The Luckley Literary Review - Summer 2022

I try to stop the blood from gushing out of my side but it won’t – it floods through my fingers, a red sea that covers my torso. As my legs crumple and I slide down the wall, I see a man walking away, bloody knife in hand. I tilt my head back, resting it against the cold brick, and gaze up at the night sky, stars glistening against the black canvas like speckled paint.

A particularly bright one catches my eye. It seems to grow, and it actually does grow and then it stands before me, a blinding silhouette. A hand reaches towards me, and I reach back. Am I dead? Is this an angel? Not quite what I was expecting. I would have thought angels would be these elegant people in white robes with wings and halos and – My thoughts are interrupted and shattered by my screams as the angel burns my hand with its own. It won’t let go, melting the flesh. I thrash around to get away, screaming and kicking and regretting kicking because my feet are scorched and it hurts so much and then the angel lets go as its head hits the floor with a thud. The body follows shortly after, taking what remains of my hand in its own and leaving me with a charred stump.

At least the wound is cauterized.

A tall woman with skin the colour of the blood flowing from my wound and horns reaching up from her skull into the night steps out of the darkness.

“Come,” she says. “I will keep you safe. No one will hurt you while I have you.”

A glowing liquid drips from her clawed hands, probably the blood of the angel. She reaches one of her four arms to the left, hand open. Seconds later, the man who killed me comes shooting out of the dark and into her hand. She turns her head to him, and closes her fist around his neck, crushing it as if it were nothing. Blood goes everywhere, mixing with mine and that of the angel. The red woman with too many arms – and too many eyes, I notice – lets his corpse fall to the floor.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits me like a truck: there is the man who killed me dead to my left, a glowing thing and its severed head to my right, a demon-lady in front of me, and I’m missing a hand.

So I cry, and rightfully so.

4

I spot the black blood leaking from the eyes and mouth and nose and ears of the demon as she falls to the floor and another being steps over her body. It is a skeleton white as snow wrapped in a cloak that fades into the night. It holds a scythe as unnaturally tall as itself, the blade reflecting the ethereal moonlight in a way that looks as if it were a light source of its own. I take the skeletal hand it reaches toward me in my own, and it pulls me to my feet.

We stand for a moment, in silence – not that it should be able to speak anyway because it’s a skeleton but I’m not ruling it out because of recent events – and takes my stump of a hand in its own and I grow a new one in the space of a few seconds. It then moves to the stab wound and heals that, too.

It tilts its skull at me, and I have no idea of knowing what it could be thinking in that empty skull, or if it can think. Looking into its eye sockets, I swear I see shadows writhing around, almost trapped.

The shadows burst out, and the night closes around me.

I open my eyes to five minutes ago. The man who killed me is on the floor, neck a crumpled, bloody mess, and I have two hands. There is neither angel nor demon in sight, but there is the grim reaper walking away, dragging the ghost of the dead man behind him.

They disappear into the night.

I walk the other way, scythe in hand, satisfied with my new beginning.

I will be the best grim reaper this world ever saw.

5

It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. A wrapped sweet, it was intact! Now you may be thinking to yourself: ‘A boy who spends his life scavenging for food in the streets to survive must have surely come across a simple sweet?’ no is the answer, or at least not one which wasn’t halfsucked already. Joy rushed through me. “Wow,” I murmured out loud, causing a few people to stare. Slowly and carefully I reached out and picked it up. The minute I touched it I grinned, you see, for a moment there I thought it was a figment of my imagination as it wouldn’t be the first time.

I ran. Like a mother carrying her new-born child, I held the sweet safely in my hands. I rushed past shocked faces, down through alleyway after alleyway. After passing a pub call ‘The Pigeon’s Plunder’ I stopped abruptly. I had reached my house. I mean, I call it my house but in reality, it’s just a small dead end of the alley. Nobody comes here much so it’s safe for me, at least for now.

I sat down on a gritty brick and admired it. I would have to savour it, I thought to myself. It was a brownish colour, like sand from a beach. It was covered in crinkle wrap which made it glint in the light. I began to unwrap it. It made a satisfying crackle.

As I touched the sweet it was tacky with a hard shell, yet slightly squishy. The more I touched it the more I wanted to devour it. By now I could smell a faint toffee scent. I let the smell engulf me. I wasn’t in a dark alley. I was on the beach making a towering sandcastle and screaming with joy as I ran through the waves, spitting out seaweed. There they were, my parents, sitting on beach towels, laughing. My eyes filled with tears. I blinked. It was gone.

Feeling now was the best time, I slipped the sweet into my mouth, preparing to be bombarded with luscious, wonderful and overpowering flavours. I waited.

It was toffee, yes. It was nice, yes. But to be honest it was slightly underwhelming. I swallowed it, choked a bit, and looked up to the sky.

Then it hit me.

It wasn’t the taste that mattered, nor was it the smell.

It was the memories it brought back. And for those few seconds, I was in heaven.

6

The searing sun rose, making the sky a flowing river of velvet red. The desert stretched for miles, void of footprints. Stale, unbreathed air hovered amongst the haze from the heat blanketing the dry, cracked, dusty ground. Tufts of week twirled around each other, like a carefully practised dance. The desert floor was their ballroom. Splats of green marked the surroundings, like paint splattered on a canvas, their weak leaves in an eternal flight against the cruel heat.

Cliffs of orange rock stretched their arms around the land before them, hugging it close, attempting to protect it from the burn of the growing sun. but as the day rolled by, the cliffs’ promise of shade was lifted, as a foul smell of burning dust arose from the weathered sea of rocks and gravel.

The master of the sky now sat still in the empty space. It was a perfect orb, and a perfect rim of gold drenched it, like running honey. Although evil to the sparse life of the desert, its beauty sang for miles, shadowing all, blocking its song. Its palace was still scarlet, draping across the blue sky to mask it.

The desert still stood empty… very, very empty. The gentle whisper of the weeds whipping the ground was all that could be heard in the deafening silence, but the rays from the sun could almost be heard, a gentle buzz like a bulb about to explode, too much heat and light for it to continue filling the room, dragging it back into darkness.

I opened my eyes slowly as the blinding sun hit my eyes. It was something I’ve never seen before; who knew the sun could be this pretty? I continued to stare at it, ignoring the fact that my eyes were burning. The more I looked at it, the better I could see every detail. From the shining white colour turning into a warm orange as bright as an actual orange. The little dots on it sparkling away. The thin rim around it a beautiful red colour as if someone had drawn around it.

I took my glance away as it was getting too much for my weak eyes. I looked at the brave mountains underneath it, standing strong all together. The sun’s rays shadowed it, creating a misty sensation. From what I saw they were as big as Mount Everest.

A breeze blew as warm sand covered my feet, on top and in between my toes. I looked down to see a comforting gold colour of the surface around me. The sun was excruciating, heat hit against my skin, draining all of my energy. I felt weak, as if someone strong had attempted to push me over but failed, with my feet just slipping about. Another burning breeze of hot wind hit me hard. The air was so thick that it was suffocating me and I felt as if I was being strangled. I closed my eyes as the breeze became stronger. However, I opened my scared eyes as a rock hit me but then suddenly, everything stopped. No breeze or wind, no storms of sand, no flying rocks, just nothing.

7

As I walked further into the desert, the more barren it became. It was as though the plants disappeared every metre and the musty, brown stone-like sand took its place. This was like nothing my delicate eyes had seen before, the monochrome colours sent signals of forgotten life into my body, filling my brain.

It was then that my nose came to life. Endless waves of pure, fresh, unharmed air flooded in uninvited, but needed. I stood for a second to process this scent. It almost entered my brain, easing and untangling the endless knots that pollution had caused. I instantly felt peace and calmness, like an escape from reality. The longer I stood in silence, the more I heard.

First, it was the crunching of the rocks in the deeps, worn proves of my books. Then the occasional squawk of a Mediterranean bird, searching for freedom like me. Every so often, a gust of wind would catch me off guard, unsettling the frail fragments of sand and rocks. Crunching. Squawking. Swishing. The sounds I’d longed for forever were finally here.

After a long period of silence, my mind changed focus to the light. The one thing that never stopped shining somewhere, the sun. Its orange glow radiating through my skin like shots of endless electricity. Shining as brightly as the billboards in New York I knew too well. The sun gave me a sense of joy I had never felt before.

The young boy stood at the splintering frame, watching the fog roll out behind the hills. His sister had been taken again. Again, in the screaming vehicle with the familiar blue, panicked lights. He remembered the look of desperation on her face as her breaths slowed, the fog fading on the frosted glass. And the glass; smashed in regret.

He didn’t need to see the shards to recall his butchered knuckles, wrapped in cloth from the curtains he once owned. She would come again someday, cruise in with the fog. He knew, somehow, that she was coming to his comfort.

8

It was common knowledge that Mrs. Porter was best avoided. Nobody exactly knew how she ended up as the drama teacher, and assistant head, of Wishan Grammar School but most agreed her rich husband must have had something to do with it. She spent most of her time strutting around the corridors and pouncing on any soul who threatened a single one of her stupid school rules. “You know, you shouldn’t really be talking right now.” Or “I saw that phone back there my dear.” Perhaps it was her calm and dangerous tone of voice that was the worst part. Whispering every statement like a well-rehearsed secret, making you feel as though she was ready to pull out a trusty pocket knife and slit your throat. As she leant closer, you could feel her warm moist breath and almost taste the excessive mint. Not even the other teachers stood against her will; though we didn’t blame them.

She had long black hair pushed back into a high ponytail that trailed down her back, the hair spray gleaming in the light. Her gaunt and pale face was so slim you could almost see her cheekbones and her enticing smile presented her 24 perfectly white teeth like in an advertisement. Her body was slim but not in a fragile way, she was as strong as any muscle man. She wore a black blazer over a white ruffled shirt, baggy black trousers, and 6-inch-high heels. Her shoes may as well have had spikes on them from the clicking on the floor as the children shuffled into crowds out of the way. To be fair, any person within a 20-metre distance could feel the evil emanating off her as though there was a fire burning her at the stake.

Her classes were agreeably the worst of the week. They included too much writing and theory for any kid to enjoy and she was constantly having her say in whatever performance was put in front of her. Everything had to be perfect but nothing any child produced could reach that standard. She really was Lord Sugar Jr in the flesh.

A group of babbling teenagers gathered around a door, listening intently to the gossiping voices of the teachers’ lounge. Loud steps filtered through the hall; Mr. Haskins wandered through the hall in his usual rounds. The students all stilled at once, silently debating running away, they all took turns to “shhhhh” each other each time more loudly. Mr. Haskins abruptly rounded the corner, causing the remaining students to scatter. His bushing eyebrows rose. He stayed still for a few seconds, allowing the frightened children to return to the spot in front of his, their faces masked with guilt. Bracing themselves for the punishment that would surely come from. A low chuckle escaped his mouth, the wide grin on his face changes his face completely: his rough burly face and amber eyes gleam with a warm, amused smile. Faint lines in the corners of his mouth deepened.

9

Lies. They were all lies. I was controlled. I was used. I was pushed around. I was silenced.

No one ever listened to me it was like I didn't exist, no matter how much I yelled, no one heard me. I was just a small-town girl living in a lonely world running away from her psychotic mind, sitting in the corner of the cold damp cell fighting the tiny voice in my head. I don't know how I ended up where I am, but all my life I have run and run and now I've been caught.

Blackness, nothing but blackness. Not a flicker, not even the tiniest spark. Just empty space, stretching further and further, obscuring my memories, taking my thoughts. I don't fight it. I haven't got the strength. My mind seems weak and inconsistent and unimportant now. A blurry image emerges from the disappearing jumble at the edge of my mind. It's hazy but I can make out a window, a car window, speckled with flakes of wet sleet and snow being whipped by the wind outside. Now an image comes and I'm speeding towards it, faster and faster.

I feel dreadful staring at the “Operation in progress” sign. I know it wasn't really my fault. can't help it, replaying it in my mind and suddenly I'm living it again. I was pulling out from my mum's house. Snow and sleet flew past like a thick fog. I was sure there was no-one behind me and suddenly the snow parted just like that, as if by an invisible hand and then it was too late to stop. Eyes wide, screaming, flashing lights. I can't take it. I cry.

I check the instruments, making sure they haven't changed. The readings stay the same, for better or worse. She's in a coma, unless she wakes up soon she will probably stay the same forever. The man who hit her looks so guilty, as if it was his fault. A miracle got to happen.

I've been waiting here for nearly two hours. About five minutes ago I went to the desk to ask about the person before me. They don't know much: just her name and age and that she suffered a possibly fatal head injury. Now I feel terrible for being impatient and want to feel sorry for her. But I won't. Sorry won't do her any good.

A flicker, a small spark grows into a flame. Emotions, memories, sensations all join until there's a blaze in my head, burning bright. Leaping, fuelled by my previously forgotten memories, it won't stop gushing through my mind. I can't keep any more inside my head, I can't.

10

The Soldier ran his weary hands over the gritty keys of the piano. His fingertips feeling all the pockmarks and scars on the surface of the piano, each one of them bursting with an untold story. The scent of rot was almost overpowering, the stench of a dead rat on top of the piano taking the centre stage of the wilting bouquet of smells emanating from the forest. What was its story, the Soldier wondered, was it escaping a predator or did it think this was a nice place to die? The thick layer of slime and dust coating the piano was at least an inch thick in places and filled with all manner of things from the forest...twigs, leaves and broken bones littered the piano in all of its crevices.

The cautious plinks of the Soldier as he played the first notes shocked the forest into silence. The birds fell silent and the very water in the air seemed to hang in suspense. The Soldier played slowly. The notes flowing through the air, tumbling over one another into the air, vying for room and recognition. The Soldier played song after song, filling the forest with beautiful sounds, stunning nature itself into silence. As the last song finally came to an end, the forest was still, waiting, pleading for more music, but the Soldier was finished.

The Soldier slung his pouch around and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting the end, he took a long pull on it whilst looking around. The Soldier looked relieved, finally being able to play again, and the joy on his face washed away his worry lines and wrinkles, making him look like an uninjured, innocent child once more. His hands trembled as the deafening silence rang out, becoming unbearable. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with a loud crunch.

As the Soldier slowly wandered away, the sounds of the forest resumed, the birds picking their dropped songs back up whilst also adding notes and melodies from the Soldier’s songs. The rustling of the leaves gave a last round of applause to the Soldier as he left the clearing and the birds whistled out, imploring him to return. He turned around for one last look at the clearing, then unslung his rifle and ran off into the forest, towards his fate.

11

An ocean of eternal bluebells stretched before me. A mixture of sapphire blue, violet purple and some fuschia pink blended together to create an ethereal atmosphere. It was as if miniscule delicate fairies were about to reveal themselves dancing in the jungle of purples and unveiling a scent both sweet and somehow nostalgic.

A fox crept tentatively through the undergrowth, he devoured any hope of magical being, but brought to life the natural beauty of the woodland, awakening groups of buzzing beas, butterflies now flitting in the sun’s gentle rays, and even making a collection of moths appear heavenly. A lone beetle scuttled across a ragged tree-stump – maybe looking for a mate – but getting stuck and meeting an end at every crevice and mountain, cave and hill, on the journey of a log.

In the aftermath of a fallen oak tree lay an abundance of insects and small creatures.

Earthworms basking in their new-found sunshine were transformed to a subtle shade of mauve and likewise, millipedes were now circus performers to an audience of scarlet and crimson ants.

The oak tree itself portrayed a life of brilliance and splendour, being at least thirty-five foot tall, before finally succumbing to the power of a storm that had been and gone at least several years back. Nevertheless the bark still striped the trunk in multiple shades of brown to black to moss green. The texture was rough and there was, seemingly, ancient bark decorating the ground around the tree from where it had fallen off with age – looking as though it were confetti sprinkled after a wedding, and rows of bluebells the joyful guests.

12

Falling. It could feel the time had come. It had done well, but just like the others, It had been rejected. Tossed to the side, discarded – useless. It could feel itself falling into the black abyss of which no Thing had ever come out. The giants call it a “bean” – or is it “bin”? Well, it didn’t matter. It landed with a hollow thud, echoing through the surroundings. As the light faded from above, It wondered where It could have gone wrong…

Light. Finally, after what felt like eons, It saw light. However, their joy was soon overshadowed by fear as It began to fall again, although this time It landed with a thud, clank and tink. It heard cries of pain not so far away. ‘More Things!’ It thought…could It’s feelings of loneliness finally be over?!

Yes, It was surrounded by other Things, just like It! Quickly, It’s feelings of hope turned to sheer joy! It was lifted from the abyss, along with all the other Things, onto some sort of moving shelf…Could…this be it? It did not think so, they could see a light burning bright at the end of the shelf. In fact, it seemed to be burning so bright it was like an oven!

It went into the light and felt the flames poke at their rusted exterior, start to curve the beads and reshape It into something that looked like someone had used a potato masher on them and then melted it. However, in addition to the oven, It could see giants just beyond the horizon, pulling down long bits of metal which, at the same time, seemed to move a large plate of metal onto the Things up ahead.

It did not like the look of this; the Things seemed to take a new form after too. It did not want to become rectangular like the rest, although it was better than being a pile of mashed potato.

It got closer, and closer, and closer…

“Clink!” went the metal plate.

13

It had only felt pain for a brief moment and now It felt better, stronger, as though It could fly away into another land. It liked Its new form, it was somewhat better than the cylindrical reality It knew before.

Suddenly, It was plunged back into the abyss. They dreaded having to go through that again, but…silence. That was all It could hear. Pure silence. Then noise…lots of noise.

Light. Finally. It felt light reflect off of Its now rectangular exterior, for the first time in a long, long time, It didn’t feel contaminated and constrained by rust.

It was placed next to a lot of Things, surrounded by a multitude of shelves. Suddenly, It was snatched off the shelf by a giant who had a shelf that seemed portable, filled with an excess of Things.

“Congrats on the new beginning!” cried one of the Things, “We’ve been bought!”

7th April 1984 I am an intellectual, a member of the Outer Party. The British Socialist Party instead placed me in an orphanage, which I discovered was primarily intended to raise children and recruit them into the party when they became adults. Even though I was a party member, I lived in rather poor conditions: a one-bedroom apartment and the same disgusting brown bread and synthetic meals, and Victory gin every day. Smells disgusting. I really don't know when these days will end.

Date: 3rd April 1984 London The air is bitter, the icy breeze always soars through my blue overalls, I have heard other people talk about this too. It's always been such a pain but, any complaint can send you deep into trouble here because someone is always listening. This is normal for me, and my fellow civilians. This world scares me and frightens many people too. I don't think I am the only one. I would say never judge a book by its cover but this city is instantly judged. From the get go! The city has a sense of coldness, loneliness and a steady odour of evil. It always seems to travels through the streets, like an infectious disease. My advice for anyone seeking a place like this is to keep low. Keep yourself to yourself and stay quiet. There is always someone watching. There is no way to escape!

14

PETS: PAWSOME OR IRRELEPHANT? In the 21st century, it has become normal to own a pet. Whether it is cute and fluffy or covered with scales, keeping a pet has become a great attribute to households all over the world. Is it even possible to treat these beloved animals cruelly?

Amusement or abuse Sadly, some members of society do feel the need to kick their neglected pooch around or make their tortoise go hungry. People may in fact buy a pet just to abuse it! Others buy pets to keep their young ones entertained, often because they hope that this will give them, as adults, some time to themselves. In reality, however, the kids think their animal is a toy which they can throw around or feed whatever they want.

Instagram worthy?

In some of the wealthier sections of society, some people buy a “man’s best friend” to take pictures with or dress up in the best designer dog clothes that are available to purchase. Although on social media platforms (such as Instagram, TikTok or Facebook), the pet looks happy and well looked after, in reality, these animals are often neglected, starved and yelled at. This may not be the case for all influences, but it is – sadly – the case for far too many.

Puppy Profits Across the UK, there are small barns filled with the devastating yaps of new-born puppies calling for their mothers, whilst forced into cages filled with about twenty other helpless pups.

This is known as puppy farming. The people who run these farms earn profits from selling illtreated puppies with fake vaccination certificates, then sell them to gullible individuals who think they are getting the pet of their dreams.

Popular Pets Luckily, in most cases, pet owners give all their love to their companions, which leads to unbreakable bonds between the two. Some adults are purchasing life long friends instead of having a baby! In Japan, for example, there are 22 million dog owners, whereas there are only 19 million children under the age of fifteen. This just shows how popular pets can be!

Whilst there are many stories about how pets are abused in the news, everyone knows someone who has had a success story with their companion and will continue to build that perfect bond with them.

15

Article on how pets are treated by Sophie, Year 9 PREMIUM POOCHES OR BEATEN BEASTS? It is common knowledge that some people love to pamper their pets with designer accessories and gourmet meals. However, there are also many strays and abused creatures out there. Can we be sure there is an in-between?

Maybe the wealthy are too rich Firstly, let’s address the big spenders. In Japan, it is said that more people prefer to be a pet owner than a parent.

Sometimes they spend hundreds of pounds just on a new pair of sunglasses for their unappreciative dog. How can we live in a society where pets are getting this treatment whilst others live the rough life on the streets? Nothing screams “This is unhealthy” more than seeing pushchairs with pets instead of babies inside them. Furthermore, the food these creatures are being fed is nothing short of what could be served in a five star restaurant. I’m not surprised they need pushing around 24/7 with all that extra weight!

Can we save the strays?

We’ve looked at the luxuries, now it’s time to show what really matters. Hundreds of animals each month are thrown out into the gutter because their not-so-committed owners can no longer look after the poor things. It’s not fair in the slightest. Luckily, there are charities and organisations who tackle this sad truth every single day. If you ever see one of these lost souls wandering aimlessly, mewing or barking at passers-by, give it some care and attention.

Make a middle ground Although there are many animal lovers who are fair and kind to pets and humans equally, the extremes are too extreme. I’m not even sure cats like wearing plush jumpers and little hats; I’m certain that they don’t like living on the streets. Overall – although it may not seem so – all the domesticated friends we have just want a warm home, a full tummy and someone to love them. That’s it. Nothing more.