The Edit The Edit
spring2025
From the editors...
WelcomebacktothesecondissueofTheEdit,celebratingcreativewritinginschool!
Wehavelovedreadingallthesubmissionsforthisterm’smagazine,andhopeyoucan joinusinenjoyingthewonderfulpiecesofcreativewritingsubmittedbytheincredibly talentedmembersofourschoolcommunity.
Thisterm,pieceshavebeeninfluencedbyour150 anniversary,withtitlesand inspirationcomingfrompreviousHabsmagazinesovertheyears.Inspiredby‘Diaryof theLastDaysoftheSchoolMouse’from1929,Delilahcontinuedthemouse’s adventuresasaghost.The‘OdetoaCauliflower’from1905hasbeenrecraftedby NataliewithreferencetoanewHabsflower. th
WehavelinkedeachpieceofwritinginTheEdittotheoriginalwritingthatinspiredit. Justclicktheimageofthemagazinecoverattheendofeachpiece-foryour enjoymentandareminderourprofoundimpact.
Wearealsodelightedtofeaturesomeworkbyournewly-mintedYear6creative writingscholars,whowelookforwardtowelcomingtoHabsinSeptember.
IfyoutoowouldliketoseeyourwritingfeaturedinTheEdit,youcanjoinourMonday lunchwritingworkshops,orsimplysubmitapieceofworkbypostingitinourpost-box (outsidetheEnglishOffice).
TheEditisanopportunityforanyoneinourcommunitytosubmittheirownwriting, whetherthatbepoetry,shortstories,personalaccountsoranyotherformsofcreative writing Wehopetoreceiveevenmoreentriesnextterm,andwelookforwardto readingyoursubmissions!
Untilnexttime,bestwishesfromyoureditors,
Miriam Sleep, L6 CS
Edie Chalk, L6 HS
Zoya Mankhand, U6 LE
Ruby Messulam, U6 JM
The Ghostly Adventures of the School Mouse
DearDiary,
Todaymarksthebeginningofmyquestforrevenge.Eveninmynewghostly state,mythirstforvengeancenagsatme.MyfellowmiceandIhavebeencruelly butcheredbythevilecreaturesthathaveoverrunourhome.Fortoolong,we haveenduredthesethings,moreanimalthanus,astheyscreechtheirmockeries andtrampleuswiththeirshiningshoes.TheseodiousHaberdashershavekeptus infearfortoolong.TothinkthatIwassoblindthatittookmyowndeathattheir foulhandsformetotakeactionformypeople.Themomentofmyviolent demisekeepsreplayinginmytinymousebrain.Ishuddertorecallthehighpitchedsquealsof“Killit!Killit!”,theskitterofmyclawsscrapingfranticallyat theclassroomfloor,theswiftnesswithwhichthatlacrossestickwasbrought downuponmyskull…Ittookthemagoodfewblowstoo.Youwouldthinkthat, withsomuchoftheirtimebeingdevotedthatthatinsipidsport,thebrutes wouldatleastpossesstheskilltodisposeofacreatureofsuchsmallstature swiftly.
ItmustbealmostayearthatI’vebeendeadnow,andIhavecarefullyplannedmy revenge.Iwillusetheweaponsatmydisposal,smallthoughtheymaybe,andI shallchewmywaytoretribution.Ishallploughmywaythroughpianostrings, pilesofhomework,andartaprons(thelatterI’mparticularlyanticipating-I’ve mentionedinmypreviousentriesthejoythatIfindinthesubtletangofdriedoil paint).
Yes,Icanseeitnow.1930willbetheyearoftheGreatMouseRevolt!Withthe frontlinesofmyrebellionmannedfrombeyondthegrave,weshallbean unstoppableforce.MynosetwitchesasIwrite–hadInotbeenrobbedofmy senseofsmellbymyuntimelydemise,IamcertainthatIwouldbeabletocatcha whiffofthesweetaromaofjustice,thestenchoffearexudingfromthose beasts.ThetimehascomeforthedownfalloftheHabsgirl!
DearDiary,
Mymeticulouslyorchestratedsymphonyofvengeance,myprudentlyplanned pathtoretributionhasbeenruined.Itappearsthatmyghostlyslumberhasnot beenthematterofmonthsbutofyears–nofewerthan96.Tothinkthatthe yearofourLordtwothousandandtwentyfiveisuponus!Asdawnbroke,I venturedoutofthealcoveinwhichIhavebidedmytime,anxiouslyawaitingthe perfecttimetoexactmyreprisalonlytofind–ohwoe,itistooterribleformeto conveyevennow!–tofindthatit’salldifferent.Gonearetheblackboardsfrom whichmybrethrenandIwouldsourcestraylumpsofchalkonwhichtognaw. Gone,too,aremyfamily.Icanonlyhopethatthismeansthatmydeathmarks theendofourmistreatmentatHabs,forIhavenotcomeacrossevenonefellow spectre.And,worstofall,gonearethosegirlsingreen.Asbarbaricastheywere, Igrewtotakeprideineverybottle-colouredjumperIrenderedriddledwith holes.Besides,howwillIsettlethescorewiththosefiendishlacrosseplayers now?Ialmostmisseventhem.Takingmyrevengeonthesenewbluecreatures seemspointless.
Ihave,however,foundanewpurpose.Mynewhomeisinthecomfortofthelost propertyroom,aplaceoverflowingwiththespoilsofcarelessness.AssnugasI findmyselfintheshelterofskortsandshirts,Iamplaguedbyasenseof responsibility.Iwillmakeitmymission,Ihavedecided,toreturnthesedejected straystotheirowners.EverytimeIheara“I’vebeenlookingforthisforages!”or “Thankgoodness–mymumwasgoingtokillme!”,Igrowalittlemorefondof theHabsgirl.Iwonderwhatthey’llevolveintooverthenext96years?
Delilah Smith, 9 A
The Life of a Penny
ThoughIamsmall,Ihavestoriestotell; AlifeofadventureisoneIknowwell. Passedthroughfingers,bothgentleandworn, Carriedinpockets,bothtarnishedandtorn, Slippedthroughthecracksofacoldcitystreet, Trampledbyfootsteps,yetneverdefeat. Restingingutters,whereIdrowninrain, Pluckedfromtheearth,readytowanderagain, Wageredingames,wishedonwithgreathope, Tossedinthetides,yetI’mabletocope. Eachmarkandscratchtellsataleofitsown Frompersontopersonmystoryhasgrown. Beenthroughthemill,alwaysabletolast, Apenny’sadventureisonethatmovesfast.
Ella Cooper, 8 Ansuz
Little Laughing Eyes – 1914
Themagpieglaredwithitslittlelaughingeyes. Itsgazefallinguponthewarmfield, Sensingtheprideandjoyconsumingourthoughts Andvictorywaitingtoyield.
Butthentheswordsclashedinthebattle; Thepoppiesgrewslowlyred Asthebloodstainedthegrass WhenIrealisedwhathadbeensaid.
Whenthehornsblewtothesoldiers Tothemen,thehorses,thecrows. Thesoundsofthegunshotsweremasked Bythedeafeningshoutsandtheblows
Fearwrappeditsblanketaroundme, Feelingmyspiritfadeasthelastshoutsounded, Thentheyfell,intothedepthsofthesoil Andthelastfewofuswererounded.
Trudgingthroughthebones, Iheardtheloststoriesthatweretoolatetobetold. Theirmomentsturnedtomemories Andtheirwarmthturntocold. Thenmyvisionblurredandmyhearttookitslastbeat. Thesunshone,illuminatingmyfadinghappiness AndIjoinedthemindeath.ButbeforeIdied, Isawthemagpieglarewithitslittlelaughingeyes.
Annya Patel, 9 Aleph
TheChargeoftheKnifeandFork
Ilistentotheslurredandmuffledgossipofthelunchladiesinthekitchen;Imightas welllisteninwhileIhavenothingbettertodo.Soonitwillbe...lunchtime.Icanalready hearhordesandmounds,aseafloodingthecanteenwithhungryravenousanimals. Terrifying,inmyopinion;childrenarebestialcreatureswhenshowntheprospectof food.
Thirtyminutesleft,thirtyminutestillastormofchildrencomesnatchingupeachone ofus,onebyone,bytheneck.Asanyonecantell,Iabsolutelyhatelunchtime-anyfork intheirrightmindwould.Ihearhorrorstoriesofchildrentakingpoor,innocent, unassumingforkshomebyaccidentandleavingthemtorotinthemurkydepthsof theirlunchbags.Ihatebeingconfined,incarcerated,evenimprisonedinahordeof forksandnotjustthat,butthiscycleofrepetitivehell.
Dayin,dayout,againandagain,westayawake-alivebutnevertrulyliving.Thisis reallydepressing;Iwanttobefree.Andliveawayfromthisconsistentfearof lunchtime.
Ilaybackinmytrayspacecomposedly,listeningagaintowhatgoingonwithoneof thelunchlady’slovelife-thoughIcouldnotcareless.Thebellisabouttoring;the clockwillsoonhit12:40.AndIknowwhatIamgoingtodo,becauseIamsureashell notgoingtobethesubjectofanotherhorrorstoryofthecutlerytray.Iamgoingto runaway.
AsIthinkthatverythought,thebellbeginstoringandringandring: Lunchtime.
-Anincrediblysadfork
The Sleep Man
TheSleepMancomestomeatnight Orwhenthemornisnear. Hedoesn’tcomewhentheworldislight, Whenworkwhispersinmyear.
Hedoes,however,sneakaround, Andpryandpeekandpeer. Hecomesknockingwhenthere’swordlesssound Andnothinglefttohear.
TheSleepMantreadslightlyby Myparent’screakyfloor. Hedoesn’tstoptosteerhiseyes Towardsthebrightbackdoor.
TheSleepManknowswhatIabhor AndexactlywhatIwant. Hetriestostartadeadlywar, BetweenmymindandwhatIdaunt.
Hesplattersinkovermypillowcase, LikehewouldpaintgentlyonA3card, Imagesoffacelessmenonahungrychase Oralonelycrowinadarkchurchyard.
TheSleepManconjuresmyworstnightmares, Indaydreams,hallucinations,visions. OneminuteI’mgettingchasedbybears, ThenextI’mnakedontelevision. TheSleepManleavesmebreathless, Graspingontoreality, Causingmeunnecessarystress, DisbelievingthethingsIsee.
TheSleepManmeanswell,Iguess, Whenheencroachesandinvites. Heleaveseventuallynonetheless, Afterfrightened,fearful,nights.
AlthoughIenvyTheSleepMan, Hisassuranceandhiscool, IsometimeswishIknewhisplan, Beforehetakescompleterule.
Ava Weinbrenn, 10 A
In the Field of the Fallen
Inthefieldofthefallen Manywerekilled. Iwitnesseditall, Everysinglesecond, Andstill… Itwasadarkandbroodingnight, Cloakedwithaneeriesilence, Thestenchofdeathloomingintheair, Theundeniablefearconsumingthelandscape, Trappedinthedepthsofthesoulsintendingtofight. Someknewthehorrorsofthenight. Somedid, Somedo. Themethodicalsoundsofgunshotsheard, Whilsttheenemypleadedformercy: Somethingyouwouldatleastexpect. Cold,raggedbreathssoundassometooktheirlast Thedropofabodyslumpedonthefloor,then Silence.
People,terroretchedontotheirwanfaces, Pullingthetrigger,wincingatthenoise. Onetakingthelifeofanother. Deathhasalwaysbeenunforgiving. Everyonesharedthesameemotion: Undeniablefear. Anditwouldstaythatway, Asrealitydawneduponthem. Theywerescared, Scaredofthedark, Thedarkthatlurkeduponthesameground; Theycouldallsenseitcreeping. Ofthemanydeaths, Manywerefriends, Family, Allwithpeopletocomehometo. Whowastogain?
Andreally Noonedid, IntheFieldofTheFallen
The Old Lime Tree
TheschoolbellrangbutIdon’tthinkI’mreadytogohome–notjustyet. Irushedthroughthegatesoftheschoolandranthroughthefieldsuntilthe schoolwassofarawayitcouldhavejustbeenafigmentofmyimagination.By nowthecloudshadturnedalightshadeofpurpleandthesunwasslowly descendingbehindthelargeoaktrees.Itookadeepbreathandallowedmyself totakeinmysurroundings.Untamedgrassandcolourfulwildflowers,every shadeofpink-that’sallyoucouldseeformiles.
Butwait-
Justalongthehorizon,youcouldmakeouttheoutlineofalargelimetreewith stunninglythickbranchesandrootsthatrandeepintothemoistsoilsurrounding it.
AsIapproacheditmorefeaturesbecamevisible:miniatureflowersadeepshade ofmaroonwerepoppingupinthecracksoftherootsandtheshadowofthetree wasprintedacrossthemessygrass–aperfectsilhouette.Theauburn-coloured leavesswayintheautumnwindsandthebrowntrunkwaspeelingawaylikea paintedwall.Butmostimportantly,thelimes.Ashockingcolourofgreen,bold andbright!Sooutofplaceinaworldlikethis.
Littleantholespoppedupalloverthegroundandleftaclumpofdirt,sosmall youmightnothavenoticedit–butIdid,Ialwaysdo.
ThewispybranchesthinendsblewintomyfacewhileIsatonthechunkyroots ofthetree.Icouldspendhoursjustclimbingandreadinganddrawinginthis place,butyoucan’tescaperealityforever.Ihavetogohome.SoIstoodupand wavedgoodbyetotheoldlimetree.
Kitty Clyne, 7 Alpha
A Painter’s Palette - 1930
‘Theinkyautumnhuesdazzletheonlookers,yetstillthepainter’sidentityisunknown. Amberandrubyredstreaksglisteninthegoldenhour.’
Clarafeverishlyranhereyesovertheancienttextofthejewel-encrustedscripture, tuckedunderthecoversofhercosybed.Byherself,shewasanaturallyinquisitive person.Othersmaycallherreserved,buthercreativitywouldthriveinthemornings andevenings,beforeandafterschool.Hermotherhadpreviouslyteasedherforbeing interestedin“witchynonsense”,butClarawasfixatedonuncoveringthesecretsofher ancestors.
Sheslammedthebookshutandthrewitunderherbedspreadashermothercreaked herbedroomdooropen.“Bedtime,nowClara.Putthatbookaway–oh,you’reasleep.” ShetiptoedoutofClara’sroomintothegloomy,unlitlanding,closingthedoorbehind her.Clarahatedbeingdishonesttohermother;itmadeherfeelsheepishandguiltridden Yetstill,shecautiouslyopenedthebookandbegantoread
Hereyesdartedacrossthepage,skimmingthrougheachfascinatingdetail.Tumultuous talesoflovedonesdyinginthe1600s;theskyturningblack,thenawakeningandthe daybecomingbrushedwithemeraldgreen;thenthemarriageoftwoloversinthe 1960sunderamurky,greysunrise,united;andtheskythenbecomeswashedwith pearlypink;achildhoodprodigy,wisebeyondheryears,everymedaltheskywouldturn intoafieryblazeinherhonour.Thestorieswereoverdone,fulloffancifullegends,that wouldneverleavethecrumpledpagetheyweredocumentedon.
Sheskippedforwardtothepresentdayinthefirst-personnarrativeofagirlnamed Heather,aged14,thesameasherspresently.Astoryofmathstests;knotty,confusing friendships.Andthen,itisblank.Sheseemstobeachievingnothing;nodayswherethe skyhadturnedamethyst?Shechidedherselfforsuccumbingtothefolklorictalltales. Shefellasleeppeacefullythatnight.Somehowthough,itdawnedonher:thatrealityis astonishinglyunusualinthatbook,buteverythingintherewasbizarrelytrue.
Sheawokeearlythenextday.Fuelledbyhercuriositytolearnmore,shereadthrough Heather’spagesagain,herfingerscarefullytracingthewords.ShewishedHeatherhad astory,buttherewerenoshadesofgoldintheskyforherwhensheacedthatmaths test.WhydidHeather’sdiegesislackadventureoranticipation?Claraturnedtheflimsy pages.Sideaftersideofbare,untouched,crispleaves,waitingforpenciltobeetched intothem
Sherosetoherfeet,lookingforsomethingtowritewith.Clarawasthenstruckby dizzinessandnauseaandsanktothefloorwitharesoundingthud
Shestirred.However,anachedominatedherbody.Clarafranticallytriedtograspthe bookbutsoonlandedonherbedagaininacrumpledheap,faintandexhausted.New wordsappearedatthefootofthepage:‘Yesterday,shedreamedofme.Ifearsheknows toomuch Theidentityshallneverberevealed’Clarabreathed,wheezingandpanting whilstHeatherwasstillscribblingherthoughts.
Claradriftedofftosleep.Shereturnedtoclassasusualthenextday,butirritable,on edgeandtense.Thecorridorwasasraucousaslionschasingtheirprey.People encircledherbellowingforhertogohome:“You’renotwelcomehere”.
Clarawasregularlyslippinginandoutofconsciousness,therewasafinelinebetween realityanddreamsnow.AtleastshewasinArt.Hermindcouldrunwild.Shefuriously grabbedapaintbrushandtracedalinewithanaquamarinewash.Ateacher materialisedinfrontofher,scoffing,“Ohlook,Clara’sworkingonanabstract masterpiece,aren’tyou?Youneverdowhatyou’retold,doyou?”Atearwelledup;she neverusedtobeaspointlessasthis.
Instantaneously,asifafilmwasbeingspedup,theskyflewintoaction,thebattleship greydissolvingintoanivorywhite,withanaquamarinestripe.Thecanvasstoodto attention,waitingforitsnextcommand.Shefeltshewasthelonesoulintheroomwho sawthis Asenseofuneaseovercameher,andsheseizedthecornersofherdeskto steadyherself.Shetorethroughthebookinherrucksacklookingforanswers.She stoppedinhertracksassheread.
‘Congratulations,Clara.’Theinkseepedthroughthepageandshewaitedforitto settle:‘Youarethepainter,now…Thelastacrylicwasalwaysmeantforyou.’
9 Aleph
Ode to a Flower
Ofalltheflowersthatpeopleadmire ThereisonlyonethatItrulydesire: Aflowerthatcannotbegrown,picked,wornforlocks, Cannotbepressedbetweenthepagesofabook, Cannotbedisplayedinanelegantvase, Orarrangedandplacedonabookcase. ItissomethingforyearsIhavesought ForallthetimeIhaveatHabsbeentaught. Joyandpleasurecannotcompare Tolookinginmyinboxandseeingthere ThatIhaveearned… ACornflower!
Natalie Overton, 9 Alpha
The Last Days of the School Mouse
Beforelong,Katy’spetwasfoundout.Eachdayshebroughtthelittlemouse,itsfame mounted.Sooneveryoneintheschoolknewitas‘ourschoolmouse’.Muffledlaughter andwhisperscouldbeheardincorridorswheneverpeoplewentpastlockers.Teachers, puzzledandconfoundedbythisbehaviour,couldn’tthinkofwhattodoaboutit.Until oneday…
Katywasjustfeedingtheschoolmousesomescrapsofsausagerollfromlunchwhen thecheekythingjumpedoutofthesparelockersanddashedacrosstheempty classroom.Sprintingaftertherunawaypet,Katywatchedinhorrorasitslippedround thecornerandoutofsight.Notwantingtoarousesuspicionamongtheteachers,Katy keptherheaddownandkeptwalking.
Shealertedanyonewhowouldlistenaboutherescapedmouseandhowthequestof huntingneededtobegin.Everyonewhoknewthemousehelped.Allthroughtheweek thesearchtosavethefamousschoolmousebeganandeveryonewashelping.
FlowingreportscametoKatybutshewasdesperateforthewords“We’vefoundhim” Buttheynevercame.Thewholeweekwentbyinablurforher.
Asthechancesofcatchingtherunawaythinned,Katywasdistraught.Hermouse,the oneeveryonecalledtheschoolmouse,hadhelpedherhavefriends,fitinandbemore thannothing.Mostofall,ithadmadeherfeelhappyandlikeshebelonged.Overthe weekends,shestayedinherroomandwouldn’ttalktoanyone.Sheonlycameout brieflyformeals.Thoughtsspiralledinhermind.WhatwillIdowhenthesearchisgiven up?I’llbebacktonothingagain.Whatifweneverfindhim?Everyonewillblameme.
Shehadgivenupandwaslyingfacedownonherbedwhenherphonepinged.Thisis whatitsaid:
Hi.Yourmousewasfoundinthestaffroom.No-oneisgoingtotellonyou. Wehaveyourback.Doyouwanttocometominelater?Amy
Shecouldn’tbelieveit.Shedidn’tknowwhattothink.Shewashappyshehadafriend, butshehadlosthermouse.Sheknewshedidn’tneedamousetobehappy.
Butthosewerethelastdaysoftheschoolmouse.
Evie Coldham, Year 6
Open and Closed
DearDiary,
Somethingbizarrehappenedinmyhousetoday.Thewindowthatfatherjumped outoflastyear,opened.Thecreakofitbroketheeeriesilence.Slowlybutsurely, thespookynoisesgrewlouderinmyear.Iturned.Thehauntedwindowwas open.
Throughouttheday,thestrangesoundsechoedinmymind.Mybloodrancold. Thefloorboardcreakedjustlikethewindow.Itwaslikefather’sspiritwas strollinginourhouse.Ifroze.Iwasscared.
Anhourlater,thesoundofahandleturningstartledme.Iwasalone,yetthe mysteriouslyfamiliarfeelingthatsomeone–orsomethingwaswatchingme creptupmyspine.Myheadwasswimmingwithquestions.Whoorwhatwasthis? Wereghostsreal?Wasmymindtrickingme?Ididn’tknow.
Bang!Bang!Thedoorandtheperilouswindowslammedshutasiftheywere angeredaboutsomething.Charcoal-blackfrightcoursedthroughmyveins sendingashiverthroughmyheart.Iwasquivering–notwiththecold,butwith fear…
Imustinvestigate.Imustfindoutwhatishappening.Iknowit’snotatrickofthe mind.SomethingissuspiciousandIneedtoknowwhat.Therearesomany questionstoanswer.IwillupdateyouwhenIfindaclue.Goodbyefornow-I shouldgetstartedonthisstrangecase.
From, Mishka
Mishka Solanki, Year 6
Repetition
03/09/1939
DearDiary,
Cursemylife.Curseme.Why?Why?LucasisinisroomcryinghiseyesoutandMartha lefttopack.CurseHitler.Cursethiswretchedwar.AndwhyBritain?Acoupleofhours ago,MrChamberlainannouncedthatunlesstheGermangovernmentwerepreparedto withdrawtheirtroopsfromPoland,astateofwarwouldexistbetweenus,and,of course,theGermansrefused.Nowme,Lucas,MarthaandMarcus,areallgoingtobe evacuatedtothecountrysidetomorrow.
Theythinktheyareprotectingus–separatingusfromourfamiliesisgoingtomakeus feelawholelotsafer,right?Theydon’tunderstand.Wemaybekidsbutwearenot dumb.Wecanseeweareindanger,buttheydon’thavetotreatuslikebabies.Iam11.I canlookaftermyself.Butasusual,myopinionisweightless.
SohereIam,sittingaloneinmyroompreparingfortheunknownstrugglesthatlay beforeme.Imustpack,forweleaveat8o’clocksharptomorrow.Cursemylife.Curse me.
4/09/1939
DearDiary,
Iamattheplatformwaitingforthetrain,thetrainthatwillcreatethedividebetween meandmyfamily.BesidemestandsMartha.Herhairistiedbackandhereyesarefilled withworryanddread.Agrass-greenpinaforehangslooselyaroundMartha’swaistand beigesandalsareclippedonaroundherankles.LucasandMarcusbothwearcrumpled whiteshirtsandbrownpants.Thenthedeafeningsoundofasteamengineisheard. Stoppingabruptlyinfrontofme,adarkgreencarriagedoorswungopen.Westumbled aboard.Martha’shandkerchiefwetwithtears.
Mistenvelopedthetrainandwerodeonintoalandofdoubtanduncertainty.Atleast we’realltogether…fornow.
P.S.Iamsorryifthewritingissmudged,itmustbemytears.
Kiana Sharma, Year 6
DearJacqueline,
Open and Closed
7 December,1954th
Thereisastrangethinginmyhouse.Theshiningoakdoorstartedtocreakasitopened, itshingesscreamingforoil.I,atthetime,wasloungingonmybedwhenthesoundrang throughtheair.Feelingextremelyconfused,Icreptdownstairs,poisedandreadyto attackapotentialthreatthatwasn’tthere.Myeyebrowsfurrowedanddrewcloser together;theonlysoundspuncturingtheeeriesilenceweremypantingbreaths.
Convincedtheroomwassafe,Iturnedonmyheelandstartedupstairstoreturntomy roomwhenthenoiserangoutagain.Creak!Creak!Myheartpoundedroughlyand loudlyinmychestlikeaminiaturedrumclimbingupmythroat.Ifrozeandtookalarge intakeofbreath.Iscannedmysurroundings,myeyesdartingacrosstheroom.Deeming thisroomsafe,Iedgedtowardsthekitchen.There,Isawsomethingthatmademyheart stop
‘Iwillhaverevenge.JC’wasscrawledacrossthewindowindarkred,almostcrimson marker.Ijuststoodthere.Idon’tknowhowlong,Ijuststoodthere.Myeyesswamanda screamroseinmythroat.Mymindwasfilledwithfourwords.Ihadtoleave.
Franticadrenalinecoursedthroughmyveins,andIsprintedupthefragilestairsand heardthemstruggleundermyweight.PullingoutabagfromundermywardrobeI filleditwithclothesandmoney.Afterwrestlingwiththezipper,Idashedback downstairstofindanotetapedtomydoorwritteninthesamedarkredscrawl.‘Karma iscoming!’,itread.TheangerfromthisinsultonlyfuelledmemoreandIthrustopen thewindowtoscream…
Flashinglightsandpoliceofficers.Reportersswarmedme,tryinginvainforaphoto. “CatherineScott!”,theycalledinunison,finishingwitharangeofdifferentquestions.A distinguishedlookingonepushedtothefrontanddraggedmedown.“CatherineScott, IamarrestingyouforthemurderofJenniferCollins.”
Iamwritingthisfromprison.
Love, Catherine
The Last Days of the School Mouse
Somethingscuttledthroughthehalls…Somethingsilentlypaddedalongthecarpeted floor…Somethingscouredthecorridorsatnight.Thewinddancedbetweenthetrees howlingitsowneeriesong.Agreattoweringbuildingblanketedtheland: Haberdashers’.Theschoolwasdesertedexceptforthefaintsilhouetteofacreature thatlurkedatnightbutcoweredatthefirstraysoflight,leavingnothingbutfootprints amongthehalls.Theschoolmouse,theycalledit.Talesaboutthecreaturespreaduntil nolongerwasthiscreatureamousebutamalevolentmonsteroffearthatstomped throughthecorridorsreadytofollowdeathorders.
Duringtheday,studentswerehappyandbright,butoncenightpossessedtheland therewasnochatter,nosoundbutthehurriedfootstepsofchildrenrushingoutof school.Allexceptone.Agirlwhosecuriosityfuelledhermind.Thiscreatureexcitedher, itchedatherneedforadventure.Shecouldnotbearitanylonger.Shehadtosee.
Starspaintedtheskyanddarknessfloodedthecorridors.Cautiously,shecreptthrough thecorridors.Ateveryturn,everycornershehopedforsomething,butdisappointment fedherinstead.Thegirlwasabouttoleavewhenafaintsqueakingsoundcamefrom below.Whatwasthenoise?Whocoulditbe?Wasthisherend?Butno,meetingher querieswasthemouse.Carefully,sheheldthemouseinherhandsandfelltothefloor overwhelmedbythelaughterthatescapedhermouth.
Itwasspring Flowersbloomedhereandtheredecoratingtheschoolinvividcolours Themousewaslongforgottenandinthecareofthegirlasareminderoftheadventure shehad.Thegravelledpaththatcriss-crossedthelandblossomedwithgirlsleisurely chattingasthebellsechoedthroughtheland.Agentlebreezeranthroughtheschool, greetingtheoldgnarledtrees.
