Introduction
Welcome to our anthology of the best of Bromsgrovians’ creative writing for 2025.
The first half of the anthology comprises the entries for the annual Housman Verse Prize, one of the School’s oldest competitions. The theme for this year’s competition was ‘Counting’.
Many writers explored that fine line between what we can ‘count’, or measure numerically, and what ‘counts’ for us - what really matters.
Sophia’s winning poem does this in a way that also brilliantly captures so many moments of a Bromsgrove School year, and you will find many of them will strike a chord with you as a read it.
In the second section you can enjoy reading a selection of the best short fiction from the diverse imaginations of our most talented storytellers.
Special thanks to Ayana Bakirdinova (HH, IB1) for her expert cover design.
Mr Paul Dinnen, Head of English
The Housman Verse Prize, 2025
Before the Flag Falls
Still Counting
The Days That I Am Counting Down
Sixty Seconds
She started counting
Counting Souls
Date
What Will You Do?
Mereological Nihilism
Sat in a Small Café
A Class Full
Sophia Hogset, HH, IB1 (Winner)
Rufus Cole, Ly, IB1
Edith Stones, TC, Lower Fourth
Frederick Tao, WG, Fifth Form
Arina Atnasheva, O, Upper Fourth
Gleb Sovetkin, IB1, WG
Ilya Volodin, WG, IB1
Sophia Tong, MW, Fifth Form
Sammy Riley, OH, Fifth Form
Neve Wilkinson, MW, Lower Fourth
Isabella Friend, MW, Lower Fourth
Count Nikita Pchelin, E, IB2
Two Hearts
Counting to sleep
Emily Wiggins, Hz, Fifth Form
Liza Anton, OH, Lower Fourth
Never Eva Thorpe, TC, Lower Fourth
Short Stories
Funeral March
The Shot
Isaac Siu, E, Fifth Form
Millie Hipkins, MW, Upper Fourth
The Meeting Hangma Limbu, MW, Upper Fourth
A Little Idea
A Different Man
Zachariah Mathews-Wiggins, S, Upper Fourth
Ernest Racape-Hooper, S, Upper Fourth
The Housman Verse Prize, 2025
Before The Flag Falls
Housman Verse Prize Winner, 2025
I’ve spent my life counting, not test scores, not trophies, but tiny, weightless things: the breath before an answer, the glances across a corridor, the last few steps up tired staircases.
One year left.
One year to stand where we’ve always stoodsuit jackets slipping from shoulders, ties loosened after long days, assembling on Monday mornings, half-listening, half-hoping.
Two more assemblies to end a term.
Two more times the hall fills with restless waiting, two more chances to sit still and pretend we aren’t already halfway gone.
Three seasons left to live through— Michaelmas rain, Lent frost, Summer light through open windows.
Six lessons a day, and still no one teaches you how to hold a moment tight enough to stop it slipping.
Five assignments left.
Five late nights, five more evenings lit by laptop glow.
Six coffee runs between lessons, six different ways to say “I’m fine” when you’re not, six bursts of laughter that echo longer than the bell.
Seven chances left to say “thank you” and really mean it.
Eight pens rattling in a clear plastic bag, waiting for the moment we know is coming.
Nine exams to sit through, nine deep breaths we won’t even notice.
Ten thousand thoughts we’ll never get to writeand then:
“The exam is over. Put your pens down.”
We’ve heard it before. But next year, it will echo.
Because next year, it will mean: You did it.
You’re free.
You’re no longer here.
The corridors will fall silent without us, ties packed away, the flagonce held steadylowered slowly, carefully, without a sound, except maybe the sound of hearts breaking a little.
One by one, we’ll shake the Headmaster’s hand, and somehow know, somewhere between first bell and last goodbye, we grew up.
So I keep countingthe jokes whispered, the glances shared, the mornings that seemed endless, the moments I never thought would have an ending at all.
Because these aren’t numbers on a page. They’re the seconds that changed us. The life we built together. The growing up we didn’t notice happening.
And if we’re lucky, we’ll remember to count it allbefore the flag falls.
Still Counting
First, I counted skips, the smooth stones dancing across a stagnant canvas, their polished edges glinting like small truths, tingling in the swash.
I counted the cracks in the roads of my adolescence, each one a broken hint, a clumsy step toward becoming.
Later, I counted promises, bound tight by two trembling hands, each vow slipping through the gaps of our intertwined fingers, the mist of our youth dissolving in the morning sun.
I counted mistakes, countless calls, weary eyes — I could count on one hand the times I sat still with the ones I cherish.
I counted regrets, not once, twice, or even a hundredfold, as if numbers could mend the splintered remnants that pierced my troubled mind.
I counted impossible stars, dreams that lay dark, all drawing in on murmurs of growing apart.
I counted the letters I never sent, the birthdays that came and went, all blistering past with those who remained.
Now, I count the delicate pitter-patter of a sleeping child, pressing hard against the evening hum, their warm breath shaky in the night’s everlasting mild.
Now I count mornings, grateful for being alive, a resting newborn I desperately plead to survive — a sailor counting stars for safe passage.
Each breath, a soft tally of hope. Each sunrise, a sum greater than sorrow.
ba-dum, ba-dum — Still counting, never done.
The Days That I Am Counting Down –
The days that I am counting down, While the leaves spring back to life.
I’m waiting to see my hometown, I need to say my goodbyes.
The days that I am counting down, While the blossom blooms above.
I’m waiting to see my hometown,
I’m leaving those I love.
The days that I am counting down, While the sun comes out again.
I’m waiting to see my hometown, My tears fall like rain.
The days that I am counting down, While the birds soar in the blue.
I’m waiting to see my hometown,
How do I tell you?
The days that I am counting down, While children come out and play.
I’m waiting to see my hometown, It used to seem so far away.
The day is now coming closer, I feel it in my heart.
Our days together are numbered, But I will not be far.
The days have now come to an end, I was too late, too late to say goodbye. I will wait for you in my hometown, Now that time has passed me by.
Edith Stones, TC, Lower Fourth
Sixty Seconds
A minute gives sixty seconds - a Second gives world; gives pain; gives days. Clock’s hands and white face fade in the wither of the night.
“Every sixty seconds in Africa a minute passes,” Every sixty seconds a person gets new glasses, Every sixty seconds the world passes.
The wet warm winter shines: Work is over yet time is not over.
A minute gives sixty seconds, Counting and counting and counting, in the wither of the night.
She started counting
She started counting tears, Especially at night-
When I could not see
Her cry.
The way she used to count flowers I gave her With “I love you” And “hug you forever”
The mutuality written on her roseate lips
She started counting tears.
Especially at night,
Counting every second, I held her
Like the rushing gust,
Love swept her whole
Tearing down the fuselage bit-by-bit
Stripped
Undisguised.
She started counting tears, Especially at night-
The way she gave me the ability to-destroy
To- substitute the self-denial attire and form
She started counting tears
The way she was to me –
The hecatomb of her indelible beauty.
Like a bullet didn’t know
Who she was shooting.
She screamed. In flight.
‘I’ll never be that me again’
She started counting tears, Especially at night-
The love she wanted was a paroxysm. It killed her.
After all,
Sincerity always touches
I hear their steps in the night,
Counting Souls
As their boots clack on the wooden floor,
Hiding from the sparse rays of light -
You know that you are no more.
When they walk, their black leather coats
Rustle over papers and books,
And every night you hear them through the walls
As they scratch with their pointy hooks.
They always come with a paper and pen
To write a number for another soul,
And as they return to their murky den
You sigh with relief at the sign of dawn.
They have no overseer, they serve no master,
But they guide many murderers’ hands,
They beat the dictator’s heart ever faster
As he conquers and robs and kills on new lands.
Many people have claimed to cheat them
And even more - that they are under control,
But in the end, when you have to meet them
You, terrified, will obey their call.
On some days, particularly grim
They seem to come in heaps and mounds, And worst of all, just like in my dreams,
They always count, and count, and count,
For they keep track of every death,
Every sin, as they reap and sow, And when you get to your final breath
Be ready to forfeit your eternal soul. Tonight, I will hear them again.
I hope they don’t visit me anytime soon. They are unwavering, have nothing to gain, And there is no mercy under the light of the moon.
Gleb Sovetkin, IB1, WG
Date
Twenty years and counting
Who knows how long she’ll last.
Years one, two, three go by
She comes to me at last
My door’s ajar, come in, sit down.
Please stand! I’ll show you round. I didn’t burden you, did I?
Now standing, gazes at my fright
She counts not one, not three, not five
All numbered gallery of scent, experience, and touch. She celebrates my insides, I start sharing her delight.
Now gets to six, nine, ten.
She sees the end of me, I disagree.
Formula infinity, Stored deep inside me.
Now show me gallery invented at your birth, numbering all memory, and scent, and touch, accounting for all dirty sin and barren growth. My turn to lead the count and judge.
What Will You Do?
‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…’
The clock is ticking…what will you do?
Feel the beating of the heart
Echoing like an intense, deep drum’s sound. Speak. Is it a performance?
A performance you prepared your whole life for?
Or is it a lover’s gaze
Staring straight into your soul’s maze?
Remind yourselves, the countdown towards your exams.
The vigorously vibrating nerves, and The anticipation fueled by fear; How terribly anxious they make you feel. Answer me, are you ready for this ordeal?
Bear the beeps on the monitor from cardiac arrest
Gnawing unforgivingly at your chest;
Pricking painfully into your ears and eyes
As tears lament the brevity of life - the end of time.
Days, months and years are rushing by. Will you waste your time like rubbish thrown, or Will you stand strong and make life known?
‘Five, four, three, two, one…’
The clock has ticked…what will you do?
…tell me. What will you do?
Sophia Tong, MW, Fifth Form
Mereological Nihilism
there’s vulnerability in reliance. there is meaning in counting, aching, yearning, like a bird born without wings that sorrowfully counts the number of birds that soar of flocks that paint the sky in patterns. what is the probability of never meeting the needs of all? staring disappointedly in painful hatred distorting life for a purpose when born alienated from their own kind it wonders how many birds can fly, begging passionately for their ability, weakness that sets behind the rest yet it sits abandoned and reposes tiredly. coveting up to the heavens counting the magnificence that beckons how many particles exist discretely? those who fail to harmonise in complete compliance there is vulnerability in reliance.
Sammy Riley, OH, Fifth Form
One lonely person,
Sat in a small café
Sipping their coffee
Letting day pass by day.
Sat in a Small Cafe
Two arguing couples.
Sat in a small café
Shouting and screaming
“Why can’t you just go away?!”
Three little dogs
Sat in a small café
Watching their owners scoff down food
Wishing they could go out and play.
Four gossiping girls
Sat in a small café
“Have you heard what Stacey did?”
“Omg! What did Ryan say?”
Five decrepit old women
Sat in a small café
No better than those gossiping girls
“Did you see what Molly wore the other day?”
One person, me,
Sat in a small café
Watching, observing
On this strange summer day.
15 different people, 3 different animals
All sat in a small café
All living different lives
But similar in some strange sort of way
Neve Wilkinson, MW, Lower Fourth
A class full,
With 28 untold stories,
All going through something.
1 faces the challenges of depression,
2 have been tested for ADHD,
3 of them experience family problems,
4 struggle to be enough for their school’s standards,
5 currently have no one to turn to,
6 suffer to the thief of joy,
7 are not happy with the way they look.
A class full,
With 28 untold stories.
All going through something, Many struggling in silence. Though their smiles may show happiness, Beneath may show a different truth.
Isabella Friend, MW, Lower Fourth
Count the days you had together, Maybe a hundred, maybe more, But still, it never feels like enough, You shared a life, now it’s no more.
Count the days you’ll have to wait, While pain and sorrow still remain, The numbness in your soul declares The strength within your heart’s refrain.
Count the freckles on their face, For the number won’t change, you’ll see, And though they’re gone, that count will stay A memory for you to keep.
So one, two, three, and they’ll disappear, The past is distant, future unclear, But the present’s all we have, so true. Perhaps in another life, I’ll count on you.
Nikita Pchelin, E, IB2
One experience to tell, The most important story, Where the journey began, To the start of our glory.
Two Hearts
Two hearts entwined, Creating a cherished home, Our laughter echoes, Through fields we roam.
For three years we’ve laughed, And shared our dreams, An inseparable pair, Of moonlit beams. Through the ups and downs, We’ve stood side by side, In each other’s company, We find joy and pride. Through celebrations and tears, We stand strong, A duo of brunettes, A bond that will last long.
Many years of memories, Cherished and dear, Our friendship ignites, Forever crystal clear. With secrets whispered, Under the starry night, Our friendship shines, Ever so bright.
Counting the years we will share together, Through school, sport and college, Our dreams and hopes are completed, Now we present our Knowledge.
So under the English sky so fair, Two teenage girls, a duo beyond compare. May our bond continue to grow and thrive, In the land where our friendship will endlessly survive.
One, Two, Three,
Counting to sleep
I am lying restless in my uncomfortable bed. When will I finally be asleep?
Four, Five, Six, I have to find an effective way; The clock on my wall doesn’t seem to do anything but tick.
Seven, Eight, Nine, Breathing does help, right?
I do not even dare to look at the time.
Ten, Eleven, Twelve,
It was only 30 minutes, now a whole hour!
So will this nightmare, called awake, eventually end?
Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen,
My mind is filled with thoughts which I do not need.
This always happened to me when I was a teen.
Ninety One to Ninety Nine,
Watching as they jump over a fence, My eyes can finally close in this restless night.
Counting sheep does let time pass by.
Liza Anton, OH, Lower Fourth
Never
Ten times I have scraped others through words
Nine times I have done poor activities that hurt
Eight times I haven’t done my homework on time
Seven times I haven’t done what my parents say is right
Six time I have had a rage
Five times I have sat alone
Three times I couldn’t build courage to go home
Twice I have seen friends laugh at me to themselves
Once I didn’t even want to be myself
Never did I give up
Always will I build up.
Eva Thorpe, TC, Lower Fourth
Short Stories
Funeral March
It’s midnight. Tunes from a piano echo through the corridor, casting a melancholic atmosphere in my home. Funeral March, Chopin. My heart starts to sink a little bit. Oh, my wife must be playing the piano. I enter the piano room. She is there; her body moves with the music like swans dancing on water, so delicate, so graceful. I stand there, silently absorbing the beauty of the moment, acknowledging the profound connection between her soul and the piano. How admirable can she ever be?
As the last few notes of the Funeral March linger in my eardrums, I cannot help but reflect on the countless winter evenings we had shared together at the conservatoire. While practising repertoires for multiple performances at the Cleveland Orchestra, she played the piano and I played the glockenspiel. And that is how we had our first encounter.
It was a nippy winter evening. Our weekly practice eventually ended at 8pm. She took me on a late-night stroll, despite the heavy snow piled up on the roads. We were comfortable in thick clothing, despite the negative degree weather. Walking any which way, and sharing thoughts and aspirations, I couldn’t help but feel we would always be together.
Streetlamps dimly lit our path. We weren’t lovers yet, until she asked, “Can you hold my hands? They are feeling a bit cold.” I clearly saw her blushing even though the streetlights were annoyingly dim.
“Come here!” I told her. She drew near, looking me in the eye. I smiled and kissed her right on her soft pink lips. In that moment, our hearts danced in a different, but harmonious, tune. Shielded by the booming warmth of our togetherness, the biting cold could never reach us.
I tell her I will never be tired of her playing the piano. She breaks into an uneasy smile. “My hands would tire though. I’ll play you one more song before I end my practice,” she says.
The music starts again. Eyes closed, I can almost taste the tune. Music surrounds me; music touches me; music hugs me tight.
She loved motorcycle rides in the summer nights. Leaning on me, wrapping her soothing arms around my waist, the wind tangled her hair as we cut through the quiet streets. We would ride for hours, feeling like we were the only two people awake in this world. Those nights were our little escapes from reality, just my wife and I on the endless roads. She kept telling me that
riding motorcycles is dangerous, but she always accompanied me every time I rode my bike.
Disrupted, I open my eyes. What happened? Where is my wife? The room is still dark, and there is still music. But it sounds a bit more muffled and digital compared to a piano. I search around the room for the source of the music. On a desk, there is a tiny red radio, playing the same music: Funeral March, Chopin. It is snowing outside. The snow-laden streets, once our canvas of hopes and dreams, are now eerily silent. Snowflakes continue to rain down heavily from the dark sky.
Collapsing into my armchair, I ponder at the ceiling. It’s grey, just like the sky. Suddenly, a scene surfaces into my mind.
My motorcycle was stuck under a car. Lying on the ground, my vision slowly blurred into nothingness. I saw myself in a hospital, my body wrapped in bandages, my wife nowhere to be seen. “Your wife was wrapped under the car,” the doctor’s voice echoed in my head.
In tears, my mother-in-law grasped my collar and questioned me, “How could you do this?”
What happened?
Empty cans of beer are scattered on shelves and drawers in the piano room. I try to stand up, but my legs are painfully immobilised. No matter what, I must find my wife. The wedding vow we swore in the chapel during our wedding, now vividly rings out in my ears, “I, Max Scott, take thee, Lily Richards, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith.”
Using every bit of remaining strength I possess within my body, I stand up and start walking, although I feel utterly exhausted. The rooms seem less dim as the snow reflects light into the house. Room to room, my wife is nowhere to be found. Sweat starts to soak my t-shirt, making me feel uncomfortable as it sticks to my skin.
Until I realise. My eyes wide open, I collapse into a kneel.
My head aching, tears running down my cheeks, I realise that my wife is dead.
Isaac Siu, E, Fifth Form
The Shot
The click of the harness made everything so much more real. This skyscraper standing in front of me was glaring down. I stared back up with despair so deep, it ran shivers through my spine and, as my foot released from the wall, I let out a blood curdling scream.
I began to lose my balance; I felt the rocks beneath my feet judder as I found a pocket for my foot. My hands latched onto the ridged stones whilst I felt pebbles like daggers stabbing my fingers. Sweat ran down my face whilst my helmet straps grappled with my hair, desperate for comfort. The shot would be worth it, I told myself; the bright beaming yellow sun; the rolling mountains engulfing the clouds behind them; and the sea painted skies with gradients of orange to blue.
Birds began to leave the boulder above my head; flying back into freedom. My muscles were sore and began to tire the further up I went. The rocks above me felt insubstantial to the touch as the wind began degrading them with gusts of crisp air. That intense glare from the sun made time dilate and everything freeze within this one moment.
Everything stopped.
The clouds began to seem further from reach and my fingers tingled with the familiar thrill of anticipation—this was what I had always lived for, the quiet symphony of the wind around me. From now, every movement I made was a conversation between me and the rock. A part of me had wanted to give in to the pull of the earth, and to let gravity best me. But then there came that moment - when my hands gripped the summit.
And everything had became worth it —the struggle, the exhaustion, the ache. Everything was worth it. Just for this one moment.
Millie Hipkins, MW, Upper Fourth
The Meeting
Recovering from an uncanny dream, a mild, bitter breeze glided through the air as I stepped out the back door, putting on the hand-made gloves my mother had newly knitted for me. Since dad’s passing, my mum turned to knitting - relentlessly - for comfort, whereas I had turned to reading. The library was finally opening for the new year. I had just finished the ‘Competition Writing Club 1’ and was on my way to get the second, latest version! I was wearing an old pair of ripped up jeans, topped with my mum’s old jumper and a dark green scarf to keep me warm.
Fortunately, the library was only a three minute walk from my house; you had to take an immediate, straight left and follow the leaf covered path until you reached the corner shop, taking a right from there to reach my personal version of heaven: the library.
Clenching my book tight between my hands, I opened the creaky door and ventured in, a gust of dust clogging up my throat.
“Good afternoon!”, I exclaimed jovially. A deafening silence. The library was never this quiet and I was usually welcomed by the lovely librarian… this was odd. Then it clicked.
Two Saturdays ago, the day before the library had closed for the holidays, the local newspaper had wished the librarian a goodbye from her job of ten years. She stated that she was quitting her job, never to come back. The figure who was Miss Grove’s replacement was nothing like her, dark and slender, with an uneasy aura following him. As a sense of eeriness slithered down my spine, I headed right, knowing exactly where the book was and knowing I had to get out - quick. Something wasn’t right.
Numerous books caught my eye whilst I fished for the second version. If I could find it within five minutes, I could escape here in no time. Tucked away in the back, my eyes darted towards the sparkling blueish, greyish cover with immense, scarlet writing. Thrilled, I picked it up and I dashed towards the counter.
“This one please!”, I stammered, scanning the new librarian from head to toe. Before me stood an oddly familiar face, yet I could not place him. My heart raced; there was a strange movement in front of me.
Its eyes were bulging out of their sockets, its mouth was slit from ear to ear, its nose had been ripped off. What was happening? Sporadically, lights started to flicker, and I could no longer just stand there. I had to get out.
Hangma Limbu, MW, Upper Fourth
A Little Idea
Deep within the craggy, arid terrain of an ancient mountain range359 miles south of the northwestern coast of Africa - there is a wide valley that stretches into the distance, carved by a winding river that flows on the valley floor. Beside this river there is a city, with thousands of tightly packed clay structures climbing up the steep cliffside as if to escape the sun’s scorching rays. Each of these buildings has the same ornate latticed windows, exquisitely crafted in perfect rows and small, flat roofs with unexpected, teeming gardens. Narrow paths weave their way through the buildings, all bustling with townsfolk and sheltered by lines of dangling garments that droop between windowsills above. Bazaars dotted arbitrarily around are full of vendors bartering prices for fruits, fabrics and miscellaneous pieces of jewellery.
But there is a sense of overwhelming trepidation brooding in the heart of all, for the moon will shine full tonight - they will appreciate this day.
The dreaded night comes too soon; the sun slowly starts to dip below the craggy horizon, and the cursed city of Jadu starts to plunge into an eerie silence.
On the other side of the canyon, two figures approach each other in the shadows. One of these figures is an imposing man - his long, slender arms hanging by his side with his shriveled hands inside the pockets of his grubby cloth overalls. His wilted eyes are sunken into his protruding skull and his dark, wispy hair flows gently in the sandy breeze, subtly illuminated by the striking silver of the full moon. Opposite him is the other figure. But this is no man: this is a beast. Its cat-like build is offputtingly warped, its bones sharply protruding from its grey skin, and its abnormal legs far too long for its body. Upon its head, its ears look stretched, and its glinting eyes are piercing red.
“Zephyr, we meet again,” the man whispers dryly.
“How fare thee, Thoth?,” the beast replies inquisitively. “I believe the last time we met was this very day last year, was it not?”
“As always, Zephyr, as always”, Thoth replies.
Thoth and Zephyr both turn to observe the dark city below them. This sparks a thought that has been lingering in Thoth’s mind.
“Zephyr, do you not remember the days when these people used to worship us?”
“Thoth, you know The Deus believes fear is the new way. This is how it must be.”
“But these people, they have been punished enough, don’t you think?”
“Of course not,” replies Zephyr, “these people have done horrible things, things that cannot be forgiven. Even by us.”
“You mean by The De-”
“Be careful, Thoth. Do you not remember?,” interrupts Zephyr.
“Ah, yes, forgive me.” - Thoth’s foolish tone is beginning to put a nervous look on Zephyr’s face - “but throughout all these years, has He never had even a slither of thought tha-”
“Thoth,” interrupts Zephyr once more, “you must put these foolish thoughts aside. You of all people should know that The Deus is always listening.”
“What does it matter to Him! It is merely a small idea after all…”
“If it is only a little idea, then it is not worth talking about,” declares Zephyr.
“Yes, I suppose,” Thoth replies Zephyr lets out a sigh of relief. But then Thoth continues.
“But I-”
But before he could finish, he was dead.
Zachariah Mathews-Wiggins, S, Upper Fourth
A Different Man
The vines ran for miles around the house, hiding within them mythical provincial cicadas. Their songs were the only sounds that resonated in the quiet valley. On the right lay a purple field of lavender, its floral scent engulfing the surrounding nature. Within the soft breeze, the trees swayed whilst squirrels rustled up the dancing branches.
A brick castle with pristine white walls stood in the middle of the field, its balconies draped with vines. The abundance of different shades of green created a magical canvas of forest and grass, a tapestry that shimmered in the sunlight.
Inside the walls lay a beautiful carpet with leather chairs lining its perimeter. A large dining table stood to its right, gilded with blooming tulips.
Through the great glass panel, a turquoise pool lay, the water glistening in the sun, rippling in the breeze and inviting all of nature’s beautiful creatures to bathe by its water. Birds chirped by the water bank and would come and go to refresh themselves on such a hot sunny day. Under all this beauty, in a backroom of the castle, an old wine vat stood like a guardian of tradition, crafted from rich, dark oak. Captured within this vat was the crest of the castle, the history of its life and the symbol of its prosperity, all within a hand-crafted liquid phenomenon. Lush vines draped lazily over the top, as if nature itself had chosen to embrace this jewel.
Rustling in the vines, a crouched man was picking the grapes, his hands calloused and strong, moving rhythmically through the foliage. Deep lines etched into his sun-darkened skin told the story of many harvests, while dark hair streaked with silver framed a face of pride and weariness. He stopped for a moment, raising his eyes to the horizon, where the sun was low and spread gold over the vineyard. A soft sigh, amidst the sweet scent of raisins, blended the satisfaction and unsaid burdens of his life.
Just a few rows over, a young man stood with a basket in hand, the late afternoon light catching the mischievous glint in his green eyes. He squatted down with sweat dripping down his forehead, huffing tiredly as he watched his father work. His wavy hair danced in the breeze while he gazed beyond the limit of the fields. As he glanced towards the rows of grapes, a flicker of determination sparked in his gaze.
“Gustave! Get back to work now instead of dreaming over there.” The old man’s thick accent resonated through the fields. “I have stood here shouting your name for five minutes. This is unacceptable!”
Gustave didn’t flinch, yet his hands immediately got back to rustling in the vines. He looked up; falcons circled around his head, looking for prey to kill. Gustave thought about this, of his life being the prey about to die.
“I must find a way out of here,” he thought.
“GUSTAVE!” Gustave jumped up and fell on his back. “How many times will I have to tell you? I’ll have to find a more efficient worker.”
Gustave picked himself up from the dirt, heart racing, as he brushed the remnants off his overalls. Pierre’s words hung heavy, like the dense summer heat; and as his eyes met with his father’s piercing gaze, Gustave had felt the expectation weigh down. The farm filled with gnarling vines and fields, which had belonged to his family for over a hundred years, were, to Gustave, a cage where each row of vines was a reminder of the dreams he had suffocated beneath the weight of expectation to continue the legacy.
Back in his room, the small candle lit the bed and cast a shadow over the planks. The wooden floor creaked as he paced around his room, desperately trying to find a way to reveal his desire to flee. He had to leave. The thought filled him with a mix of dread and exhilaration. In truth, it wasn’t just about escaping the relentless farm life; it was about discovering who he was beyond the fields.
“A different world could lead to a different man”, he thought.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Pierre murmured to himself “What have I done wrong?”, the question hanging heavy in the stagnant air. His mind darted through memories of his own youth, the dreams he had shelved for the sake of the farm, and the hopes he had pinned on Gustave. He continued to rock back and forth on his armchair. He could still feel the damp soil beneath his nails, the satisfaction of a good harvest. Yet he couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps, deep down, he had expected too much from a boy who was still finding his way.
Ernest Racape-Hooper, S, Upper Fourth
www.bromsgrove-school.co.uk