Storymakers Issue 3
The
eCreative Writing Societyy from the society: This is the first Trinity Term issue of Storymaker’s. Over this past year, everyone in (and out of) our club has contributed incredible work, from gothic stories to song-inspired pieces. We have all developed in our writing so much and new members have joined each term. This magazine not only shows how excellent all our writers are but also hopefully it inspires you to write your own stories too. This term we had a wonderful opportunity, to attend a gothic-themed writing workshop with the poet and author Rosie Garland. This was such an inspiring experience and all the writers who partook in the workshop found it brilliant. Not only did we have an author’s workshop, but the new student leaders of our club organised a school workshop, where students from years 9, 10 and 12 took part in lots of fun writing activities; some pieces from both workshops are in this edition of the magazine. This is our final issue with some of our members (those leaving from year 13) and we have really enjoyed working and writing with them. Miss Stuart, our club founder, has turned this small group into an amazing writing community and we wouldn’t be the Creative Writing Society without her. She dedicates so much of her time to helping the members, but also to putting together the magazine. So here I would like to say a massive thank you to her: you’ve helped and encouraged us all so much. Anyway, enough from me, let’s get to the writing, we hope you enjoy our writing in this issue of our magazine! - Arlo Evans, Club President
introducing the club leaders: President Arlo Evans Vice President Eliza Verney-Kershaw Creative Director Saraya Perdios
iContentsi TrinityTerm 2022i
art & photographyi Spring Sunset by Miss Stuart 04 Rotunda and Window View by cover
Iprose fictioni
Jasmine Patel
01 Magical experience by Flo Samuels 03 Trapped by Charlotte Hall 04 The war against Coronavirus by Jasmine Patel Returning by Aonymous Soul by Hollie Downie
05 06 07 Extract from The Picture of Stars by Arlo Evans
09 Soul Mates by Arlo Evans
.workshop writing. 11 Memories by Eliza Verney-Kershaw 12ByI Remember the New Friend by Arlo Evans 13 Storms by Melania Chukwu 16 The Room by Saraya Perdios 17 Pandora’s Box by Arlo Evans
poetryi 19 20 20 21
Untitled by Shoshana Levy Lost in Another’s Arms by Shoshana Levy Burning Ash by Shoshana Levy Carving Knife by Shoshana Levy
Magical Experience
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nna could not sleep. It wasn't because she wasn't tired: she was. It was because she wasn't allowed to sleep. No one was telling her that she couldn't sleep, it was her own rule. She needed to stay awake because she needed to meet the tooth fairy. Anna has lost 5 teeth in total, and that was five opportunities to meet the tooth fairy missed. She was annoyed (at herself, not the tooth fairy) for always falling asleep, but this time she was going to make it, she could feel it.
nose. It looked green but it was rather hard to see in the light. It had massive ears - it must hear everything! - and a small head - so small the large eyes seemed ridiculous.
20 minutes later, nothing had happened: no whimsical fairies, no elves (she was open to the possibility of tooth elves), nothing. Anna had had enough of waiting passively so she came up with a brilliant plan: she lay down on her pillow, closed her eyes and made snoring noises. The plan was flawless; the fairies (or elves) would never know that she was in fact awake! After around 15 minutes of fake-sleeping, a small noise came from the corner of the room. It sounded like a small thud. Could it be? Finally? Anna remained still, not wanting to reveal her wakeful state too soon. She felt a small impact on her pillow. A tiny weight searching for a tooth. She opened her eyes and was greeted by the sight of two tiny eyes staring right back at her. She jumped; something about waking up with something staring at you is quite unsettling and unexpected. The creature jumped too; it had much more reason to be scared as it was much smaller than Anna. The creature had soft round eyes and a dog-like 1
“Are you a tooth fairy?” Anna had to get the answer she was searching for. The creature looked at her, confused and blinking a lot. Honestly, to expect the creature to speak English was perhaps too much to ask for. “Are you a tooth elf?” You never know. The creature remained in its confused daze. Anna felt the beginnings of disappointment. “Are you a tooth…dragon?”
The creature opened its mouth. Was this it? Would Anna finally be able to learn more about the fairy world? The creature took in a deep breath. With cautious eyes and a rather scared expression, it said, “Look, I'm just here to collect some teeth, so cough them up and I can be on my merry way, alright?” It has a surprisingly low voice. Anna was startled, tooth…creatures were not supposed to be rude! She didn't know what to say. She was in shock. “Either tell me where the teeth are, or close your mouth. You look like a trout.” This was unbelievable, a rude fairy? “T-There should be a tooth under the pillow,” she stuttered. Anna was too shocked to speak clearly. She just wanted to get the rude fairy to go, before it could ruin any of her other ideas about the fairy world. Maybe meeting the fairy had been a bad idea.
“Oh get over it!” the creature snapped. It paused and seemed to look at her properly for the first time. Maybe noticing her distress, it sighed. “Fine, here.” The creature snapped its fingers and instantly the snow globe was fixed. The fairy climbed down the bedside table, using knobs and pulls as ladders, and crawled under the bed. A few moments later it emerged with a perfectly white (though slightly dusty) molar in its tiny hand. “Now I can finally go.” The creature jumped from the floor to the windowsill in one enormous leap and then jumped right out the window, disappearing entirely. Anna was simply in awe. What an insane experience.
“Well it's not there, is it?” “I - um - I don't know why that would be, maybe it just fell under the bed?” Honestly, Anna had no idea if it was under the bed or not. “Oh okay - I'll look under the bed then,” said the tooth-creature, in a very sarcastic and mocking tone. “I just adore it when annoying children make my job harder and take even longer.” The creature jumped onto the bedside table, knocking over her snow globe on its way. “Hey, watch it! My mum got me that!” She couldn't believe this: the fairy broke into her room, told her she looked like a fish and broke one of her prized possessions. By Flo Samuels
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365th day trapped.
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It has been a year. I should be grateful. Many of us have been here longer: three years or even four. Tonight is my chance. So if you are seeing this, you are the only one who can help.
Tonight is Christmas Eve. The night every child looks forward to, just as I had when I was free. There’s a much darker side to Christmas, underneath the thin layer of snow covering it. A side I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. The ice broke for me one year ago today. And a year later, I’m planning my escape. It has to be precise. I have to be careful. I can’t do it without you.
My story begins on the 24th December, 1967. I had gone outside in the evening whilst my parents were asleep. They would have been furious with me if I had returned that night. I wouldn’t mind hearing another one of my parents’ lectures about ‘stranger danger’. I would do anything to hear from them again. It was snowing that night. Only thin snow but snow nevertheless. It was hypnotic, watching it fall. I was so completely mesmerised by it that when I saw a white flash behind a tree down my road, I couldn’t prevent myself from following it. My gut and my head were fighting as I walked towards the tree. I wasn’t stupid. I had seen horror films. The classic story of running up the stairs when you should be running out the front door. I was clever. I knew how to survive. Yet still, I steadily walked towards this continuous flash. I felt my house get further and further away. My feeling of mesmerisation grew as the world slowly began to change, becoming different. It looked beautiful. But different.
rapped
Suddenly I was in the light. All I could see was yellow surrounding me. Nothing had direction or purpose, it was all just yellow. Until, through my cautious spinning, I noticed a figure. A silhouette was watching me in the distance. Then there were multiple. They kept increasing until there were 11 of them, facing me. I walked towards them, hoping I could make out some sort of expression from their faces. I soon realised they were children. It didn’t take me long after that to find out I was trapped in a world filled with snow and trees. A snowglobe. All year round we were stuck. Occasionally the whole world would shake, but only very occasionally. Only when a child got bored and decided to spontaneously shake us. We were bruised and scraped but we were strong and smart. I was the smartest, which is why this year, we are getting out. I understand how crazy this sounds but my name is Christopher Harrold and I have been missing for a year. I’m sure my posters have been up all around. Mine and the 11 others. We found a small gap in this world. Not enough for a person but enough for this letter. I don’t know if it will get to anyone, but if you are reading this, it has got to you. Tonight, at 9 o’clock, leave your house and follow the flashing light. You will find 12 of us. Bring something long and sharp. Anything. We are breaking out of this snowglobe and you are our only chance. By Charlotte Hall
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The War Against Coronavirus The world has been flipped upside down. New headlines around the world are showing devastating things: an unknown serial killer is on the loose and we are powerless to stop it. It does not discriminate between age, colour, race, or even species, killing wantonly, painfully, suffocatingly. Isolated, lonely, and scared. Locked up in a room with no other human. Wake up everyday living the same life: wake up, eat, work, sleep and repeat. They look out the window, longing to go outside, longing to see people, longing to get back to ordinary life. This malicious monster has struck globally, spreading tragedy across ocean and land, shocking nations upon nations. Slowly but surely it’s killing the innocent people who simply wanted to go out and enjoy life. Going out, seeing friends, resulted in tragedy that ended lives. Spending last breaths thinking about how loss could have been avoided if they had just stayed… “I should’ve stayed inside, washed my hands, worn a mask, kept two meters distant.” But this is not enough. It is everywhere. Anywhere. Everywhere. We can’t escape this. We are suffocated by this. We have to learn to live with this destructive demon. The devil does not look like it is leaving, we are just going to have to live with this horrific villain. Coronavirus!
Photos and text by Jasmine Patel
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Returning Returning I
don’t see them on Tuesday. Or the rest of the week. Or for the rest of my life. “Returning this book; here for another.” And with that we’d exchange: an old classic for a brand new science fiction, or my current favourite book for theirs. Twice a week. Every Tuesday and every Friday. But after the last Friday I never saw them again. Occasionally I wonder what could have happened, one of the few familiar faces in the eternal ferris-wheel of customers suddenly disappearing. But I never knew who to contact if I wanted to find them. They fell to the back of my mind, but I always fondly remembered our bi-weekly exchanges. And I miss it all.
I would find out what happened months later. I dumped my things on the table and locked my door. Habitually walking through my apartment after a long Friday - it took ages to close up shop that day - I flicked on the TV (automatically set to the news for speed’s sake). A solemn, static voice drifted to my ears. “-a thirty two year old Latino man. His body was found in the Buffalo Bayou after he was reported missing four and a half months ago. Police have issued apologies to his family and loved ones.” Then I look up, and learn their name for the very first time. By Anonymous
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Soul
By Hollie Downie
I like trying to see what people were like by looking at their graves. Bonus points if they also have a bench. I think it’s weird how we memorialise people after they die. It’s like we trap their souls in benches or headstones. I feel no connection to my body; I am a literal bundle of spirit and when I die, I don’t want to be trapped. I want everybody I’ve ever known to forget me. I don’t want to have any tethers or ties, I just want to be free. No grave, no headstone, no bench, no loving memories. Just let me be.
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The Picture of Stars
Extract from
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he curtains were drawn back from the windows and pinned against the walls, letting the last of the summer sun shine through and cast scattered shade upon the ancient wooden desks. This room was nice. More than just nice, but nice. It was a rather comforting room, at least, in their opinion it was. Bookshelves lined the back wall, all the way from the floor to the excessively high ceiling (that weren’t really half as high as they felt them to be, they were just not that tall). They loved the books; some were old and the binding worn away, others newer and the rest somewhat battered, but they just thought of those ones as well-loved. They plucked a small paperback that read ‘Orlando’ in faded font down the spine. The paper was going yellowy-brown and the pages were crinkled and dry. They let the book fall open in their hand and flicked to the first page: “He - for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it - was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters”.
Click. They glanced up and saw their teacher walking through the doorway. “Er… Miss- Mister, can I help you?” The professor asked. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sir. I was told you had a spare copy of Lord of the Flies - the library sent me here, you see.” “Ah, yes yes. It’s around here somewhere,” he said, opening a cabinet and rifling through it. They replaced Orlando on the shelf and turned back to the teacher who had just brandished the book in triumph. “Here you go; please do return it within the month. I don’t need another one of my books to go missing.” “Thank you, Sir, it’s very kind of you.”
“Who are you, I have not seen you around here before?” “Firnn, Char-Charlie. I’m Charlie Firnn.” The professor nodded, ignoring or not noticing the verbal stumble. “I’m new. I just got here this morning from London.” “Ah, very good. London’s a pleasant place, though very busy. I much prefer it here in Scotland. I’m Professor Burns, one of the English Literature teachers, beloved by all my students! That end bit is only partly a joke,” he added with a wry grin. Charlie smiled slightly and nodded their head. “Thank you again for the book, it was nice to meet you.” Burns nodded and sat down in his armchair, giving a slight wave to Charlie as they left. By Arlo Evans
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Two bodies fit as one; just like the Greeks believed. These creatures were called Soul-Mates. Creatures with four arms and four legs, creatures too powerful for any of the Gods; creatures joined at the heart. By Arlo Evans
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Soul Mates
Silver flooded the room, and in the shadows of night, two hands found each other, fingers entwined, unable to be broken. The two bodies fit together perfectly, forehead against shoulder and a nose nestled in messy hair. Arms wrapped around waist and neck, the two swayed as one. Bare feet against wooden floor. Through the open window, a gentle breeze rustled hair and blew at t-shirts. The two people stumbled every now and then, grinning as they did so. Their grasp on each other loosened as one spun slowly, returning to their partner, with so much love in their eyes.
MEMORIES ARE T HE STORIES YOU TELL YOURSELF hosted by Jared McGuiness
“Lived experiences (yours and others’) can be the starting point for your fiction. Everyone, especially you, has stories worth telling.” Jared McGinnis was chosen as one of the UK’s ten best emerging writers. His debut novel The Coward was selected for BBC 2’s Between the Covers, BBC Radio 2’s Book Club and the Barbellion Prize. We watched a recording of a workshop he delivered for the 2021 Writer’s Week to find inspiration for our own writing. Workshop recording courtesy of the Arvon Foundation
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I remember. The soft lapping of waves on the beach, the gentle breeze ruffling your hair. Your smile, when I stole your hat, and how you chased me into the sea, the laughter drowning out everything else. The joy on my face and the hot drink in my hand, and how you teased me for it. Because ‘who drinks herbal tea in 30 degree heat?’
Memories
Our little group, talking about things that seemed so big then, but now seem so small.
The music, and how it was stuck in my head for days afterwards, because you wouldn’t stop whistling it. Charades, cake, presents, hugs, and everything a birthday was supposed to have. Sunbathing, swimming, chatting, flirting and everything a birthday should have. You looking at me. I remember all the good things. But also when it all went wrong. The harsh bang of gunfire, how it startled us, and how it wouldn’t stop. It was so loud, God it was so loud, and persistent, like a siren. The dark figures chasing us around, laughing, and the screams that drowned out everything else. The fear in your eyes, and how you looked around wildly for me. But while you looked for me, I was down already, my vision blurring. Our little group, reduced by half, as they lay face-down in the sand, you with them. How the music kept playing even after there was no one to enjoy it. Red sand, silence, pain, and nothing a holiday should have. 1 1
By Eliza Verney-Kershaw
I Reme mbe th Ne
Frien I
remember when we met. Not for the first time, but yes, for the first time… sort of. It was like I had opened my eyes and I saw a missed opportunity that had returned. I can almost hear the dull buzzing of the air con and that particular smell of the room that I can’t quite place. The blue mats that lined the darker floor and the lights that crawled into the corner of my eye. Mostly I remember the shade of their hair, that warm brown homelike. I remember the sickness in my stomach, fear I felt thinking about talking to them for the first time. I remember their softened eyes and welcoming aura. I remember a new feeling. By Arlo Evans
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remember walking to the park with my family. It was a sweltering, sunny day. I remember the sun was shining so brightly on a world that had looked so dull the day before. I remember the sound of children running around in the playground. The walk was long but the end goal kept me going. I remember hoping for ice cream. I remember the flowers blooming the way they did in summer. I remember the air smelled fresh and clean, bursting with wildlife and plants. I remember the feeling of long strands of grass itching at the skin on my legs. Arriving at the sand park, the sky suddenly shifted from a bright, cloudless blue to a dark, consuming black. Darkness engulfed the surrounding skies, leaving me blind to the elements. The sun that was shining so brightly disappeared in the wave of darkness. I stood there, frozen to the spot, unable to see, unable to move. The sand park that had seemed so close before now felt as if it were ten thousand miles away. Suddenly, the sky changed developed a heavenly glow that illuminated the surrounding park. This wave of blinding light completely shocked my family and me, and these emotions were reflected by the other people in the park. At the same time, deafening booms blasted through the air, and a familiar scent washed over us: as if cream, milk and sugar were being infused into the park's atmosphere. As the bright light dimmed, my sight partially returned; I witnessed the
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horror painted on everyone’s faces. The clouds finally began returning to their original shape and the sky shifted back to its ominous stormy black. The only permanent change from the incident was the smell of cream, milk and sugar. Rather than fading, the scent intensified and it seemed it was not just me that was experiencing
the smell. As the smell grew, the clouds roiled, growing in size, fuzzing at the edges. Droplets of rain fell from the sky as the clouds finally dispersed their liquid. Not droplets of water; a thicker, stickier substance that smelled of the cream, milk and sugar. I noticed that the rain drops were slowly growing in size, increasing in speed as they fell. A storm. I ducked for cover.
rms I
The rain droplets filled the cracks in the ground, creating puddles of thick, creamy liquid that splashed stickily and sluggishly onto legs and feet. A brief pause, then the storm’s intensity picked up. Gusts of wind pulled trees from their roots and people from their feet. The smell of the cream, milk and sugar wafted through the air, cloying, sickly. The storm's severity kept growing, making cars, cats, trees, swings, dogs, pigeons, flowers, sun chairs, pushchairs, bins, shoes, benches, umbrellas, towels, and even pigs fly away into the air.
Without notice, warning, or even abatement in symptoms, the storm stopped. The cars, cats, trees, swings, dogs, pigeons, flowers, sun chairs, pushchairs, bins, shoes, benches, umbrellas, towels, and pigs came crashing without elegance to the ground. I stood speechless. The rain returned, gentler this time. As before, the rain droplets were not rain droplets. I stepped from underneath my shelter to investigate: vanilla ice cream. The rain was millions of vanilla ice creams falling to the ground. Mind boggled, I eagerly tried to catch the ice cream droplets before they touched the ground. Everyone in the park was stupefied by the tonnes of ice cream the storm had given to us, cold, sweet, sticky ice cream on a summer’s day. Ice cream was just the thing I needed after a storm like that!
Now, storms are very different from what they were before. There is no rain, wind, clouds, thunder or lightning. Instead, there are ice creams. Hundreds and thousands of ice creams falling from the sky. Depending on the month, the flavours change. My favourite month for storms is June, as my favourite ice cream, chocolate chip, falls from the sky - I always make sure to be outside and catch as much as I can stomach. Storms aren't so bad anymore as they bring a treat each time. By Melania Chukwu
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Writing the Gothic& Weird
hosted by Rosie Garland
“In 1974, Angela Carter said, ‘we live in Gothic times’. It has never been more apt. From subculture to high culture, the Gothic can be found in art, films and literature today. Aimed at writers of fiction or poetry, or any point in between. So, with lantern held aloft in trembling fingers, explore the haunted labyrinth & discover the surprises within…”
Rosie Garland writes long and short fiction, poetry and sings with post-punk band The March Violets. Her novel The Night
Brother was described by The Times as “a delight…with shades of Angela Carter.” In 2019, Val McDermid named her one of the UK’s most compelling LGBT+ writers. 1 5
The Room
As soon as the door opens, I see them. Their black demonic eyeballs staring as though they have come straight from hell. Crimson soaked teeth baring at me over the dying body in front of her. The screams bore into my skull almost, unbearable. Blonde hair streaked with red. A rampant, almost deranged look dances around her eyes. It’s just us, alone. Stuck together in a New York-sized room. My hand slowly reaches for the wall, desperately feeling for a door knob. Finding nothing. In a whirl of panic I flick my eyes around the room: There is no beginning, no end, just four walls, a ceiling and a floor. Enless circle of white smeared with red. The demon-creature yanks their teeth out of their meal. They have finished eating. My sudden terror changes the atmosphere. The girl I knew with the chocolate hair and bright blue eyes was gone. She stands, blue eyes flaring mad, and charges with the power of an army towards me.
By Saraya Perdios 1
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Perugini: Pandora’s Box, oil on canvas 1893
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What if she is the box…?
Pan dor as B o x
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he searing pain only ever got stronger. It always gets stronger. Every second it increases and I can no longer bear it. What did I do to deserve this punishment? Why would the gods curse me in this way? I tear at my hair, claw at my skin, but it was to no avail - nothing happened. I hate this torture, I hate it all just so no one else has to. I could not relieve myself of the intense pain I endured. Zeus told me: Be brave, be strong. You are sacrificing yourself for the good of the world. At the time I felt heroic, but that was because I felt nothing. Now it is unbearable. Every single part of me feels like I am on fire, both heat and ice scorching every inch of my body. I cannot breathe. My lungs are heavy and it is painful to move in any way. I cannot. I cannot continue for the rest of time. Forever is just too long. I stand there, wind in my hair. It billows out behind me, probably giving me some sort of heroic look… or something of the kind. I closed my eyes, attempting to block out all the pain I felt, though it was hopeless. I took a step and I felt the cold, it was oddly calming and I knew what was to happen. I ignored the screams of the people below and smiled ever so slightly. For the first time in half an eternity, I felt free. I could feel the pain fading away, dispersing into the atmosphere. Seeking out anyone and everyone to invade, to disease. The parasites clung to every single living creature around the world until it was all free, and the people no longer. I was free as well. I felt no pain, no evil. I felt peace, true peace. In my final moments, breathing laboured (although less so than before), I felt comfort in knowing I could no longer exist, no longer be punished, no longer be tortured and I could just disappear. And the last thought I would ever think was: Finally, I have escaped. By Arlo Evans 1
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if i had wanted my soul scorned, i would have bared it in front of you.
Untitled the cold in your eyes would bleed, bleed into mine, your scratching hands would hold it, like a spider holds its meal. you were not angry. you were absent. there was no clawing stone that weighed your stomach down as you watched the broken body, castrated in front of you. i had wanted something. a note, a memory, did i even get an afterthought? fingers prodded, laughter was an infection in the air, but you never caught it. and you looked, but never touched. it was an absence of love, not hatred. you were distracted, the window held something deeper to you than my face, than my heart.
By Shoshana Levy
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Lost in Another’s Arms electronsi between usi and i can touch themi on your skin scratchingi to get to the hearti i want to reach in deepi take it apart and take youri quarksi if you fall apart, at leasti it will be in my hands.i
Burning ash i’d like to drive to the moon with you,i to watch the burning stars around mei and feel the searing heat burning down upon us,i until we are ash and forget we are human.i By Shoshana Levy
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Carving Knife
i was crying last night after you told me why i am disgusting. you came up and asked me to clean my face, i was lying down with a face turned away. you asked me again and i looked at you with blushed eyes, but there was nothing left in you, so you turned away. i cried and really i was begging for you. the scars that you have left will not leave me. what i am will twist and shape into something i can look at it, but then you tell me why I am disgusting, and it will shrink back down and hide and I am lost. you may forget the words that spit from your mouth, but I will not. the words are etched into who I am now.
sometimes the words morph, and you paint over my scars the colour of my skin and you tell me it was never there. i believe you. but then your words carve, and I revolt you, and I am disgusting. By Shoshana Levy 2 1
Felix ever after Kacen Callander
has written an honest and layered story about a transgender teen grappling with identity and self-discovery while falling in love for the first time.
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Tea
Texts
Sip a floral Jasmine tea as you enjoy this powerful, sweet, uplifting tale
the Society reviews
Stock image © Ylanite Koppens
“I’m not flaunting anything. I’m just existing. This is me. I can’t hide myself. I can’t disappear. And even if I could, I don’t f****** want to. I have the same right to be here. I have the same right to exist.” This quote was one of those moments when you put the book down because you’re just in awe of what the author has written. Callander has created a character so realistic, that says such raw and emotional things that it jerks my emotions all over the place. Such powerful reactions was a common feeling I had when I read this book. It is just so jaw-droppingly beautiful and heartbreaking.
After a student publicly posted Felix’s deadname alongside pictures of him pre-transition, Felix decided to come up with a plan to get revenge. But there was one thing he did not count on: his catfish scenario ending up as a love-triangle. This is definitely on my 5-star list on Goodreads and I would highly, highly recommend. By Saraya Perdios
The book follows Felix Love, a trans masc man who wants to know what love feels like and why it is so easy for everyone but him to find someone. Felix also secretly fears that ‘he is one marginalisation too many black, queer and transgender - to ever get his own happy ending.’
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Trinity Term Top Re
Kavan Gill
Arshiya Sawhney
Flo Samuels
Saraya Perdios
Melania Chukwu
Jasmine Patel
ads from the Society
Rebecca Clarke
Shoshana Levy
Miss Stuart
Eliza Verney-Kershaw
Arlo Evans
Aditi Panchdari
Storymakers
Issue 3
June2022
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.
