The Bones………...…….….….Page 2
The Sting……….……………...Page 4
Elizabeth II..…………………....Page 6
GCSE Exam Practice…...…Pages 7-11
Year 7 Exams……………Pages 12-15
Dystopia extracts……….Pages 16-24
Rattling, the bones scattered across the sun-baked pavement, their ivory finish glinting in the harsh midday sun along with the pink sheen of recently removed flesh. The girl, itching in her tight black dress, gathered the bones in her trembling fingers, welcoming them back to her beckoning hands. Some attempted to soundlessly slink away; burrowing back into the ground in an attempt to hide from the girl who threw them with abandon. But the broad daylight and unyielding cement left no bone unturned. While her seat itself was not the pinnacle of comfort, the girl found it more appealing than occupying a space next to her mother on the harsh wooden pews of the church.
The skies began to spit poison onto the sidewalk– poison that hissed against the scorched ground, cooling the surroundings. The air took on a charged atmosphere, waiting in suspense as the girl pitched the off-white joints into the air once more. They turned, tumbling over each other in quick succession.
Nothing.
Cursing, the girl suppressed a frustrated hiss. She has never harboured much skill in the game of knucklebones. When her and her brother had played, he had beaten her religiously every time. The memory of her and her brother’s first game of knucklebones washed over her; the day he had fallen in love with the game of dexterity. After hearing the wealthy kids up the street exclaiming over a game they called knucklebones, the two had seated themselves stalwartly before the dwindling fire; prepared to learn and conquer the unfamiliar game. They had tossed small stones (as only the affluent could afford to play with a sheep’s knucklebones) until a mosaic of murky purple and discoloured yellow spread across their skin. Playing until her brother became utterly adept at it; playing while she still struggled to capture even one bone on the back of her hand; playing until the only illumination was a dwindling candle and deafening silence dwelled in their normally cacophonous household. Yet she continued to play at her brother’s behest. She would do anything for him.
But it was never enough for him. He had watched the wealthy kids with jealousy rooted in his narrowed eyes; tracking the movement of the ivory knucklebones worth twice what they were, complaining of their lack of skill, whispering that she deserved to play with their bones. Until one day he had strode to their side of
the street, ready to pitch his skill against theirs. His echoed whispers – unfulfilled promises – of rich mutton filling her belly while they amused themselves with the bones of the sheep they had consumed, carried her back to the present, where marks from the sharp bones indented her sweating palms. Loosening her strained grip, she tossed the bones once more. Rattle, rattle, rattle. The continuous noise of the bones and her breathing buried into the blood and sinew of her brain.
“Are you playing all by yourself, my dear?”
Pity infused the voice that broke her trance. She glanced up in exasperation, squinting her eyes against the harsh sun that silhouetted the meddlesome woman, beating an imprint of the shape into her eyes. She flicked an inquisitive worm off one of the scattered bones.
“No,” she said curtly, twisting her hand swiftly and seeking the bones like a bee searching for the sweetness of honey. Bone collided with bone. The cracking of her own knuckles mixed with her brother’s. Since birth their every movement had been aligned – in sync. They swore never to be parted until the day worms burrowed into their joints; making a home in the sockets of their once dancing eyes. Even now, they weren’t.
“I’m playing with my brother.”
Panic-stricken, I wrenched my hand from where it had been resting on the grass – letting out a shrill shriek as I stared alarmedly at the newly-formed lump on my finger. Pain seared through my body like a missile in pursuit of its target, and I felt fear. Real fear. Cold, irrational fright that came feeling for my soul, and dug its claws deep into my raw flesh. I was wholly, undeservedly under attack, and I could have guaranteed it was the bees.
Mere moments ago all was serene. The balloons placed around the lawn tugged gently on their strings weighted to the ground, casting techni-coloured shadows playfully over the cool grass. All was content. Sunbeams cast their comforting rays gently across the back garden, and the earth seemed to murmur with the hazy buzz of late summer afternoon. I inhaled. The sweet smell of strawberry tarts wafted tantalisingly from the kitchen window, which was slightly ajar. I had lost track of the party game we had been playing, all six of us - too engrossed in the beauty of my surroundings. I let the warmth of the beams delicately stroke my face, my arms, my neck. Just as I closed my eyes to absorb the last lingering streaks of sun,-
BAM. The sting had been stung. At this moment, the sun’s warmth dissipated faster than a bag bulging with marbles splitting, and it offered me no comfort, no solace in such a distressing situation.
I was distraught. Upon gazing down at my ill-fated index, my eyes were met with a horror of a sight. Red liquid oozed out from the corners and crevices of my skin, trickling menacingly down my wrist and dripping tauntingly into my lap. My eyes soon swelled with the weight of a thousand tears, ready to erupt and flood my sorrow.
Vision blurred, I stumbled backwards, aimlessly holding my hand out in hope of preventing a further fall. With my face now streaked in salty tears, I let out an almighty wail – bawling with increasing ferocity as distorted figures loomed further and further towards me. Death had arrived, I was sure of it. I pounded my legs across the grass in my last desperate attempt to flee, panting, panting when suddenly-
Death took hold of my hands. And briskly wiped my tears.
“Whatever is the matter now Noah?”, my older brother inquired. Still shaken from my near encounter with the afterlife, I blubbered between sobbing breaths:
“The… the bee… it, it STUNG me!”.
I looked down at my injured hand, which Jamie still had resting on his knee, and watched him dab away splotches of red with his sleeve. Tentatively, he brought my hand up to his nose to sniff it, and then proceeded to slowly shake his head. I feared the worst.
“You’ve only gone and put your hand in a fallen cherry, silly billy!” – and with that, he ruffled my hair and returned to the others playing the outdoor game. The sun submerged the garden in light once again, the clouds having passed. Frantically, I wiped my hands all over the grass and scrambled to my feet in defiance as I cried out to him:
“Oh…I knew that!”.
Dear Editor, Skills, strengths, or superficial shams: do celebrities deserve their fame that they “all” worked so hard to get? While admittedly many celebrities have put in years of work for their reputation, there are also those that have done a few hours of video editing and got twice the fame of those who put in effort. Surely those with incredible skill, unwavering determination, or years of relentless effort deserve it far more than some fraud or faker.
Why do we raise individuals to the phenomenon of fame - it has no need, physically or mentally, so why does it exist? Obviously, this does not mean that it must be a bad thing, but in current times it is often being used incorrectly. Ideally, we should celebrate those who inspire others and those who use their fame for spreading positive messages and improving other people’s lives, but instead we use it to support people who take the fame from more worthy people and ignore the responsibility of the power over the public that comes with it.
How many scientists who changed and renovated the world can you think of? Now how many social media stars who are famous for absolutely no reason can you think of? In 2021, it was reported that: approximately 93% of people could name more influencers than scientists. These influencers have done nothing to change the world and given an insignificant amount of time to their career, whereas, many scientists give their life to their career, and you do not even know their name.
You may think that being famous means that they must have put their valuable time into it, however it only takes a click of a camera and a few hours of editing. Anyone can do it easily, but we still honour those who do it above all those poor talented heroes who must give up on their dreams that they have put so much time into, because all the fame is being stolen by those influencers.
It is a surprisingly simple solution to this scandal. As all celebrities are downright dependent on the public, the answer is obvious. Just stop watching their videos. Stop giving them undeserved attention. Stop giving them free power over the public that they will not use responsibly. Instead support people who deserve it, or people that will use it to encourage and improve others. The pathetic state of our society is embarrassing, and the ability to improve it is down to you.
Yours faithfully
Jacob PDear Mrs Bizior,
If you have ever observed lessons first period on a Monday morning, you will realise just how unmotivated, sleep-deprived and utterly exhausted students across the years are. Undeniably, this is due to the 09:00 start that occurs in every school around the country. Don’t you want to be the first school to make a change for the better of our students? It has been proven by professionals that everyone has a built-in clock – called the circadian rhythm – that determines the natural time we wake up every day. For teenagers, there is a tendency for this to be much later than the start time for school. I believe that this can be combatted by beginning school at 10:30 so that pupils can get a full night’s sleep without worrying about the imminent commencing of the school day.
Dr Barton, of the Oxford University Reasearch Institute, stated that ‘teenagers aged thirteen up to eighteen are far more stimulated between 11:00 and 13:00 after having eight hours of sleep the previous night’. I remember one day when I was in Year 7 and I slept through my alarm clock; I woke up at ten o’clock! By having these extra hours of rest, my concentration levels throughout the rest of the day were at an all-time high. I watched as my classmates suffered sleep-deprivation and I reaped the benefits of that relaxation.
Furthermore, GCSE and A Level results will increase majorly since candidates can concentrate in lessons more efficiently, therefore allowing information to be understood to a higher degree. By not acting on this dilemma, you are actively allowing exam grades to drop, and this will only continue to worsen as time goes on. Another problem to take into consideration is mental and physical health of students and teachers. When students achieve a full eight hours of sleep, they can be much more energetic in regards both academic and sport-based activities. Giving teachers an extra hour or two to catch up on marking in the mornings will alleviate stress greatly. In addition, some teachers have young children to take to school which can be a danger. In changing the start time, rush hour will not occur when school starts, meaning that it will be safer to travel to and from school.
On the other hand, it was said that 45% of parents have office jobs working 9-5, evidently indicating there may be problems with transportation, and this is something that we would have to tackle before implementing the new rules. Also, there is the worry that school will finish later than usual, however this does not pose as an issue to me since the day can be shortened and therefore taking time out of holiday to cover all the required content.
The solution is clear: we need to start changing now before countless more students begin to suffer with the morning struggles that many face each day. Please let me know your thoughts on this important cause and I look forward to hearing back from you.
Yours sincerely,
Sophie C-BDear Mrs. Bizior
Exhausted, exasperated, and empty, the KS4 students of Luckley House School’s wellbeing is dropping by the day. We are fatigued and overwhelmed by our stressful school lives, and yet we are still expected to work at our hardest. Sooner or later, something will have to change, and the solution is simpler than expected- a later start to the day. Starting school at 11:00 for KS4 students will make an impactful and positive difference in the day-to-day lives of your beloved students, and improve the focus, wakefulness and work ability in class time. Young people in Britain are some of the most sleep deprived in the world, losing on average 10 hours of sleep. Clearly, this is hindering our ability to work at out highest potential, and so we urge you as headmistress of our school to take action against the enervation epidemic.
Children in KS4 have been proven to function better later in the day. According to neuroscientist Russel Foster, KS4 student’s circadian rhythms function differently than to one of an adult or younger child, and that disrupting these natural rhythms can lead to frustration, anxiety, weight gain and hypertension. Is this really what we want to be promoting? As a society, we are setting our schoolchildren up to fail with these ignorant start times and ignoring their bodies for the sake of education. We are risking more and more children turning to substance abuse to get through the day, and we must act now before it’s too late.
As seen by the exhaustion in teens and drops in grades, it’s plain to see that the times don’t work. In a study conducted by Paul Kelley, a group of teens were given later start times for their GCSEs, in order to catch up on sleep. An incredible 40% rise in the amount of A-A** grades was recorded, proving that a later start time has positive effects on the grades of GCSE students. If you were given the solution to increase your school’s grades you would take it, wouldn’t you Mrs. Bizior? Think of all the new students we
we would gain from the amazing grades, the feedback from parents saying how impressed they are with the school, it seems too good to be true- but luckily for you, it isn’t.
In my case, I always feel tired in my morning lessons, and I never take in much information before 11am. It is difficult for me to focus, and I’m not the only one. In a survey conducted at our school recently, 86% of students said they felt they couldn’t focus at this time and found it tricky to pay attention when all they could think about was going back to sleep. Essentially, before 11am, it’s unfair to expect students to pay attention when they’re tired and unable to devote their full focus towards class. It is not realistic that students should be expected to produce their highest quality work, when they themselves do not feel their best- and as a school, the student’s wellbeing should always come first.
However, there are a number of obvious problems with this change. For example, what happens when school pick-up and drop-off interferes with parent’s work schedule? What happens when family time is interrupted by school later at night? No need to worry, because as a matter of fact, when interviewed, most parents agreed with the idea of starting school later! Maybe they’ll enjoy having their children feeling healthiermentally and physically. As for family time, wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy a lovely family breakfast, instead of rushing around early in the morning looking for PE Kit, unfinished homework and clean shirts. The extra time allows for more sleep, and more time to get organised, instead of coming to school tired and delirious, with a dead surface, the wrong books and an empty water bottle.
As students struggling with our daily lives, we urge you as our headmistress to take action and help us. As teenagers with different circadian rhythms, it is impossible for us to act normally this early in the morning. We are suffering, and we are exhausted. If you really care about your students, then this is how to help us- let us rest, let us sleep and let us have a chance at success. Please consider our cry for help, consider the grades you would gain and consider the change you would see in your KS4 students.
Yours sincerely,
Mieja, Sufferer of the Enervation EpidemicAs I ambled along the dim, grey, cobbled streets of Wokingham, a flash of brightly lit flames caught the corner of my eye. Turning around, my gaze to the sky, I could see a fire-eater peddling slowly around on a banana yellow unicycle. I picked up the pace and curiously tiptoad forwards. When I arrived at the impressive street performance, I had to jump with all the momentum I had, to be able to see what on earth was going on. Stopping for a second, I fumbled in my cyan coat pocket and grasped my tortoiseshell spectacles. I violently shoved them up my freckled nose and in front of my eyes. That was better. Now I could actually see his face clearly.
Barging my way through the ecstatic crowd, I finally came to the front. Squinting, I looked in awe at the man. Now I could admire what he was doing instead of having to propel myself up and down! Suddenly my nose twitched as I smelt the strong smell of burning burgers. Next to me was a young teenage couple, the boy looking lovingly into the girl’s chocolate-brown eyes. I happily smiled, my heart aching in jealously Turning back and away from the two love birds, I carried on watching the performing man.
At this point in time, he was engrossed in trying to balance on his unicycle and throw his rough tubes of fire into the air. He wobbled precariously! After finally regaining his balance, the talented human tossed them into the air as if they were balls of play dough. The astonished crowd gasped as he began to balance the jagged sticks of wood on his ruby red tongue. I flinched, horrified at what pain he must be going through. What if he got a splintered tongue?
Swiping the blazing sticks away, he quickly retracted his tongue back into his mouth, behind all of his dirty, yellow teeth. He cautiously stood up on his unicycle and flipped himself into a tight back-tuck. His sunny yellow unicycle dropped with a deafening CRASH!
Realising the act was over, the bulging crowd of people drifted away from the scene. Small children surged forward to place money in his bowler hat. Turning swiftly around, I contentedly slipped down the black, tarmacked road, thinking wistfully about the performer with no name.
It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. The flames danced before my eyes like a miniature sun. The man’s feet pedalled faster and faster, the drums beat, the fire leapt high in the air and … the fire-eater fell to the ground with a thud.
The crowd went silent for a few seconds before everyone jumped into action. A lady in a short skirt sprinted towards the police station, further down the street; several people whipped out mobile phones and dialled 999 and mothers shepherded their children away from the scene as I stood there in the middle of it all, thoughts chasing one another around my head:
“I should stay to help.”
“But the police are after me!”
“He’s hurt – I have to do something!”
“What if ‘they’ show up?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve dealt with them before.”
“Look around you! Everyone else is helping!”
“But…”
“If you’re caught by them, you know what will happen.”
I sighed heavily and took one last look at the injured man before sprinting away from the scene. I managed to dislodge my mobile from my backpack and dialled the taxi-driver’s number. Straight away it took me to voicemail. The woman’s voice said something about having to be within city limits and tracing your location.
“Hurry up!” I thought, biting my lower lip. “Please, hurry up!”
“…please leave a message after the tone,” the voice finished. “Beep!”
“I’m on Tottenham Court Road,” I garbled as fast as I could. “I need a taxi ASAP!”
“Thank you,” said the woman’s voice.
I shoved my phone back in my bag and stole a glance over my shoulder. I could see police and ambulance lights blaring at me from over the roofs of the houses. I bounced nervously from foot to foot and peeked down the road to see if a taxi was coming. The ambulance sirens started wailing towards me and I knew I only had seconds before they recognised me. “Please, please, please!” I begged. A taxi turned the corner at the end of the road and got stuck in traffic. I sprinted down the pavement towards it and just jumped into the back seat before a herd of police cars and ambulances veered around the corner ahead of us. I almost sobbed in relief as I ducked my head down to avoid them seeing my face.
“Where to, Miss?” the taxi driver asked, without turning around.
“Tower Bridge,” I said at once. The popular tourist sight would be so full of people that I could blend in easily. Plus, if they did suspect someone was there, there were tourist sights nearby.
“Good choice, Miss,” the driver approved, as he moved out of traffic and down the road. I collapsed down into my seat as the driver looked around at me.
“But I’m afraid I’ll be taking you somewhere much less pleasant,” he grinned, maliciously.
“Told you!” the voice in my head said. “Now you’re worse off than ever!”
It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. An unforgettable performance! These thoughts ran through my mind as pieces of gold and silver confetti scattered all around me. I sat back down on the mauve, soft, velvet chairs and finished my ice-cream. Chocolate goo dripped down my chin and made my hands sticky and sweet. While wiping them on what once was a cream napkin, Mum gave me the idea to go and meet some of the cast. It was truly unforgettable; my childhood dream was to be a part of the West End! Once I’d met the cast, my mum and I left and started to walk the foggy, noisy streets of London.
Suddenly, jumping out at me, in bright pink letters was a poster: ‘Age 13-15 girls wanted for a new show: Matilda.’ This was my chance; maybe I could live my dream life, on stage! I told my mum all about it and she agreed to take me to the audition. Then I noticed something in the bright, shimmering glitter… ‘Auditions 11th May.’ That was tomorrow! How could I ever prepare for something this big? However, I remembered something my dad had always told me: “There’s no harm in trying!”
He was right. Quickly I dashed home, dumped my badges and other show collectables onto my desk and started practising. I practised all through the night, keeping my dad’s special piece of advice at the back of my clouded mind. Once I felt like I knew the song and dance moves well enough, I hopped into my bed and put my fluffy, warm covers over my head. I rested my mind on a soft, sinking pillow and slowly fell to sleep, thinking about the wonders that awaited me.
I was woken by the yellow rays of sun, peeking through my musty windows. I paced around my room, finding my assortment of hairbands, bobby pins, dance shoes and my favourite tube of mascara. As fast as I possibly could, I got ready for the audition. Staring into my mirror, the lights illuminating my face, I remembered who I was doing this all for. My dad! After all. He was my biggest supporter and always had my back. That gave me a little boost of adrenaline and excitement…I was ready!
My mum and I soon arrived. We entered through large, oak doors into a massive ballroom. There were cream carpeted floors, crystal chandeliers hanging from great heights, and rows of chairs ascending nearly up to the roof.
A muffled voice came through speakers and called my name. It was time!
As soon as I stepped though the threshold, a jolt of excitement flew up my spine. Music started and there were smiling faces all around, watching my every move. I pushed myself to the absolute limit; I pointed my toes, tensed my legs and ginned from ear to ear! I finished the dance, red as a tomato, muscles aching…
A voice came from the director, the boss, the King of the West End. “You’ve got the part!” My face lit up. I jumped and twirled, excited as I’d ever been. I glanced at my mum, tears of joy streaming down her face. My mind became less clouded and I remembered…I’d done it. I’d done it for Dad.
I opened my eyes. Misifu was next to me ; his fur was soft as a cloud and he was sleeping like a baby. I looked out the window and I realized that I wasn't dreaming anymore. It had been one of the best dreams I had since The End.
Life before The End was gratifying; everyone had families, a decent house, food to eat… now things are not like that. Just the virtuous mega minders (how they like to call themselves) or the brainless gigantic heads (like we like to call them) have control of the world. Humanity mutated after that terrific atomic bomb and now some of us have massive heads and strong bodies. This bomb also made them crueller and if you don't give them what they want they will kill you.
This world is divided but they will always win. They have all the technology, the food, the medicines that are left and the strength. Some of us work with them in those massive buildings, like my Dad. He doesn’t want to talk about what he does in there but he always comes back home with these strange scratches and bruises all over him. I know it's something horrible and I’m going to find out.
I was woken by a cold sensation creeping around my ankles. Water. Briefly, I wondered why there was water swirling around my legs because I was safe, in my bed, at home. Lazily, I blinked open one eye to work out what was happening, and my eyes widened in alarm when I saw not my bedroom ceiling, but a roof of clumsily lashed-together logs. The remainder of my dream disintegrated in my mind as I looked around. The sunlight filtering through the gaps in the logs hitting my face felt like a spotlight. Then I remembered the water. I crawled away from it and my back hit the wall of the tepee I had built, shaking the entire structure.
Frantically, I scrambled toward the exit of the tiny space, emerging into the blinding sunlight. I covered my eyes and stumbled forwards to rest against the tree in front of me.
I stayed there for a second, my head buried into my crossed arms before I gained enough confidence to turn and see what had happened to my only shelter. The tide had risen again and almost the entire bottom half of my shelter had completely vanished into the dark, unforgiving water. I stomped away from the shelter, throwing my hands up in despair and starting to pace around what was left of the island.
My arms had started aching a couple of minutes ago, from both the weight of the paddle and from how long I'd been rowing. It felt like I had been rowing for hours, though realistically it had probably been about half an hour at most. My arms felt like they were about to drop off, so I threw my paddle down in my lap to give them a rest. Carefully, I scanned the water looking for anything that could be scavenged for resources. I was part of The Vultures, the biggest survivor group since the flood that I knew of, and we found at least 3 other survivors every week. As I studied what I thought was an old tyre, I noticed something. There was an island. It was directly in front of me, and close enough that I could see some detail in the trees and... a person. A person who appeared to be pacing and yelling out of... Frustration?
I couldn't tell from the distance but if I strained my ears, I thought I could catch small fragments over the perpetual harmony of the ocean and the wind in my ears. I picked up my paddle again and started towards the island. As I drew closer, I could tell that it was a girl; she looked around my age and was still pacing. From here, I could make out some of the words she was shouting. Frustrated was an understatement. She sounded furious and she appeared to be yelling at the sea of all things.
"Stupid ocean!" I yelled, kicking the ground. All of my belongings had been in the bottom half of my tent, which obviously hadn't been a good idea in retrospect considering I was stuck on an island and the tide was constantly rising as it had been for two years. "Hey!". I heard the shout and spun around hastily. Was it another person? Or was I finally going insane after being stuck on this godforsaken island for so long? I looked out in front of me and all I could see was an ocean that seemed to go on forever. Maybe I was hallucinating.
The unusual scenery twisted around me in a kaleidoscope of colours: pink, red, green, blue. They seemed to congeal and expand when you focused on them. Some however faded and moved: running away to the edges of my vision, just lost from my mesmerised gaze. Wait, what was I doing? Colours - running? Ink? No, light. It was like oil, a thick sheen of oil, of sweat. Why am I sweating? Running, I was running.
Suddenly, I was aware of my stillness. I tried to move but the motion felt like toffee, hot gum, sticky, my limbs stretched, dripped, and melted down like the roots, the trees. I felt the air move around me, instinctually, I put my arms up forcefully but the hot gum released my limbs. I hit the dirt hard, my arms flailing above my head. The smell of pine needles and decay overwhelmed me. My head cleared for an instant; I need to leave. I sat up quickly and my vision pixelized, but it wasn't the sappy distortion of my earlier condition. I got up fully and launched into a run, almost smacking into a tree again. The pain abruptly registered and a wave of nausea caught me. The rough tantalising bark on my hands -no, run.
My legs moved fast underneath me, but I was hardly aware of them, I just looked forward: unseeing. My body cut through the dense air quicker now bringing me nearer to the fade of trees where the oily sheen thinned. I was brought right up to the surface, my face smooshing against it, stretching it like a bubble; I broke free.
I heaved a breath. The sour air burned down my throat and lungs causing me to double over. At least I was out. My head felt lighter, and I could now understand what I had just done. The forest had almost killed me, and it was my fault, but I had wanted to leave the sky colony and I would have done anything to do so. Ever since the primates moved up their things have been easier, however, when things got easy, we searched to develop and progress. Every time they think it will be better, but it all leads to the same thing: guns, bombs, death, nothing. This time was no different.
I glanced around me. There was nothing after the tree line: just waste land, barren and desolated. In a few spots the oily sheen slithered around small plots of shrivelled weedsstill trying to survive the uninhabitable land- like low clouds. That's one of the reasons we moved up - after we poisoned the world the natural world learned to adapt and evolve: the animals all but left but the plants built a protective shield to keep us out. Up there we've been living off synthetic fibres.
The weather was bleak all through the seventh month of the year, and despite the vibrant leaves decorating the trees, and blooming flowers littering the floor as the season was ending, no livelihood could be found anywhere around- but that nearly always seemed to be the case within the past few centuries.
After the rise of humandinosaur coexistence, the people who couldn't accept the change fled to the under- an area of pure botanical beauty, however inhabited little-to-no other animal life.
The under had not seen dinosaur life for thousands of years, but the humans that lived in the picturesque area spent weeks at a time -sometimes less, sometimes more- hiding, just in case a dinosaur managed to drag its filthy body past all protective measures, and into their peaceful abodes.
I was walking to the office when I saw him, stomping along the road, heading directly at me- albeit rather slowly. As he got closer, I could feel the ground start to shake and my vision go blurry- it was similar to that one feeling, the feeling of being in an awkward conversation, while the other starts yapping on about how "This restaurant was so good!" or how "That show I saw last weekend was so cool!" , and all you can do is wish for the earth to swallow you whole, before they start off again.
His eyes grew clearer as he made his way towards me, and they were red - so very redlike he was slowly burning, the fire spreading across his derelict body, gradually taking its residence within his vacant corpse. But fire was not the villain in this disturbing story - he was. With his razor-sharp claws, scaly back, and evil eyes- my feet felt stuck deep into the concrete beneath me, while the world spun and roared around my weakened frame. As he sped up, drawing nearer and nearer to me, all I could think about was how I was so late to work at this point- but that didn't matter for much longer, as I looked straight up to see the base of his giant foot crashing down onto me. It took a matter of milliseconds for my face to twist into an expression of distress, before the doors snapped shut.
The ambulance doors flew open, yelling of instructions echoing down the desolate road, as my eyes snapped open, then closed, then open again. It was a rather bothersome process, really, just for the vision I received to be that of two seemingly rather old men sat staring directly into my eyes. They clearly were trying to be helpful, and seem powerful, as to assure me of my safety, but their efforts were not at all useful to me- I had experienced horrors they could never picture, even in their most lucid dreams, but that gave me security in my mind forever on in knowing that nothing so terrible could be experienced by anyone, ever again.
"We know who you are.”
“We know why you are here.”
“We are here to take you back."
Their voices startled me, a monotonous tone, coming from both of them, at exactly the same time. They sounded so convincingly robotic that it took me a few examining glances up at them to assure myself they were just weird. Then it hit me, something they had said- "take you back". It triggered blaring alarms in my conscience, which echoed down through my body, shaking me to the core. I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to feel that again. I didn't want to walk back down that path of self-destruction.
The plastic clung to my face as sweat beaded on my temples. It was humid, thick, hard to breathe. Especially with the hazmat swallowing every inch of me, preserving my useless life just a little longer. My head was pounding from constant smell of hot plastic, clawing my nose until nothing else was there to smell. I looked out of the dirtied glass pane in front of my eyes, the constant reminder of the state the world was in. Sometimes I thought it would have been better to not see at all. The blanket of dense yellow and green spores danced through the air, spiralling and flowing. So beautiful for something so insidious.
Peeking through the air swallowing them where all the buildings of mainstream London. Once bustling, full of colour, culture. Life. A hollow shell of so many different people who were now all one. A carrier for this disease. I was desperate for food. Anything now. My supplies had run out. There's nothing. Anywhere. It has been 6 years since anyone has stacked a shelf. What I'd have done then to see someone do that. The little things we take for granted.
The yellow suit I was engulfed in weighed me down and hugged me tightly, trying it's best to keep me alive, making me hate it as it did so.
As I clambered messily over flipped cars -wary of the broken glass near my thin suit- I heard a rattle. My chest ached and the air suddenly became even thicker. A pained almost high-pitched breath broke the deafening silence once again. I looked down, my blood cold, to the open driver’s door next to me and saw a woman. She was young, must have been pretty. Would have had a nice life. Her eyes bulged out of they're sockets. Telling me the repulsive pain she was in. Her skin was tinted yellow, her veins coursed with a subtle green, begging to burst out of her skin. Blood had crusted at her nose and run up to her forehead as she laid upside down.
My focus was broken as she let out another disgusting, raspy breath. The haunting rattle of exhausted lungs and bruised ribs filled my mind, and as she screeched through her laborious breaths, I knew the plant had her fully in its hold. That's how it works. Or so I've learnt. The spores invade you, taking everything. Filling every organ, every tissue, every cell. And then it takes your ability to move, then to speak. Paralyses you. But keeps you breathing. Keeps you going just for that. To spread its pollen to all around.
I pulled my backpack of my shoulders and fumbled through it. I guess I wanted the gun I had stolen from an officer I'd found in the street a couple of weeks ago to put her out of her misery. But also, to put me out of mine. Her breathing was unbearable. I knew she could see me. The desperation in her swollen eyes hopefully begging me to do it. Not the other way round. I pulled the trigger and let the bang bounce off the empty, ghostly buildings around me and listened to the unbreakable silence around me once again. But this time, I loved it.
I continued on my search. I knew it was pointless, there would be no food, but my angry stomach clawed at the walls of me, pushing me forward and I just couldn't resist. But as I crept towards what looked like a little store, I felt something tapping against my thigh. From my experience earlier that day my arms prickled with Goosebumps and my blood froze once again. But it was me. I was shaking, all of me. I hadn't noticed. I couldn't shake her from my mind. she clouded my thoughts. Swallowed them, suffocating them from anything else. I'd killed someone. She might as well have been dead, but she wasn't. She saw me, smelt me, heard me. Felt the bullet I put in her brain. As she squeezed on my mind, making her grip tighter, I battled her off. If I didn't focus, I would be gone too, hoping for someone to show mercy, and gift me with the fate I gave to her.
My heart was galloping, my mouth was as dry as a dead flower, my ears were ringing from the mob of cries. The leaders yelled from their seating points. I was unable to see much on the battlefront apart from the mammoth formation of smoke clouds rising over the pale shadows of members higher up in the stands. I knew what was happening. I knew today was going to be the hardest day so far.
People roared out to the battlefield from their seats. Gasping for breath, I could see them. I could see them getting ready. This was my signal; I made a dash. As I ran, sweat dripped off my forehead and my whole-body throbbed. The feeling of hysteria was pounding through my veins. I stumbled over loose rocks and uneven ground beneath me. I knew when I made it, all I could do was wait…
Instantaneously, the explosion of fires had begun. I covered my ears with all the might I had left to give, closed my eyes firmly and wrapped myself into a ball. I took myself to my happy place with my dad and our favourite football. It felt like I could almost hear it, the laughs, the joy, the trees and the plants that surrounded.
But then all I could hear was the pounding pack of people racing from death. Cries echoed through my ears. People were panicking from all around (apart from our leader who was foolishly smirking above). I knew I should have ran, but I was utterly paralysed. The throbs, the cries, the pain all zapped away until all that was left was numbness. All I wanted was to feel nothing; I was stuck.
“Peter, it was thirty-six years ago, you can let it blow away now.”
I never will. I remembered, I remembered it all: the smells of lingering gas, the propaganda, the sights of the dull and washed-out battlefront. I remember it all as if it was yesterday.
Steel grey walls and dark stormy clouds surrounded me as I wandered aimlessly through the dark desolate city, lost in my mind. I always wanted to experience The Outside, but I can’t because The Purple People Eaters stop anyone who tries.
Every time anyone asks why, politicians respond with "It’s too dangerous for you!" in the same autonomous voice, every, single, time.
I looked for my friend Mike in the endless sea of people, but it was impossible to recognise him. Everyone wore the same uniform, hats pulled closely over our eyes, mask covering our mouths and noses and over our bodies scratchy grey tunics with regulation boots.
An alarm sounded sharp and deafening, summoning us to school. We filed into form. As I sat down, I nervously cast my eyes to the guard stationed in the corner of the room. I experienced a brief wave of anxiety as I remembered what happened last time a student asked a question about The Outside.
"Miss, why can't we go outside the walls?" Axel asked.
Before I had even registered the question, the guard in the corner was holding Axel by his neck and dragging him out of the room.
No-one saw Axel again after that.
The rest of the day started the same as every other day. The government logo flashed up on the screen ahead of us and we began to chant in unison, "Inside good, outside bad." After repeating the chant twenty five times, we all rose and marched into the Art room where we were issued with standard paper and standard ink. Then we were given our assignment: to make government posters.
Left, Right, Left, Right.
I repeated the regulation pattern time and time again, each time burning with resentment. Mike appeared at my side. "Did you hear what happened last night?" He didn’t even wait for my reply before he continued, "We saw the gate to The Outside open! Tommy managed to sneak out!" My heart stopped beating; a surge of hope filled my chest. For the past year Mike and I have been hearing rumours that The Outside isn't as terrible as they would have us believe. We've been plotting ways to escape into the unknown. Now one of our friends has actually done it! Suddenly I feel like I can't breathe. I notice the guard looking at us and so I quickly return my focus to the poster in front of me.
It's really possible, I thought to myself! The adrenaline rush I feel makes my hands shake and my palms sweaty. It's almost as if the guards can tell I'm thinking blacklisted thoughts. When our poster making is over I will have to ask Mike what happened to Tommy. Did the Purple People Eaters catch him? How did he get past the guards?
The alarm sounded again. It was time for lunch. We got up and walked to the canteen. The dark steel doors to the canteen slid open with a loud groan. I never liked this room; we only get thirty minutes to eat, and they only feed us purple grum. It looked like the chef threw every ingredient in the world into a mixer and served it up. It tasted horrible, like gravel in my mouth, but I forced myself to eat it through strong will and pure determination.
I may need the energy for an escape.
Tonight, I might follow Tommy's footsteps. I might get to see The Outside for the first time. The Purple People Eaters might get me, but I don’t care anymore. I want to be free.
I woke up to my damp, cold blanket draped over me as per usual. I lay there for a couple minutes feeling the hard stone floor against my stomach. I rolled over to look at the cream ceiling thinking there was no point in me waking up.
Do you have any idea what it's like day after day not doing anything, not knowing anything? It's horrific. I felt useless. As useless as a button hole without a button. I had no purpose; no one did.
We did the same thing every day: woke up, said hello to family, walked around the cold, dark room and sat on the floor staring into space.
"What do you think the weather’s like today?" asked my sister Lana.
Who knows what the weather was like outside? We haven't seen it in what felt like years. It could be raining, hailing even and no one would have a clue. That was one of the things I hated about this place.
And then there was a new sound.
For the first time today it fell silent; no one said a word. The boom from the world stopped and everyone's face perked up. Everyone has a confused yet relived and happy expression on their faces; the kind of expression that one would have if they won the lottery but hadn’t bought a ticket.
Had it finally ended?
"Is it over Mum?" questioned a little girl on the other side of the bunker. No one knew what to say, no one knew what was happening.
Everyone sat drowning in the thought of every possibility, of what could be happening.
Then a man opened the door. Each and every lock made a different sound when it unlocked. The door creaked open bringing a gust of fresh air.