29 minute read
WHERE GIRLS ARE CREATIVE
WAKEFIELD WHERE GIRLS
Photography by Victoria Marchlinska
ARE CREATIVE
A prequel to Agatha Christie’s ‘A Caribbean Mystery’
Tim Kendal and his wife, Molly, sat on two complementary, furnished chairs overlooking the endless ocean, right up to the point that its blue eternity melted away into the cloudless sky. Molly was a simple girl really, her blonde hair and layers of make-up did little to add depth to her character, she was what she seemed - the innocent, polite, devoted wife, perhaps overworked but altogether pleased with herself. The role of hostess suited her perfectly, which was fitting really as the pair had just spent the entirety of their earnings on this, a luxury holiday resort on the island of Saint Maire in the Caribbean.
As for Tim, well he seemed nice enough. A contrast to his wife, he kept himself to himself - aside from the required pleasantries needed in his line of work. Put together the two were the ideal, glamourous young couple that everyone wished to be - after all, opposites attract. They were dressed neatly but didn’t look at all out of place in the sweltering heat. Molly modelled a floral dress accompanied with a bunch of lilac and white flowers, delicately plaited into her flowing locks they mirrored a dolphin weaving through the shimmering ocean - balletic and elegant. Her husband sported a tropical print shirt, and with nearly every colour of the rainbow it was what some might regard as a bold fashion choice but with his seemingly capable, calm demeanor it was not an imprudent pick of garment. “Are you nervous?” asked Tim, turning his head as if to look at his wife but in reality keeping his eyes fixed on the view in front of him.
“Nervous, why would I be nervous?” said Molly with a childish giggle. “Well you know, the holiday-makers are coming tomorrow. We’ve worked so hard for this and there’s even harder work to come.” He sighed, “it's just gotta go right for us - I gave up my job for this.” “I know you did but I’ve told you before, nothing comes for free,” she sighed. “You have to give something up sometimes, for something better…” She paused and looked slowly back out to the ocean, “And this, this is our better.” “I suppose you’re right.” Reassurance received, he wheeled his way over to the bungalow where he and Molly stayed whilst living on the island. Inside, the shade and coolness offered relief to his slightly burnt skin, and he laid down on the bed like a starfish in alleviation. Finally, a bit of comfort, he thought, all that I’m giving up just so that I can reach the finish line thank heavens it will all be over soon…
“You forgot your book!” shouted Molly as she came galloping through the door - before she had even entered the room! She was always so willing to please, thought Tim, but all she ever really did was annoy. If only there was a way to give her up, give her up for someone better.
Lucy Hamblett - Year 10
PhotographybyMardiahMandarwis
Don’t get me started on airports
Queueing, queueing and queueing. It's the first and the last thing you do inside an airport, not to mention many times in between. Once you arrive at the airport, mostly at what seems to be an ungodly time in the morning (even though you're not flying until 11), you go and wait to drop off your suitcase. This is quite possibly the worst point in the whole airport. While waiting you can’t help but spy the small crying children who might possibly be next to you on the flight. As you stand there and queue, a family with what seems like twenty suitcases hogs the desk for at least fifteen minutes. All the while you're growing more and more impatient. Normally at some point in this long check-in one of their many bags is found to be overweight. Then taking even longer they try to redistribute the excess weight around into other cases. Your frustration is close to breaking point when you find one of their other bags has now tipped the scales. Little by little you snake through the queue and after what feels like forever you finally break free of the queue and go to the free desk. The impatient person behind the desk glares as you hand over your passport and boarding pass. The moment of truth arrives. You place your suitcase on the scales and the whole queue behind appears to hold their breath ready to judge you as soon as those numbers settle. A collective breath of relief is released both by yourself and those behind as you fit comfortably under the limit. Next it's through to security and you find yourself in yet again another queue. By this point, your feet are hurting and you are eagerly anticipating some sort of caffeinated drink. While you stand in line, you watch those before you and try and not roll your eyes as passenger after passenger slows the whole process down. I mean how do people not realise they've packed a pair of scissors? Your turn at last arrives and trying to be that model flyer you have your large electronics and liquids in their sealed bag ready. (Although the normally grumpy staff still find something to critique you on). Loaded onto the tray you stand in the full body scanner looking like a starfish before being told you need to be patted down. Great, once again you think to yourself as you reluctantly part with your shoes. Having been patted down in places that I would prefer to be left, security then decide that I'm not in fact concealing a knife under my arm. ‘Your bag has been selected for a random drugs test’ words I've heard so many times it can no longer be random. As you get taken to the side accompanied with some suspicious glances, I often think why do I myself through this. Once found not to be in possession of any drugs you finally enter duty free. Duty free is quite possibly the only saving grace of an airport. The shops, the food and the overall buzz. What’s not to like? Well the ‘tax free’ shopping in reality isn't really that much cheaper but somehow I end up with a three for two deals on some sort of sweets and chocolate, not exactly money well spent. Once the novelty of the shops wears off and you realise you’re not flying for another two hours the hunt to find a chair begins. People lay down taking up three chairs with no consideration. This does not help your aching feet but nevertheless you find a chair and relax.
Photography by Olivia Cole
After an eternity, your gate number appears and it seems like a race has just begun. People jump up, grab their belongings and start a brisk walk to the gate. This truly infuriates me! What are they gaining by this, everybody is going to get on that plane. After arriving at the gate yourself you find yourself in, yes you guessed it, another queue. You think this is the final hurdle as you enter the tunnel leading to the plane. Sadly you are wrong but don’t even get me started on aeroplanes!
Leah Davis - Year 10
Dreamt
I bid them go not where I lead To dark and hollow night I plead Do not crawl upon my bed Lest visions grow inside your head There dark red claws rip skin from bone Fraying, bending, leave flesh alone Driving tears from eyes like liquid gold They wait for me, till stars get old These monsters of the dark, the deep My soul sees only when I fall asleep There is goodness there, and light In the blood-red caverns of night I have no eyes from which to see But still shapes and colours come to me They whisper lyrics from an ancient song Tell me the places which I will belong They look like sisters, mothers, friends They fall to black as night time ends To night’s hands my soul I trust And fade to light formed out of dust Because even monsters from the dreams Seem happier than daytime seems
Elizabeth Sykes - Year 11
A Collection of Sonnets by Year 8...
I love the nature of the earth and sea
I love the nature of the Earth and sea, The wind, the waves, the hills, the clear blue sky. The Earth is still ‘till the birds sing with me, So beautiful I never say goodbye. The fearsome waves crash against coastline rocks, The ocean can be heard from way afar. With marine life playing like a sly fox, A dolphin’s eye can look like a blue star. Yet we destroy our beautiful old world, And death takes those who we all love the most. When raging storms destroy, the Earth gets hurled, Into a frenzy with no one a host. We need to respect the nature around, ‘Cause soon the Earth will be no lovers’ ground.
Alice Morrison - Year 8
Sunset It happens every evening before night. The sky is lit with the most stunning shades, And I hope so much that it never fades, As it’s truly the most beautiful sight. Whether it is drowned out by city light, Or it shines on the ocean’s gentle waves, Or by the tallest mountains as they wade, To not be covered by the dazzling light. The gorgeous sunset’s quick to disembark. The orange and yellow start to get more power, Until they fizzle out into the dark. Only lit by the moon’s weak light shower, The sun’s a fire, but the moon’s just a spark, The sun’s the grass, and the moon’s a flower.
Aimee Smith - Year 8
Comparing thee to a moonlit sky Comparing thee to the pale, moonlit sky, Darkness hides among the vivid crescent. So silent and clear from a naked eye, nor dull nor unlighted in each moment. Shall I imagine thee to become true, Or cast aside the admirable thought. Change the moment of the future issue, Back down to the fight that needs to be fought. Thou are not visible when heaven shines, As thou bringing light to one’s other sky. I love thee love more than words can define, It could now be time to just say goodbye. Every moment heaven’s light shines upon, Thou will always be far away or gone.
Madison Ducker - Year 8
Ballet shoes
Satin velvety blocks, shiny ribbon, Silky and stretchy strings to help you point. Dancing around with lots of precision, These shoes will really make you stretch your joint. Boldness and elegance is all you need, To stride and jump and roll and point and prance. Feel the soft, shiny shoes and then you’ll read, The passion we are feeling when we dance. Your weight is beared on all ten strong trained toes, The ribbons feel like long heavy iron chains. These painful shoes just really are your foes, Despite the scrunching, squishing, squeezing pain. I love the feeling of dancing so much, Is this passionate love worth pain this much?
Imogen Preston - Year 8
Flowers
How they glow on a lovely summer’s day, Multicoloured and often clear and bright. All different in their own unusual way, Some are coloured and some are plain old white. All various sizes and gentle shapes, Some small, some falling and some tall. What an array of amazing landscapes! They cast a spell then they quickly enthrall. Even standing out brightly during night, Like little coloured dots in a green field. Some flowers growing to a great, huge height, Oxygen that keeps us well, flowers yield. As long as flowers strive and survive, We remain happy, importantly alive.
Aishwarya Ragu - Year 8
The delicate dancers of the springtime, The perfect princesses of the forest. Bluebells Photography byAliceMcKinlay Smith Flowers the wood treasures as its dearest, They proudly wear bells that will never chime. Purest angels who will not commit crime, Innocent, moral beauties that are blessed. Bearing love on their beautiful blue chests, They are always at their best at Spring’s prime. But look how their fragile petals soon fade, As nothing in this world lasts forever. These oblivious souls are soon betrayed, As careless, thoughtless elements sever. No one coming to their deserving aid, They toll for Nature’s silent endeavour.
Lucy Simmons - Year 8
A voice in the head
A little boy was sitting on his bed, sad and scared. He cried and cried and sighed and sighed until his dad came up to him. “What’s wrong my boy?” he asked, confused. “I don’t wanna go to school,” he said. “I’m scared.”
“You can do it, trust yourself,” his dad replied. So he grabbed his dad’s hand and skipped to school. Later that day, he came to his dad and shouted, “I did it! I did it!” And he ran like the wind to his room.
Ten years later, now being a teenager, he sat once again on his bed, sad and scared. He cried and cried and sighed and sighed until his dad came up to him. “What's wrong my boy?” he asked, confused. “I like this girl but I’m scared to talk to her,” he said.
“You can do it, trust yourself,” his dad replied. So he got out of bed and ran to his friend. Later that day, he came to his dad and shouted, “I did it! I did it!”And he ran like the wind to his room.
Ten years later, now being an adult, he sat once again on his bed, sad and scared. He cried and cried and sighed and sighed until his dad came up to him. “What’s wrong my boy?”he asked, confused. “My girlfriend is pregnant and I don’t know how to raise a child,”he said.
“You can do it, trust yourself,” his dad replied. So he got out of bed and went take care of his girlfriend. Later that day, he came to his dad and shouted, “I know how to do it! I know how to do it!” And he ran like the wind to his room.
Ten years later, he sat on the bed happy and relaxed. His daughter ran in the room crying and crying and sighing and sighing. “What’s wrong my princess?” he asked, confused.
“I don’t wanna go to school,” she said. “I’m scared.”
He smiled and said, “You can do it. Trust yourself.” And she gave her dad a big, happy hug.
Victoria Marchlinska - Year 7
Conflict
The sun nonchalantly slips over the horizon, casting a copperish glow among the fields. Silently, I gaze at my warm breath, as it disperses into the cold air. I look over to the young man standing beside me. His eyes are glazed over in terror. Waiting in anticipation is agony. My heart is pounding against my chest, breath quivering, frozen fingers twitching as they clasp the weapon. Then, the warning shot fires. A thousand pairs of feet hammer the ground. Over the trench wall, I scrambled my way up, gripping onto the clumps of dirt. After reaching the top, my body halts. Serene, snow bestrewn pastures stretch as far as the eye could see. The scour of winter left the trees leafless, coated with a thin layer of frost. However, the silence was lost by a bullet shot. Distant silhouettes gradually morph into the figures of our enemies.
I make haste across the field, moving closer towards the opposition. Around me, a dozen bodies simultaneously drop to the ground. I shot several rounds, and moved further along the scarlet-drenched snow. From only inches behind me, I hear a pain ridden howl. In an instant, I turn around. Not only my comrade, but a good friend had been struck down. Lurid crimson soaks his uniform. A pale, vacant face stares up at the sky. His chest sank back down one last time.
The fear and frustration had now welled up inside me. Photography by Isla Darby The battlefield is no place to mourn one's loss. However, the burden of witnessing such a thing had diverted my attention. Blurred by the hint of tears, my eyes were unable to focus properly. Memories of soldiers fighting to their last breath flashed through my head. How could they come to such a horrific fate? Not a single man’s life could be spared out here.
A frenzy of bullets fire from over a mound to my right. Several bullets delve into my side. A strange sensation begins to develop at the side of my stomach. Then the pain sets in. My hand, shaking, dabs at the skin. Red. The soldiers still continue to fight, as I lay there, yet all I hear is a sharp ringing in my ears. The sky seemingly flickers from light to dark, as if someone is flipping a switch. And finally, my eyes gently close. A hand, or perhaps a few, scoop my body up from the ground. I look up, and my eyes catch sight of more red. Although, this time it is the shape of a cross upon a white uniform. My body is lowered back down onto the tough, yet reassuring canvas of a stretcher. I spring up and down to the rhythm of their steps, meanwhile my eyes wander along the field. What was once a peaceful grassland, is now a graveyard for the unburied.
Hannah Sutton - Year 10
Young People’s Poetry Competition 2019
Sarah Shah entered the Ilkley Literature Festival’s annual Young People’s Poetry Competition and was awarded first place in the Year 12-13 category. The entry theme was on ‘Discovery’, which she chose to explore in terms of culture and identity and was commended by the judges on the honesty of the piece. She was invited to the Ilkley Literature Festival event to read her poem, ‘Narnia’, and receive her prize.
Narnia
Long ago, I’d keep them together in a cosmopolitan hodgepodge – A sort of fanciful blend of chiffons and cottons and polyesters and velvets and wools and silks and Tweeds. Punctuated with both buttons and beads, of course. Then one day, departing home, my shimmering anklets winked and transformed Into fetters. Shackled to an unwieldy ball and chain, too heavy to carry To class... too heavy to move up in class. But having been dictated equations and figures and Values, I came up with a simple solution: One, remove them. Two, segregation. Two wardrobes. One for these and one for those. The end. Though Not quite… Tapestries of my old identity, thrilling images blighted upon them by hand embroidery, They press against that door like a paperweight on my mind. I only open this door, with the ill-fitted second-skins which are much lighter (in both senses) And in turn open doors for me. Just as I should to repay that bizarre couple, who bartered their country – for these opportunities – in life’s bazaar. Nowadays, a forgotten tongue; a lingering fragrance used In famine, like sating hunger with the scent of a leather belt in boiling water.
Abracadabra! That neglected wardrobe will burst
One day. And that day, a vivid monsoon of clothes will tumble and pour and spill and Collapse at my feet – endless sapphire seas; trickling ruby rivers. Sparks of passion, childhood euphoria, erupting into three days of sequined darkness Shrouded in bitter odour, plagued with the green speckles of nature’s vengeful renaissance. It’ll be my own created Pripyat.
And that day was today. A kameez (or perhaps a kurta?), unaffected by the generations of touch, laid on top, Intricate appliqué birds obscured by corporate-grey smudges. An ornamental nest Left unprotected. Discarded anklets. Too far gone. Those precious shackles which anchored me to myself.
Sarah Shah - Year 12
The lost bird
Lily was sitting in her bedroom as usual on her phone. This is what Lily always did despite what she thought was nagging from her parents to put it down, come out of her room and into the real world. Lily liked nothing better than to spend her time on facebook, instagram, snapchat and tiktok. She wasn’t interested in meeting up with her friends face to face or taking part in any activities that didn’t involve technology. Her little sister came into her room and can’t you see I’m busy.”
asked her to play Monopoly. “Go away - leave me alone, I’m on my phone, can’t you the garden.”
see I’m busy!!!” Her mum comes into her room and asks her if she wants can’t you see I’m busy.”
to come and walk the dog. “Go away - leave me alone, I’m on my phone, can’t you a conversation between her parents.
see I’m busy!!!” Lily just carries on flicking through her feed on instagram, never even looks up. Flicking through her village group feed on facebook her eye catches on a most beautiful bird. She had never seen colours like it. The feathers were bright purple and pink, the chest and tummy were bright yellow and the head was pink with a bright orange beak the colours looked painted on. The notice read as follows: ‘MISSING - Rufous backed Kingfisher - very rare bird escaped today from the local zoo. Please if anybody can there is a £10,000 reward if this bird is handed back alive.’ She imagined for a moment of all the wonderful things she could do with £10 000. That amount of money would be a life changer she thought. Her attention quickly wanders off though as she carries on scrolling to see Kylie Jenna’s daily post. Thirty minutes later she doesn’t even notice her little sister coming into her room again. “Lily - can you come and play with me?” “Go away - leave me alone - I’m on my phone - Next her Mum comes in. “Lily, come downstairs into “Go away - leave me alone - I’m on my phone - Later that evening Lily comes down stairs and overhears “That bird in the garden earlier was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it - the colours were unreal. I wonder if it was a fancy parrot from the local pet shop? And it was so tame - standing on my hand and all. Shame it flew away before Lily had a chance to take a photo. She could have posted it on her insta-thingymajiggy!” Lily felt sick!!!!!!!
Jessica Blake - Year 7
Inspiration from The Deep These poems were written by Year 7 pupils, following their visit to The Deep in January 2019
A Jellyfish
A blossom pink blob Not a jelly nor a fish Gliding through the sea A jellyfish
Pink and sparkly Ribbon tentacles floating Brainless and dumb A jellyfish
An umbrella for a head And spaghetti for its legs It stings like a bee It’s weird and it’s wacky A jellyfish
Charlotte D’Arcy - Year 7
The bobbing jellyfish
It’s small and obscure, Curvy like thought. Its colour is soft and holographic, give any information as to whereabouts ring this number It bobs restlessly although it seems relaxed, Its hypnotic movements entrance me. Its arms dancing rhythmically, Dancing through the water, but not to a Song. They curl and shrivel then let themselves spread, Like lilies opening up to capture the sun after Closing for the night. It’s an hibiscus blossoming open slowly, Then back as if in harmony and meditation. It’s rarely found alone Its algae on their orals must be A fungi. Although I can’t hear them they must be chatty, Their multiple mouths tiny, though.
(NB orals = the oral arms of an octopus)
Mallory Wigglesworth - Year 7
The Sighting of Rays You see them. Gliding from the darkness Their wings rippling with savage grace Soaring gently through the waters, effortlessly still Peachy, pink, blue and orange.
They are horrible, harbingers of doom Beautiful, saviours of the deep Flying together in sacred silence Their bodies tapered and curved Their movements smooth as cream Proud giants of the ocean
Eleanor Wray - Year 7
The Jellyfish Long floating tendrils Flouncing and fluttering In the sea Dazzling in the moonlight Pale and ghostly Glowing and glittering Graceful, slow but precise A star in the undisturbed sky Elegant as a stag Mystical as a butterfly Flowing, flowing, always flowing As it floats away.
Fleur Hornsby - Year 7
Time-travel
Morning light cascaded through the skylights of Grand Central Terminal, illuminating the station in its soft golden radiance. Dust particles danced through the sunbeams, as hundreds of people jostled throughout the main foyer, each absorbed in their own lives and oblivious to the inner thoughts and turmoils of the others around them. Alice, her own head filled with conflicting, complicated thoughts, hurried through the busy crowd, and reached her platform just as the gleaming train arrived, a billow of silvery steam announcing its appearance. Nimbly boarding the train, Alice quickly secured a window seat in an empty carriage. The beam of the overhead lights caused the dazzling diamond band on her left hand to sparkle; Alice’s eyes fell upon it and she was transported into deep, contemplative thought. She could barely believe that she was engaged, never mind that she was supposed to get married tomorrow. It had all been such a blur: George, the boy next door, returning from the War, battered and bruised and bandaged but alive! He was alive! A whirlwind romance, followed by a surprise proposal and then - here they were. About to be married. It was a difficult concept for Alice to comprehend, but it had to be true because she was currently sitting on a train that was travelling from midtown Manhattan towards her wedding venue in New Haven. She couldn’t help her thoughts from flickering back to another relationship, years and years ago, before George and before the War, but she pushed it away from her mind, tried to quash and subdue it beneath other worries. All that had been was a silly summer romance, a teenage fling, and her parents had disapproved of that boy anyway. He was far beneath her, they said, poor, lazy, uneducated. George was a good choice; he was kind, loving, and wealthy. According to Alice’s parents, it was an excellent match, the right decision, the only option for her. She would be content and comfortable with him, at least.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Sorry, you seemed a little distracted, ah, we’ve arrived at our destination.” Alice’s trance was interrupted by a young attendant, who nervously gestured towards the exit. She smiled politely at him, and quickly departed the carriage, stepping out onto the platform. Once the cloud of steam had cleared, Alice couldn’t believe her eyes. She was in exactly the same place that she had departed - Grand Central Terminal. But how could it be? Alice had felt the train moving beneath her, seen the scenery pass her by, so what was she doing exactly where she started? However, there seemed to be something a little different about this station compared to the one she’d just left. The terminal she had departed from was bright, airy, full of brilliant jewel tones and rippling sunlight; this one was structured exactly the same but it seemed more neglected and a little dilapidated. There were those trademark skylight windows, but no light shone through; instead, Alice could spy towering buildings through the glass. Horrified that she may be going insane, Alice caught a passing man’s attention, “Um, e-excuse me? Where am I? What, what day is it?”
The man gave Alice a cautious look, before muttering, “It’s 1946. We’re in New York,” and hastily continued on his way. How could this have happened? Alice was lost for words. Somehow, miraculously, she had been transported into the future. She had time-travelled!
Unsure of what else to do, Alice collapsed onto a nearby bench, her head in her hands. There was so much to process that her mind had gone completely blank. Tears began to well in her eyes, blurring her vision so much that the train station simply disappeared into a swirl of colours and sounds; she didn’t even notice a woman sit down beside her, two children in tow.
“Are you alright, darling? You look a little overwhelmed,” the woman asked, her eyebrows knitted together in worry. Alice looked up at her, and was shocked speechless for the second time that day. The woman in front of her, lined with the faint beginnings of wrinkles and smudges of purple exhaustion under her eyes that Alice lacked, was undoubtedly her, from the future. Or, she supposed, the present. Alice managed to choke out an affirmative response, unable to take her eyes away from the woman. It was like looking into a mirror - the same head of dark curls, the same long nose, the same rosebud mouth. She had so much to ask, so much she wanted to know about the two and a half decades ahead of her.
“I’m Alice, by the way. These are Thomas and Caroline, my children. We’re here to meet Daddy, aren’t we? My husband, Edward, he works at the station, so we’re going to visit him for lunch.” The woman smiled. Edward? The boy from years ago...not George? The concept was too nuanced to linger on now, mid-conversation. Attempting to clear her head, Alice noticed another train pulling into the station. She decided that her only possible form of escape from this time period would be to board it, so despite her desperate urge to stay and interrogate this mysterious future version of herself, she decided instead to ask all she really needed to know: “Are you happy? Really, truly happy?”
The woman seemed confused, and rightfully so, but she glanced at her son and daughter, and answered emphatically, “We don’t have much, but it’s enough. So my answer is yes. Yes, I am.” Alice’s face split into a wide, beaming smile, and she thanked the woman gratefully as she hurried away to board the train. Exhilarated by her experience, Alice slumped into “ The man gave Alice a cautious look, before muttering, “It’s 1946. We’re in New York” the train carriage, and hoped desperately that she would arrive where she belonged, back in 1920. Seeing herself, Alice nodded, cogs whirring in her head, “Thank you so a version of her that was married to Edward, had been much. That’s all I need to know.” The woman smiled exciting, but it wasn’t reality. She was supposed to marry slightly, rather puzzled by the entire conversation and George, it was just the way things were meant to be. Alice departed with a quick farewell into the crowd. Alice also would arrive back in 1920 at New Haven at the end of this disappeared into the throng of bustling people, and in a train ride. She had to. final attempt to return back to 1920, embarked on the Of course, that was not to be the case. The train arrived at its destination, Grand Central Terminal, again. Alice Absorbed in thought, Alice contemplated what had just accosted another person- and it was 1946, again. She felt happened for the entire journey. When the train finally absolutely ridiculous; it was as though she was trapped in eased to a halt, she almost flew out of her seat to the exit. a paradox, some sort of bizarre plotline that only happens Suddenly, there it was: Grand Central Terminal, just as it in storybooks and fairytales. And then, she saw the future always had been. Dappled rays of sunlight tumbling from version of herself again. This time, Alice decided to confront above, the air sweet and warm, various sounds blending the woman instead, noticing as she did so that this ‘future together into a cacophony of public transport, all exactly version’ was not accompanied by any children. as Alice had remembered it, in 1920s splendour.
“Hello, I’m sorry to disturb you, but can I ask you a few questions?” The woman turned to look at Alice, a strained smile upon her flawless face. It was the same reflection, but a more polished form: there was a string of shining pearls around her neck, her eyes were lined with smoky black mascara and she was dressed in much smarter attire than the other future Alice.
The woman responded, “Of course. I do have a train to catch though, so I can’t be long.” “I won’t take too much of your time, I promise. Well…” Alice hesitated, before deciding to ask the potentially invasive question. She was, after all, only asking herself. “Do you have any family?”
Clearing her throat delicately, the woman replied, “I’m married, but no children. George, he - oh, George is my husband- he never wanted any.”
Alice nodded, surprised but not overly astonished. She’d always known that her fiancé didn’t want children but a part of her had imagined that she’d be able to convince him. The woman was still standing there, awkwardly tapping her heels, waiting for Alice to say something.
“Just a couple more questions. Do you have any regrets? Are you really happy?”
Seeming slightly affronted, the woman raised her groomed eyebrows, and said, “That’s a rather personal question. But you seem rather well-meaning, so I suppose… yes, I have regrets, but don’t we all? And I am content with my choices. I guess I am… I’m as happy as I can be.” waiting train. Disembarking the train, she wandered slowly through the foyer, a new-found appreciation for the building’s beauty coursing through her. It seemed as though no time at all had passed since she first disappeared from this era. In fact, the train she had originally travelled on seemed not to have left the station yet. ‘I could still board the train and arrive in New Haven in time,’ Alice mused, pacing the tiled platform. Her parents were waiting, George was waiting, the rest of her life was waiting for her... The answer was obvious. She loved George, didn’t she? So what was stopping her from boarding this train? Alice looked around the station, took a deep breath and made her way towards the edge of the platform.
Just as she was about to enter the carriage, Alice turned away. She couldn’t do it. That moment of hesitation that the second future version of her had before she’d decided she was happy was what Alice was feeling right now. Immediately, it was clear to her - she couldn’t go; she had to stay here and find Edward. Alice stepped away from the train. This was her, making a choice she wouldn’t regret. She had seen two versions of herself today: one that had done the proper thing, gotten on the train and lived the cliché of domestic bliss, and another that had decided to remain in Manhattan, scraped and struggled to get anywhere in life but was truly satisfied. Which woman did she want to be? Which life did she want to have?
Alice watched the train go by.
