Spark Young Writers Magazine by Writing West Midlands

Title Name

Issue 10 Dec 2016

Issue 10

Spark Young Writers Magazine

Title Young Writers Magazine Spark Name Welcome to Spark Young Writers Magazine Editorial from William Writers obsess over small details, usually words. Sometimes we go too far in this line but occasionally it’s a tiny detail that makes the most enormous difference. Such as this one: Spark Young Writers magazine is by young writers, it is not for them. It’s for you, it’s for having a good read, it’s for having a taste of the best new writing in the region. This is an important point because we’re not here and I’m not hired to publish anything and everything that is submitted to us. Usually as a editor I have one job and that is to make the best magazine I can and that is most definitely key here. The sole difference between Spark Young Writers and any other magazine I’ve ever run is that it does aim to do one thing for the writers. It aims to show them what it’s like doing this for real. We’re not in school, this is not homework, this is professional writing. So when I select a piece to publish I am asked to tell the writer why. Sometimes that is a very easy thing to do: with the pieces you’ll read in this issue the answer was often that I just enjoyed reading it. When I reject a piece, though, I am required to explain why. I actually rather enjoy that: usually deadlines mean that you have to reject things quickly and I’m afraid you often don’t even get the time to say no. Here with Writing West Midlands and Spark Young Writers magazine, I will say no and I will tell you why. That’s a luxury for me and in part because it means I get to think about what does and doesn’t make a good piece for this magazine. I get to examine the decisions I’m so used to making in a hurry and it’s meant that I’ve learned from this magazine. I hope that the writers who have been rejected and the writers who have been accepted feel the same. And I hope you have as great a time reading this new issue as I did getting to edit it. William Gallagher - Spark Young Writers Magazine Editor

Spark Young Writers Magazine is a publication of Writing West Midlands. We support creative writers and creative writing across the region. More information about us can be found on our website: www.writingwestmidlands.org This magazine features writing from children and young people aged 8 - 20 who live in the West Midlands. It is also available to read online at www.writeonmagazine.org. Copyright of all pieces featured in this magazine remains with the contributors. Writing West Midlands - Company Registration Number: 6264124. We are a Charity - Registered Charity Number: 1147710.

Write On! Magazine

Issue 8 Issue 8

Contents 4

My Celebration Poem! Hannah Tilt

The Haunted House Eve Godsal

Claustrophobia Brianna Wright

The Shadow over the Fence David Imobighe

Hot Chocolate Amelia Arnold

Autumn Katie Gayton

The Poppies Grew Lizzie Carberry

School Day Ffion Davies

The Time Piece Tabitha Ritchie

Winter Alice Wyke

The Night in Winchester House Nayantika Chaudary

The Great Wave Similoluwa Osunanmi

Evening Star Lyanna Choi

Seven Shades of Creativity Thalia Madeley

Thoughts Claire Howland

Lavanda and Her Adventure Alicia Smitten

Time Flyers Erin Vines

The Endless Meaning of Nothing Juliet Allarton

Vanishing Smiles Iona Mandal

Halloween Toby Garside

Winter Spirit Rebekah Lane

The Hanging Doll George Bower

Deathly Silence Holly Sha

Revolution Maryam Alatmane

Witch Tunnel Anya Kozlowski

Beware of the Vamps! Abel Neto

I Know Megan Depper

What am I? Maryam Alatmane Do We Have To? Isobel Russell

Issue 10

Spark Young Writers Magazine

My Celebration Poem! Hannah Tilt The school bell rings for the end of the day, And the chairs all scrape and the tables sway, With the hustle and the bustle, And the incredible racket, As everyone tries to put on their jacket, People scream and people shout, And people shove as they run out, But it doesn’t matter, no one cares, They just want to get down the stairs, The bus comes into the bus bay and, You know you’re gonna have to stand, But it’s no big deal cause you’ll be free, And it’s as easy as A B C D E F G, The seats are jolting to and fro, The bus has had an overflow, The landscape is blurring past, How long must this ride last? Voices laugh and voices call, But your thoughts are louder then them all, They’re whirring round and round your head, Schools is over, enough said, The ride is over and you get off, The bus driver has a whooping cough, The sun is shining, and you bask in its rays, For school is over for two whole days!!!

Spark Young Writers Magazine

Issue 10

Claustrophobia Brianna Wright I step into the lift, Watch the doors close, Try to imagine myself in an open field. But it’s no use And I start to feel the walls closing in on me, Slowly crushing me to death. I grip the railing, My knuckles turning white, And squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe in, breathe out. And scream. I hit the walls, Hit the floor, Curl into a ball and shout to be let out. I’m shaking, Sobbing, Screaming, Crying. I’m a mess. All dignity has vanished. Then the doors open and I run out, Into the corridor, To the bathroom, Feeling as though I’m about to be sick. Scarred by the experience, I attempt to get on with my day.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Hot Chocolate Amelia Arnold Reading is like drinking a smooth, creamy mug of hot chocolate on a crisp winter’s morning It warms you inside like a loving hug by a roaring fire It slowly seeps into your brain, filling it with its amazing creative juices and washes away the thoughts The thoughts you had before Before all of this Before the wonders of the warmth as it melts the cold negativity You realise you needed this all along Along the path The long, winding path Following the path to your freedom Many got lost Not you Here you find yourself, wrapped in this warm blanket, your safety net Helping you find yourself Who you are inside Who you are on the outside as well Now you know who you are, where you belong At last Finding yourself, however hard it may be, can take a while You can’t rush it, you have to wait Wait until you’ve drunk your hot chocolate Never let it go cold.

Spark Young Writers Magazine

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The Poppies Grew Lizzie Carberry The poppies grew, Among the grass, The bright red poppies, How long will they last? They grow in spaces, Where soldiers died, The government said it was great, I guess they had lied. The soldiers were told, It was great at war, If you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe them, You would have people forcing you out of your door.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

The Time Piece Tabitha Ritchie It was a cold, misty night. Julia was running from a car. It had blinding, bright lights and it was the only sound for at least a mile. The night was cold and wet but Julia didn’t care, she couldn’t let them catch up. If they got their hands on the last time piece it would be over, all over. She turned a corner and headed into the shadows. There she hid all alone in the cold and wet. Suddenly she heard footsteps and voices. She jumped inside a doorway and silently closed the door behind her. Julia wandered around in complete darkness until she heard calling. Carefully and slowly, so she didn’t trip over, she felt her way to the opening. Soon enough she found it and side stepped down the corridor. She opened her eyes to a beautiful play that seemed too be going on! She watched until the curtain closed and then it dawned on her, she wasn’t one of the audience, she was being chased by criminals. Julia ran out of the theatre, away from the town to a cliff that was hanging over the sea which was glittering in the moonlight. She threw, as hard as she could, the time piece into the air and watched it slowly fall down into the sea! Julia stood there for a few minutes just watching. “Where is the time piece, girl?” Lots of men had come up behind her. The girl just pointed. Julia woke up alarmed. Why had she thrown the time piece into the sea? Then she realised it was just a dream! She opened her eyes fully and then it dawned on her that she wasn’t in her bedroom.

Spark Young Writers Magazine

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The Night in Winchester House Nayantika Chaudary Charlotte was just silently tip toeing back up the stairs to her room when she heard a rustle behind her. She spun around only to see a window rattle from the fearsome storm brewing outside. Turning back around, she was about to continue up the stairs, but she stopped in her tracks. Standing atop the cream carpet was Gwendolyn. The doll her gnarled hands by her side, her white cotton dress torn to shreds, her flawless ivory skin cracked and the delicate necklace replaced with a scarlet line across her throat. All sense of grace and beauty about her was gone, but she had the same haunting eyes, the same sinister grey, lifeless voids of malevolence, string straight at Charlotte, piercing through her soul. Every hair on Charlotte’s neck stood on end as the colour drained from her face. This wasn’t possible, it just wasn’t. Gwendolyn had been behind the shut door of her bedroom on her shelf. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. But still a wave of terror washed over her while she stood motionless, feet planted firmly to the ground, even though every cell in her body told her to run from this nightmare. The doll made a step towards her. The lights went out. Charlotte broke free of her paralysis, ran to the nearest room and slammed the door shut. Her heart hammered in her chest, her body shook uncontrollably, eyes shut tight, hands clammy. She could see her in her mind, that face, that traumatising face taunting her, standing there on top of the stairs in front of the door that had been firmly closed and was now stood wide open. The scene played over and over again in her mind, it was all crystal clear yet still she refused to believe it. Regaining a small amount of courage, she opened her eyes. The room was dark and empty apart from herself. There must have been a power cut: she could barely see anything but silhouettes. She could get a flashlight from the other room and then check if the landline was still working… maybe there was chance she could call her parents. Taking a shaky breath, with trembling hands she cautiously twisted the cold door handle. Without thinking twice, she opened the door, Just pulled it wide open. The biggest mistake of her entire life. She didn’t see the thin silver blade swipe at her, all she saw was Gwendolyn in front of her, and with a silent scream Charlotte crumpled to the floor.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Evening Star Lyanna Choi When you and I Were children in July We would lay on our backs and look up at the evening sky. A glimmer of sadness would wash o’er your eyes And though we both knew the answer, I would never ask why. When I awoke that cold morning in July Alone, I looked up at the starless sky. Heaven had taken you back to their abode To leave me on this barren Earth alone. Time reclaimed you and thus from this world you were free’d — I cried for my loss and to the forces above I plea’d: “O garish sun, o unrelenting moon, The brightest of stars you took from me too soon! You gave me a gift and the gift was our love so tender and small But to take that from me was the cruellest punishment of all! My love, my life, my light from afar, There is not a thing I would not give for my evening star.”

Spark Young Writers Magazine

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Thoughts Claire Howland Thoughts fill your mind and take up all your time, Fluttering like a thousand hover flies, They burn like candles in the dark, they shine, Each thought lives, then is forgotten, and it dies. Though thoughts possess great beauty and great power, Few of them escape into the air, They grow inside your head and bloom like flowers, But most of them remain in hiding there. If thoughts are not expressed they can’t be free, So speak up, or write them down, be sure to keep These thoughts, or hidden they will always be, Left to rot with every night of sleep. Don’t simply let an idea drift away, Even if most trivial it seems, Because for every thought there comes a day When it grows strong enough to chase it’s dreams.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Time Flyers Erin Vines High in the sky, fast as lightning, Yasmine O’Connor zoomed through the air, on a mission which will change history forever... Yasmine O’Connor was about to stop Adolf Hitler from ever being born. Little did she know, Adria McConnell was going to stop her. You see, changing history is like changing words in a book. It is no longer the way it was supposed be written. Yasmine O’Conner had to be stopped. So, Adria appeared at Adolf’s home precisely 2 minutes before Yasmine arrived. She kept out of sight, until Yasmine appeared right beside her. “Stop!”Adria yelled at Yasmine. “You’re going to change history forever!” “I know, and it’s gonna save millions of people!” Yasmine yelled back. “Please stop!” Adria pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes. Knowing her mind was not going to be changed, Adria turned away. “I would if I could, but I already have. However, it was only his twin brother, Hans, which means I’ve prevented more world conflict, and he dies later so it doesn’t really matter.” “Okay. Wanna get a Mcdonalds?” Adria inquired. “Sure!” Yasmine returned. And off they went, returning the world to its usual status.

Spark Young Writers Magazine

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Vanishing Smiles Iona Mandal “Hey Dad, did you vacuum the house today?” My father let out a resonant sigh then sat back in his chair wearing a vacant expression. It wasn’t that much of a big deal after all. I smiled, then spoke.”The way you’re forgetting things, people would think you have Alzheimer’s!” Within a split second, both of our smiles were wiped off faces. Seeing his nervous expression, I retorted: “Come on Dad, it was only a joke. It’s not like you actually have Alzheimer’s.” “I know”, he replied. “I just don’t know what to say.” The sixth symptom of Alzheimer’s among the top ten. No. I was being unnecessarily worried and tense. But. But it surely wouldn’t do any harm to take a quick test done. No, it wouldn’t. I’d tell him later, at dinner perhaps. I stifled a loud yawn. “Dad, could you get the lasagne I made from the oven? I’m so tired after work today.” He nodded, then began to walk. Towards the bathroom. Realising this mistake, he turned back towards the kitchen again, opened the oven and walked back towards the couch. But forgot to take the lasagne out. I finally gave up. I got up myself, took the lasagne out and gently placed it on the gingham table cloth. I began to hand out cutlery and poured a single glass of lemonade for each of us. Cutting the lasagne and scooping it out, I began, “Dad, you know the local hospital…” “Hmm, the one on Grange Road, you’re saying.” “No Dad, that’s miles away, the one next to our house is what I mean.” He took a long pause then replied, “Ohhh, the one by Palmers Avenue.” I gave up and started again.”Dad, the hospital on Military Street is very good, you know that, don’t you?”

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

His facial expression told me everything. He knew exactly where I was heading with this. “So are you planning to book a brain surgery for me, or what?” he said. I took a breath to speak, but he carried on: “Just because I forget a few things, doesn’t mean I have ruddy Alzheimer’s. I was getting angrier now, especially after a long day in the OT. But I needed to keep my cool with him. “Did I ever say you had Alzheimer’s?! I just think you should get a test done, just to be safe. There’s no harm, is there?” He was silent. I needed to raise my voice now. “There’s no harm, is there?” “No. There isn’t. I’ll get a test done tomorrow.” “Dad, are you su-” “Jenny, I’m getting a test done and that’s that. I’m your father, respect my requests.” “Yes Dad. I have a day off tomorrow. I’ll take you in the old blue Ford.” We ate dinner in silence then went to bed without a syllable. **** “Dad, wake up! Wake up!” He opened his groggy eyes gradually and drowsily muttered, “But it’s Saturday today, we always have a lie-in on Saturdays.” “Dad, it’s Friday, my day off. Remember, you have your test today?” “Which test, my 11+?” “No Dad, your Alzheimer’s test, it’s in half an hour.” “Half an hour?! We have to have lunch quickly!” “We’re having breakfast and…” I didn’t bother to carry on. I was really worried now. I sincerely hoped he didn’t have Alzheimer’s. I can’t tell you his test results, though. All I can tell you is when he heard the results, the smile on his wrinkled face vanished.

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Winter Spirit Rebekah Lane On a biting Christmas Eve morning When the blue sky turned a pale white, And the soft delicate snowflakes fell Onto the glistening surface, Three children rushed outside into the frosty air And began to make someone very special. Heaving huge clumps of snow with teeth chattering And wet hands, they created me! There I stood proud and tall. My hands made of sticks from a nearby apple tree in their garden; My hat and scarf carefully picked from their mother’s wardrobe; My three buttons and eyes made out of shiny black pebbles And my huge carrot nose picked freshly from their garden. I felt a tingling sensation run through my body As the first snowflake touched my carrot nose. My little stick fingers began to wiggle and jiggle And I began to dance and sing to a merry tune. My icy heart was full of life and joyfulness. I was beaming happy and bright for this special day. My carrot nose could smell the glorious festive dinners And my ears made of frosty snow could hear the laughter And music inside each home. I was alive! I watched through a hole in the garden fence, Children sliding around on sledges with delight Screaming in excitement when it sped up. All of a sudden a pebble slipped out of place And then another, and another and another. My hands felt droopy, my head was floppy and my face a mess. I began to wonder what was happening; was I simply just tired? I looked up to see something burning big and bright. I heard someone shout “the sun’s come out - lets play”! When morning came, all that was left in sight Was my little carrot nose, shiny pebbles and wet clothes In a cold puddle which soon froze over. I would have to wait for another chance To bring my little stick hands to life again I lay on the floor frozen still. Waiting for a little drop of snow to fall once more. I was the snowman with the winter spirit.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Deathly Silence Holly Sha Silence. It had no sound, yet it buzzed in my ears. The fact that it even existed was enough to mortify me. It haunted me when I slept, and I couldn’t even cover my ears to block it, since that would be silence, too. When I lay in bed, struggling to sleep, I was grateful for every creak in the house, for every bird that happened to squawk. But this time, I was awake. Not a thing stirred in the mansion. I made as much noise as possible with my feet, pattering them across the floorboards as I breathed heavily. The air smelt musty, full of age, and the towering walls before me had witnessed many things. There stood a large, dark oak door in front of me. I knew it led to my parent’s room; that was why I had come here. To ask them to protect me from the silence that lingered in my ears. I was scared though, for some unfathomable reason. Surely, they would welcome me in, and let me borrow their bravery. So why was I so worried? Why did I feel like misfortune was waiting round the corner, ready to unleash itself upon me? My Mother would hug me, comfort me, and ruffle my hair. She would talk and scare away the silence. I ran my long, pale fingers over the smooth wood of the door, studying the patterns and the large, round, gold knob. It was scorching hot to touch. I pulled my hand away, wincing, and heard crackling, like paper folding. Father was reading a book, I assured myself. He had always been an avid reader, and all the books cluttering his office was a result of that, so this didn’t surprise me that much. Still, reading this late into the night was unlike him. I felt uneasy, and my legs wobbled under the tense pressure. But the thought of my Mother, hugging me, embracing me as I ran into her open arms was too strong. Hastily, unable to take it anymore, I turned the knob and wrenched the door aside. As I peered in, my eyes widened. With the reflection of the flickering flames of fire, dancing and twirling in my eyes, I realised I was never again to be embraced by the comforting grasp of my Mother, or Father.

Spark Young Writers Magazine

Issue 10

Revolution Maryam Alatmane The smoke hung heavy over the town. The blades of the helicopter could barely be heard over the sirens, the screams of the rioters, the windows being smashed, the sound of guns going off. We flew in the helicopter, me with the camera in my hands and the news reporter, her hair flying in the wind, as she screamed to be heard over the chaos. “Maybe we could touch down over there!” she shouted, pointing to a building that was still standing. We dipped and swerved in the wind, trying to avoid the raging blazes as more establishments went up in flames. I stumble as it landed, nearly dropping the camera. Ash enters my lungs as I cough feverishly and the dust makes my eyes water. Suddenly, appearing from the darkness, there came a large group, huddled together as one big, black-clothed mass. As they came closer, I saw that they were young, their features barely distinguishable under the layers of grime and one with a bleeding wound gaping across her forehead. They stopped. I stepped back slowly and the news reporter screamed, the sound loud and brash in the almost silence. Startled, I looked back, taking in her wide frightened eyes, that was fixed on the mob. That was the last I saw of her. Taking a deep breath, I threw the camera aside, wincing as it shattered, and advanced towards them. They stood warily as I approached, glaring ferociously. “STOP! What do you want?” one of them called out harshly. “Do you support the people or,” he stopped, a look of disgust overtaking his features as he snarled “the president?” The word was laced in venom. “Power to the people!” I shouted, raising my hand. “Power to the people!” they echoed back, as I ran into the group, the energy and devotion sending teardrops cascading my cheeks like a rainfall and making my heart soar. We were on top of car park, as I later found out, when talking to the girl with midnight black hair and piercing aquamarine eyes. Raven. So many people I knew and met and loved. So many people who took their last, gasping breath, right before my eyes. That’s the price you pay for equality, for peace, for democracy, for change. For revolution.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Witch Tunnel Anya Kozlowski “Hello? Is anyone in here, hello?” “Ah, I’ve been expecting you. Come in away from the rain and the wind.” I stepped on to the snapped floor boards. “Shall we go into the living room?” “Erm, okay.” I cautiously walked in. The wallpaper was falling off the walls, the furniture ripped up like an angry dog had run in. The strange lady disappeared into another room to make tea. I started to look around, I saw a letter behind the cabinet. I pushed the cabinet out of the way but it was weightless. There was a tunnel. I ignored the letter and crawled down the tunnel. I coughed up the dust and cobwebs kept on sticking to me like glue. When I finally got to the bottom I saw witches doing witchcraft. I videoed it. No-one had ever had evidence of it. Or that witches lived on. I was going to make history!

Spark Young Writers Magazine

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Beware of the Vamps! Abel Neto Beware of the bats in the night, ‘Cause they might give you a little fright, Beware of the vamps in the dark, Because of their teeth so sharp, It’s the vamps little night, It’s the bat’s little fright, It’s the vamps little fright, It’s the bat’s little night, There’s a bat in the night that turns into a vampire, Go down with him, yes sire! I don’t know what to do, And I’d rather hide in the loo! There’s an owl outside, With two beagle eyes, Don’t think I’m telling lies, Because my sight is wide, There the owl is, looking like a bride, Sitting on the upper site lies the night seeker, As stiff as a rock, now out of peepers It’s the vamps little night, It’s the owl’s little fright, It’s the vamps little fright, It’s the owl’s little night!!!!! Skeletons, ghosts, ghouls, witches, vampires, creepers, jeepers! I can already feel that halloween spirit, With the arrival of all these sprites, For a great mythical ghoulish festival, Don’t forget thy spectacular spectre! Vile pumpkins, hot roasted chestnuts, bloody wine, Cheers with the goblets, admiring the stars so shine Bring your lantern kites, Eat some bites, enjoy the lights Look at the Facebook likes! The season is ending, The colours are blending,

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

But the OoooOoOoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s are still near, All around here, With thee following me, The fizzy, spooky, lightning fireworks, we can see...

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I Know Megan Depper “You missed the train, ma’am” I know. I saw it leave. I walk to a bench in the shadows. “The next train is in an hour, ma’am.” I know. I checked the board. I sit and watch as people walk. I ignore the old chewing gum. And stains from memories I’ll Never get to see. The bench tells me it’s been Missing the train for centuries. I know. I sit and write as the watch Hands move. The bench is cold But so are my hands, my feet, My bitter thoughts. I’m not angry At the bench- but I kick around In a moment of irritation. “The next train is in an hour, miss.” I know.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

The Haunted House Eve Godsal Silence echoed around the deserted old cottage, In the air you could feel the doom, As ghosts glide around every abandoned room. A man walked towards this haunted house, Listening to the scurry of every mouse. He heard the sound of a clattering bone, But he had to see if his Grandma was home. “Laura, Laura, are you there?” Then an eerie howl gave him a scare. Something was wrong in this frightening place, Which made him go at a faster pace. “Laura, Laura, are you there?” Then a blood-curdling shriek gave him a scare. There was something that was freaking him out, There was something he didn’t know about. “Why are you here?!” a chill voice cried, “I only came here to visit my Nan” And then with a scream, away he ran.

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The Shadow over the Fence David Imobighe I stood on the plain grass as the fog drifted past me. The fence that separated the path from human and ghosts. The gate creaked every so often, it looked like it was about to fall and let the ghosts fly into the human world. You could hear laughter of the ghosts from a long distance away. I flinched as I saw a shadow appearing, walking towards the gate. Chains were stuck on the ghost’s wrists but as it came closer, it got darker. The shadow stopped and when I got full view, it looked like a man who had been tortured with its hunched back. The ghost looked at me and then a white fire began in its pale blue eyes. It looked all around it as if it wasn’t meant to be anywhere here, then it waved. I didn’t know what to do so I just waved back. The ghost dragged itself towards me and then stuck its hand out as if it was trying to give me a handshake. When the hand passed over the gate, it didn’t stop. In my head I panicked because this could mean, all ghosts could enter the human realm. I let the ghost man fall next to me and pick himself up. The ghost walked past me and I followed. The ghost began to sprint and I did the same. We jumped over farm gates, ran up hills and rolled down them. The ghost never got tired; it just looked like it had only just started running. After a while of running and jumping, we arrived. The ghost opened a gate which creaked nastily, and then it fell. The ghost passed many dead bodies as they lay on swings, monkey bars and more. I felt deeply disturbed but the ghost wasn’t bothered by this. It began to rain and surprisingly, the ghost brought out a pitch black umbrella. This park we had arrived at didn’t look normal. I covered my head as the rain turned to hail. The ghost man handed over his umbrella and walked as if it was the sunniest day. He jumped into puddles which went all over the place. I sometimes had to block away the raindrops that would fly towards me. We then reached a sign saying ‘Older Area.’ There were more dead bodies lying around but they were all older. Sometimes, the ghost would go over to some bodies and pat their back. I felt extremely disgusted. The ghost continued our walk and then we got to the final swing. The ghost touched the dead body that lay there and a bright flash appeared in front of me. Instantly, every area I could see was filled with colour. Where there were dead bodies, they began playing, happy and enjoying themselves. I looked around for the ghost man but I couldn’t. The black umbrella had vanished and I watched as the ghost went into a child’s body. Guess sometimes things get paranormal?

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Autumn Katie Gayton September; Sun stays but summer goes. Lifting the world with its warm glow. A memory left of holidays gone by, A song only heard in a lullaby. October; Autumn mists set in. Hardened conkers bash â&#x20AC;&#x153;I win!â&#x20AC;? Crunchy leaves beneath my feet, Sounds and smells are such a treat. November; Snuggling around a fire. Winter coats comfort your cold skin. Bobble hats and scarfs wrapped tight, As this autumn says goodnight.

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School Day Ffion Davies Brush your teeth, do your hair Don’t forget to put some clothes on, so you’re not bare At school were going to see the mayor And do you swear you won’t tell secrets Do some writing No fighting Today I’ve brightened someone’s day And now I’m going to hit the hay Yay!

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Winter Alice Wyke Winter crept silently through the bleak forgotten wood, Turning the once rusty leaves cold and white, as snow came tiptoeing down, Air icy and cold, Winter left the desolate jungle and set off to find another place that could be his victim. Finally, Winter set his polar hands on a small abandoned street, Misting up the windows and scattering finger numbing breezes across the narrow pathways, Feeling that his work was done, Winter set off to another place, fingers outstretched, ready to enclose yet more places in his frosty grasp, Discovering a suitable place, Winter set to work on a deserted village dusting the red bricked houses with an crisp, icy sprinkle as icicles started to form, clinging onto the window ledges, like rows of sharp jagged teeth, Slowly, Winter edged away drifting with his cold carpet constantly searching for another spot to spread his bitter magic, Reaching out, Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glacial senses allowed him to seek out a small park, hidden beneath a crowd of trees lined up along the margin of a grassy verge, Constantly scattering, Winter made the velvety grass a pale, chalky white and, with his piercing breath, blew the scarlet, amber leaves off the trees gnarled bony skeletons, exposing the inner beauty of the ring of trees to anyone who set their eyes on it, Floating away on the cool breeze, Winter set off to unearth his last target before his fun was over he could feel Spring closing in already, Gliding rapidly, Winter flew past frozen moors sprinkling his wintry magic across barren lands and rolling hills, forever scattering his icy glory until he stopped... Spring was here, pushing him aside and spreading warmth across the lands, bringing heat wherever she went, Flowers bloomed all colours of the rainbow, grass thrived and bottle green leaves sprouted on trees, like snaking verdant petticoats, Winter sighed, Spring had come and with her a new season, Settling down, Winter prepared for his nine months of long slumber, So goodnight Winter and all of your chilly magic, Spring has come to spread some of her glory.

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The Great Wave Similoluwa Osunanmi Softly, The Sea starts to growl, Enveloped by the winds howl, On his face he wears a scowl, On that angry raging night. The battered oaken boats come by, Praying, Shouting to the sky, That no harm would come that time, On that angry raging night. But the sea is angry, He sees red, And the boats a filled with dread As they know death lies ahead On that angry raging night. Sea flaps his cloak, On that dark night, He flaps it once again, For he is not so satisfied, With the men that he has slain. Sea grabs at the remaining boats, Then thrusts them down with rage, Arising like an animal, Awakened in its cage. The sea raises his hands again And scratches at the shore For he is now quite satisfied, For the boats are now no more.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Seven Shades of Creativity Thalia Madeley Have you ever wondered? What makes up creativity? Do you think of the millions of shades? Creativity is a paint box. A pale pink twist of ballet, A light blue leap of contemporary And an orange glimpse of modern. Even the wind carries around the silver whistle of music. Follow the Journey of creativity… And you’ll find yourself in a place of magic. To understand creativity, let’s watch these girls, As they leap and jump, spring and twirl. As ballerinas stand on the tips of their toes, Tappers do fancy footwork in rows. As the performers spring an exciting lift, Lyrical dancers, graceful and swift. Dancers flexible as spiders’ webs, Do wide splits with their legs. The guitar notes strum, As Middle c’s hit by my thumb. The flute whistles over and over, Whilst the piano’s played in Dover. On the paper, a splash of paint, Clay is made into the shape of a saint. Art is a wonder, The brush strokes create thunder. These are the shades of Creativity.

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Lavanda and Her Adventure Alicia Smitten Far away in a village lived a beautiful girl named Lavanda. She lived in the small windmill with her stepmother and father. Although more likely she was locked in her room making freshly baked bread for a shop called Stenley Wheat. One early morning her stepmother did not want her anymore and chucked her outside. Lavanda walked and walked and few weeks later she came across a forest with golden trees with white apples. She clambered into the forest slowly and silently until she tripped over a log and the noise echoed everywhere. In the old tree lived a horrible beast. He heard the noise and he knew it was from a human so he went to find Lavanda. Meanwhile Lavanda really liked the place until she saw a shadow of the beast coming towards her so she hid behind a tree. The beast had a good sense of smell and he could smell Lavanda. He looked behind the tree and spotted Lavanda. Then he grabbed her with his tentacles. Tears were coming out of poor Lavanda’s eyes. She cried: “Leave me alone”. The beast replied: “Be quiet little girl!” and he took her back to his home. When Lavanda was at the beast’s home she saw skulls and bones everywhere. Then the beast put Lavanda in a cage with a cup full of old water and a bowl with one apple seed. Lavanda saw some dark blue eyes of the person coming towards her with a staff in his wrinkled hand. Lavanda had a good look at him she realised he was a wizard. “How could it be?” wondered Lavanda. The wizard said to her: “Mmm, let me have a look at that beautiful necklace.” But he tricked her. He didn’t have a look. He took it off her neck. “I will make this necklace into a swamp jewel!” he told her. “But why?” asked Lavanda. “Because this is a magical jewel that has powers strong enough to destroy anything but….” he told her back. “What else!” Lavanda cried. “I’m not telling you anymore because you will know my plan and stop it,” said the wizard in Lavanda’s face. “I will not” replied Lavanda when suddenly a prince, a leopard, a peacock and a fox appeared. The prince whispered in Lavanda’s ear:

Issue 10

Spark Young Writers Magazine

“Throw the necklace at the wizard and the beast.” Lavanda threw it at them and they exploded because the jewel had strong powers. The prince said: “Lavanda, I am your lost brother.” Then they smashed the necklace together. Lavanda, Prince Edward and his animal friends went back to his palace.

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The Endless Meaning of Nothing Juliet Allarton Take some note of nothing For nothing is out of the blue A definition of nothing-ness Is quite simply, overdue Nothing takes itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s toll on you Nothing is unique And while nothing has much to say Nothing cannot speak. Turn the spotlight on Nothing, and hear the silent Speak, for when nothing is unbearable Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s called a silence peak. Categorize nothing, For nothing makes a mark But when nothing is a burnt out match, Everything can spark.

Issue 10

Spark Young Writers Magazine

Halloween Toby Garside Darkness, shadows flickering, Devils adjoined, ghosts bickering, Through silent, shadows of black, The devils left, turned their backs. The ghosts argued, somehow afraid Of the shadows they themselves had made Until at last, they swept the ground With their ghostly robes and left without sound Shadows, encapsulate all, They writhe with silent awe, Cast by humans and animals alike, Hardly visible in the night. Halloween, shadows and black, Never speak, or turn your back On wraiths of scary thoughts, For respect is the only thing they sought. Shapes, carried mystery, Blackness carried history, They are sewn with fear, And everywhere they appear. But still, in the times of night There is something there in sight Something shadows cannot fight And it is hope and with hope comes light.

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The Hanging Doll George Bower I heard the doll banging on the door. Fear flooded through me. I knew that the lock would not last forever. If I had any chance of survival I would have to jump out the window and run. As I was getting ready to jump, the lock gave way and the doll stepped into the room. Her big, black eyes reflected the shiny knife blade perfectly. I jumped, seriously hurting my right leg. I had enough sense to keep going though. When I was roughly two metres from the spot I had landed, the doll fell down onto her wooden legs, and started running towards me. My immediate instincts were to run to the woods, and try to smash her little head off. Nice thoughts for a twelve-year-old I think. When I reach the woods, I remembered how people considered the logs to be a tripping hazard. Hence the clearing of the muddy ground of the woods. In that case I had to change my plan from fighting with a log to carry on running. After about two hours of running I looked around and she was gone. I had lost her. I rested as the long run made my legs explode with pain. Suddenly I heard a branch above me crunch. The doll swooped down elegantly like a bird, and landed next to me. She swung the knife handle at me, and the world turned black. I awoke to the smell of grey smoke coming from torches hung on the trees. I was standing on a red wooden platform with a perfectly tied noose was wrapped around my neck. The evil doll was torturingly waving the rope in my face. I was going to be hung! Just when I thought the doll was going to pull the rope, she started singing. “Are you, are you coming to the tree / where a dead man cried out for his love flee. / Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem / if we met at midnight in the hanging tree.” She stopped and before you could say ‘hanging tree’, she pulled the rope.

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

What am I? Maryam Alatmane There is a squirrel in me… nestling in the fork of a tree trunk… foraging alone for pine cones on the forest floor… I hear the crunching of leaves on the pavement, and I run… back to my comfortable drey, where I curl up… away from people, I stare beyond the trees… the rooftops protrude out, bellowing smoke; an eyesore in the beautiful wilderness. There is a sloth in me… my arms gripping the sturdy branches of the rainforest… my obstinate refusal to get caught up in the rat race that we call life… Instead, I take my time, think, breathe, live-not by your definition of living, but by mine… the sun shines through cracks in the canopy… I close my eyes, I have no intention of moving, I will not move and you-with your blinded perception of the world-will not make me! There is an elephant in me… strutting through the savannah of life… tearing at the grasses of society… my trumpeting voice sails across the air… a cacophony of noise surrounds the waterhole-as we laugh and talk and play… I am the matriarch; I lead the clan, the ivory of my tusks glinting in unrelenting sunlight, head held high. There is a jellyfish in me… swimming through dark waters… tentacles flowing, reaching forwards… Aware of my nematocysts unravel risk, you float away. Not wanting to be stung by my sarcastic words and foreboding presence… I am like sunshine glinting off a sharpened blade-deadly but beautifully so… I am a distant dream; you grab at the tendril of the memories that remain, but the rest is a distant haze… I am difficult to interpret, to understand, to know and undetected, I swim on through dark waters. If my body were the world, and the mechanics of this body were the ocean, the land, the mountains and the air, then the animals would make me who I am; all the animals of the world, from deep down in the ocean to high up among the clouds, could define me, but take away some of them and you would be left with something empty incomplete something that doesn’t function So tell me, when you say that a number of animals can define me, when my personality is immeasurable, what do you mean? What do you mean when you say that I am one set of things, all aligned and perfect and manageable, When most of the time, I feel like a walking contradiction. Why do you try to group me, confine me, enclose me

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when I know that my personality is vast and wide and beautiful. (Based on â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Wildernessâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; by Carl Sandburg)

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Spark Young Writers Magazine

Do We Have To? Isobel Russell Doing suncream’s such a bore, why we have to do this chore nobody will ever know, “Come on, let’s play, let’s go, go go!” That is what they always say, whenever there’s a sunny day! Wriggling, wriggling like an eel, parents think they should conceal every single bit of skin, so that the sun will not get in! Once a boy named Joey Brown stood for hours upside down just to stop his mum (called Grace) from putting suncream on his face! In my eyes and up my nose, my parents say that’s where it goes! They con you saying it’s quite nice, and then they grip you like a vice! They plonk you on the windowsill, “Be good,” they say, “Be very still!” And so, dear reader, please be sure, that you won’t make it such a chore. Mums around the world, you see, are craving from advice from me! So I give out a sleeping pill, that makes your children very still!

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Title Name

Issue 10

Spark Young Writers Magazine