The Cedar Collection

New Hall School

Creative Writing Anthology 2024

The Cedar Collection

New Hall School

Creative Writing Anthology 2024

Edited by Emily Hall

Design by Lana Moira Krilic

Foreword

In The Cedar Collection, Emily Hall has curated an anthology of heartwarming, haunting, empowering and inspiring works. These showcase the very best of our students’ understanding and perception of the world, featuring themes of heritage, history, hope and appreciation.

Some of the students featured in this anthology became award-winning poets in the past academic year. Our English Department works hard to provide all students with opportunities to express themselves, through thematic creative writing and performances, as well as supporting their talents by entering their work into local and national competitions.

Reading this has been a true pleasure. It is with great pride that we share the 2024 edition of The Cedar Collection with you.

Katherine Jeffrey, Principal

Preface

Some of my favourite poems were written by students. Some of the short stories that I remember most were handed to me at the end of an assessment or passed to me by a colleague in the English Department. Some of the most beautiful creative works that I have read, and that have moved me most, were written in the classroom.

The Cedar Collection is a celebration of the authors and poets that walk the corridors of New Hall as part of our student body. Curating these pieces has been an incredibly special experience for me. Most of all, I am very happy that we have created another space where our students’ voices can be heard.

Emily Hall, Teacher of English

New Hall School

The Avenue, Boreham Chelmsford CM1 1UE

Edited by Emily Hall

Design by Lana Moira Krilic

The Cedar Collection

New Hall School Creative Writing Anthology 2024 Edition one, December 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any for or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permissions of New Hall School.

‘I Hope...’

Entrants to the Independent Schools Association’s Poetry Competition of 2024 were given the challenge of writing a poem underneath the title ‘I Hope…’ This prompt evoked a wide range of ideas in our students’ responses; some wrote about their hope for the future of society, while others wrote their hopes for a happy life. It was inspiring to see the bravery in the creative work that was produced for this task. In the 2024 competition, two New Hall students claimed the top prize in their categories; their work is included in this section. This was the second year in a row that New Hall poetry has claimed the top prize in the ISA Poetry Competition.

The Cedar Collection ‘I Hope’

I Hope… (through the eyes of a war-child)

I remember my sister’s tiny hands being ripped away from mine. Hate marched in Nazi uniforms, pushing her towards Death’s line.

I remember the white flash when the A-bomb dropped and the sheets of fire in the streets. Flames engulfed flesh, twisted and gnarled, lives incinerated by the ferocity of heat.

I remember the glint of their knife blades as they forced Babo to the cold, blood-stained floor. Mama was screaming as they stripped her clothes. Srebrenica… ‘cleansed’… in the name of war.

I remember the bodies… the broken bodies, on the dark days in the Rwandan sun. Neighbours did the devil’s work with machetes. Breathing… infected, my slow death will come.

I remember opening my mouth to avoid the shock of the blast wave as we huddled close to the basement wall. Outside in Kharkiv, birds flew, then silence… Soaked with history, Baba’s tears said it all.

I remember the stench of their sweat and their guns as they dragged me from a lifeless embrace. They hold me hostage now, but they cannot hold my prayers… I hope I can survive this place.

The Cedar Collection ‘I Hope’

I feel my pyjamas, damp and warm, as my gravel-filled blood leaves my shell. Their bombs for someone else’s bullets… an old story. I hope there’s an end to this hell.

Ishani V

ISA Poetry Competition 2024 winner – Years 7-9

I Hope…

I hope that one day I will be happy again.

Light welcomed me in, with its lustrous and luminous eyes, Light greeted me, like a warm and cordial surprise, Light embraced me, lifted me up when I felt down, Light appreciated me, made me forget how to frown, Light made me happy, I would try not to boast,

Light turned its back on me, when I needed it most…

Light suffocated me, I felt nothing but pain, Light belittled me, do I even have a name? Light mocked me, my life felt unjust, Light tricked me, now who can I trust?

Light introduced me to darkness, my new best friend, I can’t be myself, I have to pretend, I constantly feel betrayed, angry and confused, It feels as though I have been used,

I hope one day I will be happy again, I hope one day I forget the then, I hope one day I will find a brighter light,

The Cedar Collection ‘I Hope’

I hope one day becomes tonight, It seems those days are finally here… It must have been my hope that made the darkness disappear.

Iris H

ISA Poetry Competition 2024 winner – Years 10-13

I

Hope…

I came to the mountains for beauty And I find here toiling folk, On sparse little farms in the valleys, Wearing their days like yoke.

White clouds fill the valleys at morning; They are round as great billows at sea, And roll themselves up to the hilltops Still round as great billows can be.

This mists fill the valley at evening; They are blue as the smoke in the fall, And spread all the hills with a tenuous scarf that touches the hills not at all.

These lone folk have looked on them daily, Yet their faces see no light. Oh, how I can show them the mountains That are round them by day and by night.

Hope…

There’s lots of hope for the future, Lots of hope in time, But sometimes life is more than just Making more than a dime.

There’s lots of hope for the students, The ones that yearn and preach, For a free education all over the world, And for those who inspire to teach.

There’s lots of hope for doctors, Those that nurture and nourish, Those who always try their best, And those whose efforts flourish.

There’s lots of hope for lawyers, The ones that judge with kindness, The ones who’ll learn to never scream, And the ones who won’t be mindless.

There’s lots of hope for authors, And poets with libraries galore, With shelves and shelves of books to read, And for the readers to adore.

I, however, am different, With no hopes or dreams to be, The greatest person that ever lived Or ever shall be.

I hope to make a change, For at least one or two,

The Cedar Collection ‘I Hope’

To those who don’t have a voice or say, In all that we do.

This is what I hope to be And this is what I will do…

Saanvi K

Commemorating Our Soldiers

In April, the Chelmsford Garden Community Council held a poetry competition to engage young poets in commemorating the 80th Anniversary of the D-Day Normandy Landings. The competition was open to children in two age categories: 5–11 years and 12–16 years. Local schools, including Beaulieu Park School, Boswells School, and New Hall School participated by collecting entries and sending them to the Council, while any child in the community could also submit their poems directly to the Beaulieu Community Centre. The theme of the competition was D-Day, encouraging young writers to reflect on the historic event of 6 June 1944. The competition not only highlighted the creative abilities of the young participants, but also fostered a deeper connection with a pivotal moment in history. From the numerous entries to this competition, two New Hall students emerged as prize winners, one in each category. You will read their outstanding poems in this section.

Freedom/Free Will

The cold winds of France nipped at my face As the landing craft went on, The waves knocking us from side to side Like we were rag dolls, Bullets rained down, explosions ahead, German gunners, death in mind, Shot on the allied boat lines. The boats stopped on the beach shoreline, The whistle blew, time to shine, Machine guns fired, cutting us down in the rain, Like grey skittles, never to rise again. My pulse racing, heart pounding, Screams of death echoed around me.

A sudden burning pain, unbearable. A bullet got to me first, I fall into swirling darkness, Warm, enveloping, Dying my own death, I welcome it. So here I am, I died for you, Gave my life for your future, Freedom, and free will to do.

Maxwell D (Year 7) Winner of the U12 category

The Sacrifice

On the shores of Normandy, the soldiers stood, Ready to face the challenge, the evil and the good,

The Cedar Collection Commemorating Our Soldiers

With courage in their hearts, they marched into the gray, For freedom and for peace they fought on D-Day.

The beaches are lined with chaos, the sky filled with fear, Yet they pushed forward, their missions clear. Through the smoke and gunfire, they advanced with pride, Their determination unwavering, no place to hide.

The sacrifices made, the lives that were lost, Their memory lives on no matter the cost. So let us remember, with gratitude and grace, The heroes of D-Day in history’s embrace.

Their stories live on, in our hearts and minds Their bravery and sacrifice eternally binds, On D-Day, we salute those who paved the way, For a better tomorrow for a brighter today.

Matilda H (Year 8) 2nd place in the 12-16 age category

A Letter from Normandy

Hello my love, If you get this then the worst has happened And I wanted you to know first.

My fellow soldiers have arrived now And the weight is off my shoulders, You don’t need to worry for me anymore, And I’m sorry for all distress I have caused.

Tell all my beautiful daughters I love them;

The Cedar Collection Commemorating Our Soldiers

I love them and that’s indisputable. I am truly sorry I had to go, And wanted you all to know –As I stand here against this rowing tide, The battle ahead I can’t abide; I led my platoon off the boat, Just after noon – I became immune To all the pain I was going through.

As we push the Germans back, I saw Zach wash up on the shore, The fear of God is put into our souls.

From the village of La Riviere, I write these final lines: Gold Beach, blood-shot sands And blood on my hands… Goodbye my love.

Some of us drive down Remembrance Avenue

Not even thinking about its true value. Death and destruction happened that day; 80 years ago, we still remember it today.

6th of June, D-Day struck. Wishing all the allied troops the best of luck. Utah, Gold, Sword, Juno, Omaha: These were the beaches that stretched out afar

Louis M

Remembrance Avenue has True Value

The Cedar Collection Commemorating Our Soldiers

Operation Overlord was ready to commence; Getting ready to send out their first line of defence. Some of the troops arrived in ships and boats; If they go home, will they still be able to float?

Soldiers muttering prayers to themselves Knowing that it is going to be hell. The number of casualties were too high to think about. How are their family’s going to react when they find out?

The unlucky ones find a black letter in their post box, Knowing that their loved one’s life has stopped.

So, when we drive down Remembrance Avenue, Always remember that it has true value.

Zachary S

Celebrating Black History

In the Michaelmas Term, students were given the opportunity to contribute some creative work to our celebrations of Black History Month. Some students chose to write a poem that was focused on the theme for Black History Month 2023, ‘Saluting our Sisters’, while others wrote about what Black History means to them. Our students’ creative work expressed sadness for the inequalities that have existed throughout history and hope for a future without prejudice. We were also treated to live performances of ‘Mary Seacole’ and ‘The Battle for Liberation’ during one of our Live Lounge events.

Mary Seacole

From out of the shadows of a Nightingale, A marvel could be found. Without the adoration, She wasn’t allowed to make a sound.

Into the darkness of the battlefield she went, Creeping silently – no sound while healing the wounded. A soldier is down and off she went – heaven sent. A medical hero, down on knee bent.

Upon her passing, the war forgotten, Memories of her benevolence were gone. Later reawakened, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Her legacy lives on forever. We shall remember.

‘Almost Forgotten’

The 24th of July it all began, so they say, With a teeny white lie on the certificate of her birthday. Her parents changed the hue of their close-knit cloak, To ensure her life prospects were strong and not broke. It worked for some time, for her parents were professionals and well-off. She attended school, university, her work published in journals without even a scoff. She was soaring, beaming and achieving great things, Two bachelor’s degrees, a master’s,

The Cedar Collection

even adding ‘first black female instructor’ to her strings.

And then came the biggest and proudest attainment of all, She found a treatment for leprosy, allowing patients to finally stand tall. No longer were they banished, shamed, isolated, sent off to die, For her treatment allowed them to, once again, look people in the eye.

But before she could publish her findings, celebrate and leap for joy. A mask and some ghastly gas had a maleficent mission to destroy.

In one cold, careless swoop, a life, a pioneer, a legend was gone, But with so much to give, the worst of this tragic tale was still to come.

For in her darkness, a traitor was looming to snatch her glory, A cold, cunning colleague stole her spotlight and sold it as his great story.

Time swallowed years and she faded from thought, No name, no mention, in any respectful report.

Until two prying professors went digging deep for treasure, They discovered she’d existed; she was no longer erased forever. Although she was still dead, her legacy began to grow wings, And people saw that she’d achieved many mind-blowing things.

So now there’s a chaulmoogra tree, plaque and scholarship bearing her name, A nod to nature’s seeds which laid the path to her phenomenal fame.

Alice Augusta Ball, your terrific treatment for Hansen’s divulged your great mind,

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And just like your scientific discovery, you will go down in all history as one of a kind.

The Battle for Liberation

Black history is the heroism and bravery, To fight against oppression and slavery, Of people who have been abused racially, Fearful the oppression will end fatally.

Black history is a vocal celebration, Across many geographies and generations, Designed to combat the evil and segregation, Experienced by black people in every nation.

Black history is the fight for salvation, It’s the defiant act of liberation, Of people faced with unjust discrimination, Who simply seek freedom and emancipation.

Black history is about those detained in prison, Without any reasonable cause just suspicion, It is frustration of being painted as a villain, Angry those in power wouldn’t listen.

Black history is the fight for education, It’s the campaign for transparent information, To rescue black people from a sense of isolation, In their pursuit to be an equal part of civilisation.

Albert B

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Black history is those who were oppressed. Black history is those who showed courage, Black history is those who have sacrificed, Black history is the power of the people.

Issac C

Checking Out History

Inspired by their GCSE study of ‘Checking Out Me History’ (Agard, 2005), students in the Girls’ Division were invited to reflect upon their own ancestry in order to create a poem as vibrant and as valuable as their heritage. The class discussed the constellations of the stars in order to form metaphorical imagery of how individuals connect to one another, a well as intertextuality to demonstrate how heritage and lineage have been a pervading aspect of humanity across the millennia.

Just as St Teresa of Calcutta reminds us, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family”, so too can we navigate the future by reflecting on the past so that we may become the person God has called us to be. Therefore, this poetry is a celebration of cultural heritage, family values and spiritual formation.

English Gardens and Turkish Delight

From the English shore to the Turkish breeze, The roots from two countries stand across the seas. A distant past from the ancestors, Their stories and takes come to my future. English gardens to Turkish delight, All amazing and all quite right. Both halves within me all day and night. Each tradition, each family shapes the person I seem to be. Tea and scones to Turkish tea, All delicious flavours of my identity. I dance the cultures given to me. So I stand here, a product of the past. An English and Turkish contrast. Both sides burn in my blood in my veins. A legacy, a strong testament. Where I belong.

Emily A

Irish Travelers

In caravans they roam, a nomadic clan; Irish travelers, tales woven into their plan. Underneath the emerald sky, they dance Inheritors of an ancient, wandering trance. Their voice echoes of distant lands Through generations, traditions are in their hands. The fires flicker, tell stories untold Of trials endured, of fortunes bold.

With laughter as their currency, they roam Through verdant hills and fields, they call home. In my eyes, the sparkle of emotional pride As they journey in my heart, side by side.

In our hearts, the spirit of the free. Irish travelers, bound by ancestry.

Checking Out My History

In ancient times, a journey vast, From distant barrens of sand to shores amassed, They sailed across the Indian Oceans, vast expanse, Seeking new lands they could call home,

With the stars to guide and winds as companions, They charted paths where fate descends, Through perilous seas and endless night, Their courage shining, their hearts alight,

A new beginning a sights unseen, Where the palm trees swayed and the jungles green, Through sunlit days and moonlit nights, They braved the depths and fought fights, They found their haven, on southern sands,

Amidst mountains and rivers that rose, Their legacy started to form into a grand tapestry, A history to their enduring worth,

Warriors of great pride and heroism,

Uisce H

They fought for land and for their people, Settled as farmers with vast areas of land, Now that they’re great stories are disclosed in sand,

Grown with wealth, many thrived in great opportunities, Exploring the world and discovering the wonders of life, They come back now as important people in the world, Who seeked great knowledge, a place in history they have earned.

Checking Out My History

There were once two women, who never knew each other. One I don’t remember, the other I call Mother.

One gave me breath, the other gave me my names. The first put blood in my veins, the second gave me aims. The first one gave me life, The second was by my side to live it. The first gave nationality and pride, The second helped me find peace within it. One gave me roots, The other taught me to fly. One saw my first sweet smile, The other dried my tearful eyes.

One gave me nature, the other gave me nurture. One gave me a past, the other, a future.

Surrounded by love, I ache for my Birth Mother, I wonder if she misses me, do we look like one another? My family is special; we are unique.

Hela K

My story is special, realistic and deep. No ancestral tales, no bloodline, nor tree, I am who I am and this defines me. The gap in my life may sometimes seem rough, but then I remember that I am enough.

Abeni M

My Family

My family’s struggles and triumphs I can’t ignore. My ancestors have passed their stories down; each talent, job, country and town.

My mum’s side are all talented chefs. Great grandparents owned six restaurants in France. Through the skills and recipes, they have left my granny teaches us to experiment and take a chance.

My family have always loved helping others. My grandad always gives away his money and possessions. He even built a dollshouse for my mum out of kitchen shutters and started a football club to create community connections.

He helps at a blind home every week; now my sister and I serve at a shelter. My mum went to the deaf home to help them speak. Kindness gets passed down from my elder.

My family have a good sense of justice and stand up for what’s right. My bravery comes from my ancestors in the second World War, who hid Jews in their attic at night and were part of the resistance, blowing up bridges and more!

Cedar Collection Checking Out History

We are obsessed with travel and love family gatherings. I love getting together and learning about my heritage.

Orla C

Checking Out My History

Tumbling, rolling, endless dunes of grass. Reveal the hidden town of Rowan. Birds chirping as the sun begins to pass. Clouds collide above the stretching ocean.

The galloping breeze whispers on the waves, the scrunch of leaves beneath their winter boots, the folk must live on beyond all the graves. Nothing shall stop them from spreading their roots.

Despite all the challenges, they have faced, The Williams strived to keep their belief.

To this dismay, some seek to flee in haste; how can these mountains not provide relief?

Just like a statue, the hills remain vast, calling to everybody who has passed

Alice H

‘Things we are grateful for’

In the Trinity Term, our Year 7 students enjoyed a series of lessons focussed on creativity and wellbeing. As part of this scheme of work, students considered the phrase ‘Things we are grateful for’. They wrote poems in which they expressed their gratitude for something or someone in their lives. We were impressed by the courage shown by our pupils, as they reflected on their lives and articulated their thoughts and feelings.

Music

Music is like a long journey; it takes you on a ride to calming, luscious places, where heaven and earth abide.

Music is like a waterfall; it flows and flows and flows. But when the waves are harsh and strong, you’ll find how deep your emotion goes.

Music is like a friend; it is always there for you. Even in your darkest days, you can hear your favourite tunes.

My Mum

My mum is a river of joy. Her love for her family never ends. She is home to lots, and welcomes more in. She is peaceful and beautiful and never stops. My mum is like a wave: strong but calm. She is always there for you; you will never see her part. She fills you with love from the bottom of her heart.

Noynika R

The Cedar Collection ‘Things We Are Grateful For...’

My favourite eyes to look into. My favourite way to spend my afternoon and always my favourite smile.

Thank you, God

Thank you, God, If you are really up there. From everything little and odd, to the largest tree or bear. Thank you for the gifts of this Earth that we are bless with from birth.

Thank you, Lord, for my manu kind and caring friends. May they claim the rewards of the blessed life you lend.

Thank you, Jesus, for my warm home and all the other things that please us. However far we roam, I hope we all know you are there and the gifts you bestow.

Thank you, Lord, for my delicious meal.

All those people who are ignored, that made this food real.

Thank you for my incredible family

Evelyn H

The Cedar Collection ‘Things We Are Grateful For...’ and all the gifts and love they bring. Thank you that we are living together happily. Thank you, God, for every wonderful thing.

James F

My Ronnie

Your faithful chair in Meynell Gardens is where we would often find you, With your glasses on, newspaper in hand and a cup of Granny’s fine brew. And of course, your loyal TV on, volume always at its highest, No chance of missing a single game of Spurs playing at their finest.

Always smart, even when relaxing at home, you always wore a formal shirt, You’d buy one on every shopping trip, telling Granny ‘just one more, it won’t hurt’. Your wardrobe was bursting with them, in every shade of grey, white and blue, And Granny would always say your clothes collection would soon take over hers too.

In your younger years, you also enjoyed your red ale with a pipe or cigar, But you would only buy Villigers or Hamlets saying they were the best by far. And don’t forget your slippers that came with you in a plastic bag everywhere, Come to think of it, if your bag was big enough,

The Cedar Collection ‘Things We Are Grateful For...’ you probably would’ve brought that chair.

One of your favourite times of day was definitely food o’clock, Dipping buttered toast in your tea, it always gave us quite a shock. From middle skate and chips from Faulkner’s opposite our Lou Lou, To Granny’s famous apple pie and ‘only’ Wall’s ice cream for you.

Before your welcome retirement, you worked long and hard each day, Driving your lorry, transporting wood, who could blame you for wanting to get away.

But then at 65, after throwing you a special do in the Diana, It was finally time to put those Shearings holidays into your planner.

And after all these years of working, it was time to give your famous chair attention, Early starts were not your forte, causing Granny much apprehension. Thank goodness you could stop work, so you could focusing on watching all sorts. The Chase, Vera, Match of the Day, games and matches of all sports.

Now as I sit and remember you, I focus on all your favourite things, Those things that made you Ronnie and for me the comfort and joy this brings. It really was a privilege to have you as my Great Grandad and best friend too,

The Cedar Collection ‘Things We Are Grateful For...’

Thank you, Ronnie, thank you from your proud great grandson Albert, for simply being you.

And now you are free to play football again, to walk and run at great speed, Perhaps across the pitch with Blanchflower and the late Jimmy Greaves. No more pain and suffering, those nasty aches have all gone away, And now you can finally spread your wings and do it all your way.

Dear Fountain Pen,

Thank you for always writing my ideas. Oh, the things you have written and drawn! You are an outlet for stories, a world creator, a boredom curer, a creativity outlet. You create whole scenes, characters, new worlds, magical places, stories...and things beyond. With you, I am free to go wherever I may wish, and so whatever I want. All I need to do is write, and we may go wherever...

Thank you for setting my thoughts and emotions free. With you there are no bounds.

Thank you, From Cassie.

Albert

Cassie

Prose Fiction

The work in this section of the anthology demonstrates the talent that several of our students have for creating prose fiction. Within the student body, there is always an undiscovered author working on a novel or developing a new character. Some pieces here are written in response to a GCSE style question, one is an extract from a science fiction novel that is under development, and one was inspired by Ray Bradbury’s ‘The Illustrated Man’. The key words for creative writing that achieves the highest marks at GCSE are ‘convincing’ and ‘compelling’ - all the pieces here give us a demonstration of what these words truly mean.

Richard was a quiet man. He mostly kept to himself, locking himself away from society to shield himself from the pain that this cruel world had caused him. But he didn’t always have this reclusive nature – no – that came after what happened to his daughter. He was widowed at a young age when his wife passed away from breast cancer. The tumour grew fast and sharply, and within the blink of an eye she was gone. He never thought of remarrying because his only daughter, Annabelle, consumed all his capacity to love. She was his heart and soul. He would die for her. But the cruel tricks of time don’t care about love. At 20 (when Richard was 60), she became subject to the same fate as her mother. Richard did always say that Annabelle had her mother’s eyes; her mother’s genetically passed down cancer was something neither of them anticipated. This time, it was slow and painful. As Annabelle slowly lost the life from her body, her father lost the life from his soul. His eyes still welled up with grief and tainted memories every time he thought about his child.

It was a warm summers’ day, when Richard was awoken by the soothing melody of birds outside. He glanced to his window and grunted getting out of bed, the bed creaking and grunting along with him. As he opened the curtains his brow furrowed, and his forehead creased. The sharp edge of time’s blade had cut and dug into his skin, and loss had drained all colour from his face. He looked like a walking skeleton, his rickety bones echoed as he walked. He couldn’t bring himself to care though; he didn’t care about anything or anyone since Annabelle. His eyes stung as he thought of her. See, grief is like a tsunami, powerful and overwhelming, destroying everything in its path. And there are aftershocks too. Every time he thought he was finally floating to the surface, a wave would come back to knock him down again. Yet, he found a comfort in his grief. An icy warmth, cold yet comforting, because it felt like the only part of his family he had left.

Today was the day he was going to sort out Annabelle’s boxes. Every toy, necklace, perfume – even each sock - she had ever owned, he savoured. He brought himself to the open first object. A jewellery box. A weak smile escaped his cold exterior as he reminisced on a memory of her using it. The nostalgic harmony of songs that played when she would open it. He lifted the top, preparing himself to hear the tune…but nothing. Silence. Where the music player once was, a letter now lay, addressed to ‘Dad’. He was baffled, and carefully he tore it open. It read, ‘Dad, by now, if you are reading this, I am gone. It’s okay. I’ve accepted it. The doctors tell me that if I just keep pushing on there’s hope, but I’ve been pushing on for so long. Promise me you will take care of yourself. I will love you forever and always, Annabelle’.

Richard sat down; the page was now soaked with his waterfall of tears which poured from his eyes like endless streams. His hands clutched his head which was now sunken between his legs. He was overwhelmed with questions: ‘why did she hide this?’, ‘when did she make this?’, ‘how could it have taken me so long to find her final message to me?’ The tears from his eyes danced down his face, they waltzed onto his sleeves, and pranced onto the floor. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. He strode out of his house and into his car and raced to her grave. There, Annabelle, and her mother lay, side by side, and Richard, defeated, slumped in between them. He looked at the palms of his hands and wept.

Year 10 student

A New Beginning

In the heart of the war-torn land, where the echoes of battle reverberate through the ancient forests and rugged mountains, the war zone lies shrouded in a veil of chaos and destruction. The once-vibrant fields now bear the scars of conflict, with craters marking the earth like deep wounds. Smoke billows from the remnants of shattered buildings, casting a haze over the desolate landscape. The air is thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and metal. It mingles with the metallic tang of spilled blood.

The sky above, usually a canvas of boundless blue, is now obscured by dark stormy clouds, a reflection of the turmoil that grips the landscape.

A weary soldier murmurs, wiping sweat and grime from his brow, and looks up. “That sky’s a reflection of the turmoil that grips this cursed land.”

A comrade beside him nods, his eyes reflecting the weariness of endless battles. “We fight for what we believe in,” he replies, his voice tinged with determination. “But at what cost?”

In the heart of the battlefield, the clash of steel against steel, the cries of the wounded, and the thunderous roar of the cannons create a discordance of chaos that seeps into the soil, staining it with the blood and sweat of those who fight bravely in the name of their beliefs. Amidst the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded, a stream of consciousness flows through the mind of a young soldier.

Images of home flash before his eyes - the laughter of children, the warmth of the hearth. But here, amidst the chaos, those memories feel like distant dreams. “We stand shoulder to shoulder, brothers

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in arms,” he mutters to himself, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. “But how long can we endure? How long until this madness consumes us all?”

My fellow comrades collapse to the floor, aggravating me more and instilling an enraging fire within me. My emotions, however, are stone-cold. I slice, pierce, and slash enemies as I watch their bodies drop to the floor. The battlefield is now a haunted painting, each fallen soldier a brushstroke of sacrifice, devoted to their own countries, on the canvas of war. Amidst the conflict, the inner turmoil begins to cease, as though a spell wields a power unlike anything anyone has ever seen.

The fighting halts in its tracks.

Emerging from the sky, a beacon pierces through the sky like a radiant sword cutting through darkness. The light starts as a faint glimmer, barely visible to the eye against the gloomy backdrop, but it intensifies and grows stronger, casting a warm golden light that bathes the surroundings in a heavenly aura. The clouds around it part, and an ethereal figure exposes itself. It begins to descend from the heavens, transferring a gentle breeze, carrying a whisper of tranquillity and serenity. Cloaked in a flowing garment woven from threads of light, with eyes that hold wisdom and an expression of compassion and understanding.

As the figure makes contact with the earth, an incongruous energy emanates, sending ripples of light. This figure breathes new life into the soil, awakening the seeds beneath the surface. Flowers bloom in a riot of colour, the grass is replenished, trees stretch their branches towards the sky - as if rejoicing in the revitalising touch of the celestial being. Animals emerge from their hidden sanctuaries, drawn by the irresistible pull of the figure’s charming nature.

A harmonious balance is restored, renewing the cycle of life and nature’s treasures. But little do they know, this celestial being brings not just renewal, but a destiny intertwined with the very fabric of their existence.

Augustas D

Extract from “Painting of Ten”

Prologue

Within the Consul, extending for miles above and reaching into the vast void of a ceiling, the bookcases stood. The ceiling was beyond the eye’s reach, instead darkness loomed overhead; this darkness consumed all light and seemed as if it were a slowly encroaching the floor. Only, the light seemed to be fighting it back desperately. The towering pillars of knowledge stretched onwards across the ground until the opposing wall was but a pin within your vision. Thousands of years of knowledge was contained here, facts and studies which would be impossible to read within a single lifetime. The Consul of Organisms, stood on the outskirts of the Archives within Achillerant and It was a relatively new addition to the vast culmination of scholarly accomplishments, only being around one hundred years old. It was built to contain the knowledge of all the organisms within the continent of Ten.

An assortment of texts, biological studies, and tests, were arrayed along the towers and beneath each grouping of texts lay an associated glass cage, containing the subjects pertaining to them. The cages varied in size depending on the subject within them. Some were hundreds of steps long, containing monstrous beasts which would devour any living thing given the chance.

Others contained the tiniest of creatures, some smaller than the eye of a needle. Two lines of grates on the floor ran parallel to both bookcases. Faint fires glistened from within these grates, illuminating the many ghastly beasts within the glass cages. The creatures peered from within lifelessly, like death itself had only caressed their souls for but a second.

Across this vast space, at the end of the pathway leading through the walls of books and cages stood an imposing grand double doorway. It was notched with fine metals and several intricate patterns ran throughout each door. A faint murmur could be heard coming from the other side. A singular voice, speaking with a manner of urgency emanated. Eventually the door opened, and a group of men and women strode through, they all wore long robes which enveloped their bodies to their ankles. The robes drew down across their torsos with two thick strands of material falling from their shoulders. Underneath the robes were latticed suits and decorative emblems which stuck out from the rest of their dress, showing their rank and superiority among the other Pundits of The Archives. At the helm of the group was a young boy, he wore a robe unsimilar from the others and wore a meek submissive look whenever he glanced behind him at the rest of the crowd. His robe fell from his shoulders only to the middle of his torso, revealing the tightly wrapped and clean suit he was wearing. Furthermore, unlike the other scholars, he wore no such emblem.

Behind them all, entering through the door, was Keeper – a beastly man with a great oppressive aura, and wildly intelligent, cunning, eyes. Keeper was unlike any of the other scholars, he stood feet taller than them and wore no robes or emblems; he wore just a plain shirt and regular fitted trousers. Keeper’s snout like face looked upon the rest of the Pundits ahead of him with indifference; instead his slit monolid eyes settled upon the apprentice ahead of him. He rubbed his beard and moved his focus elsewhere along

the walls of knowledge. Keeper was known as the Grand Pundit within the empire. It was the highest scholarly role anyone could achieve, and he had held it since the empire was founded almost five thousand years ago now. He had, along with his brothers, established their empire on the continent of Ten and had preserved and protected it like caged dogs for thousands of years. Keeper had kept himself imprisoned within research for the entirety of this time, devoting himself to the acquisition of immortal knowledge for their immortal empire.

When the young boy came to a stop around two hundred meters down the hallway, the rest of the small crowd came to a stop and gathered around a wide and intricate wooden table settled in the middle of the vast corridor like hall. Every couple meter these tables were situated for the purpose of study and research of different subjects. Once Keeper had made his way next to the table, they all looked upon the boy. The Grand Pundit saw him jitter nervously, playing with his hands and nails to calm himself down.

‘Bring out your findings, child.’ Keeper stated. His raspy gravelly voice made all around him jolt, even though they were all waiting for him to speak. He saw them all avoid his gaze as he surveyed them. The boy then bowed. He strode carefully to the bottom of one of the walls where a mirror, inlaid into a crevice, stood. One of these mirrors, much like the tables, was placed intermittently at the bottom of both bookshelves every few meters.

The apprentice, once in front of the mirror, reached into it. His hand passed through the glass with a ripple and the reflection changed to an image of the bookcases above him. A small figure was situated at the bottom of the image – the boy. Above him a ghastly hand emerged from the opposite bookcase. Its fingers were blue and veiny with its ethereal presence turning the air cold.

Inside the ghostly hand a blizzard of power barraged within it; a slow compulsion edged the power within it forward. It reached up into the permeated void of the ceiling, lighting what could not be seen before. Its fingertips reached for a small glass case, which was unseen before, and the one book which was associated with it. The glass was coated with a thick layer of frost as the spiritual limb brought it down towards the table. Once brought down near to the table, the wooden table warped itself to fit the dimensions of the glass cage. It then settled perfectly, and the book was placed on a small space next to the cage. Inside the cage was a greenish sludgy mucus which enveloped the entire space. Floating within fluid was a small rodent with blackish-rusty fur and small pockmarks coalescing all over its body. Its snout was long and protruding, with a large maw and razorlike teeth displayed at the end. Its eyes were a frenzied green, they looked as though they had seen the immense depths of what life had to offer, the good, the bad and all the ugly. A great muscular tail drooped lifelessly within the mucus; it was so disproportionate when compared to the rest of the rodent’s small body. The pockmarks could be seen emerging from between the fur, some large enough to seem as though they were throbbing, about to burst.

Some of the pundits grimaced at the gruesome sight. They watched with gazing, studious eyes, looking towards the boy and the vermin he put in front of them. Some towards the back of the group brought out small notepads and started to take notes on the grotesque pest in front of them. Some drew together and started to murmur among each other. Others, two, a man and a woman stood at the forefront of the group, starting intently at both the boy and his creature. The man, Porose Ghealach, a proud and greying man who was one the ruling family within the city and a senior Pundit directly under Keeper, stood forward and bowed at Keeper, looking for his acknowledgement. With a stunted grunt from Keeper, he stepped forward and spoke in an uninteresting

monotone rumble. ‘Erlest…’ he paused briefly, attracting attention to him, ‘what have you brought before us today?’

Luke G

The Prophecy

Chapter 1 - Pandora

My name is Harold.

One day I was walking through the street to go to my job as an accountant and I saw a man. This man looked confused as though he had been walking around in circles such as a dog chases its own tail; the man was deep in thought. So I spoke, “What is this thing you think so deeply about?” But the man did not reply, I walked past him and he grabbed the collar of my shirt and he whispered, “Something awaits you in the deepness of your heart”. I turned around and he was no longer there. I decided to keep going on my way and eventually stopped at a solemn grey building that I knew as my office. As I entered I thought about the man’s words.

I walked through the long, narrow corridors in search of my workspace but as I ventured I realised that the place was empty and barren. A great silence engulfed the dark corridors. I eventually got to my workbench and sat down. I waited for a command or a signal from my computer to tell me what to work on but unlike usual nothing came up, nor did it turn on. The lights flickered and turned off after a little while. I grabbed my lighter from my coat pocket. As it burned, something became clear in the corner of my eye: a very small box on the ground.

Out of my now expanding curiosity I opened the box with both

fear and excitement. To my horror there was nothing inside, it was an empty wooden box full of nothing but darkness, so I set it down. Suddenly, the door slammed shut and my lighter went out, I was trapped.

I hit, struck, thumped and beat the door with all my might.. yet nothing came from it. I took my lighter from the pocket of my trousers and clicked and clicked and clicked and.. clicked, yet nothing came from it. I was lost, whatever was happening was not normal, I was the only one there, had I arrived early? No, it was 9 O’clock, everyone would soon be here by now, right? Wrong. I was in that room for hours, my hope slowly withering away. A sudden idea came to mind, perhaps it was the box? I felt around the noir scene in search of the box and eventually grabbed ahold of it. It was closed.

I hadn’t closed the box, I don’t know why it was closed and I still don’t know and I’ll probably never know. But it was closed, and it wasn’t opening. I threw the sinful box at the wall and continued to wait in the frightful silence. After a day or so I realised I was going to die in that room.

On the second day, from seemingly nowhere, a strange source of light appeared. I am not sure where from but it made me curios and anxious. What a curios enigma that light was, perhaps a spirit from beyond? There was no way of telling. So I suppose it really was paranormal. The light gave me ideas, thoughts, I’m not sure what of, but I sat there looking at it for a while. I started writing on a piece of paper, if you want to see what I wrote then sure. You’re reading what I wrote now.

Chapter 2 - Vision

The breeze was dead. The wind wasn’t moving. The rivers were

dry. Magnus was walking in a barren desert with nothing but himself and the thrashed wilderness. Magnus hadn’t seen another man for a while, all he knew was walking. Walking in search of water, food, any remains of some dead animal that he was lucky enough to find. Magnus didn’t know what was and what wasn’t. Magnus lived nowhere. Magnus was walking and walking and walking and he never reached a stop. He didn’t get much sleep and so his weak legs barely allowed him to move. Magnus couldn’t feel his legs anymore, there was no feeling left in Magnus’s entire body. Magnus was a lost soul, and so was every man left in that time, and so will become and so will be.

The air was hot, burning with the fire of the gasses in the air. The flame surround and enveloped you in pain and suffering and so it did to Magnus. All the life left in him had dwindled away in the terrible heat. His hands were dry with the boil of the shining red light beaming across him. Magnus walked further and further, until one day he found a wreckage of a building and so he entered, he did not know this but doing so was an awful mistake of his. Inside were large drums of beer and lager, beds unkept and messy, walls of stone, but in the centre of it all was a disorganised pile of cans. Magnus was petrified with fear. The cans were filled with a strange dark fluid, their contents emitted a strange stench. Magnus was horrified.

As he watched, Magnus became hotter and hotter, until he could suddenly feel again, pain. Magnus fell to the ground.

Chapter 3 - The Second Vision

A Great War had struck. The small family of Eve Timber had recently been affected by a mass bombing. They had fled, however, to the nearby moon. They thought that there they would be safe from the raiders but they were wrong.

John Timber was an environmentalist whose ancestors were lumberjacks, he didn’t agree with chopping trees and so he left his family at the young age of 16. John was the father of two children with Eve, Jack and George. He didn’t know what his wife’s job was, however. She was very secretive.

Jack was a loving child and adored his parents and brother. Jack was distraught when the family had to leave. George hated his mother because he never saw her often. She was always at ‘work’ and never got home for dinner. George spent most of his time in his room.

At this time they had colonised the moon and many had evacuated there during the war, this included the Timber family. What the family didn’t know, was that the mother was on the opposing side. She was working for the enemy, a spy, a traitor. When they finally arrived at the moon, the children ran to the front door of their settlement and thumped on it with all their might. The father opened the door and entered. As they walked inside they heard the door lock behind them.

‘Sorry, John.’

The war lasted a long stretch of time and soon the enemy completely infiltrated the settlements. The Timber family were one of the many groups that had a traitor amongst them and soon they all fell.

Chapter 4 - The Third Vision

The land was a luxurious green, no less than the Land of Eden. The trees were blossoming with flamboyant flowers and the sky was clear. The streams and rivers were running through the valleys and all was as it was meant to be. The sun was shining and the

wind blew through the leaves and moist grass.

The large structures were missing from view and all the creatures, big or small, were grazing in peace. The factories had fallen and the skyscrapers had collapsed. No man in sight. The world had recollected all of the things it had lost and as the day wore away, the bad memory was soon forgotten. The mark was gone. The earth had started anew, the rain, the clouds, plush with the cool air.

Chapter 5 – Why?

After a while of writing I realised that what I was writing had not yet happened, nobody had colonised the moon. How did I write these predictions? I do not know, it was just there, in the centre of my brain. Once I realised this the door opened and a bright light flashed through my eyes. I walked through the door and I saw my house. The room that I had been in had disappeared, with the box and the strange spirit which had come to me. Something was in my pocket, paper, the paper with my predictions. I do not know why it chose me but the spirit made me write for it. I suppose I was supposed to learn a lesson.

Love what you have and appreciate your freedom, your planet and your home.

Harrington S