St Marys Calne Literalily 2012

Literalily

Jessica O’Grady UV Form

Welcome to Literalily St Mary’s Creative Writing Magazine The theme of ‘The Great St Mary’s Writing Competition’ this year was ‘Images’. The girls were asked to write something inspired by an image: a painting, photograph or drawing. Georgina Terry and Chloe Hutton were the Senior Winners while Verity Page was the winner of the Juniors. The magazine also includes the runners up and the best work submitted for the competition, as well as other pieces written for the English Department during the year 2011 – 2012.

Thank you to all the girls who provided both creative writing and artwork and to the staff who inspired and helped them.

Happy Reading!

Ms Jacqueline Phippard Editor, Summer 2012

The Winners Fourth Form Winner

The Runners Up

Verity Page MIV Form

Eloise Le Fevre UIV Form

Fifth Form Winner Chloe Hutton LV Form

Annabelle Mastin-Lee UIV Form Maria Perry LV Form Mariella de Soissons UV Form

Sixth Form Winner

Amy Cooper LVI Form

Georgina Terry LVI Form

Isabella Warner LVI Form

1

Fourth Form Winner

2

In-tents

By Verity Page MIV Form

‘Hello, can you hear me? I’m not sure I know you, but now is the time to speak up. Help me. I think I’m in real danger.’

It started as a joke. An innocent prank. Group C never arrived back at the campsite. We all thought it was hilarious and smirked behind their backs. Inside the tents, we roared with laughter, paralysed by our fits of giggles. Little did we know. The teachers knew something was wrong, I could tell: the pacing up and down, the distressed phone calls, the murmuring like anxious wasps, the eerie silence as they stopped to think. They said they would ‘sort it out’, ‘find out where they were’, while we went to sleep. We were confident that Group C would return to school as planned.

I wormed my way into my sleeping bag and wrapped the hood against the sides of my head, desperately trying to block out the din of Zoe’s snoring. The falling sun glowed a charming orange through the tent. My eyes grew heavy with sleep. As I dozed off, I knew, or rather thought, I was safe.

Later, I woke and, to my surprise, I heard nothing but the wind rushing through the branches of the trees, imitating the wild rush of the sea. My feet were like blocks of ice that could crumble with the slightest movement. I shivered and swam deeper into my sleeping bag. Zoe’s snoring had ceased. Maybe I would warm up if I had her to talk to. I stretched over to try to wake her, but found her sleeping bag to be vacant. The material was soft and cool - she had been gone for a while.

She must have lost her way going to the loo, or perhaps stumbled over a tent stake. I crawled towards the exit of the tent and squealed as a shot of pain ran through my right shin. I looked down at my leg to see Zoe’s torch. What was she doing in the dark without a torch? It was no wonder she hadn’t returned.

I crept towards the woods, torch in hand. Many times I stumbled over fallen branches and struggled to steady myself before I fell again. Looking back at the campsite, a shiver of cold regret ran down my spine and into my feet, sticking them firmly to the ground.

‘Zoe, are you there?’ I cried. My voice lost by the overpowering whistle of the wind in the trees that towered above me. For a few seconds, I was sure I had caught sight of something. Someone: A dark figure hidden in the depths of the lanky trees. I hadn’t a clue what it was. One thing was for sure - it wasn’t Zoe. I scurried out of the woods and headed towards the campsite.

Slithering into the tent again, I attempted to be as silent as possible, as Sophie had rolled towards the entrance and I did not want to wake her. I flicked the switch on my torch in order to turn it off. I flicked it again. Were my eyes deceiving me? Sophie’s sleeping bag was empty. I rushed back out of the tent and fell head over heels into the next one. Not a soul lay inside. I moved to the next tent and the next. It wasn’t a prank anymore. I was alone. Warm blood rushed to my head, filling the rest of my body with pure panic. I couldn’t stay calm any longer. Salty tears leaked from my eyes and crawled down my cheeks. I scuttled back to the tent. Streams of sweat trickled down my forehead, joining my teardrops in the damp patch on my hoodie. This was it. I knew it was.

What if, by some fluke, someone was near who could hear my cries and come to my rescue? It was worth it. I was sure. As I climbed out of the tent porch, I took in a nervous lungful of icy air.

‘Is anyone here?’ I screamed. My throat was becoming sore and dry, making every word I said agonising. It was futile. A twitch of fury pulsated down my back. It was their fault - the teachers, Mum, Dad. I didn’t have to do DofE, but ‘It would be a good thing for the CV. Universities would love it’.

The cold began to creep into my jumper and I was starting to shiver. Filled with disappointment, I turned, defeated. A bright flash of scarlet caught the corner of my eye. I glanced down to see a small, shiny emergency phone box lying in the grass. I knelt down and prized it open. Almost fainting in excitement, I pressed the small button on the top of the phone. I stared blankly at the screen. In my panic, I could not recall any useful numbers. I selected ‘contacts’ and chose the first number at the top. I lifted the phone to my ear and wept into the speaker. I knew I would make it home.

‘Hello, can you hear me? I’m not sure I know you, but now is the time to speak up. Help me. I think I’m in real danger.’

Emily Bradshaw UV Form

3

Fifth Form Winner

The Goldfish

By Chloe Hutton LV Form

I float.

There is broken light, shattered like glass on lilac pebble stones, melting and shifting. Columns of twisted green sway in a liquid wind. There is a castle somewhere to my left and small bubbles rise gently from pockets of air trapped inside it.

There’s a girl, blurred blue. She is shaking and her palms are pressed over her ears. She is holding a smiling teddy bear. I try to move towards her, but collide with something invisible.

There is broken light, shattered like glass on lilac pebble stones.

Insults burst on the edge of my hearing, like over-inflated balloons. Something falls over, unseen but close, sending tremors through the water.

There’s a girl, blurred blue, curled up on a sofa. Her knees are drawn up to her chest. Her hair is everywhere, scattered strands glowing in a patchwork of sunlight. A blanket is pulled around her, tucked under her sides, dragged over her ears.

I try again, but there is a smooth, clear surface between water and girl. I stare into it and there is a faint image of a bright fish, flickering in the rippling light. Behind it, I can see columns of twisted green swaying in a liquid wind.

I dive lazily. There is a castle below me flecked with algae.

I circle it, watching bubbles rise in elated shoals from my tail.

What are they doing there?

I hear a scream and the brittle crush of something fragile shattered in a violent instant - something breaking and something broken.

I turn to my left.

Why is there a castle there?

A dark orange flake, crumbling at the edges, is drifting through the cold water. I stretch out and I nibble at a corner. It tastes good.

There are shouts and I hear a dull thud and something breaking.

There’s a girl, blurred blue. She is gripping a blanket like a lifeline and staring through an open door. There is a teddy bear clutched in her hand, smiling. She is wearing blue pyjamas with snowmen on them. Her eyes are glazed; they shine in the light from the window, like streams.

I swim in a circle. I like the feeling of bubbles popping on my underside.

There’s a girl, blurred blue. Pale beams, planks of sun, collapse from the window and splinter across her hair.

A tear crests her cheekbone, casting tiny rainbows as it falls to the floor. She is holding a smiling teddy bear.

I notice a bruise, the colour of her shadow, rubbed into her cheek like the smudge of a mistake.

I hear a scream. She flinches.

She slowly folds her fingers around something soft and woollen. She presses it to her face and I see her breathe in and out. She slides it over her head. Arms push through the sleeves and all the time she is breathing - in and out.

She moves to a door and opens it. Soundless, alone, she steps forward and gently pulls it behind her, so softly that, as it closes, I only hear a click.

I turn.

Why is there a castle there?

4

Emily Graham UVI Form

5

7

Holly Bishop UV Form

Sixth Form Winner

Running

By Georgina Terry LVI Form

Running. The sand billows up from under my feet in hostile gusts as I wade through the undulating gold. The individual pyramids of pale, bronze powder crumble beneath me and, with each step, I sink into the gleaming sand. Speed is seemingly impossible in this uneven, perfidious terrain, but speed is my only hope. Running. The broiling, inescapable heat swirls around me and silently sucks the oxygen out of the air. I can’t breathe. I gasp for breath, but all I can taste is the terrible heat. I stagger forwards; I must go on. The colossal sun dominates the pale sky and its dazzling glare is reflected in the sand beneath me. It scorches my back remorselessly – a blazing, relentless Satan of the desert.

My trousers chafe my clammy thighs and my khaki turban coils around my damp neck, constricting my breathing further. I jerk it back with my free hand, knowing it will only be a matter of seconds before the cotton serpent tightens again. Running. Images of bloody chaos flash endlessly through my brain: an interminable cycle of haunting new memories. I glance backwards and a fresh wave of nauseating terror engulfs me as, suddenly, I see a dozen horses in the distance thundering towards me. There is a deathly pounding in my ears and I can almost taste the murderous intent of my frenzied pursuers. Is this the end?

I stumble forwards, every fibre of my body screaming in protest and numb with exhaustion. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the menacing beasts rearing up into the sky, black against the golden horizon. Miles of yellow sand and resplendent, copper dunes stretch before me; there is nowhere to hide. They will murder me and rip me apart with savage glee. Running. Why can I not yet hear the sinister crash of the horses’ hooves or the triumphant, bloodthirsty cries of their riders? I look back again and see that the hellish herd has risen up, towering above the ground at impossible heights. The animals are now formless dark shapes, imitating the rise and fall of the fierce desert wind.

There are no horses. There are no riders. It is just the wind moulding the treacherous sand into heinous monsters, or is my mind creating the images I fear most? Am I going mad?

I pause and feel myself choking on dry vomit as I struggle to breathe. Light-headed and delirious, I bend over, retching with fear and exhaustion. I desperately need water; in the desert, dehydration is fatal. I lick the blood off my cracked lips, the hint of moisture a blessing to my parched tongue.

There isn’t enough fluid in my body, but I’m sobbing dry tears, shaking violently with every rasping gulp. I feel so alone in this vast expanse of golden emptiness and I fall down on my knees. I don’t know where east is, but I’m praying in passionate desperation.

‘Help me mighty Allah,’ I chant endlessly. ‘Help me.’ I remain bowed, murmuring ‘Allahu Akbar, God is greatest,’ until my breathing steadies. I struggle to my feet again; I must find water. I walk on in the suffocating heat towards the majestic, craggy rocks that loom on the horizon signalling my destination, the Chadian border. Then, suddenly, I see a shimmering reflection in the distance, a glistening pool of water, winking invitingly at me and imploring me to enjoy the salvation it offers. I stumble forwards, flushed with a sudden sense of hope. The water continues to glimmer and, clambering across the formidable, awesome dunes, I chase it with wild abandon. I stagger on ceaselessly but, somehow, I don’t get any closer to the wavering reflection.

A fragmented memory surfaces: a Science lesson, a wizened master lecturing his class about light rays, about an optical phenomenon, about mirages. I can still see the glittering pool of water, but it is further away now and, horrified, I watch it receding into a flaxen heat haze. I collapse into the sand once more and, closing my eyes, flashes of white streak across my semi-consciousness as the dazzling sunlight pierces through my eyelids. Finally, I succumb to the horrific images that are blazing through me and surrender to my memories…

Just this morning, I was standing amongst the other soldiers: some of us on foot, others waiting attentively in great tanks. We had heard rumours about the rebels’ activity in other smaller towns and now, the disillusioned dissenters had dared to approach our own town – as if a band of inexperienced, unruly rioters could defeat us, Gaddafi’s loyal servants! We watched them approach, proudly brandishing their rifles, as though they were the ones saving our country, not the ones tearing it apart. At first, they were forced to retreat and their front line crumbled, utterly helpless against our stream of gunfire but, suddenly, they were all around us, pouring out from side streets and houses shouting for freedom in manic jubilation. I could hear women and children shrieking as the rebels ran through the streets like wild dogs. Rivulets of dark blood coursed through the cracks in the pavements around me and I realised that I was standing alone. The army had collapsed. Then I ran, fleeing towards the desert, my only chance of escape. Now I lie here. Alone. These images will be with me, tormenting me forever, but how much longer is forever?

7

Runner Up

Images Invade the Darkness

By Isabella Warner LVI Form Gradually, as I regain consciousness, images invade the darkness, blurred and unclear, but increasingly frequent, flickering across my eyes. They tempt me, becoming clearer, only to disappear again before I can make sense of them. Suddenly, my attention is drawn to surrounding sounds: beeps and murmurs growing louder. I attempt to open my eyes, but they scrunch together as if resisting. Finally, a thread of light peeps in and, gradually, as my eyes adjust, I prise my lids open and the images vanish.

In their place, I view what is around me: wires, machinery and lights, so many dazzling lights, making me squint. A sense of panic gathers in the pit of my stomach as I realise the wires and machines are attached to me. Hospital. A figure appears and leans over me, casting a relieving shadow over my strained eyes, allowing me to open them. She is petite, with dark blond hair tightly drawn into a bun at the nape of her neck. She starts speaking to me in a soft, velvety voice, almost humming, which calms me. The pulsing throb in my head hinders my concentration, but I hear certain things: ‘head trauma, car crash, stable condition...’ My eyes droop and I drift into a light sleep, no dreams, just more faint images. The next time I open my eyes, the woman has gone and, in her place, stands a stocky man, peering over his clipboard at me with small inquisitive eyes. Seeing I’m awake, one corner of his thin lips bends upwards into a wonky smile. The pain in my head has eased, so it’s easier to focus on what he’s saying.

‘The kind of head trauma you encountered,’ he says slowly, ‘has provoked some...’ he pauses slightly as if he is about to leave me with a cliff-hanger ‘some short term memory loss.

You’ve been in hospital for two days since your accident and it is likely that you will have forgotten the day of your accident.’

‘Is that... all?’ I ask, strangely relieved, having assumed it was weeks.

‘Yes, we hope, but it is necessary for you to remember the day of your accident as, you see, the police need to know if there was anyone else in the car with you and also if you remember anything about those in the car that hit you, as...’ He paused again, adjusting his pen nervously in the clipboard, ‘you were the only one found, despite evidence that numerous people were involved.’

8

As I slowly recover over the next few days, I am visited by several psychologists who try to break down the walls guarding those precious hours of memories, try to tease them out gently. They show me images of the car I was in and, as I become more stable, the wreck itself: my marine blue Polo car crumpled like a disposed can, lying sideways in the long grass on the edge of a field, weeds entangled in the metal cage of the bonnet. Nearby, the distorted carcass of a red car has collapsed, with splinters of glass strewn around it. Nothing. I remember nothing of that day. What they show me does nothing to make the blurred images behind my closed eyes any clearer.

The only memory I can provide them with is Tuesday evening: the day before the accident. It is so vivid, that the psychologists are convinced there is some clue in it, a key to unlocking the vital memories.

The pastel blue sky darkened as the sun sank lower. The grey smudges of cloud that drifted across gradually turned pink as the stooping sun turned blood red and threw out fiery hues that collided and merged with the blue sky. My shadow stretched out towards home as I strode through the field, making a dented path in the long grass. As I climbed the gnarled stile, the phone rang, breaking through the stillness of dusk. I ran across the gravel to the front door, keen not to miss the call, but I was fumbling with the key, not being able to open the door in such a rush.

That is it. That is as far back as I remember, frantically trying to get into my house with the phone ringing inside.

Eventually, I am released from hospital and return home.

It is surreal looking out over the field I have described so many times and walking across the gravel towards my house and turning the key in the lock. Then, all of a sudden, as if one brick has been removed from the wall in my mind, I remember picking up the phone at last to find my friend Sarah on the line and, when I close my eyes, I can picture her in the car beside me that day, the image clear and sharp.

Runner Up

The Dream

By Annabelle Mastin-Lee UIV Form The woman walked out of the abandoned shack, Her golden hair was cascading down her back.

Her flowing white dress, ablaze in the light, While I lay there silently, hidden out of sight.

The ground was undisturbed beneath her feet, She glided silently, face pale as a sheet.

She looked so peaceful, her emerald eyes shone, A twig snapped as I trod and then she was gone.

I tried to follow, but she left no clues, Pitch black from the night, shadow cast from the yews.

I stumbled past rocks and overturned roots, Wind and rain working together, despite their disputes.

She was waiting for me by the gates on the marsh, The wind cutting my cheek with a knife sharp as glass.

She smiled when she saw me and then looked up at the tree, She touched both my cheeks and then walked right through me.

Unable to move, I stood frozen to the ground, Apart from the wind, there came not a sound.

I thought of her hair, her skin the shade of cream, That was the woman that came from my dream.

Georgia Herman UVI Form

9

10

Polly Haggas UVI Form

Runner Up

Someone

By Eloise Le Fevre UIV Form

The lightning stabbed the dark grey clouds like a pitchfork, lighting up the sky. Lucy hated storms, the kind that swallowed her island whole. She mumbled angrily to herself as she hurried back to her tree house. Thunder growled back at the lightning with tremendous force. Lucy scrambled up the wet ladder, trying not to slip on the dripping steps. She heard a faint cry under the noise of the arguing sky. She stopped. So did the distant scream.

The sun peered through the faded grey clouds, awakening everything that the rays reached. Her eyes fluttered open.

It was still raining; she could hear the soothing noise that the warm droplets make as they hit the ground. She carefully scrambled down the ladder and clumsily jumped down the last two steps. Her stomach was grumbling as she wandered through the lush tropical forest, smelling the sweet scent of rich fruits and delicate flowers. Her feet wandered over the damp, soft moss that layered the ground. The trees that were shading Lucy from the rain occasionally let in the odd big droplet of cool rain water which fell on her nose and made her giggle with shock but then something else sent shivers up and down her spine.

In the distance, in the clearing just at the end of the path, she could see something that looked like a human hand. Lucy’s instinct was to stop and run away, but something was pushing her towards it. Images flashed through her mind as she walked closer to it: her abusive father, the treacherous swim to the island and adults! She thought she had got away from people. She was the only one on the island and she liked it. It was peaceful and no one was there to tell you off for doing things wrong. She could day-dream all she wanted and not get told off for not paying attention. All her emotions started to surface as she slowly walked towards the hand. The opening of the forest let through a faint ray of sunshine and warmth that covered Lucy like a blanket. There it was: a body, lying dead, stabbed in the heart.

Her breathing quickened as she looked at the corpse in disbelief. She was scared, not because it was there in her path, but because there was another person on the island.

She ran, emotions flying through her like a bug towards a light. She could never forget the looks that her dad gave her when she did something wrong. She tried to put the pieces of the puzzle back together, but she couldn’t. It had been two years since she jumped off her dad’s boat; two years since she got away from the agony which was thrust upon her day after day by the person she was meant to call family; two years since she swam miles to reach the island and two years since she had lived in a world with real people. For once in her life, she was happy. She wasn’t going to throw all that away, but she couldn’t figure out how she hadn’t noticed another person on the island. In two years, there had not been one sign of another human being. She kept running.

Nothing was going to stop her until she reached the tree house, where she would curl up into a ball and block out the outside world.

She had not bothered to look at the face of the person lying dead on her island. It would have caused too much pain, but suddenly it struck Lucy - he might have been the only one on the island besides her. He could have committed suicide because he couldn’t cope like she could cope. She had to live to prove her father wrong and to prove that her life was a life worth living. She ran back to the clearing. The only thing she was thinking about was that adults were stupid and that she would never become one. Never! She reached the body, fell to her knees and scrambled on the ground to look for the knife that the man used to kill himself. The longer she couldn’t find it, the more and more anxious she got. Panicking, she stood up and started to cry as quietly as possible, because her dad said that she was a baby when she cried and screamed. She couldn’t find the weapon anywhere. He wasn’t the only one that Lucy didn’t know about. There was another person on the island.

11

Runner Up

Leave only footprints

By Maria Perry LV Form The sun appeared above the horizon, shining its illuminating light across the sweeping, sandy beach. Even on a summer’s morning, the dawn chill brought a fresh feel to the day and the stillness was broken only by the hypnotic waves lapping against the shore. The smell of salt was prominent in the early morning. The tide had come in and gone back out again, leaving no trace of the day before. Presently, some fishermen came eagerly with their rods, setting up near a rock pool to snare their daily catch. The water sparkled, as though fairy lights had been sprinkled on its surface, rippling gently as the men cast their lines. Soft circles spread out one after the other, slowly vanishing into the deep sea. A family of crabs came scuttling along, searching for food and seeking out anything washed up along the shore. Their scarlet shells glowed in the sunlight. Warily avoiding the fishermen’s gaze, they hurried away sideways, their claws marking the sand in a sinuous line. For the fishermen, it was the only trace of their existence.

A short while later, four men arrived, proudly leading their pristine donkeys. With twitching ears and the wind caressing their manes, they were beautifully groomed and their dainty hooves made lasting imprints in the sand. They looked up into the sun, their eyes glinting with pride to be entrusted with such an important task. Their rough coats had been carefully cleaned; the dirt from the previous day had gone. Next, a few cars started to pull up, parking close to the beach, leaving their mark along the sand.

Parents jumped out, unstrapping over-excited children and unleashing them for a day of enjoyment. A dog walker, trying to stay in control of the collection of furry creatures she had before her, struggled to keep them from running free into the cool sea. They left a signature of paw prints behind them. The beach was alive and buzzing with people. The clear sand was just a memory. More families continued to arrive, bustling around, trying to find the best spot possible. Mothers hastily applied sun cream, protectively grasping their children until they were covered in the pasty substance, warding off the blazing rays. The cream dropped on the sand, melting slowly under the sun.

An ice-cream van arrived, leaving its tracks embossed on the soft sand, its tune beckoning customers to sample its wares.

A line grew, full of impatient people awaiting their cool refreshment. Now free of their mothers’ shielding hands, the children bustled around excitedly creating sandcastles, elaborate visions that fired the imagination.

12

After running in and out of the still glistening sea, they were summoned for lunch, their wet footprints branding the warm sand, trapping it between their toes. The greedy seagulls, that had been crowding around the fishermen, came near the picnics, only to be fought off by the adults.

Now, in the heat of the day, it was the ideal time to catch the sun’s powerful rays; some seemed oblivious to its intensity and ability to burn their vulnerable skin. In the distant sea, a flash of tails was sighted. The graceful, repetitive movement of the dolphins captivated the watching crowd, who were held by their god-like appearance. Roaring past, disturbing the moment of serenity, zoomed a powerboat. The crowd, interrupted briefly by the spectacle of the water skier towed in the wake of the speeding craft, resumed their activities once again. Waves rippled outwards, the water echoing its movement. Donkey rides were in full swing now. Strutting, with heads held high, the creatures were careful to keep their passenger safe. Children were comforted by the way they patiently walked along the soft, shape-changing sand.

As the sun began to set, the fatigued parents summoned their children; they were reluctantly pulled away from the donkeys they had already grown to adore. Picnics were packed up, rugs and towels removed, to reveal the ever-shining sand.

The castles were left lifeless, their owners deserting them.

Donkeys, whose bridles had been loosened, became lazy, their hooves dragging through the tiny particles of sand. Walking back off the beach, they trampled on the defenceless castles the children had spent so long perfecting. As the ice-cream van drove off, it left fresh tracks in the tired sand.

The fishermen, rewarded with a full bucket of silverfish, packed up their tackle and left. The beach was still and quiet. The crabs waited a while to make sure it was safe to reveal themselves. They scuttled out with the same caution they had shown earlier in the day. After that, the only people briefly to cross the beach were a couple of runners, sometimes stopping to catch their breath and admire the sunset. A gentle breeze swept along the shore, leaving the weary sun sinking peacefully back under the horizon. After the many visitors that had come and gone, all that was left were footprints in the sand.

Emily Verschoyle UV Form

13

14

Georgia Herman UVI Form

Runner Up

The Great Mysterious

By Mariella de Soissons UV Form ‘You sure you’ll be OK on your own, Grandpa?’

I chuckled as I gazed down at the small child, his brow crumpled into a slight frown of concern.

‘Don’t be silly, Michael. I can take care of myself. Why don’t you join Molly and have some fun?’

Michael stole a glance towards his sister, evidently torn between protective duty and a ride on the carousel Molly was queuing up for. Like a restrained terrier spotting a pheasant, Michael leaned slightly in the desired direction, quivering in anticipation. He looked up at me, searching for approval, which I gave in one eager nod. His face cleared into a toothy grin. He gave a hasty wave, turned, then bounded off.

I didn’t move for a while, but stood there watching youngsters hurtle about with candyfloss-smeared grins, smiling as I watched young couples hold hands. I took my glasses off, wiped them, then closed my eyes and turned my face up to the autumn sun, letting it warm my face and illuminate the crevices on my aged skin. I bathed in nostalgia.

Then something caught my eye.

That something was a tent, uncannily familiar, yet I couldn’t for the devil work out why. I purposefully placed my glasses back on and approached it.

‘The Great Mysterious,’ a sign outside declared, ‘will tell your fortune for just £2.’

I was about to express my opinions to a gentleman on what a load of claptrap this artifice all was, when I found myself walking into the tent itself.

Perfumed heat engulfed me as I walked into the obscurity of the tent.

‘Take a seat,’ a voice rasped behind me.

I turned and distinguished a hooded individual gesturing towards a chair. I took it. I waited.

‘The patterns all tell of the same fortune,’ uttered he, as burning incense numbed my senses.

In my soporific stupor, it didn’t occur to me that he had neither brought out a pack of cards, nor asked for my palms to read (such was the usual ludicrous charade), nor demanded money for his services. My eyes drooped as I heard the gypsy speak again.

‘You shall revisit your dearest memories, but…’ he added, ‘…you may find you’ve lost something dear to you on your return.’

The gypsy’s lips curled into a mordant smirk, before muttering darkly in peculiar tongues. My eyelids rolled shut as I tried to decipher what this all meant, when I noticed the gypsy’s voice had fallen silent. Perplexed, I opened my eyes to find I was staring at myself.

It was not a ‘me’, so to speak, that I had been for a very long time. I was gazing at a boy leaning on a rusty tractor, his bronzed face a picture of juvenile bliss, beaming in the spring sunshine. The sheepdog beside him was frozen midleap. I was standing in Marsley Farm; I could almost hear the newborn lambs bleating for their mother, could almost feel a light spring breeze toy with my (then abundant) hair. It was then that I recognised this image as one captured in a photograph sitting on my mantelpiece. I took a step forward to reach the boy, when the image began to bleach out. A new image began to develop, a new face morphed into shape: a young man in uniform. His face glowed with pride, with his arm raised in salute. A printed caption beneath read: ‘William Parker. Royal Tank Regiment. Awarded the Military Medal for outstanding bravery. 24th May 1943’. My eyes instinctively wandered to the top left-hand corner of the photograph.

Yes, there it was. In my slapdash scrawl were the words ‘Fear Naught’ written. Too soon did the image fade again.

I reached out to touch the face of the man I’d been, but his face blanched and evaporated under my wasted, veined hands.

A new image burst into view. Like a raindrop into water, I was plunged into a sea of colour. A blazing rapture kindled inside me, as I danced in the midsummer heat in a surge of energy I hadn’t felt in years. I felt a hand, soft and warm within mine. I looked beside me and there she was, her golden hair aglow as beams of aureate light bounced off it.

I couldn’t help my lips from spreading into a lazy grin when she looked at me; her smile ignited my pounding heart.

Fairground music and children’s laughter rippled in my ears as I relived my dearest memory.

Then something caught our eyes.

A tent. Curious, we approached it and wandered into its darkness. A hooded figure beckoned to us, his eyes penetrating my soul…

I gasped as I jolted back to reality. I looked around, but the gypsy had disappeared and so, God preserve me, had my wallet.

15

16

Sophie Nye UV Form

Runner Up

The Siren Woods

By Amy Cooper LVI Form Knife-sharp lightening cuts through the suffocating cover of darkness, slicing through the raging torrents of needle-point, frozen rain and the roar of a thousand tempests. Rolling waves of furious wind, lashing out violently as if punishing weary sailors, weigh down on my back as I struggle to find shelter. The desolate wasteland of fields is drowning in the relentless downpour; the walls of ice pounding a repetitive beat on the landscape blur my vision as I scan the horizon.

I don’t know why I’m here, but the painful thrum inside my skull makes me glad that the memories have wandered. An hour ago, or maybe six, chills climbed through my pores, snaking along my veins; now I’m left with numbness that seeps to my very bones. A grave weight settles on my shoulders as I drag my feet over fields of filth, getting heavier with every trip and stumble, drawing me towards the ground and an empty sleep. Gasping for breath, I shield my eyes, scanning the horizon, what little hope I had seeping away, purged by the wind, the rain. Then, another flash of light fills the sky like a beacon, a ray of hope. Silhouetted against the starless backdrop stands an army of wooden angels, foliage-like wings thrown this way and that, but holding strong and protecting the earth beneath; just like angels, the sight of the wood standing strong gives me strength. Before I even realise I’m moving, the raging winds become a muffled echo, the rain mere patters above my head, refused entry by the arms of the trees. It’s warmer here, as if the woods themselves radiate life. I drop to my knees in the comforting caress of the tender bark roots that wind together above and below the earth. Exhaustion had set in miles ago so, when my eyes begin to shutter closed, I put up no resistance, giving myself up to the secure confines of sleep.

When I awake, I don’t open my eyes; I inhale the rich, earthy scent that invades every sense, wafting over me, hitching a ride on a warm breeze. The solid weight under my hands brings memories of storms and woods rushing back with the full force of the angry winds and my eyes flicker open only for my breath to be stolen from me. The trees stand as tall and grand as ever, silent sentinels giving sanctuary to the somnolent traveller but, instead of the hardy warriors, today, they glow with a welcoming magic. Glittering bands of sunlight break through the soft foliage, forming fairy-step patterns on the moist carpets underfoot. Birdsong filters through the morning air and tranquillity seems to take every atom under its wing, settling in every crevice, slumbering on every rock.

I want nothing more but to return to my dreamless sleep and spend eternity in this pocket of undiscovered enchantment, but a nagging voice in the back of my mind makes me rise to my unsteady feet and head in the opposite direction to the flattened path, trodden in my escape from the storm.

Every movement feels too brittle; I shiver in the waterlogged clothes that adorn my pale form. Hours pass, each minute merging, flowing seamlessly into one chain of cold, confusion and emptiness. The siren songs of the hospitable wooden figures creep through my mind; they draw me in, promising warmth, tempting me with sleep and the delicious smell of spices. I imagine sprites dancing among the delicate leaves, chiming with child-like laughter. When I do stop for breath, these thoughts swim before my eyes, calling me, but the nagging voice stops me from leaping towards them, ringing warning bells in my mind. Beneath the enchantment, tangible magic, secrets, there lies something else: an underlying tune hinting danger, ice-cold corners, unexplained shadows and a sleep from which there would be no return. I make my decision, stumbling away from the trees and the direction that I have been heading.

The warmth is fading away, tightening, frozen and angry.

Bark statues no longer stand watch, but loom overhead, casting shadows, hiding corners from sight. Every crack in the distance scratches my unconscious, telling me to move faster. The fantasy of dancing sprites turns sour; my skin begins to prickle as if secretly observed. Open spaces begin to shrink, blocked by the trees, their foliage blocking out the light. I begin to panic, breaking into a weak, unsteady run. Then I break free of the tree-line, gasping in the open air, revelling in my escape from their cold clutches. Looking desperately around, I stagger, realising that I’ve found the edge of a great lake; I can see more land on the opposite shore. Puttering merrily through the gentle waves are five or six small boats. Relief spreads through my limbs as I wave them above my head, yelling towards the fishermen in a voice far too strained to be my own. I fall once more to my knees as the men on the boats yell back and turn their noses towards the shore bringing with them an escape.

17

Every day is a gift

By Naomi Green MIV Form

There was a soft knocking at the door and a nurse entered, followed by an older woman who I then recognised as my mother-in-law. She was carrying Sophia in her arms, wrapped in a pink polka dot blanket, her bright eyes gleaming like sapphires.

Josh smiled at her and she smiled back, but I could see the tears that she was fighting so desperately rolling down her cheeks. Somehow, though, she managed to put on a brave face and handed us a blue and red striped book with sparkling gold calligraphy on the front, spelling out mine and Josh’s names.

‘Here,’ she whispered, soothingly almost, ‘this is for you both.

It’s your wedding photos and all the special moments you shared that I caught on camera.’

I looked up and shuffled over the crisp white sheets to the top of the bed and together we opened the album to the first page.

It was a photo of a wide, sandy beach with two deckchairs on it and sitting in them my husband and I, smiling, and looking into each other’s eyes romantically. It was our first date.

Already, I felt like burying my face in his chest and bursting into tears while he comforted me and stroked my hair like he always used to, but I wouldn’t let my sadness show. ‘You must never show a dying man sadness. Not ever, for they must die happy,’ I told myself.

We carried on flicking through the album, page after page, each one touching our hearts and bringing another tear to each of our eyes. There in front of us was our first dance, our first dinner and then our first kiss, in a gorgeous meadow of daisies, hand in hand.

The last few were our most special. There we were, standing outside our first house together and then at our wedding. This time, I just couldn’t hold back. I buried myself in Josh’s chest and he kissed my cheek and stroked my hair, just as I had wanted him to.

When we turned the page again a few minutes later, there we were with Sophia, outside our new house, with Hazel and her puppies, Granny and my older sister Kitty and her daughter Jasmine beaming and posing on her shiny new buggy-board behind the twins. The whole family was there, gathered for our annual dinner party, despite the rain, smiling and laughing with true family spirit.

18

That was the end. The final picture. The last laugh. The book snapped shut and, when I looked up, the nurse had already taken it away for safekeeping. My head was full of thoughts and memories whirling around my brain. Then, all of a sudden, Josh coughed again and, immediately, it all came to a halt as reality struck, sharp as lightning. Joshua O’Shea had little life left to live.

By this time, between us all, we were crying a waterfall of tears; even Sophia, sensing the upset, had started to stir. We were so engrossed in our own pain in fact, that we didn’t hear what, back then, we had no idea was a life-changing knock.

‘Hello’ said a voice, ‘Joshua ‘O’Shea isn’t it?’

‘Yes?’ ‘I have some news.’

I grabbed Josh’s hand and squeezed it tight and, expecting the worst, my body tensed, sending an ice-cold shiver shooting down my spine.

‘Well...’ she paused and I froze solid like a duck pond in the winter.

‘Well?’

‘Well, we’ve found a donor!’

It is not difficult to guess what happened next.

What really made me ecstatic though was just seeing Josh’s face, because it made me realise how much I loved him. I realised the value of our life and our love. So, that day, I promised myself something, something that I have stuck to ever since for all my life so far and will continue to stick to for the rest of it, I’m sure: I promised myself that I would live my life to the absolute fullest, because you never know what will be waiting around the corner.

Olivia Addington LVI Form

19

20

Emily Chaffer UV Form

A Church in Dublin

By Amelia Jacobs LIV Form

In a church in Dublin, there was a heap of icy blankets.

No one had put it there; it had come into the church for shelter. This heap was wheezing, its lungs a burden to its chest. This heap was a man. This man had no home, no money, no aspirations and no sense of belonging.

There was only one thing this man did have: a dog. He was the man’s only companion, his only friend. This dog was as thin and scrawny as his master, his coal-black fur was stuck together with ice and he had huge clumps of snow coating his whiskers.

The man sat up slowly, his blankets, which were completely iced over, rustling. The man explained his latest dream to the dog: where they would live one day, how much food they would have, shiny yellow thoughts darting through the black of his mind like fireflies.

The dog grunted and woofed softly, agreeing with his companion’s wild and eccentric dreams. The man sighed, the warm air from his lungs hitting the cold air from the church, creating a misty cloud. The man’s freezing fingers scratched behind the dog’s ears just where he liked it.

The dog’s eyelids began to flutter like a butterfly’s wings.

His breathing became heavier and the dog was finally lulled to sleep. The man, far from sleep, pulled himself up, groaning in pain as pins and needles spiked viciously at his cold, stiff body. When the man could feel something other than tingling, he plodded round the church, humming absent-mindedly.

The man stopped in a pool of soft, forgiving moonlight, which shone through a stained glass window at the top of the dismal grey church; this small patch of moonlight was a small patch of hope and light. The man smiled, revealing his yellow teeth and tender red gums. He took a great wheezy breath, warm air protruding out of his mouth.

Suddenly, the man heard a small, feeble squeak. He tensed up and looked around. Rats? Pigeons? Something out to steal his bread no doubt. He followed the squeaking and found, to his utmost surprise, a small, feeble robin, even more feeble than its desperate squeaking. The robin’s blood red breast heaved. The man picked up the wretched bird with his gentle hands and, wincing as he did, broke off a chunk of his precious bread and gave it to the robin. The bird pecked at it furiously, squeaking in delight at this sudden indulgence.

Slowly, the bird in his arms, the man went back to where his dog was still soundly sleeping, set the bird down and curled up in his sleeping bag. It was still crispy from the vicious wind and snow outside the church. Like his dog, the man’s eyelids began to flutter and his breathing became deep and peaceful once more.

The next morning, the man slowly arose from his slumber, refreshed and lightened by cheerful dreams. He gently shook his dog awake and pulled on his thin brown coat, which was soaked through with the melted snow of the previous night’s storm. The man gently put the bird in his pocket, opened the heavy oak door and stepped out into the bustling Dublin streets, into the fight for survival against the day.

21

He Will Never Forget

By Katie Rae MIV Form

22

It hurts me to look at him, to see the sadness in his face.

He is so alone. He has me, but that is not enough. I cannot cure his pain. The years have not been kind to him; deep wrinkles crowd his face and swallow him up. I can see the quiet desperation seeping through his eyes and the dark memories swarming around his ancient mind.

As I entered, there was an overwhelming smell of cleaning fluid and my eyes were dazzled by the crisp white walls and ceiling. There was a vast array of different beeping equipment and the room was very bright. I noticed a small TV in the corner of the room and a couple of chairs, but that is all I can recall.

Let me go back to the past, the past that my father will never forget: the night of the storm, when the thick branches of the trees slapped against the windows and the tormenting swirls of wind caused destruction throughout the woods. Dark grey clouds were suspended in the black sky as they spewed out heavy rain. Claps of thunder and flashes of white lightning were viciously thrown at us. This is when the war began. The war between life and death. The war between my mother and cancer. Here started her fight for survival.

Now, 22 years later, my father has a look on his face as if it only happened last week. When my mum died, depression got the better of him and he started to drink to comfort himself; he replaced my mother with alcohol. He sat every night drinking straight from the bottle of burgundy wine. I winced as he gulped down nearly half of it and then fumbled around in the cupboards looking for a bottle of bubbly to pop open.

Alcohol was overpowering his mind and, for a period of time, he was trapped in a dark wood, in the middle of nowhere. I thought I would never find him.

It was all so sudden. Even though I knew she had cancer, her death was still a shock. I really thought she might live for another few years, but the painful struggle was all over just seven months after her diagnosis. My memories of her never fade. I loved her too much to forget the wonderful times I spent with her; however, my father’s love for her was stronger than anyone could ever imagine. When she died, it was as though his heart was violently stabbed with a sharp pointy knife and it took a long, tiresome struggle before he could remove it. I think that even now he is still mourning her death. I remember the days when my mum, Eliza, was in hospital and my dad, Michael, would sit by her bed when she was asleep and hold her hand until she woke up. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her; he wanted to drink in every last precious memory and keep it safe forever.

They would sit and talk for hours; I was only twelve but I made sure I saw her every evening after school. I will never forget the sickening feeling I would face as I ambled down the corridors. I had to push through several double doors, turn a numerous amount of corners and weave my way in and out of the crowds of melancholy people before finally reaching my mum’s hospital ward.

About a year after the death of my mum, dad finally thought to seek help. When my dad was drinking, it hurt me. A lot. I was worried my dad was drinking his life away. If my father disappeared from my life as well, I would have no one. I would be lost and alone. I was always too afraid to tell him the truth, too afraid to make him stop, too afraid to make him wake up to the realisation that he was hurting both of us. He was always angry and upset and, at the time, I believed there was nothing I could do. For the rest of my life, I will regret not having a proper conversation with him and not discussing our feelings when my mother passed away. I was too scared to break the icy silence between us.

Now, however, things are going to change. Both our lives are going to be better. My dad is sitting in his old armchair, gazing through the window to a place far away from the rest of the world. I take his hand and kneel down in front of him as he slowly turns to face me. Our eyes meet and I say, in a soft and gentle voice, ‘Father, you’re going to have a grandchild.’ Then, for the first time in a long time, I see a genuine smile creep across his face.

from The Great Lover

By Emily FitzPatrick MIV Form These I love: Clean white sheets. The smell of detergent. The sound of a kettle coming to the boil.

Condensation on the windows. The tap dripping and cold tiles underfoot in hot summers.

The wall of warmth as I walk into my cosy drawing room.

Coming home to the friendly smell of my family; rows of muddy wellies lined up by the door.

Gentle wailing of wind against the panes; crackling of kindling in the fire.

Soft fluttering of shuffling cards and gentle tapping of computer keys.

Melting chocolate and the wafting smell of my mum’s delicious cooking spreading through the house. Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice-cream.

The gentle beat of a ticking clock as I slowly go to sleep. A spoon stirring a piping hot tea.

Home-made lemonade, ice cold and fresh as it runs down my throat.

The smell of espresso and coffee beans. The soft whirring of the bread machine.

The sound of laughter, and popcorn popping, the bag growing ever larger in the microwave.

Coming back after a hard day to a hot buttered crumpet and a warm mug of tea.

The hitting of tennis balls and the crunch of gravel.

The rumble of an aeroplane taking off; the sound of luggage wheels hitting a bump.

The smells of new clothes, books and my car. The taste of a good New York bagel, with smoked salmon and cream cheese. The beep as you get a new email.

All these I have loved.

Holly Bishop UV Form

Ode to the Moon

By Emilia Flack and Lucy Rogers UV Form O shining moon in endless heav’ns above, A glowing orb and constant source of hope.

The shepherd guards his flock and nightly roves, While gathering close his sheep by crook and rope.

A billion years your light hath gleamed through nights, Showing the path to mortals down below.

Although you are a lonely fleeting light, You show your love, protecting where we go.

But days go on and weeks shall also pass, And through the months your light begins to dim.

This fragment though will not forever last, And soon you shall return to conquer sin.

Teodora Moeran UV Form

Like gods, we cannot always see your might, Though omnipresent is your lustrous light.

Fear of the End

By Chella de Bay and Georgina Terry LVI Form As I near the sombre gloaming of life, I question how long my light will prevail.

The time will come when my soul fears no strife, But now, alone, I fade like lilies pale.

For those whom Winter’s shroud will soon enfold, Dare not steal a glimpse of the coming spring, For their fate the three sisters have foretold, So pray that your maker is forgiving.

Yet after all the prayers and masses said, Have I a place in heaven guaranteed?

Or will my deeds be futile once I’m dead, From this ignorance, I shall not be freed.

Sometimes, I fear that with the coming spring, Life will go on and forget my passing.

24

Jessica O’Grady UV Form

Penelope Dowler UV Form

The Darkened Lane

By Emily Clarke UV Form Alone, once more, she walked the darkened lane, And tried to keep the tears at bay. Again Her eyes, who tricked her mind betrayed her head; She saw his lips and heard the words he said.

The night’s now moving on to day.

Still here, she finds a way, somehow, to let Her thoughts (in summer’s heat) go far away, To longer days, the nights; the time they met.

But now she’s left without his warm embrace.

He went away, no sign of any trace.

Her heart is empty, now it feels just pain, And now, once more, she walks the darkened lane.

She shuts her eyes and goes back in her head, She feels his lips and hears those words he said.

Sonnet i

By Isabella Steel and Isabella Warner LVI Form The shroud of mist submerged the sycamore, Its branches dangled in the growing gloom.

It seemed that He had closed the pearly door And only left behind this cold clay tomb.

Flowers in the darkness seek the light to grow, Satan’s claws around them slowly climb.

Despite the seeds you toil and seek to sow, Hell’s demonic laughter butchers time.

And so take heed of this and do not waste The jewelled time that drives your precious life.

Carpe diem. Act on this in haste And wallow not in misery and strife.

You’re born to love, don’t live to die, The world around will pass you by.

25

The Three Rules

By Eve Webster MIV Form There are three rules of life of which you should be aware.

These rules are as vital to leading a healthy life as eating vegetables. When you read this, you will learn these rules and hopefully a few things about yourself too.

Rule Number Three: Everyone has a weakness.

Max O’Neil

Rule Number One: You will always be noticed.

Lucy Smith

I snigger at Alex squirming on the floor like a cockroach.

I snigger when someone kicks him. I snigger when I chuck my Geography homework at him and tell him to do it for me. I chuck it onto what is left of his shirt, which is in shreds strewn across the concrete of Barkley Henge playground. Miss Dorken won’t even notice it isn’t in my handwriting - she’s so dense.

I am so boring; no-one ever sees me.

I pull on my school uniform for Barkley Henge Secondary School in Liverpool. If my school was a colour, it would be grey, like a rain cloud, a common sight in England. Every day, I trudge onto the bus and listen to my iPod, or sometimes I just imagine what it would be like if I stood out, got noticed.

Today is an imagine day. I glance out of my window to catch sight of my reflection: mousy brown hair, sometimes called ‘dishwater blond’ not particularly attractive; murky grey eyes, the colour of the ceiling of the toilets at school.

I give myself a smile. I have nice teeth, but who ever says, ‘Goodness me, that Lucy has remarkable teeth!’

Could be worse. Could be better. Suddenly someone sits beside me.

‘Sorry, do I know you?’ I ask, my voice wavering. They cock their head.

‘No. You just looked… interesting.’

Rule Number Two: People care what you think.

Alisha Tell I hum, plucking a hair off my school jumper. ‘Barkley Henge’ declares the logo - not very exciting, I sigh, neither was Geography with Miss Dorken.

‘I used to almost like Geography but, with her, I just sit there staring ahead. All the stuff she says literally falls out my ears or I just laugh at Max messing around.’

Lauren groaned, ‘I don’t even get why she’s a teacher. She has a stutter, she forgets, like, everything and she just lets us do whatever. I don’t know whether she’s scared of us or just can’t be bothered. Well, she wouldn’t be bothered, would she? It is just her job. Oh my gosh, remember the time Max asked her whether…’

I stop listening. I glance behind me and there she stands, her novelty socks wriggling in her frumpy sandals, patting down a dress even my grandmother would reject, her thick-rimmed spectacles fogging up with tears. She’d been listening.

Lauren stops in her tracks. Surely she doesn’t care?

26

Some people call me a bully, but most say I’m cool. Either way, no-one talks to me unless I want them to.

*** ‘Hey,’ says Matt, inhaling cigarette smoke, ‘look at that kid over there. She is well weird.’

I swivel my head round. The girl is seriously disabled. She looks about our age, but you can tell her mental age is much lower. Her face is like a wax figure: blank and pale.

She walks with a zimmer frame and, even then, very slowly.

Everyone starts imitating her trying to climb onto the seesaw. I say not a word.

I suddenly hear the village hall’s bells twang. I swear and throw myself onto my tired old bike. I quickly accelerate until I swerve round the bend of my drive. I am late, again.

‘Mike you’re late, again,’ Mum sighs, rubbing her tired eyes ‘and now I’m late for work.’

I murmur a ‘sorry’ and Mum tells me that he is in the lounge.

I peep round the corner of the door frame.

‘MIKE!’ he yells, (one of the few words he knows) glee spreading across his grinning face.

There is my nineteen year old brother, slumped in a wheelchair, intrigued by a programme meant for five year olds.

I like to think these rules will be encouraging to others if they know and understand them. There are people who will, as always, consider themselves exceptions to these rules. These people are wrong: they are not exceptions, but then again what do I know?

I am merely an unnoticed observer.

Emily Graham UVI Form

27

Memories

By Yasmin Watling MIV Form Memories. We all have them. Some are prominent and fresh in our minds, others sink back into the dark depths, only rarely lapping at the edge of our consciousness. Some leave you smiling, others can leave you racked with depression and angst. The web of recollections I have are tainted with dark drops of dew stretching the threads to their very breaking point, like a spider’s home weighed down in the early morning.

Sitting here, my back against this dirty, whitewashed wall, they are the only things keeping me going, but are also the thoughts destroying me. I need to look back to the point where my decaying life hit its biggest dent.

It all started when I was only five. I can remember the whiteness of the huge place, so intimidating at my young age.

There were large, white-cloaked monsters wielding shiny instruments and crisp sheets, which, unlike the ones that Daddy tucked me under at night, were a blinding white. The squeaky, bleached floor was worn down and grubby.

Daddy was behind one of the heavy doors. Sweating monsters rushed through them and, every time one of them came near us, Mummy gripped her chair and sat up straight, as stiff as a board. I assumed that she thought one was going to attack her, so I cowered behind her smooth, plastic chair and whimpered every time one came close. Then one came up to her so close, I thought it was going to bite off her ear.

It whispered something so harrowing to her that she let out a piercing wail and started sobbing. When she looked into my anxious, juvenile eyes, she composed herself a little and explained to me that Daddy had gone on holiday. I immediately thought of Florida and was excited to think that we could be going to the plush hotel with the warm pool again. Then Mummy told me that he had gone to a country called Heaven without us and that he wasn’t going to come back for a very long time.

Tears poured down my raw face, mixing with the damp saltiness on Mama’s cheeks as she squeezed me close to her.

As young as I was, I still knew I would miss Daddy tucking me into bed at night and calling me his little sausage roll. I would miss the way he used to toss me into the air like a giggling pancake and the way he would sneak me cherry lollies after dinner.

28

Mummy started to cry all the time; I hadn’t realised she’d wanted to go to Florida again so badly. She would tuck me in my bed at night and then sneak outside, clicking the door shut behind her. Then she would blunder back ages later, swaying in her heels and mumbling to herself with a weird accent. The next morning, she would feel sick and I would have to jump on her bed continuously to wake her up to take me to school.

Then she started to hit me. She would smack me on my bottom continuously if I did the slightest thing wrong and, the next day, my bottom would be sore and patterned with different colours, as though God had painted it in the night.

She would tell me scary stories at night that left me whimpering in the dark: stories of a little girl who told her teacher about the colours on her bottom and who got taken away by the evil people, the same people who took Daddy away, doctors and social workers controlled by the child-hating man called Government, and she would be locked in a cell for life.

I cried all the time at school. It hurt when I sat down on the hard chairs to do class exercises and my skin cracked and bled when I did PE. My Headteacher would sit with me in her office and offer me stale custard creams whilst I pursed my quivering mouth shut and refused to speak a word.

Some days, Mummy would just lie in bed all afternoon, never stirring. Other days, she would bustle around the house armed with a Hoover, pushing past me and going crazy if she saw even the tiniest speck of dirt on the floor or the faintest smudge on the bathroom mirror.

Years passed much the same as each other, until, one day, I woke up to (unsurprising) silence, as Mum had gone out the night before, and I padded into her room and saw that her unmade bed was empty. I called out her name, my voice echoing off the painted walls, and ran downstairs, my breathing heavy, skidding to a stop in the deserted kitchen.

I sprinted into the downstairs bathroom - nothing. My heart pounding, I made my way to the upstairs bathroom, I pushed open the slightly ajar door and what I saw is an image still burned into my retinas: my mother, dead on the floor, a stained knife in her hand and dried blood caked around her limp wrists. My legs crumpled beneath me as I let out a shrill scream.

Sophie Soar LVI Form

29

30

Sophie Soar LVI Form

My Mother Once Told Me

By Holly Armstrong LVI Form

I once told my son the world was his to take, From dusk until dawn in his unfathomable wake, To mould into dreams which no eyes can see, From all eyes to all lives his eyes lie in me.

My mother once told me the world was a playground, To play hide and seek and wait to be found; I imagine the colour blue as the smell of thunder and lightning Where it strikes the earth, being ever so frightening.

I once told my son he was blessed with sight, To perceive all that was hidden by night.

To wake or to sleep, perchance even to dream, He could see what he wanted, yet never be seen.

All the colours of the rainbow taste like fruit on a platter, You can hear them in a coffee shop amongst all the chatter; I think the colour Red is the rudest of them all As he slyly plots Yellow’s awaited downfall.

I once told my son never to fear, For those whom he trusts will always be near, Never failing, never fleeing – constant to the core, The earth, itself inessential, opens its door.

Sometimes colours bicker being ever so mean And when there’s nothing I can do, I call the colour Green; I envisage him heroic and never losing a fight – Unlike Orange who’s far too uptight.

I once told my son perception is distortion, It embodies sight and corrupts with extortion; The repression, oppression, conflict and strife Will never ‘let be’ the freedom of life…

But my favourite colour among the noisy scene is the Gallant and Great colour of Green, Because this is what Mother smells of every day And it’s the only colour that makes bad things go away.

I once told my son he is lucky to breathe, To imagine, to create - these gifts will never leave.

He can touch, he can smell, he can hear, he can feel, But never for him to see that which is real.

My mother once told me that what was hers was mine also And so… my favourite colour is not Red,Yellow or Blue – but Green, As Green is my mother, my mother and me, that’s all I see… that’s all I’ll ever see, She’ll always be perfect – I don’t need eyes to see.

31

All Alone for Christmas?

By Laura Steel UIV Form

‘In the bleak midwinter…’ The wireless crackled constantly in the background as I hummed along. As you may have guessed, it was Christmas time and, once again, I was sitting in my rocking chair all alone by the fire that was slowly turning to hot red embers. It was not unusual, or a surprise to me, that it was Christmas Eve and no one apart from me was here. No one ever was, so I didn’t see why I was disappointed. Still, a pang of sadness went through me. I had been alone for years – ever since I was young, really. I stood up, clutching onto the table. As I stood, something caught my eye - my reflection. My eyes were sunken and lines cut deep into my skin. I sighed. Old age had not been kind to me. No wonder no one came, who would want to see an old, jittery man?

I reached out for my stick and hobbled across the room to where my photo albums were. I slid one out and collected some random photos. I sat down and opened up the leather-bound album; the pages were a thick creamy card, reminding me of clotted cream. I took out the first picture and never got time for any more because... well I was somewhere else. It was of my grandfather. He had wrinkles around his eyes that penetrated deeply into his skin, however, his eyes twinkled with life. He was wearing his best hat, a sort of soft tweed. I remember this so vividly; it was taken whilst I was living in Nepal. My grandfather was the best man I ever knew. He was such a gentleman and an inspiration to me. He didn’t want his family to forget him, so he asked our neighbour to take a photo of him. They agreed and here it was.

My childhood was one of great happiness. My family lived in the foothills of the Himalayas and we lived in one peaceful community. As a child, this made a big impact on me. My siblings and I would go out all day playing in the mountains.

We would come back and, at home, my mother would welcome us with fresh cakes. We would sit and chat with her until we wandered off to our daddy and grandfather.

They would be laughing together in the dying sun and their shadows would be dancing across the fields. In the evening, we would go to Hajurba’s (grandfather’s) to learn English.

Everything was peaceful, until, one day, we were returning from Hajurba’s and, in the distance, we saw flames licking menacingly at our house.

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‘Run!’ I cried. All five of us did, as fast as we could across the stubble into our yard but, as we reached it, we realised that we were too late. I have this image of my father running out of the burning ruins with my mother slung across his back.

He cried, ‘Run little ones, up to Hajurba’s – NOW! I’m right behind you; just don’t let them catch you.’

When he said ‘them’ he meant the soldiers, the soldiers that destroyed everything we loved. These troops were from India which was under the rule of the British. They were sent to capture Nepal and our little village was first on their list. They had beaten my mother, stolen our things and then destroyed our home, though, in the end, the Indians and British were beaten back. We ran to Hajurba’s and he and our father nursed our mother all through the night, while we talked softly to her, until she died in the morning from her fatal injuries. We never went back to our house or village after that. We cremated our mother, packed our remaining things, walked over into Tibet and remained there.

Hajurba died a year later; my father and three brothers suffered a painful death after catching typhoid some years after that. It was just me and my baby sister, Sunita, left. We decided to part ways, but still keep in touch through letters etc. I wrote to her all the time, but she never replied, so I gave up, however, I always sent her a Christmas card. So now I am all alone, still waiting for her Christmas card to arrive.

The wireless squeaked and suddenly stopped. I woke up out of my daydream to hear a knock. I opened the door cautiously to see a girl outside. I looked at her, intrigued, as she reminded me of someone else.

‘Happy Christmas, Sir,’ she turned and smiled at a lady standing by the gate a few metres behind.

My heart leapt – it was the lady I had been dreaming about for years, my baby sister, Sunita. I felt my eyes dampen, but Sunita embraced me and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.

You won’t ever be alone again – Happy Christmas, brother.’

Jessica O’Grady UV Form

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These i love

By Jess Patel MIV Form These I love: The noisy cargo ships that seem like little sailing boats upon a pond from a distance.

When monstrous waves crash on the white shore and the tiny surfers ride the swirling sea curl.

The continuous sound of my dog lapping up water, that reassures me that he’s always there, and the crisp, clean linen that welcomes you as you get into bed.

The sweet chirp of the swallows soaring in the summer skies and the salty smell of fish and chips being eaten by the locals.

Being curled up by the crackling fire with homemade Nutella hot chocolate.

The sound of my brother twiddling on the piano as we come down the lane and the smokey smell of old petrol being used to power the quad-bike.

When we go down to the sea shore at night and are excited to taste the hot and sizzling sausages on our tongues, but fear that there might be something lurking in the deep water.

The tractors rattling down the dusty farm lane and the sound of the bull’s hooves as they chase us.

The comforting sound of howling wind and rain when you’re indoors and knowing that the angry waves are hurrying in rage somewhere out there.

The tiny little coves filled with all sorts and the harbours home to many local fishermen.

The laughter of the seagulls.

All these I have loved.

Alice Edgedale LVI Form

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Penelope Dowler UV Form

The things i have loved

By Helena Boase UIV Form These are the things I have loved: Coming home at the end of the day, when outside is dark and cold.

Walking through the gate and seeing the bold, glowing, golden lights bursting from the window.

Waking up and smelling freshly baked brownies and bread.

These are the things I have loved: The scratch of a hard paintbrush across a blank canvas, the opening ‘pop’ of new paints.

The sound of Mum’s footsteps coming up the stairs when you are ill in bed.

The ripping of paper and the crunch of an apple.

These are the things I have loved: In the winter, when the fire is blazing, snuggling up with a good book.

Sipping cool milk and nibbling chocolate cookies when the rain is falling outside.

Soft cleans sheets and endless summers.

These are the things I have loved: A book on the Tudors (especially Queen Bess I) and a bowl of celeriac soup.

The chirp of the birds on an early morning walk.

The smell of mixed spices with fruit.

A CSI episode or NCIS. A Chinese takeaway on a Saturday night.

The sunset and dry moss to sit on.

All these things I have loved.

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Inspector

By Sophie Nye UV Form

‘So, where were you on the night of the 25th, Mr Gardiner?’

I ask.

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but in my line of work, it can be hard not to. This suspect is older than the others. His face is worn and a deep maze of creases frames his eyes and mouth. His shoulders are hunched over the table, giving him a cave-like silhouette, concealing dark shadows within. His eyes catch the sunlight as it streams through the window and gleams a sapphire blue, like a hidden jewel glinting from a bed of rock. He pauses before answering my question; our eyes lock. His unease is infectious. The clock on the wall is the only sound, slicing through the silence with a deep slow tick.

‘I was at home,’ he begins.

His voice surprises me, clear and eloquent, it resonates about the small room like that of an opera singer. I find it hard to concentrate on what he is saying. I re-read the description of the man before me from a file: retired accountant, neighbour of victim, good alibi. Soon the song of his voice dwindles and I can find no other questions for the evidently innocuous man. I thank him for his time and he leaves.

As I wait for the next suspect, I contemplate that perhaps this isn’t the job for me. My judgement of character is hardly reliable and my ability to make decisions is even worse. I seem to let my life drift by like I’m on a raft floating down a fast-moving river. I am unable to steer my vessel in any direction for fear of making a wrong choice and, consequently, hitting a dead-end, or worse, plummeting headlong down a perilous waterfall. Fatigue creeps over my body like a wave and I look expectantly at the clock.

The door groans as it swings open. ‘Work colleague of victim, 27,’ I read. The first thing that strikes me about her is the sheer amount of space she appears to occupy. I smell her sickly-sweet perfume as it radiates towards me. Her face is under a mask of heavy make-up, but I notice her eyes are bloodshot - a deep crimson - and pools well in her eyes before I even have a chance to speak. Soon, inevitable tears roll down her rouged cheeks. Criers are the worst: extracting any clear answers from them is always tedious.

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‘When did you last see Ms Richards?’ My tone is unintentionally insensitive and a pang of guilt stabs me like a knife as the woman’s sobs escalate.

‘Last Friday, at work,’ she stammers. ‘We wanted to meet up at the weekend, or we were planning to anyway before...’

She breaks off and crumples before my eyes, reduced to a whimpering, wailing mess. I wince at my inability to console her.

When the interview is over and the woman gone, I find myself alone once more. My attention is turned to the open window. A bird perches on a nearby branch; it pauses for a moment and its beady, expectant eyes turn on me. It spreads its wings abruptly and flies to the skies. I envy its liberty as it swoops and dives, hindered by nothing and no one.

A man is led in: the prime suspect, the ex-boyfriend. He is conventionally handsome, with strong features. Light stubble dusts his square chin and his muscular frame is imposing.

‘It wasn’t me,’ he says matter-of-factly. I find his manner threatening.

‘Where were you on the night of the murder then?’ I ask.

‘I was home, by myself,’ he replies. ‘I know that’s no alibi, but I’ve got nothing else.’

‘I see. When did you last see or contact the victim?’

‘Last month, when she broke up with me.’

I notice his manner is very detached and his voice toneless.

I drop the bombshell.

‘Mr Cooper, we have CCTV footage of you entering her apartment on the night of the murder.’

My words appear to have no effect. The killer in front of me is silent.

‘Mr Cooper, I charge you with the murder of Georgia Richards.’

A volcano of emotion explodes from the young man.

‘I swear, I didn’t do it,’ he cries, ‘I was just visiting her, but she wasn’t there, so I...’ but he is interrupted as my assistant bursts in.

‘Inspector,’ she says, ‘the fingerprint recognition results have come back. It was her neighbour, Mr Gardiner.’

She leads the emotional man out of the room and I am alone once more; I think that this is definitely not the career for me. I steer my raft from the fast-flowing river down a new channel and swoop out the door into the bright sunlight.

Mollie Cayzer-Colvin UV Form

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Grace Keeler UV Form

Ma Maison

By Charlotte Paterson UIV Form

La maison se trouvait dans un champ. Il y avait une rivière qui coulait par le champ, mais il était sale et il y avait beaucoup d’ordures et des poissons morts. Les fleurs et les plantes mouraient à cause de la sécheresse. Il y avait une forêt pittoresque derrière la maison, mais certains arbres étaient petits et malades. Personne n’y habitait parce que le propriétaire mourait et ses enfants voulaient vendre la maison. Elle s’écroulait. Les salles et les murs s’écroulaient aussi. Il y avait un lustre cassé sur la terre. Il n’y avait pas de rideaux aux fenêtres et la porte était sur la terre à cinq mètres de la maison. Il y avait un arbre qui poussait dans la maison. Il y avait des souris, des chauves-souris et des guêpes au grenier cependant la maison avait un bon caractère et je l’aimais et je pouvais l’imaginer restaurée.

Le weekend après, j’ai acheté la maison dans le champ.

Premièrement, ma famille a fait du jardinage devant la maison, nous avons nettoyé la rivière et nous avons enlevé la poubelle. Maintenant, le jardin et la rivière sont nettoyés et il y a des fleurs cultivées autour des fenêtres au rez-dechaussée. Les roses ont poussé autour de la maison, des autres plantes aussi. La forêt a poussé très vite et nous a fourni une barrière pittoresque autour de la maison. Nous avons embauché des maçons pour réparer les murs et enlever l’arbre de la maison.

Nous avons remplacé les fenêtres et nous avons acheté des rideaux bleus clair. Nous avons peint certains murs blancs et nous avons mis des papiers peints sur les autres murs. Nous avons aussi mis un plancher en bois par terre.

Nous avons acheté beaucoup de meubles. Par le printemps prochain, la maison était pittoresque. Mon rêve s’est réalisé.

Maintenant, une année après avoir décoré la maison, nous habitons dans une belle maison. Il y a l’électricité et l’eau.

Le jardin et la forêt poussent très vite. En été, le jardin sera pittoresque et il fera beau et chaud. Nous avons beaucoup de fruits qui poussent dans le verger. Ma famille et moi, nous faisons du jus de pomme et du cidre des pommes. La vie est très bonne, cependant nous n’avons pas beaucoup d’argent et hier, il y a eu une tempête et le vent a soufflé par un trou au grenier. À l’avenir, j’irai en ville pour trouver un emploi. Je gagnerai assez d’argent et je l’enverrai à ma famille pour réparer la maison que j’adore. J’achèterai un petit appartement en ville pour y vivre à l’avenir jusqu’à ce que je gagne assez d’argent pour retourner à ma famille et ma maison dans le champ.

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Emily Graham UVI Form

Doors of the Mind

By Elle Curzon Green LV Form

Doors can shut you in and shut you out. Doors can ban you from the world, block you and hide you. Doors can bar the way to fate. They can slam, scorn and enslave, but doors can be opened. They can release us and lead us to new opportunities, new possibilities and new discoveries.

A door of the mind was once opened to me. A blue giant, tall and gentle, emerged. It stood majestically as the blazing claws of luminous light etched themselves into its skin. Its veins turned black and cold as the light reflected upon its mighty back. The door’s hinges were coated in orange snow and, although its handle was dull and uninteresting compared with the piercing blue, the handle was most beautiful. Each petal that unfolded from the blackened arm brought delicate innocence to this monster of colour. It intrigued me. It drew me in and I did not object. Feebly, I reached out to touch this arm. It was cold and sharp as the petals enclosed themselves around my palm. My mind grew cautious, as all my strength transpired into a single movement that brought life and hope and wonder. We moved as one, the giant and I. The embrace of two hands carried my soul. The grasp that I previously had on reality was swept away like a sliding door.

A new meaning of life flourished and the bird of my soul took flight. It spread its wings as I gazed upon the true meaning of creation. I stepped toward the room ablaze with colour.

Each tone and shade tore through my mind like a surging wave. My eyes now burned with creativity: art and music had been unleashed; painted flames danced in the shadows of my mind. I was changed. No longer did I see the world, I felt it. Each blade of grass composed a symphony. Each beetle that crawled along a cobbled path was an individual and every day was a new hope. Never did I look upon my life as meaningless and bland again. When that blue door opened, it opened my mind.

My eyes have begun to return to the grey abyss of doom.

The light and colour that once spurred my thoughts and brought a sense of belonging are beginning to tear away.

I walk, step by step, the sense of discovery lingering in the air. I wander beyond the blue giant and escape from his glorious clutches. I walk towards darkness, but I turn, turn back to see the friendly face of turquoise. The light remains on the oak silhouette and it appears to smile. A force pushed that door closed. I stopped. I watched. I did not walk. One single salt water droplet descended down my face, disappearing into deep lines, as it left behind a trail of sorrow. A crack of light scrambled underneath the blue giant and instantly disappeared. Darkness filled the spaces in my skull, filled my bones and dying flesh. I was left alone. I could not see my hands. I could not feel anything.

When my blue door closed, another opened. Out of the charcoal sky appeared an entrance: a door encrusted with green faces surrounded by haloes of moss and entwined with stooping men who twisted towards the ebony night.

I did not want to touch this door. I did not want to grip its arm or be intrigued. I tried to persuade my feet to run and turn back in search of my beloved blue giant, but they would not move. I lost all control as my mind was inhabited by toxic darkness. This door, this beast, dragged me by its ruthless talons to its handle. I did not dare put my arm out to touch it. I could not defend myself, for it broke barriers and forced my hand to clutch the black handle.

Sometimes you don’t want to open doors. You don’t want things to end, but they do. Doors can shut you in and shut you out, yet you never know what is behind a door until you open it. If you don’t open doors, there is no act of creation, no life and no beauty before death.

That same blue door was opened to me as a child; my perspective was distorted from then on. I replay this moment of the door and I over and over, and I wish to experience the love I felt all those years ago. I remember looking down at my hands, questioning my actions, as each small finger and white knuckle clutched the rose-strewn handle. Now, I look down at my hand again, purple and blue strings are faded underneath the pale crinkled flesh and the skin is no longer supple and strong.

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Literalily

Wiltshire SN11 0DF Telephone: 01249 857200 Fax: 01249 857207 Email: office@stmaryscalne.org www.stmaryscalne.org

Front cover artwork by Sian Wright UVI Form