Creative
Dear Reader,
The Putney High School Creative Writing Competition is now in its fourth year, yet we continue to be moved, shocked, transported and delighted by the entries we have the pleasure of reading. Aware of our students’ creative abilities within English lessons and their successes in writing competitions outside of school, we set up this competition as a way of recognising the imagination seen in students’ work completed in other subjects. As these pages reveal, the standard of work continues to impress, and it is a delight to see work from Geography joining the collection for the first time.
Last year, every student in Years 7, 8 and 9 was set a writing task in each of four subjects: Classics, Geography, History and Religious Studies. Once the completed tasks were returned by their subject teachers, students then had the Easter break to select which of those four they believed to be their best. This work was then submitted to their English teacher, who selected the best entry from each class. Finally, the English Department chose an overall winner for each year group.
In this anthology, you will find the class winners for each of the four Year 7, four Year 8 and five Year 9 classes, with the overall winner for each of the three year groups clearly indicated. Some pieces have been edited slightly for publication, but all winners were selected for their creative content rather than technical accuracy. Each of the three overall winners will receive a certificate and gift voucher.
The competition for this academic year begins this term, and we look forward to seeing a broad variety of imaginative results. Until then, we hope you enjoy reading the successful entries on the following pages.
Antony Barton Head of EnglishMoses
“Miriam, what are we going to do with the baby?” exclaimed my mum “He can’t get slaughtered it couldn’t happen to me, not now.”
I sat down in despair feeling helpless, and my chest tightened as I started to tear up. There was not much we could do; he had to leave us, he had to go. I had a lump in my throat and was blinking away the tears. My mum and brother came to sit next to me as I got kissed on the forehead and told to go to sleep. I strolled to my bed gloomily, not ready for what was to come tomorrow. My brother and I shared a bed, so it was a pretty tight fit, but we managed. My mum tucked us into bed and wished us sweet dreams. That night, it was impossible for the both of us to sleep. We both tossed and turned and bumped our heads occasionally.
I peeled my eyes open to see a huge grin on my mum’s face and her eyes were twinkling. I didn’t understand: today was the day my little baby brother would be slaughtered. “Miriam and Aaron, come here, I have a plan,” explained my mum. “We’re going to float the baby on the River Nile in a basket. Look here, this is a basket I weaved specially for today.”
I looked at her with shock. How did she come up with this cunning idea? My arms wrapped around her waist as my head tilted upwards, eyes twinkling.
“Ma, y…. y…you…you’ve s... s…saved…. th...th...the b….ba…baby,” I stuttered with relief.
“Well, not yet. We will hope someone will find him and take good care of him.”
Running at speed, trying not to get caught by the cruel Egyptians, I heard the deathly screams of mothers spectating their sons dying. The screams could be as high pitched as a bat or an unbearable bellowing, loud scream. Neither of the two screams were tolerable and every time I heard one of them my heart raced, and I ran a tiny bit faster. Blood stains filled the streets, mothers were outside their doors pacing with terribly worried faces. I stood with my back to the wall, peering out to see if there were any Egyptian soldiers near me. There were none in sight, so I stepped out of the little tunnel I was hiding in and ran
as fast as my skinny legs could carry me. My throat was parched, and my breath was coming in painful gasps. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, I fell back against a wall, hands on hips, head bowed, gasping for breath.
I had reached the river undiscovered. No one knew what I was doing. My baby brother would be safe. I knelt down and placed the beautiful thing in my arms. I sang him my favourite lullaby joyfully but quietly because I didn’t want anyone to hear me. Eventually, my voice trailed off into a heartfelt sigh. I gave the baby one last kiss and placed him in the basket as my hands trembled. I took the basket and walked deeper into the river. I started to beg to the river to flow gently for me. My hands couldn’t let go from the basket I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I managed to bring myself to let go and as I let go from the basket my hands reached out with despair. I continued to watch the basket flow gently.
There was nothing more I could do. There was no way I could help him now, but I could watch the basket float through the river and see where it ended up. I hustled to get a better view of where the basket was going. I could merely see the basket. It seemed to be surrounded by two green creatures and I could not tell what animal they were. They were trying to snatch the basket with all their might. I started to realise they were greedy crocodiles still fighting over the basket. I ran my tongue nervously over my lips and kept baring my teeth in an edgy grin. Luckily, the crocodiles both missed the basket and it kept on floating.
In the distance were two hippos yet again fighting for the basket with the poor baby inside. I was internally praying for the basket to leave this quarrel and float gently on the river again. As I had hoped, the basket eventually avoided this situation and turned away to flow down the river. I stared off into the distance, my eyes were steady and unblinking.
A huge black fish net was approaching the basket catching a lot of fish. I shuddered and rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the image of what I saw. The fishing net just missed the basket, and I took a sigh of relief. Just as I thought the basket would be safe from a more perilous danger, a huge battleship came right next to the basket. The paddles were rocking the basket from a paddle to another. The basket went back and forth near to drowning in the river. I clutched my hand to my mouth to stop myself from screaming out.
The boat was heading towards the Egyptian tower. I started to frantically creep closer to the exquisite Egyptian palace. I wanted to get a glimpse of what was going on in the palace and how royalty would react to this. Would they throw the baby down into the river like all the other poor creatures? Or would they welcome him with open arms? My eyes would not dare to blink as I didn’t want to miss a moment of the future of my baby brother. I could see the Egyptian queen opening the basket and cautiously taking the baby upwards. She placed him above her head with a huge grin on her face. My eyes were twinkling with relief and joy; the Egyptians seemed to want to welcome the baby into the family.
Moses
Rain gushed down in bucketfuls of salty sour water, seeping through the soaked nooks and crannies of Egypt, pouring down streets like rivers, which then ran down, gathering, with so much water that it made lakes deep enough to swim in, flooding the houses and drowning people, animals, children.
And you were just standing there, watching it all.
But I, I will never yield.
Then came the hail, huge bricks of ice that plummeted to the ground, shattering into tiny dagger like pieces, scraping and scratching and stabbing everything within reach; hundreds upon thousands, millions, of gigantic rocks that fell from the heavens.
And you were just standing there, watching it all.
But I, I will never yield.
Great big booms sounded from above, like bombs exploding within the jet black clouds, which swirled around in an everlasting spiral, a moving storm matching the one below. So loud, it was deafening, yet so quiet, it was nearly impossible to hear.
And you were just standing there, watching it all.
And I, I will never, ever, yield.
Bugs? No, locusts. Like a dark, grey cloud, so thick with the little yellow green creatures that it seemed black; the swarm moved as if it had feeling, thought; it raced across the land, following the scent of sweet tasting grass and crops, devouring them like a child eating chocolate before school, until there was nothing left, no green, no leaves, no crops, nothing.
And you, you were there, just watching it all.
But I will never yield, never break.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped. All of the thunder, the rain, the hail, bugs that, a second ago, had plundered from all directions, had ceased. No more hunger, no more thirst; everything was unnaturally still, painfully perfect. Then out of the peace, a swirling mass of blackness descended upon Egypt, a blackness so pure, so deep, so black. Every home, every family found themselves a simple victim to that darkness, so peaceful in its own way; so vibrant and greedy for a soul.
But you had not moved, just watched it all.
But it takes more than a shadow to break me.
It would take death to break me.
I hope my son is all right.
So quiet. It makes me uneasy. I can’t cope with it much longer. Two servants came in a few minutes ago. To see if I was all right. I told them to go check on father instead. I shouldn’t have. Even a servant’s company is better than this. I stand up. I can’t see my feet. It’s too dark. Will the rest of my life be like this? No, obviously not, right? Maybe, just maybe, this is all just a bad dream. But if it was, I just realised it, didn’t I? So, I should be waking up now. Great. I don’t want another moment in this darkness.
I feel, odd. Like I’m breaking apart from something. I can’t see anything. I can’t feel anything. My arms, my legs, they’re not there. There’s a light. It’s growing, ever brighter. It’s blinding me. Except, I can’t see it. But I know it’s there, right in front of me. What’s happening? Ow. That hurt. Why am I feeling pain? I didn’t crash into anything. Father. I can feel him. He’s here, bending over me. But I’m not on the ground.
Pain. Pain. It’s excruciating. Like a dagger, pushing through me, being twisted over and over; this agony in my chest, I can’t stop it. I can’t. I’m leaving. I don’t want to. I dreaded this moment. Oh, I really, really don’t want to go. Father
The Parting
Dear Diary,
So, this is what it feels like to be free. Joy, happiness, laughter. A better life for our children and future generations yet to come. The price was high, yet we paid it. It took much courage, yet we faced it. It was dangerous, yet we risked it. Not a dream goes by without reliving that day, the azure wall built up high and strong to reveal the life to come. All it took was one leap of faith to show a world of possibility.
It all started when all felt lost, in our most desperate time of need. We were at the border of the Red Sea with nowhere to run. The Egyptian army was on one side. Certain death. The other side was a vast blanket of sea. Also certain death. Everyone was looking expectantly at Moses, waiting for the next move. His face was twisted in thought, as if even he was unsure. It felt like hours, watching the chariot wheels blur as they sped down the hill. Nearer. Nearer. You could feel the tension and fear starting to set in. Suddenly, a crash sounded, and fire sprung up around the Egyptians. How? I could see their eyes filled with rage as their horses whinnied in protest. Something, or someone, had bought us some precious time. I looked back at Moses, only to see him wading into the water. This confused me. Did he expect us to swim to safety? He stopped and lifted his staff into the air. Perhaps receiving a message from God? We were running out of time, though Our slavery would confine us once more.
Everyone was fixated on the water. Moses had plunged his staff deep into the sand, and, as if on command, the water rushed to the side, parting. A gasp swept through our people as the tunnel grew until we could see our freedom. Moses turned and gave us a smile. He held out his hand, but all of us were too shocked to move. After a few seconds, an aging man came forward and lifted his rickety hand to join Moses’. He gave a nod and took his step into the sapphire tunnel. More people started to come forward, including myself. As I walked inside, I felt something supernatural about this place. It was a miracle, a serene world where I could breathe without feeling the pressure or strain of slavery. Just thinking about not being controlled in every move would send electric bolts down my spine. Like all moments though, this one passed in a flash.
A scream echoed around the watery cave. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” a desperate voice cried out. Everyone whisked around to indeed see the Pharaoh and his men charging through the tunnel. The fire must have gone out already, which meant our lives were again jeopardised. I started running as fast as I could, the tunnel feeling endless as my feet pummelled against the slivery sand. I was begging for the exit to come soon; we couldn’t go on like this for much longer. A millisecond later, I heard loud splashing coming from behind me. I had no time to look, although I felt a spray of water on my legs. The tunnel was closing, but this light was so close now…
I lay on my back, smiling. We had done it. Our people were free, we were free. The water had closed, trapping the army forever in its prison. The waves calmly rocked, as if it had never been the tunnel that brought us to this sanctuary. People were laughing with joy, tired from the effort but exuberant with the result. Here we are, free people who lead our own lives.
Freedom, I’ve finally found mine.
The Pharaoh’s Son
It all began when my “brother” came to visit. He said he was joining the slaves and asked that they be released. He warned the Pharaoh of his god’s anger. Of course, this was insane to us; why would we let them go? And why would he join them? We have our own gods, they will protect us, we thought. Moses warned father that he and his god would turn all water, including the Nile, into blood if the slaves were not released. Father did not believe him. I did not believe him. How could he do that? He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. It was a joke, until the next morning when we woke up and our Nile was hot, sticky, red blood. All of the taps ran crimson. Every irrigation channel was thick maroon. Dead fish floated, then slowly sank below the surface of the ruined river.
The second warning that was brought by Moses was too quickly dismissed by father. I reasoned that a man whose skill stretched to turning all of Egypt’s water to blood should be taken seriously, but my father waved it away. “Our gods will provide safety for our people. Have faith in them,” he said. He reassured me that a peasant Israelite couldn’t possibly summon a plague of frogs. He was wrong. The ground crawled as the stench of slime rose, the very air seemed to croak and scream; the sound was deafening and the smell was suffocating.
I begged my father on my knees to release his slaves when Moses returned for a third time. He looked down on me. “I won’t.” He didn’t sound confident, his voice cracked. He was afraid. Moses had threatened a plague of gnats. The Pharaoh walked away quickly, leaving me bowed on the floor behind him. I did not leave my quarters that next day. No doors were to be opened, no windows to be unlocked. I hid away in cowardice, but I couldn’t halt the screams of Egyptian mothers as they wakened to discover their young covered in bites, many dead. I couldn’t block the awful buzz surrounding the palace, nor forget how the Pharaoh’s anger filled the rooms he entered, and how he yelled.
By the next day, the servants had used poison to kill all the gnats inside our palace. It was impossible to see outside because of the heavy swarming of the insects but that didn’t stop Moses from coming to us. “Day four will be flies,” he told us. “Please, let my people go. It would be in both our interests for me to stop inflicting pain on your people.” My
father stood silent, hesitant. He made eye contact with a guard, who rushed to escort Moses out. He was very concerned, but he told himself and me that there couldn’t be many more plagues to come. I turned and retired to my room without another word. Next morning, I woke early to a swarm of filthy, cacophonous flies flooding into my room. The daily screams of Egypt echoed, my vision blurred, I threw up and fell unconscious.
I don’t know what time it was when I returned to consciousness, but I remember my childhood brother’s voice floating into the sickbay. Strangely enough, he sounded most upset. “Please, father!” he cried. “Tomorrow’s plague will be the death of your livestock. This is ruining your people! Your son is suffering greatly, alongside many, many others. Have you no compassion? I “
The Pharaoh cut him off. “Enough!” he shouted coldly. I was taken aback by his anger. “My kingdom is strong. We will live through your foolish plagues. Leave.”
A tear fell from my eye. So stubborn was he. As much as I wished I could make the decisions, I could not. I was powerless against him. So I waited and watched as our livestock rotted before me.
When the Pharaoh’s second son returned with yet another warning, he was not welcomed kindly. Father ordered him out, despite his pleas. I could make out the word “boils” and a shiver shot down my spine. I knew my father wouldn’t let our slaves slip away, and I was correct in thinking so. Dawn next day brought with it an illness so infectious that it spread between houses whilst the inhabitants slumbered. Chaos was unleashed amongst the people as they blindly staggered across the streets, crying out for help. The healthy and rich survived. The poorer were not so lucky. Many people fled Egypt that day, cursing the Pharaoh as they did.
I fell victim to the boil plague, and as a result didn’t go to speak with Moses. I had no idea what to expect, but quickly discovered that locusts were in flight. I had no meals on the day of the locust plague, as they had eaten and destroyed our crops. We had no fish, meat, grain or any vegetation. I tried to confront the Pharaoh, but he was locked away to think and cry, forbidding anyone to enter his quarters.
There was no dawn or day that followed. Just darkness. This was the ninth plague. Instead of frantic yelling, Egypt cried. Sobs rose from the people’s throats. I felt so sad. I desperately wanted to comfort everyone, but I was helpless. We were all helpless.
Nobody had the slightest idea what time it was, but when I woke up I knew that soon Moses would return. I was angry, desperate, upset. Then I felt numb. Coldly numb. I fell to the ground, staring blankly up at the tall, patterned ceiling of the palace hall. An urgent knock on our door brought me to my feet. I slowly opened it. Moses looked close to tears, I knew he wasn’t looking me in my eyes, although I couldn’t see his face in detail.
“Tomorrow’s plague,” he said shakily, “will be the death of every Egyptian first born son”. And he span on his heel and left me with knowledge of my own upcoming death.
Overtaken
29th March 2013
I stumbled up the mountainside over the thick moss covering the rocks. The snow was thawing, revealing the lush greens of the valley. I heard the gentle rumbling of yak hooves on the mountainside. A light mist encircled the hills, swirling around me like beckoning fingers leading me further into the distance.
I ran down the hillside from the plateau with whispers of wind rushing past me. I dodged carts with animals and angry drivers as I skipped down the well trodden paths. I saw a delightful little hut, smoke gently twisting from the chimney and the low, peaceful grunts of yaks grazing nearby. The crackle of fire was audible as I edged ever closer, and the smell of warm milk overcame me as I found the door opening.
The little hut was a marvel to behold; small but a hive of activity. Yak milk in reused plastic pots and other curiosities sat on a table in the centre of the room, and a yak hide rug adorned the rough stone floor. A small window let the sun shine through. The light highlighted the wrinkles on the old woman’s face. She wore a simple cloth dress of bright colours and her grey mouse tail hair was pulled into a neat bun. Her voice was gruff but kind, and her words, painting a description of her life, were more detailed than a code. It all seemed so perfect.
29th March 2018
A lot has changed since then. Metal machines have encroached on Tibet like a spider does on a fly. And we are now being eaten. Chunks of our lives are disappearing day by day. Half the community has given up and moved to the city. None of them like it, who could?
I don’t go up the plateau anymore. It’s too dangerous. The dams they have built divert the water flow from our area, but the lake could flood at any minute down in the valley. I can’t
try to escape the wider world’s grasp. I suppose I have given up, too. The moss is no longer green; a sort of faded brown. The snow is thawing, but the mist around our village is a thick grey smog.
Only once did I make the journey to the old woman’s hut again. This time there were no paths, just wide roads. This time there were no low yak grunts, just the metallic chug of the diggers. And there was no warmth from a fire, just a thick stench of burning fuel. When I saw the hut above me, I did not see any smoke. I did not see any lush green grass and nowhere could I see a glimpse of life from the wooden shack.
My pace quickened as did my heart rate. Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill I climbed, hoping that what I believed was only an imaginary image in my head.
When I prised open the door, my thoughts were confirmed. I saw the kind old woman lying in her chair. Her hair was loose over her shoulders and she had a worried look on her pale face. The spider had reached the fly. She had given up. We were left behind in some sort of nightmare.
The Lord’s Prayer
We sat around him, the twelve of us, as He prayed. I watched him lovingly, His eyes half closed, deep in thought, His mind in the home of His divine Father. His hands were clasped together tightly, and though I could not hear the words from His mouth, I could see that He was expressing all of His emotion and hope and joy and gratitude, and that He truly felt He was being heard by the Father. To tell the truth, I envied Him slightly. Not because He could perform great miracles, nor for His fame and kind heart, but the fact that He could be so close with our Father, that by being anywhere in the wide world, whether on top of mountains or in the busy streets or by the market or sea or lake, wherever our Master was and however far away from His home on Earth He was, the idea that He could always find refuge and feel safe, just by putting His hands together and saying a few words made me wish I too could find such peace and safety so seemingly easily. Jesus was always transformed whilst praying, in such a pure state of mind that surpassed even the calmness of a still pond on a bright summer’s day, or of a tree standing tall and strong, not even moving amidst a violent storm; an icon of peace Jesus seemed to be at all times, but especially whilst praying.
It’s not like I hadn’t tried. Of course, our fundamental job as His disciples was to follow His every action and obey His every word, and Jesus loved to pray. So every time He prayed, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and tried to think about all the things I wanted to thank my Father for. Then I thought of something I wanted, like the recovery of the ill man I had seen. But still, somehow, all I saw was black, and all I could sense was the scorching sun and deafening silence. I did not feel like the Creator of the world was near me, not that He could hear me, nor that He would care what a lowly man such as myself thought of anything. And I knew I should not feel this way, but I did, and I felt guilty, because it seemed all the other disciples really saw and sensed God and believed He was listening.
I felt, and knew, that if I was not feeling such a strong connection with God, that Jesus would be saddened and ashamed. But I felt that He would be also ashamed of me for not trusting Him enough to tell Him the truth. I couldn’t afford for Jesus to be ashamed of me; Jesus was my life and world and love, so my frustration and gloom covered me like a dark cloud.
That day we sat around Him, by the bay, the sea smashing the rocks and spraying salt and water into our eyes and on to our skin. It was refreshing and relaxing, and I felt happy and sleepy with the hot sun shining down and the cool breeze that came from the sea cooling us with the cold drops of seawater that clung to our dusty wool tunics.
Seeing my gaze wander around the landscape, one of Jesus’s other disciples, Andrew, whispered, “Why do you not pray like our Master? Do you not think it wise to do as He, the Wise One, is doing?”
I reddened, feeling shame run through my veins. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him, so I didn’t explain the whole reason. Instead I said, “I’m not sure what to say. I can never quite hear Him His voice is a mere murmur.”
Andrew nodded, and I think he had opened his mouth to say something, but just at that moment, Jesus opened His eyes and rose, dusting the bits of rock and sand that had stuck to His sweat soaked tunic.
At that moment, Andrew asked Jesus, “Teach us to pray just how John taught his disciples”.
I was already hot from the heat of the scorching sun, but then I felt another surge of shame course through me. All I wanted was to be enough; for Jesus to appreciate me. What kind of disciple couldn’t pray? Everyone from every religion seemed to be praying all the time and that, too, to dozens of gods and goddesses!
I hadn’t realised that I was lost in a whirlwind of my thoughts and had been casually swirling the sand and dust mixture at my feet around my fingers until I thought I felt someone watching me. In that way I always felt when He looked at me, I automatically knew it was Jesus. I looked up, expecting to see disappointment or anger in His eyes, and the sorrow He had shown that night at sea when we awoke him to quell the storm.
But all I saw when I gathered the courage to raise my gaze was a face of kindness and, strangely, pride, like the face one might show to a child who has asked an interesting and important question one is excited to answer.
He explained what to say when we prayed. I became annoyed then, for I felt that, by just saying words, letting them fall out of your mouth meaninglessly, was nothing that could really draw the attention of God Himself. Especially not if everyone was saying the same words. How could that possibly show the Lord our unique thoughts and wishes?
But then as somehow it always seemed to do Jesus’s following words seemed to somehow awaken me. He explained that it was not just because God loves us that he will grant us our wishes, but also because, if we keep on asking for things, He is bound to take notice. I understood then the reason those seven lines were so crucially important, and that it was also important that everyone was to know and say them with courtesy and respect, because that is how God would know that we were all sincere about what we wanted, which was for him to forgive us and be kind to us. And when Jesus explained that, because God loves us so, He would always grant unto us our desires, I felt a wave of joy rush through me, like a warm beverage on a freezing night, warming my toes and making me feel happy and safe and brave enough to face the world.
Jesus then told us to go and share the word of the Lord’s Prayer, and I felt blessed, knowing that it was I who had not just the responsibility, but also the privilege to enable others to pray as Jesus had done, to be able to unite God’s world, just with a few lines, and with these lines to be able to help maybe millions of people to find that magical, divine place where they could be with God, like Jesus.
This rejuvenated faith in me. A few hours later, I tried again to pray. I closed my eyes and said the words that He taught us, and like that, I felt His presence.
It wasn’t like I could see a shimmering form around me, nor did I hear a booming voice or see a bush on fire, but with the quiet whisper of the wind and the murmur of the crickets, the lapping of the water upon the shore and the song of the birds, I knew God was there with me, in that special place that was our world, listening and smiling upon me as I sang his praises and said His prayer.
Diary of a Factory Worker
My name is 燕 (yàn) and I am a 25 year old factory worker. Two months ago, I moved here as a temporary migrant to Chongqing with my husband, who works in a factory, making cars. We live in a small, cheap flat which we rented out with our friends. Our life is far from sweet.
My husband and I have a little two and a half year old son, but we do not live with him. I miss our little boy so much, and I think about him every day. It’s not our fault that we had to leave him in rural China when we moved here; it’s just the way things have to be. We had to move to the city to find better jobs, since the area we used to live was just too poor compared to the big city where we are now. Our baby boy was born back in south Gansu, and now he has a rural hukou because of that. It’s the same with me and my husband. Without an urban hukou, it’s hard for us to find jobs, good healthcare, housing, or pensions. We can’t even move to a wealthier urban area! We need these hukou in order to raise our son here. Life is already tough enough, and we knew that if we brought him along with us, he wouldn’t have access to a good education or doctor. We had to leave him with my mother in Gansu, where she’ll take care of him. I really hope we can see him soon, but money is so tight right now, I don’t know the next time I’ll be able to go back there. However, things are changing here now, and I really hope we will be able to get an urban hukou soon, which would be the best!
I am currently working in a factory, like my husband, except I work in a factory, making shoes. All. Day. Long. It is a very monotonous job, for me, and for everyone that works in the factory there, just to get a low pay at the end of the day. The bosses there expect us to work overtime, or else they threaten to fire us. There are many people who choose to work in factories, so they are never short staffed. I am always looking for a job with the wealthiest pay, and since coming here I’ve switched twice between working in different factories. Sometimes I work longer than 44 hours a week, just to get extra pay. I’m lucky to be able to spend time with my husband, and I never get to see any family outside of Chongqing.
Living Through the Civil War
Dearest Mother,
It has been so long since I wrote to you last and there is so much to tell! Thomas has triumphed, and the New Model Army seems to be a success! The Battle of Naseby was won today, and it appears as though we are finally gaining on the Cavaliers. We have obliterated their main army and, more than that, recovered the King’s belongings, among which were nestled documents regarding the alliance of the Irish and other Catholic nations with the Cavaliers. It is decided that they will be published and cast even more light on the King’s shameless ways, though I doubt it is needed now. It must have been a mortifying defeat, and, I confess, I almost pitied the Cavaliers as they stumbled haphazardly towards Leicester, floundering in waves of cloth and sweat and jabbed by crags of intricately engraved armour, their helmets drooping so low the grim spectacle in front of them was obscured. The more persistent of the bunch occasionally swung round in a perfunctory manner to flail a sword about before continuing to lurch forward with the masses, and it was a sorry sight for some to see them struggle in such a comical way, but that made it all the more sweet for others. I almost pitied them, that is, until I was brought back to the harsh reality of what these bedraggled soldiers thought to be true of the country and who they served.
We woke bleary eyed in the small hours of the day this morning and were marching into Naseby by 5am after two long hours of trudging. It was foggy, and Naseby was draped in a thin veil of mist, like curtains in the theatre waiting to be pulled back and set the play in motion. I think you would have found it quite beautiful. Little by little, the curtains withdrew to reveal the Cavaliers, organised smartly in spruce, blue uniforms, on a ridge between Oxendon and East Farndon. They looked so firm and determined, but alas! If only style could win the battle! They were no match for the New Model Army and terrifically outnumbered, too. I won't bore you with the details: they are quite mundane, but let us just say that Cromwell had to urge Thomas not to take his original position on the hill, fearing that the Cavaliers would withdraw without entertaining a battle. Truthfully, I am not quite sure why they decided to entertain a battle at all, being bound to lose. The King has too much confidence in non existent abilities.
It was strange to see the men's faces after that. It should have been a joyous time, but many eyes were dull with the knowledge that their Cavalier families would not take them back. I am grateful for the fact that, at the very least, our family is united under a common theme: a desire to stop Charles I, whatever the cost. I find it incredulous that he thought it possible to dismiss parliament, recall it for money and then attempt to gain absolute power and convert an entire nation with no consequences. Perhaps it is his presumptuous nature that has led to his downfall. Perhaps God mistook him for another man when choosing the future King of England, as Charles claims kings are chosen. Perhaps the divinely chosen King should have been more frugal when using the precious trust of the country. The King is responsible for the line that lacerates the country into mere fragments of what it once was and wrenches families apart in tragic struggles between duty and reason. He should have no pride in being the King of such a dysfunctional, combatant society.
Oh! If only we had more queens! We women are hardly as egocentric and obstinate in our demeanour and could lead England twice as well. Why, even little Catherine could replace this calamitous excuse for a ruler. At the bare minimum, someone as adept as dear Thomas could take the throne and regain some prestige for our defective country. Oh, Mother, if only there were no men, we would have a fraction of our problems, but so we must live.
As always, Your loving daughter, Anne Fairfax
Survival
Dear Diary,
I woke up today with my hands and feet feeling numb. The time is half past two in the morning. I only had three hours of sleep before I was woken up. I am exhausted and my body aches every time I move. Apparently, we are somewhere in the mountains of Laos and it feels so far away from home. In all honesty, I don’t regret leaving, but I feel a sense of guilt for leaving my family behind in the prison country I used to call home.
In North Korea everything is staged for foreign visitors and the harsh reality of poverty and famine is hidden. Our lives do not matter to our supreme leader, who is often sat in his luxurious home where everything is available. My family of seven on the other hand have to share a bowl of rice for breakfast and for dinner; if we were lucky it would be some left over vegetables that could not be sold. A couple of weeks ago my uncle was taken away when we were working in the fields. No one told me why but, apparently, he had questioned the North Korean regime. If we said anything against our supreme leader or the way the government was treating us we could go to jail for many years or in some cases be executed by public execution. My father told me I should escape, fearing our whole family would be sent to prison because of what my uncle had done. He had found a broker who forced us to pay ¥17,000 for helping me escape to South Korea. A day before I left, the broker sent me a map with a detailed route on how I was going to escape.
I started my journey by going along the narrow Tumen River where I was crammed into a small boat which looked like it was supposed to hold three people, but our broker squeezed all of us in. I had a constant fear of falling into the river and drowning since I had never learnt how to swim.
After possibly 30 days of sitting in the flimsy boat, we arrived. Soon after I was shunted into a van where I spent another five days travelling. There was a constant reminder that I was lucky since lots of North Korean defectors are sold off to get married.
The next stage was a very dangerous hike across the mountainous border of Laos and Myanmar. Currently, as I’m writing this, we’ve spent three weeks hiking with minimal food and water, which luckily is normal for me. Our guide said there are only four more days before we arrive in Laos, where we are travelling to Thailand and then finally to South Korea. I constantly fear being caught and being sent back to where I would be publicly executed with my family.
I feel weaker than ever and I hope there is a better future for me when I arrive.
Pilgrims
I was out in the fields when it first started. Screams echoed through the streets and as I turned round, what I saw was almost indescribable. Fire erupted into the sky, swallowing the sun with a dark cloud of smoke. Men and women ran out of their houses, bursting through the hills in front of me. Through the smoke, dark men walked, carrying guns and heavy weapons. They took hold of the women’s hands and ripped them apart from their families. They shot. Bullets flying through the air, touching, reaching, grabbing, holding, taking their lives. Then they did it again. Shooting men, children, anyone who dared to leave. I had to run. Run. Run! But it was no use. I tripped over all the ones who were already dead. Then I heard them. Their thick boots, footsteps all around me. I froze. For a moment I thought I was dead, but then afterwards my breath came back. Wheezing, coughing, I leapt up, finding that I had been holding my breath for minutes, but in that time they had already gone. I was the only one there, the only one left.
Smoke billowed from houses and the echoing cries died out. The once picturesque fields I stood on now were smothered in the blood of my town members. My friends, my family, my neighbours, my friends. There was nothing left, nothing but fire and blood.
I dug my way out of the corpses and towards the nearby forest. My movements were slow and I carried my head down while I walked. I played back the memories of the night, hearing the screams, the gush of blood as their bodies were ripped apart. It was too much. Still too much to face, so I just moved on.
A few days had passed and I was already close to giving up. Every day consisted of hours and hours of walking in the blazing sun. I hadn’t eaten and barely drank, but something was keeping me going, keeping me alive. Then I heard something. Footsteps. They weren’t like the soldiers, they were a mess of pattering, like a stampede, albeit quite slow. Footsteps. Again, there they were. I fell to the floor, hiding behind a large and partially broken bush until I saw them. Men, women, children, all clumped together holding pots, pans and other small items. They were like cattle, blindly moving together in a herd, a mess of noise and chaos. They clung to each other and held a look of despair in their
eyes. Snap. They all looked to me, wide, confused eyes staring down my soul. I was frightened, bewildered, with so many people here what could happen?
Then a small girl, aged about seven, appeared through the crowd, slowly walking to me with her head tilted. “Hello..?” Her voice was soft, sweet, and quiet. She kneeled down next to me and smiled with the pain of a thousand nights. This was the beginning of my journey out of the darkness.
The Raids on the Rohingyans
I grew up as a member of the Rohingya. I loved my life. Growing up in the Rohingya was to be part of a community; it felt like everyone was family. However, our people had enemies. We lived in a country where our beliefs were a minority. We would stay wary around others, our way of staying protected and away from those who would persecute us. This meant never meeting anyone new. It used to feel suffocating, inescapable, but now all I do is meet people; the constant flow of refugees into the camp, a reminder of the destruction that has passed, depressing, dreary, dismal. It’s strange to think that I’m just like them, a refugee. I used to pity those in the stories we’d hear, how they’d travelled far on dangerous journeys. It was only when I too had lost everything that I realised how much my old life was worth. Now my life is broken, the course of my future forever changed; there’s no going back now. In some ways surviving was the easy part; it’s living after what’s happened that proves to be the hardest. The camp here in Bangladesh is supposed to keep us safe but I can’t abandon the feeling of uncertainty and distrust. I dream for the security of my home, the familiarity of my village and the humble residents. Often I envy my little sister. She’s too young to remember any of this, but I’m not. I had understood what was to happen. Our old life seems like a distant daydream to her whilst I have it starring in my childhood memories. Selfishly, I find myself wishing it were my mother and father who’d made it out with me. I never felt ready for the loneliness that followed our escape, forced to raise my little sister, my childhood cut short. Somehow, I knew that one day I’d have to face the world alone. We’d heard stories of the Myanmar men with guns, who hated people like us. It’s what my parents had been telling me for years in preparation. Other Rohingya villages being burnt, raided, destroyed. I shielded myself from the reality, all of us did, pretending we weren’t worried… when we were.
I remember that night well, when they burst through the doors, guns held high, angled threateningly between our eyes. The ear splitting screams synchronised with the crackle of the raging fire outside. My mother kneeling in plea as my father glanced cautiously to the crawl space where he had stowed my sister and I just moments before the intrusion, as if he were wishing we weren’t able to witness the commotion. My hand, already hot from the heat of flames that engulfed the neighbouring houses, was gripped firmly over my sister’s mouth as she struggled and cried so the men wouldn’t hear her sobs. When they
marched out from the house, dragging my parents out the door and into separate crowds of people, my father was pulled out of view and my mother into a group of young and middle aged women. The older women didn’t seem to be there. I clung to Zura, with care not to be seen, and burst from the tight space, pushing aside the dresser. A fire began to blaze, sparking amber and gold flames, swallowing up my possessions. I ran from the back door of the house. My racing mind shielded me from the gunshots and shouts of desperation. Even through the suffocating smoke and overpowering scent of burnt goods, I continued through the thick wood, getting as far as I could before finally reaching the dull but familiar shine of the riverbank under the moon. As I crouched behind a nearby cluster of trees, my heart pounded profusely and only then I noticed the tingling sensation where my thigh had been burnt and splintered
I struggle to remember the blur of events that followed. A passing ship from Bangladesh had found us and offered safe passage to the refugee camp just beyond the border. We’ve now been here for two months.
I’m grateful to be alive but know I won’t ever be the same.
The Death of Belief
Too quickly. It all happened too quickly. He died too quickly, we lost him too quickly, he seemed to have lived too quickly. And now he’s gone. The death of my uncle has left a gap in my life, a gap that is his shape, and a gap that I know can never be filled. Seas of tears could not make his blood, and mountains of grief could not create his flesh. He is gone. Forever. No matter how much I wish he wasn’t, and no matter how much I want him back, he will not return. For he has been greeted in heaven by God’s own angels, and there he will remain.
Cancer. A spreading, consuming and ever deadly illness that ate away at him for 18 months. I don’t believe that he was ever much of a religious man, but I know that he was (as my father would say) Christian with a small ‘c’. In his final moments, I should like to think that God saw him, and his family, the family that would soon weep over his body, and noticed them, just noticed them. Noticed how they all reacted to him being gone. Noticed that without this man in their lives, in our lives, we would find it hard to cope, at least to begin with. Allowed him to enter heaven, even if he wasn’t Christian with a big ‘C’.
The theodicies state that “God may have a purpose”. So why is my uncle no longer living with his family, his wife, meeting his newest grandson, no longer going to walk my cousin down the aisle, make peace with his son, continue to be there for anyone and everyone? Because God has a plan? My family has always been fairly religious, and I was even starting to lean more towards the “There is a God” side of the spectrum, but the realisation that a part of “God’s Plan” included my uncle dying seemed to shatter the spectrum and leave me on the “There is no God” side. I just can’t understand why God would want to steal this man from us, steal him from me, just because he has a plan! I can find no solace in this revelation, and I doubt that I ever will. Or another theodicy: “Ultimate beauty” (e.g. God permitted evil because it made the story more exciting). If there ever is another testament to the Bible, I would be pleasantly surprised if my uncle featured in it, and if his death made “the story more exciting”. His life should not be discarded and added to a footnote of any book, not even the Bible, and why would it be? He was hardly religious and was no Moses, or Jesus or Abraham. He was a relatively normal British man,
of no great reverence, but he was a husband. A brother. An uncle. A son. A father. A grandfather. Not anymore. “God’s Plan” has ruined it all.
This tornado of thoughts does not die down; it terrorises my mind and seems to destroy it. Yet after all of that, after all of that thinking, questioning, attempting to find an answer to something that seems to have no answer, where am I? Exactly where I started. Sad, confused and lacking in belief, even more so than when I started. How can I possibly turn to God when God Himself allowed my uncle to be taken from me? How can I possibly pray to the very being who stole him? Other people do it, I understand that. I also understand that my uncle is not the first person to die on this planet, and that it is the “natural order of things” , but that doesn’t remove the tears from my eyes. That doesn’t exterminate the ever growing grief inside of me, which builds walls around my heart and makes it ache. Only time can remove that, and I am slowly running out of patience. It’s been almost four weeks, and in that time, my emptiness and sadness have only been amplified by the slowing rate of time. It feels like time itself has slowed, dominated by grief.
How do people cope? How do people continue, as if nothing has happened? How do people “forgive and forget”? I can’t imagine my life without this internal darkness and fatigue. Now it feels as if it’s a part of me, a part of me that will always remain. I try and tell myself it will go away, but I also told myself that he would get better, and here I am, writing about his demise. I’ve never felt so weak. Would God give me strength in my time of need? He didn’t give my uncle strength, what’s so special about me? No, this is it, I’m afraid. Perhaps in time I will forgive, but for now, for as long as this darkness strangles me, I regret to inform you that I cannot.
The Penitent End.
5 years, 4 months, 3 days
If I don’t run, I never will. If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to again. Time fades with the gunshots. My thoughts bang with the bombs. I have to do what my friends are too late to. I have to do what my father shouts at me. I have to do what my unborn brother is kicking me to do. But I can’t do what my heart is retching to do. I can ’t stay home.
The sun drips the blood of crying mothers. The trees soak the sweat of petrified children. But I have to stay brave. As my mother stares into the rusting container wall, I stay brave. as my little brother plays with an old chocolate wrapper he found in a donated coat, I smile. As I see the ribs of a starved baby, I give the mother a hug. No one but us knows this hopelessness. Everything I own is not my own. The food I eat, the water I drink, they are meant for someone else. But there is nothing I can do. My hijab is my only identification of who I am, because I am illegal. I can not leave, I can not change how things are. I could die, but then my mother and brother would die. None of us can make a difference to this world; we are just living for each other and to prove them wrong.
Earth had been my home for 10 years before it showed me its darkest colours. It showed the sickening blood of my best friend, splattered on the camouflaged combat trousers of an armed man. It showed my new home to be four rusting walls with Breeze Corporation written across my “front window” looking over the chaotic market selling toiletries. It showed the only one man who ever believed I was worth anything, to be drowned on the boat, his calloused hands holding on to mine as the waves washed over them. And then with one crash he was gone. My last words “hold on, hold on,” but maybe I was the one that let go? The Earth is yet to show me the light that it once shone on me. It has yet to present me with respite. I live for the day when this is over. But what if this is forever? Until then, all I can do is survive. I can not live, but I can stay alive and keep my brother and mother alive.
5 years these soil floors, that turn to mud, have been my kitchen tiles. 5 years and 4 months I have been the sole carer for a toddler. 5 years, 4 months and 2 weeks I have stood in the rations queue for bread and water. 5 years, 4 months, 2 weeks and 3 days I
have woken with the sun to clean the previous night’s rain from our kitchen. And I see no end.
The human rights advisors’ advice is to carry on surviving, not to live and think about the future, just to survive. And I will survive this. I have to, otherwise what they did will never be proved wrong.
The anthology containing the winning entries for this academic year’s competition will be available in the autumn term of 2023.
