Creative Writing 2024
Artwork by Devi Kuscher
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the sixth annual collection of winners from the Putney High School Creative Writing Competition.
This past year, students in Years 7, 8 and 9 were given writing assignments in Classics, Design Technology, Geography, History and Religious Studies. After completing these tasks, they had the Easter break to choose their best work from the five subjects. This selected piece was then submitted to their English teacher, who chose the top entry from each class. The English Department then selected the overall winners for each year group.
In this anthology, you will find the class winners from each of the five Year 7 classes, six Year 8 classes and five Year 9 classes, with the overall winners for each year group taking pride of place. Some pieces have been slightly edited for publication, but all winners were chosen for their creativity rather than technical precision. Each of the three overall winners will receive a certificate and a gift voucher.
The competition for this academic year has now begun, and we eagerly anticipate showcasing our students’ extraordinary talent and imagination. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy the remarkable work featured in these pages.
Antony Barton Head of English
Julia F 7FM
Home
Dear Beloved Family,
I am writing to tell you of my new life, the one where I have left you and the comfort of home and entered a war with the Devil. Yet still, there is no need to worry about me, as I’m sure you are doing as you read these words, as I feel God watch over me, safe as he protects me.
The horrors I have seen here pierce my eyes, people after people dropping down dead in this pool of blood to the extent that I’m not sure whether I am still killing Turks anymore; it has come to the point where I could die from the sword of a Christian, people having resorted to simply throwing a knife into the melee of fighters. Holding these weapons in my hands, I feel a sense of power yet guilt for the horrors I am a part of.
Even before the battle had begun, my life was simply a step after a step into endless land, constantly marching into a battle which I wasn’t even completely sure would begin. However, there is a beauty I have seen in these days, for the sky stays blue and sand warms my feet, unlike in England. Constantinople has a sun that feels heavy yet light on my skin and a desert that, though hard to walk on, empowers and strengthens me in a way that I have never felt before. In Constantinople, we joined forces with many French and Germans, swelling our numbers beyond one hundred thousand; just looking at our strength in numbers gives me the urge to charge towards those sinners and rescue the Holy Land. However, since then, our numbers have only been dropping.
As one of the few people’s crusaders left, I’m not feeling much hope, yet my faith stays unfazed, the words of the Pope still running in my mind, my service to God, heaven awaiting me. There is talk of the King’s knights joining us, that is if we are still alive by then, as us peasants have mostly been unsuccessful, and they say that to recapture the Holy Land we must have trained and properly armed soldiers for all us peasants have are bows and axes and a faith for God. I do believe that they have a better chance at winning a war as they’re properly trained to use maces, swords, spears and have true battle skills; however, this isn’t just any war, it’s a religious war, for which you need drive and passion and pure love for God. That’s what we have. We wanted to be here, want to be here, in this pilgrimage for our father, to let him bless our souls.
Food is scarce and I find that I eat less as each new day comes. As we began the pilgrimage, I found that food was as at home, pottages of beef and mutton and cabbage and leek, yet that only lasted as long as a day as we now eat solely beans and figs, resulting in my becoming hungrier and skinnier with every day. Yet that is not my only worry, as I’ve been wearing the same blouse and britches for almost a year and as it gets worn and shredded, grubby and torn, I feel inhuman, walking barefoot in my rags.
Though all I’ve done is talk about myself throughout this letter, I do hope that everything is well at home, and you have stayed healthy and pure. I wish that you don’t worry about me yet pray for me, as I’ve done for you.
Yours, Ralph
Isabel V 7GS
Moses
Each day I found myself surrounded by the same walls built of mud. A constant stench and the wailing of poor Israelites being whipped as they were forced to carry heavy loads. The heat was unbearable and caused dust to infiltrate everyone’s lungs. We Israelites had been treated in an inhumane manner and were barely given enough food to feed a single human. I’d always wondered why my mother, who was one of the toughest but most caring people I knew, had never spoken out and tried to make us be treated more equally. I was scared to grow up and endure all the suffering and pain that my parents did
Suddenly, I woke up startled and stared at my parents as they tried to figure out what was causing the screams and wails of nearby Israelites. I was used to wails but none this loud, and they seemed to be filled with a more intense type of pain. I felt a pair of hands grab me and bundle me into a small, woven basket. Everything around me was pitch black and all I could hear was a couple of exchanged whispers.
The night was still young, and a cooling breeze crept in between the small cracks. I wanted to burst out into tears to express my confusion, but I had a feeling that it would be better not to. I could hear the gasps of my mother and I could tell that she was now sprinting. The longer she ran the less I could hear the wailing.
My mother came to an abrupt stop and by now we were completely surrounded by silence and darkness. I had never felt so isolated from our community. Shafts of light from the moon peeped into my basket as my mother opened it up and lifted me into her arms. I could hear her softly crying as she reminded me of how much she loved me. She said goodbye and softly placed me back inside. She planted a kiss on my forehead and then I felt myself drift away. My back was cool from the water.
Eventually the rocking from side to side helped me fall asleep. I kept on drifting down the current for what felt like forever.
A couple of days had passed when I felt my basket hit against something. I heard a gasp and then I felt myself being picked up by someone with a puzzled face. I found out a couple of days later that it was the Pharaoh’s wife and son bathing in their private man-made lake. She called her husband and after a conversation, which I couldn’t understand because of their dialect, they decided to keep me and treat me as their own. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway: it was my sister, and she offered to find a maid who would be free to take care of me. When my mother appeared after a couple of minutes, I knew that this had been her idea all along. I squealed with excitement as I finally got to be where I belonged, in my mothers’ arms.
My mother took care of me as the years passed and she taught me all about the Israelites and about how we had something that the Egyptians didn’t have: God’s promise. I would have to make a difficult decision when I was a bit older. Would I keep on being treated like royalty, or join my own kind with God’s promise?
Lavinia R 7MS
A Crusader’s Letter From Jerusalem
My Dearest Mother,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I must confess my heart is heavy with the weight of recent events. Yesterday, we finally reached the gates of Jerusalem, a city I had only dreamed of seeing. But what greeted us was far from the grandeur I had imagined.
Jerusalem, while undeniably beautiful, was shrouded in a darkness I cannot easily shake. Blood stained the streets, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air. Limbs littered the ground, a grim reminder of the price of this holy war.
As we approached the city, we were met not with open arms, but by a formidable army of Muslim men, whom they call the Seljuk Turks. They numbered in the thousands, a force to be reckoned with.
The battle raged on, fierce and unyielding. Though the struggle was great, we fought with all our might, knowing that victory was within our grasp.
Even now, as I write to you, the sounds of battle still ring in my ears. But fear not, Dear Mother, for we are winning. Our banners fly high, our spirits unbroken, as we push ever closer to reclaiming the holy city.
Despite the horrors of war, know that I am safe and unharmed. My brothers-in-arms fight valiantly by my side, and the Lord watches over us always.
I long for the day when I can return to your loving embrace, to leave behind the bloodshed and turmoil of this crusade. Until then, know that I carry your love with me, a beacon of hope in these dark and troubled times.
With all my love,
Lavinia
Xialan Z 7SG
Nature’s Paradise
I closed my eyes as I plunged my head into the deep turquoise water. I adjusted my facemask so it sat more comfortably on my face. I gracefully kicked my legs, and my flippers effortlessly propelled me deeper towards the carnival of the ocean. Soon, the deep blue of the sea gave way to the visual cacophony of colours. For a moment, I found myself stunned by the beauty that was bestowed upon my eyes in the underwater paradise of the coral reef I then knew that this was where I belonged.
Shocking reds, vibrant greens, bright yellows and fiery oranges all sat side by side in this mosaic of nature. Fishes of all shapes and sizes and colours smoothly swam as far as eyes could see. A lone, elderly turtle lazily wafted away from the coral reef to the surface. Eels cautiously poked their heads out of their holes curiously, before retreating to safety. Pods of whales hummed their melodies and the dolphins whistled by.
A fish panicked at the sight of something as bizarre as a human diving straight into the sea, then producing a puff of underwater smoke it fled as fast as its little fins could bear to the nearest undercurrent where small families of fish were filtering in. Oysters littered the seabed and I could not help but imagine all the shimmering pearls that lay within them. If my mouth was not wrapped firmly around my mouthpiece, I am sure that my jaw would have dropped wide open.
Gradually a shadow began to menace behind me, and my oxygen tank was running low. I decide to take a last look around before leaving the marine festival behind. That was when I noticed a strangely odd peace and quietness.
My heart sank into my chest. And about ten metres away, there was a ravenous-looking shark. Every muscle within me seized. My heart started racing, and the discomfort in my chest grew stronger. I stayed as still as I could, for I was now at the mercy of Mother Nature. With the speed of light, the shark soared towards me and flicked its tail like a whip. Its sapphire blue eyes fixed straight on to mine. The shark’s mouth was closed, but I knew the images of the rows of razor-sharp teeth that waited inside ready to get the taste of flesh. It came rapidly closer and closer. My heart was thumping hard, slamming on my ribcage. I knew that I could not swim out of the fins of the shark and that my fate was sealed. So I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.
When I dared to open my eyes, however, there was not a sign of the shark to be seen. I looked over my shoulder to see that the shark had indifferently continued on its course. I swam still terrified and flopped back on to the beach like a fish out of water.
I wished I could have gone back down into the deep ocean to experience nature’s paradise again. I stood up and ambled along the azure-blue beach, with the heart-warming orange glow shining on the surface of the tranquil sea. Gentle waves lapped across the shore as they spread thin sheets of water across the sand as I planned for my next visit to another Nature’s Paradise.
Minotaur
Still, there was silence. Years – no, decades – had passed, and still Asterion waited at the banks of the river, unmoving. Shades, not unlike him, mingled shyly in the shadows of the underworld. Asterion’s ghostly figure watched sorrowfully as shades drifted into Charon’s boat. Watched them disappear as they moved silently across the river. How long had it been? He closed his eyes, tilting his head upwards as he tried to remember. 58 years. For 58 years, he had watched with mournful eyes as boatful after boatful after boatful of shades had been rowed out to Elysium, or Asphodel, or Tartarus. He didn’t care about where he went, only that he went somewhere. Away from memory. He hated how he could never forget about the feeling of pain. Pain as he was beaten by a weaponless boy. Pain as his consciousness slipped, and he awoke at the same river he stood at now. He closed his eyes, willing the years to slip by, knowing they would not. Knowing that he’d open them, and nothing will have changed. He opened his mouth as if to cry out, but the wail caught in his throat. His eyes traced the shapes of the cautious shades mounting the boat. One day, he promised himself. One day, that will be me. Finally, his eyes grew heavy and closed, graciously allowing the years to pass more quickly.
He shuddered as his eyes flew open with sudden intensity. The dim light flooded his eyes, and they focused immediately on the shadowy boat Charon’s cloaked figure hunched at the edge. Waiting. Waiting. For what? For whom? His hollow eyes burned into him. Was it true? Was it finally time? He approached carefully, full of hope. Finally. Finally, his time had come.
The boat peacefully swayed on the river as it sailed across. Distant land appeared, hazy in shades of black and red. He shivered, one word echoing through his mind. Finally. Finally, finally, finally. The boat tipped as it collided with shore. Finally, finally, finally…
He didn’t remember the walk. All he remembered was the fields of asphodel. He had made it. Finally, finally, finally. He willed it not to be a dream. He spread his arms wide, welcoming the sweet numbness of forgetting. He thought to himself. I am Asterion. I am the Minotaur. I was killed by a barehanded boy. He started again. I am… I can’t remember my name… I am… what am I? I was killed… by what? I am…? Everything went black. Finally.
Amira M 8FG
Life at Stake
“RUN!” someone yelled. Suddenly, my house was engulfed in flames. Thick smoke billowed out of windows and doorways. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me from the flames… A rush of anguish surged into my chest. My eyes were flooded with tears. The pain of loss was unimaginable. Everyone I loved most in the world was gone. I was swept up with the fleeing crowd of Syrians. We left my village, Tisiyah. In the bustling crowd, I heard people muttering that we were heading to the Nasib Border Crossing.
Mile after mile, I was enervated. I could barely walk, but I had to keep moving. The desert was a furnace, a land of burning sands. Stretched as far as the eye could see, the desert was a golden blanket of sand shimmering with heat. It was a burning, merciless desert of death. The pain of loss spread through my chest like a dull ache. All of a sudden, the sea of Syrians came to a halt.
Everyone started setting tents for the night. I had no belongings, so I used my mother's crimson cardigan as a blanket. I gazed at the star-freckled sky. The luminous moon washed the land in a gentle light as the stars glittered like a diamond necklace in the black velvet. The Milky Way was stretched like a chiffon scarf across the sky. Remembering the fatal events of today, sorrow enveloped me like a dark cloud as I slowly drifted to sleep.
Throughout my slumber, I reminisced يمأ (Ommi)’s love for me. Reciting duas with her silky, soft voice, stroking my hair as she soothed me to sleep. The earthy scent of her oudh whilst giving me a tender embrace. Then I remembered ابأ (Abba)’s charismatic personality. A feeling of cordial nostalgia filled my heart. Suddenly, my beloved parents were fading. My heart became hollow. Once again. “Ommi! Abba! Don’t leave! Without you… I’m no one,” I shrieked.
I woke up to a sea of refugee tents with people wandering around the desert. My eyes welled up with tears yearning for the presence of my parents, as I saw the beautiful break of dawn.
A rim of pale pink had formed on the eastern horizon. The sun rose in glorious explosions of orange and gold. The morning light bathed the sands in the everlasting desert. Everyone had packed their tents and belongings, preparing themselves for the 25-mile journey. I folded my cardigan and began to walk.
10miles left... Pangs of hunger strangled my throat as I ravenously ate stale crumbs of bread from my pocket. We’d been walking for four hours. My head was swimming with tiredness and my legs felt heavy like pieces of wood. Drenched in sweat, I slithered to a halt. My throat was parched, and my breath was coming in painful grasps. However, I knew I had to keep going.
In the distance, archaic ruins rose to greet us as we crossed the border. We had arrived in Jordan. Merchants rode elegantly on broad and bulky camels that wore intricate carpets bursting with colour. Slowly ambling into the marketplace, I saw an array of stalls. One stall had hand-painted ceramic pots laid out on a burgundy cloth amongst a myriad of marble creations. Another stall had sweet aromatic breads, trays of fluffy iced muffins and glossy apple tarts packed full of delectable filling. Just as my mouth started to water, I felt a sudden gnawing in my empty stomach making me feel sick and dizzy. Every nerve in my body
screamed as the pain strangled my head like a clenched fist. My face was white and my sagging, bloodshot eyes felt lifeless. I lay on the floor, my head swimming with weariness, and fell into a deep sleep.
I woke up to discover that I was in a bedroom with olive-green painted walls. Unexpectedly, a tall figure entered; he wore a police helmet. Wearing an amicable smile, he slowly explained to me that I was safe. He asked me for my name. I told him my name was Aisha Ahmad and that I had come from Syria. He nodded and left the room.
After a while, the police officer entered the room once again. He showed me a photograph and that was when I burst into tears of immense happiness. My face was lit up by a huge smile as broad as my face. The picture was of Abba. Abba was alive. He was in Jordan and the officer was going to take me to him. I felt as if I was on top of the world, and a glow of happiness spread through me.
Minnie J 8FM
Silent Tears
The cold stone floor doesn’t bite once you’ve sat there long enough. The sleep only comes every few days and even then it’s not a warm blanket anymore. The master whipped me yesterday. He whipped me because I asked for some straw to breach the gap of the floor. It’s like a cell except I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I miss my home. I can’t even picture my sister anymore. I lost my voice, so I’m seen as worthless; it is only a matter of time before I’m sold. Again. The sleep evades me. It teases like a solution that I just can’t grasp; so, I write my diary, in the hope that one day I can help others like me from this fate.
“Where did Sisi go?” was the thing I said before they took my voice away. They took me from my home. From my family. I want to rebel, but I know that I would just die, like what almost happened today. Today, I was ordered to wash master’s silk toga and I needed some water to soak the wine off the corner. I mimed to the person next to me what I needed; I had left my wax pad in my cell. They handed me a wooden bucket and filled it up. I stared up at the baby birds in their nest in the tree above me as I placed the silk toga into the bucket. I glanced down at my work, and like a shock bolt of crimson lightning, the toga was not purple anymore, it was blue. The head slave came to check on us all and walked around us, circling around me before becoming a lion and pouncing on me. Grabbing at me with jagged fingernails. The world swam around me as I realised what might happen. I jolted back into the world with a white-hot poker on my arm as the silent tears of horror flew down my face. I was strapped to a whipping post and whipped.
My body was dragged along the gravel, sharp pieces slicing deeper into the whip-marks, like a tiger’s incisor teeth. The dust burrowed deeper into the ribbons of flesh that were now my back. I’d always assumed that if pain was a colour it would be white, but really it’s red, because of the anger that clouds your vision. I was thrown on to the floor outside of my cage, my entire body in agony, as the feet kicked me inside, the door plunging me into the shadows of the night. It’s only distant, silent tears now.
Florence A 8MS
Who am I
Who am I. A name, a number, a price Why should I remember, when all memory brings is pain. Am I the chains that chafed on my wrists. Am I the scars my wrists still bear to this day. Am I the terror I felt in the bottom of the slave ship. Am I the bars that I wait behind. Am I the tears that fall from my eyes in a never-ending stream. Am I just the word of my master. Maybe I will never know who I was before. All I know is the now, and my fear for the future. All I know is the pain. Thanatos have mercy on me. I hate how bright it is here. There shouldn’t be so many colours in a place of such suffering. Garish decorations stained with my people’s blood. I hope their city is burnt to the ground. I pray every day the gods raze it to the ground. Even if I die with this hellhole of a city, at least my children, and their children’s children, will be free. The worst part is I’m one of the lucky ones. My master doesn’t hurt me, he doesn’t even shout at me. Instead he pities me. He doesn’t have the stupid right to pity me. He BOUGHT me. And he tells me he is concerned for my health. He isn’t. He just wants to use me. How am I supposed to believe he cares when he married another one of his slaves. She’s even more miserable than me. My master is a cruel man, and he is the worst kind of cruel because he believes he is better than everyone else. I can’t even put into words how much I hate him. Maybe that’s what I am. I am the fury that burns inside of me. I am the hatred that poisons my soul. I am the need, the hunger for revenge and retribution that consumes every waking hour, and the false sanctity of my dreams. I will never have the solid wood walls of my home back. I will never see my mother’s hair entertained with ribbons as she baked me and my little sister barley bread.
I will never smell the soft musky scent of my father after he returned from work in the workshop.
I will never have any of those things. But in this moment I know who I am. And I am not afraid.
Theodora T 8SG
A Slave’s Diary
Flecks of dust rebounded off the creaking wooden wheels. A trail of beaten grey lay separated above the uneven ground. There was nowhere to run from the punishing rays of light. Sweat dripped. Slaves sighed. There was work that had to be done. The scent of fresh fruit wafted in the stuffy air and newly baked breads were placed on display, taunting those who starved. Longing for a reasonable ration in this chaotic and blinded society. Slaves sold by the denari. No outsider was safe. Treated like strays. There was no equality or justice seen for those who were less than.
My knees shaking, my shoulders aching, but the cart stacked with wheat wouldn’t move itself. I continued to drag my blistering feet towards the bustling market, greeted by other victims to slavery along the way. Tufts of grass sprouted scattered from the dry earth, weeds shrivelled, and flowers hung low. Had everything lost the will to live? I certainly had.
The decaying cart came to a halt, tugging against my weak limbs. Raising a sorrowful glance, a small yet lively smudge spawned over the towering hills. So close, yet so far. At this rate, I’d never be able to earn my freedom back. Not in a year, or the next hundred years to come. Something had to change, for better or for worse. Even if it cost me my life, it was a risk I was willing to take.
You could trust no one. Not even your own shadow. It disappeared from time to time, timid, inferior to the blazing sun, shielded by our battered bodies. Like us, when faced with an illtempered master. We cowered. Clouds raced by, taunting my scrawny legs. I had finally reached the market, after what seemed like a tiring week’s work. My drooping arms clumsily unloaded the goods, my master infuriated. I was beat, branded. He brandished my wages carelessly in the air and proceeded to throw them on the ground. They dispersed, so I foolishly began crawling on the ground to gather what was rightfully mine. A sharp pain struck my stomach. I curled into a helpless, bruised ball. My ears rang, the distant rage of an irritated voice yelled, a blurry boot realigned with the other.
I was fed up. I wished to depart from this rotting world. Maybe if I died, I would go to heaven? I knew not of what was true, neither of what was wrong. Perhaps this was hell. I’d been framed, wrongfully punished. A nobody like me, frail, shaky, sent here to slave away for permanently unpleased animals. Sullen tears rolled down my pale cheeks I was to run away. Far, far away from masters who were the real strays in this society. To a place where I was treated with respect and kindness, fair pay. I wanted it all, but that dream was too good to be true.
I awoke to a painfully loud bang of a drum. Every day was the same. There was no freedom. There was no hope. There was no heaven.
Brooke H 8SM
A Mother’s Prayer
I heard it first from my neighbour Hannah. The day started like any other. Sitting out by the lake, I watched the boats pass. The sun shone, blinding, off the water and I stared right at it, daring it to hurt me. It never did. John was there next to me, praying, head bent down to the ground and eyes closed. I stopped doing that a while ago. Someone rushed up behind me and I jumped.
“Jesus of Nazareth...” Hannah panted “Here... healed blind man... couldn't see well... where's your son?”
“I don't know.” I quickly deciphered her hurried message. “I haven't seen him in a while.”
And he hasn't ever seen me.
I tried to banish the thought from my head as soon as it came but the damage was done. I seemed to sink lower into the ground as my mind wandered to my son’s fifth birthday. When I’d stopped trying
It was a bright sunny day, not that Joseph could tell. My son had been born blind and, since his birth, I had spent all my waking hours wondering what we had done to deserve it. Nothing I could think of nothing. I had woken up that morning with the sun and, like every morning before that, I got down on my knees to pray. Pray for healing. Pray for answers. Pray for hope. And like every morning before that, I got nothing. Joseph stumbled over to me, tripping on to the floor and crying in pain. I had to restrain myself from breaking down then and there. Why was this my life? Why was this his life? It was then that I realised there was no healing. There were no answers. And we had no hope. God has been my enemy since.
I was snapped out of my trance by what feels like a far-distant memory of Hannah’s words.
“healed a blind man”
I jumped up, startling Hannah so much that she dropped her basket.
“Who did you say was healed?” I said, practically yelling in her face.
“I, I don’t know,” she stuttered, alarmed, “I wasn't close enough to see.”
“Well... find out!” I yelled, shooing her away. She ran off bewildered at my insistence. I’d always been quiet, unsociable. But this was important. This was worth it.
Fifteen agonising minutes later, I heard Hannah running towards me, eyes bright.
“Who was it?” I stood up and almost immediately fell over again in my urgency.
“Joseph,” Hannah stopped running and just smiled. “It was Joseph.” Everything seemed to freeze.
The sea was suddenly still, John now silent. The only thing that was moving was the ground,
swaying beneath my feet, swaying, sway...
I woke up on a sack of hay.
“Good morning!” Hannah said cheerfully as I sat up. I found it hard to appreciate her optimism because my back ached and my head felt like it was split open.
“What happened?” I asked groggily.
“You seemed to have fainted when I told you that Joseph had been given his sight back,” Hannah said, matter of factly.
“I have to go see him,” I said, more to myself than Hannah.
“I can’t let you do that.” Hannah put a soothing hand on my shoulder. "You have to rest."
“No, I need to see my son!” I snatched my arm back and walked purposefully towards the door. Before I got there, someone else came into the room. He was a huge, strong man with skin tanned dark and hands rough from work.
“I need you to come with me.” He spoke in a deep, threatening voice that made me feel very nervous.
“Um... ok,” I replied hesitantly, letting him guide me out of the house. I shot one last look back at Hannah who just shrugged.
The man took me towards the Temple of Law. We walked for a while in total silence. I didn’t struggle against his grip; something told me that what was about to happen was not bad.
When we reached the Temple of Law, I saw my son there, standing in front of the Pharisee, his eyes wide and seeing. I couldn’t believe it. My son could see. Next to Joseph I noticed my husband there, too.
After a brief reunion, the Pharisee announced that my husband and I had been summoned to prove that my son’s story was true.
“Of course it is true,” I exclaimed “My son was blind and now can see.”
It was that day that I realised: my son hadn’t sinned to be blind. I had sinned. I had sinned by not believing in God. By not believing that He had a reason. That He would help. I just wasn ’t ready. I am now.
Amelie H 8IG
The Stilling of the Storm
YEAR 8 WINNER
The stern of our little vessel sliced through the water like a knife through butter and we rowed gently through the mirror-like sea, a breeze rippling our clothes. Dozens of stars were reflected in the shimmering water so that we seemed to glide through a sea of flickering lights. Jesus slept peacefully in the bows and small ripples lapped against the sides of our boat rhythmically. All the world was quiet now. The sky was magnificent. Stars gleamed across it like salt spilled on black marble and the beautiful crescent moon hung low in the heavens, emitting a soft glow, its reflection glinting in the dark water. We rowed on until we were far from any shores, directly in the middle of the blackened sea.
I shut my tired eyes for a minute. It was perfect. I tasted the salty sea air on the tip of my tongue, I heard the breathing of my brothers, the gentle sea breeze that whistled through my ears... and the waves that crashed against the boat? Panicked, I opened my eyes to find that everything had been plunged into darkness. A swarm of clouds shrouded the heavens and the waves that smashed against the sides of the boat were growing alarmingly in size. The bitter wind whipped everything into instant fury. Waves the size of small houses battered our tiny fishing boat and the dark salty water kept flowing in. Thunder rolled across the horizon and rumbled ominously above us. The clouds shattered, cracking like the fragile glass in a mirror as a flaming bolt of light splintered across shards of fragmented sky. Sheets of pounding rain tumbled through the gaping gash in the heavens and lashed our little boat as it writhed from side to side in the foaming sea. The water kept coming. As each wave smashed over our boat, the rain continued to pour, drenching everything in sight.
The whistling wind continued to howl and the perilous storm continued to rage, never once showing any signs of coming to an end. I felt the wind and the rain push us down, overflowing and spilling into the hull. I let out a piercing scream as a wave the size of an entire house towered over us, blotting out any of the faint glow that emanated from the lightning as it tore across the scarred sky. I ran to Jesus as our entire boat lurched sideways, battered by the waves as they continued to roll over us, begging him to wake up and do something. “Do you even care about us?” I shouted. “Do something, Jesus! Anything, please! Help us, save us!” I roared over the deafening storm.
Slowly he rose, the flashing lightning forming a cracked, flaming halo of bright white fire behind him. He lifted his palms to the warring sky and even as the waves pounded our tiny little boat, even as the rain poured, the thunder rolled, the lightning tore through the gashed heavens and the wind whipped everything into a state of terrible chaos, he stood there, balanced on the stern. Even over the roaring waves, we all heard him whisper these three words: “Please, be still ” I remember it, clear as the day that was about to be born. The moment his mouth had formed the last words, everything fell silent. The waves crashed down for the last time, the wind blew its last breath, the last raindrop fell to Earth and the sky finally cleared.
Everything had been scrubbed clean, leaving only the blank canvas of a new day to be painted with the rosy shades of dawn. Thick, suffocating blankets of clouds had unravelled in instants, parting to reveal the fresh lilac skies of dawn. In that moment, as the dark night seeped away and the glowing sun began to rise, I stood immobile, unable to move in the face of such immense power. Slowly, I lifted my head to face Him. He remained completely still, a figurehead guiding us to salvation, eyes closed, palms still turned to the sky.
“Have you no faith?” he suddenly asked. His words rang in my ears like the thunder that had rolled through the crying sky only moments ago. I stood there, drowning in my endless shame. How could we have doubted the son of God? Our brother, our teacher, our saviour. Any fear of the treacherous storm was replaced by fear of the boundless power held by the man before me. The sky had been washed clean of the darkness from the night before. Little lavender clouds floated across the horizon. As the sun settled in the vast sky, marking the beginning of a new day, I vowed to never again underestimate the power of my almighty leader, Jesus Christ, the son of God.
An Idle God
Why would God give her cancer? It seems insane. What is it that makes her such a monster that God condemns her to die? She’s only seven. My little sister. And, apparently, she’ s sinned so much that God thinks the only redemption is her death. Maybe it’s a punishment against me. Or my parents, I suppose. He can’t hurt me enough by killing me, so He takes it out on her. She’s in a hospital bed right now and I can’t change that for my life. I know that my parents won’t blame Him. They will pray and cry and pray. “Oh, God, please save her,” or, “Oh, God, I'll do anything”. They should know better. He won’t do anything. Even God can ’t reach His heavenly hand into a hospital and take away my sister’s malfunctioning cells.
They’re only kids. All of them, in her pastel-painted hospital ward. I can’t see how someone so small could be enough of a sinner to die. A five-year-old boy died last week, and God didn’t lift a finger to try to save him. I saw him, walking past his bed to see my sister. He was tucked between his blankets, tiny against the bleached white bedsheets. I cried that night. Not because I knew him, not even really because I was sad that he died. I cried because I knew that it could be her next. God’s reach clearly doesn’t stretch to a hospital, even one only a few blocks from the church. My parents prayed then. “Oh, God, please don't let her be the next to die.”
She wasn’t. She’s hanging on here, clutching on to her toys like they anchor her to the world of the living, and the girl from the bed opposite her isn’t. God has a funny way of granting wishes, like a twisted genie from an old story. It’s like a big joke to him, the bigger picture so far above us that we only see the threads coming loose from the tapestry of life. I thought about praying to him, but I knew that he wouldn’t answer. Maybe my sister’s dying because my next thought was to try to call the Devil. They said at Sunday School to never sell your soul, but for her I think it would be worth it.
God? What kind of god is that? He’s never done a thing for anyone, never saved anyone from death because they’re blonde and pretty, and they pinky promised to never, ever get a tattoo. She’s only seven. She’s never done anything properly wrong, or at least I don’t think so. She’s not a murderer. She’s a kid. I saw her after the surgery. She has made it another day and my parents were praying. “Thank you, God,” and, “Thank you for your mercy ”. Can’t they see? God didn’t do the surgery He didn’t cut open my little sister to try and save her. He sat on his metaphorical cloud in a metaphorical heaven and did nothing. Nothing at all.
I’m not saying that I don’t believe in God. I’m not saying that he doesn’t exist. It’s just that I don’t think he deserves to be worshipped. I don’t want to be respectful to someone who’ s trying to kill my sister. I know that if she survives my parents will pray. “Thank you for saving her, God.” Saving her? He caused this all in the first place. He put her in a saintly, martyred hospital bed.
Simrin P 9C
A Glimpse of Calm Within the Storm
There was a strange quiet that descended upon the trenches, despite the filth and the smell of decay. It’ s almost as if the war had momentarily decided to catch its breath. A rare calmness fell on us as the ceaseless noise of artillery shells and the relentless sounds of machine guns subsided.
I sat on our trench’s damp floor and thought about how strange it was that I could find calm in a place meant for anything but. The walls, hardened by a mixture of clay and despair, seemed to absorb the exhaustion engraved on the faces of my fellow soldiers. We looked at each other, knowing the unspoken understanding that this quiet was only a temporary break before the storm of chaos continued.
The air, thick with the scent of damp soil and the distant echoes of gunfire, carried a sad melody. We’d become accustomed to this song, which was a lullaby of conflict that gave us a false sense of security. I let my thoughts roam, leaving the trench behind to explore memories of life before the war: the sound of friends laughing in a bar, the aroma of a Sunday roast cooking in the kitchen, and the warmth of family around you.
However, the calm was deceptive, a temporary ceasefire in a war that showed no mercy. The silence served as a cruel reminder that outside the walls covered in dirt, a harsh world was waiting to steal any peace we dared to claim and in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
Our world exploded into chaos. The order came, and with hearts pounding, we charged across No Man’ s Land, the whistle piercing the air like a signal of our impending doom. We climbed the ladder, leaving the relative safety of the trench behind. As we staggered further into the unknown, the bitter taste of fear blended with the stench of mud.
The thunderous assault that followed our journey was a symphony of artillery shells bursting overhead, drowning out even the pained cries of soldiers. With every loud explosion, the earth beneath us quivered, and the once-familiar terrain gave way to a terrifying field of barbed wire and craters.
The closer we got, the more we advanced, the more the enemy ’s machine guns spat fire, the metallic chatter cutting through the air like a swarm of angry bees. My friends collapsed around me, their cries drowned out by the sound of battle. Every step was a tremendous effort due to the mud splattering on our uniforms, but the adrenaline kept us moving forward as we cautiously navigated the dangerous terrain.
The heavy smoke from the artillery created a strange cover that made it difficult to see both the allies and the enemy In the chaos, a strange camaraderie was created, an unspoken understanding amongst us soldiers who battled for their lives rather than for honour or ideology. As a team, we advanced, with each other depending on the others to bridge the voids left by fallen comrades.
Time became meaningless in the thick of the chaos. It evolved into an adaptable idea that changed form in response to the ups and downs of battle. The faces of the fallen faded into a shared memory, their sacrifice embedded in the damage and distraught caused by conflict.
Chloe C 9D
Dido’s Diary
Dear Diary,
I am enveloped in a shroud of disbelief and anguish. Aeneas, my beloved, has deserted me. I awoke to hear of his departure from Carthage, to finding that he has abandoned me.
The promise of his love had been a beacon of hope, a promise of love after my husband’ s death. I had a dream with him, one of a beautiful city that we ruled over together, but now those dreams lie shattered, like a mirror reflecting my broken spirit.
His departure has cast a grim shadow over my heart. The bustling streets of Carthage, which I used to love, now seem hollow without him. I wander through our palace, touching the cold stone walls as if they might give some warmth to me, but I find nothing.
His reasons echo in my mind. The gods’ command, he said. Duty to his people, he argued. I can’t help but question the gods’ wisdom. Is it divine will to inflict such torment? To tear lovers apart and leave a city’s queen heartbroken?
I feel betrayed, not just by Aeneas but by the gods themselves. To use love as a toy in their divine games is a cruel joke. I have been deceived, led to believe in a future that was never to be. The pain is unbearable.
His ship sails away, leaving me in its wake, a figure cloaked in despair. I am Dido, Queen of Carthage, but without Aeneas, my title feels wrong. I am a queen without a king, a lover without her beloved. I am adrift at sea, the waves threatening to drown me.
How could he leave me, after we were married that night in the cave? He, the kingdom-less ruler, denies what is considered a marriage by Venus herself? He will see. He will pay. I, Dido of Carthage, swear that he will know how he has wounded me.
But tonight, I grieve. To mourn the loss of a love that was as short as it was beautiful. Tomorrow, I will face the dawn as a queen should, but tonight, I am just Dido, a woman scorned.
Yours in sorrow, Dido.
Francesca Kelleher 9E
Dido and Aeneas
He came three months ago. My days had been filled with countless encounters with hopeful men pleading for my hand in marriage. It was a pathetic and naïve life back then, but how I wish I could reverse the twisted destiny the fates have crafted for me; return to the time when my mind was full of frivolous fancies and not a single burden plagued my soul. A bitter laugh unleashes itself from my choking breath as I stand, fastened willingly in a raging inferno riddled with the objects of my broken love. Oh, but of course! Reader, you do not know my terrible tale. Allow me to recount my wretched life as I burn in its consequences.
My father was convinced I would marry a mysterious foreigner who would one day tread the soil of our blessed land. The day had started blissfully. Sunrays streaming through the window cast a radiant glow upon my bed. The fabric of my white linen dress rippled like the sweet shores of Carthage. My eyes drifted to the eternal line of suitors laden with gifts. Breathing a helpless sigh as my bare feet pressed against the frigid marble, shivers ran up my spine. Something was amiss. My query was answered with my father’s hearty cry: King Belus.
Frantically rushing forward, he gripped me with a joyful glint in his eye. “The prophecy was right! A foreigner awaits, I am certain he is the chosen one!” I laughed at his eccentric ramblings yet was curious about this man. A scruffy warrior propped up against a column, helmet in hand, sword in scabbard, his copper locks dishevelled in a heap framing a dusty face. Yet I was not fazed by his rugged beauty.
“I pray that my arrival does not disturb you,” said the stranger.
“Do not fear, for we have been expecting you” I replied. He shot me a quizzical look but did not hesitate to join the magnificent banquet prepared in his honour. It was a long and festive night. We dined extravagantly, feasting on our land’s delicacies, entertained by a dance troupe performing fantastical feats. Eventually, the throng of merry people began to dissolve, dwindling into small groups engrossed in intense conversation. Overwhelmed by curiosity, I enquired about his story. It was a tragic tale, so full of twists and turns that you felt you were on this odyssey yourself. Imagine being forced to leave your home in flames, without any reassurance of sanctuary. Pearl-like tears glided down my cheeks. I was shocked. How had a stranger’s tale struck me so deeply?
When I lifted my gaze into the ever-changing kaleidoscope of that man’s eyes, a different emotion sparked in my soul. Something new and exciting. Something dangerous. Now possessing the gift of knowledge and wisdom, I wish I had been able to dismiss that treacherous passion. For it would be my downfall. Weeks passed and this person, Aeneas, became my greatest companion. My affection for him became so potent I felt empty and lost without his comforting gaze. Until one fateful hour when I found myself wandering the palace’s orchards, admiring the simple beauty of a lilac jasmine petal, light and innocent. Suddenly, my peace was disturbed by a hushed discussion taking place below an olive tree. My beloved Aeneas talked hurriedly to an old Trojan friend of his with a nervous countenance. His cryptic words were difficult to decipher but that did not hinder me from unveiling the dreadful truth. Aeneas had lied to me when he had promised he would stay forever. He was claiming that the gods had ordered him to leave Carthage to find a more glorious destiny!
A torrent of chaotic thoughts rampaged through my head like a bull as I revealed myself, plummeting to his feet. My speech was muddled as I struggled to dictate my thoughts. How could Aeneas consider anything more important than my eternal love for him? Surely even the divine powers would not interfere with such devotion. Yet here I was, screaming in despair as my lover boarded his boat and sailed away to his so-called brighter future. Brighter than Carthage. Brighter than me. In a frenzied flurry of energy, I piled up his belongings. Cloth, books and furniture formed a colossal heap, trapping me within.
We are back in the present moment. The taut rope rips my skin like a talon, as I watch my handmaid light the pyre. I stare with grim determination as the flames lick the wood, slithering ever nearer to my flesh. The stench of smoke drowns me as I watch singed strands of hair fall. Yet I am certain this is the only way. Without Aeneas, life holds no purpose. Eyelids fluttering shut, my mind descends into an abyss of darkness. This is the end.
Alisha
A 9A
Akari’s Promise
YEAR 9 WINNER
“When you’re older, you will have to do this yourself, so you must pay attention.”
I watch Mother tossing logs on to the fireplace. The deep orange embers rise, crackling soothingly.
“I don’t understand. Why can’t Father or Atlas do it?”
“It’s our responsibility. If we don’t prepare you now, you’ll never learn. My parents started with me when I was eight.”
Defeated, I sit there in silence, waiting for Mother to finish. I’m lost in my thoughts as if they’re scattered across a train track, and I’m just trying to piece them back together.
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Mother.”
Mother carefully places the final log on to the fireplace. She leads me to the kitchen, where we start preparing food. Atlas is having his lessons with Father outside. I stand there in envy. Father started teaching Atlas when he was five. When I turned five, I asked if I could start my lessons too, but he refused me. Every year, I ask again but am constantly denied.
“Mother? Could I please do lessons with Father? I promise I’ll make food afterwards.”
Mother turns to me, appalled. “I think you already know the answer to that,” she says coldly.
I hastily turn to continue cutting the vegetables. Soon, Father returns to the house with Atlas. Father always ignores me, and I don’t understand why. Atlas is his entire world. But, if I were to leave tomorrow and never return, I don’t think he would even notice.
Once Mother and I finish, I ask her permission to go to the forest with my friends, and she reluctantly agrees.
Our village is called Akari. It was named after the spirit that’s believed to inhabit this village. The spirit, Akari, is valued and respected. She supports all, loves all, forgives all, and never leaves their side. My family, along with everyone else in the village, is religious and traditional. There is only one exception: me.
My worries vanish when I see my friends, waiting for me at the end of the village.
The forest is my favourite part of the village. I love the canopies, with autumn-coloured leaves scattered across the floor, licking the base of the trees. The babbling brooks and vibrant flowers, gracefully drooping over the surface of the water. The winding paths leading to the wilderness, and the very heart of the forest.
Suddenly, I feel a burning sensation. I’m overwhelmed with heat, and my vision becomes hazy.
“Guys!” I shout.
They all turn around, and their eyes widen. I follow their gaze, and, to my horror, a blazing fire is surging towards us. It swerves in between the trees, destroying everything it touches, like a formidable beast. The scorching fire roars menacingly. This time, we run not for a game, but for our lives.
I run as fast as I can, tears streaming down my face. I scream for help, but it’s no use. Just then, I stumble over a protruding tree root. I fall to the ground, scraping my knees against the jagged ground. I yell in agony and my vision goes out completely
My eyes flicker open, and my head throbs with pain. I wince as I sit up, gasping at the sight of burn marks across my body. Once I regain my senses, I realise I’m in a medical room.
“Iris! You’re awake!”
The figure leans over me with a concerned look. It’s Mother.
A few minutes later, I hear Father and Atlas coming into the room. Father seems much more relaxed than expected. If Atlas had been in my place, he would have been distraught.
Eventually, I am moved back to the house. My friends come to visit me, and I discover that Emery had saved me. When I ask her why, she says that God guided her to do what was right.
I also hear Mother say that she has lost faith in God completely. Father, on the other hand, is convinced that God must have had reasons to punish me. After all of this, he still doesn’t care to see me.
Father, along with most of the village, has confided in God during this time of hardship.
But me? I have an abundance of questions. If God is supposedly all-loving and perfect, why wouldn’t he stop an event of evil that would cause so much suffering? If he is allknowledgeable, then he would have known what the consequences would be. And if he is all-powerful, then he would have had the ability to stop it.
The myths, the stories and the promises of God simply don’t satisfy me. If he loved us, he would have saved us and guided us to the destiny he created for us. Instead, he left us all to suffer. And Akari broke her promise.
