Write On! Magazine Issue 9 by Writing West Midlands

Title Name

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

Issue 9 Apr 2016

Issue 9

Write On! Magazine

Title On! Magazine Write Name Welcome to Write On! Magazine Of course the most important part of Write On! is the writing. Actually, the only important thing is the writing. Even the writers come second to your having a good magazine to read and this is exactly the reason that Write On! continues to be a success. We’re not about showcasing writing just because it comes from our region and is by young writers: we’re here to make the very best magazine we can and to publicly demonstrate what we already knew was true. There is startling writing in the West Midlands and there is a degree of talent and expression that you can so clearly see when the best of it is presented in one place. I’m not going to say you can have too much of a good thing but privately I did wonder: this issue received more submissions than ever. Strong stuff, too: Rage by Hillery Phillip is written like a knife. Then Phoebe Case’s Technology is Not the Answer is a kind of intelligently silly poem that delights but makes a point you won’t miss. As editor, you read work like this and you wonder where it comes from –– but you know where it’s going. Around 60 percent of pieces submitted this time are in this issue waiting for you to read them. That’s a slightly lower acceptance rate than in recent issues yet with the volume of submissions it’s still a substantial read. I envy what you have ahead of you: there are treats here and there are pieces that will stay with you. So go get a coffee and have a very good time. William Gallagher Write On! Magazine 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. 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.

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Issue 89

Contents 5

Technology is not the Answer Phoebe Case

Bullet Lily Murphy-Burke

Denial Joe Pickles

New Light Katie Gayton

Photographs are Amazing Jude Parker

Basketball Shirts Lucy Merry

The Passing of Lenore Fay Lyanna Choi

The Perfect Cake Maryam Alatmane

Words and Sounds and Gibberish Rebecca Spruce

After Dark Lily Turner Hurd

Tim Peake Recount Daisy Aratoon

Words Matthew Baxter

The Moonlight Maiden Eleanor Withers

Limbo Land Rebecca Spruce

I Could See Again Alice Tyler

Books Tanita Patel

A Friendly Clown Jasmine Sandhar

Pancakes Perspective Similoluwa Osunsanmi

The Complexities of Being Dead Lily Murphy-Burke

The Man Who Sold His Soul Asher Jordan

The Frost Nayantika Chaudary

Ruff Rivers Evie Unsworth

Flightless Bird Jessica Sandhar

Thanatophobia Claire Howland

Café Bonne Biere Jasmine Sandhar

Wildlife Ava Forrest

Proud Bird Aisling Rogers

Surviving Syria Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest

Come On...Bazza Erin Ridgway

Not Quite Megan Depper

Boys and Girls James Calloway-Brady

The Revenge Harry Hawkesford

Shadows Eve Connor

Paradise Bay Grace Banks

The Tunnel Jessica Sandhar

Mrs Crawley’s Keys Grace Banks

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Contents Continued 45

A Beautiful Poem Hattie-Rose Barnett

Jam Bethan Olliver

Wishbone Sioned Gill

Belchy and the Time Machine Zoe Belgian

Rage Hillery Phillip

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Issue 9

Technology is Not the Answer Phoebe Case Last night I found a silly man, Watching TV whilst using a frying pan! I thought he might be crazy, Giving the TV a stern look. The problem was with him, He wasn’t writing a book! They just use their technology all the time, Even if they’re only at the age of nine! What’s up with them, those silly old people? It might even make their eyes turn square! Just looking at it all the time, Oh no, it’s you now, the fancy mare! The point I am just TRYING to make, Is that you should be writing as soon as you wake! I know what’s wrong now, You’re worried you won’t be like Dr .Seuss. No one’s EVER as good as him! Oh no! I’ve let my pen on the loose!

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Denial Joe Pickles We forget the promise that we once made We forget to remember what fades shall fade We forget what we see to fake discovery We forget how to see, blind with me We forget because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s easier, better for all We forget, forget we always have to fall We forget to feel wounds none can soothe We forget because what hurts most? The truth.

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Photographs Are Amazing Jude Parker Photographs are amazing. Top notch. Flat out brilliant. ‘Ok… Right… Get to the point’ I hear you saying. Calm down, I was getting there. A photograph has the ability nothing else does: to pause time. Whether it is a moment to remember or one to forget, one to treasure or one to leave at the bottom of the drawer and make an oath never to look at again, photos capture a split second in time, an exact moment that nobody else has any record of but you. A memory is just a single string of recollected knowledge, buried away in your mind, but a photo is the real bearer of happiness. Or sadness. But the thing is, when you invite a friend around, you start to chinwag over past events in the far away distance of your minds, buried under the shopping list and the kids’ music recital. Past events you both half-remember: ‘Oh, do you remember the time when…’ and then your friend thinks and says, ‘Oh yes, that’s the day that…’ Then you sit and drink your tea, until you think, ‘Oh actually, I’ve got some pictures from that day’. Then you show your friend and that starts bringing back more memories, until it all starts flooding back. That’s what I love, everyone can relate to a photograph taken at a particular time and place. Sometimes, I wish I could dive back into a picture and relive the exact moment it was taken. In this modern day and age, we are still taking photos, even if they may be of pretentious selfies (look it up) when you’ve just spotted you have amazing cheek bones and want to tell the world. Or maybe you’ve kept an album of a particular time you enjoyed, then stored it away, discovered it a few years later and relived the years you thought you’d forgotten. It doesn’t matter whether you look awful in it, we all have those. 97% of pictures of me look like I’m a contestant in the Village Idiot competition, but it doesn’t bother me. I just look forward to the days when I look at the picture and say I had an awful smile back then. And you know what, everyone will remember and smile and agree.

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The Passing of Lenore Fay Lyanna Choi White sheets, white clouds, white shrouds. Cold marble skin untouched by frost. Ephemeral elegance immortalised on a frozen face. A flock of strange faces gather, All equally chilled by the biting winter wind To witness the passing of Lenore Fay. A word of condolence uttered by a forgotten friend. A word of comfort offered by a distant relation. She hears them not. The whispers fade as does the light. Silence befalls the crowd once more And the evening breeze chills their bones. The sound of silence broken by a bell. One. The church doors open. Her father stands beside her, Mourning the loss of youth too soon As she glides like a phantasm down the aisle. Two. A man in black takes her hand and she is delivered From the arms of an old life into the next. With a loving touch she departs. Three. The last scripture is uttered And the priest sends her away with a prayer, Wishing her all the best.

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Issue 9

Words and Sounds and Gibberish Rebecca Spruce Did you ever stop to think that every book ever written is just a combination of 26 letters, all muddled up? There’s punctuation too, of course, and sometimes numbers; but that just ruins the effect. This that you’re reading now is just symbols on a page, but and your brain understands them and turns them into sounds in your head. Maybe not even that, but as you’re reading this, you understand it, because if you don’t understand it, you’re not reading it, are you? If I put a paragraph in front of you in Greek, and you don’t speak Greek, you won’t be able to read it, will you? If somebody speaks to you: really, it’s just sounds, isn’t it? But you understand it, your brain gives it meaning, you translate it into sense. That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Translate. What about the word translate means... to translate something? Who made the decision that that’s what that sound means? Who decided what was called what in the first place? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. But words really are brilliant, aren’t they? And there’s more. Languages. People use different sounds all over the world. We always say that, for example, hola is a translation of hello. But not to the people who speak Spanish. To them, hello is a translation of hola, the same way bonjour is a translation of Guten Tag to the Germans. The only language that really exists to you is your own, and the others are just translations, but to the people that speak them, your language is just a translation of theirs. It really messes with my head. So what was the first language? Latin, maybe? Every word we use today seems to derive from Latin, or maybe Greek. So why doesn’t everyone in the entire world just speak Latin? Who said, “right: for each country, we’re going to have different words. Words specifically that country.” Which begs another question... Why do languages seem to suit their country? It’s as if Spanish seems an exotic language to suit sunny Spain and French is sophisticated like the baguettes and the Eiffel Tower. It’s amazing how identifiable a language is to its country, almost like a nametag in a way. If we all spoke one language, then would countries still be the same as they are? Or would they be different? Who knows? The point is, languages do exist, containing lots of sounds and symbols that mean different things, but, if you think about it - I mean really think about it - it’s all just gibberish, isn’t it?

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Time Peake Recount Daisy Aratoon t all started a long time ago, when I was eight. You see, I have always dreamed of being an astronaut; I would have given anything, just to be in a space shuttle, on my way to space. After a long time of disappointment, applying and waiting, I finally got the chance. Anyway, I have a lot to tell you before we get to space! When I was at school, I loved learning about space and space travel. After education (high school, university and all,) I joined the Royal Air Force; at the time, it felt like the closest way I could simulate my dream. I worked exceptionally hard and soon qualified to be a helicopter pilot. Finally, the day of selection came. We gathered in the main hall of the astronaut training camp, seated nervously to await our fate, hardly daring to breathe. As the first person was picked, I thought for a moment; would all this keeping fit, applying for the ESA astronaut stuff and living in caves pay off? My vision went to a blur. My wife nudged me urgently. I then realised…I had been selected. I stood up as the ringing of applause crashed over the room like a wave. I was going to space! Blast off finally came. Tucked up in insulated space suits, extra boosters were added to the Soyuz rocket space shuttle, (in case we broke down after we left our atmosphere.) Scott Kelly and Tim Kopra were reassuring. As we ascended the space shuttle ramp, a feeling of excitement as I had never known it washed over me. As we took our seats, and were strapped in, that feeling multiplied 100 fold. As mission control boomed the count down, my pulse was racing, my feet tingling and my stomach churning. Mission control thundered: “BLAST OFF” The smell of burning filled my senses; roaring explosions burst outside like fireworks. That was it. We were off, it was magical. A few hours after blast off, we were in the dark rounds of space. Suddenly the shuttle came to an alarming HALT. We glided into the brightly lit ISS. Perversely, we tucked in to our breakfast on ISS, having just had lunch on earth. Sleeping conditions weren’t great. We had to choose between a sleeping bag on the wall or a hole in the ground with a glass cover over it, it reeked, the rank smell of stiff blue sheets. I picked the sleeping bag (for obvious reasons.) Even though it was lumpy and unstable, it felt amazing to be there. I was overjoyed to have arrived safely. The days blurred into one. We were literally in another world, thoughts of earth 240,000 miles away. Returning, forced my body to deal with gravity. Scott told me that it takes a year or so to get used to gravity again. I wonder if life on earth will ever feel the same without the wonder of knowing life in space.

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The Moonlight Maiden Eleanor Withers Love scars show on her dainty skin, Her home is forever the night sky, She keeps safe the ones with no sins, And holds the blue moon pearls, The moonlight maiden, The fairest of them all, And along her pearls, her moonlight shawl.

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I Could See Again Alice Tyler Blackness and darkness was all I could see before but now I can see colour not darkness at all. I can see rainbows and Flowers lighting up the ground. I can see the bright stars at night twinkling on the midnight black sky. I can hear dogs yapping and cats meowing for food from their owners.I can see children playing all happy and smiling. I can see the aqua blue sky on the warm summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day and the sun all yellow and bright. But best of all, I CAN see my family laughing happily. I COULD SEE AGAIN !!!! ď &#x160;

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Issue 9

A Friendly Clown Jasmine Sandhar On one corner of the innocuous stand sits a smiling toy clown on a tiny unicycle- a gift I received from my Aunt Helen. The clown’s short, yellow hair, made of yarn, covers its ears but is carefully parted above the eyes with a few stray fringe-hairs framing its forehead. The cerulean blue eyes twinkle devilishly in the din of the dreary slivers of daylight that crawl through the barred window. Outlined in black with thin, delineated strokes, it has cherry-red cheeks, nose and lips that contrast with its paper-white complexion. Its broad grin disappears into the withered, lace ruffle around its neck. The deteriorating, two-tone, nylon costume is composed of a washed-out light green and a faded yellow; the two colours merge into a dark line running down the centre of the small outfit that is almost obscure among the multitude of dusty smudges. Two big, pink bows surround its ankles, disguising its long, black shoes. The white spokes of the unicycle gather in the centre and expand to the black tyre so that the wheel somewhat represents the inner half of a grapefruit. Although the seams are ripping at its back, the clown and unicycle together still stand about a foot high. As the only endowment I’ve ever inherited, this colourful figure greets me with a sickly smile every time I enter my room. Yet behind the sardonic grimace it bears, I know a certain blackguardly presence lingers there from before. Before everything changed for the worse. Before I ended up in these white drapes, sitting for hours on end, staring at my only “friend” who remains. I’m not like them. I may look like them, I may act like them and we’ve all been through traumatic experiences, but we’re not the same. I shouldn’t be here, locked away from the world; but nobody else believes me, apart from the clown.

They all think it’s a figment of my imagination, but the clown and I know better, and soon you will.

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The Complexities of Being Dead Lily Murphy-Burke Seeing your own grave is an experience best described by a simple phrase: “Oops.” That was my initial reaction to the cold stone slab that marked my passing. The next was one of ungodly rage followed by a dawning feeling of reality slipping through my fingers like smoke.

How am I here? What am I? What? I knew I wasn’t human; that much was certain. It was strange. Stranger than anything I have or will ever fail to understand. I wasn’t standing, but I wasn’t floating. When I moved I was still and everything else moved around me. I couldn’t see myself, but I no longer needed to. I felt like a pair of eyes, looking and seeing without a body. Flowers. Flowers, flowers, flowers. Lots of them. Why? I don’t know. I have hay fever. And I’m dead. Very, very dead. And allergic to pollen. I was wondering whether dead people could sniffle when I noticed them. I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there. Other pairs of eyes belonging to other bodiless souls. Rifts in space time that resulted in odd diversions of light that were only there if you were really looking. One stood (hovered…floated…existed.) in front of me, glaring into my gravity. I wasn’t too familiar with ghost etiquette. My supernatural social skills were pretty rusty; so I just stared. To be fair, I wasn’t even sure if I could speak. As I moved closer I realised that it wasn’t looking at me but rather gazing at the sky.

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Issue 9

The Frost Nayantika Chaudary That terrible morning…. Whoosh, whoosh! I awoke with a start, gasping and panting, shivering in cold sweat. I lay there for a while, just lay there under the protection of my crisp duvet, clenching my clammy hands, trying to slow racing heart. With leaden steps, I crept out of bed and glanced at the dark, suffocating, walls around me. Tiptoeing across the wooden floor towards my only source of light, like a moth drawn to a flame. I peeled back the curtains, to my bewilderment… It was as if God had shaken icing sugar over the world, and told no one about it. Nature’s palette was now a mix of a million shades of glistening white. I had never seen anything so spectacular. It was everywhere; as a coat for the trees, a blanket for the ground, a hat for the roofs. A lone robin sang its sweet tune, hopping from tree to tree. The sky was pale, in harmony with the canvas of pure white. There was no sign of the smiling sun, thin wisps of grey cirrus clouds sat in its place. All though it looked as though the snow ruled eternal, the trunks of the trees were still the same old chestnut brown, their leaves half emerald green. Just staring at these beautiful sights, made me want to feel the cool texture of the snow in my hands, I wanted to be able to stomp around in it, to be with it. I meandered in between the various toys littered across the floor and crept downstairs. I slipped into the comfort and warmth of my coat and boots, whilst trying not to smile. Gazing at the untouched beauty of the snow, I turned the handle of the back door. A gentle breeze rushed in taking me by surprise. The air was clear and cold, but exciting all the same. The rug of snow crunched behind me, crisp and soft. My nose turned a peculiar shade of pink, and my breath turned into mist in the sky. Gently as if not to disturb its tranquillity, I drove my hand it. A tingling sensation ran up my arm. Scoping it out I stared at the beauty of it, every inch was so perfect. I just stood there doing that. Until I spotted the pond. My eyes became as big as saucers. I dropped my snow, in my haste, and lumbered over to it. I had never seen anything so mesmerising before, I saw my own reflection in it in the glazed ice. It lured me in. It trapped me. I took one step. For a few seconds it was amazing, so slippery and smooth. But in a split second, it all changed. I heard a sickening crack, the world span around me, the snow revealed its true colours; Harsh, frost bitten…cold. I let out a silent scream. The world dissolved into darkness, as I slipped under… forever.

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Flightless Bird Jessica Sandhar There was darkness all around. Silence shrouded the gloomy attic room. Where all of us shoulder to shoulder lay on the dank ground, us the cooks, smiths, butlers, ironers and cleaners. All compact in a small attic. We lay so still only the soft murmur or stir from the Mistress’s baby could be heard. I knew I had to sleep, to rest before another exhausting long day of assisting Cookie’s cooking. But I couldn’t I was restless and thinking of all those times the Master shouted at his maid to give me a licking. The ringing of her pan-like hands smashing on my skin still vibrated in my ears. And I feared another day of work. I couldn’t stand it. The bruises were seeping all over my skin the dark mauves and blues that mocked my hazelnut skin. The skin colour almost everyone hated these days. Next morning I woke to a hoarse bellow and a harsh slap. I rose abruptly looking around. It was a nightmare but it was also early morning. So I sat and watched the yellow sun rise up in pink clouds. I hated to think a new day had started. Suddenly the trapdoor slammed open and the housewife stormed in kicking our legs and yelling in our faces. I hurried to the kitchen and waited for Cookie to come down stairs. I daren’t say a word. Soon all of them raced down the stairs running to their jobs where they needed to be. Cookie and I made the Master’s and Mistress’s breakfast avoiding a lamping and succeeded we shared a crust of bread for breakfast and started on the lunch. But the Mistress called me back to collect the plates. So I did but they started getting heavy and I dropped a metal fork it hit the floor with a clang. Master stood up faster than a bullet and let the dogs on me. The scraped the flesh off my face a dragged me along the floor. The Mistress couldn’t watch any more she screamed in despair and pulled them off me. She quickly picked up the plates grabbed a hot rag and dabbed my cuts. The stung so much but I bit my tongue. I wanted to scream out in pain but I couldn’t. I bit my tongue so hard I felt blood trickle out. But I have to thank the Mistress one day because I swear if it wasn’t for her I’d have died. I still knew I had to run away. The night drew in quickly silencing everyone in the attic. I gathered some pillows and stuffed them under my sheet, which is my duvet, and raced down the stairs more than two at a time. I sprinted to the nearest door. Locked. I tugged at the handle until it was near to breaking off. I tiptoed to the back door and it was locked. I hurriedly spun around the room looking for an escape route. I was panicking now. My heart pounding in my ears. My head spinning. Beads of perspiration dripping from my forehead. My eyes darted over an open window and as quick as a flash I had thrown myself into the dark night. I sprinted about a mile away before I heard raised voices shouting and all the lights were switched on. They were looking for me hunting me down. They knew I was a runaway maid.

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Issue 9

Café Bonne Biere Jasmine Sandhar “Avez-vous fini Madame?” I asked her, again. This was her third café latte in two hours. I knew not who she was waiting for, but every minute or so she would still glance at the silver Dior watch coiled around her slender wrist. Or when a young, handsome man strode past, she would study his features and compare them to the picture on her rose-gold phone. “Oui, merci,” she turned away from the window and smiled at me, but it never quite reached her longing, hopeful eyes. I picked up the tall, lean glass; the residue of the foam clung to the rim like the wisps of the cumulus clouds outside. It was a beautiful day, no different from any other, and the streets were bursting with Parisian life. Businessmen strode briskly down the cobbled streets weaving in and out of the crowds, whilst elegant women sashayed in striped dresses with their designer sunglasses and floppy hats that reminded me of lopsided pavlovas. Couples cycled past with their vintage bicycles and wicker baskets full of purchases, whereas young children with wild imaginations threw away their money foolishly into the nearby fountain. Yet she didn’t feel the buzz. Instead she sat there still, emotionless looking onto the scene as if finding any possible way to criticise it. Carefully, I backed away from the corner table and hurried into the back of the café for wash up duty. The others hate wash up, but I love it, because when I unhook the clattering shutters and push the rusty windows wide open, it reveals the only view I yearn to gaze upon for hours on end. My beacon of hope, La Tour Eiffel. At this moment in time, the sun was just beginning to set. Pastel orange and yellow hues painted the sky, whilst toasted marshmallow clouds hung from the sky like paper cranes, but there, amidst the pastiche, she stood proud. Intricate metalwork weaved in and out, up and up until the very precipice met the skyline. I stood there admiring the view, whilst scrubbing a few of the mugs in between, and once my hands were calloused and wrinkled, my shift was already half an hour over. The time had really flown and the counter would be closing up soon, which left me wondering about the mysterious woman. Had she left yet? Did the man she was waiting for turn up? I removed my apron and rushed into the main dining area, rather excited and curious to see whether she was still there. But nobody was there. Well that’s what I thought before I stepped in front of the counter. Bloodied corpses lay all over the floor, bullets scattered everywhere and shards of glass from the shattered windows spread around the room. Frozen with terror I didn’t scream for help or call for the police, instead I walked over to the corner table. She lay there still, emotionless, dead. Dead like my hearing. I sat down, crying, in the deafening silence.

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Proud Bird Aisling Rogers There was once a bird who was different to all the others. His name was Dirb. He had lovely, multicoloured feathers and was forever preening them and fussing if the wind ruffled them. ‘I’m the best!’ he would boast. And then he would toss his head and run around, making the feathers glisten in the sun. ‘Stop boasting!’ his friends would call, ‘you’ll meet your end one day!’ But he would laugh and strut away. One day Dirb went a little too far. ‘I’m faster than the wind!’ he cried. Now this time, the keeper of the winds heard him. He flew down and challenged Dirb to a race. Dirb eagerly accepted. What the keeper of the winds next said was what the conditions were: if Dirb won, he would be spared, but if he lost then he would be punished. ‘Ready, steady, go!’ yelled the crowd, and off they went. Everyone was astonished at Dirb’s speed and when he crossed the finish line a second before the keeper of the winds, the crowd went wild! ‘Silence!’ yelled the keeper of the winds. ‘I demand a rematch!’ ‘Hey!’ exclaimed Dirb, ‘I won fair and sq-’. He was suddenly silent. He was floating up, up into the sky, through the atmosphere and into the night sky. Suddenly a burning pain spread up him from his feet. Dirb was on fire! He was soon a fireball. Suddenly he exploded! Balls of fire flew everywhere, forming the shape of a much larger bird. The last face he saw before his spirit withered and died was the sneering face of the keeper of the winds. You see, the race was just a cruel joke. The keeper of the winds had always meant to punish Dirb. And Dirb will stay where he is, head proudly raised for all eternity. The End

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Issue 9

Come On...Bazza Erin Ridgway “See ya later, Bazz!” Oh wait, that doesn’t make sense! Let’s go from the start so it does make sense, right here we go. Bazza is a flower, a Pansy to be more specific who lives in Hyde Park, the flower you heard speaking at the start was Larry his fellow Pansy friend, best friend to be exact that lives next to Bazza. It’s spring in the park, Bazza and Larry are getting ready to shoot up to the surface (they are seedlings right now.) The only thing is, Larry is growing faster than Bazza. “Excuuusse meee…,” came a sudden shrill voice from nearby, “I was just wondering ifff” the voice trailed off “Just get on with it already!!” Yelled Larry as he lost his cool, “chilll Larry, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” uttered Bazza “let the lady speak.” “Ok, fine I’ll let the lady speak then.” Larry violently swung his head around in the soil to find where that extremely annoying, shrill voice was coming from. “Well,” came the mysterious voice again, “well what?” Spat Larry finally figuring out where the voice had come from. It turned out the voice had come from the seed next to him! “Well, I was just wondering if you knew what the weather forecast is?” “Hang on, just gimme a sec, I’ll check my phone and have a look.” Larry viciously tapped with his shoots on his phone in desperation to find the forecast and get this stupidly annoying seed out of his hair.” The forecast is.... torrential rain, whatever that is, for the next week or two.” Larry looked at his phone and suddenly yelped “what’s the matter Larry?” questioned Bazza as he attempted to look at his phone to see what Larry had been yelping at. “Hey look, these other ‘seeds’ started a petition to get every single seed in the park to say I’m a horrible bully. To top it off they want to get all of the seeds to stay away from me, because if they come near me they say I’ll deck em’” Larry moaned, his face crumpling into the pouty expression of an outraged child. A terrifying picture swirled into Bazza’s head, all of those other seeds were crowding around Larry trying to murder him and take him away!! It was only one day away from emerging day, emerging day was when all of the flowers (and the weeds) sprout up to the surface and spread their amazing technicoloured petals. But now we come to a slightly sad part in this story, every flower had grown, except for Bazza it seemed as if he would never grow, not ever. He had been too busy to worry about this but the day had finally come! All the flowers were emerging into the light! It was so exiting, Larry and all the other pansies were just about to sprout “See ya’ later Bazz” Larry was gone. “I’m coming Larry!”

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Boys and Girls James Calloway-Brady Why do boys have to be so different from girls? Toys for Boys and Toys for Girls Helicopters and Tanks versus dolls and make-up Why do Boys have to be stuck with blue? And Girls stuck with Pink? It stinks. If boys grow their hair, why should anyone care? But, it seems people do. Princess parties for girls, Pirate parties for boys Boys should become doctors or detectives Girls should be hairdressers or airhostesses When we are adults its easy to tell The women from the men Why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kids be kids? Maybe weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d all get along better If we could just be Ourselves.

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Shadows Eve Connor A shadow is an evil thing, That lurks within the soul, It cannot be escaped, Only hid, It emerges with the light behind you, Follows you around, It is your dark other side, That shall always be beside you. A shadow has many names, Demon, Dark and Foe, It holds all your scheming plans, And knows your darkest fears. When it unfold its ragged wings, And takes flight, So does your rage, And the storm begins.

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The Tunnel Jessica Sandhar All was total blackness again - blacker, it seemed, than ever. Gordon scrambled to his feet grasping the chest once again. They walked on. In complete silence. Sheila was petrified: hands shaking; lips trembling; thumbs twiddling. The pair of them could see anything except the light at the end of the tunnel that seemed endless in the distance it was impossible to reach. All too soon Gordon and Sheila heard formidable yet familiar voices. They both knew trouble was only a few feet away. Someone was shouting at what seemed only a boy (maybe even younger than them) and the voice sounded angry. Sheila could only hear a few words but that was it. Gordon was trying to tell Sheila - by mouthing it - “to turn around and run!” Suddenly they could hear the water being kicked about and only then did Sheila realise the danger was walking towards them! She dropped the box and plunged underwater. The coldness wrapped around her like a blanket. Gordon watched her, and watched the evil men behind him. He dived underwater and let the refreshing water cover his body. The familiar men waded on and finally they reached Sheila and Gordon. One of them trod on Gordon’s fingers and pain surge through him. He bit his tongue to stop him from screaming in agony. It was so dark the men didn’t realise there was anyone there. Gordon’s lungs were screaming for air. As soon as they passed they sat up and gulped down air like a drink. Gordon stood up and Sheila followed they went back to grab their chest only it wasn’t there… They both spun around rapidly, listening intently they both heard a low bellow “I’ve got it! “ Instantly Gordon knew that at the end of the tunnel a man was clutching his treasure. They both hurried to the light, that seemed further than ever. Sheila runs on ahead. Not knowing where Gordon is. He was running behind panting all the while. Eventually he can’t run any further he collapses to the ground. He feels his head spinning and stares at Sheila racing on. He knew he could not shout otherwise the men would see them. So he lay on the dank ground by himself. Waiting. Hoping Sheila will come back...

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Issue 9

Bullet Lily Murphy-Burke “That’s insane!” Adam Butcher hissed, wiping the sweat off his brow with one hand and scrunching up a piece of paper with the other. He was a short, plump man with a round face and a receding hairline. “Insane? Possibly.” Gloria Gravesly replied, her painted lips barely moving as she glared intensely at the hateful man in front of her. She had stern eyes like bullets that darted from place to place at lightning speed before settling themselves on his face and burrowing into his skin. The two sat opposite each other, a cluttered desk in between them in the small office with the flickering bulb. The room was tall but claustrophobic; bookshelves covering each and every wall; a slim, window-less door; and a dying plant squatting in the corner. A moth was fluttering aimlessly towards the light. It landed on the bulb and with a hiss of wing on glass it fell to the desk, dead. Gloria moved the lifeless insect out of the way with the tip of her pen smoothly. She was determined to keep Adam in the verbal choke-hold he had fallen into. “Are you saying you’re not up to it, Mister Butcher?” She whispered. Butcher jumped slightly, his attention being snapped away from the moth and back of the face of his employer. He gulped and pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket, embroidered with the letters ‘L.C’. He dabbed his dripping forehead again. The room was hot and the distant buzz of a fan could be heard but was not visible. He silently begged for its cool relief, his collar tightening around his flabby neck. “I…I don’t think I’m…she’s…“ He spluttered hopelessly. Eventually he dragged his eyes up to hers pleadingly and she understood. Gravesly pulled out a pistol and shot Butcher in the head. Of course, Adam Butcher wasn’t meant to die that dreary September morning. When Gloria sat over her bowl of watery porridge he hadn’t planned on becoming a murderer. But Butcher was covered in his own blood and Gravesly was behind the trigger. And what does one do after committing such a heinous crime? Hide the body? Dispose of the weapon? And after that? What then? How can you go about a normal life? For a woman of such high power, the answer was simple – blame someone less important. And that’s just what she did. Arrested, charged, shipped off to jail; Adam Butcher’s case was closed and an innocent person was behind bars.

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New Light Katie Gayton A mask to cover up the scars of my past, The fear and the pain, the stress and the strain, Disappear as I hide behind this new reign. The clouds start to part as I walk on by, A spotlight will shine as I open my eyes, To see a new light where I used to cry.

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Issue 9

Basketball Shirts Lucy Merry I remember small but meaningful moments of myself, eyes wide smiling and laughing, wearing my sparkly pink Barbie jumper. I remember staring up at my brother as we wore our basketball shirts together drooping below our knees. I never liked basketball, but I wanted my brother to like me. I remember wanting to be just like him. I remember enjoying life as it came fantasising over the perfect future you were going to certainly have, living as a princess in a castle. Mimicking the lifestyle of the cartoon princess movies I watched on my television covered in stickers. I remember as a child when it was easy to only be hurt by a cut or scrape on the ground, the things that I know are harmless now were always treated, as I melodramatically screamed that parts of my body were going to fall off. I remember putting on a plaster to make the pain go away, the magical teddy bear patterned stickers that could patch up anything. If only I knew they didn’t work for feelings. I remember in primary school making friends was as easy as seeing someone in the playground and saying hello. Then you were best friends forever. I remember when I used to skip into school with my summer dress on and little plaits in my hair with not a worry or fright on my mind. I remember when it wasn’t everyday when the thoughts in my head decayed my happiness and replaced it with tears and a frown. I remember when I didn’t have to talk to a stranger about all of my problems. I remember when change wasn’t an issue that didn’t bother me at all. I remember the days at school when I didn’t feel like the depressed weirdo who doesn’t know how to socialise and share their thoughts. I remember feeling alone. I remember not knowing and I wish that had stayed. I closed my eyes and remembered remembering.

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The Perfect Cake Maryam Alatmane 225 grams of flour and butter and sugar 4 eggs And a teaspoon of baking powder I follow every single rule and regulation Folding in the flour properly Without leaving lumps Making sure that there is no eggshell left None of those hard, jagged edges Just smooth And nice And perfect. But my cake Never seems to turn out like yours It is always sunk in the middle Or not risen as high as yours is. And sometimes it takes longer than those 15 minutes you give it to cook Or I leave it too long And I am left With blackness overtaking the sponge And a foul stench That reaches my nostrils And makes the fire alarm scream. Maybe Maybe it does not need to be Flawless. Maybe Maybe you learn From your mistakes Maybe

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Maybe the next time It will be better But All the same I follow the recipe for a Perfect cake Again and again and again Praying Hoping Dreaming That one day Mine will turn out Like yours.

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After Dark Lily Turner Hurd Darkness sweeps the dirty streets now, The moon shines, All dirt cleared and day done. The windows swing eerily, howls echo, not the plainest voice follows. No one cares, no more, Pleasantly extinct, Fast winds blow steadily. Dew appearing, All dead, now lie still.

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Issue 9

Words Matthew Baxter Words Words are magical. Words are powerful And yet cannot hurt you. Words are confusing But clear. Words are a mystery Yet they hold no secrets. Inside words there can be war and there can be hope. Words can destroy your life or can help you find love. They represent us. They display our feelings.

But words can only tell so much. They have limits, boundaries and they are contained. Inside you and inside me there is something that cannot be captured, Something wild That is your heart. Your heart is beyond words.

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Limbo Land Rebecca Spruce I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. How do you greet someone who’s dead? What are you supposed to say? ‘Oh, condolences on your unfortunate demise, Mrs Ainsley, but I do hope we’ll be seeing you at Bingo later!’ ‘I understand you’re feeling a bit blue today, Mr Harrison, due mainly to the fact that you are recently deceased, but please, don It just mope around all day! Do familiarise yourself with the place, take a walk around the complex, introduce yourself to people. Bear in mind though, supper is served promptly at 7:30 and it’s steak night tonight! You wouldn’t want to miss that.’ Well, hello there. Have you been told yet? No? I guess, then, the duty falls on me. I should introduce myself. Welcome to life after death. I’m Stephen, and I’ll be your host. It’s my first day here. In fact, you’re my first client. Hey, I guess that’s kind of a big deal, really. CONGRATULATIONS! Sorry, is that a bit inappropriate? You know, considering that I’ve just broken it to you that you’re dead? In all honesty, I’m not really doing a very good job of it, am I? Humans aren’t the biggest fans of dying. In fact, you seem to spend your whole lives trying to avoid it. Actually, I’ve not thought about ow it might affect you. I suppose it really put a crimp on your week, didn’t it? Dying? Hmm. Yes. I suppose it would. Well, ifs not all bad. I mean, it could be better, I’ll grant you that. But it could be worse, too. You could be alive, not knowing when it’s coming, not knowing when you’ll kick the bucket. At least that’s over and done, with. I haven’t really explained it very well. Yes. Well. Um… you’re dead. I suppose you’ve figured that out by now, considering I keep repeating it. Sorry about that. This is where you’ll be spending the next few days, months, or years. Who knows how long? You’ll be here until it is decided upon where you are to spend the rest of eternity: with winged angelic beings dressed in white, wearing halos and carrying harps; or roasting in fiery pits of hatred and evil with horns, claws and vampiric fangs. This place is called The Rift Complex (you know, like the Rift between Heaven and Hell), but most people call it Limbo Land. Here’s a leaflet. ‘Welcome to The Rift Complex. I hope you enjoy your stay here, whilst you wait for Judgement Day. Your host (that’s me, hello) will guide you for your first few days until you get used to this new environment. You’ll need some time to adapt to being dead, and you’ll find a whole host of services here, a t The Rift to help you settle in to your new self. If you have any questions, concerns, or requirements, feel free to ask.’ Ok. Well, that’s that. Let me show you to your room.

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Books Tanita Patel So many of them, so many are alike yet, so many are not There is mystery, drama, romance; the whole lot You pick one up and see what it is all about Then you decide whether or not you want to take it out. You open it up and each and every one a different start Some start in lines, paragraphs or even the shape of a heart! All with a different creator like a different singer for every song Every one of them interpreted in a different way, with no reason that is wrong That feeling when it’s taken over your love of everything you normally do When it has taken over your study and your homework too When you can’t think of anything else as it is invading your mind It makes you relate all your thoughts to it and sometimes your words are similar to it you’ll find Then when it is eventually finishing and it is coming to an end And you see everyone leaving and you feel as if you are losing your best friend It feels as if you have just finished a performance and you have to come off the stage That horrible feeling when you are at the end of the book and you don’t want to turn the last page.

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Pancakes Perspective Similoluwa Osunsanmi Dear Prime Minister Most people think it’s simple being a pancake, some people just take us for granted, its silly how humans just treat us like pancakes, we have feelings too, just like you humans. You’re just too full of yourselves and this story will help spread the word about how pancakes feel and should be treated. Day 1 Breakfast To be honest, I think we’re going to go off soon if that Mother of theirs won’t get us out of the packet, we’re all squashed like beans in a can. Silly people, how can anyone choose toast over yummy scrummy pancakes for breakfast! You can’t even imagine how annoying they can be. Lunch You never know what pancakes get up to whilst the humans are away. We don’t just sit there, oh no, I wouldn’t bear a second of just sitting there. We sprout out legs and arms, and go mad in the kitchen! Clever, isn’t it, and the children get blamed for the mess... Result! After all, no one would guess that it was pancakes. Evening Boring. Nothing at all. Just sitting in packet roasting like chicken in an oven. Day 2 Breakfast Ooh, la ,la. We had some French amongst us, French toast actually. I’m surprised that they didn’t bring their fluffy poodles with snails and slugs and whatnot. You should have figured by now that I am a very knowledgeable and well spoken pancake as you can see in my writing, not many pancakes are like this. I am doing this for the PRA (Pancake Rights Association) and other pancakes because none have enough brains to manage one word of this. Lunch Being treated simply!(again) Evening Call from the PRA about how pancakes should take over London. People are pulling at the bag of pancakes and we are being tossed about like well...pancakes, not like normal tossed around but tossed around as in being thrown around. Day 3 Breakfast Pancakes perspective Finally! After an endless wait of three whole days(Please note that 3 days is a very long time for a pancake, don’t judge.), we are taken out of the package and get to be tossed around (this is the fun kind of being tossed around) in the frying pan which is a bit like a hot tub for us pancakes. We got

Write On! Magazine

Issue 9

onto the coolness of the bottom of the plate. No one spoke to us, because we are pancakes (which is a bit unfair mind you) and soon I got swept into the digestive system of a girl! Hurrah! I have made myself cosy down here. So, Mr Prime Minister, tell your people to be nice to their pancakes at breakfast, take them to Shoe Island to buy them shoes or at least give them a little badge saying ‘ My BFF is a PANCAKE!’ If you don’t listen then it is your fault if in 2 weeks we attack London Pancake shops. This is very important. Yours faithfully, truly and flatfully A very intelligent pancake

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The Man Who Sold His Soul Asher Jordan Falcon wanted eternal life. Falcon would get eternal life. But God saw what Falcon was doing and made sure that Falcon would never get eternal life. Falcon was 31 and hunted every day for eternal life and never found it. He searched, sacrificed, and even murdered to find it. One night he had a vision. A vision that terrified him. He saw himself wandering to the edge of the world, old and weary, and he dropped dead. He was so terrified, that he ran through the ancient forest that not one person had ever come out alive. He ran so fast that his eyes hurt and it seemed like everything was against him. He ran and ran like he was riding on a cheetah. He ran and ran and ran until he came to an ancient stone circle…. The ancient stone circle was, well, ancient. But it was creepy. “Turn back!” The wind seemed to say. “Turn back before it’s too late!” The whole stone circle smelled mouldy, like gone off cheese. Falcon felt the wind rushing past him, stinging his eyes. Suddenly, he fell and he tasted mud. His legs ached after all that running, and ached like they would never stop after he fell. He stood up, stretching his back. He was still terrified after he saw the petrifying dream that almost turned him to stone. Imagine seeing the future? You see your lifelong wish crumble in front of you. This was exactly what happened to Falcon. He would still find eternal life, whatever happened. This was of course, very stubborn and Falcon vowed to find eternal life before his life ended. But when he looked around, all the exits seemed all the same. He was lost. At night it was dangerous for many reasons. Wolves roamed the city and most certainly the forest. Going out in the middle of the night was what a 12-year-old would do for a dare. Falcon heard movement outside the stone circle and faint growling in the distance. His body turned to ice; he was super-glued to the spot. Suddenly six wolves swiftly pounced towards Falcon, ready to enjoy 180 pounds of meat. “Be gone!” A voice called out, concealed in the darkness. The voice sounded like all the evil in the world had been trapped into a bottle like a genie, and a devil had drunk it. The wolves slunk off, like a naughty child who had just been told off. “Who are you?” asked Falcon. “I am Satan! Master of evil!” the voice said, “What do you want?” “E-e-e-eternal l-l-life” stuttered Falcon. “Ah! But there is a price for that.” The voice said. “Your soul.” “T-t-take i-it t-then.” Falcon stuttered, disbelieving he was actually going to get it. The devil came out of the shadows and reached his hand into Falcon’s mouth. Suddenly Falcon found himself in hell. He would have eternal life-and eternal suffering. But what good it is to claim the world, but to lose your only soul?

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Issue 9

Ruff Rivers Evie Unsworth Finally approaching the end of her pregnancy, Macey’s mum hobbled along the path beside the river, hand on her rotund stomach. Gracefully, the weeping willows dipped their emerald canopies in the smooth-flowing river. I longed to take a refreshing dip, but all Macey’s mum cared about was Dad’s new sports car. As we strolled along the path, Macey chattered like a chipmunk about her adventures in school, when suddenly, she started racing ahead. Her small, stubby legs barely keeping up with her body. Eventually, she stopped. Wheezing, her chest heaving, she pointed a chubby finger at an ice cream van (which I assume, were Macey’s first words). “Ice cream.” She panted. “No Macey, it’ll ruin your picnic.” Mum told her, firmly. Gripping Macey’s fingertips, Mum tried to yank her away. “No!” Macey bawled, “I want ice cream!” “It’s OK, I’ll get it.” Dad rummaged around in his bottomless coat pocket for loose change. “What are you doing, Dave? She is not to have an ice cream!” Mum ordered. “But she’ll keep on crying otherwise!” Dad argued. “So? I spent ages on that picnic, and now she won’t eat it!” Retorted Mum. Embarrassed by the public argument, I dived into a bush, and escaped from cruel, harsh reality. Birds sung softly in the gentle breeze, and I almost fell asleep at the forest lullaby. Mum’s name (Rosy) was mentioned a few times before a scream that pierced my highly sensitive ears. “MACEY!” Mum had screeched. Instinctively, I shot out the bushes, armed branches scratching my cheeks. Weeping, Mum cried out again. There was Macey, frantically paddling amongst the icy waves. Immediately, I plunged in, the freezing coldness soaking me. I swam with all my might other to where Macey was thrashing. Rippling waves surrounded her, creating a protective force field, which I was defenceless against.

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At last, I reached her. Hastily, I grabbed the scruff of her clothing. It snagged on the sharp edge of a jagged rock. “Help!” She squealed, as I lost grip. Again, I tried harder, and hauled her limp carcass on the dampened river bank. Rumbling, tumbling, crumbling, went the muddy earth of the river bed. Plummeting into the swirling, crashing currents. Fiercely, I dug into the soft soil, despairingly, I attempted to hoist myself up, but I could feel the large clumps of earth loosen from my grip. Determinedly, my muscular back legs kicked the frozen water, and something grasped my wounded ankles and was yanking me down into the depths of the river. Gargling on polluted water, I drowned. Scanning the area, water blurring my vision, I saw a twisted vine wrapped round my ankle. Running out of breath, I clawed at the knot, once it had freed me, I burst up to the surface. Under each of my forearms, Mum and Dad hoisted me up. Rasping, I shook my muddy body dry, splattering all of the surrounding crowd. Mum examined herself and laughed unexpectedly. “Dog really is man’s best friend!” Dad laughed, light heartedly.

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Issue 9

Thanatophobia Claire Howland The phone is ringing. Reluctantly, I pick it up. ‘Hello,’ says a voice. I say nothing. ‘Hello? This is Kylie from next door. I’m ringing to make sure you’re ok. We’ve not seen you go out for ages. Are you ill?’ ‘No.’ I answer, my voice a quiet croak from disuse. ‘I’ll come over, if you like?’ Kylie says. No! It’s dangerous. I throw the phone at the wall, rush to the door and check the bolt. I pull the blinds down, rush to my bedroom, and climb into the wardrobe. Each second I spend in there seems like an hour. Then I hear a noise - a thump on the front door. Or is it footsteps? I close my eyes, breathing heavily. There it is again. Thump, thump, thump. I’m being strangled! I feel hands around my throat. I open my eyes. There’s no one behind me - just an old jumper. I listen. The thumping’s stopped. Carefully, I open the wardrobe door, and step out. I look thoroughly, but no one is in the flat. I should probably eat something. The milk in the fridge is off, and the bread in the bread bin is mouldy. I shudder at the thought of venturing to the supermarket again. I find some beans in the cupboard, an overripe banana, and a cake that is still in date. Carefully, I turn on the hob to cook the beans. The sound of twisting the knob terrifies me, so I turn it off, opting for cold beans instead. I open the can, the sharp edge sending shivers up my spine. I eat the beans, and the banana then tear of chunk off the cake (I dispensed with knives long ago). That night, I lock my bedroom door and get onto my bed - I don’t have sheets in case they smother me. As usual, I can’t sleep. What if I never wake up? I fight to keep my eyes open. The dark scares me. Anything could come after me, concealed in the blackness. I see... a body, lying on a bed, a shroud covering the face. I see black figures crying, a coffin, a hole in the ground. I’m sinking, down into the earth. ‘Help!’ I gasp. I can hear footsteps again. I get up, standing uneasily next to the bed. Thump, thump, thump. I flee for the wardrobe. Thump, thump, thump. I cover my ears, trying to block the sound out, but it gets louder. I can’t breathe, I’m so terrified. Thump, thump, thump. Why won’t it stop? Thump, thump. Thump. The Times, February 21st MAN DEAD IN WARDROBE Yesterday, the body of Karl Martins, 55, was discovered inside a wardrobe in a room

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of a London flat. No signs of injury were found on his body, and the flatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s door was bolted, showing no sign of forced entry. Police believe a heart attack was the most likely cause of death. Why Mr Martins would shut himself in his own wardrobe remains a mystery.

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Wildlife Ava Forrest A great clump of ivy hanging carelessly off the fence, Plump purple blackberries sitting on a branch, Unripe berries along with tiny dark green leaves, As well as a thorny raspberry bush.

The soil at the back of our garden is overfilled with weeds and plants galore, Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a good habitat for wildlife. My everlasting apple tree is filled with sunny red and green apples, The branches are chocolate brown and all the leaves are emerald green too. Our clumped flowery grass is quite prickly and hurts your feet.

I see the swooping of bats, I hear the hooting of an owl, They are important to me, Because they are wildlife.

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Surviving Syria Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest My country has been torn apart And so has my grieving heart, Our life has been turned upside down The bombs have tortured our town, Shall we go or should we stay? Or fight on for another day? Our life now fits inside a bag It weighs me down, my feet drag, As we walk mile after mile Gone are the days when we could smile, Shall we go or shall we stay? Or fight on for another day? Fear consumes our every breath Each step we take is close to death, Our fate lies in a strangers hand today There is no other way, Shall we go or should we stay? Or fight on for another day? Around me people fall and die As orphans all alone cry, Should we cross the dangerous sea? Should we take the risk and flee, Shall we go or should we stay? Or fight on for another day? Will I survive I do not know Each day my hope seems to grow, Will I live to see the end of this war? Or like the rest will I fall? Shall we go or should we stay? But I will fight for another day.

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Issue 9

Not Quite Megan Depper I am not a poet, not quite. Not yet. My mind isn’t fully formed; My ideas are imitations, My love for punctuation Stems from e.e cummings: my desire to read “next to of course god America i” offbyHeart, My heart is not mine, not quite. Not yet. It belongs to Rudyard Kipling, If… If I were older than maybe I’d Be less influenced. But somehow my Imitations are not limitations, or copycat Admirations. A journey W. B Yeats guides, T. S Elliot in my rear-view mirror. It is not my downfall that I plaster Sean O’Brien’s words on the inside of my skull. My youth, not yours, not quite. Like a baby learning first words And if my poems from years ago smell Like Wilfred Owen and feel like John Burnside Then I am not ashamed. My mind is easily influenced, From the poets to the songs and the movies, It is not a folly to be young and love others More than yourself. To find warmth in The shadows of the noble, in anthologies or the poetry section of Waterstones. I know I am not a poet; I am fragments of others. My words are not mine, not quite. Not yet.

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The Revenge Harry Hawkesford Billy liked where he lived. Southfield was a quiet place, but there was a gang. A horrible, mean gang of bullies. They didn’t bully people for a reason, they just did it for fun. There are five members of the gang: George, Justin, Dan, Shay and Kasper. Every time Billy went out they would call him names and laugh at him. Sometimes, even do physical stuff. But after a while, Billy got angry, really angry. That night, Billy made a plan, a great plan, to stop the bullies forever. The Revenge. Billy’s plan was to take place at next Sunday’s football match. Billy’s team, Southfield United, were to play Huckleberry FC, who the bullies played for. It was a big match, because whoever won would go top of the league. On the day of the match, Billy was nervous. To make the plan work, Billy needed the match to go to penalties. Half time Southfield were 2-1 down, but made it 2-2 in the second half. Finally, The Revenge could take place. The two teams gathered to decide who would be taking the penalties. Southfield decided very quickly, unlike Huckleberry. George, Justin, Dan, Shay and Kasper were busy bullying the other players in their team to let them take the penalties. This was Billy’s chance to get his secret weapon – The Boomerang Ball. Billy crept away from his team, unnoticed, into the changing room and got the Boomerang Ball. Making sure no-one was looking, he quickly set off towards the penalty spot, swapped the balls and then sprinted to the side-line to keep the real ball safe ready for Southfield to use. Huckleberry were first to take a penalty. Shay stepped forward. He took his run-up and smacked it over the bar, but just before it hit the crowd it swung round heading straight towards Shay’s face. Shay had no time to react. And with an almighty THUD it wacked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. “That wiped the smirk off his face” Billy giggled to himself. It was Southfields turn and Billy kicked the proper ball over to his team-mate just in time. “Bring the ball back to me” Billy gestured and mouthed. His team-mate took a good penalty, but the keeper managed to save it. The same happened to Justin, Dan, George and Kasper. The ball kept coming back and hitting them in the face! Nobody noticed Billy secretly swapping the balls – the bullies were too busy bothering about missing their penalties and other people were too busy bursting with laughter! Unluckily, Southfield had missed all of their penalties but they had one left. Billy stepped forward. The crowd fell silent, even the bullies stopped their bothering. All eyes were on Billy, the ball and the goal. He ran up and smashed it right in the bottom corner, sending the goalkeeper the wrong way. Billy had done it. He had won the match, Southfield were top of the league and Billy had got his revenge.

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Paradise Bay Grace Banks Hazel wood boat stretches out, Trying to reach the shore, Cerulean glass beckons to the boat, Tempting it to come back into the sea. Lush green jungles entwine themselves around the camel cliff, Trying to hide the bare rough rock. Rude balls of cotton wool are covering up the sky, Attempting to conceal the azure expanse. Tiny white shells all crushed together Create a peach blanket; rich and soothing, pure and clean. Paradise.

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Mrs Crawley’s Keys Grace Banks An eerie light from the lampposts bathed the sleeping school in an unnatural glow. Mrs Crawley, the deputy head teacher, glanced apprehensively at the school that was shrouded in darkness, and started walking forwards uncertainly. By the time she reached the entrance, her sopping hair was plastered to her head and she nervously fumbled with her school keys to let herself in. Exit light flickering, stained glass glowing, the night had transformed the usually bright and cheerful school into a dark fortress. Nerves were starting to kick in. Rain hurled itself at the windows creating a never ending beat. The faces of the previous year 6 leered down at her from their paintings, unearthly in their different colours. Hoping only she could hear her thudding heart, she stumbled blindly into the dark corridor. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see plastered white walls glowing spookily, and she could almost imagine ghosts appearing out of them. The pegs on the other side of the corridor seemed sharp and menacing. A clattering sound made her nearly jump out of her skin, until she realised she had knocked a step ladder from its place. Gulping, she nervously pushed open the door and jumped when it creaked in the darkness. Had anyone else heard it? Heart throwing itself against her chest like a frightened bird trying to escape from a cage, hands shaking uncontrollably; she stood for a while, gaining her courage. Mrs Crawley felt a chill run up the back of her neck and she ran as fast as her heels would let her to the foot of the stairs. Far away, in the distance, a clock rang 12, its strike echoing into the night. Clutching the prison bar like banisters, she tottered up into the unknown darkness. The walls reflected the moonlight, giving the stairs a greenish glow. Although it was now a clear night, there was not a star to be seen in the midnight sky. It was as if someone had draped an inky cloak over it all. Only the moon glistened through. Instead of an eerie glow, the moonlight that shone through into her office was warm and congratulating. She noticed that the stars had now come out; twinkling like jewels on the midnight cloak. The cluttered office contained comforting objects of her family and friends, encouraging her on her quest. Feeling much braver, she confidently strode over to her desk. Ecstatic, she snatched up her house keys from on top of some papers and clutched them in her hand. Joyfully, she exclaimed out loud, “I’ve done it! I’ve got my keys! Now I can finally get into my home!” The stars winked back at her.

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A Beautiful Poem Hattie-Rose Barnett Soft books, Hard books, Big books, small books, Short books, looonnnggg books, Exciting books, Dull, Books that make you full, Of ideas but when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve finished, All of your ideas disappear! BIG books , both old and new, can make you sneeze because of the dust, Achoooooooo!!!!!! Who is your favourite Author? They might even come from Yorkshire! Whoever you are, you all Loveâ&#x20AC;Ś Books!!!

Issue 9

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Jam Bethan Olliver Dad had taken all the jam. Again. I’d heard him get up extra early and scrape the last few drops out the bottom of the jar. There were only the crusty remains around the rim left and they’d started to go green. Thomas didn’t care (he preferred cheese anyway), but I wanted jam! I’d even hidden it in that tiny gap at the back of the fridge behind the mango chutney and the out-of-date scotch eggs but he’d still managed to find it. It just wasn’t fair! I wouldn’t have ham or sausage or cheese or mayonnaise or tuna or anything! I wanted jam. I was going to have to have manky school dinners again! Uuugh. The sandwiches tasted like they’d been thrown in the duck pond. Don’t even get me started on the desert. The custard was out of date and it’s the really lumpy stuff with skin on. It was served with rice pudding and a sprinkling of Mrs Rodgers dandruff! If you were really lucky and you were first in line, you might have got some jam on the side – I was NEVER first. By the time I got served there was hardly anything left. Some people would take that as a blessing. I didn’t. Food equalled life; even if it was revolting. Jam’s not my favourite food anymore. It’s the reason I’m stuck here, in the afterlife. It’s all because of jam. At least, I thought it was. You see, I was out on a morning stroll, dreaming of jam, when I saw a half-eaten jam sandwich outside my house. It was summer, my favourite season, so there were often bits of food left around the place. However, I’d never seen a jam sandwich left unattended. The sweet, delicious filling oozing out between two slices of white bread- I couldn’t resist! It looked a bit different; it had what looked like a dusting of snow: strange in mid-summer. It smelled soooo good. So, after checking no one was around, I dug in. It was about an hour later when my breathing went a bit funny, all wheezy like an old person. I guess I didn’t take much notice at first but as time passed it got worse and worse. Then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. It was like all of the air had been sucked out of me. I started coughing. I collapsed onto the floor, drenched in sweat, trying to scream for help but no sound came out. Multicoloured stars popped in front of my eyes; everything went blurry. I bashed my fists on the floor, using up all my remaining strength. The last thing I saw was a drop of rich red intoxicating jam and then everything went black. So that’s how I died. I thought it was jam, until my uncle told me what that white stuff on the sandwich was. Wasp killer- typical. Didn’t bother me much; it seems to be how most of us wasps die these days.

Write On! Magazine

Issue 9

Wishbone Sioned Gill The guilty ruby lipstick you leave in a smudge Those loaded looks, I know will misjudge Lying underneath your faltering smirks A soul dark, shadowy in nature lurks Holding a childish, rose tinted grudge My argument could never ever budge I, nicely mannered, poorly paid clerk You, vain pitiful rugby playing jerk And how ever could I not adore Your eyes would soften but ignore A flicker of blue is all I ask for Afar from my solemn shattering shore Dreams filling the slowly dying, darken night air Stripping my mind from all but you - wholly bare I resist at first, a sparking flare My silken skin betraying me, that I swear The goose bumps stay, unable to bear The ache of unreturned, I now wear Stained still, with your power, so rare A link, too fragile to ever share The fingertips I have now, trembling touch Yet still I pine for you so much. Love stays, wholly joined with the ever young Songs of joyous courage and happiness were sung The inches upon your frame, you couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve grown My eyes dart swiftly past the dulling grey stone Unlike the coiled rope from which you swung The bitter words, even now still sting my tongue Holding you, safe in that old wishbone Your feelings remain, aching unknown.

Issue 9

Write On! Magazine

Belchy and the Time Machine Zoe Belgian May 12th, 4987 Dear diary, I feel really old writing in a diary, nowadays people just use their robotic writing machines and special high tech paper to write in a diary or for math and stuff. Anyway, school today was the worst! Brooke (the most ugly and meanest girl that ever existed) threw my special pink computerized pen across the classroom and broke it! I tried to tell the class teacher, who was an Android Robot, and of course I got the same response all the time when I try to tell off her. Which is “Brooke is perfect; she would never do such a thing!” then Brooke gives me a dirty and evil look. I absolutely hate her. I just wish I could go back in time, to when we actually used to use our hands for writing and when wheels were on the bottom of cars instead of rocket blasters. And then an amazing idea popped into my head, why don’t I make a time machine? May 13th ,4987 Dear diary, Today I asked my robot assistant called SAM, which stands for Super Awesome Machine, if time travelling is possible and the reply he gave me was “Only if you are super smart and if you have something called the time ‘travelling core’ you will be able to do it” I had no idea what a time traveling core was. So I opened my laptop and looked it up. It said it is a tiny piece of metal that had been lost for 50,000 years and has some special chemical that makes going back in time possible. Then I thought to myself, how am I supposed to find that tiny piece of rubbish if it has been lost for 50,000 years? Exactly. I won’t be able to find it so I should make my own I guess. So I ran into my kitchen and looked in the cupboard where I had found an old robot pancake maker and an old wet cloth. I searched deeper into the cupboard and saw a tiny piece of tinfoil. I rolled it into a ball and found some random pieces of old junk in my shed and added it to the little ball. I had done it! I had made the travelling core! I had a good look round the shed and managed to find some other bits and bobs for my time machine!

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Issue 9

May 14th 4987 Dear diary, I had made my time machine and tested it out and everything! I saw those cars that travel on the surface and everything! I love my time machine and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m never going back to this modern world again. 2016 is where I feel like I belong. Bye! ;)

Issue 9

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Rage Hillery Phillip Parents I blame you for all of this. You knew … I know you knew … you, my parents, knew what had been happening to me, to us but you refused to get rid of him. To make him leave. To stop him, but he was dependent on you, he was your black sheep and you had to protect him. As he did it to us we lost our childhoods. The childhood you gifted our other sisters. You gave them the gift of childhood innocence, and we were robbed of that. You’ve created an illusion of an idyllic paradise. I don’t think anyone, suspects the darkness that lies behind our family’s façade. Trust me, I hadn’t planned this. I hadn’t planned for it to go this way, I swear, I thought I would be at home when they finally kicked in. Honestly, it’s not my fault you decided to drag me out to one of your parties. I know you blame me for what happened, never him, never Uncle P; I should not have encouraged him, as you say. Of course you would, you wouldn’t, couldn’t blame your rising star Rose, and with Rose in jail you needed to focus on keeping the others on the straight and narrow, I had already been corrupted. But you made it very clear to me that her imprisonment was my punishment, my burden to bear. Whilst at court, my sisters, much to your chagrin, told the court and the prosecutor that I, had been the closest to him. You made it very clear to Rose that she would have to pay for her lawyer and bail because you would not give her any money. After the incident you replaced our au pair to stop her from talking about what had happened, because she was the only one who believed me after Rose’s arrest. The last thing I remember is the glass falling and biting the floor, splintering before I fainted. I remember, the shards of glass slicing into me before I lost consciousness completely. But, you don’t care about that do you? You got me a therapist because my brokenness slipped into, and affected my school work. I imagine my little stunt which occurred at one of the biggest parties of the year, was not well received by you. Mainly because of the embarrassment it caused you. You wouldn’t want your friends to know about the shadows and monsters that lurk behind our closed doors.

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Issue 9

Behind the Walls Chloe Day Friday 13th March I was inside a mansion, not any old mansion — a haunted mansion. I was terrified when I entered the main hall and my mission to lift the curse of the mansion being haunted began. In room one I couldn’t see anything until I heard footsteps, hissing and flying bat wings… As I turned around, I saw vampires and bats surrounding me in the darkness. I had to finish the mission so I ran around the room feeling the walls when suddenly I came to a light switch. I switched it on and pulled garlic bread out of my lunchbox. The vampires were gone. Room one complete. Entering room two, again what did I see? Nothing. Until… I heard a howl and saw a stitch. Frankenstein’s and a wolf. I can handle this. I ate my chicken leg and fed the bone to the wolf so then it became my dog and helped me fight the Frankenstein’s. Heading towards the next room, I thought about what monster it would be next. When I opened the door I was suddenly surrounded zombies. I finished quickly all I had to do was lead them to daylight. Preparing my dog for the upstairs rooms, room four there were skeletons. I crept up on them and pulled the neck bone so they could no longer live. Moving on to room five there was a Boogeymonster. How could I fight it? I checked the other rooms I found bones to keep my dog away and a sword to fight the Boogeymonster.

Yes! I thought. I went and fought and won. I got medals and trophies, flowers and weapons. I was proud I completed the mission. I ended up rich and powerful. THE END…

Issue 9

Write On! Magazine

Title Name

We hope you enjoyed Issue 9 of Write On! Magazine. Look out for a new look magazine in summer 2016. The deadline for Issue 10 is Friday 3 June, 2016. Please see www.writeonmagazine.org/get-involved/ to find out how to submit your writing.

Write On! Magazine

Issue 9

Write On! Magazine

Title Name

Write On! Magazine Issue 9

Issue 9

Write On! Magazine