The Edit Spring 2025

The Edit spring 2025

From the editors...

Welcome back to the second issue of The Edit, celebrating creative writing in school!

We have loved reading all the submissions for this term’s magazine, and hope you can join us in enjoying the wonderful pieces of creative writing submitted by the incredibly talented members of our school community.

This term, pieces have been influenced by our 150th anniversary, with titles and inspiration coming from previous Habs magazines over the years. Inspired by ‘Diary of the Last Days of the School Mouse’ from 1929, Delilah continued the mouse’s adventures as a ghost. The ‘Ode to a Cauliflower’ from 1905 has been recrafted by Natalie with reference to a new Habs flower.

We have linked each piece of writing in The Edit to the original writing that inspired it.

Just click the image of the magazine cover at the end of each piece - for your enjoyment and a reminder our profound impact.

We are also delighted to feature some work by our newly-minted Year 6 creative writing scholars, who we look forward to welcoming to Habs in September.

If you too would like to see your writing featured in The Edit, you can join our Monday lunch writing workshops, or simply submit a piece of work by posting it in our post-box (outside the English Office).

The Edit is an opportunity for anyone in our community to submit their own writing, whether that be poetry, short stories, personal accounts or any other forms of creative writing. We hope to receive even more entries next term, and we look forward to reading your submissions!

Until next time, best wishes from your editors,

Miriam Sleep, L6 CS Edie Chalk, L6 HS Zoya Mankhand, U6 LE Ruby Messulam, U6 JM

The Ghostly Adventures of

the School Mouse

Dear Diary, Today marks the beginning of my quest for revenge. Even in my new ghostly state, my thirst for vengeance nags at me. My fellow mice and I have been cruelly butchered by the vile creatures that have overrun our home. For too long, we have endured these things, more animal than us, as they screech their mockeries and trample us with their shining shoes. These odious Haberdashers have kept us in fear for too long. To think that I was so blind that it took my own death at their foul hands for me to take action for my people. The moment of my violent demise keeps replaying in my tiny mouse brain. I shudder to recall the highpitched squeals of “Kill it! Kill it!”, the skitter of my claws scraping frantically at the classroom floor, the swiftness with which that lacrosse stick was brought down upon my skull… It took them a good few blows too. You would think that, with so much of their time being devoted that that insipid sport, the brutes would at least possess the skill to dispose of a creature of such small stature swiftly.

It must be almost a year that I’ve been dead now, and I have carefully planned my revenge. I will use the weapons at my disposal, small though they may be, and I shall chew my way to retribution. I shall plough my way through piano strings, piles of homework, and art aprons (the latter I’m particularly anticipating - I’ve mentioned in my previous entries the joy that I find in the subtle tang of dried oil paint).

Yes, I can see it now. 1930 will be the year of the Great Mouse Revolt! With the front lines of my rebellion manned from beyond the grave, we shall be an unstoppable force. My nose twitches as I write – had I not been robbed of my sense of smell by my untimely demise, I am certain that I would be able to catch a whiff of the sweet aroma of justice, the stench of fear exuding from those beasts. The time has come for the downfall of the Habs girl! ***

Dear Diary, My meticulously orchestrated symphony of vengeance, my prudently planned path to retribution has been ruined. It appears that my ghostly slumber has not been the matter of months but of years – no fewer than 96. To think that the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty five is upon us! As dawn broke, I ventured out of the alcove in which I have bided my time, anxiously awaiting the perfect time to exact my reprisal only to find – oh woe, it is too terrible for me to convey even now! – to find that it’s all different. Gone are the blackboards from which my brethren and I would source stray lumps of chalk on which to gnaw.

Gone, too, are my family. I can only hope that this means that my death marks the end of our mistreatment at Habs, for I have not come across even one fellow spectre. And, worst of all, gone are those girls in green. As barbaric as they were, I grew to take pride in every bottle-coloured jumper I rendered riddled with holes. Besides, how will I settle the score with those fiendish lacrosse players now? I almost miss even them. Taking my revenge on these new blue creatures seems pointless.

I have, however, found a new purpose. My new home is in the comfort of the lost property room, a place overflowing with the spoils of carelessness. As snug as I find myself in the shelter of skorts and shirts, I am plagued by a sense of responsibility. I will make it my mission, I have decided, to return these dejected strays to their owners. Every time I hear a “I’ve been looking for this for ages!” or “Thank goodness – my mum was going to kill me!”, I grow a little more fond of the Habs girl. I wonder what they’ll evolve into over the next 96 years?

Delilah Smith, 9 A

The Life of a Penny Though I am small, I have stories to tell; A life of adventure is one I know well.

Passed through fingers, both gentle and worn, Carried in pockets, both tarnished and torn, Slipped through the cracks of a cold city street, Trampled by footsteps, yet never defeat.

Resting in gutters, where I drown in rain, Plucked from the earth, ready to wander again, Wagered in games, wished on with great hope, Tossed in the tides, yet I’m able to cope.

Each mark and scratch tells a tale of its own From person to person my story has grown.

Been through the mill, always able to last, A penny’s adventure is one that moves fast.

Ella Cooper, 8 Ansuz

Little Laughing Eyes – 1914 The magpie glared with its little laughing eyes.

Its gaze falling upon the warm field, Sensing the pride and joy consuming our thoughts And victory waiting to yield.

But then the swords clashed in the battle; The poppies grew slowly red As the blood stained the grass When I realised what had been said.

When the horns blew to the soldiers To the men, the horses, the crows.

The sounds of the gunshots were masked By the deafening shouts and the blows Fear wrapped its blanket around me, Feeling my spirit fade as the last shout sounded, Then they fell, into the depths of the soil And the last few of us were rounded.

Trudging through the bones, I heard the lost stories that were too late to be told.

Their moments turned to memories And their warmth turn to cold.

Then my vision blurred and my heart took its last beat.

The sun shone, illuminating my fading happiness And I joined them in death. But before I died, I saw the magpie glare with its little laughing eyes.

Annya Patel, 9 Aleph

The Charge of the Knife and Fork I listen to the slurred and muffled gossip of the lunch ladies in the kitchen; I might as well listen in while I have nothing better to do. Soon it will be... lunchtime. I can already hear hordes and mounds, a sea flooding the canteen with hungry ravenous animals.

Terrifying, in my opinion; children are bestial creatures when shown the prospect of food.

Thirty minutes left, thirty minutes till a storm of children come snatching up each one of us, one by one, by the neck. As anyone can tell, I absolutely hate lunchtime - any fork in their right mind would. I hear horror stories of children taking poor, innocent, unassuming forks home by accident and leaving them to rot in the murky depths of their lunch bags. I hate being confined, incarcerated, even imprisoned in a horde of forks and not just that, but this cycle of repetitive hell.

Day in, day out, again and again, we stay awake - alive but never truly living. This is really depressing; I want to be free. And live away from this consistent fear of lunchtime.

I lay back in my tray space composedly, listening again to what going on with one of the lunch lady’s love life - though I could not care less. The bell is about to ring; the clock will soon hit 12:40. And I know what I am going to do, because I am sure as hell not going to be the subject of another horror story of the cutlery tray. I am going to run away.

As I think that very thought, the bell begins to ring and ring and ring: Lunchtime.

- An incredibly sad fork

Ahana Tiwari, 7 Aleph

The Sleep Man The Sleep Man comes to me at night Or when the morn is near.

He doesn’t come when the world is light, When work whispers in my ear.

He does, however, sneak around, And pry and peek and peer.

He comes knocking when there’s wordless sound And nothing left to hear.

The Sleep Man treads lightly by My parent’s creaky floor.

He doesn’t stop to steer his eyes Towards the bright back door.

The Sleep Man knows what I abhor And exactly what I want.

He tries to start a deadly war, Between my mind and what I daunt.

He splatters ink over my pillowcase, Like he would paint gently on A3 card, Images of faceless men on a hungry chase Or a lonely crow in a dark churchyard.

The Sleep Man conjures my worst nightmares, In daydreams, hallucinations, visions.

One minute I’m getting chased by bears, The next I’m naked on television.

The Sleep Man leaves me breathless, Grasping on to reality, Causing me unnecessary stress, Disbelieving the things I see.

The Sleep Man means well, I guess, When he encroaches and invites.

He leaves eventually nonetheless, After frightened, fearful, nights.

Although I envy The Sleep Man, His assurance and his cool, I sometimes wish I knew his plan, Before he takes complete rule.

Ava Weinbrenn, 10 A

In the Field of the Fallen In the field of the fallen Many were killed.

I witnessed it all, Every single second, And still…

It was a dark and brooding night, Cloaked with an eerie silence, The stench of death looming in the air, The undeniable fear consuming the landscape, Trapped in the depths of the souls intending to fight.

Some knew the horrors of the night.

Some did, Some do.

The methodical sounds of gunshots heard, Whilst the enemy pleaded for mercy: Something you would at least expect.

Cold, ragged breaths sound as some took their last.

The drop of a body slumped on the floor, then Silence.

People, terror etched onto their wan faces, Pulling the trigger, wincing at the noise.

One taking the life of another.

Death has always been unforgiving.

Everyone shared the same emotion: Undeniable fear.

And it would stay that way, As reality dawned upon them.

They were scared, Scared of the dark, The dark that lurked upon the same ground; They could all sense it creeping.

Of the many deaths, Many were friends, Family, All with people to come home to.

Who was to gain?

And really No one did, In the Field of The Fallen.

Amelie Blake, 9 Ansuz

The Old Lime Tree The school bell rang but I don’t think I’m ready to go home – not just yet.

I rushed through the gates of the school and ran through the fields until the school was so far away it could have just been a figment of my imagination. By now the clouds had turned a light shade of purple and the sun was slowly descending behind the large oak trees. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to take in my surroundings. Untamed grass and colourful wild flowers, every shade of pink - that’s all you could see for miles.

But wait Just along the horizon, you could make out the outline of a large lime tree with stunningly thick branches and roots that ran deep into the moist soil surrounding it.

As I approached it more features became visible: miniature flowers a deep shade of maroon were popping up in the cracks of the roots and the shadow of the tree was printed across the messy grass – a perfect silhouette. The auburn-coloured leaves sway in the autumn winds and the brown trunk was peeling away like a painted wall. But most importantly, the limes. A shocking colour of green, bold and bright! So out of place in a world like this.

Little ant holes popped up all over the ground and left a clump of dirt, so small you might not have noticed it – but I did, I always do.

The wispy branches thin ends blew into my face while I sat on the chunky roots of the tree. I could spend hours just climbing and reading and drawing in this place, but you can’t escape reality forever. I have to go home. So I stood up and waved goodbye to the old lime tree.

Kitty Clyne, 7 Alpha

A Painter’s Palette - 1930 ‘The inky autumn hues dazzle the onlookers, yet still the painter’s identity is unknown.

Amber and ruby red streaks glisten in the golden hour.’

Clara feverishly ran her eyes over the ancient text of the jewel-encrusted scripture, tucked under the covers of her cosy bed. By herself, she was a naturally inquisitive person. Others may call her reserved, but her creativity would thrive in the mornings and evenings, before and after school. Her mother had previously teased her for being interested in “witchy nonsense”, but Clara was fixated on uncovering the secrets of her ancestors.

She slammed the book shut and threw it under her bedspread as her mother creaked her bedroom door open. “Bedtime, now Clara. Put that book away – oh, you’re asleep.”

She tiptoed out of Clara’s room into the gloomy, unlit landing, closing the door behind her. Clara hated being dishonest to her mother; it made her feel sheepish and guiltridden. Yet still, she cautiously opened the book and began to read.

Her eyes darted across the page, skimming through each fascinating detail. Tumultuous tales of loved ones dying in the 1600s; the sky turning black, then awakening and the day becoming brushed with emerald green; then the marriage of two lovers in the 1960s under a murky, grey sunrise, united; and the sky then becomes washed with pearly pink; a childhood prodigy, wise beyond her years, every medal the sky would turn into a fiery blaze in her honour. The stories were overdone, full of fanciful legends, that would never leave the crumpled page they were documented on.

She skipped forward to the present day in the first-person narrative of a girl named Heather, aged 14, the same as hers presently. A story of maths tests; knotty, confusing friendships. And then, it is blank. She seems to be achieving nothing; no days where the sky had turned amethyst? She chided herself for succumbing to the folkloric tall tales.

She fell asleep peacefully that night. Somehow though, it dawned on her: that reality is astonishingly unusual in that book, but everything in there was bizarrely true.

She awoke early the next day. Fuelled by her curiosity to learn more, she read through Heather’s pages again, her fingers carefully tracing the words. She wished Heather had a story, but there were no shades of gold in the sky for her when she aced that maths test. Why did Heather’s diegesis lack adventure or anticipation? Clara turned the flimsy pages. Side after side of bare, untouched, crisp leaves, waiting for pencil to be etched into them.

She rose to her feet, looking for something to write with. Clara was then struck by dizziness and nausea and sank to the floor with a resounding thud.

She stirred. However, an ache dominated her body. Clara frantically tried to grasp the book but soon landed on her bed again in a crumpled heap, faint and exhausted. New words appeared at the foot of the page: ‘Yesterday, she dreamed of me. I fear she knows too much. The identity shall never be revealed.’ Clara breathed, wheezing and panting whilst Heather was still scribbling her thoughts.

Clara drifted off to sleep. She returned to class as usual the next day, but irritable, on edge and tense. The corridor was as raucous as lions chasing their prey. People encircled her bellowing for her to go home: “You’re not welcome here”.

Clara was regularly slipping in and out of consciousness, there was a fine line between reality and dreams now. At least she was in Art. Her mind could run wild. She furiously grabbed a paintbrush and traced a line with an aquamarine wash. A teacher materialised in front of her, scoffing, “Oh look, Clara’s working on an abstract masterpiece, aren’t you? You never do what you’re told, do you?” A tear welled up; she never used to be as pointless as this.

Instantaneously, as if a film was being sped up, the sky flew into action, the battleship grey dissolving into an ivory white, with an aquamarine stripe. The canvas stood to attention, waiting for its next command. She felt she was the lone soul in the room who saw this. A sense of unease overcame her, and she seized the corners of her desk to steady herself. She tore through the book in her rucksack looking for answers. She stopped in her tracks as she read.

‘Congratulations, Clara.’ The ink seeped through the page and she waited for it to settle: ‘You are the painter, now… The last acrylic was always meant for you.’

Liberty Oldroyd-Elliott, 9 Aleph

Ode to a Flower Of all the flowers that people admire There is only one that I truly desire: A flower that cannot be grown, picked, worn for locks, Cannot be pressed between the pages of a book, Cannot be displayed in an elegant vase, Or arranged and placed on a bookcase.

It is something for years I have sought For all the time I have at Habs been taught.

Joy and pleasure cannot compare To looking in my inbox and seeing there That I have earned…

A Cornflower!

Natalie Overton, 9 Alpha

The Last Days of the School Mouse Before long, Katy’s pet was found out. Each day she brought the little mouse, its fame mounted. Soon everyone in the school knew it as ‘our school mouse’. Muffled laughter and whispers could be heard in corridors whenever people went past lockers. Teachers, puzzled and confounded by this behaviour, couldn’t think of what to do about it. Until one day…

Katy was just feeding the school mouse some scraps of sausage roll from lunch when the cheeky thing jumped out of the spare lockers and dashed across the empty classroom. Sprinting after the runaway pet, Katy watched in horror as it slipped round the corner and out of sight. Not wanting to arouse suspicion among the teachers, Katy kept her head down and kept walking.

She alerted anyone who would listen about her escaped mouse and how the quest of hunting needed to begin. Everyone who knew the mouse helped. All through the week the search to save the famous school mouse began and everyone was helping.

Flowing reports came to Katy but she was desperate for the words “We’ve found him”.

But they never came. The whole week went by in a blur for her.

As the chances of catching the runaway thinned, Katy was distraught. Her mouse, the one everyone called the school mouse, had helped her have friends, fit in and be more than nothing. Most of all, it had made her feel happy and like she belonged. Over the weekends, she stayed in her room and wouldn’t talk to anyone. She only came out briefly for meals. Thoughts spiralled in her mind. What will I do when the search is given up? I’ll be back to nothing again. What if we never find him? Everyone will blame me.

She had given up and was lying face down on her bed when her phone pinged. This is what it said: Hi. Your mouse was found in the staff room. No-one is going to tell on you.

We have your back. Do you want to come to mine later? Amy She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t know what to think. She was happy she had a friend, but she had lost her mouse. She knew she didn’t need a mouse to be happy.

But those were the last days of the school mouse.

Evie Coldham, Year 6

Open and Closed Dear Diary, Something bizarre happened in my house today. The window that father jumped out of last year, opened. The creak of it broke the eerie silence. Slowly but surely, the spooky noises grew louder in my ear. I turned. The haunted window was open.

Throughout the day, the strange sounds echoed in my mind. My blood ran cold.

The floorboard creaked just like the window. It was like father’s spirit was strolling in our house. I froze. I was scared.

An hour later, the sound of a handle turning startled me. I was alone, yet the mysteriously familiar feeling that someone – or something was watching me crept up my spine. My head was swimming with questions. Who or what was this?

Were ghosts real? Was my mind tricking me? I didn’t know.

Bang! Bang! The door and the perilous window slammed shut as if they were angered about something. Charcoal-black fright coursed through my veins sending a shiver through my heart. I was quivering – not with the cold, but with fear…

I must investigate. I must find out what is happening. I know it’s not a trick of the mind. Something is suspicious and I need to know what. There are so many questions to answer. I will update you when I find a clue. Goodbye for now - I should get started on this strange case.

From, Mishka

Mishka Solanki, Year 6

Repetition 03/09/1939 Dear Diary, Curse my life. Curse me. Why? Why? Lucas is in is room crying his eyes out and Martha left to pack. Curse Hitler. Curse this wretched war. And why Britain? A couple of hours ago, Mr Chamberlain announced that unless the German government were prepared to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us, and, of course, the Germans refused. Now me, Lucas, Martha and Marcus, are all going to be evacuated to the countryside tomorrow.

They think they are protecting us – separating us from our families is going to make us feel a whole lot safer, right? They don’t understand. We may be kids but we are not dumb. We can see we are in danger, but they don’t have to treat us like babies. I am 11. I can look after myself. But as usual, my opinion is weightless.

So here I am, sitting alone in my room preparing for the unknown struggles that lay before me. I must pack, for we leave at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow. Curse my life. Curse me. *** 4/09/1939 Dear Diary, I am at the platform waiting for the train, the train that will create the divide between me and my family. Beside me stands Martha. Her hair is tied back and her eyes are filled with worry and dread. A grass-green pinafore hangs loosely around Martha’s waist and beige sandals are clipped on around her ankles. Lucas and Marcus both wear crumpled white shirts and brown pants. Then the deafening sound of a steam engine is heard.

Stopping abruptly in front of me, a dark green carriage door swung open. We stumbled aboard. Martha’s handkerchief wet with tears.

Mist enveloped the train and we rode on into a land of doubt and uncertainty. At least we’re all together…for now.

P.S. I am sorry if the writing is smudged, it must be my tears.

Kiana Sharma, Year 6

Open and Closed 7th December, 1954 Dear Jacqueline, There is a strange thing in my house. The shining oak door started to creak as it opened, its hinges screaming for oil. I, at the time, was lounging on my bed when the sound rang through the air. Feeling extremely confused, I crept downstairs, poised and ready to attack a potential threat that wasn’t there. My eyebrows furrowed and drew closer together; the only sounds puncturing the eerie silence were my panting breaths.

Convinced the room was safe, I turned on my heel and started upstairs to return to my room when the noise rang out again. Creak! Creak! My heart pounded roughly and loudly in my chest like a miniature drum climbing up my throat. I froze and took a large intake of breath. I scanned my surroundings, my eyes darting across the room. Deeming this room safe, I edged towards the kitchen. There, I saw something that made my heart stop.

‘I will have revenge. JC’ was scrawled across the window in dark red, almost crimson marker. I just stood there. I don’t know how long, I just stood there. My eyes swam and a scream rose in my throat. My mind was filled with four words. I had to leave.

Frantic adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I sprinted up the fragile stairs and heard them struggle under my weight. Pulling out a bag from under my wardrobe I filled it with clothes and money. After wrestling with the zipper, I dashed back downstairs to find a note taped to my door written in the same dark red scrawl. ‘Karma is coming!’, it read. The anger from this insult only fuelled me more and I thrust open the window to scream…

Flashing lights and police officers. Reporters swarmed me, trying in vain for a photo.

“Catherine Scott!”, they called in unison, finishing with a range of different questions. A distinguished looking one pushed to the front and dragged me down. “Catherine Scott, I am arresting you for the murder of Jennifer Collins.”

I am writing this from prison.

Love, Catherine

Maryam-Azza Mohammed, Year 6

The Last Days of the School Mouse Something scuttled through the halls… Something silently padded along the carpeted floor… Something scoured the corridors at night. The wind danced between the trees howling its own eerie song. A great towering building blanketed the land: Haberdashers’. The school was deserted except for the faint silhouette of a creature that lurked at night but cowered at the first rays of light, leaving nothing but footprints among the halls. The school mouse, they called it. Tales about the creature spread until no longer was this creature a mouse but a malevolent monster of fear that stomped through the corridors ready to follow death orders.

During the day, students were happy and bright, but once night possessed the land there was no chatter, no sound but the hurried footsteps of children rushing out of school. All except one. A girl whose curiosity fuelled her mind. This creature excited her, itched at her need for adventure. She could not bear it any longer. She had to see.

Stars painted the sky and darkness flooded the corridors. Cautiously, she crept through the corridors. At every turn, every corner she hoped for something, but disappointment fed her instead. The girl was about to leave when a faint squeaking sound came from below. What was the noise? Who could it be? Was this her end? But no, meeting her queries was the mouse. Carefully, she held the mouse in her hands and fell to the floor overwhelmed by the laughter that escaped her mouth.

It was spring. Flowers bloomed here and there decorating the school in vivid colours.

The mouse was long forgotten and in the care of the girl as a reminder of the adventure she had. The gravelled path that criss-crossed the land blossomed with girls leisurely chatting as the bells echoed through the land. A gentle breeze ran through the school, greeting the old gnarled trees.

Maya Keane, Year 6

The Edit spring 2025