tHE eDIT Winter 2025
From the editors...
We're starting off this academic year at The Edit with a selection of thoughtprovoking pieces, which adeptly showcase our students’ creative flair in writing. This edition serves as a particular reminder of their skill of being able to write prose or poetry without being restricted by a particular theme From commentary on the subjectivity of experience, to nursery rhymes with interesting twists, we hope that there is something here that will spark your interest.
In our lunchtime sessions, our writers are inspired to write what they wish with a prompt or a discussion, which enables them to invent engaging ideas These eventually turn into what you see on the pages before you. This edition marks the start of a very successful writing journey for some and also signifies the continuation of this journey for others We are certainly looking forward to seeing more entries as the year progresses.
We would also like to mention that Ava Weinbrenn's (Yr11) piece, 'Yellow', which was published in the Summer edition of The Edit, was highly commended in the Joseph's Inkwell competition Congratulations, Ava!
Happy reading!
Saumya Anand, 12 JZC/JVM
Ajai Athithan, L6S3
Janna Jess, 12 AE/NM
Hana Mehmood, 12 RL/ALM
Maya Shah, 12 DHH/CH
Sonder
The city breathes, an array of unseen lives, each - a lifeline encapsulated within its host a silent story playing out in real time The cleaner, wiping down the counter, an entire world of late nights and early mornings, reflected in the purple shades dancing under her eyes
The old woman hobbling across the street, her hands withered, face drooped, her eyes holding secrets only she knows a lifetime of love, losses, regret and joy. The student rushing to class burdened by essays, hopeful dreams, and what to wear on the weekend, a future yet unwritten, a story just unfolding
Think back to the bus driver, the doctor, the homeless man, the couple in school, the lonely, the lost and the found
Each existing in one world, one space, their narratives cross paths yet are distinct in themselves, a web of fresh experiences, woven into the path of the day.
We move through this space, passing each other, engaged in other things, unaware of the depth of the lives around us, the threads of connection, the experiences that shape them.
Sonder, the profound understanding that everyone you see has a life as intricate and complex as your own. A range of thoughts, emotions, and memories that shape their every move. An awareness, a reminder of our shared existence
Recognition, the whisper of unspoken stories, and the beauty of difference
Amelie Blake, 10 Ansuz
Row, Row, Row Your Boat
She rows as if someone calls her home Her shoulders shake with the effort; she is smaller than the oars, swallowed up by the night around her “Row, row, row your boat,” she murmurs half song, half prayer I recognise the tune Parents hum it to children to promise that life is gentle, that streams run smooth, that dreams stay kind. I’ve heard it thousands of times, and it is always wrong.
I watch her rub her eyes on his sleeve She’s tired Not the kind of tired sleep cures the other kind, the one that settles in when the world has asked too much of a child I feel the ache in her like a bruise: the shouting, the slammed doors, the way she learned to make himself small so she wouldn’t be noticed, or blamed, or broken.
She rows harder.
The river isn’t cruel, just honest It pulls her the way truth pulls anyone who tries to outrun it The current grips the boat and she panics “Gently down the stream,” she sings again, but now it’s a plea. She wants the world to be softer than it has been.
I don’t touch her yet. I just sit and watch her in the dark, the way I’ve sat with kings and beggars. My presence is the same for all of them: quiet, patient, unavoidable
When the oar slips from her hand, the splash startles her The boat wobbles In a panic, she tries to steady it, but fear loosens her grip on everything on the boat, the song, the hope that she might make it across. Alive, hopefully.
She gasps as the cold encircles her “Life is but a dream,” she sputters, as if she only now understands the line Dreams can be sweet, but they can also dissolve without warning
That’s when I reach for her. Not to punish. Not to frighten. Simply to hold her in a way she should have been held long before this night. Her hand is small in mine. Her breathing slows. Her eyes close. She gone for real, something that should’ve happened a long time ago
When it’s over, I lift her from the water The boat sinks further down
I stay with her a moment longer. Then, softly to no one in particular, to everyone I say the lullaby again, the way her mother once did
“Row, row, row your boat Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…”
A song about life. A warning disguised as happiness. A truth children learn too late.
“Life is but a dream ”
Solanki, 7 Powell
The Sound of Silence
The world paused just to see if we would, And for a moment even the wind waited too.
The silence didn’t ask for much, Only that the dust falls undisturbed, And the stillness has a place to settle
But we rushed to fill the quiet, Trampling it with hurried footsteps, With voices sharp enough to slice through the silence, With anything loud enough to smother it
And yet,
When the word lowered its own volume, We remembered how to listen.
Natalie Hirschfield, 9 A
Single Story
Picture this: first period, that time of day when your brain isn’t quite switched on, and yet history has still taught us that an early morning is necessary for the next generation to survive Of course, the seating plan (another completely necessary invention, created by the world’s most cherished teacher), had placed me right in between the two most extroverted people in school. Sitting down in my seat was my first sign that this lesson would be somewhat of a disaster The second was when she (we’ll call her extrovert number one) tried to snatch my pen. Apparently, she was joking. I didn’t find it funny. I watched as the red slowly spread from the table to her fingers, slithering its way up her hand until it reached the pen. “You can keep it,” I heard myself say. After all, it wasn’t as though I could use it now. It had been, as they say in biology, denatured, and had taken on the rather frightening shape of a red blob My greatest nemesis
Somehow I survived the first half of the lesson without running away, although that may partially have been because I was sandwiched between the extroverts and the wall. And there wasn’t exactly a secret escape tunnel beneath my feet. I slowly began to finish the questions I slowly began to realise what a mistake this was My mind was ticking, sort of like a bomb just before it explodes. Barely coherent thoughts circling, the only proof they were ever there the vibrant guilt and self-loathing, painting my brain like Mr Pollock would a blank canvas. It was then that the silence was broken. Problems solved, talking was the only remaining item left on the agenda. One by one they finished, and the buzz grew. Relief washed over me as the words outside drowned out those in my head
Eavesdropping on each conversation – if only for a little while – I could get inside their heads instead of my own. I could imagine that the most difficult task I had to deal with that day was doing homework, washing the dishes, or watching my younger sibling. Funnily enough, watching yourself die a million different ways is a lot scarier And a lot more painful
Suddenly something broke Like the dam holding back the flood had vanished, and the cosy fire keeping the shadows at bay had suffocated itself. My brain rushed to give the me the warning signals but, as always, they were too late. A sea of stars came shooting through my eyes, I could almost feel the fog drifting through my face The eyes came first, rolling for no apparent reason. Mind you, I wasn’t annoyed or upset. It is more complex than that, more terrifying Always, more terrifying I looked at my teacher, who of course didn’t have a clue of the fog or the stars or the chaos.
This seems a relevant time to remind you that a story has no meaning if only one person is telling it. A second narrator, a second voice speaking through the chaos? Now that makes all the difference
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see her looking at me She’s usually quiet, her stare quizzical, as if questioning my every move. Abrasive, bluntly honest and recipient of the highest grade in the class on every test. I look up to see the pain on her face, an expression of annoyance and agony She holds up the green card, and I nod slowly, unsure if I should follow her as she walks shakily out. Best to leave her be, I suppose. As she closes the door, I notice her smirking at me, as if I did something funny Was it a trick? Maybe she just wanted to leave, couldn’t stand to be here anymore. I suppose everyone in this class feels like that. I teach maths, after all.
The look of hurt as I leave still haunts me, my quiet desperation for someone, anyone to care enough to follow turning into a cruel smirk as I realise how laughable that would be. It is me, after all.
It is hard to tell a story, if you don’t know what the response will be. Will it have the desired effect, the outcome you were hoping for? In most cases, people don’t seem to realise there was ever supposed to be one. They just think that a story is a story, a princess saved by a prince is just a princess saved by a prince In reality, a princess saved by a prince could be the reason two generations of women stepped up to the task when times get tough, proving that they could save themselves. The outcome of this story? Proof that a single story, told by one single person, is the most dangerous tale of all One voice is simply one side of the story. Add a choir of voices, give them a little harmony, and you ’ ve got yourself a story that will really mean a little something At least to someone
For old time’s sake
Stay in the coffee shop with me Sipping a hot chocolate, As a singular marshmallow floats to the top Like a sailor lost in the ocean, For old time’s sake.
Walk in the park with me, Let the breeze paint echoes of laughter into my hair, Buy me an ice cream, So it can drip happily down my face, For old time’s sake
Stroll down the corridors with me, As we joke about the people we don’t like And tell stories That make us laugh until we cry, For old time’s sake.
Ride your bike with me, As we race down an endless road To see who can reach the finish line first, It’s always you, For old time’s sake
Play boardgames with me, Always choose the red playing piece, Always beat me, Even though I’m trying my hardest, For old time’s sake.
Sit in the playground with me, While we dangle carelessly from the climbing frame Like we ’ re perched on the edge of a cliff, Staring out into the abyss, For old time’s sake.
Mahi Shah, 10 Ansuz
Forget-Me-Nots
Piercing shrieks disturbed the twilight stillness. The clamour of a fox, scrambling on the leaf-littered floor awoke the girl From this she silently groans, rubbing her eyes from dreamy slumber – walking across creaking wooden floorboards with reluctant duty
The woman slips on an old flannel shirt and squeaking welly boots as she heads outside. Once she creeps downstairs and pries the front door open, she is greeted with a sparkling sky of shimmering stars and the full, November moon Much to her dismay, the doormat does not present a newspaper Nearby crickets buzz in the long grass – interrupted by another vulpine squeal
Under the illumination of the sky, her right-hand drifts to her locket gently tied around her neck. Fingers hailing from calloused palms caress the worn brass in mourning.
She sighs A deep, heavy breath
Then she strides, as if nothing were amiss, towards the growling orange heap of fur The body claws at the thistles, screeching like a red-tailed hawk. It squirms, restless, and crimson-matted fur twists in the nest of brambles. The smell of blood laces the still air, a pungent iron, the fox’s injury even more present
She stands over it, breath held as she beholds the sight The view is morbid – seeing an unfortunate soul slowly bleed out in an unavoidable place. Seeing thick thorns dig and tear into flesh. Watching as thick blood pools on the ground.
Yet it does not faze the woman
A wistful, pitied smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she allows herself to linger a moment longer It is oddly familiar to herself, she supposes – as if a reflection is staring back at her.
Then, with purpose, she takes and puts on her gloves before working at the branches encircling the creature The moonlight is dim, the hooting of an owl irksome – yet she presses on The gloves are a thin protection against the spikes, still managing to prick at her skin – yet she persists Her forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat as she tugs one final time, the plant finally giving way with a quiet snap.
Diligently, she presses an old cloth against the wounded fox – securely wrapped with a tight knot It is far from perfect, but it will suffice, she muses, while she stands up to stretch Her bones click as she rolls her neck, the fox watching in bewilderment. She matches the curious gaze with her own, raising an eyebrow. Inevitably, it scampers off towards foliage to hide.
Only then did the silence shatter
First, the dreadful sound of her heart in her ears Then, the flood of blood to her brain The rush of adrenaline crashing. She became painfully aware of everything.
Her skin felt clammy, the fabric of her flannel shirt clinging to her back The incessant buzz of insects echoed from the nearby field and the lingering scent of blood was suffocating The tiniest rustle of grass had her flinch, long shadows casting paranoia across the farm-ground Her throat constricted with sudden dryness.
Everything pressed against her, choking her with senses Everything was too much
So, like a bird, she fled Her boots carried her over the fodder-covered ground while her arms pumped for momentum – a desperate escape from all chasing her heels. She scurried through the field of wildflowers and grains, sky turning brighter with each passing moment. While she ran, the stars above dissolved into the beginnings of clouds. The stalks of swaying wheat absorbed colour, the flowers blossoming with vibrancy By the time she stopped – legs aching as she leaned to pant on her knees – the top of the sun was peeking over the hills
As soon as everything came crashing down, it stopped. The shrill sounds of nightlife were replaced with the quiet whistling of the early bird. The harsh cold now the warmth of dawn. She slowly sat down among a patch of flowers and let her fingers drift Over the flaky wheat, the soft grass, delicate petals before settling on some forget-me-nots The brilliant blue caught her eye as lump formed in her throat
They were his favourite.
She let a tear fall as she plucked a handful of the royal-blue flowers and stuffed them into her pocket The salt lingered, drying in the morning sun, while she slowly stood The start of day called for work – she knew she couldn’t waste precious time reminiscing. However, before turning her back on the sun, she let herself bask in the calming quiet. Taking a deep breath, she spun on her heel and trekked back home.
Time passed as she walked, yet her perception of the hour failed her Her feet were telling – the muscles there aching from the earlier running and now distance Before long, the grains of the field gave way to the land of her farm. The nearby animals roused awake as the rooster screamed, shuffling in their pens. The shepherd dog barked at sheep before trotting towards her. It brought a warm smile to face as she ruffled her canine’s fur, another momentary comfort of peace
She continued walking to her cottage, mind whirling with plans for the day The familiar white building appeared soon after, standing tall as ever. As she stepped before the door, she was greeted by the doormat. It had a crisp newspaper lying across it.
She frantically picked it up, eyes skimming over headlines before settling across words she’d long stopped believing in
Tears formed in her eyes. A watery smile formed as she murmured under her breath: “He’s coming back.”
Avni Newman, 9 Aleph
The Lonely Bullet
I am controversial, A killing machine; When someone shines me I start to gleam.
Melted metal
And a mix of plastic Restrained and cramped in a tiny box, A lonely rectangular prison.
BANG!
Someone pushes the trigger: The oil squeaks, I fly free Piercing through the air. Spinning and turning, I am finally allowed to breathe.
The wind presses against my face. A streamlined blur, I dance in the air Happiness finally here; My life finally worth living
That is, until I hit the target: Splinters and wood, Colour of the bullseye, Painting me blood red
I get no other chance. My life over, A second of flight Before I come back down again
Gifted finally with freedom Before it was taken away I could be anything but What I am
The life I always wished I could live Filled with jealousy
At the arrows
Piercing through the air. The wheels that screech against tarmac, The noise pounding through my air, The kites that soar in the skies, Accompanied by screams, the delighted children
I want my second chance, Not like this excuse of an existence
Maryam-Azza Mohamed, 7 Powell
Dear My Younger Self
I see you now, small and unsure, Yet holding a strength that would endure You didn’t know where the road would bend, But you walked with courage, end to end.
Your stubborn heart refused to break, Even when the path was hard to take Each choice you made with steady care Has led me safely to this place we share.
Determination lit the night, A quiet spark that burned so bright And now I know, because of you, That anything is possible, dreams come true
I look back with a grateful smile, For every struggle, every mile, Thank you for not giving up, for seeing it through Your will became the strength I grew
To the young women who walk ahead, Know your voice is strong, your spirit is fed. The world may doubt, or try to confine, But greatness already lives in your spine
Be bold in your dreaming, unafraid to start, For wisdom is born from a fearless heart. Carry your story, let it be heard Your life has power in every word
Life will teach you in gentle and hard ways, That storms do not last, nor endless dark days. The lesson I hold, the one most true: The path is not perfect, but it shapes you
Each stumble becomes a stepping stone, Each trial a seed you ’ ve quietly grown. And when you look back, you’ll finally see, Every hardship was carving who you ’ re meant to be
Kiana
Sharma, 7 Gilliland ,
The Edit Winter 2025