! n O e t i Wr e n i z a g a M Sophie Horton Sonora Hills Heather Mortimer Tanita Patel Freya Stokes Gabriella Barry Joey Bird Joshua Fearn Jessica Barnett Lucy Donaghey
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Rachel Weller Joe Pickles Katie Gayton Mia-Nadine Anderson Nabeela Saghir Poppy Ashford-Kelleher Jessica Horton Jude Parker Kaleia Hills Alla Daghem
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Title Name
Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest George Bastow Joe Derbyshire Kobi James Mark Chappell Katie Wheatley Maryam Alatmane Uzayr Bukhari Mariam Mohammed Pratiksha Saha
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Write On! Magazine Welcome to Write On! Magazine My favourite moment when working with young writers was a day when I’d given a group a very specific thing to do yet one girl completely ignored me. She did it differently and she was right. For her piece, at that time, in that moment, she was right to ignore me and the writing she did was far better than it would have been under my rules. Not only was I proud of her but I also thought yes, that’s a writer. That’s what a writer does. It’s harder than it sounds because it isn’t about being wilfully disobedient, it’s about thinking what matters for your writing and being bold enough to try it knowing that you could fail. We have various constraints on Write On!, for instance, that matter a lot: we can’t run serialised stories from issue to issue, we can’t squeeze in novels. It’s less of a rule for us but we haven’t run articles and I would have told you that we’d never run an article that was an explanation of a piece of prose fiction: the writing in Write On! must work without an introduction. Yes. This time we have an introduction to a piece, we have a short article about the making of the piece. Writer Sonora Hills sent us an extract from her novel and also a note about how she came to write it. I don’t like extracts when we’re not going to publish the whole thing, it feels wrong and unfair, but this isn’t just a good extract, it’s a nice illustration of the points in Sonora’s article. If you like what you read, take a look at her full novel on Amazon. But not until you’ve read everything else here, okay? We have short and powerful poems, we have utterly delightful tales and we’ve got moving pieces about the world. 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 - 16 who live in the West Midlands. It is also available to read online at www.writeonmagazine.org. Editor: William Gallagher 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 With this Pen Sophie Horton
The Countdown Rachel Weller
P. 6
P. 20 - 21
Aza and the Writing of a Novel Sonora Hills
A Temporary Shelter Joe Pickles
P. 7 - 8
P. 22
The Cloak of Prophecy Heather Mortimer
Expectation Katie Gayton
P. 9 - 10
P. 23 - 24
Mrs Wilson Tanita Patel
Christmas Mia-Nadine Anderson
P. 11
P. 25
Victorian Back Alleyways Freya Stokes
Ramadhan Nabeela Saghir
P. 12
P. 26
Cheese and Biscuits Gabriella Barry
Words Lucy Donaghey
P. 13 - 14
P. 27
The Clan-Myth About the Creation of the Sun and the Moon Joey Bird
Unwanted Poppy Ashford-Kelleher
P. 15 - 16
Halloween Joshua Fearn P. 17
The Werewolf’s Howl Jessica Barnett P. 18
You are the Sea Lucy Donaghey P. 19
P. 28 - 29
Snow Fall Jessica Horton P. 30
Facebook Jude Parker P. 31
Death Kaleia Hills P32
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Contents continued The Yellow Palm Alla Daghem
A City in a Poem Mark Chappell
P. 33
P. 44
Cruel Fate Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest
Too Young Katie Wheatley
P. 34 - 35
P. 45
A Festive Celebration George Bastow
Viewpoint Maryam Alatmane
P. 36 - 37
P. 46
The Aftterlife Heather Mortimer
Spy Network Uzayr Bukhari
P. 38 - 39
P. 47
The Visitor Joe Derbyshire
Expectations Mariam Mohammed
P. 40 - 41
P. 48
Football Dreams Kobi James
Mother India Pratiksha Saha P. 49
P. 42 - 43
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News from Write On! Young Writers Here is a selection of news from some of the young writers who are involved in Writing West Midlands’ Write On! activities.
Sonora Hills aged 15 recently self-published a novel that she has been working on for the past three years. You can read an extract from the novel entitled Aza on pages 7/8 and find out how she wrote the novel also. You can buy Aza from Amazon by searching for Aza: 1 (The Once Trilogy). A review of Stephan Pastis’s Timmy Failure We Meet Again written by Chloe aged 10 from the Telford Young Writers’ Group has been published in the November edition of Anorak Magazine. (www.anorakmagazine.com) A short story written by Gabriella aged 9 from the Pershore Young Writers’ Group was recently shortlisted for the Roddy Brooks Short Story Competition. The competition was organised by Worcestershire County Council & Learning Service and National Trust Croome. In addition to this issue of Write On! Magazine, several young writers aged 12 - 19 who took part in the Write On! Young Writers’ Summer School have had their writing published in a special edition of the magazine. You can read this on the magazine website here: www.writeonmagazine.org/special-edition-2014 or download if from Issuu here: http://issuu.com/writingwestmids/docs/summer_school_edition_final/1.
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With this Pen Sophie Horton With this pen I can become a mastermind, I can write myself into the history books, With this pen, I can make grown men weep, I can bring women to their knees. With this pen I can bring joy and happiness, I can create a giant wave of tension, With this pen, you can harm me, You could crush my spirits forever.
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Aza and the Writing of a Novel Sonora Hills This autumn I published a novel, writes Sonora Hills. It’s called Aza, and it’s about a girl named Aza Raven who lives with her tribe, the Egrets, in the Forest of Silence. Aza is a misfit who manages to get into a lot of trouble and have exciting and dangerous adventures in order to save her tribe. [You can read an excerpt from the book in this issue of Write On! Magazine on the next page.] I wrote the first draft of the story when I was twelve-years-old. The first draft was really rough; it was only 35,000 words long and had no punctuation— I didn’t even capitalize people’s names! It took me two years to add all the punctuation and create a second draft, which I had my parents read. At this point, I realized that my story world was still weak. I worked on world and character development in my third and fourth drafts, which my parents also read. My fifth draft I sent out to close friends and other test readers who gave me valuable feedback. I revised it twice more before finally self-publishing it through Createspace on Amazon. In all, I spent three years revising it. The plot went through many changes. The published climax is the third climax I wrote. Now it’s 30 chapters and 56,000 words long, and all the punctuation and capitalization errors have been fixed (I hope!). In between revisions of Aza, I wrote the first drafts of two more novels based on the same world and characters to complete the trilogy, which I’m revising now. Writing a novel is fun, but revising it can be hard work (especially if you write it without punctuation…). It takes a lot of time, willpower, and willing readers. It also takes the ability to accept people’s constructive criticism and to figure out how to incorporate those ideas into the manuscript. If you like to write, you should definitely think about writing novels. All published authors had to start somewhere. An extract from Aza: Evening gave way to early dusk. The shadows under the trees deepened until the back of Aza’s neck began to prickle. Glancing to the right, she could just see the path through the pines.
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She wondered if she ought to tell the others to climb into the trees to be safe. No, she decided, that would be cowardly. She had to show Mat and the others that she wasn’t a failure to the tribe. Aza stiffened her shoulders. She had nothing to worry about, she told herself, nothing would attack two Learnings, would it? “It’s getting dark,” Anna whispered from behind her. “How much further?” “Only a little bit further,” Aza whispered back. She didn’t know how much further it was, but it couldn’t be that much further, could it? Something cracked in the pines beside them. Aza turned towards Anna, but as she did so a low growl sounded from the trees behind them. Aza’s mind went blank. She slowly turned around and her mouth went dry as she saw two glowing red eyes peering out from the shadows. The wolvin padded out of the pines and into the clearing. Anna screamed and turned to run. Before she could even take a few steps the wolvin moved more swiftly than Aza could have imagined. It reared up on its hind legs and swiped at Anna with one of its shaggy paws. She collapsed on the ground in front of Aza and didn’t move. The wolvin’s nose wrinkled as it snarled at Aza and stepped delicately over Anna’s prone form. A crashing sound from the edge of the clearing made the wolvin freeze, one paw still in the air. It slowly turned its huge head as Ferrel and Terra burst out of the trees. They stopped quickly when they saw the Wolvin. Aza stepped backward and tripped. She hit her elbow on a rock and her arm went numb. The wolvin’s gaze snapped back to her, and it growled again. The wolvin began to pad forward, slowly closing the distance between itself and Aza. Aza tried to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Ferrel, who was slowly walking towards them. Terra seemed to have disappeared. “Ferrel, help me,” she managed to whisper. Ferrel stopped walking. Was it just her, or was the look on his face cold and somehow satisfied? “Ferrel!” She said more loudly, but still in a hoarse whisper. The wolvin was frighteningly close now. Aza could feel its warm breath on her face. Did it know that she was too scared to move? Was that why it was making no move to attack just yet? As soon as those thoughts entered her mind, the wolvin stopped walking. For a split second its whole body seemed to quiver with energy as it gathered itself to leap towards her. Then it pounced.
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The Cloak of Prophecy Heather Mortimer A girl ran speedily through the forest hoping that all her troubles would instantly vanish and she could be a normal girl like any other twelve year old but she knew that would never happen. Her hair twinkled in the moonlight like jewels. She thought about that terrifying cloak that kept haunting her in her dreams and that mysterious voice that kept whispering the dreaded prophecy to her over and over again. Without wanting to she had memorized it. The girl, whose name was Alice, collapsed near a tree and fell asleep. In her dream there was a cloak hovering over her and she could hear a rasping voice muttering the dreaded prophecy. Trapped in a ring, Cursed by a King, Betrayed by a friend, Your suffering will never end. She was awoken by a girl tapping her gently on the arm. Alice looked up into the eyes of a beautiful princess, eyes she knew well. “Rosa!” One line of the prophecy came to the front of her mind but she knew that Rosa would never betray her. She was her very best friend. For a while they stared at each other awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Finally Rosa broke the silence. “Come to the Palace with me. It is much warmer and cosier.” Deep in the dungeons of the Palace his Majesty, King Blackener was muttering charms under his breath, over his sacred ring. The ring glowed with a blood red light. The King cackled, evilly. This ring was a source of power and magic. It devoured souls and bequeathed immortality. Alice and Rosa finally reached the Palace. Alice was tired and troubled. Rosa was upset. Her friend was obviously distressed by something and she didn’t know what. Rosa did know that her Father was very wise. He scared her tremendously but for
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her friend to be happy she would do anything. Once they were inside the Palace and Alice had been taken to her room, Rosa ran to find the King. He was in the Throne Room. “Why are you bothering me?” He demanded. “Please, I’ve brought a friend, who is in distress. Can you help her?” The King’s eyes lit up at the word “friend”. “A friend did you say? Ah - yes, I know the perfect solution for a troubled soul. Give her this box and when she opens it, it will heal her instantly but beware; you must be out of the room when she opens it.” Rosa took the box gratefully and hurried out of the Throne Room. Rosa handed the box to Alice. She explained to Alice that whatever was in the box would wash all of her troubles away in a moment. As Alice opened the gift Rosa slipped quietly away. Inside was a diamond ring that shone invitingly. Alice snatched at it and put it on her finger. Alice screamed helplessly as her soul was sucked into the sacred ring. She was answered by silence.
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Mrs Wilson Tanita Patel The way she teaches English It’s so amazing and fun, And when I see we have English next My face glows brightly like the sun! Let’s move on to History It used to be such a bore, But now I am reading about Victorians As soon as I walk through my front door Now for Verbal-Reasoning The number patterns I used to hate, And the codes I used to loathe Now they’re both acting like my best mate! Spellings, another most amazing lesson Of course some used to find it hard, But ever since you’ve been here They know the rules and been dancing in their back yard!
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Victorian Back Alleyways Freya Stokes The cruel, hard man stared hard. The sweet, young girl smiled at him. He stared harder and studied the chain with suspicion of sin. He stared through his loot. And smiled his first smile, for the fine gold chain was real and, for once, worth his while, ‘So’, she asked, ‘will you take my chain?’ ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t go back in the rain.’
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Cheese and Biscuits Gabriella Barry The door creaked open and out came a little mouse with a pink nose carrying a basket of berries. Uncle Squeak scampered swiftly over to the glorious green Christmas Tree perched in the centre of the mouse hole under the stairs. The tree was 10 cm tall and had been found by Auntie Snufflenose in the hall of the two-legged giants where the colossal Christmas tree had been trimmed and decorated for Christmas Eve. Just then Cheese, the youngest daughter, came through the door, all snowy and cold. She’d been out playing with her brother, Biscuit, and had built a splendid snow-mouse. The snow-mouse was much taller than Biscuit and had a little secret door to the igloo inside where the children had been hiding for most of the afternoon. Biscuit had been chasing her in and out the mouse-hole because Cheese had stomped too hard in the igloo and had brought some snow down on them. Biscuit sped up a little bit on the chase to catch Cheese but didn’t see the splendid Christmas tree stood before him. As Cheese dodged it, Biscuit went straight into the tree and the basket of berries that Auntie Snufflenose had collected to decorate the tree went straight through the exit and into the house. Cheese scurried after the berries and through the exit she went. After a few seconds of collecting the berries Cheese was in trouble. Crumbs, the giant’s cat, was on the prowl. He had been sitting on the windowsill sunning himself and had heard a hubbub coming under the stairs. Cheese froze when she saw the cat. Biscuit spied from the mousehole and bravely made a bold bid to climb the giant’s table where a jug of cream sat. Biscuit used all his strength to tip over the jug and the cream spilled all over the floor with a crash. Crumbs ears pricked to the sound and swiftly he ran to the kitchen to see what was happening. Cheese was saved. She ran quickly back to her mother followed by Biscuit sweating all over. The mice, safe back in the hole relieved and happy to be together on Christmas Eve, set about decorating the Christmas tree. They enjoyed placing the berries on the tree and wrapping pieces of cheese for Christmas Day. Crumbs to his disappointment didn’t catch a tasty snack that day but
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enjoyed licking up all the cream. On Christmas morning Cheese and Biscuit ran into the living room where they were greeted by a wonderful sight of a massive block of cheese sitting under the Christmas tree along with a pile of presents. “Mousy Claus has really outdone himself this year!”, exclaimed Cheese as pleased as Punch. Cheese and Biscuits had a wonderful Christmas Day but had sore tummies later and couldn’t face the cheese-cake pudding.
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The Clan-Myth About the Creation of the Sun and the Moon Joey Bird There were two divine spirits of the Sky Painter, Sethrdon and Murthor, both brilliant smithies. They were polar opposites. For a modern day equivalent, Sethrdon would be super-bling. She would be wearing a flashy wristwatch, have the latest iPhone, be reading the latest gossip, that sort of thing. Murthor, meanwhile would be a quiet philosopher, minding his own business, never publishing his revolutionary works of philosophy because he was too shy. They were constantly trying to better one another in metalwork. One day the Earth Painter visited Earth to create a few mountain ranges to stop the advance of the evil divine spirit, Ourme. As deadly serious as the task was, she couldn’t help but notice that the sky looked a bit bland and dull. She summoned the Sky Painter, the Sea Painter the Nether Painter (the creator of the underworld), and the Creator, Uvatr and they all agreed that, indeed, the sky was a bit bland and dull. So the Sky painter thought, ‘I know! I can say to Sethrdon and Murthor, “Right, you two, I’m going to set up a challenge! Which one of you can make the most beautiful things for the sky?” Sethrdon took a clump of the most flashy of the divine metals, auruth, and shaped and wrought it into a golden orb. But she thought it was simply not attention grabbing enough. So, she enchanted it to burn with a hot, divine light. Murthor, meanwhile, took a lump of the other divine metal, lueoth and forged a delicate silver Orb, which held immense magic power. While Murthor was finishing his orb, Sethrdon hung her orb in the sky. She turned into a solid, corporeal form, flew down from the sky and asked a passing fairy if he could admire her orb. ‘I cannot O Bright One’ the fairy replied ‘for the glare of your orb is too brilliant!’
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Then, her orb, or the sun, as we call it, disappeared over a hill, and Murthor’s orb (the moon) appeared in the sky. People could look at it, and it was more graceful, even Sethrdon had to admit it. She was mad with fury. ‘I shall curse your stupid little pathetic orb!’ She cried. ‘It shall be eaten away by darkness!’ But Murthor knew the counter-curse, and so the two spells have been wrestling with each other ever since, the moon waxing and waning for all eternity. And that is the end of this story
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Halloween Joshua Fearn My Halloween costume looked great As I left my house through the gate I had terrible fangs and warty old hands It was dark and frightfully late I ran to a house down the street On my horrible dark, scaly feet I knocked on the door and started to roar “I’m here, open up, TRICK OR TREAT!” An old lady appeared at the door And examined my fangs and my claws She pulled back my hood to reveal some fake blood And couldn’t believe what she saw She smiled and then stroked my cheek “Oh sonny, you’re dressed like a freak You look ever so strange, so go home and get changed As Halloween’s not til next week!”
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The Werewolf’s Howl Jessica Barnett As the black night rolled on, I saw – The full moon glow with pride. And the shapeless shadow of a tree as it loomed over me. The handsome face of the clear sky beckoned me forward, And a giant figure lurking in the darkness. As the black night rolled on, I heard – The werewolves howl pierce the night, A deep growl as a startled pig yelped. The rip cutting through me like a knife, The pig became eerily silent. My heart beat fast! As the black night rolled on, I smelt – The disgusting stench of the breath that hung around me, Blood as red as the sign ‘Danger’! Raw pig overwhelmed me with terror! As the black night rolled on, I tasted – The bitter air tastelessly making me ice cold, And the alerting werewolf standing over me. The horrible taste of fear running through me As the beast clenched its jaws, showing off its fangs. As the black night rolled on, I felt – The rough bark of a tree as I staggered back, And the fur of the werewolf as hard as sandpaper. As I fell to the ground the leaves shook with terror. The feeling of life ran through my body. As the black night rolled on, remembered – My mother’s constant enthusiasm, My brother’s happy grin. The state my once-wonderful life had ended in, Then nothing...
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You are the Sea Lucy Donaghey Salty kisses by the shore You’re the sea forevermore You’re the unpredicated storm The sun that makes the water warm The piercing blue and the bubbling crash The ten foot wave and the mildest splash And the sea was all you wanted to be Belonging to no-one and indescribably free Maybe that’s why you let the water take you away I guess you must be having fun because you haven’t come back since that day.
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The Countdown Rachel Weller I look to the sky where the sun shines with no clouds to block it. But countdown hovers in the sky consisting of empty numbers outlined with black skin above my city. It echoes with dark foreboding in a nonsensical manner. 459 What is it? What does it mean? Perhaps it’s an alien time-bomb, ticking away until it kills Earth. Perhaps not. I’m surprised nobody else has noticed it. What if they can’t see it? Nobody else can see it. All these people pushing past along the main road – they can’t see it. 407 Why can I then? I don’t want this pressure. What am I supposed to do? Save the world? That only happens in stories, and I know I’m not a story. If I were I would know what to do, I would have help. I wouldn’t be alone in this struggle. Remarkably idealistic that. 353 I am staring at myself from across the street. I don’t understand, but it is me, across the street. They are slightly translucent, but it is me. And now they are gone. Just vanished with a sad smile. I’m worried now. I don’t need this. I don’t understand. 304 It’s far through now. Ticking and flashing erratically. I should keep walking, then I am doing something at least. What can I do, really? I’m just a normal person. What can I do about numbers? 268 Down they tick. Down. Think thoughts and they tick. 258 Oh Goodness. Each. Word. I. Think. It. Goes. Down. 248 It connects to me, I don’t want that. When it finishes what happens? Earth falls? Life continues? Nothing? Stop thinking. Stop! 226 I can’t clear my mind. I can’t stop my thoughts. What to do? Think! No, don’t think. I’m just a normal person. 203 I’m on a bridge now, cars go by, people push past. Can’t they see I’m in trouble? Won’t they stop to help? 180
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It counts on. I’m a hero. I can save people. I can be a martyr. Stop thinking and it stops counting. But how? And why me? I don’t need the pressure. I don’t need people looking to me as a saviour. 138 All the thing I see; cars racing past and water swirling far below the bridge. All I hear; the clatter of people walking, the blood rushing in my ears, the never ending noise of life. Everything I feel. Lonely. Helpless. Afraid. 096 But still it ticks. No peace on earth. Only peace in heaven. Would I want earth to stop? I could think my way down to zero and it could be good. Or people could die. I don’t want anyone to die. I want the count to stop. If it were good it would be yellow and smiley, but it is a deathly black. 032 How do I stop thinking? I always think. The only time you would stop would be… Oh, I see. Well, no one will miss me. Jump, jump to the swirling… 000
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A Temporary Shelter Jo Pickles The untouched, untainted, rural world That fresh, earthy smell tickling my nostrils, Inviting me The harsh rasp of the zip Then sliding into the embrace of the sleeping bag A protective cocoon, welcoming me The warmth seeps into my body Soft down holding me lightly, a baby in its mother’s arms, Until I no longer feel the hard ground beneath me And I watch. Moonlight filtered through thin walls The silhouette of a scuttling explorer is exposed above me But its shadow disappears, the moon obscured by cloud And I listen. A light tapping at first Building steadily to a hammering, To a boom of timpani Until it is an orchestra of percussion Amplified by the taut shield of the tent And I feel snug ‌ And smug that I am not outside Getting wet.
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Expectation Katie Gayton Expectation I see before me So many people expecting my success They give me no praise, they call me a geek But they don’t know what’s underneath. The pressure, it breaks me It kills me inside The tears they flow I break down and cry. My friends, the teachers, they know how I am, But failure is no option Hurt, alone, empty, afraid Don’t give me pressure, my fate is laid. She can do it, we know but her fear turns to hatred she is so afraid and scared of her fate why can’t she see it’s just one mistake?! We can’t stop her upset It turns into stress One final straw and she won’t do her best. We all try and help her, but none of it works, Not only us friends, the rest of our school. All who know. All who will care but the ones who can help only leave us alone. I know of her stress, but as her teacher What can I do? I just can’t help her! Her friends, they are clever, it can’t help her much But what can I do? She just can’t give up! Those others, they judge her, they just don’t leave her, But I suppose they don’t all know. A minority who can help, they just won’t listen.
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Oh, what am I supposed to do? I have a few weeks I just need to save her From this dark cloud To find her saviour.
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Christmas Mia-Nadine Anderson Everyone enjoys Christmas With the presents, And the mince pies Family coming round Seeing the happiness From there shining eyes The Christmas tree in the living room Are you sure there’s space? Putting baubles on the tree UH OH! The tinsels dropping off, You might need a broom I love Christmas so much! What’s even better is… I spend it with My Mum Can you hear the sleigh bells ring? DING! DING! DING! Can you hear Santa shout? “Faster, faster, we’re going to be late, Rudolph, I can rely on you, you’re my best mate” Christmas is the best time of year, With presents, and Christmas dinner, YUM! YUM! YUM! The one thing I don’t like is When Christmas is done But someone makes it better Which is My Mum.
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Ramadhan Nabeela Saghir Red, blue and white, The cleansing colours that replenish, Those mistakes becoming difficult to extinguish, Plastering the paste upon the decaying yellow. The broken shadows are weeping, At the guilty betrayal, The bristles are brushing, Clear the path of cavity, And enlightenment shall shine.
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Words Lucy Donaghey Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me, Many a foolish man has said that with this statement and he would agree, Yet words are harsher than knives, yet sweeter than flowers, They have the most immeasurable powers, Letters combined into allusive equations, A selection of choices for every occasion, Used to heal, used to hurt, Used to lie and used to flirt, A way to show emotion, A collection larger than the ocean, Leave scars far more hurtful than those you can see, Phrases that will perhaps forever live with thee, A concoction of sounds you don’t quite understand, The voices of those from a far away land, Yet isn’t it strange that those sounds that you hear, Could be the most captivating sentence to another’s ear, Words are weapons so make sure you are armed, Words are affection so make sure they are charmed, A quote once said “Language is wine upon the lip.” And there are the three of the most wondrous of words that makes the heart flip, I love you, perhaps the sweetest of words, Three words are the only cure for pain and sets you free like the birds, Yet so many words that float around on this sphere, Will with oblivion be gone in many a year, And like the world nothing will be left behind, And every single word forgotten whether mean or kind.
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Unwanted Poppy Ashford-Kelleher Bfwoom! My spacecraft lands with an ear-splitting sonic boom. Rubble and shards of glass lie shattered and scattered all over a dusty plain. My escape capsule falls to the ground, splintering into a million minuscule fragments. I roll forwards onto the ground, I am not alone, my twin is next to me. My twin? We appear to be identical, only I’m dressed in blue and her in pink. Some strangers approach wearing starched uniforms, their badges reading ARD. I wonder what this represents, somehow I know it sands for Alien Registration Department. They corral us into a relatively large containment unit. I crawl towards my twin and we huddle together, comforting each other as the room darkens. A burst of light awakens us both. If you asked me what just happened, I couldn’t really say, my mind is a whirl of confusion. I turn to my twin, Firebolt, her expression telling me she doesn’t feel the same. What could have happened? She hollers at me “Moonbeam!’’ Again the room darkens. Sleep. “W…wh…where am I?” stutters Firebolt. “Ooh I have ‘the joy’, we are going…” begins Moonbeam. “YOU WILL BE SEPARATED…ONE…TWO…THREE…FOUR…FIVE……… NOW!!!!!!” booms a mechanical sounding voice. Moonbeam awakened in a small, uncluttered room…her room! She really awakened, the ARD, the twin… were they all just a dream? Who could possibly answer? She just carried on with her everyday life as though nothing had happened. It must have been a dream. The following night, within her dreams, Moonbeam sees a cloudy figure. It approaches and murmurs to her “You cannot spend all your days in your mind. Your planet needs you. However if you help your planet you will be absorbed by the
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being Apocalypse … On the other hand, if you stay here you will be consumed by your own mind. So, which will you choose?” The cloudy figure dissolved. Without warning there was a new one… it looked like the girl Firebolt from her dream. Haughtily, Firebolt proclaimed, “Ha, you’ve been abducted by your own mind and now you’ve got to rule us.” Moonbeam was provided with many riches but she never felt at home. She could never truly enjoy these delicacies. She half basked in all this glory until one day she was called to the meeting area. The marble floor felt cold and unforgiving to her feet as she clip-clopped to meet the elder. Pfffffft sssssssssss…a hissing sound echoed through the hallway. Blank. It had reached the room. She found herself in a completely white room with no one but the same sinister cloudy figure she ‘d met in her dream. He proudly strutted around the room before announcing this “You were never wanted in your home world, you were merely to sit there looking down at the glimmering cess pool you would dwell in today. So, I am helping you by doing this and to cut this speech short, I shall state only this, you are merely…………unwanted”. Blank.
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Snow Fall Jessica Horton The snow falls, oh so lightly over the city, encasing every building, every patch of land, in its bright white blanket. Men rise from the white ground, they march toward me, snow falling from them They march.
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Facebook Jude Parker It’s the biggest social networking site in the world and is used by pretty much everyone who has a computer, some Wi-Fi and nothing else to do all day. It’s a place where people can post anything which only has the slightest bit of interest to anyone else on Facebook. Millions of people and countries all around the world use it every day, like Mauritius. I don’t even know where Mauritius is. We’re all obsessed with it. We’re constantly using it to either boast about recent holidays or to play Candy Crush Saga. It’s like our little on-line heaven. So what would happen if Facebook shut down and no longer worked? I wonder how many wars it would start. It’s a question that no one’s really asked themselves purely because it would keep them awake at night, make their hands tremble and would put them into a mental state that would leave rocking on their beds in a dark room. But if we were to wake our minds up and tune into the real world we’d realise what havoc it would raise if Facebook shut down. There are around 30.2 million users in the UK and about 155.7 in the USA. Think of how depressed all those people would be when there’s no status to update. No game to tell anyone about. No holiday photo’s to show off about. People would have to start talking to people in person and would have to do normal things like walking and playing outdoor games and would actually go outside. How terrible would that be? Ultimately, everyone would gather up and start inventing schemes to plot against Mark Zukerburg and all his colleges who work down at Facebook Headquarters. Maybe the terror alert in America would be raised to “Critical”. It could be the start of World War Three: over 185.9 million angry Facebook users against one man. It could then lead to the destruction to the whole world altogether. That would be it then. The whole of civilisation destroyed over one website. Silly isn’t it?
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Death Kaleia Hills Death came and stood by me. She reached out her hand to me as if to comfort me. I knew she was there for the air was cold and clear. She whispered to me in her soft, sad voice. I tried to block it out. I tried to concentrate myself on the wardrobe. All I heard was an occasional murmur. My four-poster bed loomed over me, rippling as if to welcome her. I tried to shout ‘No,’ but then she was all around me. I felt the world shake. Then my vision went a-blur. I shut my eyes, but the colors behind my eyelids seemed to circle. I felt hopeless, and then it stopped. The whole world seemed to stop, and all I could do was listen. She spoke with her soft, horrible, clear voice that seemed to echo itself like it came from all corners of the room. She touched my shoulder. She seemed to draw me in. I had to pull back. I was young, too young to die. Still I seemed to flicker like a candle trying to keep alight in the blowing wind. Earth seemed to be pulling me back. Death was drawing me in. My world seemed to change into darkness, but then it was light again. I cried out. There was too much noise. I pushed Earth away from me. I heard Earth cry out my name. Black silence filled the air. There wasn’t a lamp, not even the sky. I was alone. I pictured my cold, dead body. I tried to cry. Nothing came. There was no one to comfort me. I reached my arms out and Death embraced me in a soft, warm, knowing way.
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The Yellow Palm Alla Daghem As the golden sun rises from beyond the mountain range, an orange haze is casted over the Red Sea, reflecting off every dancing wave, rejoicing at the rooster’s alarm. Across the sand, the beaming rays reach the golden mosque; every spectrum of light echoes across the three crimson domes, like a trio of suns on the horizon. The crescent moon, inlaid with semi-precious stones, sparkles in the sunlight, the crystal white marble of the minar captures the glistening glow from the shore. Al Medina - where order, peace and discipline give way to an enchanting chaos: in a symphony of spontaneous rhythm. An endless labyrinth, miles of narrow winding streets crowded with hundreds of wooden stalls, jovial vendors, and eager customers. In tiny shops, woodworkers fashion articles on foot-powered lathes, old men hammer out brass plates and trays, dyers work in the vats and hang skeins of every colour to drip dry in the sun. Musicians dance and play wild exotic music, whilst men with eagles, snakes and monkeys prance and pose around the cobbled streets. A bearded and wizened old man adorned by a cobra around his neck, entertains the crowd with a harmonious melody as several colourful snakes coil around his feet, swaying back and forth in unison with the charmer’s flute. Senses are assaulted by a myriad of exotic sights, sounds and smells. The air is alive with spices and honeyed scents; candied nuts, exotic fruit, sweetbreads and glazed baklavas line the fountain of shelves and crates, a gauntlet of temptation for all. A pungent aroma drifts through the air as vibrant flower garlands sway in the slight autumn breeze. The mingled spices tingle the senses: a surge of appetite fills every rounded corner of the market street. The shouts of animated merchants selling every conceivable commodity rings through the hubbub; ‘sugared dates and figs, sugared dates and pistachios!’, ‘No finer pot in brass or silver!’ The deep cobalt surrenders to the advancing column of westward-marching darkness. The colourful hues and pastels disintegrate. Happy laughs and cries of children absorbed by looming shadows. Enveloped by a blanket of black satin.
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Cruel Fate Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest Othello I care for, Othello I love A black army general as sweet as dove, We got married in secret no one knew Who could have foretold the betrayal and horrors that would ensue? As a token of his love he gave to me The fairest handkerchief you will ever see, It made my heart jump with glee Forever in my possession it will be. A handkerchief so pure and white Who would have thought the jealousy it would ignite, Elegantly embroidered with strawberries so fine That was handed down through my Othello’s blood line. My precious gift that I keep close to my heart Gives me comfort when we are apart, To my token I tell all my woes To it my secrets I disclose. My gift is lost to my horror and surprise To my love I have had to tell lies, Never have I seen such anger and rage As fierce as a lion trapped in a cage. A cowardly plot filled with jealously and spite To kill our love he had no right, Iago’s plans were dangerous and full of hate Only he could know our fate.
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My untruths were only to protect Until my gift I can detect, Could I have been really careless? My heartache is endless. I am awoken from my sleep By Othello with a kiss that will make me weep, My gift I see is in his hands My death I can see are in his plans. I beg for my life As his loving wife, His fury is too great For me to save my fate. A pillow is his weapons of choice You can no longer hear my voice, As my last breath is taken I will no longer awaken.
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A Festive Celebration George Bastow The day arrives and with it brings a sense of childlike euphoria, the transportation back in time starts as the eyes flicker and the smell of meat travels up the stairs. A multitude of flavours mingle and entwine as they delicately infuse into the simmering roast. After weeks of planning and anxiously wondering how to fit such a gargantuan poultry into the oven the feat is accomplished. The many accompaniments of the festive feast now begin to steam, marinating simultaneously upon the hobs. As the first gift is opened, the infantile joy is obvious within the souls of all. After embarking upon a light breakfast, the rest of the morning is spent sampling and testing the culinary pleasures shoved into the mouths of the unaware from wooden spoons or steaming saucepans. The sense of chagrin grips as the fact sets in that the festive television selection is a wasteland of laborious programmes and period dramas. Loved ones scurry into the house with cards and presents in their shaky grasps as lunacy ensues. The possibility of snow is questioned as the paper is torn from sweaters, socks and chocolates. Laughter rumbles as drinks are poured and with a cry from the kitchen it’s time to feast. Hungry mouths crowd around the cheerful table like giddy animals; gradually the surface begins to fill with countless condiments and assorted festive appetisers. As the majestic beast is brought forth the folk around the table hold out their platters and look ravenously at the food stacked high upon it. Observing the plate, wondering how to approach it with the strategy of a warrior in battle, they feast. Reaching wildly for an array of pots they add every possible condiment to their towering meals except for one lone container, redundant and unloved. The house is transformed into a realm of paper hats as stories already told a thousand times are again performed. Groans of exhaustion fill the air and cries of ‘Couldn’t eat another thing,’ are heard throughout the house. The elders of the family debate over empty plates happily inebriated as the first of several puddings approaches.
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A hand reaches for the chocolates. ‘Just one more,’ a voice mutters as the day draws to an end and the celebrators depart. The weeks of excitement and preparation had been worth it. As the air settles and peace looms, the world’s jubilant festive friend was gone, leaving a New Year in its fantastic wake.
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The Afterlife Heather Mortimer Apprehensively, I stumbled down the narrow, dripping, black passage. It was like I was already on my way to hell. I heard piteous screams echoing along the passage – screams of souls whose hearts had been devoured in the room of death or life that could not be named. Should I turn back now? No, I couldn’t, I must get into the afterlife. I sighed. My feet were covered with blisters. I was trembling with fear. I crept forward nervously. Quickly I peered over my shoulder. Nobody. Fear pulsed through my body with each beat of my heart. What if they discovered I was a house thief? But they would never find out, would they? I heard a deafening roar as I inched closer to the door of death or life. Should I really open the dreaded oak door? Or should I turn back? I wondered to myself. Sweat pouring. Heart racing. Fingers trembling. I opened the door. Then I saw him. I dared not speak his name. He was the King of Devourers. The mightiest one and worst. His fiery red eyes burned into the depths of my soul almost devouring me in one stare. His jaws were dripping in blood from his latest victim. I took a few steps forward but stumbled and tripped over a jagged rock. I felt like I wanted to run away but something about this place was pulling me closer, closer to my fate. I turned to face the beast. His blazing red eyes stared transfixed unblinking at me. His scales were as sharp as a khopesh. Then he roared. His roar shattered everything in his path including me. He was obviously hungry. I felt my life force draining away second by second, minute by minute. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light. I saw two gods standing in front of me: Anubis and Thoth. Immediately I fell to my knees. Anubis spoke “We now need your heart and the feather. We shall put your heart on the left side and the feather on the right. Remember if your heart is heavier you will go to hell.” Thoth floated over and gently placed the feather on the ancient scales. Then he turned and looked at me. “Your heart please.” I was too paralyzed with fear to move. I knew what was coming next. Slowly I reached for my heart and whimpering passed it to Toth who immediately put it on the scales.
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With a loud bang my heart, still pumping, was heavier than the feather. I screamed. Anubis tossed my heart to the beast. My soul was ripped away, consumed into nothingness.
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The Visitor Joe Derbyshire CLICK! A door opens, the flush of a toilet, and a light turned on. SHUFFLE! Footsteps patter, and a puff of dust. Shoes on a carpet. “HELLO!” The voice, Receptionists greeting, a man with a dark voice. “6C?” A question, from the man of dark. “That way sir!” Receptionist. STOMP! He’s off, towards 6C, swaying his arms. “HA!HA!” A tuneful laugh, one of the Nursery TA’s, coming out of the library. FLOP! A piece of cake, dropped in the Staff room, rolling onto the floor. JUMP! He’s down the stairs, cloak flying like the tail of a bird,
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waving in the air. “DO!RE!ME!” A music lesson. The man grumbles in annoyance, wincing at the sound. SCRIBBLE! Pen’s on paper. A poetry lesson, in the class 6C! CREAK! The door to 6C, in steps an inspector, my worst nightmare! “PHEW!” My sigh, in a cubicle, hiding in the boys toilets!
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Football Dreams Kobi James In Brazil there was a poor eight year boy called Diego, who lived in a dirty, scary favela in Rio de Janeiro. His dream was to become a footballer. One day Diego was playing football on the white sandy Copacabana Beach when a rich English man called Simon spotted him playing. “Hey Kid,” called Simon, “you are very talented.” “Thank you,” replied Diego. “Do you want to play for an English team?” said Simon. Diego did not reply. Shortly afterwards Diego heard his mother shouting “Diego your dinner is ready, who are you talking to?” Back at Diego’s house, Simon introduced himself to Diego’s parents and said he would like to take Diego to England to play for Lopking FC. His mother replied: “I want Diego to have an education so that he can get a good job when he gets older.” Simon replied “We will put him in an excellent private school and you will be sent regular money from Lopking Academy.” Shortly afterwards Diego packed his small bag and got ready for the long flight to England. He said goodbye to his upset mum and dad and promised that one day he would make them very proud. A week later Diego was introduced to with his new family in England. “Hi,” said Jo, “I am your new brother and will accompany you to school.” Jo went on to tell Diego that his mother was called Mary and his dad was called John. The next bright, sunny day the boys went to school together. Their first lesson was Maths. Some of Jo’s fellow class mates began to flick pencils, rubber and rulers at Diego because he was new. This made Diego very unhappy and during break times he would often stand alone with no one to play with. One day, Diego saw the kids kicking a large, white ball in the playground. Diego wanted to play with them. He said: “Can I play football? Let’s play a match.” Diego got the ball and said “Come on tackle me.” The boys decided to tackle Diego, when
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suddenly Diego began performing heel flicks, step-overs and other skilful moves. Soon everybody began asking him how did he do that, how long did it take him to learn the moves and did he ever stumble when kicking the ball. During the next couple of months Diego played for the school team as captain. He then moved onto play for Lopking Academy and became one of their star players. He scored many sensational goals and went on to lead his team to victory in all of their matches. Diego was living his dream. He was very happy. Several years later Diego went onto Bristol University to study Physics. He was sad to leave Jo and his family and Lopking FC, but he knew that he wanted to get a good education and he had promised to make his parent’s proud. Whilst at university Diego still found time to play football for the university team. Even though he enjoyed this, he missed his family in Brazil as he had only seen them a few times since he left his warm country and moved to England. By the time Diego was twenty four he became very lonely and wanted to go back to Brazil. He decided to become a teacher and teach physics and football to young kids in the community where he once lived. He returned home to his pleased mother and said: “See mum? I did make you proud.” The End
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A City in a Poem Mark Chappell In the city, there are two separate lives, The rich and the poor. That is just a city. The two lives are separated from harmony, But that is just a city.
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Too Young Katie Wheatley Too young to levy, But our guns are heavy. Too young to be shooting, Yet we’re all recruiting. Too young to kill, But there’s no free will. Too young to die, But we’re saying goodbye. Too young.
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Viewpoint Maryam Alatmane The wind howled in its misery Silent tears dropped to the ground The snow tried to lock up all the warmth inside Empty souls stalked the streets Hidden in their grief As outside they battled Inside they were dead Nothing was seen as its true self Everything was deceived A raging blizzard of white Where everybody could see outside No-one could see in A lone house stood Proud and true A single window Gave you a glimpse Of the world within A young girl sat at the window Staring Not a sound As she watched The events unfold
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Spy Network Uzayr Bukhari One day, a robot called Robo was going home, when on his way he saw a big hairy wolf walking down the street. The wolf had enough equipment to blow up a bank! Curious, Robo slowly followed the wolf...After the wolf walked into a strange alleyway, Robo saw the wolf was trying to hide something, but what he was hiding was that he was a spy! The wolf had a holographic watch to communicate to his allies! Once Robo saw that, he silently backed away and turned, nevertheless, the wolf somehow had seen Robo, and asked, “Who are you and what are you doing?” “I am Robo, are you a spy?” There was a sudden silence in the alley, finally, the wolf spoke. “Yes, but you can’t tell anyone!” “Okay, okay, but we have to work as a team then.” Robo replied. “Fine!” The Wolf agreed through his gritted teeth. After a while, they were the best team ever, who fought the most enemies together. Until they fought an evil computer hacker, who hacked into Robo! Eventually Robo fought to gain his control back, and he fought the hacker while the wolf tried to defeat the hacker’s henchman, called Bruno. Luckily, they escaped with their lives. Angrily, the hacker bellowed “We’ll meet again!” and he has hidden in the shadows ever since, planning his revenge, until they meet again… The End Or is it?
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Expectations Mariam Mohammed The clock has finally struck. Time for me to finally start growing up. This is what I will be expected to do. To feed, to care and to cherish others. As I will be the rock of the family. Where my children will seek advice from. I will be expected to stay at home cleaning, cooking and washing. As my other half goes to work. I have such ambitions for my future. As for me now I will be stuck in these four walls which enclose me from the world. I will see many of my friends go off and get a degree. However I must follow my culture. As this was done by my grandmother and my mother. The same fate lies for me. To be an obedient, loyal, caring housewife. And to not have a life. This is the end for me now. Now my daughter will follow the same fate as me. And hers after that ...
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Mother India Pratiksha Saha The dust settles on the rickety wooden gate, where the crippled old man kneels, resolutely puffing on the rolled cigarette clenched between his two bony fingers. The cigarette smoke merges with the exhaust fumes of the stagnant traffic of yellow taxis filled with hordes of honking drivers. The taxis splash water from the gutter over the hunched backs of women scavenging through scattered piles of torn packaging, clad in scraps of haphazard cotton. Children scuttle and skitter around the women, grasping school satchels as they trudge through the rubble. Beggars tug at the hems of glittered saris worn by rich women as they walk, kicking up dust into the pleading faces of the vagrants. The taut skin of the weary rickshaw drivers burn under the heat of the skies above, crouched over their pedalling feet below. Peeling branches hold up squares of tarpaulin where underneath the slum dwellers lie, watching their emaciated children kick swathes of cloth back and forth in the midst of the dirt. Buildings loom over the slums tottering precariously, weighed down by the jutting balconies. Men dressed in starched white shirts and crisp suit trousers lean over the balconies peering at the unjust world below. This is India. My country. Pushed down and broken so many times but still hanging on and standing tall. Corrupted by flaws but awash with purity and kindness. A country split into rich and poor but connected as we all share the same soil. You see hope in everyone. This is what keeps India alive. The rickshaw driver is fatigued and collapsing but is pedalling, still pedalling along towards a new future. The slum children dream of one day stepping out of the walls of the slum, hand in hand with their parents, walking into the rest of the world and all the opportunities it holds within. Even the cripple looks past his cigarette and struggles to stand. We dream of a time when aristocrats and slaves not only share the same soil, but eat the same bread, drink the same water. Of a time when the jewelled lady holds the wrinkled hands of the cripple, when the cigarette smoke has cleared, and the rubble no longer remains. We are all Mother India’s children, whether we are Muslim, Christian, Hindu or somewhere in between, we are all Indian.
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Write On! Magazine Issue 5