8 minute read
POETRY & SHORT STORY
WAKEFIELD
WHERE GIRLS ARE CREATIVE
Sienna Sekhon
Poetry:
A spark of creativity!
Many congratulations to Amelia Parkin in Year 9 who came runner-up in a North Yorkshire writing competition with her poem ‘Spark of Change’
Spark of change
Everything starts with a thought, A single idea passes through your head, A problem to be fixed or a change to be made, And suddenly a thought becomes a thread.
A thought flutters through your mind, The smallest and dullest spark, It may seem like a dream out in the distance, But it can still be seen bright in the dark.
The idea is then passed to others, And you realise your problem is shared. Searching for people who fight the same fight, You find the people you never knew cared. When people resist your ideas, It’s because it is unusual and strange, Not because your problem isn’t important, Most people just don’t like change.
Change is a pain-staking process, That requires years of revolution, It can take a lifetime for an adjustment to be made, But it will be worth it for a solution.
Once a difference is made in society, The battle is all but won. One problem solved is an amazing achievement, But that doesn’t mean the war is done.
Just think of the future generations, Who won’t have to face your pain, Or live in fear of a century old problem, Because you reached your aim.
Amelia Parkin in Year 9
Zara Akhtar
QEGS Year 12 Literature students are invited to compose an ode to mark Founders' Day. Mrs Fitzsimons commented most favourably on ‘The Ode 2020’ written by Elizabeth Sykes. Her writing showed great skill and sensitivity and QEGS staff were delighted that she gave permission for her poem to be used as part of their Founders’ Day celebrations.
The Ode 2020
She was the city Born to the music of Thames and chopping block The palest rose of the bloodiest house Fed on gold that, with father's steps, Locked her up from the inside. She was the city Carved in every hull, of every ship The selfsame ships that ended Spain. In every word, in every line Written in the ale houses Read aloud on stage. She was the city, And yet, Her jewelled hands spread across hills and valleys. And miles away, They etched her name in stone And built up, Until towers kissed clouds And roofs could shelter the heads that held The minds of generations. The ships rotted away, And the ale houses and stages pulled their doors closed, But the towers, and roofs, and columns stayed. So we thank you, flame-haired queen Who once was the city, And now is here, where her name Can be burned into all of us.
Elizabeth Sykes - Year 12
Mixed signals
I’m crossing a road. there are two lights: green and red. the lights are broken. they keep flashing quickly from one to the other. the road is busy. so when I think I’m safe, and it’s on green, suddenly it changes to red. and the cars come so fast, they hit me, but not hard enough for me to be dead. so they turn back green and I barely pick myself up, before this happens again. the lights are your mixed signals, the cars are every time you hurt me.
Zara Mahmood - Year 11
A smile painted on
A smile painted on A tear wiped away Eyes no longer bright Time continues on Nothing seems to change
Once a simple emotion Now so far away Endless days at home Time continues on Nothing seems to change
Tia Stent - Year 10
My Grandmother’s hands
My Grandmother’s hands have a story to tell, From waving farewell, To holding a seashell. They may not be like my mother’s strong and beautiful, But they are my grandmother’s, Her hands may now be blue with soft skin that Droops, but within them, in their veins runs the blood of a woman, with love, with pride. But to me they were something to hold when I was small, They were something that gave me the strength to carry on, A comforting touch on the shoulder, A playful swing.
Rhiona Lahiri - Year 7
Short story:
THE TRAIN JOURNEY
Now that I had a seat next to the window, a nap was essential. I cursed myself for the meagre one hundred and fifty-six minutes of sleep I had squeezed into the early hours after last night’s shenanigans. I would normally refrain from anything on my person, let alone my Fenty covered skin, coming into contact with the filthy window panes on this commute. Today was going to be an exception. I just had to raise this scarf up my face enough to not look like I was going to hold the passengers hostage and form a barrier to the plethora of organisms multiplying successfully on this train. I didn’t need Mrs Lindley’s agar plate from Year 7 to prove what grew here. Nope. The heating (paid for in part from my extortionate fare), the condensation from hundreds of morning breaths and a surface that had never seen an anti-microbial agent since its conception, made the perfect home.
Thud!
“So sorry – dint mean to startle ya.”
No eye contact, just a perfunctory practiced statement and now this one-hundred-and-twenty-kilogram mass of flesh and squashed bones was sitting snug against me. The stench of sweat, a greasy bacon bap combined with Lynx Africa stimulated my nasal cells. But it was only going to get worse. He was a talker. You know the type: Mr Know-ItAll who knows everything about anything and anything about everything.
“Did ya see it this mornin’? They wer talkin abaart wa’er level bein so ‘igh on Breakfast.” I hated being rude. But must I engage in small talk every time I travel by public transport? It seemed he did not need a response.
“I reckon one o’ these days they’ll av to stop this route. I mean I know it’s aar weather like... but jeez did you see rain last night? Just wunt stop.. an’ Carol said there’s e’en more tonight.”
I offered a pathetic smile and exaggerated my head tilt on to the window. Catching an ‘-itis’ was now more appealing than engaging in conversation with Bacon Buddy here. I’m not sure how many minutes I had managed to doze before I woke to a symphony of water hitting the panes of glass along the carriage, like a talented musician letting his elegant fingers loose on a piano. The hammering rattled both the carriage and my ear drums. I became aware that the train was moving slower than expected. I tried to focus through the window but all I could see was an angry blur of foam and water.
The screeching could have been the wheels along the track or the anguish of the passengers but before I could make sense of the sounds, a panicked voice from the tannoy joined in. The train was about to make an emergency stop. Bacon Buddy’s jaw was wide open. As the train came to stand still, my eyes looked beyond him. The windows on that side of the carriage were clear, letting me focus on sage, then red, cream, orange and blue. The neat row of tall tourist townhouses sat proudly on the embankment. Separating them from the track was a freshly painted black rail.
Hareem Ghouri
Mollie Jones
With a roar, the waves returned against my window. This time with more ferocity and purpose. The tumultuous wind tossed the seagulls like shredded paper. Flashes of white hit the sides of the train as nature’s fan worked on full power. Mother Nature did not like this engineered steel getting in her way. With another big crash of waves, the train creaked and then tilted. I felt my body jam into my fellow passenger. The driver was trying to tell us something, but a chorus of screams, cries and shouting drowned out anything of use. Bacon Buddy’s fat fingers were tapping violently on his mobile, 999. I felt the desire to let work know I would be late, but how late? The train was tilted by about twenty degrees. If everyone just shut up and stayed still, we would be out of this mess very soon.
It took a few minutes and a couple of leader-types to control the chaos. Our carriage and a couple of others had derailed. We all needed to stay still and calm. The emergency services were working to get us out. Bright red fire engines had popped up on the embankment and the teeth on their tools were cutting through the beautiful black railing to enable access.
Competing with them was the relentless rain beating everything in sight. I wondered how much more rain it would take to tip the carriage onto its side. I needed to stop thinking like this. Think positive! I thought about last night, that clear wine swirling in my glass, then another and another. Oh crumbs, I needed the loo. The rain was teasing me too just like when you were potty-training and your mum turned on the tap to encourage you to pee. My bladder did not need any further encouragement. I thought about all the other trains queuing up like dominoes further down the track. I thought of the hundreds of people late for work, not making it to their interview on time, or not seeing their partners. There was a chain of events all halted by this one train on this track. It was November and the wet weather season had only just begun. Bacon Buddy was probably right. This route was far too dangerous. The flood defences that were put off each year by the squabbling council needed putting in place before anyone was harmed or hurt.
Alex Lee
