The Edit
Summer 2025
From the writers...
Welcome to The Edit!
This is the third edition of The Edit, the creative writing magazine here at Habs, where we love to show off the creative talent demonstrated by our students.
These submissions have been carefully selected to showcase all the amazing work we have been putting in throughout the last term Whether it’s following clever prompts given to us, or just channelling our creative freedom, we have all thoroughly enjoyed the wonderful opportunities presented to us when taking part in The Edit sessions.
In this issue, we are also delighted to feature the winning entries from this year ’ s novel writing competition This competition is an annual chance for students to have a go at writing the first ten pages of a novel, aimed at the young adult audience. This year our judge was Radhika Sanghani (OH), a novelist who writers for both adult and young adult audiences. The winners had the opportunity to have a workshop with Radhika and receive feedback on their writing. Well done to the winners on their fantastic achievement.
We hope you enjoy reading The Edit.
Ava Weinbrenn, 10 A
Yellow
The street was yellow
It hadn’t been yellow in the morning. It had been grey and white and all of the colours that a street is. I walk down that street at seven twenty, every morning. I walk up that same street at around six fifteen, every evening
I had just gotten off the bus, on that very street, and something was different It wasn’t grey or white or any of the colours that a street should be.
It was yellow
Rows and rows of yellow ribbons Standing to attention Tied to the metal gate on the street. On the street I walk up and down. Every single day.
Yellow.
It was amazing It was spectacular, stirring, terrifying Terrifying.
Because the first thought that should have come to mind is, ‘Someone’s looking out for them’
What I thought instead was, ‘I wonder how long those will stay up for.’ One sentence. Nine words.
I walked down that street the next morning Just a normal walk A normal walk that I do every morning at seven twenty
But it was different this time.
Because I was blinded by the yellow Blinded by the sea of ribbons, without a single break in the line Not even one ribbon had been untied, or taken off, or cut
I don’t know why I was so surprised. I mean, when you leave something downstairs on the kitchen table overnight, it’s usually still there when you come down for breakfast the next morning. Right?
ut a part of me, a huge part of me, had believed that they would be gone Torn off, dispersed of, by the next morning. Twelve hours.
You can do a lot in twelve hours. You can watch Avengers: Endgame four times. The average person can read one or two books You could even assemble about four sofas, if you wanted to The point is there’s a lot you can do in twelve hours
But someone didn’t do what I’d thought they’d do
Someone didn’t decide to untie a hundred ribbons in their twelve hours. Someone was given twelve hours and they could do whatever they wanted with them They could have watched Avengers: Endgame four times, they could have assembled four sofas They could have untied one hundred ribbons But they didn’t No one did
I went back the next day, and the next, each day more and more surprised by the lack of action by people. I didn’t understand. I saw it happening on the news, heard it on social media People did things like that So why was my street still yellow?
Eventually, I stopped thinking about it. I stopped constantly playing a guessing game in my head, about whether or not it would still be yellow when I turned the corner. I just accepted.
My street was yellow I love the colour yellow.
One month, two months, five months go by, and my street is still yellow. Then one day, I got on the bus, and looked out the window as we were driving There was yellow somewhere else too
Someone else’s street, a street that they might walk up and down every morning and evening, was yellow. I was shocked.
A few weeks later, I looked out the window again, and this time, I only saw a bit of yellow But I also saw two people Two people tying ribbons to a metal gate on the side of another street.
I wanted to shout I wanted to get off the bus and go over to them Have a conversation Tell them about my street But I just stared
I mean, what would I say? Thank you? That doesn’t sound right. They hadn’t actually made a difference in the grand scheme of things. They had made a difference to my life, given me a new perspective, but the person next to me on the bus probably hadn’t even noticed I guess I could tell them about my street, but I don’t see what difference it could make I’m only 15 Nothing I could say would account for the hole I didn’t even know I had inside me being filled For the fact that these two people, and probably others, are helping people like me feel safer, feel seen and heard. So I just stared.
It’s been a lot more than twelve hours now But my street is still yellow I think it might stay yellow forever I think my new favourite colour might be yellow No one took use of that time back then, and no one has now I don’t think anyone ever will
Ava Weinbrenn, 10 A
Tiny Talents
A poem inspired by my experience working with young children as they experiment with musical instruments for the first time
“ with the little children? Are you sure? That’s really quite the task.” I wonder what could be so bad, But before I try to ask –
“Tobias, please! Tobias, stop! Really, don’t do that, See, the other children play their drums, Not wear them as a hat ”
The harried teacher lets me in, Pure panic in his eye.
“Inspire them with your skill,” he says, But before I even try –
“Tobias, don’t! Tobias, no! Sit back in your chair!
You’re not supposed to hit that boy, You’re meant to beat the snare.”
Recorders next, my fate is sealed; I’ll lose my hearing here. Then I catch a glimpse of my new foe And I’m overcome with fear –
“Tobias, right! Tobias, enough! Take it out of your nose!
Poor Nancy, that’s her instrument, Can’t you see that’s gross?”
I attempt to restore order; I demonstrate some Bs I glance hopefully at the teacher, But instead I’m met with pleas –
“Tobias, now! Tobias, down! No! Not on the desk! I’ve never taught a child this rude, Is this some kind of test?”
The lesson’s almost over, The end is drawing near Tobias blasts some high-pitched notes Directly in my ear
I snatch away the recorder, Now he’s back to pummelling the drum. Wait, could it be? Could I be free? “Thank goodness – it’s your mum!”
Delilah Smith, 9 A
The Silent Watcher
I watch the world sleep, and I watch the world wake.
I know every creature on this earth, every tree, every lake. Nothing happens on this planet that escapes my watchful eye The earth is my gravity, even if it’s not close by.
I’ve seen silent tears drop on pillows, and laughter at 2a.m.
I’ve seen tragic events tear people apart, and hearts stitched together again.
I’ve seen cities burn to nothing but ash, and flowers bloom through rubble
I’ve seen times of darkness swallow the sky, and light break through the bubble.
From love to loss, from war to peace - the world is built on contrast . It creates a balance, a base of harmony in a world so endlessly vast. Learning to accept and embrace both sides is the only way to hear the world’s tune Contrast is a blessing, not a curse – so treat it like that.
Signed, Moon
Ella
Cooper, 8 Ansuz
Theseus of Theseus
If I change my name, my face, my fat, my hair, my eyes, my skin, my nails, my mind. If I change my passport, and reel back my ribs to have and behold the death within. If I swap this for that, grow new breasts and new community seeds.
If I raze the barren land I once was, and shave my hair each morning. If I bury my old limbs and bring phoenix flame to the old hymns. Trade in new meds for old diagnoses. At what point is my new self a remnant of before, and my now-self a bullet into the future.
Celestine Thompson, Year 13
Last Lesson
Through the gaps in the leaves shine warm sunbeams, illuminating the tired classroom A faint breeze whispers in through the wide window, masked by the patronizing clicking of the clock. As for the students, silence hangs over the room like a suffocating blanket The teacher talks indistinctly, with the clear knowledge that all her students are preoccupied with time. Each student: bagzipped, desk-desolate, feeling almost delirious from the blazing heat Their eyes are rested from the exhausting gazing at the clock as the bell rings. Saved from their impatience, the class erupts with the deafening clatter of toppling tables and chairs, and promptly the entire room is barren.
For the corridors, filled with happiness and a strong sense of solace. Smiling students stampede to the front entrance where their adventure begins. They expel through the doors like water busting through a dam. Slowly trailing behind them is the forgotten memories of the school year. Each lesson, each breaktime, each assignment is almost immediately overpowered by the excitement of the summer holidays. They are revisited in September, but as the sun strengthens, their remembrance weakens.
The room is neglected by people, whereas the sunshine gifts a golden hue. Displays of work on the walls lightly flutter in the wind and the clock calms to a wisping tick. The vacancy is filled with the cheerful chirping of the birds and swaying trees in the distance. It is hushed and tranquil, led by the soft sounds of the surrounding nature and the absence of the busy school day.
Arya Newman, 7 Aleph
Last Flicker
I cling to cold stone, where silence crawls. A shape that flickers, weak and small, The creeping light begins to grow, and threatens all I’ve come to know
I squint against the glaring sight, Afraid to be swallowed by the light. I cling like a candle’s flame flickering low, Afraid of the winds that threaten to blow.
I tremble as my edges fade, Afraid to slip into the shade If the sun should engulf me whole, What then remains? What takes its toll?
I beg for grace, one final embrace, A moment’s place in time and space. Let me linger, faint and slow, Before the sun demands I go.
Natalie Hirschfield, 8 Alpha
The Devil’s Rock
The clouds hiss vehemently, the sky a murky grey. She trudges forward ceaselessly in the grim, secluded cay. Her face is pale, her hands are frail, her gown’s besmirched with grime. She cries out in a woeful wail as up the cliff she climbs The locals speak of her constantly and her convoluted tale They watch her endless constancy appearing each night without fail. For decades past she’s roamed the cliffs, a story for generations, A shadow in the looming mist Believed to be imagination. Travelers call it a hoax, an inane, fictitious untruth But they too see the ghost of the melancholic youth Those who laughed disdainfully, then gape in fearful awe. They watch, aghast at what they see Until she fades by dawn. The appearance of her ghostly form bewilders and beguiles. She remains reticent and forlorn. In both storm and sunny skies Many have tried to find her on the isle of Devil’s Rock But the waves serve as a reminder That the passageway is blocked. On and on her story spans No end and no beginning The difference between the lands of the dead and of the living.
Trisha Das, 8 A
Novel
Writing Competition 2024-5
Waiting room
First Place: Waiting Room
by Janna Jess, 11 A
The room had Green Walls, a corner was full of scuff marks, Turning a white surface, Brown.
I sat on the green chair. Sunk Into the overworked linen.
A TV blared in the corner of the room, A man announcing news, That no one wanted to hear
A fan whirred in the corner, Swirling smoggy, thick air around the room
I kicked my feet, Scuffing my converse on the marbled floor A door opened next to me I heard The squeak of the hinges,
The clop of high heels
Come in honey, she said.
I stood up, Tucked my headphones Into my pocket, And walked into the room.
Charlotte
I didn’t hate her.
I didn’t hate her perfect, shiny, blonde curls didn’t hate her large blue eyes,
that filled with tears and sympathy When I answered her questions.
I didn’t hate her Pink dress that she wore Every. Single Week
I didn’t hate her I didn’t
But,
I didn’t like her either
Distractions
I stared at the floor, Kicked my heels together
I stared at the door, Itched behind my ear
I stared at my finger, Bit my nails, until only stumps remained.
I stared at the door, Reached down, Untied my shoe laces.
I stared at the window, Reached down, Tied my shoe laces together.
I stared at the chair, Replaited one of my braids
I stared at the yellowing walls, Scratched a scab off The back of my hand
stared at the clock, Until the hour hand Reached
Lucas
I walked out of the room
Looking down at my phone, Texting Cheryl the details Of today’s session
When I looked up, a boy stood there, Tall, lanky, Skin the colour of Cadbury’s milk chocolate, With a swirl of caramel.
His eyes were dark brown, His lashes thick and curly, Hair stuffed under a red baseball cap
He wore an ancient adidas tracksuit, Nike trainers, That I suspected were dupes
He stared at me for a few seconds, Then spoke up
I’m Lucas
He scuffed his feet on the floor, Looked up at the ceiling
Cheryl told me to pick you up, Walk you back to the home
He looked at me again, And blinked, Lashes batting like a girl’s.
Ready to go?
He put his hands in his pockets, Looked up at the ceiling again.
I picked up my backpack from next to the chair, Slung it over my shoulder, Slipped my phone into my jean pocket
I know the way, I mumbled, And started to walk off
How Long?
He ran after me, Catching up with me in seconds.
He started walking next to me, Swinging his arms with each step.
Minutes passed.
The home came Into view, A grey building, against A grey sky
How long?
Lucas said, nodding towards the building
What?
I pulled a wired earphone out of my ear, Stopped on the pavement
How long you been in the home?
The sun was hiding behind a cloud 2 weeks, I said, without turning around. 2 weeks.
Homes
I’ve been here, In the St. Christopher’s home for 2 weeks
Before that, it Was Carol and her son, For a month
Then, Another home for 3 months, Before a girl pulled out a Knife on me, And I pulled one back.
Before that I lived at home.
But.
What does home Really mean?
Home
Red bricked kitchen, Small or large
Somewhere permanent, Made of people that I love, And who love me
All my life, Home is all I’ve ever Longed for Inside
It wasn’t horrible. I’ve seen worse. I’ve been in worse places.
Second place: The Poison in the Lungs
by Tiara Odeyemi, 8 Ansuz
Snow had made its home here These woods were perfect for what she needed to do If anyone from Silverbrook saw her, Elowen knew she would be executed Just like the rest of her family
She was already unwelcome; the villagers had made it clear. Her honey-brown complexion and frizzy hair were a symbol of her southern heritage. Elowen knew what this would cost her, but there was a chance. She had heard of the tales when people used to breathe magic in their lungs, how it coursed through their veins. Magic was the essence of their very being. Everything was great until Empress Althea Soleil of the Southern Lands swooped in and killed it.
Elowen had been told that the power had gone to Althea’s head. A monster in mortal flesh. It cost thousands of lives (less than fifty were human) to finally kill her.
But there was more to the story, wasn’t there?
Elowen knew she didn’t belong here, but every time she thought about leaving Silverbrook, the horrors of that night crept into her mind And if Thalrik ever found her After a month of contemplating, she was ready There was a voice in the wind that seemed to speak to her
Elowen reached into her leather satchel Wrapped in sheets of cloth was a finch missing a wing She’d found it bleeding to death on the street on a trip to the market for firewood (as she was saving up for an axe) If she hadn’t been there, the stray cat would’ve eaten it in one bite As she slowly placed the shivering bird in the snow, she drew out her dagger from her boot She could see her reflection in it; the sky dotted with stars
It’s now or never
She sliced her palm open The blood poured out, almost too quickly Her palm stung, but she reassured herself that the wound would heal if her plan worked
The snow melted with a silent hiss in the places where the blood had dropped Elowen marvelled at it Blood was so red and filled with rage Filled with the pain that she carried The small light that stopped the darkness from consuming her soul
She placed her hand in the snow and took a deep breath.
It took longer than she expected, but runes started to glow from the ground. It was a burning red that faded to a dull blue. The wind was now becoming stronger, a sign that her spell was either working or backfiring. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a golden light hovering around the injured bird. The light started to cling to the bird and… its wing was being reformed. She just had to make sure something like this could work. If she could do this, then perhaps she could quell the endless winter of the north. Maybe she could even stop the food shortages, or find a cure for the fever
The bird started to screech Her concentration had broken, and the runes had turned deep red The bird’s wing, once glowing with gold light, was now glowing red like the runes Elowen reached out for the bird, but the moment she touched it, the wing turned to ashes
As did the rest of the bird, not even leaving its skeleton behind
Highly Commended: Chalkboard
by Lexie Conway, 9 Ansuz
My name is Jack Hudson, and I am in a courtroom I am in a courtroom when I could be spending the last day of summer frolicking around in the puddles of an exploded fire hydrant, a steaming hot dog and a bubbly glass of coke waiting for me on our rattan garden table. That probably wouldn’t be happening anyway. It would be me dodging puddles of brown and dark yellow liquids on our kitchen floor, a Tesco meal deal rotting away in the broken fridge
I’ve never been to court. I’ve seen glimpses on it in the Simpsons – the classic Homer or Bart attacking someone or Lisa campaigning for some social change. It’s strangely exactly how I pictured it to be – there were people in long benches that resembled church pews sitting solemn-faced A lot of people were looking at me, the only family member in the front few rows The ends of the benches had illustrious strokes of gold on them Separated from me by a dark wooden railing, was my dad, Harvey Hudson, with his lawyer. The lawyer, a man with wispy grey hair, we found on an app that was practically Temu for lawyers. He had come round to our house exactly two times, and one time he drank his bodyweight in Harvey’s cognac You may notice I don’t call my dad ‘Dad’ I find it overrated He’s never been much of a dad to me anyway
The judge bangs the desk three times. “This court is now in session. Mr Harvey Michael Hudson, you are being charged with child neglect. Your neighbour, Ms Sheila Moira Franks, called the police last week after finding your son sleeping in your front garden”
There was more to the story I’d always slept outside when Harvey was so drunk he might kill me, or he’d be having one of those nights where he was blunt and short-tempered, and I didn’t want it to escalate. That night was both. It had been warm, so I didn’t take out any bedding. Our lawn was plush and thick enough. Ms Franks had been putting her bins out and happened to see me, and she shouted at me mostly, for ignoring the situation, and then she called the police The funny thing was, I didn’t ask her not to
I watch as Harvey, the man who raised (or just rather watched) me, breathe out a long, shaky sigh. He can’t say anything but yes. If he knows me enough, he would know that if he denied it, I would stand on my chair and scream and spit in his face all the kinds of ways he’s made me feel like I’m nothing but a disappointment I am the kind of person who would do that “Y-yes,” he says, sneaking a quick glance back at me Is that what fathers and sons do? Look at each other with a knowing smirk, as if they had some sort of secret code?
But for me it’s Harvey turning to me with a look that says: I’m so very sorry, yours faithfully, Dad I always forget whether it is sincerely or faithfully to a person you know