St Marys Calne Literalily 2013 by St Mary's Calne

Literalily

Chessie Lamb UV Form

Welcome to Literalily St Mary’s Creative Writing Magazine The theme of ‘The Great St Mary’s Writing Competition’ this year was ‘Mini-Adventures’. The girls were asked to write something exciting, fast-paced and compelling. Henrietta Page was the Senior Winner while Phoebe Love was the winner of the Juniors. The magazine also includes both runners up and the best work submitted for the competition, as well as other pieces written for the English Department during the year 2012 – 2013.

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 2013

The Winners Fourth Form Winner

The Runners Up

Phoebe Love UIV Form

Delphyne Findley-Ramsbotham UIV Form

Fifth Form Winner Henrietta Page UV Form

Yasmin Watling UIV Form Emilie Dando-Crosasso UV Form Elle Curzon Green UV Form

Fourth Form Winner

Cicely Haslam LVI Form

Unpredictable Weather By Phoebe Love UIV Form

Lucy closed the car door. She walked over to where the boats were kept, overlooking the vast bank of murky blue. Waves flitted about the shore as if they were trying to escape from drowning. A fleeting gust of wind encircled Lucy. The ragged flags whipped around as the wind changed direction.

She righted herself, yanking at the sail sharply. She saw her own scarlet blood on her tanned skin. She suddenly felt a stinging pain coming from her hands as the water started to mingle with the blood. It was rope burn! Lucy was cross with herself. How had she forgotten to wear her gloves?

Once in her wetsuit, she had to rig up the Laser. It smelt old and stale from overuse. The boom was heavy and the ropes were rough against her skin. Lucy waded into the mud. It was bracing, and already there was grit and sand in her shoes. Once on the pontoon, the struggle began. As the wind picked up, the sail was let loose. The noise of the sail flapping was loud and panicked. Lucy struggled to bring it under control, but the sail, like a frightened bird, continued its cacophony of distress, howling to be released. Eventually, she tied it down. There was no one else on the water, just her and the steadily growing swell; however, it suddenly became very dark. Foreboding charcoal clouds were rolling over thick and fast. Lucy, trying to ignore the sense of a storm coming, untied herself from the cleat and set off into the rapidly increasing and unforgiving waves.

Abruptly, she forgot the pain. All her energy was now focused on the fact that her boat was slanting. The sail was pulled in too tight and the choppy waves were now splashing up high. She let the rope go and it, again, tore through her hands. It wasn’t enough. She was going to go over. An enormous breaker hit her boat. She capsized. Lucy gasped and she was thrown into the depths.

Her course was a beam reach. It was meant to be very simple and Lucy had done this course a thousand times, but now it was beginning to rain and the wind was slowly getting stronger and more forceful, whisking up the waves as it flew across the water. Lucy felt the spray in her face and leaned right back out of the boat which was beginning to tip. She was flying over the surface of the waves and the sail was nearly full out. Suddenly, she saw a huge gust of wind race towards her. The rope ripped through her hands as the sail lurched out. She swerved and the buoy got ever closer. She was going to have to jibe. The sky erupted with a roar as the rain began to pummel down. Even harder than before, the raindrops grew to the size of marbles and obscured Lucy’s view completely. Out of nowhere, the buoy appeared right in front of her. Lucy jerked the rudder. The wind took her off-balance and the boom swung across fast, violently hitting her on the head. ‘Lucky I have a helmet!’ she thought out loud, for, if she had not, that would have been sure to knock her out.

Lucy resurfaced gasping for air as the waves threw her about. She struggled over and under various ropes, finally getting to the back of the boat. She wrestled with the dagger board, trying to pull it down with all her might. It wouldn’t come. The wind was too strong. The boat was steadily closing in on the rocks. She didn’t have the strength to right the boat and was rapidly losing hope and power over the situation. Out of nowhere, her salvation came. A bright orange speed boat came alongside her. ‘Get in, quick!’ the lady said, as she grabbed her buoyancy aid and hauled her in. She revved the engine and Lucy could smell the strong petrol fumes. ‘What about the BOAT?’ Lucy screamed over the storm. ‘If we go back now we’ll ALL hit the rocks!’ the woman shouted. ‘But-’ Lucy exclaimed, angry with the woman for giving up so easily; however, when she looked around, Lucy realised the woman was right: the boat had hit the rocks and was already sinking. When they got back, Lucy apologised to the woman, saying how grateful she was for the help she had received. ‘No problem my dear! I had been keeping an eye on you for a while and, when I saw you were in trouble, well, I couldn’t just stand by and let you sink!’ Lucy thanked her again and went to get changed. Lucy found her mother peering out across the lake, looking at the boat wreckage in the distance. ‘Lucy, have you seen this? I wonder what happened.’

Fifth Form Winner

Star Dance By Henrietta Page UV Form

Last night, I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I woke to the faint strains of hundreds of distant instruments, like the whispering voices of angels, beckoning gently - to where or whom I did not yet know. The quilt sighed as I slipped from its warmth and made my way across the darkened room, moving with that gliding half-walk that is only possible in dreams such as this one. The hallway was illuminated only by the blue-grey moonlight, giving every surface the appearance of marble. The tired, disagreeable old beams that reside beneath the hall rug made none of their usual creaking protest but, instead, lay silent and without complaint as I crossed to the stairs, guided by the peal of a thousand tiny bells. I was suddenly aware of my feet as they left the deep, forgiving carpet and met the cold flagstones at the bottom of the narrow steps. The back door was unlocked, which was unusual, so I flicked the latch and threw it open, moonlight spilling through the space the door left behind, drenching me in liquid silver. The mysterious harmonies now grew into a hypnotic chorus that danced in my ears and turned pirouettes behind my eyes. As I looked into the night sky, it dawned on me: the stars were singing. Each one took a different timbre, tempo and time signature - here a waltz with cheerful syncopated rhythms, here the anthem of a far-off world and there the mournful chords of a haunting requiem. Each seemed to be a familiar tune, but with no detectable melody, as if the echoing concerto were woven out of feeling alone, swooping and rising, each strand flowing together like a shining stream of sound. The stars watched as I wandered on tiptoe, a wide-eyed ghost in a white nightdress, across the dew-dampened grass towards the apple tree in the centre of the garden. I pulled myself through the branches laden with emerald leaves and soft, fragrant blossoms, longing to be nearer to the sparkling orchestra. There I stood, on the topmost bough, transfixed by this astronomical choir. I reached out as if to touch each one, caressing the night air with each finger, and it all began to crescendo into a radiant symphony, filling my head with light.

At once, everything changed. It was as if time had stopped but, at the same time, it was happening all at once and I could see it all: I knew every word, thought and woe of the human race; how vitally important, yet totally insignificant, each human being is within the universe; I could view life through the eyes of every animal, from the tiniest ant to the largest blue whale; I felt every cool summer breeze, every midday desert scorch, every frozen arctic storm that ever was; I could sense the plants and trees growing around me; I was, in that single moment, aware of everything in the world; I felt the very earth turning, each planet orbiting the sun, each galaxy curling into itself or exploding into the surrounding void. A laugh of pure joy and endless knowledge burst from my chest and I leapt straight from the highest branch onto the grass, landing gracefully on my feet. Then, I began to dance. I danced for hours, through giocoso polkas and long romantic suites. Whole ballets flew by. I skipped, turned, hopped and twirled, faster and faster, singing echoes to the stars until, at last, I collapsed, exhausted, onto the cool, fresh lawn, dewdrops covering my skin and filling my hair with countless tiny diamonds. My eyelids were heavy and I fought to keep them open, wanting to spend a whole lifetime more taking in the miraculous sound, to learn every part so I would never forget it, but each thread was now stitching together a lullaby so intricate and soothing that I soon succumbed. My eyes open as the weak sunlight falls on my face. I am lying in my bedroom. Why is that disappointing? I sit up and observe my surroundings; nothing has changed since I turned off the lamp last night, so why do I feel like something is different? I swing my feet onto the floor and pad over to the window, pushing the curtains open to let in a little more light. I watch the rivulets of late October rain trickle down the glass, distorting my view of the gray sky, the garden and the naked old apple tree I climbed as a child. I turn away. Sitting in front of the mirror, I slowly and methodically begin to brush my hair; I catch sight of something small and white out of the corner of my eye. A single white apple blossom floats silently to the floor. Last night, I had the strangest dream.

Sophia Guinness LVI Form

Alice Edgedale UVI Form

Runner Up

Un Faisan By Delphyne Findley-Ramsbotham UIV Form

This time, not only could I smell the pheasant, but I could see him. His plumage was like an Arabian market: it was bustling with raucous colour, his feathers engulfing one another. In the dying afternoon sun, I could visualise his tail glimmering, his eyes pearly and glazed over with agitation.

Suddenly, he was over the bracken, into the forest and had disappeared. I had lost him and that exemplary opportunity. After my exhausting excursion, my ability to kill would be hindered; however, I persisted. I could not lose him again after all the effort I had made to track him.

I was off, bounding over the undulating fields. He was so close, his scent was almost tangible. My ears trailed behind me, catching every sound and every desperate flap of that pheasant. He was mine.

I surged through the bracken, feeling the delicate branches snap under my inexorable pressure. The sun had faded and only slender streams of light were able to break through the canopy and dimple the ground. I felt myself being drawn further and further into the glade. I was entranced by the solitary moan of the trees and the extraneous supernatural crackle as twigs fractured. These noises seemed to serenade me. I felt quite alone.

The warmth stolen from the sun had dispersed; a crisp cold air penetrated and isolated me. The fields, which were passing rapidly under my feet, had the soft, lenient sensation which comes from having just been ploughed and were ideal. I had longed throughout the year for the smell of autumn. The musky fragrance of strong tobacco and wood smoke that enveloped my nostrils warned me to be careful of keepers and bonfires; yet it was intoxicating. The dew from the long grasses adhered itself to my fur, drenching me. A sudden cacophony of clucking was a sure sign that my pheasant was cornered. A piercing whistle interrupted my mental ramblings. I was an explorer, an expert in survival, but my human family did not return my own enthusiasm at being liberated. I despised their dictatorship. Defiantly, I carried on running. Then, slowly, I turned around. Would I be returned like an unwanted package to my former life of chaos and destruction? I depended on their companionship, but did they depend on mine? Self-doubt swarmed over my conscience. I would endeavour to surrender to their views. The odour of the pheasant consumed me. I hastened into the sunset. Aeroplane trails were scattered over the sky, destroying the otherwise perfect engraving of serenity, as if the Devil had clawed intensely at the sky with his long fingernails, trying to ruin another example of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s handiwork. There he was, gaining altitude every second, trying to evade me through the hedgerow. His wings spanned wide enough to blot out the sun, trying to encapsulate it and use it as a shield against me, the Medusa. I was disorientated by my carnivorous instincts. My vision of the outside world was obscured, but my focus on the pheasant had an unimaginable clarity. He resumed his escape attempts through the hawthorn. They were now more vigorous, more frantic. I could taste his panic. He could not outwit me. It was to no avail. His urgency just served as an extra stimulant to my heightened Neanderthal mind.

I spotted him. I kept my head close to the ground, feeling the brambles comb through my fur. I had to stay concealed. I padded through the undergrowth, using twilight as my guide, appreciating the thick moss which captured my footsteps. He was only inches away. I was ready to pounce. I crouched down, moving my full force to the ground so that I could build momentum, steadying myself. I pounced, but, as I was in mid-air, a wire tightened over my throat and pulled my weight backwards, cutting harshly through my flesh. I collapsed to the ground; every direction I turned caused the noose to tighten malignantly. The obsessive hunter had been hunted. I cried out. The noose had no pity, the stronger my pleas for mercy, the more merciless the noose became. I felt the icy ironic extent of its cruelty. It sensed my despair and feasted upon it like a gnarled and ravaged Hades. I was very much alone. I was left abandoned. Ensnared and headstrong, the more I tried to back out, the more bitingly I was reprimanded. I struggled and screamed and was cut more bitterly and relentlessly. The noose was inspired by my wretchedness: it became ruthless, brutal and savage. It seemed to live off my pain. I had been heedless and cynical. I would die estranged, forsaken and ignorant. I would die in desolation. I would die in a remorseless paradox of my own making. I would die a simple dog.

Runner Up

Nightmare By Emilie Dando-Crosasso UV Form The inky black spirals of twirling darkness engulf your body as their snaking tendrils wrap themselves around you, dragging you over the cliff edge towards the thundering charcoal ocean thousands of metres down. You grab desperately for the clumps of grass but, as you take hold, they turn to dust in your hands and you slip ever closer to a certain death. Suddenly, they stop, withdraw. Then, with renewed ferocity and strength, they attack again. Slipping further and further down, you fall, spinning towards the coal-black chasm.

All of a sudden, you find yourself in a town. You recognise it, but you can’t work out where you are. Then, a few metres away, you see them looking into a shop window, still wearing the clothes they were wearing last night. Relief washes over you and you sprint towards them, crashing into pedestrians, but you don’t care. All that matters is that they’re here and you’re safe. Reaching them, you shout their names; they turn around and you throw yourself into their arms, inhaling their familiar mix of lavender perfume, fabric softener and aftershave. It’s over. It’s okay.

Wind tears through your hair and burns your skin as you sprint towards the vast empty space that stretches before you, an endless expanse of nothing, yet something is out there: something terrible. Something is coming for you. Instinct tells you that whatever is following is unimaginably bad: something from the murky, merciless depths of hell. It comes closer, it is inconceivably fast and you know you can’t outrun it, but fear keeps you moving, running. With every attempted increase in speed you slow, held back by invisible strings, like a puppet controlled with ease in spite of your efforts. Your breath comes in sharp, rasping bursts and your heart grips with terror and threatens to burst out of your chest yet, still, your legs refuse to move. It’s coming.

They push you away, roughly shoving you aside. Why? You look up to your mother’s loving eyes and the fathomless blackness you see instead sends chills down your spine. That’s not her. Their faces start to crumble into slabs of earth that fall away as they break into enormously wide grins. Turning away in terror, you desperately scan the street.

Billows of icy water smash against you, sucking you down into the depths. The light is just above, close enough to see, but just out of reach; the beams of crystal light dance away from your outstretched fingers. Swimming, swimming, the light gets further away as the twirling columns of water pull you back down - so close, yet so far. The last air is gone from your throbbing lungs, leaving a deadly, painful emptiness. Just let me breathe! Panic sets in as your heart beats faster and faster, your movements becoming more frantic. You begin to slip out of consciousness. Numbness takes hold as you slowly close your eyes. When you wake, you feel the familiar weight of your duvet wrapped around you. You are drenched in sweat and your hair sticks to your face in a matted mess. Slowly, you open your eyes to darkness. Gingerly stepping out of bed, you cross the room and go out into the corridor, quietly calling for your parents: ‘Mum... Dad? Mum... Dad?’, louder this time. The floorboards creak as you enter their room. Their bed is made, untouched. No clothes are on the floor, no books on the bedside table. They haven’t been here... not for a while. ‘MUM?’ you screech, ‘DAD?’ Tearing through the house, stumbling in the darkness, you frantically search every room, desperate for some clue, some sign that they’re here or that they’ll be back and everything’s going to be okay. Where are they?

There! Again you see the same cotton skirt and chinos in the distance. It’s them! Running across the street, you call them and, as they turn, you see their already crumbling faces and Cheshire-cat grins. You freeze, heart thumping. Through the blur of the salty tears pouring down your face, you see the figures approaching you; to the left and to the right, your parents’ faces turn to dust. You’re standing in the middle of some sort of vortex, a whirlwind sucking everything in, pulling thousands of these monsters towards you, into you, the remains of the faces you know so well blowing into your eyes, blinding you. You hear them laugh. Eyes open, heart thumping. In the back of your mind you can still hear those eerie, echoing laughs repeating over and over again. Nothing can block them out. You turn over, facing your alarm clock: 4:13 am - too early. Groaning, you turn away from the bright red light and close your eyes, your breathing slowing, approaching once again the shadowy land where darkness reigns and monsters lurk under every bed...

Lucy Stratton UVI Form

Emily Chaffer LVI Form

Runner Up

Termini By Elle Curzon Green UV Form

‘40, 39, 38...’ His disembodied voice stabbed my lungs. Each number that fled his jaws seemed to howl in my small ears. My foot plunged down and I sprang forwards, hurtling away from the brutal and menacing words. Eyes darting, heart thumping, I raced through the emerald undergrowth, glancing behind me. ‘32’ The number reverberated through my skull as a single drop of sweat scurried down my crinkled brow. I scanned my surroundings and dashed towards an old wooden shed, scrabbling in earnest at the rusted black handle to open the stiff and slanting door. I slithered through the tiny wedge as my sweat drenched palms scraped the wild tangle of hair off my steaming cheeks. As I passed through a second door, I was devoured by darkness. I knew what I’d done as soon as it closed: I had trapped myself. My body went numb as my only exit slammed and all that remained was my terror. Grappling at the pine walls, I began to allow oxygen to reunite with the marrow of my bones. ‘23’ A squeal erupted from my mouth in horror as I began to realise the truth: he is going to find me. The intoxicating smell of petrol filled my throat as I stumbled behind a dark rectangular object. My sight had deserted me. I sheltered behind what seemed, to my quivering fingers, to be a metal edge and my panicked mind settled on a wheelbarrow as the object before me. I stooped low and hunched. My chest heaved. ‘16’ The snarl emitted waves of alarm and I clasped my hands around my cracking lips to restrain the shriek that threatened to break the silence. The numbers kept snapping at my mind as I began to drown in my own fear. His voice sapped every ounce of happiness that had ever inhabited my helpless body. I searched, but there was no pane of glass that offered a view into the distant world outside, so I burrowed further inside my woollen jumper, letting it absorb my dread. I waited. I could hear nothing, no haunting number. My eyes continued their search for hope, but would not adjust to the dark abyss I was trapped in. I tried not to think of the consequences of my actions and what they could lead to.

Something started, a roar hurled itself at the dark prison and I jerked forward leaving my stomach several inches behind my body of lead. Squatting on the damp floor, I lost my balance and plummeted into a pile of tins; they clattered and screeched along the concrete ground. The sound continued to grow and howl as I frantically grasped at the air. My mind raced, the gear changed and overdrive set in. I scuttled away from the rolling thunder. He heard me. It is over. Abruptly, the growl of the blast died to a purr and the racket seemed to resemble that of a lawn mower. I resisted the urge to smile as it dawned on me that I had gone unheard but that the nightmare remained. ‘8’ I waited silently, not daring to move, not even to breathe. I crouched behind the door, curling myself into the smallest shape possible, hoping I would not be found. ‘3’ Outside, the floorboards groaned in protest as the creature stalked ever closer. I swallowed the huge lump in my throat that was threatening to choke me. It was the end: the terminus of all things true and good in the world. I waited. ‘1 - here I come.’ Suddenly, it happened: he had found me. A crack of sunlight stormed into the room at the back of the old oak shed like lightening bursting from the sky. The door edged its way forwards and I was snared by its blinding light. There he was, staring into the very shadows and corners of my soul, hooking himself to my veins. He marched forwards, his shoes avoiding all obstacles in his way, his eyeballs pinned to my neck, glistening with hunger for his prey, as he came towards my frozen figure. I edged my way deeper into the corner behind the metal shield and scrunched my eyes to block out the truth. A large finger wrapped itself around my thin wrist and I peeled my eyelids back. We were face to face, our breath blending in the air. I had lost and it was all over. He grinned; I grimaced. His eyes flashed with pride as I clawed my way out of my shadow-ridden corner. His lips parted and I heard those dreaded words of victory: ‘Tag, you’re it!’ and once more my brother disappeared like a ghost through the door as I began my hunt with a smile. ‘40, 39, 38...’

Runner Up

Below 10 By Yasmin Watling UIV Form I bounce up and down, jittery with nervousness, and slap my thighs. The crowd meets the first announced competitor with a roar that shakes the whole stadium. My heart flutters as he beams and shakily waves to the crowd. My eyes bore down the lane, right through to the painted line one hundred metres away. The simple white line that, in a few minutes, I will be hurtling over, every muscle straining. I have fewer than ten seconds to change my life, to throw away or apply over eight years of sacrifice and hard work. My head is reeling as the camera swims into view and I hear my name reverberate around the stadium. The crowd fills me with strength, but I feel dizzy with adrenaline. I glance at my coach and he nods, his face etched with lines of concentration. I know I need to focus and envisage the race. The seven other men and I are all in for the battle of our lives, the battle where only one will triumph and all else will fail. A one in eight chance - the odds are not in my favour, but I know that almost a decade of competing and training means that the result of this race is not down to the roll of the dice, but down to my own grit and skill. Luck is not the toss of a coin; it is when preparation meets opportunity. The crowd hushes as the starter calls ‘Take your marks’. Eighty-thousand people are silenced by a simple phrase, a phrase that I’ve been hearing all my life, at every competition, from the simple kindergarten egg and spoon races on the grassy lanes, to the world championships, where I painfully missed out on a medal position by less than a millisecond. At each major competition, I’ve tried and failed to get my name out there, to show the world that I can win and that I’m not a nobody. In a few year’s time, no-one will remember who came fifth or fourth or even third in the Olympic one hundred metre final, only who came first, who was the winner, the one with the gold medal hanging over their stocky neck. ‘Set.’ Leaning into the blocks, I straighten my knee. My weight is balanced onto my arched fingertips, my body ready to spring from the blocks, my carved legs tensed like springs. In my peripheral vision, I can see the other athletes lean forward. The adrenaline in the air is overpowering and the tension could be cut with a knife. My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that it seems to echo across the whole track. I have practised this start over and over again, but, in the end, this is the only one that matters. The whole race can be won with the fastest reaction. My whole body is trained to the gun, my head facing down, streamlined.

BANG The gun shatters the silence and I explode out of the block. My head is down, my arms pumping, my legs a blur. I am neck-and-neck with the dark shadow of Deon Lewis - World Champion, Olympic Champion, World Record Holder - returning to this race to defend his title. We are ahead of the pack, our bodies pumping in unison, straining to get ahead. The crowd’s roar swells as we reach halfway, still in line with each other, still competing for gold. I surge forward, increasing my speed more and more with my powerful bounds, but he strides centimetres ahead, pushing me to go even faster. I want this so badly. I want to hear my national anthem, to feel the tears on my cheek, to kiss my wife in jubilation and fly the Union Jack behind me as I complete my victory lap. I focus straight ahead and fly. The line is ten metres away. Seven metres. Five metres. Two. I propel myself across it, hurling my chest forward in one final attempt to win. My eyes dart from side to side. The crowd is cheering, waving their multicoloured flags, jumping up and down, but for whom? I stare towards the screen, but the results are still unconfirmed. I collapse into a sweaty heap on the ground, exhausted both physically and mentally. Suddenly, the crowd bombards me with noise and, as I look up, I see the sweaty palm of Deon Lewis. He pulls me up and claps me on the back, whispering ‘Well done’. In optimistic confusion, I look towards the big screen and, next to the pixelated number one, I see a name. My name. Olympic Champion.

It’s a big world out there By Clara Wade MIV Form

I had been in the toy shop for five years, perched on top of my tiny little shelf surrounded by dust that continued to build up by the minute. I was silently humming to myself, when a rather plump boy, only around seven, walked in.

I was stuffed into a wooden toy car with massive wheels and a rather stiff steering wheel, which I thought might be a menace when I was driving, but the engine was good and I thought that I might be in with a chance.

‘Mother, Mother, I want that one over there!’ he said, his large obnoxious voice booming, leaving an eerie echo ringing throughout the shop. ‘Oh, Jonny love, that one is so old and, look, he has a crack right down the side of his left leg.’ ‘But Mother, I want him!’ he cried, with unquestionable authority. ‘He is mine.’

When we were at our destination, I saw lots of other boys very much like Jonny. I have to say, I was beginning to worry; they were all so much older than me and so much stronger. The chance of me winning didn’t seem so likely after all.

Then it was settled, this little, rather horrid, boy had set me free. As he carried me through the freezing cold streets of London, wrapped up in yesterday’s paper recalling stories of the war, I couldn’t help wonder what next? I woke up in a very hard bed, still reeling from what had happened yesterday, a fact which was only made worse once I found out that I was in a doll’s house. Just as I was about to get up, something grabbed me and held me by my shirt, pinching me. It was my new owner, Jonny. ‘How are you feeling today, Tommy? Have you had a good old night’s rest? ‘Cause today we’re going to a road race, yes, a road race. Now, there will be other dolls there, so please don’t be alarmed. We are going to practise and I’m sure you will win.’ After Wellingtons were squeezed onto my feet and a rather stiff anorak thrown over my head, I was stuffed in a pocket with old chewing gum and a rather unpleasant sock. Now, before I begin the next part of my so-called adventure, I feel the need to tell you something: dolls are really real. I know what you are thinking - no they aren’t - but every toy maker has a secret which they can’t share. The secret is that all dolls have hearts: they are made out of beeswax, violet pollen, five elephant eyelashes and half a flake of gold. Add this all together and you have a doll’s heart. This gets placed inside every doll, meaning that we all have hearts and can talk and walk just like humans. Because of this, I also know how to drive. I have to admit, I was feeling a little self-confident. At night, I loved driving around the plastic sets that children buy. Once, I even drove a toy Ferrari, but this adventure was unlike any I had ever been on before.

‘Now Tommy, it will be fine, I’m sure you will win and then we can get an ice cream, hey?’ said Jonny. I have to say, I was beginning to like him more and more. As he placed me on the starting line with all of the other toys, my heart was thudding, my fingers were shaking and my hands sweating. I could hear the cries, but it was all a blur. I felt like I was drowning. The whole world was spinning before my eyes and I couldn’t breathe. I knew I would have to race, I just didn’t know how to start. ‘On your marks, get set, go!’ shouted the referee and, before I knew it, I was off. The wheels went whizzing through the mud, splashing poor old Jonny right in the face. I didn’t have time to worry though, I could see all of the other boys pushing ahead in front of me and I, so badly, didn’t want to lose. I pushed down hard and used all my might - think Tommy, think. As I was coming to a turn, I saw all of the other dolls avoiding the ramp, but I didn’t. This was my chance; either it would work or I would land ‘splat’ on my face. I was nearing the ramp; it was now or never. I got closer and prepared for the biggest risk of my life. I sped over the ramp, my head spinning. I thought back to what my life in the toy shop was like, I was so thankful to Jonny for getting me out of there. As I pushed off, I flew ahead, flying over all of the other boys onto the finishing line. I had won and, being a toy, that felt good.

Colour Explosions By Hope Nicholson LIV Form Everybody hushes as they are lit, Fire blazes and the audience stares, Then it explodes, I really adore it, It amazes me as it shoots through the air. Then the fiery dragon is let loose, Everybody stares and watches in awe, The audience smiles like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got good news, Nobody could believe what it is they saw. Explosions illuminate the dark sky, Crackles fill the ears of boys and girls, Young and old are silent, not even a cry, The explosions twist, dive, even whirl. Fireworks, fireworks lighting the earth, Every explosion is like a new birth.

Venetia Baring UV Form

The Chocolate Bee By Sophie Mallinson LIV Form A buzzing fills the air; here come the bees. Before it came alive it was rich brown, Crackling like the dry orange autumn leaves, Melting and going mad inside my mouth. The branches of the trees sway in the wind, The multicoloured leaves fall to the ground, The beginnings of spring give us a hint That they want to be uncovered and found. The chocolate is ever so milky, It tastes of heaven so perfect and sweet, Its textures are so smooth and so silky, So divine and pure that nothing can beat. I think of the bright things that I have seen, But, after all, it’s just a chocolate bee.

A Child on Christmas Day By Verity Page UIV Form Parents asleep and yet a child awakes, His eyes stare at the ceiling, white and bare. The window is splattered with crisp snowflakes And silently he creeps on down the stairs. He sees the glistening figures wrapped in gold, They grasp him with temptation hard to bear. Stockings hang full as Mother had foretold, He sighs, relieved that St Nick has stopped there. He investigates each parcel, to guess Its contents, by a shake, turn, squeeze and smell. Alas, his endeavours have no success. Whatever’s inside? Only time will tell. Defeated, he sighs and turning away, He wakes the house shouting ‘It’s Christmas Day!’

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The Voice from the Shadows By Annabel Sumner UIV Form It was pitch black. Where was I heading? What was that noise? I gazed through the trees to see a blinding light coming straight towards me. When I heard an ear-piercing whistle, I knew what it was. I took a number of bounds and one giant leap up. I was on. The train was moving just fast enough for me to lose my balance. A gigantic crash occurred as I hit the floor of the rear trailer. It was not a subtle landing. My head met with the floorboards and the world turned dark. Three daunting faces were now looking down at me. They all had an evil glare in their eyes. They looked as though they were going to kill someone. It wasn’t long before I found out that this person was me. They dragged me over to the side of the trailer. They did not want to listen to me, merely to hurl me back into the dark night air of the woods. Torchlight suddenly illuminated the scene. The owner of the torch had authority in his voice. ‘Let him explain his actions,’ was the command. The three glaring faces tossed me into a corner. ‘Explain yourself,’ one shouted. I could feel his wretched breath hit my face. ‘I… I… I… I’m on a spontaneous adventure,’ came my reply. A surge of other words followed my statement, but the men were not interested. At least I had been saved by the voice from the shadows. I awoke in a huddled state. On the second to last section of the train, a dirty tarpaulin covered a large rectangular shape, beneath it, the letters ‘CIRC’ were visible, but nothing more. A mighty roar came from under the tarpaulin, a roar that sent a chill down my spine. I had never experienced fear like it. The train finally pulled into its destination. Twelve carriages long in all, half the train was under tarpaulin with the words ‘CIRCUS’ and ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’ printed on them. A man descended from one of the carriages and walked up to me. ‘Do you want some work?’ he questioned me in a tone that was familiar from the night before. ‘Yes, yes, I am happy to help,’ was my reply. The man said, ‘We have to unload. Go and help remove the tarpaulin from the cages.’

Standing on the top of each of the last three trailer sections were three athletic characters, all working vigorously. One of them called to me, ‘Hey, you! Unhook these ropes.’ Another yell came from above, ‘Go and get some buckets of water – quick!’ By the time I had returned, the entire train was a hive of activity with people unloading and tending the animals. It was explained to me that the morning would be spent erecting the ‘Big Top’, the largest circus tent in the world. Afterwards, the animals would be unloaded and put in their quarters. The first performance would not take place until tomorrow, when everyone had finally settled in. That evening, dinner was served around a camp fire. It turned out that my fate had been determined the previous night by the ringmaster, the torchbearer! Stories of circus life went on long into the night; they seemed thrilling and full of adventure; however, these people had one particular passion – their animals. I remember one story especially well. Some years ago, one of the lions was unwell. The vet was told that he could treat the lion through the cage bars, as long as the trainer was in attendance. As the trainer left the cage, the lion sprang out, leapt over the trainer and looked at the vet with eyes as wide as suns. The ringmaster saw this happen and distracted the lion with a crack of his whip, whacking the lion like a piñata. The lion turned and ran into the big top where the ringmaster’s wife practised the trapeze. She had just finished. The lion took a giant leap and pounced on her, claws outstretched and mouth open; her fate was sealed. The ringmaster found his gun, entered the arena and fired a single shot into the lion’s head. The ringmaster never blamed anyone for the death of his wife. His three sons never changed their attitude towards the animals, but they did regard strangers with greater caution; after all, the vet had been a stranger to the lion. The night the three sons had found me on the train, I was a stranger to them. I now know they would not have killed me, they were merely trying to prevent history from repeating itself.

Sophie Soar UVI Form

Radioactive By Clara Mallinckrodt UIV Form Incandescent ruptures of acid green Prickle and tingle through my throbbing veins. My scorching forehead slick - a clammy sheen, Raw sensations of pure, hammering pain. Streams of radioactive poison Pulse through my raging, uncontrolled body. Merely a miniscule pearl of potion Wretchedly triggered my sheer agony. Venom invades my pathetic resistance, Conquers the last droplet of my power. I feel vulnerable, purged of confidence, My lifetime obstructed within an hour. With emerald green toxins crippling my heart, Vanquished by torture, I swiftly depart.

Jasmine Von der Esch UV Form

Mini Adventures By Franziska Goess-Saurau UV Form

I sit here, happily giggling to myself, as I repeatedly press the large button in the middle of the big circle. It’s so exciting! It even makes a noise. If I’m being totally honest, I don’t actually know what it is. Some woman gave it to me yesterday and I thought it would be rude not to accept it. She was strange, the woman: her hair was gray and her skin all crinkled - not like mine, not like the other lady’s either. What does she call herself, again? ‘Mummy’ - that was it. Well, anyway, when I was given this thing Mummy said that I ‘could be a big boy and drive now’, or something like that. Not that I have any idea what she was talking about; she never makes much sense really. Look! Look! It did it again! It made a noise. Is it magic, I thought to myself? I was still thinking, in fact, when I was rudely disturbed by the ‘Daddy’ man. He picked me up and off we went. I can walk you know and, actually, I can drive too. Mummy said so. She said I was a big boy. Although it has to be said, this Daddy guy doesn’t really seem to have a clue what’s going on. He always looks very confused and has this rather bemused look on his face when I try to communicate with him, or perhaps that’s just how he looks. Who knows? The whole communication thing is a bit of an issue. I mean I know what I’m saying, but no one else seems to understand. When I’m hungry, half of the time I have to burst into tears to get the message across that I actually want food! Despite that, I do quite like the Mummy and Daddy people: they’re both very nice and, when they do understand, they’re incredibly helpful. Even though it’s a little embarrassing when they have to change that soggy thing around my bottom, somehow they always seem to know when to do it. Amazing don’t you think? Now look, I told you Daddy doesn’t know what’s happening: he forgot to put that white powdery stuff on my bottom before he put a new paper thing on. I mean, honestly, that’s just not on! ‘Change it. Oh, please change it! I’ll cry if you’re not careful.’ I tried to say, but he just looked at me blankly. The lady knows what to do; she would have powdered me, you silly man! What’s her name again? ‘Muuhh!’ I said, no, still nothing, that wasn’t quite it. ‘Muhhmma.’ I tried again. Ah, now that seems to have done the trick: he shouted something. Perhaps he’s summoning her for me. Hallelujah!

The lady looked a little flustered when she walked into the room, a little grumpy too. She and Daddy exchanged a few brief words. What he said to her I’ll never know, but she looked shocked and made a gasp. She tried to tell me something. I only caught one word: Mummy. Okay, I thought, I need that powder. I can say that. ‘Muummaa,’ I tested. Close enough I thought, rather pleased with myself. Clearly not though, as the lady asked me the same thing as last time, but again I only understood the ‘Mummy’ bit - so it was a bit more of an ‘e’ sound at the end. Let’s try again: ‘Mummieee.’ I tried. I’m not quite sure what reaction I expected, other than getting my bottom powdered, but the lady got very excited: she started jumping up and down uncontrollably and clapping her hands together. After she’d finished her momentary minute of madness, she just ran off. How rude I thought to myself and not a bottle of powder in sight. Nonetheless, she was back shortly and, this time, she had some odd-looking black machine in her hand. It had a round circle in the middle and then, as if by magic, it extended itself. Mummy then proceeded to thrust this peculiar box under my nose, it made a few clicking sounds and then she just held it opposite my face. Really, I thought, all I want is some powder, there’s no need for all this nonsense. ‘Mummmiee,’ I cried in an attempt at getting her to do something useful; however, it was clearly the wrong move - another spell of wildly hopping about and clapping of hands. I have to say, I do sometimes wonder who the adults are around here. A few hours later, Susan sat down at the kitchen table with a warm mug of tea. Her cheeks almost ached from smiling. ‘Can we watch it just one more time, Pete?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Once more, but then I must go and start making supper.’ It was obvious he was trying to be firm, but she could hear the smile in his voice. Pete sat down next to Susan and turned the camera on. Harry’s little face flickered up on the screen. Pete pressed the play button and the video started: ‘Mummiee’ it sounded. The couple looked at each other and smiled: their little boy’s first words. What an adventure raising a child was turning out to be.

Cicely Haslam LVI Form

London By Carina Stephens UIV Form I trundled down the worn old road, avoiding dangerous potholes and uneven paving stones. I stepped over trodden pieces of month-old chewing gum and suspicious puddles of dirty rainwater. The smell that drifted up from the battered old drains filled my nostrils with one of the most offensive scents that I had ever smelt. An old woman hobbled past me. Her walking stick made a tapping noise as it made contact with the worn cobbled stones that lined the street. As I turned down another weathered street, I noticed an old man dressed in an old red beanie hat that somewhat resembled a used dishcloth. He was dressed in a worn green jacket and jeans with so many holes in them that they had very little fabric left. He was seated on the ground on a red woollen rug with a used plastic Costa coffee cup placed in front of him. He was shaking violently and coughing now and again. I watched on as a mother pushed her pram across the street to avoid the old gentleman. This man’s world was in decay; our world was in decay. A police car sped past me, the lights on top switching from blue to white and back to blue again. To me, the blue symbolised help for the person in need and the white symbolised isolation for the one who would be arrested, the man whose full story would never be heard. As my legs carried me down Cherry Tree Road, the soft, fragile morning sunrise over the tall building high-rises, the council flats and the small terraced houses, began to filter through the spring blossom of the seven old trees that littered the sides of the road. The trees’ scaly bark cast dark woven shadows across the pavement that so many generations had walked along. Far off in the distance, I could hear a carnival or street party, the faint notes of a long dated Madonna song drifting out over the rooftops.

There was a faint smell of smoke that lingered around, casting a gloomy feeling over the place. I could hear shouting; I peered round the corner to see two groups of youths: one half was surrounded by cards and empty bottles that once contained some form of alcohol, and the other half held knives and were shouting. I left. I had read the papers; I knew what would happen to me if I got in their way. I walked out from under the dark buildings that had claimed half of the city. As the sunlight hit my body, I felt a tingle surge through me, starting at my feet and working its way up. I walked out over the bridge that crossed the great River Thames; I could see the dark, murky, dangerous water swirling beneath me, making patterns as it danced around the great stone pillars that held up the robust and sturdy bridge. I walked on until I reached the centre of the bridge. I didn’t know what my aim was as I lifted one leg up onto the stone barrier, then the other. I was now standing on the stone barrier that was meant to stop us from falling. I walked along a bit; as I reached one of the tall, noble standing lampposts that were scattered along this side of the bridge, a strong, determined gust of wind swept across the bridge. I lost my balance. One foot slipped and was soon followed by the other. I made a lunge towards the glossy black lamppost, but my fingers refused to grip it. I felt my body falling, helpless, through the mild November air. I opened my eyes. I was in a white room that was filled with all sorts of unrecognisable machines. Both my legs and one arm were in a cast. I had hit a passing barge; it had broken my fall. I would be dead if it had not passed through at that exact second. My eyes rested on one of the most beautiful women that I had ever seen. She looked up into my eyes and smiled, ‘He’s awake, doctor.’

A pigeon pecked at some spilt chips splayed across the ground and, at that moment, there was a crashing of bins and a cat darted out from beneath a hedge. I moved on into a grimmer, darker part of London, where the streets were almost painted with rubbish. The air around me was cooler and felt thinner.

A Place By Rosie Norman LIV Form Farewell, dear house, until we meet again, Fond memories of joy, happiness and grace, Stout walls proof against storm, tempest and rain, In childhood dreams, you were the safest place. This big old house of those we loved most dear, Too soon we grew up; too soon they grew old, When we went for the day, life held no fear, Now you stand empty and I feel the cold. You are now a ghost of your former self, You have lost your warmth and have lost your spark, All the people gone, no life on the shelf, The place I once loved now so empty and stark. No more can I feel happiness and grace, No longer a home, now only a place.

Friends By Naomi Green UIV Form You smile, I smile, you cry, I cry for you, You laugh, I laugh and we’ll laugh together, Although I may be crazy, so are you! So I know that we’ll be friends forever. They say that time flies when you’re having fun, The years have certainly flown by for us And ever closer friends we have become, While over time we’ve gained each other’s trust. I miss the times when we were young and free, You have a special place within my heart And I will cherish every memory, And dread the day that we will have to part. I hope that now you’ll be able to see, My dear best friend, you mean the world to me.

Doodle By Elsbeth Giles LV Form

An A4 desert, a flat, brilliant white setting, glaringly bright; I am drawn onto this crisp sheet; nothing to look at, as yet. Well, there’s me, but I am certain it’s been at least four minutes now and still nothing else. It smells a little like home to be honest, wood and rubber stand out in particular, but anyway, four whole minutes? I think it is just plain rude to leave me waiting this long. My parents said, ‘You have one chance Leady, one chance for the rest of the world to see you and then, poof, you’re gone, gone into that sweet smelling, black, sticky pit of no return or, if worst comes to worst, the rubber - torture. Yet, with the right creator, you could go far.’ My creator has probably fallen asleep. Ok, this is becoming tiresome now. Ten minutes? Are you joking? Ten minutes and the only other thing that is here with me now is a measly dog. It doesn’t even have all four legs. Oh, splendid, now it’s raining on me: ashy flecks and the occasional whole sheet of grainy shavings smother me. This is neglect, I tell you, neglect! My graphite arms can’t move to wipe away even one annoying speckle. The dog has four legs now… and a bone. Why don’t I have a bone, or a cake for that matter? I could seriously do with a cake, mmmm, a succulent, raspberry pink cupcake, a manly cupcake. I have to face it. I am… what I am… a mere doodle. Not exactly what I had hoped for whilst dreaming of my incarnation. I genuinely thought I was going onto inspiring things: I was going to be hanging up in a gallery, changing people’s views, providing insight and commentary. I could have been a life-changer, or at least signage. Without warning, a seismic wave shudders through the molecules of my HB form as I am lifted stratospherically in a malignant arc. No, not yet! I have so much more to give, please no! My brittle arms crumple and crease as my body folds over double. My fixed smile masks my terror as my shrivelled body is hurled across the room, sailing through the air, before tumbling down to darkness. A black smoke seems to envelop me in this wasteland. It’s so very silent. There is a bitter chill seeping through the walls of this pit. A pit. Yes, I understand now, it has finally happened: I have been binned.

The dog has fallen asleep, but I am struggling. I’ve heard what happens after the bin: something about ‘incineration’. I can already imagine the searing heat burning from both ends. The dog seems content; he is gradually growing on me. I can’t see terribly well in this abyss, but he definitely nudged his bone closer to me. Earlier on, I was joking about wanting the bone, but it was an amicable gesture. I need that kindness in here; it’s full of shadows looming over us like projections of demons. They are static, still creatures; they don’t need to move in order to petrify me. What was that? A shudder, a definite shudder. Slowly, a hand, spread wide like a spider’s legs dropping down from its web, plunges through the top of the bin. I watch it, more out of curiosity than anything else. What should I be scared of, considering the situation I am already in? As it draws nearer, I can see it more clearly, every print on the fingertips, every piece of grime under each separate nail. It rummages around the base of the bin, excavating blindly - a candy grabber with no visible controller. Finally, it finds its target: me. With a lighter grip than before, it gradually unfurls me as we are elevated towards the glow at the top of the bin. This is a different hand: the sketcher had been younger, rougher and clumsier. This one is delicate and loving as it strokes out my wrinkles. The hand folds the sides around me to make a smaller square, taking care not to touch me or the dog. I can feel kindness radiate through the paper; finally some love. A gilded frame is placed around us and we are hung up on the wall next to what appears to be hundreds of other drawings and splodged finger paintings: our own personal gallery. The hand unrolls a tubular set of labels and gingerly places one in a perfect horizontal line next to our frame with our title: Elliot Aged 3 - A Stickman and His Dog.

A Mini Adventure By Eleanor Chelton LV Form Mrs Curnall, the headmistress of St Katherine’s Boarding School for Girls, sighed deeply and stared out of her study window. It was a gloriously sunny day in the summer term of 1976; the rainfall from the previous night had left the freshly cut grass sparkling in the rising sun, giving it an emerald effect. The pearly white china cup of rose tea in her hand was forgotten as she thought over her life choices, wondering again why she had chosen to be an educator. It had seemed an appealing job at the time: long holidays and all the cake you could want in the staffroom. She knew better now, having been a teacher for forty years and headmistress for fifteen of them. Suddenly, there was a loud banging noise that startled her. She threw her hands in the air in a moment of fright and the tea leaped from the cup and splashed over the cream coloured carpet. Cursing under her breath, Mrs Curnall got up and went to the window to see if she could find the source of the noise. She gazed over the buildings and her eyes came to rest upon the girls’ dormitory of Reise’s House. Through the large window, she could just make out young ‘ladies’ running around, jumping on beds and screeching. The girls in this house always seemed to be the same: they were mischievous, loud and unruly, even with a housemistress as strict as Ms Kartwright, of whom Mrs Curnall was very fond. They had been good friends at school and both now shared enthusiasm for the use of the cane. Mrs Curnall very much hoped that the smacker (as the girls called it) found its way to the behinds of the ring-leaders responsible for this little venture as soon as possible. Content with this thought, she turned her attention to the latest novel she was reading - a romance by Kathleen Woodiwiss. Meanwhile, in the dormitory of Reise’s House, twenty or so girls were making plans. Chrissie Lawson, Lucy Carmichael and Annabelle Henshaw were the leaders of this meeting and also the girls whose behinds had suffered most severely from the smacker. All the girls in the house had had all of their tuck confiscated and were sent to bed three hours early with no supper. This had not gone down well. Chrissie stood up. ‘I propose that tonight we get our things back …’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘from her office.’ Many girls let out short gasps. Surely she didn’t mean Ms Kartwright’s office? She did. Chrissie could see the shocked faces, so ploughed on determinedly. ‘Think of it as a… a mini adventure. She isn’t even there tonight, she’s playing poker with The Curnall.’ She climbed onto her bed.

‘I will be your commander,’ Chrissie went on, ‘and the aim is to recover a small amount of tuck for each person that will not be too obvious when the Silver Snake (the girls’ code name for Ms Kartwright) goes back to her office.’ There was much discussion over the best way to do this and information on the target was obtained. Finally, after roughly an hour of intense conversation, Chrissie clapped her hands together three times and the girls stopped talking and looked at her expectantly. ‘It is agreed then, Lucy, Annabelle and I will extract the tuck and the rest of you will help in whatever way necessary. The plan is simple: when the Silver Snake is out, Julie, you will go to Matron and complain of a really bad headache, Lucy and I will slip into the office while Annabelle stands guard, then, we will use the dumbwaiter, which has an opening in this dormitory, to send the tuck down to Katy and Susan. After that is done, we will stealthily return. We will wait for no one. If you get caught, you are on your own. Understood?’ There were nods of assent. ‘Right then, let’s get started.’ Twenty minutes later, Lucy, Chrissie and Annabelle were outside the Silver Snake’s office. Lucy took a deep breath and pushed the door open. It was empty. She sighed and went in, closely followed by Chrissie. The glistening shimmering piles of tuck were incredibly inviting. They stuffed some into a bag and put it into the dumbwaiter. Lucy gave the rope two tugs and someone on the floor below lowered it down. When they had got all the tuck they needed, they quietly left and headed back to the dormitory. They were grinning broadly, thrilled with the success of the mission. The girls rounded the corner and stopped dead. Guarding the door with the smacker swinging in her hand was Ms Kartwright and she did not look happy.

Claudia Meissner UV Form

Into The Unknown By Katya Green LIV Form Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and banged my head. I hated living like this: one minute in bed, the next, under the table. Crawling out from under the table, I stood up and stretched. I could tell someone had been messing about with the furniture just by looking around the kitchen: first of all, the sofa belonged in the lounge and tables usually had the flat bit facing up. Mum and Dad were fine, although their bedroom needed a clear-out, whereas my sister was nowhere to be found. I checked in her bedroom, my bedroom and the nursery; she wasn’t there. I raced back down the stairs. Nothing, not even the slightest movement.

Cautiously, I hung off the edge of the table and dropped down onto the shelf below. Next to me was a massive ball of string. I unravelled a long piece and tied it around my waist and to the table leg. Slowly, I lowered myself down.

‘Mum, Dad!’ I screamed, my heart racing. I had heard stories about people who had been thrown away, chucked in a pile of stinking rubbish and left abandoned. However much I tried to convince myself it wasn’t true, I knew that it had happened.

I began to walk forward, picking my way through a sea of toys. I looked around each corner in turn, hoping to see Olly. In the first corner there was nothing, and the second and the third. Then, in the fourth corner, there was a basket. Inside was a massive creature, bigger than our whole house. It had sharp yellow teeth and drips of saliva trickled out of its mouth. I gulped and crept towards the monster, getting closer and closer. Soon, I was so close, I could hear the monster breathing.

I sprinted up the stairs and into my parents’ room. Mum was rubbing her eyes and sitting up, her long dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Dad was still sleeping peacefully. ‘Mum, it’s Olly. She’s missing.’

Suddenly, the monster opened one eye and let out a terrifying growl. After a split second’s thought, I ran, hurdling the toys and sprinting past boats, cars and all kinds of objects. I could feel the monster’s fiery breath on my back and I knew it was hot on my heels.

At this, Mum roused Dad and they climbed out of bed. ‘Lily,’ Dad said softly, ‘you’re going to have to leave the house; she could be anywhere, so be prepared,’ he continued, giving me a weak smile. I smiled back although I was just as scared as he was.

All I could hear was the pounding of the monster’s feet on the ground. My breath came in short bursts. My vision blurred. My head was spinning and then everything went black.

I searched the house one more time, just to check I hadn’t missed anything, but I hadn’t and everything was just as silent as before. Taking a deep breath, I walked towards the door. Shakily, I reached out for the handle, swung the door slowly open and stepped outside. With a gentle click the door closed behind me. There was no turning back. The first thing I noticed was the noise: a loud snuffling sound, which sounded vaguely like snoring. The next thing I noticed was that everything was massive: the room was enormous compared to our house.

Turning my attention away from the room, I thought about my sister; she could be anywhere! I looked around. There was a sofa on the other side of the room and there were toys scattered across the floor. It scared me as I thought how easy it would be to get lost in a place like this.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. The light was blindingly bright. As I came to, I glanced around the room. I couldn’t believe it, I was back in my own room! Olly was lying next to me, her deep blue eyes sparkling with delight. I guess it’s not too bad living like this. Things do move around and are never where you left them, but life would be boring if they didn’t. It’s just the way we live. My family. My home.

North Cornwall By Sassie Patel UIV Form The most exquisite coast of North Cornwall; White horses prance and play in brutal sea, Cliffs and fields are decked in charming floral. There is no other place on earth Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be. Toy-sized fishing villages lie unseen, Rocky beaches home curious creatures, The coastal paths covered in plants moss green, These make up Cornwallâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s alluring features. Holidaymakers come from far and wide, Lying on vast expanses of gold beach, Sunbathing in the heat, sunblock applied, Seagulls flying up high do shriek and screech. Radiant sunsets arise from the sea, When I close my eyes, these things I do see.

Cicely Haslam LVI Form

Sophie Soar UVI Form

Closed Eyes By Amelia Saer UV Form Beneath the dark, there is light: indistinguishable colour which blazes against the black. Golden, billowing streams undulate and intensify as they spread. The light throbs scarlet, chasing the shifting shadows to the corners of my closed eyes. Harsh fingers poke my eyelids, urging me to open them and see the intrusion. Somehow, I am afraid, terrified of what I already know is there: dawn. For the first time, I am aware of the cold; a chill has crept silently over me, meeting exposed skin with icy hostility. If I open my eyes, I will see my shallow breaths suspended in opaque clouds. Dank, musty air seeps into my nose from the damp plaster leaking stagnant drops. The worn mattress barely masks the pain of the rusty springs that stab my back with every movement, creaking like ancient hinges in the wind. My neck and head are cramped against the wall, drained of warmth by the frozen stone. These agonies are merely aches now. If I open my eyes, the inescapable emptiness that each dawn brings will engulf me entirely - so I do not. Besides, I can see far more with my eyes closed. *** It was an adventure, Henry had said, our adventure. I was in a frenzy of excitement; my heart longed for the unknown delights of the grown-up world, one I was always ‘too young’ to explore. That world shimmered like a vast, unreachable sea. My eyes opened before the lark could wake me. Interrupted sleep made my head pound, but the day’s raw thrill coursed through me in torrents, drawing me to the window. The dawn was crisp and fresh. The promise of uncharted adventure thrilled me and made me preoccupied: images of wild plains, castles and exotic scents thronged my mind. My mind was with Henry. That morning’s orchestra of beauty is burned onto my memory. Soft sunlight touched the hills, sweeping over fields of gold under an azure sky. Drops of dew glittered like perfect jewels in the dappled grass. Windowsill wirelesses crackled quietly, humming with sleepy bees’ soporific tunes. Nature seemed to breathe around me. Not caring that creases crumpled my frock as I clambered into the car, I demanded, ‘Where is he, where’s Henry?’ ‘He’s close darling. He’s at the train station.’ *** There was so much to see, but for me so little. Majestic marble arches stretched heavenward, whilst tempting shops displayed confectionary, books and cakes. Mother’s heels clacked on the platform, moving too slowly for me to be content. Blinkered by exhilaration, I saw only the train. Henry was waiting for me. Familiar hands closed on my shoulder, dampening my wild, impatient spirits.

My parents’ pale faces held wavering smiles and cautious eyes, echoing my years of imprisonment. Their voices murmured goodbyes. Avoiding their kisses, I grasped the polished handle of the train door and leapt up, not looking back. Freedom! My heart soared with jubilation at this unbelievable opportunity. Tripping over my suitcase in eagerness, I dashed through the carriages, searching for Henry, hunting for his round, bright face, grinning in our shared victory. Nothing. Where was he? Why was he hiding? My fingers feverishly fumbled with a bolted door, breathing rapidly. A black-suited, pipe-smoking, shiny-shoed man loomed suddenly ahead. ‘Whoa there, Missy,’ he said. He scrutinised the paper tag that hung forgotten around my neck, the one that Mother had said was in case I got lost, Henry would be able to find me again. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a vacant seat beside grimestreaked windows. I stammered plaintively, ‘I’m looking for Henry.’ ‘Only girls on this train, Missy.’ Shocked and panicked, I read the tag myself: Daisy Nott Grange Academy for Young Women London Despair rose in my throat as I choked back bitter sobs of betrayal. I finally understood: Henry wasn’t coming. There was no adventure, it was all a lie, a trick, a cruel fabrication that had been woven around my unsuspecting eyes. My parents had sacrificed me to fate’s noose and I had skipped merrily to my scaffold. Hope vanished with a whistle that pierced my heart like a blade of ice. I imagined the coal furnaces with gaping, fiery mouths, licking the air with orange flames. Any moment now, their hellish roars would stir the engines to life and it would be too late. Scrabbling with the slippery window catch, I slid the stiff glass down a few inches. Cold air rushed in, carrying the sounds of slamming doors and the distant hiss of steam. There was no time left. In a last desperate effort, I forced the window down and breathed in air heavy with coal dust, acrid steam and barley sugar. Hidden behind masks of serenity were my parents. My frail voice was whipped away by the strengthening wind, snatched from their ears too quickly to catch. They never heard the words still frozen on my lips. Now I am here, where there is nothing. I can see far more with my eyes closed.

The Road Taken By Katie Meehan LV Form It doesn’t matter which road you took, or who you followed, or what you wanted. You took that road. You chose the path you took. It was you, no one else can be blamed. Your path. Your choice. Life is a path, a journey, a route that varies from person to person. The distance, the quality, it’s all different. Forgive and forget. Move forwards. Life goes on. It’s a journey, a road that was taken.

Winter’s hand By Rebecca Jump UV Form I see a robin on a branch, The wailing chilling wind, The weak, watery early morning sun, The naked branches of a once great oak: I am winter’s hand.

Harriet Gerard Leigh LVI Form

A country for no men By Mattie Carr LV Form In the dark we tread The blood of our brethren, For butchered they were. Their bodies lie uncared for, forgotten. A country for cheated men. Ever onwards we stumble Through mud and mire. We walk in Death’s footsteps, Clothed in his cape. A country for dead men. I look at them who, with drooping heads, Amble through heather and bracken. The last glimmer of hope fades in their eyes. It’s almost over now. A country for lost men. No longer do I hear the innocent cries of horror, The blood curdling screams. No, I hear only the lie: ‘It is glorious to die for one’s country.’ A country for no men.

Checkmate By Luana Sharp LV Form I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. All of us are. This is our first battle, our trial. We don’t know each other. Our army says that if we know each other, it will only make the inevitable pain worse. We’ve been trained on our own, forced to memorise tactics and rules, constantly in fear of the day that we are called for battle. We live for our king and queen, and we protect our elders. Our own lives are insignificant, next to worthless in the eyes of the rulers. Today is the day I am called for battle. Today is the day I am sent to die.

‘H7 to H5’ our queen calls. My face pales as I realise it’s me. Slowly, I shuffle forward to the correct position, uneasily looking across at our opponents. They stare back at me, coldly, some eyeing me up as if I am a meal. They respond quickly, sending a bishop hurtling towards me. He is now only two moves away.

Our enemies are standing in their ready positions, expressionless and motionless, their pristine white uniforms seeming cold and harsh against the warmth of their surroundings. They always make the first move in this battle. Shortly, we will step out onto the field and begin. My position is to be on the frontline, but this doesn’t mean I’m skilled or brave. It means I’ll be one of the first to go.

The game continues and soon we begin to lose more players: our second knight is lost in a chase with a castle and both bishops are conquered by the white knights. We do have a few gains: we take down at least four soldiers and a knight; however, it is still clear who is in the lead.

Their queen calls out instructions: ‘You there. Far left, to the middle right. Move now!’ My position is on the other side, so I know I’ll be safe for the first moves but, after that, who knows? Many of the others will surely have perished. No, I must be strong and do what I can to protect my rulers. There is suddenly silence as a single white soldier moves forward. The battle has begun.

I hear shuffling behind me and let out a sigh of relief. Another soldier has moved behind me, preventing the bishop from taking me: if he were to, he would be gambling his own life.

Our queen pulls out abruptly; she has been angered by the whites. The play is becoming more and more violent as the queen races across the board seizing various pawns, an aggressive knight and a crazed bishop. She beckons for me to step out further, giving her an escape route, yet putting my own life at great risk. It is likely that, with the next move, I will die. There she stands, bloodthirsty and unfeeling. The white queen lines herself up with me, prepared for the next move which will see her gain. Then, it will be the end.

Soon, several of the soldiers in the middle begin to defend our side, attempting to show courage and appear aggressive as their names are called to move forward. Even so, it is difficult to mistake the look on their faces as the orders roll; I dread the moment but, for now, I watch and wait.

I close my eyes, hoping that my passing will be a quick one. There is a slow shuffling noise and I know the end is coming. I brace myself.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white castle lurches forward, snatching one of our soldiers before he sees it coming. It’s the first kill. I look across to the white queen and see her smiling cruelly. Whites almost always win and she knows it.

I open my eyes to see a lone black bishop ready to take the white king. We have won!

Checkmate.

The Geography Exam By Imogen Davis MIV Form

The question looked up at me from the page, taunting me. Eventually, my pencil snapped under pressure. My sweaty hands fumbled inside my pencil case, searching for a sharpener. I swore under my breath, only to be shushed by a teacher who was wandering around, clearly enjoying my misery and that of my peers. Words started to jump out of the page: Explain;Volcanic rock; Convection Currents. I glanced around me. Brilliant. Taya Lards was next to me. She flicked through her GCSE Geography paper casually, smirking. She knew that the next time she looked at it, there would be an A* on the front page. She also knew that I was hoping for a B+. Her eyes met mine and her smile grew bigger. I growled quietly and looked back at my paper. My eyes automatically shot to the worst part of the sheet in front of me: the words ‘Please write your answer below’. I repeatedly rubbed my temples, but their constant throbbing would not stop. My blood was rushing far too fast through my veins, as if it needed to get somewhere quickly. Suddenly, all the words on my page started blurring and the table had six legs, not four. People started murmuring as I swayed in my chair. I looked around. Everyone was blue. What a nice colour, blue. It reminded me of the sea, and mould, and sadness. I looked at the examiner who was now running towards me. It was only then that I realised I was falling backwards. When I hit the ground, it felt like falling asleep on a feather pillow. I looked around me. All my friends looked like they were shouting, even though I couldn’t hear anything. I giggled. Everyone was so funny and blue. Blue is sadness. I glided towards darkness. ‘Sweetie?’ My eyes flickered open, only to be half blinded by an unpleasant light directly above me. Annoyed, I grabbed my clock to see the time, but I couldn’t see it. In fact, I wasn’t even in my own bedroom. I straightened up in confusion, but was jolted by the sudden pain in my back. I was in hospital. I couldn’t even see properly; I only recognised my mother because of the blue shawl that she wears every Tuesday, but knowing that it was Tuesday would not help me much… until I remembered. ‘Mum,’ I started. ‘No,’ My mother stopped me. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I do not want to hear it. I’m staying with you.’ ‘Mum, it’s Tuesday,’ I said gently. ‘Yes, and it was Monday yesterday and it is Wednesday tomorrow, and there will be a next Tuesday, and one after that. I can visit your dad any other time. Besides, the cemetery is miles away. Get some sleep, sweetie, you had a nasty fall.’ Then the painkillers started to kick in, but just before I fell asleep, I realised something: I should have done History.

Emily Chaffer LVI Form

Hide and Seek By Imogen Dobie UV Form Charlie isn’t going to find me today. He always sees me straight away, or else he’ll pretend he can’t see where I’m hiding and will walk past, smiling secretly to himself in the way that only older brothers can. I wish he didn’t do that. I wish I was the oldest, the strongest, the bravest. Why can’t I have the adventures? ‘Five’ I spent yesterday looking for an amazing hiding place, somewhere no one would think of... ‘Four’ I reach out and close the old, shabby cupboard door, the hinges creaking in protest. Darkness floods the cupboard as I hug my knees to my chest and wiggle my bottom, trying to make myself comfortable... ‘Three’ What will Charlie do when he can’t find me? I gaze up through the dusty gloom at the clusters of cobwebs in the corners, smiling as I picture myself leaping out of the cupboard, Charlie’s shocked face staring at me... ‘Two’ Come on Charlie. Hurry up! Why are you counting so slowly? My bottom is starting to feel sore already and a cobweb is tickling my eye... ‘One’ I brush away the cobweb and take a deep breath. The pause hangs in the air as if teasing me... ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ *** Charlie’s voice bounces up the stairs, the echoes muffled by the thick doors of the cupboard, then fades away into nothing. The silence begins to trickle through the chink between the doors and envelops me; I can feel it pressing on my ears as I wait, time stretching for what seems like forever. I let out my breath slowly and close my eyes, leaning my head on the musty coat that has fallen from its hanger. Minutes pass. I stay frozen, as still as a hunted mouse in the cupboard, imagining where Charlie is. Perhaps he is looking under the stairs now, the place I always hide when I’m running out of time. Or is he looking behind the big curtains in the living room, snatching them back and whispering ‘boo’? I drum my fingers softly on the hollow base of the cupboard over and over.

Sometimes, after the day when Daddy didn’t come back from work, I would hide under my bed. Charlie would come looking for me and, when he found me, he would hug me tight and tell me that everything would be alright. He told me that Daddy went under the ground, but he wasn’t hiding, he was going to work. He told me that the horrible man who stopped Daddy coming home was hiding too, but they found him and he’s dead now. He thinks that makes it better, but Daddy is dead too, so it doesn’t. Where is Charlie? The waterpipes in the wall behind me gurgle, the water hiccupping along the rusty twists and turns. I open my brimming eyes abruptly and shiver in the darkness. He should be upstairs by now. I stop drumming my fingers and instead put my ear to the door, straining to hear a cough, a footstep, anything to tell me where Charlie is. I can hear a branch of the big oak tree tapping on the window and an overly cheerful advert for shampoo on the radio downstairs. Where is Charlie? Has he given up? The radio crackles on and off, on and off; then it stops completely. I can feel goose bumps rising on my arms and crawling over my body to the nape of my neck. I’m cold suddenly and tired; I don’t feel adventurous or brave like before. What am I doing curled up in an ancient, crumbling cupboard? I want to be downstairs cooking with Charlie, laughing at one of his awful jokes. I want to be out in the sun playing cricket or walking down the lane to the woods holding Daddy’s strong, warm hand. Daddy went underground and he never came up. The bad man was hiding and he never came up either. What if Charlie doesn’t come and find me? What if I get stuck here forever and ever in the dark? I want Charlie. I want Daddy. I want some air. I burst out of my cupboard, a silent scream drawn on my lips, running full pelt straight into Charlie’s arms. ‘Hold on there, soldier,’ said Charlie smiling. ‘I was getting a bit worried about you. I’d never have looked in that old cupboard – how did you think of it?’ I smile. Even though I’m the youngest, I feel brave again: brave like Daddy was, brave like Charlie is, brave like the man who won the 400m on the television yesterday – the man who ran on blades because he didn’t have any legs left, who sat next to Daddy on the underground the day that he didn’t come home.

Sophia Guinness LVI Form

A Journey with a Jellybean By Millie Smart UIV Form All luminous, waiting to be chosen, The witchy bean had stood out from the others. His shell curved, solid and smooth as if frozen, Ready to be taken from his brothers. From appearance, he seemed citrus, yet sweet, His sugary glazing shone like the sun. His bundle of jelly wrapped up very neat, So then I was sure that he was the one. As I now take my first bite into it, My taste buds dance, waiting for a sour sting. The explosive taste is a soapy pit, That makes my taste buds loudly scream and sing.

Peppermint Toad By Charlotte Payne MIV Form Perfectly moulded amphibian, Every detail completed with care. Pleasure anticipated, Peppermint explosion of taste. Eyes bulging, Round, short, body Melts and coats your mouth. Indulgent New experience of the tongue, Tiny indentations of the skin. Tangy bitterness of dark chocolate, Overwhelming colour of sweetness, Aromatic peppermint oil: Delicious!

As he now vanishes through my throat, He makes me so cold, I need a warm coat.

Chocolate Frog By Katharine Stone MIV Form Silky chocolate undertones, Cooling peppermint overtakes my senses, Entering my mouth, Melting sumptuously as it slips down my throat, Melting, shrinking, disappearing, Gone.

Jelly Bean Sonnet By Hannah Mather UIV Form Your colour is ripe, raw and red like blood, But looks can deceive my sweet little bean. Deep down, we know you are a real rose bud. You are too tempting and now I am keen, To gobble you up and see what’s inside. You’re glossy and smooth, and pearlescent too. Your smell is divine, there’s no need to hide. There is no other bean that could match you. You are like my little drop from above, So when I sleep, I dream of you sweetly. Now I am feeling like I am in love, You tickle my senses oh so neatly. Can I compare thee to another bean? As you are the best I have ever seen.

Casual Racism By Inewari Fabyan UVI Form

My History By Lulu Chai LIV Form

If I could travel back in time, I’d go to the Second World War. I’d do my best to stop war crime And try to help people more. If I could travel back in time, I’d like to be a Tudor. I’d stop King Henry killing his wives And tell him off for murder. If I could travel back in time, I’d be a troubadour. I’d play my harp around the land And travel a little more. If I could travel back in time, I’d be in the Saxon army. I wouldn’t let the Saxons down, Or else I would go barmy!

Enter new girl in town, Whole grade gathers round, Hand her over from friend to friend, Golden eggs don’t touch the ground. Watch from the sidelines, As she isn’t brought to you, It was only last year that you were new too, Only you didn’t feel this welcome, did you? It’s hardly their fault, They didn’t really realise, When they eased you into a circle, With others your ‘size’. It wasn’t truly meant, Simply a mannerism ingrained in the brain, More first nature than second, Not something that had to be trained… She isn’t particularly pretty, The new girl that is, True, she’s tall and likable, But then so are you. They don’t speak their judgment, They hardly realise it’s there, And though you feel their choice in your bones, Their smiles make their thoughts unclear.

If I could travel back in time, I’d be a Roman soldier. I’d fight with every man I saw, I’d win and say, ‘I told ya!’

Emotions well up inside you, Anger? Hurt? Is it Pain? You don’t know who it’s aimed at, There is no proof of any sin. If there is no battle, How is one expected to win?

If I could travel back in time, I’d be a big T-Rex. I’m a little tired of travelling now, I wonder where I’ll go next.

Yet I know it’s not all in my head, And it’s not selective vision impairing my sight, Or these tears that I’ve never let fall, Or these thoughts taking up all my might. We feel discriminated against, Mentally scorned because of our skin, And because you don’t always intend it, We can’t fully say you’re mean. Thus, we can’t hold it against you, We cannot even blame you, So we continue this internal masochism, And such is Casual Racism.

Sophie Soar UVI Form

Put Into Perspective By Maia Jarvis MIV Form I look down at the heap of earth beside my feet. It’s the middle of summer, I should be playing with my friends, but, instead, I’m here, staring at the cold grey stone before me. I’m holding a white lily carefully in my right hand. My breathing is shallow as I close my eyes. I come here to think almost every day. My dad doesn’t like it. He thinks I should be having fun like every other teenager. How can I though, when I’m always thinking about… My grasp on the lily loosens, but I catch the stem just before it falls to the ground. The clean white petals remind me of the soft nightgowns she used to wear; they always smelled of cinnamon and rose water. I remember the day that I found out. I knew something was wrong when nobody came to pick me up from school. I sat in the rain for hours with my head in my hands. Soon the rain became salty and it wouldn’t stop. Even when I was inside the car, I was still soaked and I ached inside. It was always raining from then on; even Dad couldn’t stop the rain. I felt cold and hollow – it wasn’t the same without her. The only person I think about more is Clarissa. I don’t know how much she understands. A few months after it happened, Dad took both of us to the beach for the day. I remember the sand feeling so warm on my feet. It almost filled the void. Almost. I smiled so much that afternoon whilst watching my little sister play in the sea. My curved lips felt out of place on my usually troubled face. It was strange, but it was a feeling that I could have got used to. We went to the pier and Clarissa won a big pink teddy from one of the stalls. She said she wanted to give it to Mummy. That nice feeling disappeared pretty quickly. School is different now; I don’t care whether I am ‘popular’ anymore. I am beginning to put everything in my life into perspective and it seems so insignificant to worry about little things when so many worse things can, and do, happen. I used to always be alone, separating myself from everyone else. I used to think I couldn’t be hurt if I was alone. I was so wrong. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my hand. It reminds me that I’m still standing here. I look down and see that I’ve tightened my grip on the lily and my knuckles have become white and almost skeletal. I release the deep breath that I didn’t know I was holding and step towards the grey headstone. I release the lily slowly and I stare at it resting on the ground. I have Clarissa and Dad. I don’t have to be alone anymore.

Through the Eyes of Porphyria By Annabelle Mastin-Lee LV Form

The stormy night angered the calm, still lake. My cloak sheltered me from the worst of the rain. I was close to the cottage, the tree branches quaked. My love was waiting for me once again. The door swung open with a moaning creak, By the unlit hearth, he sat hunched in the corner. The dwelling was dark, the atmosphere bleak, It was silent and grave, like the home of a mourner. I crouched by the fireplace and lit up the room. I draped my wet cloak, gloves and hat by the flame. The light chased away all the shadows and gloom. I then sat down by his side and whispered his name. There was no response from my silent lover, So I wrapped my arm around his waist. I lifted his pale hand to my cheek blushed with colour, I murmured my love for him and our fingers interlaced. Our searching eyes met, my adoration shone through, A love like this surely could not exist! As his pupils widened, I realised he knew That I worshipped him and, at last, we kissed. We stood together, our bodies entwined. I looked up to see his beloved face. Fear overwhelmed me as his smile twisted, unkind, Our hearts beating together, quickening in pace. His intentions were clear, I knew what was meant. He wrapped my hair round my throat as strong as a vice. His expression softened. A look of content. As I drew my last breath, the price of love was my life.

Sophia Guinness LVI Form

Literalily

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

Front cover artwork by Osarhiere Akpata UV Form