Write On! Magazine Issue 7

Title Name

! n O e t i r W e n i z a g a M

Issue 7 Jul 2015

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

1

Write On! Magazine Welcome to Write On! Magazine The second thing I noticed when reading the submissions for this edition of the magazine, (the first was how high the quality of work is!) was that war is a common theme running throughout many of the pieces.

Fitting for an issue published so close to the 70th anniversary of VE day in May, you will find poems and prose in this edition which capture the lives of those affected by the Second World War. Sonora Hills gives voice to five soldiers of varying ranks in her poem Chain of Command, while Matthew Kozlowski depicts a dramatic air-battle in his tense short story The Ambush. I also want to mention Megan Bounds’ Child Soldier, as this piece could be related to WWII, but is also relevant to the troubles going on in the world today. These young writers are using their talents to honour those who fought in the war, and reminding us of those who are still are affected by conflict.

Perhaps my favourite aspect of reading these submissions was how many pieces make you question the world around you. The writers who have submitted to this magazine are between the ages of 8-20, and yet they raise questions that adults ignore or accept as a normal part of life. In Katie Gayton’s Change, a child puts the adults to shame when she gives money to a homeless man, and Anika Patel ponders upon the tiny decisions made in everyday life in her piece, WHY? The understanding of both the lighter and darker sides of humanity shines through in this issue. In addition, the questioning of social norms and identity has made this edition a fantastic, engaging read. Our writers are exploring different platforms of writing, including script-writing (check out Ruth Hetherington’s hilarious piece Monologue), adding variety to the collection of pieces.

I wish I could touch upon all of the writers, but I don’t want to ruin the surprises that await! Thank you to everyone who submitted and made editing the magazine so enjoyable.

Rosanne Rivers- Write On! Magazine Guest Editor

Write On! 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.

Guest Editor: Rosanne Rivers 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.

Contents 4

Why? Anika Patel

18

Futile Eleana Turner Hurd

5

The Beach Nayantika Chaudary

19

Computer Sonora Hills

6

Child Soldier Megan Bounds

20

Ever-Blooming Kaleia Hills

7

Change Katie Gayton

21

His Suitcase Beth Russell

8

A Royal Baby Tanita Patel

22

When Sophine Watkis

9

The Ambush Matthew Kozlowski

23

The Night Ellie Withers

10

There’s a Thief...

Francesca Dix

24

Underwater Mountains Nabila Irshad

11

The Box Lilya Turner Hurd

25

The Bully Lilya Turner Hurd

12

Monologue Ruth Hetherington

26

Meeting The Grim Reaper Zoya Chaudhry

13

Desolate Sophine Watkis

28

Undefeated Katie Gayton

14

Untitled Anika Patel

29

Chain of Command Sonora Hills

15

Broken Promises Nabiyah Saddique

30

Of the Race Megan Depper

16

Frantic Flame Ellie Withers

31

Storm Eleana Turner Hurd

17

My Mother’s Tongue Nabila Irshad

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

3

Why? Anika Patel A majestic lion Spied a lovely deer nearby.

But did not eat it, Why? A kid sitting at the back of the classroomHe never gives in his homework.

But for some reason, he has done it today, Why? A selfish billionaire Never gives to anything or anyone.

Today he has given ÂŁ10,000 to charity, Why?

4

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

The Beach Nayantika Chaudary The golden lollipop in the azure sky floats in between tufts of cotton, as if playing hide and seek.

Children scream, running around in flamboyant swimsuits. A distant trickle of notes plays as a cherry-red van comes into view. Soon it stops a halt on the golden blanket.

The aquamarine, translucent waves crash against the jagged rocks. It sends up a spray of salt water spiralling higher and higher then falling as if tiny scattered droplets of water. A grubby boardwalk leads to the buzz of colossal mechanical machines whirring loudly, doing all sorts, flipping people upside down until they were giddy with dizziness and so on.

The sweet scent of delicious freshly whipped ice cream fills the air, making mouths water.

SCREECH! SCREECH! Seagulls soar up above, circling the sky, eyeing big bags of cotton candy won by children. Dogs run about playfully, engulfed in the breeze.

The creased cobalt tablecloth has slowly crawled up the beach. Soon the sky is a light fusion of pastel pink and pale orange. The cacophony of noises have vanished all for the tranquil rush of the tide and the cry of the seagull from above as the summer sun sets on the sapphire horizon.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

5

Child Soldier Megan Bounds Fear written across his face Just because he’s a different race All he wants is to raise his voice But he doesn’t even get a choice All he wants is to make a stand But he doesn’t have the upper hand All he wants is to scream and shout But he just can’t seem to get the words out He was walking all alone one day And suddenly he was taken away Secretly he doesn’t want to fight He knows in his head it’s just not right All he wants is to run and hide Or for someone to stand by his side He watches all his biggest fears His cheeks covered in salty tears

6

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Change Katie Gayton In hundreds you walk past, without a second thought For the old crippled man, sat in the cold.

I would yell if I could, beg for your mercy, But I can’t because the winter has grasped me.

The young boy, he has plenty he could give to me, But he’d rather have an Xbox or a TV. The woman in her thirties, sat alone on the bench Is too scared of me, because of, ‘The stench.’

Then a young girl, aged ten. She comes up to me, And gives me a £1 made of 10ps.

She said, ‘I have saved this. I give it to you, For your courage and strength, I look up to you.’

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

7

A Royal Baby Tanita Patel Many congratulations on your new baby girl!

Now that you have got two children, your life will be a whirl!

Life with them will always be an adventure, wherever they are As they will always love you no matter how far!

Charlotte will grow up to be an absolutely Amazing person with an intelligent mind And George will be clever, wonderful and kind!

They will grow up together as a sister and a brother, And despite the little fights will always love one another.

So when times get a bit crazy and you’re feeling down, Just think of your children and you will have no frown!

They will grow up so fast; George is almost two, So make the most of the time when they are young with you!

8

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

The Ambush Matthew Kozlowski The sirens wailed as the spitfires blasted off. Everyone looked at us in admiration while the captain waved goodbye. Our engines roared to life as we flew into the air.

‘Last flight Charlie,’ the sergeant radioed me. ‘Don’t get yourself blasted.’

We formed into victory formation, scanning the sky casually for jerries. It was something we had done a million times, why would this be any different?

‘Hard to get killed in the beast,’ I joked. ‘Guns loaded, engine full, formation ready.’ But right at that moment it dawned on me that I had forgotten to activate the radar. While I fumbled with the switch, it felt like I was writing my death wish. The radar flashed on the screen. Over twenty terrifying red dots were closing in like torpedoes. We were sitting ducks.

The eruption of engines burst out. The death rattle of machine guns sliced my eardrums.

‘Ambush,’ I screamed into the radio.

Fire billowed out of the plane next to me. The sky turned into a battle field. My heart pounded against my chest. I could see the bullets inch past my fighter, taunting me. My hands felt glued still.

‘Charlie, come in,’ the sergeant bellowed. I snapped out just in time to pull up from a near collision.

I lurched forward, banging my head against the throttles.

‘Roger,’ I groaned.

‘Get out of…’

That was when I saw two Germans flank me and I knew it was over. In the back of my mind I wanted to go to sleep to stop all this, but I knew I couldn’t. In the corner of my eye I saw a whole squadron of British fighters zoom through the air. They were my saviours. They both unleashed heavy fire at the same time, but a bullet found its mark on my shoulder. Blood oozed out and I started to slip away slowly. Then black.

My eyes flickered open, my head pounded and I couldn’t move, but when I looked up I saw my friends smiling at me with shocked doctors. I knew I was safe.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

9

There’s a Thief...

Francesca Dix Hey thief!

In black and white, I see you sneaking round at night.

Carrying a bulky bag, I think it must be full of swag!

What have you got hidden up your sleeve?

And whose house are you going to thieve?

A poor man’s house?

Or Buckingham Palace?

Or maybe the church for a silver chalice?

I saw you riding on the tram, Hiding your goods in a stolen pram.

I know who you are.

You’re big and bad, But I won’t tell ‘cause you’re my DAD!

10

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

The Box Lilya Turner Hurd Its simplicity adds a glimmer of uniqueness.

Its pure beauty opens a window of glamour.

Its plain tone gives it shades of colour.

Its perfect shape lends it irregularity, But its contents darken the look, And adds‌ Chaos, Destruction, Hatred, Broken hearts, All disguised in a box.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

11

Monologue Ruth Hetherington (Tiffany is a twenty-six-year-old hairdresser who is about to be married. The conversation takes place in the hair salon talking to her regular clients.)

Yes lace, my mum’s favourite. She picked it. Mum has always loved lace. She said that was what she wanted, but her mum wouldn’t let her. My dress has long sleeves; mum says they are more classy. It’s got a v neck and it’s long with a short train. Mum insisted I had that - wants it all top show, you know. It is lovely though and suits me…. I think. I’m having cream roses to match the dress. That’s the one thing I overruled Mum on. ‘Not white, Mum, cream.’ It will all work as my bridesmaids are in a metallic brown, you know the colour of eye shadow you bought when you were fourteen, sounds odd but honestly at the venue it’ll look fantastic - match the gold room. The venue is magnificent - it’s a hotel. I fancied a small church wedding but Mum set her heart on The Grand Hotel. Do you know it? Oh yeah, everyone knows it. Her friend’s daughter got married and she was determined. ‘What’s good enough for Sisley is good enough for you!’

How’s the wedding going then? Ugh that’s all I hear. I wish everyone would stop keep going on about it. I mean it’s not that big of a deal, is it? Well it’s like it’s not even about me anymore. Nobody is interested in me and Dave anymore, just the day. I’m trying to think about life after and I just can’t seem to. It’s all confusing and I want to just think about it with Dave, but mum keeps bringing out lists of guests, flowers, food… You name it and she has a list. Honestly I can’t get anyone to talk about anything else, apart from Kelsie. Kelsie’s a good friend. She understands; she would do anything for me, she’s said so. She’s been my best friend since school. Crikey, the things we did.

Oh I wish I was there again. It’s odd really, I couldn’t wait to leave the place and have some fun.

Now I almost wish I was back at school. Life was easy then, being just with my friends.

So, Kelsie, what colour do you want your hair this time?

Do you remember when we were at primary school, when we used to do those weddings at playtime? The ones where it was planned on the day and the rings were made of gold paper.

Those weddings were great, they didn’t mean anything... the rings could be torn off in an instance.

‘How are you then, Tiff?’ How am I? What does she want me to say? Oh I am fine thanks, you know - just broke my ex fiancé’s heart and tore my mum to pieces. How do I feel? I feel hollow, heartless, hurtful. Relieved though. It will be better in time for everyone. But I keep asking myself, did I really do that to someone? Will it be better? No one knows what really happened, just me and Kelsie.

She always understands. We’ve had the pact since school. If we needed to get rid of a bloke, we knew how - you know. Get him off the other. Literally. You just do the deed, seduce him and then tell him it doesn’t mean anything, to forget it ever happened. So that’s what Kels did for me – ‘course everyone started gossiping and it all came out in the open and I was off the hook. Couldn’t possibly marry him now could I? Forget me, I said, forget the wedding, forget all we planned. Forget it.

Just… just please forget it.

12

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Desolate Sophine Watkis As I whisper mellifluous nothings into the empty, heavy silence, the walls turn black.

My palms perspire, my eyes leak.

Is this real sadness?

He says he’ll be back soon.

We both know how this will end.

Still, I wait; he’ll be back; he’ll be back: he’ll beSilent. He’ll be fog, musk.

He’ll be mildew.

His air, spirt, soul, is full of water: I dehydrate.

My lips dry, crack, bleed.

He’s the ocean, a lake, a single puddle.

I drown.

As I scream, shout plea… Please.

He breathes sweet, sweet nothings.

I crack, my tears dry. There’s nothing left.

I do not bleed.

I’m empty.

He’ll be back; he’ll be back; he’ll beBarren, Like the silence, He’ll be heavy. Like my soul, ButHe won’t be back.

It’s my fault.

I knew how this would end.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

13

Untitled Anika Patel I am a person, not an alien or a robot. Okay - I’ll be honest with you, I am actually not a person or a robot or an alien. I am an alienbot. I have come to Earth to start a new life. Just kidding! I am here because I am a spy searching for something so TOP SECRET I can’t tell you. Actually, I will tell you because you can help me on my epic quest. But you cannot tell ANYONE. I am looking for something called... a pencil!

14

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Broken Promises Nabiyah Saddique The gleaming mirror smashed into ten pieces. The mirror that once held all the splendours of the world is now crushed. Plates, glasses and knives remain traumatised on it. On the far side of the room sits a wooden table that has been broken into two; cracked straight through the middle.

Above the table is the window which has four cracks. The window that looks out towards the perfectly mowed lawn.

I sit on the ground opposite the wooden table. I look down at my hands. I open my palms and observe the red blotches. Sticky, slimy blood trails down my arms. My knee is red, bloody and sore.

My body resembles a Picasso painting using all shades of blue, red, yellow and green. I stare at all the mess I have made.

I cannot feel anything. Frozen in the corner of a room. Numb to the core, if only for an instant. A sudden burst of tears travels down my cheeks.

My eyes wander to the photo frame that has also been victim to the trauma. I pick it up and turn it around. We fit perfectly like two pieces of a jigsaw. I was tucked under the crook of his arm. Instead of looking towards the camera, we were lost in each other’s eyes, smiling. Lost in the abyss of each other. His hand gently placed on my right cheek as he looked at me with pure adoration. My gaze was filled with innocence and immense love for the man holding me.

That day was filled with rays of sunshine. Hues of orange, red and yellow covered the sky like a blanket of fire just waiting to be extinguished by the gloomy grey clouds. I walked down the gravelly path towards my home. He was standing, waiting for me to reach him at the end of the path. I rushed towards him and my hands were placed between his and everything around us ceased to exist.

Darkness slowly descends upon the room. Even the light from the sky is leaving me to bathe in darkness. The front door slams open against the wall. Loud footsteps make their way towards where I am sitting.

He stands before me, looking down at me. Regret clouds his eyes as tears roll down his cheeks as he stares at the mess he has made. All the mess scattered in pieces, so many pieces. I flinch as he reaches out to hold my hand. My hand curls around his, fitting perfectly.

‘I’m so sorry, so sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

Until the next time.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

15

Frantic Flame Ellie Withers I am a flame full of tropical colours, I will give you a light like many others.

I will give you heat with all my might, But beware, you’ll have to fight for your life.

I am danger, I am safety, It just depends on what you do with me, For I am the frantic flame.

If you see me you will know my name.

16

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

My Mother’s Tongue Nabila Irshad I have long since adored my mother’s Honey-drenched complexion As a landmark to my heritage, Her histories and sufferings Woven deep within my soul.

Ivory glows emit pearls of wisdom, For she carries an ocean of eastern tales In the creases of her aged smile.

Thousands of words, Buried in enchanting springs, Dripping effortlessly, Over a thousand lifetimes.

It is her knowing eyes.

Such selfless love Like the sun to the moon, Sacrificing by day, And resurrecting by night.

Mortal as we profess to be, My ancestors will remain Draped along these cultured bones, As hues of melanin serenely hum Into where eternity meets the world of time.

Rose.

Coffee.

Gold.

Bodily tapestries will drip, drip, drip.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

17

Futile Eleana Turner Hurd Eager, enthusiastic, almost euphoric, Our boys set off for battle.

Kitchener’s message rang in their ears, But soon the cheerful, chirpy faces Were covered in tears.

Pleased and proud parents waved their goodbyes; Family and friends cheered and applauded.

No one knew how quickly it would all turn to sighs, No one anticipated how many would die.

Waging the worst war, Innocent lives were devastated and destroyed.

Unimaginable horrors, the traumas of the trenches, Grizzly gas attacks.

Nothing prepared them for what they saw, Hundreds dying, every day, every second.

Few remained untouched by loss.

All hope gone; grief stricken, heartbroken.

Why do men continue with futile wars?

18

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Computer Sonora Hills If you have a question—ask me. …0.55 seconds to search.

(Ha! Beat that, Firefox!)

I am all knowing. There is nothing That I cannot look up, just for you.

(10010111…uh…10100010) Download new applications and my powers will increase…

10 new gigabytes of storage space? Sure!

(Wait, sorry, your start-up disk is too full.)

I will adapt to fit your every need; The one thing you can depend on for the rest of my life.

(The email and password you entered don’t match.)

I will alert you to every update So that you can always have the very best service.

(By the way, Time Sync hasn’t had a back-up in 53 days.)

When you are bored, I will keep you company.

Chat to a friend, write a novel, play—

(Battery is empty. Please connect to a power source.)

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

19

Ever-Blooming Kaleia Hills I wish for the golden buttercup,

Purple violets in the evening, And in the winter roses bloom,

The same in every season.

In my garden through all the years,

May grass be covered up in white.

Let it be delicate snow, or daisies,

Then silver butterflies take flight.

I beg the tulip grow so merry,

In the golden burnished fall, While the morning glory rises

Dressed in shining spider’s shawl.

All through the cycle of the year,

Let flowers come and go, But when the cold months come on hither,

Let them still bloom and grow.

20

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

His Suitcase Beth Russell He was loved by many, trusted by most and liked by all. He was known as a great man and that is how we should remember him. Amen.

‘Amen,’ the congregation echoes.

He is laid down in the ground, with the earth and the dirt that in his later years he learned to love.

Old, wrinkled and gone but never forgotten.

He lived a happy American Dream that so many didn’t. He escaped reality and lived in optimism.

This morning I gave away his greatest possession, his brown leather suitcase, tattered and old, pretty much unusable, gone but never forgotten.

This suitcase was with him when he met my mother at the train station fifty years ago, traveling to Long Beach Island. The suitcase had not been his previously; he had found it abandoned on the side of a busy street corner in Trenton. He identified with the suitcase straightaway. He had also been abandoned, but not by choice, and it reminded him of his father’s suitcase from long ago. So he kept it. However, he didn’t go to use it until I was born and when he did open it, he was shocked and moved.

This suitcase had letters in it, dozens of them. All from different people. My father assumed the owner was a paper boy who never completed his round and therefore forty-eight people never got letters from their loved ones in 1945.

My father read them - all of them - and kept them as his keepsakes. This morning I sent them to the places they belonged to, better late than never. I already have replies. See, the suitcase was not my father’s most prized possession, people were.

For sale: old suitcase. Would suit maybe a theatre group or such. $10.

Old but never forgotten.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

21

When Sophine Watkis When I think of you I see a chalk outline.

I see a wooden box, Three rusted nails. I see woodlice and worms and earth.

I see red and blue lights, flushed cheeks and dirty walls.

When I look for you, I search for the needle, ignoring all signs of hay.

I look for the hole that hasn’t been filled.

I follow a trial of darkened skies and Shattered hearts. I look through the Hollow eyes and wondering minds.

When I find you, I hold onto twigs and branches and thorns.

I squeeze rocks, I swallow pebbles.

I scrape away the earth and worms and Woodlice.

When I – I dream of your bones and your teeth.

I think of your eyes: black; your heart: empty.

Now I don’t look for you and I don’t Think of you because you’ve been gone For so Long, and I can’t find you, you’ve mixed with the earth And I don’t have a sieve.

22

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

The Night Ellie Withers In the darkest of the night, It shall never, ever be bright, And then there comes the menacing thief, With his dagger in his teeth.

Then the cats and bats will rise, And the garden wall shouts out its lies.

So when we are sleeping tight, It shall always be the night.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

23

Underwater Mountains Nabila Irshad And so I threw nickels into Glorious skies, Thinking time could be Brought to a standstill, Passing slowly like the Cancers of guilt engulfing The valves of my heart.

And then I left work without Giving my resignation, Simply because I laid, Like a cocoon who would Never fulfil her soaring destiny, On cold hard floors, Hoping that all familiar click In the forsaken door would sound.

It didn’t.

Full moons lived and passed, And I simply couldn’t face the Fears of becoming the nightmares of my childhood any longer, So I decided to pack my unravelling suitcases, Hammer into my miniature piggy banks, And venture into the seas of underwater mountains, Throwing nickels into midnight blue skies as I submerged, All in the wooing hopes I would strike lucky This time around.

24

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

The Bully Lilya Turner Hurd Piercing the heart, Ripping it up, Chucking it around, Throwing it away.

Head bowed, Shoulders hunched, Vague glances, Fast pace.

Twisted thoughts, Fidgeting in disbelief, Pinching in anger, Raging inside my mind.

Nostrils flared, Hands clenched, Fixed glare, Monster appeared.

Frozen in place, Mind blank, Deserted area, Words escaped.

Hand weighed down, No second thoughts, One shot, Happiness replayed.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

25

Meeting The Grim Reaper Zoya Chaudhry My name is Sienna Miller. I’m sixteen years old. Pretty normal, right? You couldn’t be more wrong.

It all started that one night. I was choking, gasping for air. My parents heard my frantic panic attack and immediately took me to the hospital. I had been diagnosed with an extreme case of cancer.

Sure, they treated me with all the medicines, telling my parents everything would be okay but I knew better. I knew I was dying. Nothing could stop that.

Or so I thought.

When I thought I was going to black out for the very last time, something happened. When I opened my eyes, I saw a boy my age, standing only a few metres away from me. He had scruffy black hair and enchanting, emerald-green eyes. When I say enchanting, I don’t mean dreamy. I literally mean enchanting. When I looked into his eyes, I saw my entire life passing by, just like that. I saw myself with two twin daughters and a baby in a chair, watching them grow up and me growing old.

At first, I thought it was just a dream but then I looked around. I was in a white, empty room.

Who was this guy? Where was I? I thought.

‘Name’s Jackson Renalds. You’re in the Underworld,’ he suddenly said, making me jump.

‘Uh, Sienna Miller,’ I replied, feeling pretty stupid.

‘Yes, I know. I’m the Grim Reaper.’

‘The what-now?’ I said, looking at him with an ‘are you nuts?’ look.

‘Grim Reaper. I manage all of the souls that pass through here,’ he explained.

‘Okaaay... You’re crazy. I’m dreaming so I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten and I’ll wake up in my bedroom,’ I said. ‘1...2...3...4...5!’

Slowly opening my eyes, I saw Jackson again, smirking at me. This was definitely not my bedroom.

Which meant‘You’re not dreaming,’ he said.

‘Great. So why am I here?’ I asked.

‘Well, because you’re not going to die today.’

‘Um, what?’ I asked.

26

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

‘Every human has a certain lifespan. You haven’t reached your peak of death yet.’

‘So, does everyone come here when they don’t die?’ I enquired.

‘No, only Grim Reapers can come here.’ He smiled.

‘But I’m not a Grim Reaper,’ I said.

‘Well you can be. If you want to,’ he said.

‘What will happen if I say yes?’

‘You’ll stay here and your mortal essence will die in the human world.’

‘And if I say no?’

‘Then you’ll live on without any memory of this.’

Go figure. But then again... Living here would be better than dying.

‘Then I’ll stay.’

‘Great,’ he grinned.

And from that day on, I was a Grim Reaper.

Life has never been better.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

27

Undefeated Katie Gayton Battered and knocked, sprawling on the ground, Beating you day by day, I’ve had enough!

‘Best wishes,’ you say, as you leave me worn, Battling the cold, dark, empty, yawn Brought by evening winds, storms of plenty.

But the strong gales give me strength - help me up, Before you’ve had a chance to run to your shelter.

‘Be aware, my friend, I will be back.

You think you’ve got away with torture!’

‘But I’ll be at your door waiting.’

28

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Chain of Command Sonora Hills General—06:00 Stay silent…

Proceed to the Front Line.

Take them By surprise…

Colonel—09:03

Tell yer men

The General…

Don’t

Want no cowards.

So pay attention.

You won’t get Any

Second tries…

Lieutenant—11:43 You’re all Good Soldiers…

If you believe, Then we’ll Win...

Sergeant—13:00 Hey, Hey!

Get a move on You Slobs…

I hopes you Can do It Wi’out makin’ No din…

Private—13:29 Well little rat, It’s just me and You

The horrors of life at the Front— The General’s got No clue…

Fix Bayonets!

WHISTLE BLOWS—13:30

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

29

Of the Race Megan Depper Our little universe and even littler minds Wreak havoc in even the most innocent of places.

Impossible thoughts fragment our mortal bodies.

The human race – yes – and if this is a race Then I am losing, hesitantly behind, Staggering over untied laces On my lace-less shoes.

I am surrounded by winners, but No one Is here. The air is naked, but still I hear The roar from the crowds.

Wait, no, that is no crowd, that is the earth.

Our little earth and even littler minds Trying to comprehend things That exist not to be understood But rather to be as they are In undisturbed peace, unbroken harmony.

Our little universe and our little minds, In which even infinity has a finish line.

30

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7

Storm Eleana Turner Hurd The waves are racing Towards the shore.

Booming, crashing‌ more, more, more.

The sand is crunching beneath my feet, Boom, crash, crunch.

Sandcastles toppling, Umbrellas whisking by.

Storm clouds brewing, Lands meets sky.

Booming waves, Biting wind, Full grey clouds, Let the storm begin.

Issue 7

Write On! Magazine

31

Title Name

Write On! Magazine Issue 7

32

Write On! Magazine

Issue 7