From the editors...
Welcome to The Edit!
We want to celebrate the creative writing in our school - many of you are skilled writers and we want to highlight this.
This is our first edition, written by students from Year 7 to 11. Alongside Mrs Leifer and Ms Walton, we have really enjoyed reading all the submissions to this term’s magazine. We have selected the most powerful and engaging examples of creative writing.
Some pieces have stemmed from our lunchtime creative writing workshops and others from English lessons: inspired by Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘Valentine’ where the persona gives her lover an onion, Kyla wrote about another surprising Valentine’s gift. Year 10 have studied the TED talk, ‘Danger of a Single Story’ as part of their GCSE English Language and have discussed racism and prejudice in society; Tiffany’s short story reflects some of these discussions in a style inspired by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
If you would like to be published in next term’s edition, you can join our Monday writing workshop (first lunch in Portacabin 1) or simply submit a piece of work by posting it in The Edit‘s post-box, outside the English Office.
The Edit gives you the opportunity to present your own pieces of writing: through poetry, personal accounts, short stories, and many other forms.
We hope to receive even more entries next term and hopefully see some sixth formers contribute as well.
Best wishes from your editors,
Ruby Messulam, U6 JM Zoya Mankhand, U6 LE
Stargazing
The sun set sluggishly, as if falling through syrup, and smothered the boy with shadows. He felt nervous – it was so dark; he could only feel the whisper of grass against his ankles and hear the cicadas’ drone as he climbed up the hill, he saw only black. Then he looked up at the stars. One of them winked. He tried to wink back.
His mama always said stars were the souls of people. He could see them now, through the cotton-candy-pink clouds. Two grannies on rocking chairs: one of them spun a cloud into yarn, the other knitted a scarf that trailed into the last wisp of sunset. They giggled at some joke or gossip, their knitting needles bouncing like butterfly’s wings.
A child in a hospital gown that hung to her ankles, frantically waving at her house, shouting for them to look up at the stars, look up at her. They didn’t even say goodbye. She was angrily rubbing her puffy eyes with a sleeve when she saw him. The boy on the grass, stargazing. She waved. Hesitantly, he waved back, and the sky glittered with her grin. Then she froze, eyes wide as her paper gown morphed into a brand-new white dress and white flowers fell into her hands. They remembered, after all – but not the way she wanted.
He saw an old man in a tweed hat, scribbling love letters for his wife. He sealed each one with a kiss and dropped them down onto a lone bungalow in the fuzzy fields, knitted his brow in frustration as the letters fell as pretty feathers or leaves or acorns. A pinecone hit her window. She climbed onto her sofa and pulled her torso out the window frame, twisting around to look up. “Aw, ever the romantic,” she sighed happily.
She blew a kiss toward the sky. The man blew a kiss back, glowing faintly gold.
Then a tall shadow swallowed him – his mother, already lecturing him for staying out so late, did he not see the streetlights turn on? They’re all around him now, a poor imitation of stars. He somehow hadn’t noticed before. He glanced at the stars again, and they were smothered by lamplight. They were gone.
He tried to tell his mama about the souls, but she just dragged him by his sleeve and scolded him the whole way home.
Mia Zhu, 11 Aesc
Ruby Kiss
This is not an ordinary jewel. It is a chamber that holds your secrets. Its walls hold the sweet and sour.
Its windows are the stars, never ending.
It’s tender like your lover’s kiss, waiting to be found.
Grasp upon too quickly: bitterness and sorrow.
But wait until the time is right: your heart, forever grateful.
Ponder too long, the strength of sweetness will be lost.
This is not an ordinary jewel. It glows in his reflection, promising love.
Only to stain your lover’s fingers once again that cannot be undone.
Its vibrant glow
Ruby red Veils the dazzling crystals within.
This is not an ordinary jewel.
Kyla Zeital, 8 Aesc
A Quiet Reflection
The sun rises slowly, Taking its time, painting the sky in soft hues, An array of colours dancing around the sky, A quiet river winds through the landscape, Its surface still, resting,
Reflecting the distant mountains, their edges sharp against the horizon. Lean grasses bend gently in the wind, whispering secrets only the peaceful mind understands. A tree stands alone, its branches reaching far out, Casting large shadows on the ground where the flowers bloom and flourish, Their colours vibrant and intricate, as though God has spent extra time creating them.
The air is cool but calming, carrying the scent of the earth, A reminder that life persists quietly, without demand. In the distance, the mountains stand tall, Their strength holding the land in place, While beneath them, the world breathes slowly, A peacefulness that almost feels eternal.
Here, there are no echoes of the din of the outside world, Only the deep, steadiness of nature, A place where time holds no power, And the earth, in its silence, is enough.
Amelie Blake, 9 Ansuz
Hand Cream
The day she died, I lost my favourite hand cream. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Why can I be focused on such a small hand cream, when I know she’s gone forever? How can I?
It just disappeared. It was there one minute, and the next it was gone. You think you know what it’s like. Losing something, I mean. You’ve probably watched movies, read books, where the main character’s best friend ditches them, or a mum loses their kid in a crowd of people, or someone loses a lucky pencil right before an exam It’s always the same A moment of pain, a moment of anger, a moment of sadness, grief, emptiness It lingers for a while, but then they move on with their lives Buy a new pencil, talk to new people
Move on
That’s what they all say Move on It’s just two words, and it sounds so simple Like you can just push something out of your mind with the click of your fingers Act like it never happened
But it did happen
I can’t quite put my finger on it It’s the emptiness, I think The feeling of having your insides turned inside out, hollowing you out of any positive emotion you could grasp I feel empty I am empty It claws at you, the hole in your heart I think it’s because it’s right there It’s right inside of you, but you can’t do anything about it Like someone’s dangling your favourite chocolate just out of reach, and however hard you try, you just can’t get it The lack of control
Control.
I’ve heard this word being thrown around. I never quite got it though. The feeling of giving yourself up. Something else taking you over. I didn’t get it then, but I get it now. It’s more than a feeling. It’s a gut wrenching, heart throbbing experience. Watching everything in slow motion in front of your face, with no way of interfering. It’s almost like watching a movie and hating what you see. You can’t change the plot; it’s already happened. Someone wrote it, filmed it, and now you have to watch it, knowing that something bad is going to happen. Knowing that the ominous feeling inside of you is for the right reason, but you’re rooted to the spot, unable to react.
I lost my favourite hand cream. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?
Ava Weinbrenn, 10 A
Cave Canem
Cave Canem I am branded with this warning
“Beware of the dog?” someone chuckles. They look at me and see a crazed animal. They imagine a once mighty beast, its age-old malice shining through the dusty mosaic tiles: flashing teeth dulled to a shadow of their former glory, glossy coat soiled with the centuries, wild eyes tamed by time. But underneath the feeble façade, a foully noble animal. They imagine the pride of the mad thing that haunted those ancient halls, for what else could such a creature have felt as it had watched weakling after weakling pass by? This monster would have watched their eyes flicker over the warning emblazoned across that mosaic, watched their pace quicken ever so slightly, and smiled with teeth of marble They imagine my satisfaction, safe in the knowledge that my mere presence is enough to deter even the most plucky of thieves. I listen to the stories that tour guides scrounge together of the fearsome guard dog who lived here all those years ago I try to revel in my supposed glory; I am that dog, I suppose Yet
It's a lie. A lie that has hounded me through time. I was never that wild thing - I am a Good Dog A Good Dog fated to live in the shadow of the warning in my master’s doorway, those two words branding me a beast. I am no beast. In all my years, I never savaged or stole, never so much as growled or grumbled. They had known me, the townspeople They had praised my gentle nature They hadn’t panicked, checking for bite marks when they found their children playing with me, nor flinched when I appeared from a dark alleyway in the night. They too had seen the warnings, but simply chuckled, “Cave Canem?”
They aren’t here, though, to tell them. Tell them that I’m not who they think I am. That I was faithful to my master as long as we walked the earth - and for what? An absurd reputation to last the centuries, accompanied by an abhorrent caricature My loyalty was undying, and now so is my condemnation. There is nothing I can do. I have no tongue to curse the mosaicist who sealed my fate with grout, who let my master’s story be brushed away with the ash but allowed the unjust damnation of a creature to survive through the centuries – a Bad Dog, forever.
I let the archaeologists make their assumptions, that I was a ferocious thing, loathed by those who crossed my path, and feared by those who heard stories of my unrelenting disobedience. After all, if I was really that beast, I could take pride in the accursed immortality of my image, in those keen claws and high hackles. If I had been that brute, maybe I could have saved my master, dragged him from our town, rescued him from that smothering ash. But, no. I was a Good Dog. I mustn’t leave home without my master. And now I never will.
Delilah Smith, 9 A
Cave Canem: a Roman mosaic at the entrance to the House of the Tragic Poet, Pompeii
The Weary Traveller
The howling wind yells out and screams. Swirls in torrents, mighty streams. Around me, clouds start to hiss. Accompanied with stormy fits, teardrops are hurled from the sky As the house stands idly by. The robin screeches, hides in fear, not a patch of shelter here. Pines desperate to lean away, enclose four walls of rosy clay.
Across waterlogged fields I tread, a SPLASH comes with my weary stead. At last, the four walls in my sight, sighing, smiling in delight. Past the rose red door I creep, carpet thick beneath my feet. Silence hangs all around, secrets linger; still unbound. Lights flicker dimly in my eyes. The house wakes as its master arrives.
The kitchen softly rising to provide for us fine dining; Who will sit around the table here and give a loud resounding cheer? The parlour has a cozy glow, echoes of laughter from long ago. Lampshades cast a shadow dark, A bustling family of the past. Drowsy droops my head as I hang my well-worn hat aside.
The stairs oblige, slowly I step towards my promise of rest: a bed. So tranquil it lies: the rain washes away all my misery, as broken, I lay. Each droplet is racing; they roll down the pane. The glass fresh and clear; the clouds start to wane. A bright sunny sky now shining through. A shard of light enters the room. A traveller I am, through the rain and the snow, But the journey I take will always lead home.
Trisha Das, 8 A
The Chase
The leafy vegetation scratched the young child’s ankles as she dashed through the writhing creepers. Animals prowled in the never-ending darkness, their melancholy cries reverberating against the towering oaks. Fearfully, the girl, running out of options, grasped a sturdy branch from high above and began climbing up a tree.
A pair of thirsty eyes glowed crimson in the moonlight.
A menacing, furry body stiffened at the distinct smell of human.
A hiss escaped a mouth full of grinding fangs.
Sprawled atop the tree canopies, the young child fearfully closed her blazing emerald eyes and swallowed. Her lips were cracked and parched, her clothes shredded and flapping loosely. The girl was overcome by grief and despondence. She felt the thrashing wind tousle her hair and stab at her exposed skin like sharp knives. Her emotions built up inside her chest like a ball of energy, waiting to be realised. A shadow passed below her, hissing and crawling on all fours. Her heart skipped a beat. The animal’s talons scraped against the coarse ground, uprooting plants and trees. His ruby red eyes flashed towards the canopies, sniffing the still air for any sign of his prey. Slowly, he stalked away, scanning the copse of trees.
The young girl snuck a risky glance down. Nothing. She let her pounding head quieten and for colour to return to her fingers. Letting the howling wind cocoon her, the girl cradled her head in her hands and wept. Already, her energy was drained and her eyes drooping. Hung around her pale throat was a gold-encrusted locket, sparkling under the moonlight. She clutched it with shaking hands, muttering to herself. A blast of cool air disrupted her prayer. Her eyes flew open, hands flying to the sturdy branch she was balancing on. The gold chain snapped, slipping from her neck and clattering to the forest floor. Clang!
Ears pricked to the sound of movement. As quick as lightning, the beast, now on high alert, shot off through the undergrowth, chasing the sound of laboured breaths somewhere high above.
When the sound of her breathing was so close it became unbearable, the beast pounced…
Isabel Toms, 7 Alpha
A Fire of Bigotry - and Hate is its Fuel
Growing up in a close-knit family, I remember the warmth of our home, filled with laughter and the aroma of my mother’s cooking. My parents came to this country with dreams of a better life, and they instilled in my siblings and me the values of hard work, kindness and faith. And so, when the time came to start applying for jobs, I remembered my father’s encouraging words, “Searching for a job as a Muslim can feel like an uphill battle, filled with frustration and anger, but never confuse a single defeat for a final defeat.” Each application submitted felt like a whisper lost in a cacophony of indifference, where my qualifications were overshadowed by the colour of my skin or the last name on my resume. Then one Wednesday afternoon, a prestigious IT company emailed me with interest of an interview. They told me it would be tomorrow, at 4pm and that I should dress smart. Except, the only problem was that the location was 4 hours away from me and I would have to use the subway and 3 different buses. Even faced with major setbacks, motivation helped me see the bigger picture, reminding me of my dreams and the hard work needed to achieve them. It’s this relentless pursuit of your goals that transforms aspirations into reality, making every effort worthwhile.
After hours of relentless travel, I had finally reached the office, and suddenly it all felt worth it. Until it didn’t. As I walked up the reception, I could hear whispers and see wary glances directed my way. I mean after 9/11, I noticed the change in people’s attitudes, the uncomfortable tension that filled the air whenever I entered a room - but this was different. This wasn’t prejudice or microaggressions. You know what this was? Just hate.
“You know, your interview started 10 minutes ago, lady. You’re late.”
“You people really do have no sense of time,” she whispered to herself, thinking that I didn’t hear, but I always hear. “And that scarf on your head, yeah, take it off, it doesn’t follow our dress code, and it really isn’t that cold.” I assume she is talking about my hijab, something I can’t just simply “take off” and this wasn’t even the worst of it.
I entered the interview room, and contrary to the receptionist’s beliefs it was quite cold, but that’s besides the point. I met myself at the denunciation of a panel of top-tier executives, who already seemed to have viewed me through their tight lens of suspicion and prejudice.
“What is the on her head, a mailbox?” she jested.
“Somebody better check her purse for a bomb or something…” he chuckled. “See, this is why I didn’t vote for that anti-Christ, Obama. Can’t even get rid of the simple problem which is these people, maybe because he actually is one of… them.”
Them. “Them” meaning a bunch of foreign terrorists that don’t belong in their Western society. “Them” meaning an incapable, foolish collective inherently prone to criminal and animalistic behaviour. And “them” obviously referring to the innocent villains born into a fire of bigotry relentlessly being fed with their intolerance and bias.
We are the slowly dying voices, desperately trying to reclaim narratives and show the world that our faith is rooted in peace and compassion, not in violence. We are the identity, cast with insidious shadows, fighting and yearning for recognition while trying to navigate constant feelings of alienation and isolation. And I. Me. Just a person. Just a person who has to defend their own existence, who begs for just an ounce of respect in a society that often seemed unwilling to see me as anything more than just a label.
It's more than the countless job application rejections. Its more than the terrible interviews prefaced with bias and it is certainly more than the sly jokes made it our expenses. Its about the burning hate inside of not just theirs and not just mine, but our bodies. And humanity is yet to find the key to extinguishing this everlasting blaze.
Growing up in a close-kinit family, I remember the warmth of our home, filled with laughter and the aroma of my mother’s cooking. But I also remember their fear, all of our fears. My parents came to this country, with dreams of a better life, but they were met with a nightmare instead, a broken America, in a never-ending fire and we would be the ones incinerated by the flames of imbalance.
Tiffany Adeeyinwo, 10 Ansuz
At the Open Day, the English department asked the touring families to take part in a creative writing activity. Prospective students each wrote one line of poetry about autumn. The lines were written on paper leaves and hung on our ‘poet-tree’.
Here, the single lines have been knitted into a single poem.
Autumn
Autumn is a rainbow of leaves Falling down. Leaves falling down Like pieces into place, August into September. Leaves twirling like ballet dancers, Pirouetting in a whirl of russet.
Colours abound, leaves Can be found carpeting the ground. The wind howls and a beautiful collage Of copper sweeps into the sky.
Chestnut conkers drop.
Squirrels scuttle.
Chilly morning air.
Summer has left.
Just as leaves fall, autumn Falls on us. The conker-brown Shine of my new school shoes, Brilliant and smooth, Full of hope!
