The Edit Summer 2026
From the editors... This term at The Edit we have been focusing on the theme of transformation. In the lunchtime sessions throughout the summer term, we have seen our writers interact with prompts in thoughtful and engaging ways. Prompts encouraged students to explore character transformation through moral and personal growth, and to consider how changes in relationships, landscapes or individuals can be expressed through extended metaphors. From pieces exploring shifts in natural landscapes tainted by human chaos, to verse reflecting on how makeup alters self-perception, to prose imagining the changes in a world dominated by AI, we hope that there is something here that will pique your interest. Excitingly, this edition features pieces written by our newest creative writing scholars, who are joining the Senior School next year. Opportunities to delve into creative writing don't end here. Habs’ Novel Writing Competition has officially launched. This year for the first time the competition focuses on a specific theme: home. Please do continue writing over the summer. We hope you enjoy reading the summer edition of The Edit.
Saumya Anand, 12 JZC/JVM Lucas Argent, L6 C3 Ajai Athithan, L6 S3 Maya Shah, 12 DHH/CH
Letters To the girl Who saw the world in shades of melancholy And felt everything so deeply she felt nothing, Who answered when nobody called. I wish you could see her now You think you’ve lost that girl, but she wasn’t yours to lose. She was mine. But I found her eventually Right where I left her, Encased in the bubble numb to biting seasons. So I told her to burst it, I told her to grow up. The spectacle is safe, she’s sheltered, she’s alone, But the atmosphere is raw, she’s sure-footed, she’s free. I wish I could say she believed me And that she wanted to come. I wish I could say she doesn’t still get scared at night And doesn’t still get lonely. I can’t But I can tell you someday she left And Never Looked Back.
Saskia Eneberi, 7 Harold
Can’t we be both? The world runs on boundaries, like the way that child I never knew fully learnt it through scratching that line Down the sand, between The water hastily tossed into the moat, that murky kind of concoction, and the castle crumbling, after the wind softly erodes the edges away, but not quite fallen even before knowing That there is no space allowed Between those clumsy drawn-out borders to be both. the rules that we make for ourselves exist even in the earliest of years, where that child engraves those divisions Into the foundations of how his life is built But what about the urge to tell you now that your line, merely a self-imposed construction you created then, is dependent on your own mind Only? That if the child had simply brushed out the traces formed by his small dirt-ridden fingers and the fragile walls surrounding that barrier preventing the slosh of liquid from Merging with the clumps of gritty grains Collapsed he would then be left with no new substance or creation but something different, something peculiarly familiar The feeling of those grubby nails sinking into both.
Could you ever begin to know or even think of what I have been meaning to say that there are elements that exist that will not be constrained by the lines you design for yourself, and for me To give you the façade of safety No choice needs to be made between one or the other so maybe, just maybe, some things must be both.
Maya Shah, 12 DHH/CR
Artificial Invasion As the cold winter persisted, the need for a car increased. She would leave her house wearing an inflated puffer jacket underneath numerous scarves and shiver her way to the bus stop. The daily journey to work was becoming increasingly painful. Many illnesses later, an alert buzzed from her calendar app. The government had released a free organisation of Ubers that correspond to events in the diary. Envisioning this luxury wiped a grin across her face: sitting in a crisply warm Uber compared to contracting another cold, all for a non-existent cost. Without hesitation, she updated her phone, filled in all her events, and waited outside her house in significantly less outerwear. Within seconds, a shiny black vehicle rolled up to the pavement. As she opened the door, its sleek design revealed a haven of warmth, flooding her face. The dark leather seats were heated to perfection, and the pleasance of a smoky, rich aroma ignited her senses. Her satisfaction was encouraged further by the thoughtful silence of the vehicle, with the exception of quiet classical music playing elegantly in the background. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief. This was the ideal journey to work. During the rest of the week, each morning was equally as luxurious. Optimal heating, tasteful music, not to mention the additional few pounds she made by selling her comically large puffer jacket on Vinted. Her events for Friday, 13th January merely included her mundane journey to work, and the blissful experience continued as usual. As she stepped outside the intensely warm vehicle, she was overwhelmed by the ghostly chill of the wind and the sharp numbing of her face. Outside the office stood a square shadow, whirring quietly. She could hear a monotonous, robotic voice whispering something. Maybe it was her name. As she stepped toward the voice, a metallic android was revealed, glowing white facial details forming an artificial grin. Its smooth, polished wheels ominously rolled towards her. ‘Hello, Sarah. I am your personal assistant, here to answer any inquiries you may have.’ Shaking with both cold and fear, she was only able to mumble a few words. ‘That is a very valid query there, Sarah! I am here today to ensure that your day at work remains smooth - as well as the rest of your events this week. I will be there for your family gathering on Monday, your afterhours office meeting on…’
As the voice trailed on, her panicked hand weakly shivered to her coat pocket. The robot must have noticed that she attempted to delete the app, as it boomed an unsettling statement. ‘Not much use in disabling the app now, Sarah. We’ve got all the information we need.’
Arya Newman, 8 Gillett
Scene 4 - Interrogation [Two identical rooms. Metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. One overhead light: harsh, white. No windows. A clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. Angie sits, hands cuffed to the table. Breathing unevenly. Door opens. Cop enters. Older. Heavy. Calm. A cigarette smell follows him.] COP: You look like a decent one. ANGIE: I didn’t do anything. COP: Everyone says that at the start. [Cop sits. Leans forward slightly. Angie freezes.] COP: You don’t want to be here. ANGIE: You don’t know anything about me. COP: I know enough. [A beat. The clock ticks louder.] COP: Let me make it simple for you. [He places both hands flat on the table. Calm. Controlled.] COP: Have you ever heard of the prisoner’s dilemma? Two people. Same offer. If you stay silent and try to protect your partner while he testifies against you, too bad for you, you get eight years. If you talk and he stays silent, you walk free. Oh, yes, there is a catch, if both of you testify against each other, you will be sentenced to three years in jail. ANGIE And if we both stay silent? COP: Well, you both get six months. [Angie stares. Processing.] ANGIE: So I always lose. COP: No. You choose how you lose. [Beat.] COP: Your partner is in the next room. Same deal. Same clock. [He taps the clock. Tick. Tick.] COP: I’ll give you ten minutes.
[He stands. Moves to the door.] COP: Think carefully. [Door opens. Closes. Clang. Angie leans back. Looks at the clock.] [INTERCUT – Dominic in identical room. Still. Watching the clock. Door opens. Cop enters.] COP: We know you. DOMINIC: Do you? COP: Small stuff before. This is different. DOMINIC: You’ve got nothing. COP: I’ve got your partner. [Beat.] COP: She’s talking. DOMINIC: No, she isn’t. COP: You sure?
Adam Szajman, 10J1
Make-up Every morning, at 6:00 I rise, Messy hair and dark circles under my eyes; Truly I, but soon to be not. Grab foundation and place a dot On my cheek; I smear it round Until I’m hidden, safe and sound. School’s at 8:00 but I need this time To face others by changing mine. Now I must paint on emotion: Dab some ruby red love potion. Faking happiness, I blush Not for shyness – just a nice touch. Next are lashes, for confidence. I’ll feel small without the compliments. I don’t go out without them now; I’ll look different and could be iced out. 6:30 now and on to hair, Styled with a subtle flair, Different to the day before Because repetition will bore. Curly, waves or straightened strands, I lift my Dyson with weary hands, But I eagerly await the admiration. ‘You look pretty!’ – now it’s an expectation. When I sat down, I was me And now I’m someone else. You see, Every day at 6 am, Unnecessarily early I rise again And wear my mask because I find I feel less hurt if people don’t like The version of me that’s not truly me. And rather a character I play to seem More put together than I really am Always doing the most I can But now I say it, I see my downfall Because really no one cares at all What I look like or what I wear.
It’s in my head, their critical stares. And who is all my effort for? If I’m trying to fit in with people who wouldn’t adore The version of me I’m trying to hide Because that’s the girl I am inside.
Trisha Das, 9 Alpha
Untitled The gorse flowers are out early this year. Gazing out the window, I’m captivated by a thousand shades of yellow, purple and green. The countryside stretches out for miles, a patchwork of fields lining the valley like a carpet, gorse bushes winding between them like streams of colour. The grass is luscious emerald green, shining in the midday sun as the road meanders along the hillside. Suddenly, the fields start to blur. We are going too fast. I glance up but the tension in his jaw stops the words before they leave my mouth. Hands white with stress grip the steering wheel, eyes staring straight ahead. What is happening? Then the world slows down as tyres screech over a pothole and we are slipping, skidding, sliding, tumbling down the grass verge. The last thing I see is a sea of purple and yellow, then fade to black. The car is lying sideways, like a beetle that has been overturned and cannot right itself. Two bodies lie tangled in the wreckage, emerald grass now mottled with ruby-red stains. The countryside stretches out for miles, a patchwork of fields split by jagged scars of gorse. The flowers are out early this year.
Natalie Overton, 10 Alpha
Her Kingdom She sat on a splintering oak bench, exhausted from the hours of GCSE revision, its rough edges scraping her skin with an unyielding, familiar severity, as if to remind her of the long years that had passed since her careless and cruel abandonment of it. Unruly weeds had claimed the cracks in the hopscotch grid, whilst the gnarled ropes were twisted in upon themselves, knotted with resentment. With the clang of the school bell, a horde of children spilled into the playground, flooding it with laughter and joy. The swings lurched into motion and began their shrill chorus of squeaks and eager bodies clambered to the top of the adventure castle; each one insistent they were the true ‘king or queen of the castle’. She remained motionless, her feet rooted to the ground like the heavy timber beams of the castle, occupying a spot with excellent views of the children’s kingdom. The children charged indifferently past her, kicking a scuffed, mud-splattered ball over her feet, leaving a faint streak behind on the canvas of her shoe. One boy stopped short and offered a breathless “Sorry!”, before sprinting off into the chaos. She caught herself chuckling, her face lit up by their infectious smiles. It was strange to live vicariously from the sidelines, no longer a part of the blur of bodies radiating unfiltered joy. The playground was alive. In a split second, a tearful child arrived at her feet, crumpled and clutching his stinging knee from a terrifying fall. He sobbed, searching her face for comfort from the only ‘big kid’ on the playground who was not enveloped in a pink haze of candy floss vape or buzzing with buzz balls. She helped him up and reassured him, and in a silent understanding he wiped his eyes and ran like a brave soldier back to his troop. Watching his small frame race to his friends, a weight pressed into her chest. She remembered the days when a grazed knee tore her fragile world apart and a kind word from a ‘big kid’ could instantly piece it together. She stood up and brushed the splinters off her skirt, resolute. She was no more the weeping child with a scuffed knee, neither was she the queen of the castle: she was the protector now.
Liberty Oldroyd-Elliott, 10 Aleph
A New Me A new number to write down An old person to leave behind A new page of my life to open An old memory to be forgotten A new interest to be taken on An old schedule to throw away A new life to look through the lenses of An old grudge to lie in the dust I ask of you - my new self To change in the best of ways As you enter a new stage of your life Do not forget me This past year we have grown together As you hide in my shadow learning everything needed to take over Well done you, your time is now
Maya Keane, 7 Powell
Elara Dear Diary, The first time I saw love, it was in a kaleidoscope. Momma had given it to me, a cheap plastic thing, but the light refracted into a thousand brilliant shards, each one a promise. “This,” she’d slurred, her breath heavy with something I didn’t understand then, “is how I see you, Elara. Beautiful, broken, but beautiful.” I’m sixteen now, and I understand the ‘broken’ part a lot better. Love, for me, isn't a solid thing you can hold, like a perfectly ripe apple. It’s more like the steam rising from a teacup – there, but elusive, constantly changing shape. With Momma, it's… complicated. There are the mornings, the good mornings, when she remembers enough to make pancakes shaped like little bears, her laughter tinkling like the wind chimes on our porch. In those moments, her eyes, usually clouded, clear and shine with a fierce, almost desperate affection. That's love, I think. A fragile, precious thing, like an origami bird that could unfold at any moment. Then there are the nights. The clinking of bottles, the raised voices, the way her words become slurred and sharp, cutting through the thin walls of our apartment. In those moments, love feels like a phantom limb – I know it’s supposed to be there, but all I feel is an ache, a hollowness. It’s like watching her from behind a pane of frosted glass; I can see her, but I can’t quite reach her. And sometimes, she looks at me, really looks at me, and I see a flicker of shame, a desperate plea for forgiveness in her gaze. Is that love too? The acknowledgement of a wound inflicted, the silent promise to try again? They say love is unconditional. I used to wonder if that was true for me. But then I remember her sleepy smile after a rare, good dream, or the way she hums my favorite song even when she's off-key. And I realize, maybe love isn't about perfect moments. Maybe it's about the persistent presence, the refusal to let go, even when it hurts. It’s a whisper in the glass, a constant reminder of the beautiful, broken promise. And I’m still here, listening. "Love," people say, "is patient, love is kind." They don't have my mother. Love, for me, is the burnt toast she still tries to make me on my birthday, even when her hands shake so badly the jam ends up on the counter. Love is the way her eyes, cloudy with whatever she's had, still manage to focus on mine for a split second and whisper, "You're beautiful, sweetpea."
It's not the grand gestures, not the perfect family holidays. Those don't exist in our world. Love is the absence of a fight tonight. It’s the worn blanket she knitted for me when I was seven, now threadbare, but still on my bed. It’s the way she’ll sometimes hum a lullaby from my childhood, a forgotten tune that resurfaces in a rare, sober moment, and for those precious few minutes, she’s just… Mom. My mom. There’s a tightness in my chest when I see the empty bottles. A knot of frustration and anger that’s so familiar it feels like a second skin. And then, there's that flicker. That desperate hope that this time, this time, she'll remember who she is. That she'll fight the demon that steals her from me. Is it love to clean up her messes? To lie to teachers about why I'm late? To pretend everything's fine when inside I'm screaming? Maybe not in the storybooks. But for me, it's a kind of fierce, protective loyalty. It’s the refusal to give up on the person she could be, the person I sometimes glimpse in the shadows. When she slurs, "I love you, honey," the words are thick, but the sentiment, I swear, is still there, buried deep under layers of pain and regret. And in that moment, even as I hand her the coffee, even as I brace myself for whatever tomorrow brings, I know that my love for her, twisted and scarred as it is, is just as real. It’s the quiet strength that keeps me going, the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day the hum of the fridge won’t be quite so lonely. I don't think love is a feeling you always feel for her, not in the way they show in movies. Sometimes, it’s a fierce protectiveness that flares when someone else talks down to her. Sometimes, it's the exhaustion that settles deep in my bones after a long night, but I still wake up and check on her, just in case. And sometimes, it’s the quiet hope, a tiny seedling pushing through the concrete of reality, that one day, the kaleidoscope will show only the beautiful parts again, and the brokenness will fade. — Elara
Kiana Sharma, 7 Gilliland
From our newest creative writing scholars
What on earth am I going to do? Will I have to stay like this forever? How will I have a life like this? She frantically thought twirling in panicked circles. Then she found a note. Calm down! You will only be 5cm tall for a day and then you will be back to your normal height. “Well, that’s helpful. What am I going to do all day?” Lucy muttered to herself. She had no idea at all why someone would be so vague. “Come with me to school, of course. We can wreak so much havoc.” Lucy turned around to see her twin sister standing there. “Yes, I’ve seen everything. Get in my bag and we’ll go to school. We’re going to have so much fun.” A few hours later, Lucy was hidden behind a paint bottle ready to perform her last trick of the day. So far she had tipped the tray of pencils over in Maths, moved Mr Martin’s gloves in History and spun the globe in Geography. The teachers were confused and very much on edge. She was having the best time until it all went wrong…
Martha Mell
Today was supposed to be a normal average day. I woke up. Normal. I got up. Normal. The bed was giant. Not normal. A million thoughts spun through my mind. What was happening? Is this a prank? It had to be. Right? I leaped off my bed and hit the ground with a loud thump. I peered around. Everything was giant, humungous, gargantuan. I slowly headed towards my now large bedside desk. My hairbrush was on it. Even though everything was giant, I still had to look tidy. I thumped my fists on the hard wooden legs. Nothing. I sighed and took some steps back. I ran with all my might as fast as I could and banged my body against the legs. The desk wobbled and the brush fell slowly down. It landed on the floor with an ear-splitting bang. It sounded like I was standing next to a giant speaker.
Ariola Elegbe
Sprinting through the school gates into the playground, I arrive as the bell starts to ring. I dash through the maze of feet knowing that any second I could be flattened. I seek out my chair in the classroom and heave myself up the chair leg onto the seat. I never knew being small was this hard. I scan my surroundings letting mind wander. “Lucy?” The sound of my name brings me back to reality. “Yes,” I squeak. I blink, startled at the sound of my own voice. The teacher scans the room for me. “I’m here! I’m here!” I yell at the top of my lungs, jumping up and down with my hands in the air. My teacher looks over at me. “Jake, would you mind getting rid of that bee on Lucy’s chair?” Jake walks over to my chair. He stares at me for what seems like an age. I can feel my heart thumping against my ribs, faster and faster with each passing moment. I shriek, “It’s me! Lucy! Don’t kill me!” over and over until my throat is sore. He picks me up with a tissue, scrutinizing me some more.
Annabel Seager
My vision blurred as I wearily sat up n bed. Around me was a void of blackness, pitch-black darkness. Huh? This was strange – it was usually dark but it had never been this dark. Shrugging to myself, I reached up to pull the blanket off me though I found myself groping and grasping for air. My toes tingled and my heart beat at a million miles per hour. Then the adrenaline kicked in and in a trice I was squirming and struggling, slipping and sliding, clawing and yanking my way up to the top of the bed. Panting and gasping for air, I arrived at the top. With a heavy yet contented sigh I plonked myself down on the mass of creased white around me. Then something made me freeze. Why was my pillow so big? Fear once again darting through my body, I peered over the edge of the bed. I was an awfully long way down – the drop seemed like ten times the size of Mount Everest. Clutching the creases of my bedsheet, I attempted to rock climb my way down to the floor.
Anya Ranjan
“Mira! Get up! I could hear mum shouting for me to get out of bed. Disorientated, I rubbed my eyes but something felt different. My bed felt twenty times bigger and I was pretty sure my bedroom door was never that far away. I clambered out of bed but soon found I was falling down, down, down. I screamed myself hoarse as my stomach swooped down yet no matter how hard I screamed, it seemed no louder than a chittering ant. Either the rest of the world had grown or I had shrunk and I was pretty sure I knew which one it was. I knew I had to face my first challenge – getting out of my bedroom. I was venturing across the room at quite an alarming rate for a miniscule person, when the ground shook violently as if there was an earthquake. I rushed towards the door forgetting that at 5cm tall I could not open it. But I was in luck as someone pushed it open. I quickly went out into the corridor and narrowly avoided being crushed by my mum’s gigantic foot. “Mira,” she roared. Well, she probably only spoke it, but it sounded so loud to me.
Rania Qureshi
This morning I woke up buried in my blanket with no clue where I was. I felt like I was suffocating in my bed. I knew I had to escape so I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me but I got stuck behind a clip which was still on my bed from my hairstyle the day before. I had no choice but to push it since the way around it was closed off. It was either pushing the clip or suffocating to death. Wielding great strength, I had hope and I pushed as hard as I possibly could. Millimetre by millimetre, the hairclip started to move – a sharp spread after the first centimetre but I could not give up. Exhausted from pushing, I rested to regain my strength. “I am so close.” My mother came in looking for me. She lifted the blanket calling, “Ellie! You’re late for breakfast.” I was washed in relief as all hope wasn’t lost. I picked myself up and ran as fast as a predator chasing its prey. “Free from the blanket of death,” I exclaimed. Scuttling like a mouse, even though I was a bit smaller, I ran into the kitchen.
Ellie Ashraf
The Edit Summer 2026