Storymakers Issue 2
Photography by Leah Sharma
The
eCreative Writing Societyy
from the society: This term has been lots of fun for the Creative Writing Society. We have seen new members continuing to join from Year 10 to the Sixth Form, our club continuing to grow. We’ve also been engaging in a wide variety of sessions based around different styles of creative writing. A personal favourite was our flash fiction session, where we were challenged to write a story in less than 500 words - or even one in less than six! You can see some examples of these on page eight. This issue is filled with excellent pieces of writing - some from our members, some outside the society; some parts of larger works, some standalone; and of course our Tea and Texts segment, where one of our members reviews a book they’ve read this term and offers a suggestion of a tea they’d pair with it. We hope you enjoy the issue!
introducing new members: Year 10 Arshiya Sawhney
Year 11 Moyin Omotade
Sixth Form Francesca Wolff Roxanna Tillotson Elizabeth Wells
Hilary Term 2022i
Photography by Molly O’Boyle
Photography by Molly O’Boyle
Photography by Leah Sharma
iContentsi .art & photography. Sunset by Leah Sharma 04 Rose by Lucy Wood and Ice by Molly
Iprose fictioni 01 02 03 04 05 07
Photography by Molly O’Boyle
cover
Blood and Blossoms by Saraya Perdios I Live Alone by Melania Chukwu Between the Narrative by Ryan Garston Fairytale by Arlo Evans Him and Her by Diya Liyanwela Extract from Amnis Perennis by Francesca Wolff
08 Flash Fiction
O’Boyle
09 13 15 16 19 24 26
Hallway by Amelie Soames Figure by Amelie Soames Bud by Lucy Wood Sketch by Lucy Wood Light by Leah Sharma Morning Glory by Lucy Wood Coastline by Molly O’Boyle
ipoetryi 18 19 20 22
Love by Shoshana Levy The Rainbow by Anonymous To Her by Anonymous Untitled by Alina Silkin
year 7 poetryi 24 Nature’s Beauty by
Iyear 9 gothic storiesi 10 13
Brother by Lani Young The Most Important Rule by India
15
Henry-Blackford Lover’s Trace by Mitzi Simpson
25 26 27 28 29 30
Lucinda Rawlings Guitar by Aaliyah Taylor Haven by Lyla Kerr Anger & Fear by Kara De Napoli Home by Ashika Hirani Dear Mother by Annabel Jenkins Tea & Texts by Eliza Verney-Kershaw
Blood and Blossoms
K
nife twirling in my fingers, I look up at the large cherry tree. It is April so the hot pink pom-poms of the Kanzan cherry trees cover the orchard. The delicate scent wafting through the air reminds me of when I was younger; mother and I would sit together by candlelight and stare at the constellations adorning the midnight sky. It used to make me cry but now the memory makes me smile to myself. I guess with time you learn to cherish the memories you had rather than dwell on those you don’t. The sun's rays shine through the branches of the tree, creating pools of sunlight. My fingers graze the emerald shards of grass and tickle into the pools of sunlight. The warmth of the sunlight instantly heats my body and brings a smile to my face. My eyes drift from the calm pools of sunlight and the soft shards of grass to my blood-soaked dress. The porcelain mini-dress is patterned delicately with the maroon and scarlet shades of old and new blood. It makes it look like thousands of tiny rubies have been sewn into the dress. I've always loved rubies. My wings rapidly flutter behind me, desperately trying to defy gravity and lift my body off the ground. I will myself to hover over the bodies littering the grass before concentrating on one particular soul. Their limp arm connects with the
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ground in a desperate struggle to crawl away. I let them. It’s more fun when they think they're winning; it always brings a childish smile to my face. Mum always used to say it's the little things in life that make you happy. My knife cuts through the air and lodges itself between their hand and the ground. My body jolts as an ear-splitting scream shears into my eardrums. God, dying people could be so over-dramatic sometimes. My other knives quickly bombard their body as an attempt to shut them up. It doesn't exactly work as planned. Their screams just got louder until even the trees were covering their non-existent ears. ‘Can you please shut up now! You're ruining my serenity,’ I order through gritted teeth, lodging another knife in their back. ‘You psychopath, you’re a bloody psychopath!’ they gasp. I just rolled my eyes. It wasn’t like they were my first kill. I look back over to the person. They were sprawled out across the grass, lying in a pool of blood. It mixes with the mud around the base of the cherry tree to create a beautiful sangria colour. It seeps into emerald grass, creating a sort of river of contrasting hues. All in all, a very aesthetically pleasing experience. By Saraya Perdios
I
never broke my routine, even after it happened. I always woke up, brushed my teeth, put on my clothes, and headed off to work. A boring routine, some may say, but it has worked for me for the last 25 years. The highlight of every day was returning from work and sitting down to a warming, home-cooked meal. Before it happened, I never cooked my food so I had to learn at first but soon grasped it.
Inching my way out of the laundry like a tortoise peeking from its shell, I gave the kitchen doorknob one more try and, with almost no effort, it opened. In pride of place on the breakfast table was a plate of macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets and garlic bread. As I walked closer to the smell of food, a note caught my attention. I did not write the message. I know this as it was not in my black 0.5mm black gel pen ink or on my 50% recycled material paper. In fact, it was a note written by my beloved wife.
I Live Alone This Sunday, I returned from work and headed for a shower before I tucked into my evening meal. Strangely, after my shower, I could hear faint footsteps coming from downstairs. This was strange to me as I live alone. Nevertheless, I clenched my weapon of choice, a lamp, in my hand and fearlessly headed downstairs.
As I got closer and closer to the ground floor, the aromas that filled the air invited me to let my guard down. It smelt as if macaroni and cheese, garlic bread and chicken nuggets were being cooked. My wife used to cook my favourite food for me, but I never learned how to prepare that particular meal. I checked the living room; no one was there. I checked the study; no one was there. I checked the downstairs bathroom; no one was there. The last place to check was the kitchen but the door was locked. The kitchen door could be locked only from the inside, and I am on the outside. I live alone. The smell intensified as I was desperately trying to budge the kitchen door open. I kept pushing and banging on it, hoping that it would open. Suddenly, darkness. Darkness swallowed the surrounding air, leaving me without sight. Panicked, I attempted to hide from any danger under a pile of clothes in the nearby laundry cupboard. The lights turned on at the exact moment that I heard a familiar voice say, ‘Luka! Dinner’s ready!’
No. My wife had passed, so it couldn’t be her who wrote this note. No one but me had access to my kitchen, so who could it possibly be? Before I could piece together who was in my house, a knock sounded at the door. Before I could respond properly, a group of policemen in thick armoured uniforms burst through the door, handling me roughly against the wall and pulling out cuffs. I pleaded with the officer and weakly resisted, my confusion and panic growing; I could not think of anything I had done wrong. ‘In here!’ Screamed one officer. Curious, and filled with dread, I stumbled after the policeman dragging my elbow. To my horror, they were standing in the kitchen, having lifted the tiles and revealed the body of a woman. Someone had bashed her skull in with a shovel, but apart from that her body was shockingly pristine and, most importantly, she had the same pearl necklace I gave to Anne, my wife, on our 12th anniversary. She looked just like Anne. But that can’t be possible. I buried Anne in the cemetery last year. And then I blinked and it all came rushing back. I killed my wife. I never broke my routine, even after it happened. I always woke up. Brushed my teeth. Put on my clothes and headed off to work. A boring routine, some may say, but it has worked for me for the last 25 years. By Melania Chukwu
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Between the Narrative By Ryan Garston
I
'm not saying this isn't real. What I am saying is that my thoughts always happen a second after I think them. There's a delay between my eyes tracking the wall and my body registering the colour of the paint. You get what I mean, right? I watch your face for a response. ... Yeah, so I'm kinda foggy. I mean, I'm not all there. The clock by my bed invades the gaps in our conversation with a steady, knowing tick, droning on like a metronome. It's the type of thing that should fade into the background, that should become buzz, but I am ever-aware. Without it, I feel like the walls would flake away.
Yes, I know that makes things worse, don't patronise me. I just don't like to do it. ... I shake my head. No, it's not insomnia. I just don't like not being here, when it just stops. It does that when you go to sleep. My fingers curl. And I’ve been getting black-outs too so it just — it scares me. I need people around me, I need it. My fingers curl into my palms. ... It's okay. ... I know, thank you.
I keep watching you, your blank expression. You know, I feel almost bad for inviting you here, all things considered. I haven't been keeping up with the upkeep, so to speak. The coffee I made is cold. It’s always been cold, I left it out too long. I can smell the syrup coagulating at the bottom.
You stare at me with paper eyes. I feel a warm growth start to mutate in my chest and trail up my arm. I take your hand. Thank you for talking to me. Seriously, it means a lot. I don’t have anyone else recently. You smile. My lips turn upwards. ...
You start talking to me. ... No, I haven't been sleeping late. I haven't been sleeping.
As you stand, your rising fingers trail the creases of mine, then drop away naturally like detaching anchors. Splitting land. And as you leave, the clock's tick deccelerates into a constant buzz.
... 3
Wait, where are you going?
I was running. I had been for what felt like
forever. Running from so many things, but right now I was running from him. My feet beat against the ground. I didn’t stop, not when I had a painful stabbing feeling in my side, not when my mouth was bone dry and I felt like I was going to be sick. The further I got, the deeper into the forest I found myself and the quieter it was. The pounding of hooves faded, but I continued to run. I only stopped when the moon was high in the sky and everything around me was pitch black. I couldn’t even see two paces in front of me. My legs felt like heavy lead pipes attached to the worn out frame of my body. Collapsing into a ditch filled with dead leaves and damp moss, I passed out. Snowflakes fell softly, melting as soon as they touched my skin. The snow was soft underfoot. I was with a person. A tall man, someone I didn’t recognise. His face wasn’t completely focused, just a blur; I couldn’t make out any of his features, other than his piercing, icy eyes. Their coldness made my
soul shiver and as he stared at me, I got a strange sense of déja vu. The man took my hand tightly in his warm one. I looked down. His hand completely covered mine and mine was… mine was tiny. About the size of a young child’s. He wandered forward, and I felt myself go with him. We were walking down a path, with roses climbing around the walls and over in arches. The deep red was stark against the clean white of the snow, reminding me of the ‘Snow White’ story my mum used to tell me when I was little. We continued walking for what felt like forever until a large castle came into view; the path led right up to the heavy wooden doors. The strange man threw them open. I awoke. I was damp and shivering, clinging to my knees in a ball. I sat up and gazed around. I was in a ditch, in the middle of nowhere. I racked my brains, trying to remember how I got here. The horses. The man, the fear I felt, it all flooded back. I didn’t know him, I just knew I had to get away.
Fairytale
By Arlo Evans
od Wo ucy L y
b Art Photography by Molly O’Boyle
4
His:
How is it possible that someone's glow catches all your attention? It doesn't leave your mind. Her skin is as soft as a vivid shadow. Her presence is like the sunset after a leisure-filled summer’s day. Her energy is like a shot of espresso. Her smile is like the discovery of a goldmine. Her hair each strand - seems to be woven by the hands of Zeus. Her aura, I imagine, is filled with the most vibrant of colours. She’s perfect. I’ll never forget the time she greeted me. I froze up and took in her flawless presence. She was facing me, waiting for a response. So what did I do? I walked away…to my shock and utter regret.
&
Him
Hers:
How is it possible to despise someone that much? He doesn’t leave me alone - always looking at me like a creep. I see him in the corner of my eye - his head always turned to face me. He’s quiet and so closed off. I remember this one time I said ‘Hi’ but he ignored me. What do I do with that? I mean, he’s so peculiar. I don’t know if I feel bad for him or absolutely irritated by his presence. He’s always alone though; I don’t think he has any friends. It’s honestly sad.
His:
She’s all that is on my mind currently. Day in, day out, that encounter repeats in my head. The shame, the embarrassment and the downright humiliation drags me down. I constantly think of how it could have gone. If I had more confidence, would we be friends? Would she have smiled at me in the corridor every day? Would she have actually started to notice me? I nearly wish she had not come up to me at all. I am almost fond of being able to create an image of her that suits my liking. That’s terrible. But it’s addicting, the 5
maladaptive thoughts returning every chance I get to think. She is like a close friend. It’s just a very one-sided friendship. I am so sick of being forced to the side lines because of my own ambiguity. A notion started to form as I thought of plucking up the courage to do what I have wanted to do for so long. My stomach clenched just thinking about making contact. It has been three years. Three years I have been admiring her from a distance and anticipating some miracle to form that allows us to properly meet. School is coming to an end and so are my chances of getting to know her. I must act soon before that prospect flies over my head. I think extensively of how disappointed I would be if I do not say anything. I think to myself, what’s the worst that can happen? The following hour, I find her in the lunch hall surrounded by a flock of people, as she always is. This won’t make it any easier, but she's always with someone so better now than never. My heart racing, my limbs shaking and my chest tightening, I squeeze past a few people and see her perched on the table talking to a few others. Deep breath. Clear my throat.
&Her By Diya Liyanwela
“Hey Adeline,” I spoke, my voice trembling. She looks over and her eyes widened ever so slightly, as if she was surprised to see me. “Hey..um,” she answers, waiting for me to announce my name. I tell her and smile. She didn’t smile back which sort of put me off. Nonetheless, I began to talk about science classes which we take together but I get cut off. “You lost Chicken Little?” I turn around to see a tall bulky guy peering down at me with an intimidating look. Richard. I gulp and my palms began to sweat. My immediate thought was to get out. People around us started to chuckle whilst others tried to suppress their laughs with a hand cupped over their faces. I look back at Richard and he takes an exaggeratedly aggressive step forward in an attempt to shock me. It works. I stumble backwards, tripping over a bag on the floor, and hit the ground. Howls of laughter surround me. I have never felt so vulnerable; I immediately scramble off the floor, push open the doors and sprint out of there. Stock image © Josh Felise 2015
Hers:
I watch him scurry away, face red with unease. I roll my eyes at Richard and tell him to get lost. His friends high-fived him as they all continued to laugh at the pointless torment they inflicted. I stare down at my shoes, feeling so guilty that I didn’t help. He may be strange but he seems sweet. It had only just occurred to me that this was the first time I had heard his voice. It was so warm and friendly. I decided the first thing I ought to do when I got home was contact him. Who knows, maybe we could both gain a friend.
His:
My breath was harsh as I hurtled out of the school towards home. My legs run faster as if the laughs were chasing me. I clutched my backpack as if it could save me from the embarrassment. Nothing can save me from the embarrassment. I felt the heat seeping through my insides and the sweat trickling down my neck. Tears pricked my eyes as I recalled the sight of Richard standing over me, cackling. Anger started to escalate. How could he be such a prick? I didn’t deserve that - he’s always been so troublesome. I mean, how could anyone possibly like that guy? If it were up to me, we would all shut him out…or better. I burst through the front door and flung my backpack to the ground. I dashed to our garden shed, still with a heaving breath and monstrous rage. I swear I’ll make him pay. He murdered my chance to talk to her; possibly the only chance I’ll ever get. I had patiently waited one thousand and ninety five days; I had patiently stuck to a corner, watching her flit from one guy to the next. I had patiently put up with all the rumours and remarks her irksome friends made about me. I waited for her. He. Ruined. It. The anger was blinding me as I continued to storm through the shed. I approached the back of it and slammed open the cupboard doors. I rummaged through it, forcefully grabbed the rifle and loaded it. 6
A
nna looks around the ruins of her wrecked city and does not dare breathe. She feels perhaps while she holds her breath she can pretend it’s a dream, or some kind of vision. Perhaps while she holds her breath it isn’t true. But she can’t hold her breath forever. The exhale, when it finally comes, clouds on the glass she’s pressed against. She doesn’t wipe the mist away. Instead, she turns her back on the Extract from window. She has seen enough.
Will they remember hers? What will people say, she wonders, when they talk about Carthage? What will they say when they talk about Dido? Anna is old enough to recognise the difference in the way they talk about the gods and the way they talk about the goddesses. Baal is strong, powerful, regal. Astarte is shamed and hated. Melqart is fierce and brave. Anath is naked and vain. She has no doubt that when they tell her sister’s story, it will not be full of her military exploits, as Aeneas’ will be. It will not be about her legacy, about her foundation of the mighty city of Carthage. It will not be a story about her life.
Amnis Perennis
She walks through the halls of her palace, the stone cracked beneath her bare feet and the plaster crumbling onto her hair and shoulders. She wonders if the white dust makes her look like a ghost.
More important - most important - will be her death. Already Anna is hearing whispers from the few remaining Carthaginians she has come across. They talk about Dido’s lust, her shallowness. They say she was driven mad by love, driven to her own destruction and the destruction of her own city.
The doors to the palace have been torn off their hinges, and the giant wooden slabs lie broken and charred on the dusty ground. There are Guérin: Dido and Aeneas, oil on canvas 1815 splashes of deep red sprayed across the dark oak, and Anna pauses to wonder whose it is. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine the terror shining in his tear-studded eyes as the sword glinted towards him. But she They say she was driven mad by love. By her own cannot imagine his face. She cannot remember his arrogance. Never, Anna thinks, by the gods. name. They don’t dare ascribe that fault to the gods. No. It is the fault of the woman. It is always the fault Will they remember his name, in years to come? of the woman. Photography by Amelie Soames 7
By Francesca Wolff
I Flash Fictioni With the flick of a switch, the light goes out. If only it was that easy for all of humanity. Eliza Evans
The screaming of the crowd bounced against the walls of my skull and nearly burst my eardrums. You would think I'm used to it by now. Saraya Perdios
“I never loved you,” she lies. Francesca Wolff
“I’ll get help, I can get help! Sh*t. Stay there, I promise everything- everything’s gonna be fine, okay? Just hang on, goddamn it, hang on!” A clear streak ran over her cracked, bloody lips, and I realised that she was crying. She didn’t think she would make it. She was crying. Brave, beautiful Pyra was crying. “It’s- it’s alright,” she whispered in a hoarse voice. “It’s ok. Just-“ “No.” Denial. The first stage of grief. Hell no. She was not going to leave me, she couldn’t just die, that wasn’t what was supposed to happen, we were all supposed to get out of this. That was the point, wasn’t it? All the main characters in the stories I had read always lived, they always survived. It wasn’t fair, it couldn’t be“Please- hold me.” She squeezed my hand tight as I pressed her to my chest. Eliza Verney-Kershaw
His ring sinks in dark water. Francesca Wolff
In the attic, a flame flickers. Francesca Wolff
Bright white shoes, ruined by blood. Francesca Wolff
8
Year 9 have been diving into the world of gothic Literature and have been having a go at writing a story of their own. Gothic writing uses isolated scenery, creating a feeling of fear and suspense through dark and unsettling imagery. These stories are not for the faint of heart due to the supernatural powers, darkness, madness and death that they hold; if all of this sounds like something you would enjoy reading, then you are in the right place. Read on at your own risk!
Gothic o Stories
9
Photography by Amelie Soames
T he
moon hung in a crescent, a speck of luminous white amidst the blanket of ebony above. Moonlight illuminated endless rows of tombstones, weathered and cushioned with moss, beneath a canopy of trees that creaked and groaned like wounded animals. Rain pounded violently against the Earth, turning my clothes to soaking weights and whisking the muddy ground under my feet into a frenzy.
I didn’t know why my brother was doing this, what could’ve happened to transform him from the boy I’d loved all my life to the cold-blooded killer that stood before me but, at that moment, one truth shone with startling clarity through the dark tangle of uncertainty in my mind. The simple truth that I was certain of as I stood above the corpse of his latest victim: my brother was a monster.
A deathly silence settled over the graveyard as I stood, rooted to the spot by misery and terror, my eyes boring desperately into my brother’s. Although our appearances were identical - down to the quirk of our lips when we smiled and the hazel shade of our eyes - that night we couldn’t have looked more different. My brother’s face was marred with undisguised malevolence, his lip curled in a venomous smirk, while my own expression twisted into one of grief both for the loss of the brother I’d grown to love and for the body that lay, limp and pale, at his feet.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The words caught me off-guard and my head whipped up as I looked left and right, certain for a moment that somebody else had walked into the graveyard. I glanced at the fence that bordered the cemetery, cloaked by the sheet of rain that fell from the sky and enveloped our nearby surroundings like a translucent shroud, imprisoning occupants - both living and deceased - within its clutches. No shadowy figure awaited my eyes. My brother and I were utterly alone. I turned back to face him, eyebrows furrowed, puzzled.
The most recent of his victims. Another body to add to the growing list of souls he’d snatched from this earth before their time. I was too late to stop him once again.
I only understood to whom my brother was referring when he lifted a foot, his battered show streaked with trails of blood that stood out, sickeningly scarlet, against the white of his trainer, and used it to turn the corpse towards me. My heart flew to my throat, pounding at such an alarmingly rapid rate it felt liable to burst, as I stared in horror at the young girl who lay before me.
Brother
My brother followed the path of my stare, eyes narrowing maliciously as his gaze came to rest on the blood-soaked corpse beneath him. An animalistic snarl began to spread across his features and…oh dear God. As I watched, his expression morphed into one of utter joy and, as his eyes lit up with a manic light, I realised, with a stab of icy dread, my brother felt no remorse for the brutal acts of murder he’d commited. Oh, no. He was enjoying this.
She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen - the same age as my brother and me. Blood, dark and crimson, slowly seeped through her clothes, transforming her shirt from an angelic white to a macabre red. I felt a wave of 1
0
nausea rise up inside me as my eyes flicked from the girl’s body, splayed atop the mud-splattered earth, to her face. Her complexion was pallid, her mouth warped in an endless scream - a gaping black hole that would never be closed - and her eyes, glassy and widened with a terror from which she couldn’t escape, appeared to stare straight through me. Something about those bloodshot eyes - perhaps the haunted glint that lingered in their depths, or perhaps the intensity with which they bore into my own, accusingly - sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the night. Instead of dwelling on the unsettling feeling that was gradually twisting my stomach into knots, I turned to my brother, looked him dead in the eyes, and spoke aloud the one simple question to which I had desired the answer for so long. “Why?” The wind picked up, propped up, propelling the rain that poured from the sky in torrents sideways and sending the freezing droplets driving into my skin like thousands of tiny bullets. I barely noticed it, my attention focused wholly on my brother, heart beating an uneven rhythm against my rib cage. “You see, dear brother,” he shouted to be heard above the downpour, but the volume of his voice did nothing to take away from the pure poison which laced his tone. “I needed to kill someone.” “Who?” It took all my limited willpower to keep my voice from trembling. “Who did you need to kill?” “Anyone.” The word held an air of finality. It was the confirmation of my worst suspicions. My brother tilted his head back and released a short whoop of laughter, like that of a hyena with its prey trapped between its fangs. The sound echoed through the gloom of the graveyard, bouncing off the tombstones ominously.
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His eyes raised to meet mine, filled to the brim with dire cruelty. “And, my dear brother, that is exactly what we’ve done. Kill.” I froze. “W-we? What are you talking about? We haven’t done anything! I had no part in this!” Droplets of rain ran in rivulets down the side of my face, steadily dripping from my sopping hair and blurring my vision. Hastily, I brought up a hand, brushed the water from my eyes and…stopped. A thick, sticky substance lingered on the side of my face, as I pulled my hand away. Had I not known better, I would have guessed it to be nothing more than water but no. I knew the harsh sting of rainwater hitting my cheek and this new liquid was worlds apart. With a rising sense of apprehension, I raised my trembling hands and, tearing my eyes from my brother’s gleeful face, directed my gaze downwards. At that moment, as my hands came into focus, the vicious pattering of the rain and the joyful snickers of my brother were instantly obliterated, replaced by the rasp of my own breathing, stuttering and laboured with pure, unbridled horror. The sound blended with the relentless pounding of blood in my ears to create a strangely hypnotic melody that consumed me, suffocating any other sound. Blood. Pints and pints of nauseating, crimson blood. Coating my hands. But no. How was that possible? I definitely hadn’t touched the body and the blood wasn’t my own. Frantically, I whipped round to face my brother, to confront him, ask him if this was somehow his doing, some cruel practical joke or an attempt at framing me for the murder, should the police happen to arrive. I expected, as I turned, to be faced with my brother’s mirthless grin, taunting me, finding humour in my anguish. Instead, empty space was all that awaited my widened eyes.
In desperation, I turned in circles, looking left and right, peering through the rain for any sign of my brother. I had only glanced away for a second, surely it wasn’t possible for him to have walked out of my line of sight in such a short amount of time? A glimpse of glistening red out of the corner of my eye was what alerted my attention to the rest of it. A violent tide of crimson drenching my shirt, ushering in the undeniable realisation that it was I who was the monster. This very scene had played out many times before. I just hadn’t wanted to remember. But now the sight of my shirt, dripping with blood that was not my own, was all it took to send the world my mind had generated crumbling to dust at my feet. The barriers of denial I had mentally constructed were no match for the ferocity with which the truth forced its ugly head to the surface. Flashes of memory, distorted and bloody, cartwheeled across my vision as the picture came together in my mind, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally slotting into place. The acrid stench of detergent. My own clothes left to soak in the sink. Flakes of dried blood mingling hypnotically with water. Glassy eyes, bloodshot and pleading, burning into my retinas as I tried to fall asleep.
There was no him. My brother. My best friend. The convenient twin whom I had loved all my life, until his violent tendencies surpassed his sanity. I remembered, now, how he would whisper to me in the night, urging me to commit the most heinous crimes. Urging me to hurt. To maim. To kill. I recalled how his outline would occasionally flicker and distort after I’d had a particularly stressful day. I remembered how the kids at primary school would shoot wary glances my way, whispering biting words like “freak” and “nutter” at my back whenever I talked with my brother in the playground. Sixteen years’ worth of memories. Sixteen years spent talking to a brother who was never there. My God. What had I done? My knees buckled under the weight of my guilt and I sank to the ground in utter despair, unable to hold myself up any longer. Rain streamed from the vast black sky above and I watched in numb fascination as the red was sucked from my blood-saturated clothes, tendrils of pink dispersing like veins amid the puddles of water. The young girl’s corpse lay feet away, bloated and bloody. The rain may wash the evidence from my hands but the blood will forever stain my soul.
Scarlet staining my hands, my lips twisted into a merciless grin as I started down at body after body after body. Bodies I had snatched from life. Not him.
By Lani Young
1
2
The most important rule:
W
ailing. Agonising wailing. So faint it might almost not be there. It was a shadow of a sound, but she could hear it and her head perked up, turning towards the noise. She stared out into the long, shadowy corridor and trepidation washed through her, chilling her to the bone. The young girl had only recently become acquainted with the rooms of the house and the long, looming corridor that lay before her was a place she had once thought to never dare creep. But this sound, this awful sound, it drew her. The winter wind howled as it blew through the open shutter and rushed through her nightgown, freezing. The girl startled as the frigid cold jolted through her, taking a shaky breath. Cautiously, she placed down the hamper of clothes she was instructed to carry. Wordlessly, she closed the shutter, the vicious wind still beating at the closed pane. She crept towards a candle that hung on the wall. It guttered and danced as she raised it tentatively, a pool of light guiding her mismatched footsteps down the dark hall. The wailing, shrieking sound grew louder and louder as she
1 3
approached and panic choking her.
rose in her chest,
She froze. The wailing had stopped. She stood, trembling in the quiet of the corridor. Alone. The silence was deafening. Stricken with fear, she replaced the candle on the wall and rushed back to her hamper, not daring to look up. Two moons passed before she heard it again. That awful, awful wailing. The sound bled into her eardrums, drowning her thoughts. Once again, she raised the candle from the wall and crept forward. The sound surrounded her like a vacuum. Fear gripped her like a vice. Her shallow breaths and quiet footsteps felt almost completely drowned out by the haunting noise. The wailing grew louder and louder, like a roaring in her ears. She stilled, her heart pulsing against her ribcage. Slowly, her gaze turned up. Embedded in the damp ceiling was a wooden trap door. It was gnarled and splintered, and terror struck ever deeper into her heart the longer she stared at it.
Photography by Amelie Soames
Never enter the attic. By India Henry-Blackford
The attic. A single piece of string hung lifelessly from the wood, seemingly stained from age. Nervously, she rose to the balls of her feet and stretched out a skinny brown arm, grabbing at its fraying ends. A stray dark curl fell into her eyes as she tugged at it, temporarily shielding her vision from the ominous flow that pooled out of the small opening.
By now, the tortuous wails had long since dissolved into nothingness, leaving a hollow feeling of unease in her chest. Sheer curiosity and fear drove her forward now and, as she stood in the low, roofed room, one rule echoed in her mind. Never enter the attic. Not under any circumstances. It is forbidden. Her hands trembled as she took a single step forward and the floorboards creaked and moaned under the new weight. Only short breaths escaped her lips, the quiet rendering her wordless. Suddenly, a sharp cry ripped through the silence, and the girl gasped. Muffled sobs reverberated off the walls, with short gasps cutting through them. The girl rounded a large
wooden beam and there it was. A child. Bony and pallid, a nightgown hanging limply off their form. It was crying. Large, dampened sobs wracking their small body, long hair falling, matted, over their large eyes. They were sat in a way that looked wildly uncomfortable and the girl’s eyes turned to their leg, stuck out and warped at an unnatural angle. The child was crouched at the end of a small bed, though it seemed almost comically big compared to it. Its dented metal frame shook as the child sobbed, its creaking seeming to almost moan. The girl took another cautious step and the child’s large dark eyes gazed tearily up at her. The longer she stared at it, the stronger the feeling of unease grew in her chest. She looked at the walls, low and crowding, where a single candle sat, glowing green. The child’s shadow on the wall seemed to shift and change, when suddenly, it halted. The shadow of a horrifying creature loomed over her. She turned her wide eyes back to the child and its eyes glowed.
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t has been exactly two days since I last saw that February winter scene. Standing in front of Laura’s burial marked the end of my old life and the start of a new one. The dark grey thunder clouds cramped the sky and my breath was a visible cold steam. Miniscule specks of snow fluttered down from the sky and dampened the dull grass. The dying winter trees cast long shadows across the silent cemetery, bowing for the fallen. Old graves scattered across the area, the only evidence of the corpses’ acts of shameful abandonment of the living. The gates rudely travelled along the sides, trapping me in this grim library of bodies. The only noise I could register was the faint sound of my hollow, shaking breath and the slight chirp of a morning bird further up the moor.
unearthly, yet comforting connection, her life-like form substantial enough to keep me going. At least then I would be able to feel her once again. She was so arrogant to leave me without her touch.
Lover’s Trace
Perhaps if I had been less overwhelmed with the agony of my anxiety, I would have appreciated the tranquil scene but naturally, my only focus was on the slim coffin that lay next to the daunting, unnatural gap in the mud. The coffin was cramped with delicate carvings all along the side of the oak wood and a simple bronze plaque on top was inscribed with my love’s initials. I believe she always preferred the simpler things. Perhaps that’s why she liked me. I was waiting on the coffin, transfixed, waiting for the performance to happen: for an angel to come down and gently lift Laura’s delicate body out of her cage and bring her back to me with all the grace in the world. God would call out her name through the miserable grey blanket and I would once again be happy. Content. Perhaps, like in the many stories Laura hoarded in her study, she would rise pale-faced and haunt me as a ghost, an 1 5
But when the coffin stayed closed and I felt no angelic touch I had to compel myself to remember that those are just stories and our lives are nothing but real.
The graveyard, thick with icy mist, recreated itself once again in the garden of our isolated manor. The flowers, once flamingo pink and soothing blue, were now withered and wilted. I suppose I wasn’t the only one in mourning. I tried desperately hard not to imagine the nostalgic image of the beautiful woman with a patched shawl, a pale yellow dress complimenting her rosy cheeks and hazel eyes, so full of interest and complexity. Her soft hands clasped around one of the many novels she praised. Her upright posture a sharp contrast to my bent-over frame, weighed with the weight of my worries. Her blonde curls bouncing with every movement, matching her tanned skin that never held an imperfection. Reality, in its evil self, heavily settled once more and my fantasies were quickly wiped. Did she not realise the consequence of her actions? Was her body so fed up with life I now had to suffer? The ghost was nothing but a cruel demon of my mind, sent to force me to move on. However the feelings she left weren’t misery or depression or loneliness. All I felt for her was raw resentment for her actions. God, I could never hate her, but
the soreness she left me with was good enough. The burning sense of vexation towards Laura unfamiliarly grabbed at my heart. How dare her body give up on me, knowing I had so many years left to live. Did she have a choice? A choice to die, a choice to haunt me, to continue to assist me in my excuse of a life? As I made my way inside the manor, searching for a source of warmth and peace that could no longer be her arms, I felt the changed atmosphere of the lonely manor on the moor. Its walls, once filled with pictures of smiles and joy, now felt like an exhibition at a museum. Our faces of delight and comfort looked peculiar to my eyes. As I made my way up the twisting stairs, each step up to the next floor began to feel bigger than the last. My weary feelings were not helping in any way. The creaks of the oak floorboards were much more noticeable and consuming than I
remembered, each high-pitched groan pained my ears, making me wince pathetically. I gripped the wooden bannister that stretched to the top of the exhausting stairs. What happened to the bright light of our home? It was now so dark and dismal. A welcoming home once, now just a ghostly husk. I forced myself up the stairs. The mirror hung just above the small walnut desk that sat to the right of our bed. The reflection I saw was not the same as the face in the photos downstairs. That child, plastered along the walls, beamed with naive and uncanny happiness. This person was dull and numb, a volume of forgotten lore. I closed my eyes, disheartened by the image facing me. My eyelashes fluttered against my still-icy face and I released a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding. I still detected the overpowering feel of her soft fingers tracing delicately over each distinct crease that decorated my open palm. I desperately attempted to ignore this spectral demon but, shamefully, I found myself tracing over where her fingers laced. My nails scraped into my skin, desperate to have some sort of physical memory of this unique, abstract feeling. The nails dug deep enough that beads of deep red seeped through my pallid skin. She still acted as if these diverting, luring actions were some
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version of compensation for her selfish abandonment of me. Her ghostly touch moved up to my rigid collar bone, tracing every area with a gentleness unmatched. Mirroring her taunting, trace of a remembered touch, I too, lifted my hands to my collarbone, scraping them into the skin, feeling the pleasure of the miserable sting. It was real to me. She confidently continued her touch around my neck, hands brushing the sensitive skins as I followed. My own claws
reached around my neck with little hesitation. Each whisper of her spectral touch sent me into a deeper spiral of darkness and caused me to add longing pressure around my neck. My fingers, my nails, sank into my skin, a violent action replaced the delicate one, so desperately needed. The room became dimmer as I felt my vision slowly dissipate. Blood trickled down from the punctures on each side of my neck as my frame slumped into the chair. The chair I had once sat so upright in.
By Mitzi Simpson
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Art by Lucy Wood
the knife you hold brings down the bone and the blood red against the sheet. The sheet is stained and my eyes are Tired and bored. you hold each chain in your hand and at the end of each one is a man who is just a broken concept of a mind. bring back the dogs and feed them with the bones you cut from their arms. your eyes are brown your hair lighter the swirls in your pupils have captured me. By Shoshana Levy
Love
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the rainbow is a mark of the covenant between god and all that is left of his people a promise of never again never again will there be such suffering enough now never again
The Rainbow
the rainbow is a promise of a new beginning a new world where people can grow, can heal where they can learn to live in harmony with each other where they can learn to live better, to love better to be better the rainbow is a symbol of his great creation of all the wonderful things he has made things of all different colours of all different kinds of beauty blue and pink and purple and shining bright his world he so loved the rainbow is a bridge between god and the people he has wronged a bridge from the rain to the sun from the darkness to the light from the despair to the hope a bridge to a happier, safer, more accepting place a bridge to better days they say we stole the rainbow that is was hijacked by the sinners, by the sodomites, by the unclean they say it was theirs, and we took it by force but the rainbow is a promise and a symbol and a bridge the rainbow is god telling his people that he has done them wrong in the past the rainbow is god telling us he will do better the rainbow is god telling us he created us, he loves us, he is offering us hope
Photography by Leah Sharma
they say we stole the rainbow how can they not see that it was ours all along?
anonymous 1 9
to her you’ve ruined holidays you’ve stained my hands and warped my definition of home. but you are my first reason you are my warmest smile you are the square block i shove into to soft gap in my heart meant for circles and i envelope all your sharp edges.
anonymous
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It’s been building up for years Yet nobody seemed to expect it Our people shed incessant tears Over a conflict surpassing our wit. Ukraine was a sovereign country With its own territory and leaders Everything they worked for is crumbling Despite their cries for freedom We feel shame for our president’s actions We have no idea what will come next We protest, demanding that the conflict slackens Only to be punished by thousands of arrests. Ukrainians hold their flag, in refusal of defeat Blue, like Kharkiv’s deep ocean skies Yellow, like Lviv’s abundant fields of wheat Killed by government, one part of our world dies The continuous bombing and shelling, The ongoing flow of refugees The Kremlin is too powerful for rebelling And civilians are forced to leave The issue in our world is the rich, the power thirsty The “people” we call our governments Who send our men to war, leaving families hurting But our leaders do this for the fun of it We beg for peace all over the earth Meaning ceasefire in every country also Where our children can live safely, from birth And every guilty nation won’t play the hero America’s occupation of Syria, blanked out The UK’s invasion of Iraq, forgotten All these double standards are the reason we doubt Knowing politics will never soften Perhaps one day, nobody will have to suffer Planet earth will be a safe, stable place without war But until then, things will only get rougher Yet we will wait patiently, and embrace what we asked for
By Alina Silkin 2
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Poetry We are delighted to present to you a selection of poems written by our Year 7s! Recently they have been studying poetic forms, learning to write their own versions of a variety of poems such as Middle-Eastern ghazals, Japanese haikus, African praise poems, and English sonnets. They have created a vast range of descriptive and delightful poems, intriguing us along the way. We hope you enjoy these poems as much as we did! 2 3
Nature’s Beauty
Nothing in nature is finer than you, A river of beauty that always flows. Your smile is the sun that shines on the dew, Your hair is shot silk that glistens and glows.
I have seen roses the brightest of hues That can’t compare to the red of your lips. Skin, pure, ike cotton, with flaws it eschews. Eyes of dazzling suns the moon can’t eclipse.
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You float elegantly like swans dancing, A beautiful face that warms up my heart. Sweet, like honey, your voice is entrancing But why do the words you utter seem tart? Although you were gifted with Nature’s grace, Underneath that beauty, a bitter face.
By Lucinda Rawlings
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G u i t a r Stainless steel strings rippling and repeating, playing a sweet melody A spotless rosewood body performing it’s calm sweet melody. Its wavy profile dipping in and out, gleaming in the sunlight; A soft background hum takes the limelight, executing the sweet melody. A focused accompanist with fingers swiftly moving from fret to fret Their skeleton fingers with skin stretched tight, strumming a sweet melody. The sweet song brings bright beams of daylight, Joy multiplies and sadness ebbs away, humming a sweet melody. If my devotion is to rock, then why do I see a lowlight of sweet melody? I wish I could replicate, harmonise, with such sweet melody. I find a package in the lounge, a wavy profile and stainless steel strings. Now I, Aaliya, am up on stage; I am the sweet melody. By Aaliyah Taylor 2 5
Haven The beach is a haven. Don’t you agree? Your wet toes sinking through the warm, soft sand, The shimmering waves of the deep blue sea, The sun wrapping you in its golden hand, The calm waves flowing in all directions While boats meander by and seek shelter. Different shades and unique reflections Palms envelop to escape the swelter. The crabs scurry to hide under the rocks, The curving cov hugs the sea so tightly. Swirling seagulls swarm together in flocks, Seashells and starfish glistening brightly. The beach is a haven for some, you see, But trapped on an island, it’s hell for me. By Lyla Kerr
Photography by Molly O’Boyle
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By Kara De Napolii 2 7
Home
By Ashika Hirani
We hold extensive get-togethers in my beautiful home, Cuddling under fluffy blankets, my beautiful home. Towering, whitewashed walls, through the halls I roam. Green, luscious gardens, my beautiful home. Eating family dinners, my amazing, beautiful home. Baking things and dancing around my special, beautiful home. Watching movies and enjoying ourselves, my beautiful home. Telling each other funny things in my fantastic, beautiful home. The sound of laughter wakes me up in my beautiful home, The soft touch of love and comfort in my beautiful home. My mum’s ability to cook like a professional, always in the zone; My dad’s amusing, odd jokes in my beautiful home. The smell of curry on a Sunday evening, in my gorgeous home, The sight of naan bread on the burning stove, my beautiful home. Loving parents, family and friends Ashika, Ashika, in my beautiful home.
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Dea Mothe Praise to my mother, You are like sunrise and sunset, Golden rays and warm beams.
You are a bright jewel, Shining in the shadows of dark, A unique and precious gem. You are my sunshine, Even on the darkest of days, Making my journey bright. You are the boxer’s glove, Powerful hit to the heart; Stunned by your strength and beauty, The crowd goes wild, Cheering, cheering. You won my love. By Annabel Jenkins
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Girl in Pieces Kathleen Glasgow Has written a deeply moving portrait of a girl in a world that owes her nothing, and has taken so much, and the journey she undergoes to put herself back together.
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Tea
Texts
For a sweet tea with matching sharp undertones, enjoy with a cup of steaming Chai.
the Society reviews
Stock image © Ylanite Koppens
“You can spot the girls who have it easy. And then there is me.” Charlotte Davis is in pieces. At seventeen, she’s already lost more than most people do in a lifetime. But she’s learned how to forget. The broken glass washes away the sorrow until there is nothing but calm. You don’t have to think about your father and the river. Your best friend who’s gone forever. Or your mother, who has nothing left to give you. ‘Girl in Pieces’ is about a teenage girl who is recovering from self harm. Her story is her adjustment back into society, when she seems to have nothing left to live for. Slowly, she makes an admirable climb from the trauma of her past, leaving a history of pain behind her as she rediscovers the beauty of life. A tale of love, pain and friendship, this book is emotionally breathtaking.
This book had me in tears but not in the way that it’s sad. It made me cry because it was beautiful, in a hauntingly bittersweet way. The writing, the story, the characters, all ‘positively angelic’. It may be triggering for some people who have had similar experiences, so please be cautious before reading this. It can also be upsetting to some younger audiences. It is rated ‘upper young adult’, so my recommended audience would be at least 14+. I would rate this book 5/5 stars, and I recommend it to anyone who is open to learning about the struggles that some people can face behind closed doors. By Eliza Verney-Kershaw
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Hilary Term Top Re
Diya Liyanwela
Francesca Wolff
Arshiya Sawhney
Saraya Perdios
Shoshana Levy
Jasmine Patel
ads from the Society
Ameya Borase
Melania Chukwu
Roxanna Tillotson
Eliza Verney-Kershaw
Eliza Evans
Miss Stuart
Storymakers
Issue 2
April 2022
Please be aware that the book recommendations are made by KS4 and KS5 pupils and as such may not be suitable for younger years. All images are used with the permission of the owner and, unless credited, are sourced from free stock photography. All stories, poems, and other writing within are the intellectual property of the stated author and should not be used or reproduced for any purpose without permission.
