition based on your (my) works.

The date today is twenty ninth of June, sixteen twelve, and I am on my way to our beautiful theatre, The Globe. Today is a very exciting day, as we will host the first performance of my newest (and last) play, Henry VIII. In two hours’ time, the doors will open; excited members of the audience will flood the Globe Theatre: groundlings will throng the yard,

and the galleries and boxes will be filled with ladies and gentlemen. I will, of course, be performing, although only a small role, as a Lord of the courts, Sands.

I know all that there is to be known, past, present and future, for I wrote your scripts and designed the sets. You, my actors, only see all that is good in the current Act, yet you are blissfully unaware of the tragedies that lie in the scenes beyond…

The opening has gone as smoothly as a vessel navigating calm waters. The first Act is nearly over, and now At Scene four, it is time for my entrance.

Shakespeare enters stage left, onto the stage at the Globe Theatre, blissfully unaware that this will be his last performance on this stage…

Alas, the course of true theatre never did run smooth! The end of Scene four was certainly eventful! After my line, “I told your grace they would talk anon”, cannons were fired, as cued. However, disaster struck! A piece of burning material from the cannon set the thatched roof of our beautiful Globe Theatre on fire!

Cardinal Wolsey tried to continue with his line, “What’s that?”, however the fire proved to be too vicious and the Globe soon had to be evacuated. What will we all do?

Every play has its conflict, complications, climax, and resolution. When the Lord Chamberlain's Men first built the Globe Theatre, they would not have dreamed of the success that it would bring them. Alas, if only my actors and actresses could see the script that I have prepared for all of you, written before you were all born. Just as when the Lord Chamberlain's Men would not have dared to dream that they would one day become the King’s Men (King James I enter stage left), so too would they not have foreseen that one day, the curtains would fall on their Act. After all, everyone have their exits and their entrances in the play of the universe. As in any play, an Act will always end, and the actors and actresses will eventually return backstage.

Our revels now are ended. Alas, the Globe is destroyed. All my beautiful plays, all up in flames. I can only hope that none of my masterpieces were lost. As a shareholder, it is my duty to the theatre company to provide £50 to begin work on a new Globe, although I dread to think of the final cost to rebuild it. Even so, that will be the easier part to repair. The irreparable part will be the loss of my plays. All scripts gone up in flames – how will we ever perform my old plays ever again? After all, we are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone. Alas, true hope is swift and flies with swallow’s wings. Kings, it makes gods, and meaner creatures, kings. At least we will still be able to perform at the Blackfriars Theatre. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and perhaps it is my turn to leave the spotlight.

You ask me for my name, the greatest theatre director ever? I am called many things, such as Father, Lord, Lion, Lamb… But at the end of the day, what makes me such a good director? Well the answer is very simple:

All the world’s my stage, and all the men and women merely my actors…

Cut!

Emma Watson

Millie Sharkey

She is a strong campaigner for women’s rights and has witnessed some unspeakable things. Her 18th birthday or just things she hears about on the news. She stands up and talks. Talks! Is that really so hard?

She inspires women everywhere, teaches them how to have a voice.

She’s truly an inspiration, wanting to study and be better educated, even after becoming so famous.

She’s a driving force! Can we become like her?

She never settles for less, always drives for more.

She is an inspiration to all women She encourages women to be assertive, to stand up for themselves. She is Emma Watson.

Everyone Has a Legacy

Ben Lowe

What is legacy?

Is it large, grand monuments built in your name, Or towering statues addressing your fame? Is it the small things that people don’t see, Or working with others to set people free?

Well, it isn’t.

Legacy is anything.

You see these famous fighters on your TV screen, From actors, presenters, and sometimes the King and Queen. People want to be superheroes with a secret identity, They want to be a figure of hope, justice, and liberty.

They have a legacy.

Regular people work through their busy lives. Going from meeting to meeting, not knowing they could thrive, They go day to day, year to year until they die, Looking down at their funeral, praying someone will cry.

Everyone has a legacy,

It’s not the things we do or say that define our legacy, But the simple acts of kindness that make up our memory.

Our Own Music

Elfriede Wong

Black.

Tumbling, dizzying, a hall of mirrors. Bouncing off the windows, the chandeliers, the French doors. Miles of parquet, lacquered like a playing card, whirl away under our feet.

The white chiffon of my dress flutters against the floor, light as foam on the sea’s surface. Sergei and I move in tandem, hands clasped as we twirl through a Viennese waltz.

So beautiful, I can almost believe that it’s real.

Gleaming off the set on stage, stage lights blaze above our heads. The music builds and Sergei’s jaw tightens in anticipation of the lift. I remember the last time we did that lift; Sergei’s hands slipping fatally, plummeting weightless through the air before landing on my ankle, white pain spiking through my calf.

As the music crescendos furthers, I smile discreetly at Sergei. He whirls me outwards and around the floor, squeezing my hand.

Three seconds long. I’ve got you.

I squeeze back. I know. Thank you.

Soaring like a bird, the waltz reaches its climax, spreading unfettered wings to their full length. I lift with it, body leaving the stage effortlessly as my hands clasp

Sergei’s shoulders. We rotate across the floor in the waltz’s finale, our bodies floating before ending with a triumphant flourish.

Applause bursts from the theatre audience. I beam, my skin still tingling with energy under the lights’ bright glare. The women curtsy, white skirts pooling like goose down, and the men bow, striking and sharp in their suits.

I smile at Sergei and he chuckles, swinging our clasped hands into the air as the curtains swing shut.

Sergei’s light step sounds on polished wooden floorboards.

“Olga, I brought coffee, and sandwiches.”

“Thanks,” I muffle, cheek pressed against my shin.

Sergei snorts. “You’re welcome.”

Soon, Sergei finishes his lunges and arches, cat-like. “You done?”

“Almost,” I murmur, flattening my body against my legs. “Five more minutes.”

“I know what that means when it comes to you. Don’t take too long or I’ll eat all the food,” he warns, chuckling as he walks away.

I groan, uncoiling from the splits and padding after him. Sergei is already halfway through a ham sandwich, engrossed in a battered copy of As You Like It

“What is it with you and Shakespeare?” I swallow a gulp of hot chocolate.

Sergei narrows his eyes at me over his book. “He’s a genius, Olga. No, really, listen –”

“Fine,” I exhale.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts. Olga, we live on stage.”

I tilt my head. “Go on.”

Sergei’s eyes blaze as he speaks. “There we’re all and simultaneously nothing. The whole of our life and nothing of ourselves at the same time.”

I swallow. “And that link will tether us always to that moment, where we’re flying.”

Sergei nods, smiling wistfully. “Always.”

I hold his gaze, heavy with understanding.

Sergei exhales. “Well, that’s enough philosophy for today.”

Laughing softly, I stand. Sergei rises, wincing as he claps a hand to his chest.

I catch his arm. “All right?”

Sergei hisses through his teeth. “Fine.”

“Sergei,” I say sharply.

“I’m fine, Olga.” He reassures me, flashing a soft smile. “Just muscle pain.”

“Well, take care of yourself. Thank God that was our last show,” I say cautiously, releasing his bicep.

“Promise. See you tomorrow, same time?”

I nod, smiling as we head back home.

“Feeling better?” I ask Sergei the next morning.

He nods. “Can we do one last thing?”

“What?” I inquire.

Sergei hesitates, biting his lip. “Dance with me. Like you would without training.”

I stare at him. “There’s no music.”

Sergei tosses his phone onto the table. An Elvis song echoes through the room, sung by a soft woman’s voice.

He extends his hand, grinning. “Well?”

I smile softly, placing my hand in his. He squeezes my fingers, a familiar gesture from before every performance, every competition, every time waiting in the wings.

His other hand clasps my waist as I place mine on his shoulder. We sway together, like teenagers at their first dance. Sergei spins me slowly, tentatively, before pulling me closer again. The sunset light flitters across his face as our eyes meet; a gaze worth a thousand words.

We stay there, wishing the moment could last longer than it does, moving like two willows trees in the breeze. The song eventually ends and Sergei releases me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I smile, slipping my coat on.

“That was really–” Sergei breaks into a coughing fit, his sentence lost in wheezing.

I wince, my hand rubbing his back as he heaves. He regains control, taking slow, shuddering breaths. “Sorry, Olga. I’ve been a little out of breath lately.”

Uncoiling my scarf, I wind it loosely around his neck. He protests, but I shake my head. “Don’t apologize. Keep it for now. Give it back when you’re better. You need it more than I do.”

“You’re sure?” he questions, fingering the thick wool. “This is your mother’s scarf, after all.”

I nod, pulling him carefully into a hug. Sergei drops his head to the crook of my neck, clasping my waist as he exhales shakily. I splay my hands against his back, his heart thudding against mine as I bury my face against his shoulder.

“Olga?” Sergei says.

“Mhm?” I murmur.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” I breathe. “You’re going to be stuck with me for a good long while yet.”

“Still, thank you. For being there.”

“Always. Thank you for doing the same for me.” “Always.”

Normally, I would release Sergei at this point; we seldom hug. But something tells me to hold on just a little longer, so I do. I cling to him, and his arms pull me closer, his hand rubbing my back gently. Eventually, I release him, his eyes suspiciously glossy as we walk down the street to where we normally separate.

“Can I walk you home?” he says suddenly.

I nod, hugging my coat tighter around myself. “Sure.”

As we approach my apartment, Sergei stops in front of the front door. “Thanks again for the scarf, Olga. I’ll return it tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“I won’t. I trust you,” I say breathlessly.

Smiling, Sergei swipes his thumb across my cheek. “You’ll see me tomorrow. Promise. Coffee meeting at twelve like always?”

I nod, just realizing the tears bizarrely tracing down my face.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling me into a short, tight hug. “I’m all right. I promise.”

I nod, burrowing deeper into his arms against the snow. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, malyutka. Yes? Sleep well.” Sergei kisses my brow lightly and dusts the last tears away, walking away backwards.

I wave at him, and he grins and waves back, watching me step inside before he turns around.

That was the last time I would ever dance with him.

Grandad

Zoe Minor

Everybody’s legacy is different, and my grandad’s is making his family happy. From watching Bath rugby when it’s cold and grey, To organising games on a hot summer’s day. On a Saturday, Grandad makes us a steak; Taking us on holiday, the memories we make. When we were younger, he’d take us on the tractor, While all the grandchildren screamed: faster! Faster! I hope when I’m older my legacy will be Just the same as what my Grandad means to me.

No One Will Forget

Freya Lane

A legacy is something you leave behind, To give to others, in order to remind Of something you did, which no one will forget, Almost like a silhouette.

Nelson Mandela left one too, And it made an impact for me and you. It started when he fought for all; He stood up for justice, he stood up tall To have equality and change the law –No racism or discrimination anymore.

Rosa Parks stood assertive and bold, She didn’t sit where she was told. When she changed the law for the best, To stand for justice, it was a test. After the civil right movement that day, She is an inspiration to people, they say.

Marie Curie we can all agree, Dedicated her life to the big C. Not to mention Shakespeare as well; His plays and poems for you all to re-tell. Albert Einstein the physicist, who’s Changed our perceptions and our views.

Overall, they did something great, This is because they didn’t wait, They all helped others in a different way, And it made an impact, we all can say. They stood up to others and didn’t mind, But left a footprint for us behind.

Footprints

George Allibone

Take a step in the snow, leave a footprint, And when you are gone, look back for an instant. Take your chance, explore that figment; While you’re here, make a footprint.

Whether blue times come around Or the sun is shining down, Hide away your morning frown You will make a deeper footprint.

If you take a few more steps Through the mud and the sweat, Soldier on until sunset, It will make for a deeper footprint

From your last step in the snow, Sit and watch your past grow To a view from a glint; Enjoy your footprint.

I Wrote This Poem for You

Lollo Caveen

Although she is gone

Her legacy will live on.

Her biscuit cupboard will remain, The vision of her white hair, And the memories that we share:

All the ice creams on the beach

And the way she always smiled. The way she always tucked us in And kissed us on the head

When we knew she was there for us, No matter how many miles.

So, Nanny, I wrote this poem for you

Just so you know,

You gave us strength, you gave us might, A stronger person is hard to find.

You lived like sunshine

And helped us through rain,

But you’re forever in our hearts

And although you’re gone

Your legacy will live on

And I hope mine will too.

A Cold Grasp

Annabelle Godson

Groaning floorboards awakened me from a deep slumber. The peculiarity of this noise startled me and compelled me to put on my rather shabby slippers and try to discover who or what caused the creaking from above.

Leaving my bed, I crept across the cracked and uneven floorboards of the expansive landing and up the rickety stairs to the attic above. As I slowly approached the attic door with evident trepidation, and reached for the door handle, a cold hand clasped my shoulder. I spun around in shock and surprise, completely petrified. The cold grasp of the bony hand continued to get tighter, until my shoulder and arm began to feel numb.

In my panic, it seemed as though many impressions flashed through my mind as I tried to identify the features that belonged with the hand, but the face was in shadow, and a clear picture was hard to discern. As if by design, some light from below played across the stairwell, revealing a very pale face, icy blue eyes, blonde hair and pigtails, which drew attention. I scanned for another split second and suddenly the icy clutch alleviated, as the ghostlike figure also seemed to evaporate away. I turned quickly on my heels and hurriedly traced my steps down the stairs and back into my safe, cosy bed.

I must have closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep I was awakened by the noise of people moving around the house and the bright light of daytime. I opened my eyes and got out of bed. I felt strange and apprehensive; while I didn’t want the company and the attention of the breakfast room, nor did I want anyone to notice my scared and tired eyes, I also didn’t want to be alone. I went down to breakfast where I joined my family at the table, but I couldn’t enjoy father’s infamous blueberry pancakes or mothers' famous hot chocolate; instead, I sat staring into space. Soon my elder sister Ellie and I were alone at the table munching on our breakfast, but even her reassuring presence did not ease my disquiet or evident distress.

“Sophia, I know you far too well. What is troubling you?” she questioned in a comforting manner.

“Nothing is wrong! I just didn’t have the best night’s sleep. I’m also worried about a piece of writing for English homework. Something about the world being a stage,” I lied.

But, almost immediately, I regretted the lie, and felt the urge to confess my experience.

“Please promise that you won't tell anyone, but last night a strange girl appeared by the attic door; she had an ice-cold gaze that hollowed out your eyes. It was quite terrifying; I just can’t spend any longer here!” I blurted out.

“Sorry, but that is complete and utter nonsense! I don’t believe in supernatural activity, and neither should you,” she exclaimed in a smug tone.

“I can prove it to you!” I retorted.

“Honestly, little sister, I think you just need to get some fresh air and to stop watching these horror films on Netflix; they’re obviously not helping your state of mind.”

“You‘re the one who persuaded me to watch ‘Creeped Out’,” I responded indignantly. “The very least you can do is come with me to the attic when it gets dark later today and give me the chance to show you.”

“OK, little sister, but don’t expect me not to make jokes about this over the next couple of days,” said my supercilious sister, as she over-dramatically rolled her eyes and got up to leave the kitchen. I sat at the table for another five minutes, staring out of the window with a pensive look on my face, until I felt sufficiently calm. I was ready to prove her wrong and to see the smug look on her face vanish.

I had been banned from using all electronic devices, so instead I read a book to pass the time. When my sister was eventually ready, we headed up to the attic. It felt as if a herd of elephants were following me around. My sister twisted the doorknob, and I was preparing myself for the ghost-like girl to appear out of nowhere. Of course she didn’t; I didn’t get to choose when the apparition was revealed. We waited expectantly for ten minutes, but to my great frustration, absolutely nothing happened! My sister looked at me and sighed.

“Still a silly little girl,” she announced. I followed her out of the door and down the staircase, but as I was about to reassert my story and the certainty that I saw ghost, a great clatter from tools crashing to the floor came from the attic. We were both startled. Who could have dislodged the tools? Once again, we scurried up the stairs, but this time there was a shared apprehension, and no doubt we both looked quite scared. Before we could reach the door, it flew open to reveal the same ghostly figure. Ellie let out a piercing scream, which echoed through the whole house. I could see her eyes fixed on the harrowing face. The ghost started creeping towards us, her gaze not wavering at all.

We fled with alacrity.

When we got to the ground floor there was a rapturous applause from the group waiting downstairs.

“Well done, girls, and Sophia, you were particularly convincing,” the Director called above the hubbub of the crew and the rest of the family. “That was a terrific finale to the best day’s filming so far on our ‘Haunted House’ reality TV show. I bet that creates a jump in ratings.”

I certainly hoped so.

ABBA

Alice Wright

Agnetha, Björn, Benny and Anni-Frid

Scandinavia's angel eyes in the world of music. Formed in the 70s, they were a money, money, money machine Selling over 100 million records. We said gimme, gimme, gimme more.

Thank you for the music, the world said, When they took a chance on Eurovision and Were crowned dancing Queens (and Kings).

They had a dream of marrying and of saying I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, But their relationships were slipping through their fingers, Crying SOS, and the winner took it all. They were super troupers and kept singing. Their relationships were their inspiration.

Then came the musical, stage and screen, Mamma Mia! What an extraordinary musical. We got to see the name of the game, Through holograms at ABBA Voyage.

Abba was amazing and they still are today. In my own words they were the founders of pop music, So that's why I would like to say a huge THANK YOU FOR THE MUSIC.

Leaving a Legacy

Issie Sumner

What will you leave behind That other people follow?

Will you teach how to be kind To the many generations below?

How to lead a life of goodness, Is that what will be left?

Will you be of any inspiration, Showing how to be your best?

Will your name be glued to someone’s brain For all the good morals you taught? Or will they all be lost, Forgotten forever more?

Regrets you’ve made in your time Can be forgotten or covered. You could bring forth kindness To people, one another.

People I loved who now are lost Will never totally leave us, Because they’ve left behind a legacy Of respect, kindness, and trust.

I want to leave a legacy Of laughter, creativity, and fun. I want people to remember The positive things I’ve done.

Puppet

Sophie Laugharne

I remember when I walked out on that stage. Beneath my feet, the ancient floorboards whined and ached; my footsteps disrupted the thick layer of dust and grime that lingered on them. Silky cobwebs clung to the corners above my head, and moths had eaten through most of the crimson curtains. Downstage, rows of plush crimson seats stared back at me out of the gloom, although they were hardly the height of luxury, as years of neglect had sprinkled them with mould and emptied them of feathers.

I hated theatres. They always made me scared. Maybe it was my natural selfconsciousness, and how I always tried to blend in, so the thought of being in the spotlight made me as ill as food poisoning would. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling amongst the flickering houselights. Maybe in a different world I would consider it mesmerizingly stunning, but in this world the very sight of it filled my entire body with dread. One particularly old light winked at me in a surge of brightness. The crystals refracted the light, until it bounced off in every direction. I had to close my eyes to stop them from watering.

It felt like a decade before I opened them. My ears rang, my neck strained, and every part of my body tensed. However, when at last, my eyelids lost their grip, my muscles did not relax. Instead, they contracted further.

First came my feet. If I had looked down sooner, my shoes may have not stiffened into thick boots, and stuck to the stage, as if I had waded through treacle. Next came my legs. Two firm pillars, they were unyielding in their solidity, even when I begged them to crumble. Then, all the muscles in my torso contracted; it was like all the blood in my body had been replaced with scorching coffee. My back became a rigid timber plank. Just when I thought it was over, my head became stationary. Now, it could no longer rotate, nod, or shake. Beginning to open my mouth in alarm, I soon realised that it too was closed and could not be opened, no matter how much I willed it to. It was infuriating. I wanted to scream out in pain until my throat could no longer croak; however, I could not even squeeze out a single tear, let alone feel my cheeks glisten.

Sometimes, I just wanted to feel something. Pain would be so much better than what I felt in that moment. At that point in time, I could still think, but that was one of the only things I could do, apart from opening and shutting my eyes. And that’s just what I did for the second time. I snatched my eyes shut and willed everything to return to normal. The lights went down and then, blackout.

For one, single reason, I opened my eyes: the ringing in my ears had reached a crescendo, although I could just about hear a muffled voice boom, followed by applause. A warm, mellow light rinsed my vision, until the rows of seats had vanished, replaced by a canvas of darkness. Thousands of thoughts flooded my mind, overwhelming my decision-making abilities and compromising my emotions. Panic coursed through whole body. People were watching me. I was on a stage. They expected me to perform like a circus animal. I would have been shaking if it were not for the fact that I was unable to move, let alone physically vibrate. And that was another thing! I couldn’t move! I couldn’t get away! All I could think was I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to get out. The audience just waited for me. I waited for them to leave.

Eons passed before the fog of thoughts that clouded and swirled through my brain dissipated. All the voices that nagged and picked were drowned by one, distinct tone. Stay still. What? I did not want to stay still! I wanted to sprint as fast as I possibly could away from this awful place. However, the voice was so inviting, so familiar. Even though I knew that I didn’t want to follow its instructions, it erased all the worries that lurked in the dark corners of my mind. It was nostalgic; it definitely sounded like something I had heard before. However, it was also distant, and sinister, and I remembered that I did not want to stay still. But naturally, I did. Arms up. My arms shot skyward in one swift motion. Ropes. Several greying, twisted ropes spun down from the ceiling, their jaws snapping around my wrists, ankles, neck, and mouth. Then came another command: Dance.

The ropes tightened around my limbs and the orchestra started to play from below; their eerie sound blasted at me like it had come from the depths of hell itself. “Entry of the Gladiators” is one of those pieces that, once you’ve heard it played, it haunts you forever. The audience began to clap along. I could practically taste the anticipation in the air. Without warning, I was flung to the left. The ropes attached to my ankles slackened, and all of a sudden, they were bouncing and shaking, jumping and sliding. My arms jangled, and my head started to shake.

My mouth was turned upwards into a grin, opening, and closing to mimic singing. I wanted to cry but no sound came out. I wanted to scream, and wake up from this horrid nightmare. Decades passed, and still I was tossed all around for the people to be entertained.

Finally, they ruptured into applause. My body was contorted into a low bow, and I would have been dripping with sweat. As the velvet curtains closed, the house lights came back on, and faceless silhouettes dragged me off the stage and into the wings. There, I was stored in dingy cupboard until the following evening, where it all started again.

A Mother’s Love

Darcy Weston

A mother’s love, your first true love. In the blink of an eye her legacy unfolds, Intertwined with joy and laughter. It is a love like no other.

Bundled within her arms, the sweetest embrace. Learning to savour these moments of fleeting grace. Her legacy shapes, moulds and protects. My mother’s love, so priceless and irreplaceable.

Through everything in life

My mother’s legacy stays with me tight. My north star to guide me to be a greater version than I know; My north, my south, my east and my west – my everything.

A song of sweetness, a touch of unconditional love, A voice of wisdom, a safe haven to unfold. Lessons learned in moments shared. A forever influence, our bond unimpaired.

So, as life moves us along, In every challenge we overcome, I will forever hear, “You are my beloved one.”

A mother’s legacy, the most precious gift, Guiding me through with her comforting light. I hope she knows her love travels far. An echo of her voice, Memories recall, As we continue side by side. Us as one, an eternal life.

Jos Buttler Benjamin Douch

Jos Buttler, a famous England T201 and OD1 captain.

He’s left behind a legacy for children to follow, and that’s what this poem’s about.

Overall, he’s about kindness and fun, posing with fans, Signing their shirts and giving them free wrist bands.

S

mashing the ball is what he does, and catching

Out others with his keeper gloves.

B

oys and girls go to all his matches; seeing him play

Just makes their day!

U

nder the floodlights, or with a shining sun, he goes out

To entertain himself, and hopefully score a tonne.

The people at home, watching on TV, know his

Technique is always a joy to see.

The dug-outs after the match crowd with fans,

Just trying to get a picture with this superstar.

Lancashire is the county where he is based. He smashes the ball all over the place.

England captain in all white-ball cricket; He rotates his bowlers, looking for a wicket.

Ramps and scoops are shots that he’s made; In future generations, these will be played.

Hand in Hand

Rupert Navias

LONDON, 1590

Felix Bridgeman ran, as fast as he had ever run in his life. Through the twisting, cobbled streets, with smells that crawled up his nose and made him shudder in disgust. Past the towering houses with steeply pitched gable roofs, elegant masonry and stonework, and stately wooden beams that overhung the bustling street. Diving away from the carts that bumped their way along the roads, taking a merchant’s cargo to be sold at the market.

Felix was a twelve-year-old boy with golden-brown hair, freckles and chocolatecoloured eyes that seemed to have all the world held inside them. He was reasonably small for his age, but for what he lacked in size, he made up for in character. Felix was almost always smiling, his round dimples and eyes twinkling with laughter and kindness. However, recently, that had all started to change. Ever since he had started secondary school a few months ago, he had been constantly bullied, terrorised, and tormented. His life had started to become a living nightmare.

And now, somehow, he was trapped in the Tudor period, with no way out, and was being pursued by an angry mob of Tudors, all of whom wanted to burn him with the accusation of being friends with a witch. He had to find a way out of here, or he would be dead. Literally.

That was when he saw it: the house. It looked like the perfect place to hide, abandoned and rotting, like a forgotten corpse.

Felix turned towards the battered oak door of the house and reached towards the handle, which had been smoothed by the many hands that had clasped it. He pulled it, and thankfully, the door opened, only creaking slightly as it did so. As fast as he could, Felix slammed the gaping door shut, bolting it securely to ensure that his pursuers couldn’t reach him.

Only when he turned around did he realize he had been wrong. The house was not abandoned after all.

“And who are ye, may I ask?” A man who had a peacock feather quill in his hand stood up, a look of great astonishment on his face.

He spoke in a surprisingly posh, upper-class voice of a man about thirty. He had a gleaming bald patch, yet also had some slightly greasy shoulder-length hair, a neatly combed moustache, twinkling blue eyes, and pale skin.

“William Shakespeare?” Felix gasped in amazement.

The man, terrified, took a step backwards and tripped over a desk, “You – you know my name? How?”

“I… well…” Felix stammered over his words. “It was– a lucky guess... I think–”

“No legacy is so rich as honesty ” Shakespeare looked up “Please, tell me the truth.”

Felix could tell that Shakespeare was clever, much cleverer than he was. He would be able to see right through his lies. He should be honest.

“If you really want the truth, I’ve come from the future – your future – from 2024.” Felix took a deep breath. “That’s how I know your name – you’re famous in my time…”

“Famous?” Shakespeare seemed lost for words, “You really mean that I’m going to become famous in the future? I’m poor though, a writer that no one wants to buy from. How –”

“Never mind how you become famous!” Felix was beginning to get annoyed. “I’m trapped in the past, in your time. How do I get out of this place?”

“How do you get out?” Shakespeare pondered, “Well, I don’t know your name yet, and I can’t be helping you if I don’t know your name!”

Felix reached out his hand for Shakespeare to shake, “My name’s Felix,” he answered, “Felix Bridgeman.”

“Well Felix, if we’re to get you back to your time,” Shakespeare paused, deep in thought, “I first need to know how you got here, if you can remember.”

Felix looked up at the writer. He urged his brain to remember his time, the one before he had somehow entered this crazy world.

“All I remember is an ear-splitting bang and an intense flash of light…” Felix paused, “And my science classroom…”

And suddenly, all his memories came flooding back to him: his mum and dad, his brown Labrador, all his holidays by the sea, his first day at school…

“I’ve got it! Now I remember what happened!” Felix jumped up and down in his excitement, “It was the first day back at school after the holidays, and I was walking down a corridor, when this bully, Theodore Pembroke, called my name. He told me that – that all the world’s a stage, and we’re just actors in... in it, with scripts that are our future.” Felix sniffed, tears beginning to sting his eyes, “And – and he told me that my script says that my future is a complete failure! And – and then in science class, I was so upset that I spilt some chemicals, and there was a big bang… and now I’m here!”

Felix was sobbing by now, tears running like beads of glass down his face. Shakespeare put an arm around his shoulder.

“Come, come.” Shakespeare tried to comfort Felix. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. And anyway, I think this Theodore person is right.”

Felix looked up, a look of dismay on his face. “You do?”

“Yes, all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players, and every actor does have a script.” Shakespeare smiled. “Which can be altered and edited to suit what’s best for them. Do you really believe that a writer’s first draft is their last? Of course not! It is changed and can always be changed.”

Felix wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. Shakespeare really was right! Why had he listened to Theodore in the first place anyway?

“Thanks, Shakespeare!” Felix grinned, the biggest beam he had smiled for a long time.

“No need to thank me!” Shakespeare strode of to the door and swung it open, allowing a shaft of light to enter the room, shining across his desk. “Now come on, let’s go! We need to get you back home!”

And with that, he and Felix left the room hand in hand.

Make a Difference

Laura Pearce

We all have a legacy, Whether it is good or bad.

William Shakespeare, Matthew Syed, You will have a legacy, I will have a legacy.

So what is a legacy? You will make a difference, I will make a difference. It depends what it will be. Will it be for climate change?

Will it be for global peace? Will it be technology? Will it be a Nobel Prize? Will it be a Golden Globe? What will your legacy be?

A Girl That They Loved

Matilda Lang

a single moment, frozen in time; is this what is left of me? running in place, with nowhere to hide, displayed for all to see?

I wonder what they’ll focus on, achievements, winnings, my glory? or instead will they brush them over, shining lights on my misery? I would rather have lived forever than have my peers take the heavy blow of losing a girl that they loved so dearly, a girl that they didn’t really know.

Flashbacks

Florie Dawe Schmeisser

Everything was black. It was the darkest black you could imagine, strung everywhere like a reflection of my mind.

His funeral felt like the hardest day of my life, like striding through the thickest muds. My emotions were barely contained I was a dam, just holding the water back, only just holding it together.

“He was everything, my everything. Frederick was his name and no love could have been truer. I thought I loved before I met him. Still, it is right to say that it was nothing compared to our love, so would you put your hands together for the memory of my husband?”

The speech had been thoroughly prepared. It was a relief to have got through the time leading up to his funeral, but I hadn’t expected these last few weeks to be so hard. I’d had to use all of my strength, from every muscle, to stop myself from walking straight into the kitchen and plunging a knife through my chest.

Many months passed until I got the letter. His will had been checked in case of forgery, which they took their time with, because it was getting more regular these days. Humans’ greed is sometimes uncontainable. I opened it, my tender fingers shaking, opening the letter as if it were made of glass and I were to drop it at any moment. My eyes scrolled dully down the page; besotted memories were triggered with every new word I read. His everything, now spread out to the world; however, more than half of it went to me, his one and only. I cried myself to sleep that night, ready for another day of barely getting by, wishing to join him.

That’s when the flashbacks started: during the night, waking me from my sleep like an icy hand. In the middle of the zebra crossing when I crossed the road, while my friend lectured me on whether she should get a new cat. Anywhere, everywhere; only a fraction of a second, but still these flashbacks were not what you would think – not happy, sunlit memories of how much we loved each other. These were dark. These were vile. These were horrific. My husband was a very different man than what I remembered – they were flashes, only flashes, but they

were easily pieced together, making one atrocious jigsaw. Vague though these memories were, I knew I had to find out more.

The searching was, well… hard. Mentally, more than physically. Every little item that could cause me pain I found, when previously I had hidden it. It was the only way to distract me in my grief-stricken. Though looking won’t always mean finding, eventually, find, I did. Actually, it surprised me how much I found. Nothing was hidden too well; it was surprisingly easy. I wanted to know why.

Frederick couldn’t hide for the life of him, let alone hide anything; every Christmas, birthday and Valentine’s Day, my presents were obviously there. The things I found could be seen as innocent unless opened or read, and it was this one videotape from last year (my husband had been old fashioned). It was quite ordinary – us on holiday – but my tummy was tingling with terror. The looks my husband gave me, what he said to me, the way he talked to the waiters when they asked what drink I wanted.

One night in bed, I had what you’d call an epiphany. It was very sudden – I was dreaming about God knows what when consciousness recalled me, and I was in bed, drenched in sweat. I was freaked out, but a certain seed of thought in my brain was spouting and blossoming and flourishing. I had to call the police.

My husband had been horrible to me and trapped me inside for long days on end. I would spend them trying to recover from the torment of the night before. I would scream and howl and give ever such a fright to the neighbours. My husband had been cruel to me; he would hit me and beat me. His temper had been unescapable, but the most frightening thing of all had been the brainwashing…

My husband had been a world-class hypnotherapist and made his patients forget trauma or fears in one of his sessions, but I never would’ve guessed unless I found the tapes – the recording tapes. He would tell me about my problems at the start and finish on a completely different topic, which left me forgetting. Still, my overpowering knowledge and awake state of mind gave me a sort of immunity to my husband's hypnotic gifts.

“So that’s what happened – every little detail,” I said, certainly more brightly than usual.

“Well, I knew something was going on when he was alive. You were only married for three years, but still, every day I felt your gaze grow colder and our conversations lessened,” my friend babbled. She looked very pleased that I was finally connecting with her again and our friendship could become how it used to be before him. We got closer and closer now that she knew everything and we were us again, best friends again, like so many years before.

I was at home in bed reading, when I had one of those wonderous strings of thought. It was strange to think that as soon as I knew a certain piece of information, it changed my view on the world – just like in a play or a book, when finding out a character is evil changes your perspective of the whole thing. It’s really like ‘all the world’s a stage’ as Shakespeare so wisely said, which means you can never tell who’s good and bad, because it can just change by a click of the playwright, and God (who indeed writes the plays of the world as he chooses them to be).

After a whole year, normality had sunk into place. I had informed his friends and everyone else who attended the funeral about his violent secret. And I even changed his headstone to something less honourable than before, so everyone who ever walked past would know and hate his memory.

And it got even better when my heart struck luck, and I met Jake.

In Our Wake

Erik Brown

Under hills, And over mounds, We build our cities, We build our towns.

We flatten mountains, Burn forests to the ground, But in our wake, Nothing can be found.

We call it progress, We call it power, But in our wake, Only skyscrapers flower.

Igniting flames, Roasting meat, But in our wake Earth burns in our heat.

We try to take back What problems we are giving, But in our wake Nothing is left living.

If you want to make a change, Be gentle with our fragile world, Leave in our wake good things, Let hope blossom, its leaves unfurled.

So bring truth into the light, So all will see that, if they do not care, What churns in our wake Is a legacy of despair.

Remember Me

Theo Elias

One day in the morning, I woke with a start.

The thought whizzed past in my head And I froze for a second, Not knowing reality. The day that I fall, The day that I die, Something that they will remember me by. A book? A picture? A letter?

The more that they know, the people, the better. What could I do? My mind went blind. What legacy could I leave behind?

The Mystery of the Missing Manuscript

Christopher Docton

1591

William Shakespeare shivered with anxiety as he wrote. He heard a floorboard creak with every letter that he scratched on his parchment. He was not meant to write these words, but he had to follow his heart, had to keep going. He wanted his opinions known, no matter how contentious and defamatory; somebody had to know. Whilst the evil Elizabeth was on the throne, nobody could be trusted with this.

If anyone were to find out his views on the current monarch, then he would be in real danger. Elizabeth had made it quite clear that she favoured Kit Marlow. She’d passed a law allowing Marlow to do nothing less than steal from Shakespeare; it had resulted in the downfall of his beloved theatre company, The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Elizabeth and Marlow had shamed, wronged and almost ruined Shakespeare. She was not fit to be a monarch.

Shakespeare shuddered and placed his quill upon the desk next to the manuscript. He had finished.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do. He had poured all he wanted to say into one play, Queen Elizabeth, but he didn’t feel fulfilled, he felt empty. He bent to touch the floor in the corner of his small, cramped room. He pulled up a floorboard and slid his inflammatory piece under it, vowing on the spot never to glance upon it again.

2018

Wolf wondered what to believe. He knew there were rumours, but wasn’t sure he trusted them. He glanced to his left. The huge 275 carat diamond rested on the table. It could have been a trick of the light but Wolf thought it looked lonely without a partner in crime.

Wolf had received insight from one of his informants: the word on the street was that there was a hidden Shakespeare play somewhere in London, and Wolf knew that he had to find it before somebody else did. Especially before Severus. Severus was Wolf’s old rival, whom he had only just beaten to the 275 carat diamond a few months ago. Since then, Severus had been stealing priceless artefacts left, right and centre, like it was nothing. Wolf barely got intel of something valuable in the offing before it was snatched, snakelike, by Severus and his sinister cronies.

Wolf opened his laptop, and his jaw dropped. The leading item on the news website read, Last remaining descendant of Shakespeare dies tragically in freak accident outside Westminster. Wolf jumped up, stunned, clueless at what to think; but he was certain of what he had to do.

The deceased relative had been one Bethany Shakespeare. Wolf knew that he would not be the only one hunting the secret manuscript; there was a high chance that Severus would have the same idea as him, so he absolutely had to get to Bethany’s old residence before Severus. This was not only about finding the manuscript; it was about beating Severus and showing him that Wolf didn’t need dozens of people working for him to do his job.

He gathered all his equipment: his lockpick, his smoke bombs, and many more useful gadgets.

His destination was 14 Abbot Lane, Brixton, a rough area that Severus’ henchmen would know well. The best way to get there was on his old motorcycle. He pulled back the covering and felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of riding it again. He zoomed through the streets; he had never felt more brilliant than now. He was going to smash Severus out of the game with style.

Using the built in satnav on his motorcycle, he arrived in no time. He propped it on the stand and slid the keys into his pocket. The building was old and graffitied, chipped and worn, and ready to topple at any moment.

“What’re you doing?” questioned a shrill voice behind him. Wolf darted round.

“Oh, I’m a friend of the person who used to live here. I’m clearing her place out for her.”

“Right,” said the woman nonchalantly. “You carry on.”

She walked off slowly, glancing back at Wolf every couple of seconds. That was a close one.

The glorious feeling of his motorcycle was gone now; Wolf felt scared. He pushed the door; it wasn’t locked. On the list of names and numbers on the wall he saw Bethany Shakespeare, floor 4, flat E. He hurried up the stairs and found 4E, the writing barely visible under countless layers of graffiti.

This door was locked. Trying not to look suspicious, he poked and fiddled with his homemade lockpicker. Every second wasted was a huge hindrance to Wolf. He would have to speed up to get out of here before Severus arrived. Luckily, the lock clicked and he entered the flat.

It was pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing, so he shone his torch around in the darkness. The main room was strewn with dirty clothes and wrappers. This would not be an easy task. He started pulling open drawers and turning over books and lamps, but no luck. He did the same in the kitchen and still nothing; it was hopeless. Even if there was anything useful here, he would never find it.

Then Wolf heard the door groan open in the next room. He stood petrified in the kitchen; his legs felt leaden. A voice called out in the darkness, a voice that Wolf recognised but did not want to acknowledge.

“I know you’re there, Wolf,” said Severus. “You can’t hide from me.”

Wolf backtracked reluctantly to the main room to face his nemesis. Severus was standing, shadowed in the doorway, with a stack of old parchment in his left hand. He had Shakespeare’s manuscript.

“Is this what you are looking for, Wolf?” Severus taunted cunningly. Still Wolf didn’t say anything, his legs were rooted to the spot, he was quaking with anger.

“How? How did you do that?” stuttered Wolf.

“I have my ways,” Severus bragged.

Wolf, throwing caution to the wind, dived at Severus, knocking the parchment out of his hands.

“Stop him, stop him!” cried Severus. At his words, two huge, gorilla-armed men walked over the threshold carrying huge batons. They had serious faces and did not look impressed to see Wolf. Instantly, Wolf pulled one gas grenade from each pocket, unpinned them and dropped them. Severus backed away to a corner, but his bodyguards stepped forward into the smoke, waving their batons in hope of connecting with Wolf’s skull. Wolf ducked low, and saw a pair of black heavy duty shoes poking from the smoke next to him. He pulled a trip wire from his belt and sneakily tied it round the bodyguard’s ankles, making him topple and fall.

Wolf crawled along the floor over rubbish and empty bottles, trying to find the stack of parchment. Severus was shouting, ”Get him! Before it’s too late.”

Then Wolf met with the other bodyguard’s shoes This time he pulled on one foot, making the bodyguard keel over. Finally, he felt what he was searching for: the papers on the floor. He grabbed and ran out of the door, down the stairs, and into the street. He was mounting his motorcycle when Severus burst onto the street behind him.

“Better luck next time,” said Wolf. “See you later.”

Wolf rode off on his motorbike at max speed, leaving Severus in the dust.

2019

Wolf sat in the front row of The Globe Theatre at the opening night of Shakespeare’s Queen Elizabeth, a newly uncovered play that had been surrounded by hype and speculation, and threatened to change how the world viewed history. He was very satisfied with himself. And, of course, very rich.

Nana

Vivi Cotton

Today is her anniversary, so let’s bow our heads to remember who she used to be. Without you, I wouldn’t be here; you deserved so much, at least one more year. I really wish you could see me grow, as you did for my mum long ago.

You will always be in my heart, even though my life’s about to start. You take place in mum and me, so let’s remember who you used to be.

As we bow our heads, we think about memories. I would tell you that we finally moved oversees to the place you loved and grew up in, Australia. As we stand in silence to think about you, never forget we love you.

Play, Right?

Emily Sbuttoni

William Shakespeare. You know him, the guy whose name pops up in history sometimes, the famous playwright? I know you know him, even if you spend the rest of your time reading this searching your brain.

Anyway, with that aside, he’s my dad. I know what you might be thinking, “Maddie, you must be so into drama and boring old plays,” or “You must have performed in tonnes of different shows.” Blah blah blah. I would rather die than get up on a stage and pretend I’m a character in a random made up story that probably doesn’t even make sense! My dad would always say to me, “Maddie, just give it a go, you’ll love it, I know you will!” When he died, I thought maybe I should try, maybe I should give it a go, it’s what he always wanted for me. And that’s when it all began.

I was quite young when my dad died, about eighteen Around that time, I decided to sign up for the senior play programme every Tuesday after all my lessons. In the programme we would start learning about the play that we would perform, then auditions would take place, and then rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals!!! Eventually, the play would be performed, and people would buy tickets and watch. I was terrified. When I stepped into the theatre on the first day, all heads turned to look at me. I hated it. But I reminded myself what I was there for, to make my dad proud, and went to sit down.

The first session wasn’t that bad – I almost enjoyed it I think my Drama teacher was surprised: when I was younger, I would always pretend I needed the toilet during Drama lessons to get out. He never really liked me for that. As the programme went on, I started enjoying it more and more I made some friends and prepared myself for the upcoming auditions. Week by week I grew more confident; I thought that maybe I had a teeny tiny chance of being part of the cast. When the auditions finally came, I was ready, so I tried my hardest and prayed. When the cast list came out. I was so, so shocked. I actually got a role, and not just a tiny one. I was somehow one of the mains! I did it, I actually did it.

Sometimes it felt like the rehearsals went on forever. Most days I would get home and fall onto my bed and fall asleep. I had never been so tired in my life. Each day that went by, I got more and more nervous about the play. What if I messed up? What if I forgot my lines? What if I tripped on my costume, then somehow ended up setting the whole of London on fire?! Everyone at the programme was either a Drama scholar or someone who had been as good as Emma Watson on their first nursery nativity, and then there was me, the girl who barely knew how to act, and people assumed that she signed up for the programme because she thought the teacher would give her the main part, just because her dad is William Shakespeare. I didn’t feel like I deserved the part I got. I thought about quitting more than a lot. Deep down,

I knew I couldn’t give up, so each time that little voice wriggled its way into mind, telling me I couldn’t do it, I would silence it, shut it out completely. It wanted me to fail, but I kept going.

At last the day came. I couldn’t decide whether I was ready or not. I could be hyping myself up, raring to go, then seconds later I could be sitting on the floor crying. Suddenly it was real, not just a dream I thought would never happen. I couldn’t help but count the hours until I was on stage; it was the only thing I could think about. I remember trying to make cookies in an attempt to take my mind off the play. They came out of the oven green.

When it was finally time to go and get ready at the theatre, my stomach turned inside out. When I entered backstage, I could only hear the sound of my heart beating in my chest. I couldn’t hear what the director was barking at everyone, I just focused on staying conscious. Looking back, it was all fuzzy. I remember counting down the minutes, then the seconds. It felt as if my lungs were going to explode, I couldn’t feel my legs, and then the moment finally came. Everyone was going to see what I worked so hard for.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Remembered?

Tanwen Jefferson

How do you want to be remembered?

With a poem or a massive celebration? A painting, an annual event, a statue, Some sort of meaningful commemoration?

By few people or many? Family or the world? Famous, or in the hearts of those near? Known throughout the galaxy perhaps! And thought about with a smile or a tear?

What will be your own legacy?

Tell what me what you’ll leave behind?

Something everyone knows or few?

How will you live on in someone’s mind?

What if I don’t want to think about it?

What if I want to live now?

What if everything isn’t set in stone? What if to live is living in the present?

It doesn’t mean I won’t do good.

It doesn’t mean I won’t think.

It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It doesn’t mean I want to be forgotten.

I want to do good and make a difference. I want to make the most of each moment.

I want to take every opportunity. I want to exist in the here and now.

Life is to happen.

Life is to Be.

Life is to live.

Life is now.

Once I Am Gone

Isla Black

A life with a legacy is a fulfilled life, but what if a legacy is just a way of holding on to something that is not there? I wish to do well in my life, but once I am gone, I am gone. I do not want to be remembered by my work or achievements; I want to be thought of when the laughing becomes too hard to breathe; I want to be remembered when the silence is quiet, but peaceful – not the awkward kind between two people who just met and realise they do not fit together as one, like how the waves pound at the rock, trying to merge, but the forces for nature collide.

I want to be remembered by those I leave behind for the good times, and not as something they have to live up to, or to reach certain expectations, for those I have with me when I pass are the ones that mean the most to me – the “ride or die”.

My life and legacy are to be remembered as moments in time, not the work I have achieved, for that is not permanent, but the memories are.

The Platypus’ Philosophy

Will Butterworth

A platypus once wondered how he could get to the sea, How far he’d need to swim, how strong he’d need to be. “Happiness is found in achievement and praise; I will be the first to reach the ocean and teach the fish of all our ways.

“My legacy will be of how I was the platypus with greatest worth, Who spread the platypus species across the waters of the Earth. Thousands of history books will be written in honour of my name, And a coral statue will be erected as testament to my fame.

“That will be my legacy.” ***

I set off from my paddle and fought the rush of waters’ flow, It thickened my hide and toughened my claws, my tail began to grow, And after I had battled the current, climbed up onto the forest floor, Although my breath was heavy, I felt stronger than ever before.

I continued to plod by the river, my paws had begun to bloat, Matted with rain and dirt and sweat was my once shimmering coat. But I laughed at the wind and the sky, for never had I felt this free, So I danced through the pain and the tough bits, and my pain and my cuts danced with me.

The next morning I awoke and plunged into the twinkling stream, Refracted in the water, the sun poured down in glorious beams. With light and bliss it embellished my soul, And the aching and craving of purpose began to feel whole.

Another beautiful morning, I heard the swallows sing, And I let the current take me in the cradle of nature’s swing. I sang of Mother Nature, in my unique platypus tongue, And the river seemed to thrum with life at what had just been sung.

“At last I’ve reached the ocean with its bright and lively shores.”

But the ocean didn’t call out to me like it had called before.

“So where next?” I asked the sky and the land, “Where will you take me?”

“That’s strange,” croaked a curious voice. “Leaving already?”

The words came from behind me, from some scrawny, hard-skinned thing. It asked me what I was and what tidings I may bring.

I told it that I’d found my joy and I was not about to let it go, That life is a journey and not a destination, not a challenge to undergo.

I told it that my legacy would not be of praise nor worth, But of how I found my purpose by travelling the Earth.

“Happiness springs from doing good and helping others. I will journey through the waters teaching this to my sisters and brothers.

“For that is where my joy is.”

He said his name was Aris, a turtle from the clan of Green. He thought that I was wise for an animal he had never seen.

“Nice to meet you Aris-turtle, I’m Platopus, from the northern creeks.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Plato, and a pleasure to meet a Greek.”