THE WRITE STUFF
1st Edition
Contents
Welcome from Dr. Foster & the English Department
There’s a Storm Coming Yuhan (Year 10)
The Storm (Mila Year 10)
Bay Ghost (Holly Year 9)
Poetry Doodles (By Georgia & Rafe Year 7)
Palindromes (Benji Year 13)
127 Hours Review (Bella Year 10)
The Perks of Being a Wallflower (Bella Year 10)
After the Rain (Yuvraj Year 12)
Fairy Tale (Rivika Year 9)
The Shell (Leah Year 12)
The Water Tiger (Natalie Year 7)
Grey Monologue (Edie Year 11)
I can’t wait to be older (Rose Year 8)
Claws of a Fox (Jessica Year 7)
Unfinished (Sophie Year 11)
Taken for Granted (Hema Year 9)
Broken (Harriet Year 8)
A Murder and a Feast (Riya Year 8)
I Will Remember (Holly Year 9)
Temptation (Jack Year 7)
Top Trumps (Ayaan Year 7)
Popular Plan (Isabella Year 9)
The Tell-Tale Heart (Sienna & Hannah Year 9)
Witchcraft and Macbeth (Zakariya-Khan Year 8)
Go to sleep! (Ava Year 8)
The Lucky One (Abi Year 8)
Monologue (Riya Year 8)
Welcome from the English Department
Welcome to the first edition of 'The Write Stuff', the new magazine produced by the BMS Faculty of English & Film!
The aim of this new annual publication is to celebrate our students' creativity by showcasing the best writing and imaginative work from the past twelve months; in particular, 'The Write Stuff' has been conceived to allow students to engage with aspects of English and Film that do not feature on the curricula of either of these subjects, and to recognise the importance of extension and enrichment activities of this sort. As such, I am delighted to see such a diverse array of pieces in this inaugural issue, from film reviews to monologues, short narratives and art works.
My thanks goes not only to all the students who have contributed to this edition of the magazine, but to the teachers in the faculty who have encouraged them along the way. I am particularly grateful to Mr. Barrow, the editor of the magazine, who has devoted considerable time to putting it together.
Dr. Tim Foster Head of English & Film Faculty
There’s a Storm Coming! By Yuhan
Lightning struck above. The golden blaze danced across my vision as it slowly settled into the tumultuous night sky. In the far distance, the waves crashed and curled against the retreating shoreline. They sat angry, mirroring the crying clouds and rumbling thunder that loomed over, a deadly monster. A low humming filled my ears as eager children and adults stepped out of the comfort of their homes to admire the scene. The wind blew strong against my face, sending shivers down my back. Ignoring the glaring signs of danger, I stepped out towards the sands, glancing back to the awed faces. As I neared closer to the water, I felt the sea spray against my face, mixing with the chaos.
“Hey! You’re going to get yourself killed!” a young woman’s voice screamed from the safety. But her voice was only a mere whisper in my roaring mind. I stared out into the darkness as rain clouded the scene, blurring the lines between reality and idealism.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. Last year it wasn’t this. Why did things have to change? The sun was beaming happily on families, enveloping them in a kind warmth. The sea was dotted with surfers, swimmers and games, people enjoying the day. Stepping on the same beach last year was so different. Instead of the tremendous waves were children playing around together, unaware of their half crumbling sandcastles. Adults lounging peacefully on the beach. Fluffy, light clouds shinned above, so unlike the dark, ominous beasts today. It was all so contrary, and I couldn’t help but point out the details that set them so apart.
The deep murmuring of thunder brought me back to the present. I wasn’t there. I was here. The waves crashed again: hissing, swirling like serpents. Now as they crashed on the shore, they didn’t look as cheerful as they once did. The rain must have stopped at some point during my stupor as the dimples of the water had vanished like they were never there in the first place. A light sea foam appeared on the surface, a sign that it would end soon. Chatter from before had left my senses. Everyone must have headed home already, too anxious of the lightning’s next performance. I never understood why they would though. Although it was dangerous, there was a sense of freedom about it that nothing else offered. The smell of salt. The feeling of the sand beneath my feet. The slight chill against my face. All things I would never forget about storms. And all things I only could have realised in this moment. Charcoal clouds above rumbled in some sort of agreement. The sea lapped over my ankles now, soaking the thin dress I had bought only a few days prior. The soft material clung to my legs, an uncomfortable feeling I paid no attention to. Stepping back from the water, I felt the uneven ripples against my feet once again. The sky didn’t look so dark anymore. The weight had been lifted off, leaving only a fine layer of grey. A deafening silence filled my ears as I realised something. The waves still crashed and seethed, but there was an emptiness to the sound.
The sudden ceasing brought my curious eyes back to the shifting skies. Ahead, I watched as the clouds parted for the chance of joy and untroubled pleasure. A blue had seeped through the shelter. Despite the love I had felt for the storm only minutes ago, I couldn’t disagree with the fact that blue skies would be better any day. Squinting out towards the sun that creeped out from the clouds, there was a sense of hope and strange belonging. My legs broke out into a run as I reached for the sea again.
The Storm By Mila
It was coming. Shadowing clouds encroached the village. Ominous and loud, the thunder echoed through the valley, sending frightened shivers through the villagers’ bodies. A man carrying his shopping dropped it as he ran away hoping the safety of his home would protect him. The children playing in the streets looked up with glossy eyes before screaming on their way back home.
A monster was on its way.
Last year, the whole village was destroyed. Villagers still remembered the screeching, threatening wind; the fury; the destruction of their beloved homes. Children, men, and women were left without food or water and families were shattered. Everything was destroyed. Days passed before their hunger and thirst was quenched.
After the last horrible storm, fear rose among the villagers. The cautious ones moved away while brave others stayed, putting their trust into the engineers who promised to protect them when the next storm came. They had collected everyone in the village square- a cobbled space with a round stage in the middle- and announced their great, new plans for the village that would help it withstand future storms. Hope shone on the village then, the sun rays gleaming through the valley. Now rage rippled through the dark clouds just like last time. The dark clouds prowled down the valley, getting closer and closer. The chief engineer- an old, stout womanfrowned worriedly as she watched the inevitable storm near. The streets were deserted. Her new infrastructure should work, she thought. Yet, a sprinkle of anxiety caused doubt.
Rain slammed down. A branch cracked; the first warning of the threats the storm holds. Suddenly, like a spear, lightning struck the spire on the village church. Smoke wafted off it. Wind, rain and thunder crashed over the village as the storm arrived. Trees and buildings swayed as the wind howled hauntingly, and darting rain punched at the cobbled stone and slated roofs.
Darkness consumed the village.
Five hours later, people carefully exited their houses. Gold showered them. The fresh smell of rain lingered through the air and birds tweeted like in fairytales. After five hours of rage, calmness was happily welcomed. As everyone looked around, they were grateful that the improved houses, buildings and streets were just as they were before the storm. Left over rain trickled and puddled through the streets. The chief engineer smiled hopefully, not saying anything or demanding praise, just thankful that her hard work had paid off.
There was no reason for worry or doubt. She just had to trust herself. A little girl with two ponytails and a chubby face came up to the old woman. Her playful, hazel eyes met the woman’s kind, wise eyes. Smiling with her rabbit teeth, she giggled, “Thank you,” and she started skipping around. The whole village was illuminated by honey light.
The Bay Ghost By Holly
“Please don’t hurt me,” she croaked, as I aimed the pistol towards her neck. I didn’t want to do it-truly, I didn’t-but the sight of her breathing and blinking was torturing. Blink. Blink. Blink. Every blink was another nail pierced into my back, making me want to do anything to rid myself of the horrible sight. I could not look at her as I did it. But before you assume me as cruel, heatless-evil, perhaps. I will recite you my story of how got to be there on that terrible night.
The old man, who lived on the cliff overlooking the beach, had called me. His words were slurred (I suspected he was fond of a drink), but he managed to inform me that he saw a girl staggering across the bay every night, all alone, and always exactly at midnight. I told him that I was trained and distinguished gentleman, who wasn’t afraid to face a lost girl at nighttime, and asked him if he would supply me a bed for the night. He agreed.
On the night of Wednesday, September 14th, I said goodnight to the old man and headed down the cracked stone staircase, with only a lantern and the moonlight to guide me. For four hours I waited patiently, not once considering sleep or going back inside. The sand was cold, but I was uncomfortable, and I almost enjoyed the waves come in and out. Gradually, however, the moon started to dim as the clouds were swept across it by the breeze. The air grew colder, and I shrank back into my jacket for comfort and warmth, Then, very suddenly my candle flickered out. The action wasn’t gradual. One minute it was there, the next not. My only light had disappeared. What was left of the moon wasn’t enough to reassure me of any figures darting stealthily behind me.
This next part brings me fear and horror to write.
Whenever I think of that moment, my blood freezes, my heart forgets to beat, and my lungs close in terror. It is shameful that a man who is nearly thirty has such a fear of a young girl., but I cannot honestly help myself. I must write it down. I must throw my fears onto this parchment and forget about it forever.
She touched me!
Whilst my back was turned, she reached up and gripped my shoulder with her thin, yet bony fingers. I did not scream. I did not flinch. All I felt was this dread creeping up my body, starting at my toes and finishing at my skull. The wind was howling now, releasing the scream I could not summon myself. The sea had come in, circling my ankles, yet I did not feel the chill of it. I was drowning, not in the sea but in her presence. I turned to see her. She was not as I had imagined. She was worse!
Her hair was thin, dark and straggly. Her eyes were colourless, and they stared hard at me. She was covered in scars and blood; her face was pallid as marble. Her lips were chapped and blue, highlighting her rotten yellow teeth. She was clothed in only her nightdress which had rips and tears everywhere and was stained with blood, sweat and tears.
I pushed her to the ground with all my might, and she fell like a puppet that had been cut from its strings. She lay there, eyes closed and body motionless. For a brief second, I thought she was dead. I thought I had killed her. The thought gave me a strange sense of triumph, but alas her eyes shot open and sat up abruptly. Panic filled me again. I shot my hand into my pocket desperately, trying with all my might to find the pistol. Her eyes were wider now, pupils flickering side to side as she took in my illumination towering over her. Her startled gaze was too much to bear and the trepidation began to worm its way into my veins once more.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I whipped out my pistol and aimed it at her neck. She shrank back.
“Please,” she whispered and the sound was the ghastliest sound imaginable, so much so that death would be a better punishment than having to listen. “Please don’t hurt me.”
I did not listen. I could listen. All I wanted was to kill her. I turned away cowardly as I pulled the trigger. I winced as I heard the gunshot escape, and in a second she was screaming piteously. I dropped the gun to shield my ears from the hideous sound. She writhed and wriggled, blood exploding from her wound all over the body. Then she lay still.
She was dead.
I didn’t go to check if she was dead. It all happened too quickly for me to remember. It began to rain, yes, water pelted down from the dark sky, like little icicles hitting my skin. The moonlight was extinguished by the clouds. My eyelids were heavy and teeth chattering. Fear enveloped me. I was alone.
“He’ll be alright,” a gruff voice said. I opened my eyes. Bright lights surrounded me and I squinted at the figure who had his hand on my shoulder. It took me a moment to recognise him. The old man.
Poetry Doodles
By Georgie and Rafe
Palindromes By Benji
The Transformation
Emit flow, no omen if won. Now, fine moon... wolf time.
Killing a Dead Vampire
Stab on dirt; e.g. Get rid. No bats!
Life of a Med Student
Peels on desserts, set on DNA and notes, stressed, no sleep.
Film Review - 127 Hours By Bella
There are films that entertain, films that impress, and then there are films that corner you, quietly, relentlessly, until you are left alone with yourself. 127 Hours is that kind of cinema. It does not shout its greatness. It whispers it, patiently, through stone and sinew, thirst and memory, until the viewer realises that endurance is not merely physical, but philosophical.
Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours transforms a true survival story into something far more expansive: a meditation on freedom, responsibility, and what it truly means to choose life. Aron Ralston’s ordeal, trapped beneath a fallen boulder in an Utah canyon, is stark in premise, but the film refuses to sensationalise suffering for its own sake. Instead, it sculpts pain into meaning. Every drop of sweat, every hallucinated laugh, every inch of immovable rock becomes a question: What is a life worth, and who decides?
James Franco’s performance is astonishingly intimate. With no one to play off for much of the film, Franco must act with time itself. His face becomes a legal record of the human condition, hope argued, despair rebutted, willpower sustained against all precedent. He shifts from arrogance to humility, from isolation to a fierce rediscovery of connection. The canyon, once a playground for bravado, becomes a courtroom in which Ralston must cross-examine his own choices.
Philosophically, the film rejects the romantic myth that humans are strongest when they are alone. Ralston survives not because he is solitary, but because he finally understands his dependence on others. His visions of future love, family, and shared laughter are not sentimental tricks, they are lifelines. 127 Hours argues that meaning is relational. We are not saved by grit alone, but by the memory of being needed, and the hope of needing again.
What makes 127 Hours extraordinary is its refusal to flatter the audience. It does not promise that suffering ennobles, nor that survival guarantees wisdom. Instead, it offers something braver: the idea that awareness comes at a cost, and that the body is often the price. When Ralston emerges into the light at the film’s conclusion, he is not triumphant in the traditional sense. He is diminished, and yet immeasurably expanded. He has lost a limb, but gained a life lived deliberately.
Film Review - The Perks of Being a Wallflower
By Bella
The Perks of Being a Wallflower understands something painfully simple about growing up: most of it happens in silence. It is a film about becoming yourself in the spaces where no one is watching, about learning how to exist when you feel slightly misaligned with the world, as if everyone else received instructions you somehow missed.
Charlie grows up inwardly. His milestones are not loud or triumphant. They arrive as moments of realisation he barely knows how to hold. The film treats adolescence as a slow accumulation of feeling rather than a sequence of events. Parties, first loves, friendships, breakdowns, these are not turning points so much as emotional weather, passing through and leaving marks that are only understood later.
What makes the film devastating is how gently it handles pain. Charlie’s sadness is never dramatic; it simply sits with him, shaping how he listens, how he loves, how he absorbs the emotions of others until they begin to outweigh his own. Growing up, the film suggests, often means learning how to carry feelings that were never meant to be yours. Trauma does not announce itself. It waits, patient and quiet, and surfaces in the smallest ways: a flinch, a memory half-buried, a sense of wrongness you cannot name.
Friendship in The Perks of Being a Wallflower is presented as a temporary shelter rather than a cure. Sam and Patrick do not fix Charlie, and the film never pretends they could. They offer warmth, laughter, music played too loud in cars at night. These moments matter because they pass. Growing up is realising that some people save you only for a season, and that this does not lessen what they gave you. If anything, it makes it more precious.
The film is deeply aware of how adolescence distorts time. Everything feels urgent and endless all at once. A single song can define a year. A conversation can replay for months.
Charlie’s letters capture this strange elasticity, the way growing up feels like being trapped inside your own head while the world moves just slightly too fast. He watches life happen and participates just enough to feel both included and distant, present but never fully anchored.
There is a quiet grief running through the film: the grief of realising that becoming older does not mean becoming untouched. You learn things you wish you hadn’t. You see people more clearly, including yourself. The film treats this awareness with tenderness, allowing Charlie to unravel without spectacle. His breakdown feels inevitable, less a collapse than the body finally asking to be heard.
By the end, growing up is presented as an act of acceptance. Not happiness, not resolution, acceptance. The knowledge that feeling deeply is both a burden and a gift. That being gentle in a harsh world will hurt. That memory will follow you, whether you invite it or not. And still, there is life ahead.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower leaves you with the understanding that growing up rarely feels like arriving somewhere. It feels like learning how to stay. Staying with your past. Staying with others. Staying with yourself, even when that is the hardest place to be.
After the Rain By Yuvraj
Most nights I feel drowned by the Possible. If my choice, or another’s, would ripple into a separate present, past, or future closer to a warped reflection.
Some nights, I think I’d prefer that. Others, I cling onto being alive as me,
to the series of choices made over millennia Leading to my birth.
Often what could be or what could have been blinds me to what is In front of me.
Or rather, what isn’t.
Today, the grey clouds are gone. It rained yesterday And the day ‘ere that, ferociously.
The sky is painted blue with cerulean acrylic, Only smudges of clouds block the autumn sun.
Today, water seems kinder- more a beauty than a barrage. Light coats the rippling mirror of a river, fracturing a surface That repairs itself the next second. Dancing freely, yet tempered in its brilliance enough to merely amaze. Today, the artificial and natural are equal in splendour.
Houses painted myriad hues: pinks, oranges, yellows, and blues, Smile down from the hills, the stains of smog now forgotten, the grey past masked and covered.
Today, bunting hangs from roof to roof to lamppost, Here yesterday too but not so joyous as now.
Things of celebration for parties and coronations
Perhaps today deserves a crown. Today at least deserves to be remembered, But boats pass through the harbour in moments unseen, As if a page was turned when I closed my eyes, As if I caught this moment by surprise.
Today, the plants sing praises for the passing light, But their leaves crave dew, not arid heat. They need not wait long, as time passes on,
As they wait for the petrichor of ‘morrow.
Fairytale Story By Rivka
The wedding bells rang like a promise the kingdom wanted to believe.
Snow White stood radiant beside Prince Florian, her smile bright enough to blot out the shadows of the past. At their feet, the Evil Queen screamed as red-hot iron shoes were buckled to her ankles. Justice, the court called it. Mercy had long since burned away.
The Queen danced.
She danced until her screams turned hoarse, until her body collapsed in a smoking heap on the marble floor. When she did not rise, they declared her dead. Before nightfall, she was sealed into the earth, buried beneath cold soil and colder certainty.
But death had always slipped through the Queen’s fingers.
In the dark, choking grave, her eyes snapped open. Nails clawed at wood, then dirt. Rage gave her strength where pain should have ended her. By dawn, she emerged from the grave like a thing reborn skin blistered, smile sharp, heart hollowed by vengeance.
Her first act was swift. Prince Florian died before he could cry out, poison kissed into his wine by a hand he did not recognize in
the candlelight. As his body cooled, the Queen wrote a single command, sealed in black wax, and sent it to a loyal guard.
Kill the seven dwarfs!
Snow White found Florian at sunrise, lifeless and pale, love extinguished without warning. Grief shattered her but fury rebuilt her. She hunted the Queen through forests and mirrors, through lies and spells, until steel met flesh and the Evil Queen finally, truly died.
Or so Snow believed.
Then she found the dwarfs’ cottage.
Silent. Still. Seven graves where laughter had once lived.
Something broke inside Snow White that could never be mended. She swore no other princess would suffer as she had.
Following whispers of old magic, she uncovered the Queen’s hidden lair a cathedral of spells, relics humming with dark power. Snow meant to change the story. She would become a fairy guardian. Her guards would become helpers. Love would be protected by force, if necessary.
But grief is a poor guide.
Rage twisted her spell. Pain sharpened it. Magic answered not her hope, but her hatred.
Snow White transformed wings blackened, crown of thorns and shadow rising from her brow. Her guards bent and broke into monstrous obedience. The fairy she sought to become curdled into something colder.
The world would one day know her as Maleficent.
She withdrew to her castle of thorns, watching kingdoms rot and romances bloom only to wither. Years turned to legends. Legends to warnings.
And from her high, dark tower, she whispered the vow that ruled her cursed heart:
“If I cannot have love,” she said, as the world trembled, “Then no one will.”
The Shell By Leah
This shell can still see our faces
This shell can still hear our laughter
Its smooth edges remind me of the places
You said we would go together
And we would fantasize
When thine eternal eyes met mine
And our intertwined souls would rise
Above this beach to watch us forever
This shell can still see you leaving
This shell can still hear you shouting
Brutal, crashing waves surround me
As I wander into the safety of the sea
I trace the edges of the shell, always predictable
It has been with us from the start, always reliable
I raise it above my head, straight in front of me
Then I throw this shell into the sea
The Water Tiger By
Natalie
People told tales of the water tiger that she was always down by the stream at midnight.
But they never described her in true detail they always left the story waiting to be completed.
One time, it became too much, so I decided to see her for myself.
At midnight I perched in a tree staring down at the stream, then she appeared with fur as white as snow illuminating the dark surrounding her and stripes like the veins on a leaf in autumn, paws graceful and soft.
Her eyes were as beautiful as stars, the highlights glistening like ice.
She flinched as tree shadows danced over her.
She slowly crouched down muscles rippling like the waves in the stream she lapped up water and gazed up into the moon.
Suddenly, a blue star moth landed on her nose she quietly crept into the stream and vanished down into the blue, down to the world where we could never go
Grey By Edie
Ok, I understand where you’re coming from, but I just… I don’t feel like you’re listening to me, and I mean really listening. It’s like, when I’m with my friends, I’m happy and colourful It seems like I have a life.
But the ones who know me, who really know me, who’ve seen me through the- lowest of lows, They’re the ones who notice I’m tired
I’m tired and you don’t see it you’re the one who’s meant to notice these things you’re supposed to see right through me but it’s like you can’t even see me at all
You just see who you’ve created in your head someone who’s grey and washed of colour but that’s not me. I’m bouncy, I’m fun, I’m purple red green
I’M NOT GREY!
I’m not perfect or polite or or… I don’t know but I’m a mess, ok? I don’t fit within your lines, I’m… a scribble. Yeah… I just…
And I get so bored trying to be someone I’m not for you, so I go out and I live a little but then I crash and it’s like 17 all over again and then… I apologise.
And it all goes back- to grey. To trying to sit straight, be still and be “respectable” and to be honest I wish I could, I really do I mean, it’s an important thing to have manners and stuff but I don’t know, it’s just not the way I am.
And I see you in your office with all these beautiful, put-together women in pencil skirts and 4-inch heels and I think that is who I should be. But… it’s never going to happen. It never will so…
I think maybe we shouldn’t bother anymore. We’re like two puzzle pieces that have been overused, we don’t fit together anymore. Because I’m just… tired…of grey.
I Can’t Wait to be Older By Rose
I can’t wait to be older, that’s all I ever said, Cuddling up to my teddys, scattered on my bed.
I don’t know where those teddys went, how could I let them go, Those teddys held so much, my highs and my lows.
I can't wait to be free, adults are so deceiving, I say looking past the gates, oh how could something be so misleading. I wish I could tell her, that is the freest she’ll ever be,
Freedom doesn’t matter if you're too scared to be seen.
Now I sit alone, in my black and white world,
Where has the colour gone? My fun? My smile? My dreams?
Is this really what I dreamt for? every night in my room,
To throw away a world of excitement, just for a taller view.
I can’t wait to be older, that’s all I ever said, Now that single statement is my biggest regret.
Claws of a Fox By Jessica
Scorch-Tail woke, his amber eyes blinking in the rising sun. He felt a pang of deep hunger, like a monster within. Scorch-Tail padded out of his underground den, his roughly padded paws scuffing up dirt and dust. He parted his large jaws, drinking in the scents of dawn; a familiar smell came to him, and his body quivered in excitement.
Scorch-Tail followed the promising scent of rabbit, and his eyes fell on a creamy ginger creature. His tongue swiped around his mouth as if he could already taste it. A few moments later, he was biting down and practically inhaling his food.
As he sat up to leave, he yelped in pain and fear. His flame-coloured gaze travelled to his front right paw; a sharp, merciless stone had slit the delicate skin between his pads.
“Great! Just what I needed,” he growled, starting to lick his wound clean.
Suddenly, his sixth sense kicked in. “I am being watched.” His long, slender claws slid out of his red paws. “Show yourself!” he growled, his hackles rising.
“Don’t try to act so tough. I can smell your fear from here,” a smooth, precise voice said. “You don’t have to fear me unless you’re trespassing on my territory.” Her voice had started smoothly but now rose to a deep growl.
“Amber-Heart?” he whispered, his tail twitching in anticipation.
“Scorch-Tail,” came a voice, tight and emotional.
“Amber-Heart, it’s really you!” he yelped, rushing over to the figure who had wandered into the sunlight.
“Scorch-Tail! I thought I’d lost you!” She buried her muzzle into his fur.
Suddenly, a roar of a monster announced its arrival.
“What? A monster here? They never come here,” Amber-Heart whined, her tail between her legs.
Scorch-Tail stood strong and took a step forward. “I have to stop it!” He looked at his long-lost mate and sighed.
“We have to,” she replied, pressed close against him, her heart beating fast. Scorch-Tail’s heart lifted as a bird screeched overhead. Then the huge monster rolled in, its massive paws leaving tracks in the dirt as its deep growl struck fear into its enemies.
He was about to tell her something, but she had launched herself into the air at the monster, her eyes blazing with fury.
“No!!!” Scorch-Tail yelped as a two-leg jumped out and produced its stick of doom.
Amber-Heart fell to the ground, the sound of the shot ringing in her ears.
“Amber-Heart, hold on, I am coming!” Scorch-Tail barked as the monster rolled away.
He rushed over to his fading mate as she whined sadly, curled in a tight ball. “It’s OK, I am here.” He gently licked her ear. His heart was torn. Should he leave his mate and save his life, or should he stay and nurse her or worse, die with her? His decision was made. He would stay with her until the end, he thought, just before he was knocked to the ground by a two-leg that produced its long stick.
Well, at least they would be together forevermore.
Unfinished By Sophie
There’s a half-filled notebook on my shelf.
Song lyrics scribbled on scraps of sticky notes by my desk and paint splattered from a masterpiece I’ve yet to complete.
As half-formed as ideas in the back of my head, I live my life unfinished.
“The End” is the place inspiration goes to die.
A life finished is a life devoid of novelty, of spontaneity and serendipity and since the void of banality is somewhere I never desire to go, I will thrive in the land of unfinished.
I wish to be so wholly entranced by creativity and art and music and beauty and by passion that I never finish a thing in my life.
I wish to always be excited by opportunities for expression, by the doors I have left ajar
I wish to forever remain unfinished.
And so I will write and draw and play and imagine and create and perform and I will do so without the confines of completion.
I will live as an artist does. Messy, flawed, a work in progress because ultimately, life is better left-
Taken for Granted By Hema
I lap with unison onto the sand, protesting and slapping all I can
Back and forth I come for more, and gently rest my feet onto the shore
I’m glad I’m a home for sea life and beauty, but sometimes I feel I’m taken for granted for my duty
Plastic, rubbish, and things with no use, are thrown into me as quick as putting out a fuse I know I’m just made of water and salt, And I do not have any emotions, problems, or faults
But take care of what you currently have, before it impairs and ruins, not coming back
Back and forth I come for more, but not for long it's just the lonely shore.
Broken By Harriet
She broke me.
She shattered my heart, My bones.
She hurt me.
She turned everyone against me.
She isolated me.
She filled my canvas with the blackest paint.
She made me feel alone.
She manipulated me.
She turned my friends against me.
She made me feel useless.
But I feel useless no more.
Sticks and stones may break my bones.
Her words may have hurt me.
But I see that now.
She no longer has power over me.
I was a blank canvas, But I'm now filled with colour.
Her dark, black paint no longer appears.
Her words no longer hurt me.
A Murder and a Feast By Riya
It was a routine. Wake up. Brush my teeth. I listened to Olivia Rodrigo’s sad songs while I was dressed. Eat and then go to school. What wasn’t a routine was Lizzie's sudden text. “Hey, let’s hang out, come to Ranger Park at 9:00. Campfire!” I gave the screen a judgemental look as my eyes scanned the flood of fire emojis.
I didn’t want to go, I wanted to stick to the routine, especially the routine of never having to see Melody Parker again. Melody had replaced me. Popular, smart, funnywho wouldn’t want her in their friend group. Let me guess - me. The world used to be brighter when me, Simon, Lizzie and Jacob were happy. Leaping and playing till our mothers called us in. A cascade of joy washed upon me every time I felt like I belonged somewhere, until I didn’t…
Melody laughed, Melody giggled to them she was an angel, to me, an obnoxious selfappointed queen bee who marched around like she owned the place. “
“I’ll think about it,” I replied, quickly adding a thumbs up to show I actually cared. But I did care. Maybe too much. The day came and went as a waterfall of events. Maths, science, French, English and finally, sports. My clothes clung to my skin and sweat dripped down my shirt as I observed our common room, looking for Lizzie. Then I heard it. A cacophony of voices filled the room. This was about Melody. “Did you know Melody, yes Melody Parker, is coming to choir today”, a shrill voice echoed through the room, “I overheard her saying that to Jess today”, another voice chimed in. Today, she wasn't coming. I guess I'm going to a campfire today! With Melody gone it could be like the old days. Going home was a blur of anticipation. I pouted in my dusty mirror as my hands cradled my favourite lipstick. A deep prune shade that made me feel like a princess.
My mother appeared in the doorway, her graceful smile etched upon her flawless skin - “Walk to the park dear, won't you?” “Hurry up silly, you're going to be late”, she snapped suddenly, giving me a look of annoyance.
Half an hour later, I arrived - out of breath after taking a detour around a construction site.
Lizzie ran over - her golden - blond hair flying behind her. “Always late, aren't you Jaz!”
“Sorry construction workers were blocking-” I started then I saw her. There she was - the talk of the devil- Melody Parker. Giggling snidely beside Jacob.
My heart skipped a beat and tears threatened to escape through my now watery eyes. This wasn't fair, this wasn't fair at all.
“Let's make the campfire” Simon said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
An hour later I had received enough insults from Melody, played games with the rest and was cooking one of the chicken legs that Jacob was eyeing the whole night.
The fire spat sparks at my bare and vulnerable legs caused me to flinch. The fatty smell of the chicken made me gag. But then a savoury smell of toasted marshmallows wafted into my nostrils overcoming the rough scent of the blackened charcoal. For a moment everything felt perfect. My safe haven perhaps. Then I spotted her again.
The fire suddenly went out. The cracking stopped giving me a chance to escape. “I'll get firewood” I cried out. I ran. Ran far away from everyone. Mostly her. My breath was heaving and my chest felt too heavy to bear. I collapsed into a patch of wispy grass. The wood surrounding me caused me to remember why I was here. I began collecting, the sharp edges biting into my hands.
Then I heard it. An audible commotion. Bodies slamming against something I couldn't place, a distant shuffle. A blood - curdling scream tore through the cold night air. Then silence - only the echo of the impact.
For one second. One second that could keep you awake at night, a nearby lamplight flickered on and I saw her.
Melody on the ground.
Cold. Dead. Lifeless.
An echo of a scream still etched upon her face and what looked like a weathered knife plunged deep into her chest. Her blond hair matted with blood and dirt.
It was hard to look at the girl I’d wished death upon one too many times to count, gone. Just gone. The second felt like hours, but it was over. The painstakingly hard reality crashed down on me. I, Jasmine Rose, had just witnessed a murder.
“What was that! "Lizzie's cry echoed through the park.
“What the hell was that! "Simon wailed into the night.
I stood there transfixed as my friends wandered closer to- A raw and manic scream shattered the night. Lizzie.
“Melody, this isn’t funny. Melody, stop! "Jacob bellowed, swearing under his breath.
“Jasmine, where is Jasmine!”, Lizzie cried, “Jasmine. Jasmine!”
I ran. My heart pounding and a tight knot in my chest loosening. “I’m here, I’m right here!”
Her hug engulfed me, and we cried and sobbed for what felt like hours.
Then a figure appeared.
“Who are you ?”, Simon bellowed.
She looked small, around 13 with a petite and fragile face. Her sunken eyes contrasted against her rough pallid skin. Her blond hair was specked with traces of blood and dirt. Blood? Why was there blood? Her green eyes darted to Melody’s
body, with a hint of remorse. This was Estella Parker - Melody’s little sister. My eyes glanced at everyone else; they all shared a look of comprehension.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”, Estella said barely above a whisper.
“What wasn’t supposed to happen Estella?”, Simon muttered, pronouncing every syllable with scary clarity.
“She had everything I didn’t. Everything. The friends. The marks. The unconditional love”, she croaked “I just wanted a little piece of that.”
Jacob interrupted her, his voice loud and manic “What are you talking about and why are you covered in blood?”
She looked down at herself as if she’d finally realised what she had done. Estella attempted to brush off the grime on her blood-soaked coat, and her mud caked boots.
“I, I thought she was coming here alone. I thought I could talk to her about how I felt. How much I hated living in her shadow! I took my dad’s hunting knife because, because I was scared”, she admitted, “She’d give me that horrible pitying look of hers and just laugh. Laugh!” She took a gasping, ragged breath and sobbed.
“And then I saw everyone and backed out but I had a mission, so when the fire went out, I ran to her.”, she choked now, unable to control the cascade of tears.
“I told her that I hated her and that she was a horrible sister. She laughed at me with that condescending laugh of hers. I stuck out the knife so that she’d listen for once, she’d listen to me! Then she shoved me hard and everything was blurry. I pushed her back and when she tried to come forward, she tripped and fell right into my knife!”, she cried. A deep piercing cry that haunts me to this day.
“No, you did this on purpose, I know you did, what else could the jealous little sister have done.”, Jacob roared, “It too coincidental don’t you think, Estella.”
There was a long pause, a pause where nobody moved or blinked.
“Oh no. You caught me”, Estella said sarcastically, no hint of the girl who had been sobbing earlier before.
“She was rude and cocky. She deserved everything that happened to her. It’s never fun being someone’s shadow. Now, I am free,” she whispered eerily
A sudden flash of red and blue light illuminated the dark forest. A dozen police officers came running. It was all a blur after that. She walked in a composed manner with the officers; we trailed behind and surrounded. Before Estella got into the car, she whispered in my ear “I know you wanted this too.”
So, I still wonder if I was the one with the knife - would I have used it?
I Will Remember By Holly
Do we appreciate the small things?
Well, I normally forget,
About the white snowdrops that bloom after the dark night, Or watching the sun as it sets.
I forget,
About the birds who wake me with their words,
About the wind who sails through my hair, About the stars who only shine on me, I forget about them.
I forget,
About the ocean that always comes back to me,
About the feeling of grass against my bare feet,
About the rain tap dancing against my windows, I forget about them.
But one day I will remember, I won’t forget.
Cause all good things come to an end
And neither you nor I realise that yet.
Temptation By Jack
“To cookie or not to cookie?” The age old saying.
To indulge in the heaven for the mouth or keep to the iron restrictions of a diet?
The delicacy was calling to me, begging me, to break the promise I made to myself and give into the temptation.
My mouth was watering, pleading me to give in. I had been so strong, my will unbreakable so far, the giant milk chocolate delight for all the senses was prodding and poking at my resistance.
Grinding me down until I was as raw as a salty wound. As indecisive as a frightened pheasant.
“To cookie or not to cookie?” Will I ever find the answer?...
An Inspector Calls By Ayaan
Who holds the power? Is anybody innocent? Is there a real right and wrong? Is capitalism or socialism the way forward?
Popular Plan (National Youth Monologue Competition)
By Isabella
Sad Jenny. Sad miserable Jenny sitting on a canteen bench with Ms Fitz, our tragic Maths teacher. That doesn’t help Jenny AT ALL! Algebra and not a beauty lip gloss in sight. URGH!
Jenny’s life is just, well, there’s no other way to say it… psychotically depressing. ‘A in every subject, but a ‘D’ in PE, because she’d rather do her science homework. Telling our PE teacher, ‘The knowledge of the universe matters more than getting selected last for a team and then kicking a ball through mud’. Like, who does she think she is? Professor Brian Fox or something? Anyway, I feel bad for Jenny. She clearly knows nothing about what’s Really Important: Beauty products, hair products or anything to do with making yourself look good!
I’ve decided, I’m going to make her my next project. I’m going to teach her everything I know, which is A LOT! All learnt from TikTok videos. I don’t know why people listen in school. Stupid Mr Saunders blabbing on about some big whale called Toby Dick. Like who flipping cares? Okay. Back to my plan.
First a friendship. Jenny will be my new best friend. We’ll have a sleep over. I’ll do her hair, smother her in lip pumper, five minutes and they’ll be nice and HUGE! (mwah mwah with lips). We’ll watch every popular TikTok video. (Scrolls mindless for about 3 scrolls) Oh, sorry! Finally, I’ll give her a beauty kit – I’ll call it ‘miserable to beautiful glow up kit –INSTANT EFFECT’!
Then she’ll go into school the next day and everyone's jaws will DROP! She’ll have tons of friends and boyfriends, too. My Popular Plan will be complete!
Gothic Studies - Will your conscience catch you out?
By Sienna and Hannah
Witchcraft & Macbeth
By Zakariya-Khan
Go To Sleep By Ava
The rain had been falling for hours, drumming softly against my bedroom window in an endless rhythm that should’ve been comforting but instead deepened the silence that filled the house. The darkness felt unusually heavy that night. Everyone else had been asleep for hours. My parents’ room was at the other end of the long, twisting hallway and my brother was one flight of creaky stairs away, sleeping on the sofa. And I was alone with nothing else but the glow of my alarm clock and the restless feeling that refused to leave. I glanced at the time. 2:23am. The crimson digits cast a faint glow across my bedside table before fading into the darkness. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the growing pit in my stomach. Then I heard it. A creak. My eyes snapped open. It wasn’t a loud sound, or particularly unusual. Houses make noises all the time; floorboards shift, pipes groan, breeze whispers through the cracks in the window. Yet something about this felt off. It was too deliberate. Too precise. My body tensed. I remained perfectly still, listening. The rain continued to fall. After several long moments, I let out a warm breath and shook my head at myself. I was just tired. My mind was turning normal sounds into things they weren’t. reaching for my phone, I unlocked the screen but before I could open anything I heard another noise., another creak. My eyebrows furrowed. A strange feeling settled deep within my chest. I stared at the glowing screen for a couple of seconds before slowly turning towards the window. Rainwater slid down the glass in silver trails. Beyond it stretched nothing but darkness, swallowed by the night with only vague outlines of tree, visible against the cloudy sky. Suddenly, lightning flashed and for less than a second the earth became light as day and in that moment, I saw something. Someone.
Standing in the yard. Pale. Motionless. The darkness returned instantly. I lunged forward and pressed myself against the glass, desperately scanning the yard, praying that my eyes were playing tricks on me. But there was nothing. No figure. No movement. I swallowed hard. Somebody was messing with me. They had to be. Yet before I could convince myself completely a sound could be heard from just beyond my door. I was certain now. That was not the sound of a house settling, someone was here. The room felt smaller. The air felt colder. Then the doorknob rattled. Once. Twice. my eyes were glued to the doo, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. My eyes scanned my room. Every instinct told me not to. At first, I saw only darkness. Then a shape. A silhouette. Its skin unnaturally pale against the blackness surrounding it. Its eyes were fixated on mine, and I noticed it had no eyelids. Its smile stretched impossibly wide, almost looking like it had been stretched. For a moment neither of us moved. Then the figure tilted its head and stepped forward. Then in a whisper so quiet I almost thought I imagined it said “Go to sleep.”
The Lucky One By Abi
They called me the lucky one, the one that got away.
But I’m not a lucky one, I didn’t get away.
I escaped the bruises; I escaped the pain.
But I never left the worst ones, the scars inside my brain.
And I sit and watch the world go by,
But always, always behind these eyes,
The darkness, those years spent of my life.
Emotions lost, That red twisted knife.
The piercing screams, The metallic smell.
I can’t get past it. I’ll always dwell
I will always feel it. I will always know.
He is right behind me. He just won’t show.
I’m battered, I’m broken, I am scarred inside.
And although I’m safe, I must hide.
It won’t leave me, it’s there, it’s here.
And I still see it, His horrid, mocking, jeering sneer.
So no, I’m not lucky. And I didn’t get away.
Monologue Competition By Riya
Of course I miss you. Of course, I do. It’s hard not to, but you hurt me. I should leave and never look back. I really should. You betrayed me. You hurt me and it pains. It feels like a thousand daggers in my heart, piercing with every step, every little ‘talk’, every ‘you're being so dramatic’. Dramatic. Is that what you call this? You broke me into a million pieces and you’re still stepping on the shards.
Yet, you still don’t feel even a little bit sorry, do you?
I’m still here though. Still here. Talking to you, trying to say sorry for something I didn’t do, asking for forgiveness! And the terrible bit is, I feel bad. Bad because I hurt you. Bad because I made you upset. Even though I didn’t. I don’t want to say sorry to you, but they all say I should. ‘Be a little more selfless’ they said, but they don't know how it feels – to say sorry to the person who broke you. And now I’m double guessing myself.
Was I wrong?
Am I the selfish person?
The guilt sits in me like a stone in my heart cold, dark and heavy and you want to know the cruellest thing of all. It's that you're the one that put it there.
If you have been inspired by any of these pieces, speak to your English teacher about the opportunities available. Equally, if you find yourself at a loose end during the holidays, write something and share it with us.
Thank you for reading.