Talking To Myself - Wembley High Technology College First Story Anthology

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First Story changes lives through writing.

We believe that writing can transform lives, and that there is dignity and power in every young person’s story.

First Story brings talented, professional writers into secondary schools serving low-income communities to work with teachers and students to foster creativity and communication skills. By helping students find their voices through intensive, fun programmes, First Story raises aspirations and gives students the skills and confidence to achieve them.

For more information and details of how to support First Story, see www.firststory.org.uk or contact us at info@firststory.org.uk.

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Talking to Myself ISBN 978-0-85748-197-9 Published by First Story Limited www.firststory.org.uk Omnibus Business Centre, 39–41 North Road London N7 9DP Copyright Š First Story 2016 Typesetting: Avon DataSet Ltd Cover Designer: Lucy Dove Printed in the UK by Intype Libra Ltd First Story is a registered charity number 1122939 and a private company limited by guarantee incorporated in England with number 06487410. First Story is a business name of First Story Limited.

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Talking to Myself An Anthology

By The First Story Group At Wembley High Technology College Edited and introduced by Peter Hobbs | 2016

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‘We all have a voice. Some never discover it. We all have stories to tell.

Some never tell them. First Story has helped all these young writers to discover their writing voice, and in so doing has helped them discover themselves.’

Michael Morpurgo (author of War Horse) ‘First Story is a fantastic idea. Creative writing can change people’s lives: I’ve seen it happen. It’s more than learning a skill. It’s about learning that you, your family, your culture and your view of the world are rich and interesting and important, whoever you happen to be. Teenagers are under increasing pressure to tailor their work to exams, and to value themselves in terms of the results. First Story offers young people something else, a chance to find their voices.’

Mark Haddon (author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time) ‘First Story not only does an invaluable thing for the young and underheard people of England, it does it exceptionally well. Their books are expertly edited and beautifully produced. The students featured within are wonderfully open and candid about their lives, and this is a credit to First Story, whose teachers thoroughly respect, and profoundly amplify, their voices. The only problem with First Story is that they’re not everywhere – yet. Every young person deserves the benefit of working with them.’

Dave Eggers (author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) ‘First Story is an inspiring initiative. Having attended a school with a lot of talented kids who didn’t always have the opportunity to express that talent, I know what it would have meant to us to have real-life writers dropping by and taking our stories seriously. And what an opportunity for writers, too, to meet some of the most creative and enthusiastic young people in this country! It’s a joyful project that deserves as much support as we can give it.’

Zadie Smith (winner of the Orange Prize for fiction and author of White Teeth) ‘I think that First Story is a hugely valuable organization. What it does is it gives people a voice. It helps create a sense of what we can do about injury, lacking of voice, and in the broader sense it creates communities, true communities of understanding.’

Alain de Botton (philosopher and author of Essays in Love)

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As Patron of First Story I am delighted that it continues to foster and inspire the creativity and talent of young people in secondary schools serving low-income communities.

I firmly believe that nurturing a passion for reading and writing is vital to the health of our country. I am therefore greatly encouraged to know that young people in this school – and across the country – have been meeting each week throughout the year in order to write together.

I send my warmest congratulations to everybody who is published in this anthology.

HRH The The Duchess Duchess of of Cornwall Cornwall HRH

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Thank You Melanie Curtis at Avon DataSet for her overwhelming support for First Story and for giving her time in typesetting this anthology.

Lucy Dove for designing the cover of this anthology.

Intype Libra for printing this anthology at a discounted rate; Tony Chapman and Moya Birchall at Intype Libra for their advice.

Our wonderful teachers Rachel Hill and Victoria Tripp for all their contributions to the workshops and this anthology, and to everyone at Wembley High Technology College who has supported the work of First Story.

HRH The Duchess of Cornwall, Patron of First Story.

The Trustees of First Story: Andrea Minton Beddoes, Anne Elizabeth Pryor Colocci, Robert John Waterloo Ind, Charlotte Mary Hogg, David Anthony Stuart Stephens, Sue Margaret Horner, Sophie Dalling, Mayowa Sofekun, Edward James Baden-Powell, Betsy Elizabeth Tobin, James Victor Waldegrave.

The Advisory Board of First Story: Andrew Adonis, Julian Barnes, Jamie Byng, Alex Clark, Julia Cleverdon, Andrew Cowan, Jonathan Dimbleby, Mark Haddon, Simon Jenkins, Derek Johns, Andrew Kidd, Rona Kiley, Chris Patten, Kevin Prunty, Zadie Smith, William Waldegrave and Brett Wigdortz.

Thanks to: Aldgate and Allhallows Foundation, Arts Council England, Jane and Peter Aitken, Tim Bevan and Amy Gadney, Big Lottery Fund, the Boutell Bequest, the Liz and Terry Bramall Foundation, Brunswick,

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Cheltenham Festivals, Clifford Chance Foundation, Beth and Michele Colocci, the Danego Charitable Trust, the D’Oyly Carte Charitable Trust, the Dulverton Trust, the Thomas Farr Charity, the Robert Gavron Charitable Trust, the First Story Events Committee, the First Story First Editions Club, the Girdlers’ Company Charitable Trust, Give A Book, Goldman Sachs Gives, Charlotte Hogg and Steve Sacks, Laura Kinsella Foundation, Kate Kunac-Tabinor, the Lake House Charitable Foundation, Letters Live, John Lyon’s Charity, Old Possum’s Practical Trust, Open Gate Trust, Oxford University Press, Penguin Random House, Psycle Interactive, Laurel and John Rafter, the Sigrid Rausing Trust, the Royal Society of Literature, SAGE Publications, Santander Foundation, Alison and Neil Seaton, the Staples Trust, Teach First, Betsy Tobin and Peter Sands, Walker Books, the Wates Foundation, the Garfield Weston Foundation, and our group of regular donors.

Most importantly we would like to thank the students, teachers and writers who have worked so hard to make First Story a success this year, as well as the many individuals and organisations (including those we may have omitted to name) who have given their generous time, support and advice.

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Contents Introduction

Peter Hobbs

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Noise In the Kitchen ‘I’m the Samosa to Your Chutney’ Tree Learning to Ride Incentivisation Dawn A Morning Routine A Day in the Life We The Visit My Brother A Goodbye to Bullying A Summer’s Day Mood Swings Like Weather October Those Kinds of Afternoons Kissed Me Goodbye Note to My Younger Self The Sunset and Mountain Adventure A Scar From a Guitar My Green Pen The La Vie En Rose Orpheus Waiting More Than Just Glasses A Wish That Never Came True

Bilal Mahmood Shakira Irfan Dhvani Narendra Tyra Peters Sara Jani Hana Esmail Hafsa Hussain Sawda Mohamoud Elizabeth Kennedy Hafsa Hussain Habon Omar Fatima Ahmed Ridhi Shah Ramyasree Thogata John Medina Sawda Mohamoud Tyra Peters Ramyasree Thogata Habon Omar Ridhi Shah Dhvani Narendra Shreejana Gurung Bilal Mahmood Inez Bright Hafsa Hussain Shakira Irfan John Medina Ridhi Shah

13 14 16 19 20 21 23 24 26 28 29 31 32 34 35 36 37 39 40 41 43 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

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Filler Hana Esmail 54 Wow Elizabeth Kennedy 55 How to Do the Laundry Fatima Ahmed 56 How to Be a Teacher Bilal Mahmood 58 How to Get a Teacher to Like You Habon Omar 60 The Eagle of Masyaf Inez Bright 62 Th Cas of th Missing ‘ ’ Shreejana Gurung 63 You Don’t Own Me Sara Jani 64 Black Mail Sarah Jasim 65 Lime John Medina 67 Banana Fatima Ahmed 68 Endings Inez Bright 69 Alacrity Sarah Jasim 70 Maya Shreejana Gurung 71 Jealousy Hana Esmail 72 You Shakira Irfan 73 Prophecy Tyra Peters 74 Echoes of the Past Sara Jani 75 Echo Bilal Mahmood 77 Reflections Sarah Jasim 78 Forever with Me Ramyasree Thogata 79 Contributors 83

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Introduction Peter Hobbs Writer-in-Residence

Our days are filled with talk. There are the conversations we have with families and friends and the ones we have with students or teachers or the people we work with; quick conversations in passing and more leisurely ones when we find ourselves sitting or walking together. There’s the small talk that eases us through the day, and conversations so important that they cause us to whisper, or shout. There are on-going, never-finished conversations by letter and email and text. There are conversations we imagine ourselves having – the ones we should have had and the ones we are yet to have – and conversations we have already had that we replay over and over in our heads. Then, finally, there are the infinite and invisible conversations we have with ourselves.

Perhaps no conversations are as important as these last because it’s through them, through the stories we tell about ourselves and about other people, that we find out who we are. They’re how we order the world, how we understand and interpret it.

And writing is simply an extension of this. Every time we set pen to paper we are talking to ourselves.

Over the last year seventeen students, two teachers and I have spent a lot of time talking to and amongst ourselves. In our Thursday afternoon workshops we have been telling our stories in our own voices and in all kinds of ways – shyly or confidently, quietly or noisily. We have told them in memoir and fiction, in poetry and prose. We have engaged with language, and paid attention to details that might otherwise have passed unnoticed, 11

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details that contain whole stories in themselves. We have been telling true stories about our lives and about the world, and learning to tell them in the best ways we can.

The world is full of talk. Through all of our First Story workshops we gained immense enjoyment from writing and then sharing with each other our quiet interior conversations, and here, with this anthology, we invite you to listen in.

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Noise Bilal Mahmood

Silence.

Silence, says the teacher.

I don’t like it. I hear it far too often. I like noise. I love noise.

Silence is like spice. There’s only so much you can handle before you snap. For this world to function you need noise, you need the constant sound of you exhaling, you need the sound of heels tapping the ground. You need the rumble of a plane soaring overhead and the creaking of floorboards at home. And most importantly you need the sounds of ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’.

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In the Kitchen Shakira Irfan

What is not new but different each day is the sigh. It doesn’t differ in its sound or length, but in its meaning. Today it was fatigue. Yesterday though, it was anger. Last week it was because of the effort of bending down to get what she needed from the kitchen rack and then standing back up again. She’s not old, but with cleaning, cooking and looking after us, a sigh is evoked nonetheless.

There was a time when she hummed instead. I used to sit atop the splattered grey counter, mesmerised by her knowledge of pots and pans, herbs and spices. Nowadays, I only catch a glimmer of that lady on Fridays. She pushes open the window, using her broomstick to help her reach. Accompanied by the rustling leaves, tuneless lyrics fill the kitchen until eventually her laugh claims the space, my dad, brother and I laughing with her from different rooms.

But today isn’t Friday.

Her slippers half slap, half scrape against the stone-tiled kitchen floor to the sink. My hands under my thighs, I sit with my legs swinging, amidst the absence of words, listening to the methodical flow of the water. I stare at the stomach of our washing machine in front of me, remembering all the days I’d sit in front of it, watching it spin until my head did too. She closes the tap. Two steps back to the counter and she gives me a cheery smile, clears her throat.

‘Watching carefully?’

I nod. Her gentle fingers handle the knife with ease, taming it

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in the kitchen

under her hold. One hand sturdily on the knife handle, black and sinister, her olive skin warming the harsh darkness; the other a tightly woven basket encompassing the onion. A purple chopping board. With an expert flow, a second between each slice, rings of onions decorate the chopping board, every cut leaving an echo of the shakers I used to play and the sound of claves when the knife meets the board.

She turns to me with watery eyes and we laugh.

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‘I’m the Samosa to Your Chutney’ Dhvani Narendra

What is the first thing that comes to your mind when I say that?

If you’re desi then you’re probably thinking about the paneer samosas and the sweet, yet spicy, chutney that your mother (who you call ‘Mummy’) makes at family gatherings. However, if you’re pardesi, then it’s likely that you’re thinking about triangles and India, because – although you can get them in different shapes if you yourself tried making them – samosas are obviously shaped like triangles and the roots of chutney go back to India.

Let’s talk about chutney. If you’re planning to go to India or have already been, then you’ll find that chutney is available in different colours, textures and flavours. You could make a whole painting out of chutney. Of all the chutneys I have tasted to date, the best one is the one that my auntie makes: not too sweet and not too spicy. It’s a tone of light green and at times you taste pieces of coconut, though that’s mainly due to the fact that she needs to replace her blender with a better one. You can eat it with anything, from Kingsmill white bread to Kohinoor basmati rice. Not a single chutney made outside the house tastes like this one. In any case, there is no real comparison between homemade and ready-made chutneys. In Britain the ready-made chutneys are too plain and don’t have enough chillies in them, whereas the ready-made chutneys in India are spicy on a whole other level. Therefore, the moral of this story is to always stick with the chutney that your auntie makes.

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‘i’m the samosa to your chutney’

They come in various sizes and have various fillings. What could they possibly be? That’s right, it’s time to talk about samosas. Even though samosas and chutneys are symbolic of the relationship between a girlfriend and a boyfriend, they are complete opposites. Now opposites do sometimes attract, but not in this case. Remember how I mentioned that there is no real comparison between home-made and ready-made chutneys?

Well, the same is true for ready-made and home-made samosas, but in reverse. My grandma, aunties and mum have all had innumerable failures at making samosas and as a result I can’t really eat any samosas other than the ready-made ones. My cousin did try making them once after she got inspired on the Saturday night that we decided to watch MasterChef India as a family and they turned out to be delicious. However, the second time she made them they turned out completely raw, putting a premature end to her samosa-making career.

Personally, my favourite filling is paneer (cottage cheese) because no matter what dish it is, if it has paneer in it, then it automatically becomes delicious. There are also samosas called ‘Punjabi samosas’ which originate from Punjab, a state in India. I have to admit that I hate these types of samosas as the amount of masala that is put in the filling is too much for me to handle.

Also, they’re generally just too big so I end up throwing half of them away when I’m at a relative’s wedding (or as I like to call it, shaadi). The moral of this story is that paneer samosas are the best.

In conclusion, ‘I’m the chutney to your samosa’ – or was it ‘I’m the samosa to your chutney’? – describes the relationship between two people who admire each other. Just as a samosa is incomplete without its chutney, so is one person incomplete without the other. The reason why the saying exists is almost certainly because we ran out of pick-up lines and started 17

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associating Indian food with love. However, this pick-up line is pointless because clearly no two humans can have the same bond as that between a samosa and its chutney.

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Tree Tyra Peters

We both sat on my bed, eerily captivated. I could tell my brother shared the same feeling that I had: knotted anticipation mixed with a little bit of fear. Behind the double-glazing it was swaying and jerking amidst nature’s vehemence. I imagined two imposing and impossibly tall golems, entirely composed out of the gales, scrapping and bickering over the old thing.

But why? It was a scratchy old thing that would leave a mark if you were unlucky enough to accidentally brush past it. The bark was practically falling off and the only animal with standards low enough to acknowledge its existence were the lowly ants that would use it to store food.

Yet here it was, being manhandled in my back garden. We thought it was going to topple over onto next door’s lawn. Its roots were firmly fixed into our yard but its jagged branches spilled over into the general vicinity of the neighbours’ houses so it could have fallen into either area – I knew my dad would be miffed if it was ours. He took pride in our garden, in the form of tulips, bushels and haphazardly-mown grass and encouraged us kids to do the same (and we would hide away in our bedrooms because nothing was worse than helping dad with the garden on a Saturday morning).

I rested a single silver coin on my brother’s knee. ‘You owe me 20p if it falls.’

He scoffed. ‘You owe me forty if it doesn’t.’

‘Deal!’

I gave him that forty pence with a sour face.

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Learning to Ride Sara Jani

The first time I rode a bike without training wheels, I was excited.

Actually, it probably wasn’t excitement. I was scared. Terrified.

Petrified. My dad had this idea that if I fell off three times and got back up each time, I’d be an expert. Yeah, right, maybe an expert in falling. But of course at the time I believed him, so I rode it everywhere and, naturally, failed every time.

One day after a lesson, my dad told me he’d help me ride my bike home. Somehow, four-year-old me thought this was a wonderful idea, which is how I ended up riding my bike down the crowded main road. Cars were honking all around, there were the obligatory sirens of the police cars that seem to be abundant in Toronto, and, of course, yours truly, racing downhill on a purple Dora the Explorer bike and narrowly avoiding running over people. My speed, along with my severe lack of control, could only mean one thing: absolute disaster. I can picture it now: the fence rushing towards me and only one thought rushing through my head… How do I stop?

I did the only logical thing and put my hands up in front of my face, effectively relinquishing what little control I had over the bike. How could that possibly have gone wrong? Instead of crashing into the fence, I crashed onto the cold, unforgiving concrete, which wasn’t exactly an improvement. My dad, who had been running after me that whole time, reached me moments later. I don’t quite remember what happened after that, but I do know that there was crying, consolations and a promise of ice cream to make it better. I still have a scar as a memory of the occasion.

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Incentivisation Hana Esmail

This was it. The day I’d been dreading all week, all month even, ever since my mum had mentioned the idea. ‘Maybe we should sign her up for swimming lessons!’ You know those conversations that you hear between your parents when you can’t work out whether they’re staged for you to hear them, or if they were actually trying to keep them private? Yeah, one of those. I detested the idea, even when she bought me a bright purple swimsuit and a matching swim backpack. I am now aware of the term incentivisation. Clever one, Mum! She described them as ‘cool’, which should have been my first red flag. What parents call cool is always rather far from it.

‘Hey Han, aren’t those cool? Isn’t this exciting?’

‘No, Mother, this is not cool, by any stretch of the imagination.’

I stood freezing in the middle of our hallway, backpack and all. Not cool, Mum, not cool. Neither were the changing rooms, for that matter. For a start I couldn’t reach my allocated muchtoo-tiny-to-be-functional locker. After that it’s all a bit of a blurry mess.

One thing I do remember vividly is the feeling of my head going underwater. Previously, I had always preferred showers. It felt as though my entire three-foot tall body was slowly filling with chlorine-infested water. This can’t be right, I remember thinking. Surely I’m supposed to be moving across the water, rather than slowly sinking downwards towards the navy-blueand-cream checked floor. My alarmingly bright swimsuit seemed 21

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to close in on me. I couldn’t see it from that angle but I’m sure that not even the overenthusiastic smiling face on the stomach of the swimsuit was smiling.

As soon as I got out of the death trap I was convinced that I had drowned. Fourteen years later it turns out I had just slightly crouched in a two and a half foot shallow end of the kiddie pool.

No wonder the lifeguards seemed to look so amused. But even after all those years it remains a deeply scarring experience.

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Dawn Hafsa Hussain

Its face cherubic, Stippled with sooty marks, Trickles of dew – requisite sleep Defying slumberous eyelids, It appears from the shadows.

Returned to pristine skies Amber flares discharge from pursed lips, Drowning the roseate hue And illuminating the clouds So that they glow gold.

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A Morning Routine Sawda Mohamoud

She walks into the bathroom at exactly the same time every morning – 6:52am. Eight minutes until the rest of the house wakes up, for either work or school. Her eyes fix on her toothbrush, first in line. She picks it up and wets it under the tap, allowing every bristle to soak up the water. Her toothpaste is next. She twists the cap, some mornings using more force than others. Out of habit, she squeezes too much onto the brush head.

She holds the toothbrush under the tap again to allow some of the toothpaste to wash off. The brush enters her mouth with the intention of erasing all of her memories of the meal she cooked the night before, the first meal she had ever cooked at home for the rest of her family. The first meal she had ever received praise for from her mother, the person who had taught her how to cook.

She brushes and remembers the recipe book she was given for her fifteenth birthday. She thinks about where it could be now, probably in a back room of one of the many homes she has lived in. She remembers falling asleep last night, happiness from the praise she received still glistening on her face. She can still taste the sauce she spent hours in the kitchen trying to perfect. She knew it would either be perfect or would ruin the entire meal.

As she brushes her teeth she looks in the mirror, staring sleepily at the reflection that greets her. Her pores. Her undereye bags that hint at how little sleep she has had. She examines once again the scar across the top of her forehead, from when she fell off her bike as a child. She is still thinking of the bike when

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a morning routine

she hears muttering on the other side of the door. She spits out the toothpaste, opens the tap, rinses her mouth, places her purple toothbrush in its holder and wipes her wet hands with the white towel that lives on the towel rack near the door. She opens the door. She finds everybody impatiently waiting, waiting for her to finish. It’s 7am.

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A Day in the Life Elizabeth Kennedy

It’s all a routine. Not necessarily monotonous but a routine nonetheless: the alarm clock that wakes me up and leaves me instantly angry; the radio that creates the background noise so that the cold, damp mornings don’t seem so lonely. The same people with the same chatter. We fill the same train every day – the scramble for Oyster cards, the tannoy that announces the train is late, the Metro hitting the floor as someone starts the quest for something better, a woman scolding her son, a boy telling his best friend about the events of last weekend.

The bell rings: a signal to the masses that it is time to panic and shout. A tsunami wave into the corridors, built in a time before schools were at their capacity and this moment in between classes wasn’t the greatest social event of anyone’s day. The teacher calls for absolute quiet – and she won’t ask again – but the constant sounds of pens scratching on paper and the projector vent hissing don’t care what she wants or needs.

Then later, after the bell has rung a final time, it’s ‘Wembley Central Station. This bus is on diversion.’ The monotone drone, announcing every stop, is in constant battle for everyone’s attention with the girls cackling at the back of the bus. It’s quiet for a second, a moment of synchronised thinking or a pause at a bus stop, but it’s never too long before it starts again. This journey should take twenty-three minutes, but pedestrians and cyclists, argumentative teenagers and slow, old ladies, a change of drivers or a broken traffic light all get in our way and renew the chaos of sound.

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a day in the life

My life is not dictated by teachers or my parents, but by the noises that signal when I should sit, leave, eat or learn.

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We Hafsa Hussain

The bus jerks forward and we lose all sense of gravity, a wave of panic engulfing us as we scurry backwards, trying to find our balance. Our arms shoot out in synchronisation to grasp the discoloured yellow poles, saving us from falling into each other’s laps. ‘Sorry,’ ‘Excuse me,’ we mumble in canon as we meander our way from pole to pole, through the dejected white-colour crowd to reach the top deck. The undercurrent of groans and tutting make it apparent that our apologies are not welcome. We mount the stairs with blushed cheeks, each jolt of the driver’s inept driving causing our shins to collide painfully with the sharp edges. On the top deck, our eyes scour for an empty seat – there’s one. With awkward yet possessive glances at one another we approach it with casual gaits. One of us slithers into the empty seat and the rest, mid-journey, ripple away in search of another.

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The Visit Habon Omar

Hospitals. I really do hate them. Not because of the lingering aura of death, or the horrendous cafeteria smell of the ‘Sunday roast’ (more like Sunday road-kill), but the brightness of it all.

White lights, floors, gowns, beds, and all those flights of stairs that lead to the neurology unit that specialises in traumas and comas.

I grasp onto my father’s freakishly chubby fingers as we make the long hike through it all, petrified I will lose him in the bright chaos. In my other hand: his train ticket. I begged to hold onto it, our only sure sign of escape out of this place. I wish I could take hold of my parents as though they were miniature-sized dolls and leave this nightmare. But I can’t. All that the near future holds is this wretched hospital visit, and I can’t plan, by any means, on leaving this hospital any time soon.

We enter the neurology ward and I recognise the bed immediately, the one by the window. My mind fills with unspeakable thoughts, and the persistent beep coming from the heart monitors.

Beep.

It’s another thing I detest.

I pull back the white curtain which reveals her, sleeping, tranquil, silent. But woken by the screeching sound of the metal rings against the metal rod. My heart sinks when she doesn’t recognise me. Her face is as blank as her sheet. My dad is repeating: ‘Fiona, it’s your daughter. The one in Year Three. Well, Year Four, technically.’

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Beep.

He squeezes my shoulder in a failed attempt to try to make me feel better. It’s a sunny day outside, and there are bright curtains and bright beds and bright gowns and bright floors and the annoying sound of that stupid beep out of that stupid heart machine is clanging in my head and all at once I break into a raging fit of sobbing, crying and wailing.

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My Brother Fatima Ahmed

Here is a list of how annoying he is: He’s stupid and seemingly possessed, His ears are covered with a thick layer of impenetrable steel, His forehead is the size of an overgrown watermelon, But his brain is smaller than a table tennis ball, And his heart is covered in a thick layer of ice.

Every second, Of every minute, Of every hour, Of every day, Of every month, Of every year, He gets dumber.

But still, He gets me what I want, When I want it, No matter what.

Who can argue?

Even though he practically spends every day of his life in the inclusion room, He’s one of them, The kindest, most stupid idiots I know.

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A Goodbye to Bullying Ridhi Shah

I stood there. Outside the same place I’d been when it all started.

The nasty words, the taunting, the voices screaming inside my head. All the pain and the hurt, the guilt and the anger was finally gone. It was over. I stared at the moon. Today it was complete, not a half moon and I was complete too. I looked up at the stars, then towards the classroom where I once would shake if I even went close. Not anymore. Now I felt happy. No one was going to tell me what to do or judge me. I could be me again. That was more than I could have asked for.

Now when I looked in a mirror the lost girl had disappeared.

I saw a determined person who had happiness and life in her eyes. It was going to be a new start; I was moving schools after crying for days, weeks, months, forever. I didn’t have to ever enter that classroom again, where it had all begun. I remember there would already be either something written on the back of my chair, such as Loser, or my books would be on the floor, or thrown away like rubbish in the bin. My hands would start sweating as soon as I entered the place, as anxiety and fear began to fill me. The worst thing was that everyone knew, everyone saw, but they just stood there, watching me. Only I knew what it was like to be the victim. People say high school is a phase of your life that is exciting and full of new experiences, but I knew it was a phase that I would never forget, for the worst and most terrible of reasons.

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a goodbye to bullying

The stars were shining brighter than ever. As I looked across I felt relief. I will never forget how hard everyone’s words and actions hurt. High school was a phase in my life that will always be a part of me but I know now that I won’t let people’s words affect me. I know I have my flaws, but it is not my flaws that make me stand out and they are not the reason I am unique.

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A Summer’s Day Ramyasree Thogata

Curtains. Thick, long, and beige. Encompassing me, secluding me from the world outside, trapping me inside like a prisoner, protecting me like a mother, sheltering me from the ionising rays of sunlight that would otherwise penetrate deep into my bones, their very touch causing them to sizzle. It was a hot summer’s day in the middle of July and the sun was at its highest, its heat and fire making the earth a living hell. And the only things protecting me from it were these thick, long, beige curtains, glowing with a golden aura that was the result of the blinding light outside. Inside though, I wasn’t doing too well.

I was grateful for what little protection they gave me but they still couldn’t save me from the suffocating heat. The rays transformed into a thick sweat that lay heavy on my chest, causing me to struggle to breathe. I could feel my lungs blowing up only to be pushed back in by the sheen of sweat. With every breath I took, the harder it was to take the next. I tried to escape… to stop sweating… but I couldn’t. It caused my dress to stick onto me, like a plaster, but it only made it worse. It was like a net that caught me, a net that’s hard to break free from. I tried to air it, to dry myself, but every joule of my energy that I spent doing this was converted into sweat, just another layer of impenetrable sweat. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t cool myself and I couldn’t even swallow. My throat was the dried Sahara… No amount of water would change that and every time I swallowed, it was like there was something huge stuck in my throat, something that would neither go down nor come back up. Not even a drop of water could pass through… It was the hottest day of the year.

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Mood Swings Like Weather John Medina

Living in England teaches you one thing: that the world around you can change even when least expected, even when least wanted.

Take a day in the spring, where the sun graces the land with its presence. You plan to be active, maybe even play some football. The cool breeze runs into your ears, making you feel like a jet zooming through the skies, willing you on. The sun, a spectator to your game, empowers each soul to run faster, jump higher and enjoy the life they live in. Then it swings‌ The sun abandons the game. A chill of rain invades, instilling its melancholy into everyone’s day. The water pours, drowning everyone with desires to retreat. The motivational heat vanishes, and running faster or jumping higher, or even living, no longer seems worth it. The cold temptation sinks in: to cave in, to go home and be miserable. Your skin folds up, your body involuntarily crunches. You become weaker. Each friendly bump and tumble evolves into an act of war. Blood red patches mark the battle scars. You sink into the waters. Your feet plunge into the icy waters of the once-dry field. Your hair falls to the barrage of rain. Darkened and lifeless it hangs, another casualty. Your clothes wrinkle under the influence of the clouds. The shine of white shirts fades to a dark grey, even the colours heading home.

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October Sawda Mohamoud

Autumn is the season that reminds me most of home. It reminds me of dark mornings, crimson leaves decorating the pavements and long days at school. It reminds me of who I used to be. It reminds me of having to escape thunderstorms when walking home from school. Having to walk, run and skip to come up with a new plan to escape the downpour. Having to hold your umbrella with every muscle fibre, to avoid it leaving you stranded when you’re only five minutes away.

Autumn makes me nostalgic, makes me long for the days I would spend hours inside at home because it was raining heavily outside. I would watch the rain come down from my bedroom window and wait impatiently for the sun to come back. I always wanted to go back outside. The moment just after a storm, just before the sun came back up, was the one great thing about a thunderstorm. I remember running outside, straight out of the garden door, to find the distinctive smell that had been left behind by the hours of torrential rain. I remember jumping over puddles, trying to avoid water hitting my shoes and socks and feet. I wasn’t always successful.

I always think of the same thing when my umbrella and the wind are battling for power. I remember seven-year-old me, waiting at her window, praying the storm would end so that she would be able to play on her new bike again, the bike she had spent months desperately begging her mum to get her.

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Those Kinds of Afternoons Tyra Peters

When I was about seven or eight, my dad would read the Bible to my siblings and me. He never read for very long, but he had this way of speaking that demanded attention and a keen ear.

It was a cool October evening, around the time when the sky turns purple and orange. I remember that it was after dinner time; the whole house smelled of fluffy rice and savoury curried mutton.

My dad – who was sleepy, and not so booming as usual – beckoned me over, holding a glass of ginger ale. He was wearing the same cargo shorts that he always wore. He told me a story about two pilgrims who turned to salt: a story about dedication, patience.

I had my doubts about religion but I always enjoyed his stories.

It’s too bad he doesn’t tell them anymore. ‘Why doesn’t he tell them anymore?’ I asked my mother. She told me that he had fallen out with his pastor and flashed me a tight and squished smile which made her seem even more tiny and round than she already was. Religion mattered to her as well but she never bothered too much with church and books. She’d just mumble a few words about charity and heaven, then go back to hanging clothes on the line.

I think what really drew my father to religion was the ideology: he loved his logic and philosophy and perhaps Christianity was the outlet he needed for that. His little leather 37

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Bible remains firmly squeezed into a tiny cranny of our bookshelf, but I still think about his sermons to this day. They give me hope.

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Kissed Me Goodbye Ramyasree Thogata

I remember that day – it was still snowing. I was on my way to school and, despite the agony that brought me, I was thrilled to leave deep footprints in the white, freshly fallen snow. It was ankle-deep, and I was shivering every time it pierced into my socks, into me. But despite the coldness the winter brought, I still had something warm to hold on to… My dad. His big hands wrapped around my own, and although I was grateful for his warmth, they were still quite uncomfortable. The air was crisp, the kind that makes your nose tingle. I remember the sound of the snow crunching beneath me.

I turn around to look back at it now but I don’t see it. It melted a long time ago, and all I see are puddles of dirt and water. Nothing lasts forever.

And… And what else? The bell. At my primary school, a bell was rung to say, ‘It’s 8:45 now, so line up and time to go in.’ I loved this part. This was the only time of the day where you could witness the hundreds of children buzzing around frantically like ants. I loved that time of the day… But I also hated it because after the bell came another sound… A deep sound that sliced through the air… My dad’s voice as he kissed me goodbye.

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Note to My Younger Self Habon Omar

She’s gone. She is. So get out of your room and stop sulking, for God’s sake. It’s only a three week holiday, so get over it. And I hope you’re not planning to write her a postcard. Oh wow, you are, aren’t you? What a baby! Well, for the next five hundred and four hours you will neither sleep in your sister’s bed because you’re afraid of ‘the monsters’, nor smile, nor attempt to make conversation with anything that moves. It’s going to be annoying!

Are you still in your room? Get up and man up, my friend.

The world is the Pacific Ocean and you are a shrimp. And don’t you dare make one of those daft signs with her name on, surrounded by the most hopeless-looking hearts the world has ever seen. This is the beginning of the rest of your life and, trust me, there will be many more holidays away from her to come.

You will be independent, but first, get out of your room.

Her distinct smell of chamomile and cinnamon lingers around the house. Days later, her Tempur pillow will still almost be shaped with her features. You will lie in her bed, wear her clothes and drink out of her favourite mug. You will wear her khaki knitted jumper, the one your dad got her on her thirty-sixth birthday. You will try to be her, immerse yourself into her lifestyle, her traditions, her livelihood. But it won’t make it any better, the distance between the two of you cannot be replaced by using her things, or even talking like her. You will just have to wait it out.

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The Sunset and Mountain Adventure Ridhi Shah

Mumbai felt a lot like London. The first things that stood out were the buildings; they were tall and modern. My parents took me to a beach near my cousin’s house and as soon as I reached it I knew I was going to love the place. An energy grew in me when the warm, soft sand touched my feet. As I ran towards the sea the waves splashed against me. I saw a little girl laugh as her dad carried her and tickled her and spun her around. The fruit sellers were filling up boxes of red, ripe and fresh strawberries to sell which looked delicious. And the last-but-best thing was the beautiful sunset. I sat on the bridge, the saffron sky still high.

Soon, it began to turn orange and pink. It slowly shifted downwards and the sight was breathtaking, one of the most amazing things I have seen.

There was another fantastic adventure that I will never forget.

It was very early one morning and I moaned as my mum came to wake me. She insisted it was going to be an exciting day but I couldn’t get out of the comfortable bed. Finally, I opened my eyes to reality: I was in a hotel and on holiday and today I was going to go somewhere. It was a new day and a new place and a new adventure. We began walking beneath a bright blue sky and a golden sun. We climbed upwards over hard rocks; it was exhausting going uphill. But everything afterwards made me realise it was worth it. At the top was a statue shaped like a lion.

It was in the middle of nowhere and as soon as I walked closer I 41

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realised it was the entrance to a cave. I walked in and was wondering what to do. It was dark but further along there was a boat. I pulled my parents and dragged them into it. We began paddling and soon we were in a lake. There were quiet frogs and lots of plants that covered the side, and more statues of different animals.

When we got to the other side I stood on top of the hill. It felt like I was at the highest point in the world. I looked only straight ahead of me. I yelled out ‘Helloo!’ and I heard an echo return.

My parents said we had explored enough, but I didn’t want to go; it wasn’t an adventure that I had expected, but I had seen and experienced so many things, whether they were unusual or crazy, and they had become a part of a memory that I would treasure forever.

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A Scar From a Guitar Dhvani Narendra

The first time I touched it, a dream was turning into reality. The warm voice of the guitar overrode the ticking of the clock, the fan of my laptop and the cars driving past. The pain on the tips of my fingers increased as time progressed. My fingers wanted to stop, but how could I let them? I knew that practice made perfect.

As my fingers descended from the E to D, tremors were produced along the nylon strings. The vibrations I felt on my chest were not to be captured. They were not to be recorded. They were simply created to be heard at that moment.

The heater was on in my room, yet it was cold. Perhaps I didn’t realise that it had only been fifteen minutes since I’d turned it on, or maybe it was because my room is in the loft. It’s the coldest part of the house, but the perfect place to play as you can’t hear any Bollywood music or any cousins screaming. I remember when my dad took me to buy my guitar. There was 1970s Bollywood music playing in his car and fog was building up on the windows due to the heating being set to maximum. The excitement I felt back then is recreated every time I play my guitar. The same happiness as when I first saw the guitar hanging on the wall in the music centre.

The room’s plum-shaded walls dimmed the brightness of the bulb and my desk lamp was on to help me see what chords I was playing. I struggled to keep my fingers pressed down onto the strings as the fretboard was wide. I had my notebook open on my 43

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desk in front of me. On its pages my guitar teacher had written out different chord sequences for me. They were difficult to read in his cursive handwriting, but I somehow managed to do so and kept repeating the same chord sequence over and over again until I could no longer hear the sound of the plectrum hitting softly against the strings.

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My Green Pen Shreejana Gurung

The first time I set eyes on you, my only thought was about how you were just another one. You were a different shape, a different plastic, but you weren’t particularly special. But I got to know you a bit more and I have come to realise that perhaps you are unique. You allow my hand to run across the page with such ease. I’m glad I can spend more time with you, just you; you fill the empty white blanks with green scribbles that come alive in my head. Although it can appear black, the hue that spills out in front of me is a perfect balance of greens. Your beauty has completed my student life: you have accompanied me on a neverending journey of essays and corrections. It is you who helped correct my mistakes and untangled the words that I could never straighten out on my page. Sometimes I wonder if it is okay to keep you and hold on to you, or if you need to be free, released into the wide, wide world. In either case I know you will eventually die, that the ink powering you will run out as you give your last scratches. I only hope that I will be the one who witnesses your final moments before your empty shell is cast aside.

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The Bilal Mahmood

I linger between each line. The writer uses the gift of his pen to carve me in. You cannot find me. This is a game of hide and seek: you are the finder, and I am invisible. But no cloak covers me; the ink embeds me. Your eyes are too naked to notice my letters.

You skip page after page searching for me. I continue to present myself to you, but still you fail to glance at me. I am lonely on this page. I am not connective: he’s the popular one. I am not verb: he shouts far too much. I am not noun: he’s a rock. I am just a word that nobody cares about – I am the most unimportant word. And still you fail to recognize me.

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La Vie En Rose Inez Bright

The sound that I cling onto the most is that beautiful, angelic voice of the ghost who haunts me. Her face fades as I waste away with the days. Those soft-spoken words she would always sing.

The sweet tone of her voice, the sky in her eyes. Pain blossoms in my chest every time I find myself walking past a bakery. I will never forget how gentle her dainty hands were. The humming and that sweet, sweet melody that would always warm the hearts inside the coldest burlesque in town. As my memory slowly fades away, my heart swells at that crimson stream that trickled down your neck. Do you remember how your heart stilled? If it had all gone differently, if none of it had happened, I would still have you by my side. All I have left of you is a body six feet under and that vinyl that you and I danced ourselves silly to: La Vie En Rose.

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Orpheus Hafsa Hussain

His face was seraphic, with unblemished lily-white skin and elevated cheekbones. The only colour in it blossomed from his well-rounded lips and his cheeks, which were dusted with a delicate roseate tint that mimicked the light of dawn. It gave him a somewhat angelic physiognomy. On his head were abundant loose ringlets of aureate hair that at a glance appeared to form nothing but an amorphous shape, but on a closer look allowed one to discern a floral pattern, adding to his entrancing aura. His appearance, however sublime, was nothing compared to his voice. It was a celestial tenor, with a natural echo so that when he spoke his melodic words would repeat and linger on in the air, reluctant to diminish.

In a cave, he sat perched on a rock. A small break in the wall allowed the wan twilight to enter, and it illuminated the cave.

The tips of the stalactites glistened and twinkled like a congregation of angels fluttering their luminous wings. Delicately he plucked his lyre and began to sing; his vibrato was magnified and every nuance in pitch echoed incessantly through the cave, causing the scintillating angels on the rough stone ceiling to dance with joy.

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Waiting Shakira Irfan

She breathes in and out. Her cheeks specked with millions of tired pores, a tiny flush of scarlet glowing from them. Her legs almost hiding in shame in an attempt to conceal the cellulite.

Perhaps just judging her from her legs you are picturing a beached whale. But look a little higher, just over the almost immaculate bump. Her pearl-white stomach is sprinkled with peachy freckles, the palms of her hands pressed protectively over the perfectly curved top. Raise your glance to her face and her sapphire eyes smile warmly, inviting you to sit near and talk. Almost like a river she is. Call it what you like: ripples or cellulite. Her belly the smooth surface of a pebble. The tiny rocks decorating the riverbed her freckles.

She watches the clock hand, counting the seconds under her breath. Her fingers stroll along the thinly stippled blue of her gown, her unthreaded brows holding hands in concentration.

Flakes of peeling scarlet scatter across the path her fingers take, the paint from her nails fading and falling. Slowly, she leans her head back, against the pillow, blinking in the yellowing white light. She counts the seconds, the machine on the left accompanying her, each tick, beep and heartbeat bringing her closer to the time. Closer to Zack.

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More Than Just Glasses John Medina

As dawn approaches, he breaks the grip of the covers that bind him to slumber. Suiting up, a robe of bath protects him from the vile winds of morning cold. His lifestyle calls for sacrifice, so leftovers must do for nourishment. They’re a special breed, seemingly immune to Repetitive Strain Injury. Preparing for another struggle, he places on his head the helmet, covering his ears in velvet padding, comfort over utility. Mouse unsheathed, keyboard at the ready – tools of mass destruction if used correctly – he enters the battlefield via username and password, fighting the war no normal citizen knows nor cares for.

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A Wish That Never Came True Ridhi Shah

I looked up. My red hair was flying all over my face, but I didn’t care anymore.

I threw my phone on the side as it made another BEEP noise.

It was probably another text saying Go die or You’re ugly. I had lost my friends and family. People who once smiled at me were now looking at me with disgust. Now I finally feel free, free of the nasty comments and the humiliation. Looking back all I saw was one stupid mistake. Without it, I wouldn’t be in that awful position, stranded in the middle of a desert with fences around me.

It all started on a Friday. I was at home when my friend Claire texted, saying that I had to put pictures of me wearing my homecoming dress online. She told me to show style to attract votes on my blog, that if I didn’t upload anything the other girls were sure to win. For them, being homecoming queen was all about the glamour and popularity, but not for me. I had wanted it ever since I was little, because I knew that my mother had been homecoming queen and it would mean I’d find a way to connect with her again. I was six when she left. I was left to pick up the pieces of my life and glue them back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

At last, after thinking and taking pictures for an hour, I uploaded some. The comments and likes started pouring in and I felt relieved. But that’s not where it ended. Just as I was going to shut it down my laptop beeped. I thought it was another vote for 51

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my blog but when I read the words This hurts my eyes, I knew it was more than a vote. I sat down and started reading. Worthless, Yuck, The worst I’ve seen so far. Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

What had changed in an hour? Why were people being so rude to me? Soon I realized it was more than a few comments, and that someone was out to get me. As I read further I saw that a guy named James Harley had been the first person to comment. Wow, she thinks she’s all that… What is the world is coming to? She stings my eyes more than a bee. All the other horrible comments came after this. I went to his profile. BEEP! Do you actually think anyone would vote for you to be homecoming queen? I don’t think you look in the mirror enough. It’s sad to know you tried even though you have no chance.

It was from James.

Without thinking I messaged back. Who are you, why are you doing this to me?

It wasn’t long before he replied. You should take this as a favour and realise no one likes you. If you died no one would probably come to your funeral, I feel pity for your parents to deal with a daughter as ugly looking as you.

I shut my laptop down. Maybe he was right. Being homecoming queen was too far for someone like me. I looked in the mirror.

My hair was all over the place, my eyes had gone red from tears, my clothes were scruffy and my mouth felt swollen.

Over the next few weeks, I started believing James and every day felt like I was living for no purpose. I stopped talking to my friends and my parents gave up on me. My grades at school were dropping and I felt nothing but the pain from everyone’s words.

But when I thought everything was over someone gave me a hope for a new beginning.

A girl that I had talked to once had messaged me. Her name was Rachael.

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a wish that never came true

Lisa, hi. I read the comments on your profile. You may think I don’t understand what you are going through but I am the one who can understand the most. James is a horrible person. He is a grown adult who cyber-bullies teenagers. Before you I was cyber-bullied by him too. I thought there was nothing left to live for until I realized what he had done to me. He had broken me. His words had taken over me. But then I thought again. Why had I let someone like him make me feel suicidal?

Who was he except a bully who hurts others to make him feel better about himself? I didn’t tell anyone but don’t make the same mistake as me.

Cling onto the little bit of hope you have left. –Rachael.

I read the message over and over again.

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Filler Hana Esmail

Like is the limbo between the known and the unknown, The familiar and the abstract.

It is a valley between two mountains, A squiggly line, one to fill spare seconds, Those vital and crucial moments in an uncomfortable class presentation.

Like is a stutter, an uncertainty, A lifeboat in a time of struggle That becomes your second home.

You may as well live there, Though it is over-crowded, and lacks professionalism.

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Wow Elizabeth Kennedy

Wow is empty – a derelict building, an old bottle waiting to be thrown away.

Wow is tossed around and left in mid-air.

No one reaches out.

No one tries to save her.

Wow is empty – A blank when he doesn’t arrive, A blank when he never comes back.

Wow is a new start.

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How to Do the Laundry Fatima Ahmed

Step 1: Locate the laundry basket, and search for your favourite tracksuit top. Decide to separate the whites from the darks, and spend ten minutes Googling where to put the T-shirt with the red-and-white stripes. Think about it until your brain hurts.

Step 2: Go to your mum and ask her for a paracetamol.

Step 3: Put the red-and-white T-shirt with the whites.

Step 4: Steal your older brother’s headphones, plug them in the laptop and go to YouTube to watch a tutorial on how to do the laundry. End up watching Made in Chelsea instead.

Step 5: An hour later, start looking for the ‘on’ switch on the washing machine.

Step 6: Fail to find it. Go to look for your glasses.

Step 7: While looking for your glasses, decide you need some music to help you search for them and start instead to relocate your brother’s headphones.

Step 8: Go to your playlist on iTunes and sing ‘Hello’ to the washing machine.

Step 9: Ask Forehead – no, not the one down the street, your other brother, the one with the large forehead – to help you find the ‘on’ switch.

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Step 10: Ask him how he found it so fast.

Step 11: Be called stupid.

Step 12: Look for the detergent.

Step 13: Squeeze Fairy Liquid all over the clothes.

Step 14: Turn on the washing machine. Wonder briefly about all the bubbles in the machine, before deciding that it’s probably normal. Go back to YouTube to watch some more Made in Chelsea.

Step 15: When the washing machine finally stops, get the washing basket and throw all the clothes in there.

Step 16: Take the basket to Mum so she can tell you how proud she is. Try to get through the awkward silence without laughing.

Notice the look she is giving you and realise that you have done something very wrong indeed.

Step 17: RUNNN!

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How to Be a Teacher Bilal Mahmood

Step 1: Look at your register and scan it, until you find the name ‘Bilal Mahmood’. Instantly pick up your phone, call your boss, and tell them: ‘I quit.’ Be reassured that any student who hasn’t acquired the name Bilal Mahmood is normal. However, if you do happen to find a student with that name, look to your left. The phone is there.

Step 2: If you are dealing with non-Bilals, then everything is going to be all right. But you cannot be too careful. If a student even gives off even the faintest possibility of being Bilal, then send them out of the class into the cupboard, lock it securely and inform their parents or guardians that their child has gone missing.

Step 3: Get a qualification. Sure, some teachers already have qualifications, but you are not some teachers. You are a diabolical mastermind who has somehow managed to convince the headmaster that you are cut out for this job.

Step 4: The students are not your friends. Repeat this to yourself.

I don’t care if you didn’t make friends while you were at school.

You must understand that these students are mischievous little devils who only come to school to test your patience.

Unfortunately, patience is one thing that you do not have.

Step 5: Do not have favourites. Trust me, that Mahmood boy will be on your case till you utter the words: ‘Bilal is my favourite student.’ If somehow he does manage to make you say these words, the phone is on your left.

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Step 6: Make sure you’re early to work. You’re a teacher now and this clearly means that there are no such things as holidays, free time or happiness in your life. Your days as a teacher should be spent removing the basic human rights of these poor yet fiendish little human children. This is not your time to be a student, so no more lie-ins or bunking off school and no more peculiarly long toilet breaks. However, if you persist in being frequently late to work and you cannot escape that Bilal child and your boss can’t seem to lower their irritating voice whilst speaking to you, then remember, the phone is on your left.

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How to Get a Teacher to Like You Habon Omar

Do not do your homework. Disrupt classes and do whatever you can to annoy them. Trust me. Continue this for several lessons, until you are given a detention. If a different teacher is overseeing that detention, simply go back and repeat the first step. Trust me, this will all lead to something. It may sound a long shot but honestly, I’m your only hope. My brother’s friend’s uncle’s stepdaughter’s friend’s Labradoodle’s cleaner from Vietnam guarantees that this will work. All right, I went off topic there…

So, at this point your teacher is at their wits’ end with you.

But do not fear. Now you are alone in detention with them. It’s time to work your charms. Tell them a joke related to their teaching subject. For example, if you are in an English detention, it would go something like this: ‘Gavin, sit down.’

‘Miss, I’ve got to tell you something.’

‘Not now, Gavin; sit down immediately.’

‘But before I do, I have to tell you a joke’ ‘Gavin.’

‘No, please, Miss, this one’s really funny.’

‘You’ve got thirty seconds.’

‘All right.’

Clear your throat. Reach out for your water and take a sip.

Let the teacher anticipate the joke – it’ll work a whole lot better.

‘Past, present and future walk into a bar…’

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Pause. Take another sip of water. They’ll love this.

‘I guess you could say it was… tense!’

Break into a deep cackle, and then smile sweetly at them. This is comedic gold, my friend, and if you have any doubts, just remember that my brother’s friend’s uncle’s stepdaughter’s friend’s Labradoodle’s cleaner from Vietnam absolutely guarantees that this will work.

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The Eagle of Masyaf Inez Bright

Eyes as cold as the Atlantic Ocean, Framed by messy hazel locks, Adorned walls in the wanted posters, ’Twas the Eagle of Masyaf.

High on the throne the king sat.

Coins spilled out of wealthy boasters, The poor struggled, lifting crates at the docks, And prayed for the Eagle of Masyaf.

The moon lay upon the night’s gentle sky.

Money neatly wrapped under beds.

But soft, sly hands took the maroon pouches And no one stirred or listened.

Golden coins rang down at every door, Cheers and laughter filled the air, The townspeople’s whisper echoed through the valley: ’Twas the Eagle of Masyaf.

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Th Cas of th Missing ‘ ’ Shreejana Gurung

Orang, yllow, mayb whit too. No, dfinitly orang and yllow. Larg mountains, hills and mounds may block your way: trying to walk away is futil. Harsh winds and frzing nights will most likly caus dath or injuris. But still thr ar many craturs and vn humans who ar abl to surviv. Mayb it is bcaus ths humans rly on ths craturs that thy ar abl to surviv or mayb thy don’t, but anyway I applaud thm. In my mind, I hav this pictur of ndlss gritty sand strtching out for mils and mils but I’ll admit, I hav ovrlookd placs lik Nvada and vn th Arctic and th Antarctic – th largst of thm all. So ys mayb it can b whit filds of nothing and ys thr ar many craturs and humans who ar abl to surviv this and ys I applaud thm bcaus whthr you ar in th polar ic caps or Wst Amrica, I am finding that it is still quit hard to surviv. Prhaps w should b lik th dung btl living in its misry pushing dung up hills, or mayb th polar bars, who ar fat and aggrsiv but obviously vry cut.

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You Don’t Own Me Sara Jani

Hello, it’s me. Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago, I realised I just can’t get enough of quoting song lyrics. Maybe I’m addicted, but once you get started, there ain’t no stopping you now, and it’s too late to say you’re sorry. Take one sip of that secret potion, just one sip, and you fall in love. It’s a spell that can’t be broken, and the only thing you can do is apologise to your friends and hope they don’t hold it against you. They just don’t understand when you see a sky full of stars and feel the need to say there are diamonds in the sky, and when they insult your choice, you want to tell them to go love themselves. Haters gonna hate, because while they’re counting dollars I’ll be counting stars. I don’t want anyone thinking that I care, I don’t, but it’s simply too tempting to use song lyrics and it’s like a blank space in your sentence if you don’t. They say I’m crazy, but I know I’m not the only one, so I won’t conceal, I’ll feel, and I just won’t let it go. You see – you can’t tell me what to do, and you can’t tell me what to say, because you don’t own me…

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Black Mail

(A thriller in words of one syllable) Sarah Jasim

She went to the till and rang the bell. She had to pay for the fuel in her car but the shop was bare. There was just a small desk at the front and some drink cans on the floor. No one came. She could walk out and no one would see what she had done. But she knew it was wrong and so she put the things back and went to the door. The place was blank. There was no one to be seen for miles. No birds in the sky and no far car horns. As she got in the car, she saw a note on the glass. It had not been there when she had left. She was caught off guard. She read the note and then her foot hit the gas and she was off. The note thrown to one side, left on the floor.

She raced all the way home where she ran in and seized some cash. Leave town, she thought. Leave now. She got back in her car but her fuel tank was not full, not like she had left it. She had just filled the tank. It could not have been used up on her drive home.

So where had it gone? She did not have the time to think. She drove. As she went past the field at the end of her road, she saw a man walk up to her car. She did not know him. He held a note out to her in his hand. She got out of her car and read it. With a gasp, she threw it on the ground.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want the truth.’

‘I can’t. I won’t go to jail. I won’t be caught.’

‘Then I’ll tell them. I have proof.’

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‘You don’t. You don’t know what you have.’

There was a thud. The birds in the trees made no noise. She got back in her car and sped off as fast as she could.

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Lime John Medina

The feeling of having no one – Being the last in the basket And the first to be thrown away.

It lays its head on the back of the fridge, Inside looking out, Watching expired milk taken into the sun And the remains of last night’s pizza return.

Lime gazes at them, wonder in its eyes: Broccoli taken for haircuts And amputated celeries limping home.

Lime glows green As a ravaged roast chicken greets him, Reeking of the outside.

Lime burns with envy But sits there still, Growing sour in vengeance.

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Banana Fatima Ahmed

I grow over time, Every inch adds to my wholesome flavour.

Jamaica’s main export, I am boxed with the rest of my family and put on a ship to England, Thirty-six hours in total.

That’s thirty-six hours without sunlight.

I’m hungry.

During the journey, I wonder if I’ve reached the penultimate chapter of my life.

As soon as my tip touches England, I’m sprayed with Ethylene, And badged to be sold.

My skin is burning.

I can feel the bruises forming.

But who cares about me, I’m just a banana.

One whose taste has to keep up with the taste buds of humans.

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Endings Inez Bright

Here it is. A maggot’s buffet at my feet. The shot still ringing in my ears. I hate it. The fox is dead but was it worth it in the end?

For what it’s worth, that artefact it took from me, by the way, will be in my hands.

The thought of that golden joy in my hands is what kept my ‘friends’ alive this whole trip. One push of a button and you can travel to any place in existence, summon anything in existence and possibly, from those beautifully carved drawings on the sphere, control anything too. It’s the most powerful thing anyone could possibly imagine. Covered in small sapphire gems, the sphere is wrapped in a silk red ribbon. The object was almost perfect. Almost. There, placed next to the button, was what kept me apart from this golden wonder: the symbol of the Keepers. The symbol on that damned fox’s ear. Without that, I could easily pass it off as mine, even though it really belongs to the Keepers. I would have to wait to meet them to ask why they chose a fox to guard the most powerful object in the universe.

The others mourn as I slowly lower the gun. I want to laugh so badly but I know it will give away my intentions. Our plans have changed slightly. That artefact is what I need to put things right, or else a chain of events will never be. That damned fox was what changed my plans.

All I have to do now is cut open its stomach.

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Alacrity Sarah Jasim

His hair was the ocean on a stormy day And his tears were escaped prisoners.

His gaze was a mouse trap And his smile a four-leaved clover, beautiful but rare.

His skin was a veil, hanging on his skinny frame, His veins were a stream of sapphire gems And his fingers were cold metal hooks.

I could see the flippancy in his eyes But hear the cry for help in his laugh.

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Maya Shreejana Gurung

I never understood smoking. The idea of romanticising it and making it look chic just didn’t make sense to me. And even after I met her, in that whirlwind of parties, alcohol and the haze of cigarette smoke, it was still something that puzzled me. She puzzled me, too. She was caught in the blurry line separating her world and the real world, the grey between the black in me and the white in her. Maybe it was the late nights out with leather jackets and Louboutin heels that were pulling her away and sucking the colours out of her. I always thought this was impossible with her abundance of red lipstick.

As I watch her tornado slow down to a breeze, all I can do is breathe. I breathe in the fumes of sweet poison draping over her.

Long slender fingers twitch above the blanket, the first two fingers straightening while the others closed. Perhaps it is a victory sign; perhaps it is her last request for a cigarette.

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Jealousy Hana Esmail

Jealousy is the opposite of love, Or perhaps it derives from love.

But love isn’t an empty pit, it isn’t self-doubt: What did I do? Or rather, What didn’t I do?

Jealousy is a returning family member who is never invited.

Jealousy is the wall, stopping progression.

Jealousy is embarrassment.

It’s a Why do you care so much?

Hard to admit to, A guilty displeasure.

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You Shakira Irfan

It was then that I knew.

When everything

in the blue world

became green

because of you.

When the wind didn’t burn

and the sun didn’t scream,

When the breeze felt like kisses

and the trees sang their songs,

I knew you were near.

I could hear your voice

And it was then

When the robins returned,

And the blades grew back greener,

And the magpies no longer cried.

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Prophecy Tyra Peters

It will have been said a kajillion times by then, but I will still want to tell you something: ‘You’re special to me.’

That will come out as cornier than I will want it to and you’ll give me an odd look, but it will be best for you to hear me out.

Before I meet you, I’ll have been a different girl; one who can’t even walk into a classroom without twisting my fingers into a knot and locking my eyes to the ground in the mad hope that no one will ever look at me. It’s hard to imagine that I will ever change.

But I have seen something special, something magical. I will be able to enter a class any way I please because their opinions will mean nothing and you will be all I could ever care about, love: in future and present.

Nothing about our relationship will be perfect, but what is?

You’re going to be fed up with me at some point: really annoyed.

Your hands will be clamped into a rigid ball and I’ll be incapable of hearing anything else in the café beside your sharp, exasperated breaths. You love food but will refuse to even touch your burger.

Dutifully I’ll avoid eye contact and we’ll find ourselves sitting in a discomforting silence. You’ll give me one last searching look.

And then you’ll leave.

But hold on; don’t be disheartened. I am smiling and you should be too because I am thinking about the nights we will already have spent together – on your bed, mashing buttons, loud, crazy and free – and I can tell the best of our time together is yet to come. I hope you know that, too.

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Echoes of the Past Sara Jani

There’s something rising in my throat as I walk down this road, a strange mixture of nausea and anxiety. It’s the bittersweet pang of nostalgia. I haven’t been here in years, and there is a lot that is different, but so much that’s been left the same.

A building I used to go into, a road I used to ride my bike down, my old house. I haven’t been back in years. Who lives there now, I wonder? I take a deep breath and keep walking, with no destination in mind. I turn left, and then right, my feet automatically taking me down a road I haven’t followed since the last time I was here; I barely realise where I’m going. And then I stop completely. In front of me towers my old school. The memories that come back throw me into emotional turmoil, and I turn away.

I picture the day I met my best friend. In my mind I’m walking down school corridors again rather than on the road. My head is up and I’m looking around; it’s my first time in the building. It’s intimidating, so much bigger than primary school. I walk into the classroom, looking around at my peers for the first time. There are so many people watching me, but you don’t. And that’s what draws me to you. I walk up to you and say hello, and by the next week we’re acting like we’ve known each other for years.

Another memory bounces to the front of my mind. It’s the day I fell during PE and scraped my knee. Everyone else was laughing at me, but you stood by my side, concerned for my well-being. You helped me stand back up and shake it off; we were both always there for each other. The thought brings a smile to my face.

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But then I remember the day I told you I was leaving. I was prepared for sadness, or perhaps understanding; I just didn’t expect resentment. We grew apart from that day onwards, and by the time I left we were like strangers. It hurt that the person I’d shared so much with acted like I didn’t exist.

I walk away faster than I thought possible, as though it will help me outrun my troubling thoughts. The echoes of my past are like walls closing in on me from every direction, making it impossible to breathe. Memories that I had long locked away begin coming to my mind; they’re always what makes things difficult. They never fade away entirely, just reverberate in your mind from time to time. You miss them, and wish you could relive them with the people who were there before, but you’re forced to shrug away reflections of what might as well have been another life, another person. You try as hard as you might, but you can’t go back to the past.

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Echo Bilal Mahmood

An echo looks like Wi-Fi. It lives in that undiscoverable wireless modem hidden in another dimension. An echo eats the wall but bites off more than it can chew and so it reflects off the wall to find other prey. No yawning. No brushing teeth. No breakfast.

Once it’s called out there’s no going back.

An echo is a phantom of a vibration. An echo’s fear lies in the darkness of the recording studio, where the walls are its doom and the door its sanctuary.

An echo fades like the sight of a speeding train. An echo is neither a friend nor a foe, offers neither benefit nor harm. An echo is a parrot, mindlessly imitating its master, an unseen slave of the voice and nothing more…

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Reflections Sarah Jasim

An echo is not a reflection, but a fading imitation.

Imperfect, like a memory that’s about to fade, Jumbled.

The throat is an echo of what our mind says.

Our mind is an echo of what the soul feels.

Our souls are an echo of what we think.

What we think is not an echo.

An echo is a small animal, the victim of a predator, An echo is lava, the insides of a volcano, An echo is a heartbeat, faint yet necessary.

Echoes fill up any empty room.

They wait for someone to speak and eat up the fallen words.

Then they curl back into hiding, waiting for more food.

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Forever with Me Ramyasree Thogata

I tell myself: ‘I’m not weak.’

He argues: ‘Weak, weak, weak…’

I tell myself: ‘I’m not going to lose.’

He jeers: ‘Lose, lose, lose…’

I tell myself: ‘Don’t stop.’

He coarsely says: ‘Stop, stop, stop…’

And I did.

Hi. I’m Ramyasree. Just a five foot one, fifteen-year-old girl with dark hair, caramel eyes, and a shadow that’s forever with me, like my own black dog.

His name is Echo. He’s a tall man, six foot something, with pale skin that looks like scrunched up old paper, hollow eyes, and thin stitched lips. He stands close to me when I’m upset, and even closer when I am not. He’s always there… dragging me down… pushing my head low… pulling me down with him.

And he never stops.

My words aren’t enough to break him, yet his echoes break me. They are words that cannot push me forward but always pull me back, words that bounce off my fears. They are his echoes of discouragement.

My words are too light. They are too soft, too lacking, too weak.

I know he is not real. I know he is just my imagination, playing a game of snakes and ladders with me, except that the snakes are always there, and there are never any ladders.

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And there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to run, but he’s like a shadow. The brighter my day, the darker and closer he gets. I try to hide, but when he’s the Seeker of my life everything is futile. In our game of hide and seek my world seems to get smaller and smaller, while his gets bigger and brighter until I have nowhere left to hide.

I tried to face him: ‘You’re not real!’

‘Real, real, real!’

‘You’re just an echo, nothing more!’

‘More, more, more!’

And I know. He is more than that. He’s an impediment, a restriction, a limitation, my handicap to success. He’s a wall my words can never overcome, a wall that ricochets my own words back at me.

He’s the energy vampire that feeds on my fear. He’s the rain that ruins my summer picnic, the water that washes the colour out of my life. He is the shoe on the table, the fallen picture.

He’s the man who is forever with me. He is Echo.

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Contributors Bilal Mahmood

I don’t have the of magic of Harry Potter, the persuasiveness of Donald Trump, the speed of Usain Bolt, or the genius of Albert Einstein, and I was denied a small loan of a million dollars and a lifetime supply of ice cream, but if you haven’t already realised, I will say it only once: I am Bilal, I am Legend.

Dhvani Narendra

You’re not the samosa to my chutney, I’m the samosa to your chutney because I put the desi in desirable. One day I’ll be famous for making a perfectly round roti.

Elizabeth Kennedy

This is not a fair reflection.

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Fatima Ahmed

It’s either do or don’t: there’s no inbetween.

Habon Omar

Analogue at birth. Digital by design.

Hafsa Hussain

‘Success is no accident. It is hard work, perseverance, learning, studying, sacrifice and most of all, love of what you are doing,’ – Pele.

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contributors

Hana Esmail

Shorter than average. Smarter than expected.

Inez Bright

Your poem is in another castle.

John Medina

John is a large, cosy apartment, with a maximum of two rooms. He is a CAPSLOCK on a keyboard, because he’s too lazy to hold down shift. He would without a doubt make money gaming on YouTube, but he isn’t as antisocial as he sounds.

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Ramyasree Thogata

I wrote because I had to. Now I write because I want to.

Ridhi Shah

If you have food, we’ll get along.

Sara Jani

Future scientist who will most likely be famous for managing to burn ice in a lab, somewhere in Switzerland. (The only things more important than science are reading and chocolate.)

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contributors

Sarah Jasim

I write on paper – save trees!

Sawda Mohamoud

Always finds herself lost in riddles.

Shakira Irfan

Everything about the colour green is what I am.

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Shreejana Gurung

Low attention span; high daydreaming capability.

Tyra Peters

Error 404: Girl does not exist.

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