Dear Reader, One of the highlights for the English department is having the chance to read through some of the best creative writing produced by our students. There is certainly no shortage of imaginative or expressive ability in the Putney community, as demonstrated by our students’ success in various prestigious writing competitions run by organisations outside of school. This is the reason why we set our own unique and stretching challenge with the annual Putney High School Creative Writing Competition. Last year, every student in Years 7, 8 and 9 was set a writing task in each of three subjects: Classics, History and Religious Studies. Once the completed tasks were returned by their subject teachers, students then had the Easter break to select which of those three they believed to be their best. This work was then submitted to their English teacher, who selected the best entry from each class. Finally, the English department chose an overall winner for each year group. In this anthology, you will find the class winners for each of the four Year 7, four Year 8 and five Year 9 classes, with the overall winner for each of the three year groups clearly indicated. Some pieces have been edited slightly for publication, but all winners were selected for their creative content rather than technical accuracy. Each of the three overall winners will receive a certificate and gift voucher. The competition for this academic year has now begun. As it is the fourth year of the competition, we have invited a fourth department to join in with the fun, so we look forward to seeing work with a more geographical perspective in the months to come. Until then, we hope you enjoy reading the inspired work on the following pages. Antony Barton Head of English
7ECE Ella Barker Falling
Falling, Falling, Falling, Icarus! What have you done? Why did you have to fly so high? And your face. The terror on your face at this moment is something I will never forget. Not until my last breath, and maybe not even then. It’s my fault. All my fault that the one light in my life is going to die, and my world will fall into darkness.
Falling, Falling, Falling, Oh, father! Please, help me, save me, hear me! My clumsiness is not only annoying, but fatal! Please, father, dive down and save me. If you do I promise I will never make a mistake again. My back and arms are being whipped by the wind and my mouth and eyes are covered in feathers. Try flapping, Icarus. Maybe you can keep flying. Maybe…
Falling, Falling, Falling, Could I save him? Could I try? I can hear his voice screaming and it makes my heart shatter. I’m sitting here debating whether to save my son, while he plummets towards a never-ending sea of darkness which will serve as his tomb. If I could trade places, put these fully functional wings on him and let myself fall into the water I wouldn’t even have to think, breathe. Anything to keep my precious boy alive.
Falling, Falling, Falling, Will I ever stop falling? It seems perpetual, never ending. No matter how much I flail around or try to keep flying, I know it will be no use. I will fall to the bottom of the water, never see, hear or touch anyone ever again. I don’t want my life to end this way. I’m only 13. I wanted to be like my father, a great and talented man. But no, I’ll never have the chance. ‘Father, if you can hear me, I love you so much and you are the best father ever. I would do anything to be like you! I have made so many mistakes but please, father! Save me! Save me this one final time from my mistakes. I have no one else! Save me!
Falling, Falling, Falling, Oh, Icarus, I love you too, more than you could ever know. Please don’t think I’m cruel for not trying to save you. I’ve just come to terms with reality, and I know I will never be able to save you! Oh, what are you saying, Daedalus? He is your son! You should be diving to save him, even if you know it won’t work! Oh, my clumsy, funny boy. I love you, and I will never stop thinking of you. I will get Minos for this. I promise. I swear on my life. If it’s the last thing I do, I will make him pay. Oh, my boy — goodbye…
Falling, Falling, Falling, Goodbye fath—
7ESG Catherine Perusset From the Aspect of an Average Israelite: A Baby Boy Removed from his Mother Another whip engraved itself on my back. Screams of sorrow and misery seeped into my ears. The dirty mist of desert soil and rubble got into my sand-papered throat. The desperate mothers were holding on to their precious children for dear life. Tears melted my face. My most prized possession was about to be prised from my very own hands. The Pharaoh’s soldiers were running to each household without hesitation, eager to serve their master well. Little could be done, and as much as we tried, their swords were stronger than our words. Whatever I said fell on to deaf ears. A sense of despair ran through my body. A shiver of hopelessness and bleakness coloured my desolate future. The baby cries. He that once filled our house with joy, which has now turned to a painful and melancholy atmosphere. A defeated and broken heart lies in the crib of my darling. My soul sits in his torn chair in which he would wait for me, longing for my return from work days. His blanket lies weaker on the ground with every blink of an eye. His clogs are still perched on the windowsill, capturing the sun from every direction. His empty bowl lies shattered on the dry and brittle ground. The emerald tree that once grew in our entrance now bleached and lifeless. Its stems that once reached the sky, now bowing its head to its ferocious fate. The roots that flourished in the nutritious soil now crumpled like a person scrutinising their face. Our deteriorating walls that once held our lives together now weakening by the second. Who will make me carry on and persevere? Who will make me laugh every day wit h delight and exultation? Who will make me smile with glee and jubilation, and who will sing the gorgeous song I taught him? I will never forget his quiet but carrying voice, which swayed across the air, through my hair and to our ancestors. Ever since the loss of my loved one, every living thing and stationary object has crumbled into thin air. I miss his hands in mine. How he gripped my second finger with such determination to never let go. His pleading eyes that watched my every move in the house. His broad and awakening smile touched my heart every day. His shy but mischievous laughs enveloped my heart with affection. The curious but naive dancing eyes settled on an object, only to have changed to a different object in seconds, like a grasshopper jumping from plant to plant. His pleading heart echoes in my deaf ears. His plain sailing skin smoothed my emotions. His eyebrows as curved as a brim of a cup. His ears were as delicate and as pure as silk. His freckles represented each idea in his fascinating brain. For I have loved you ever since my eyes have set on you and I will miss you day and night. Every memory that came back marked itself on my derelict and ramshackle hands. What will life be like tomorrow?
7PWN Lilly Myskovets Moses and the Burning Bush And he, Moses, my most highly favoured son, stepped forth. He gazed up in awe at the sight of me, come in the flames of an eternal fire. I called to him to tell him not to be afraid, for I had come to bring news of his power. “Moses! Moses!” My son, he who is so faithful, came to me, ready to offer his life up to me, ready to suffer the greatest pains of humanity. I could feel his devotion. He is the one from my sons who will bring forth the Israelites, who will lead them to freedom from the Egyptians. I yield all the power to end the wrath of the King and people of the mighty lands of Egypt, and free them from wicked slavery. But this is my test on mankind, my sons, to see if they are capable of survival and won’t destroy themselves like I have seen them do. And surely, my power must be channelled through a being, for though I am God, He who can bring both destruction and life, I must show myself in mankind as one of their own. Moses is the chosen one. I spoke to him, and my voice told him, “Do not come any closer. Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” Should he have taken forth a single step, he would have destroyed our connection, for my holiness is poisoned by the toxic materialism of humane objects. Immediately, Moses did so, stricken with obedience for me. And so, he walked forward, closer to the bush, seeing the scintillating flames, but not feeling the burn of heat at his forehead as he touched the thicket. Nor did Moses feel the prick of pain as his thumb grazed the jumble of brambles, for I did not wish him to be hurt. And then I said to him, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.” And so his confusion transformed into clarity, and his eyes widened further, and his whole body was encapsulated by fear, a fear which struck down to his very bones, and shook his heart. And at my words, he shrouded and covered his face and he understood that I must be respected, for I am all that birthed him and all that should choose his fate and all that shall end him. And the fire of the burning bush grew bigger and brighter, until the light blazed and all Moses could do but turn away was to look at the very heart of the bush, the bush which never burned, until he could see me. And so I resumed, “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into the home of the Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites. And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites out of Egypt.” But with fear, Moses said to me, “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”
And I said, “I will be with you. And this will be the sign to you that it is I who has sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you will worship God on this mountain.” Anxious, he asked, “Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ Then what shall I tell them?” And wistfully, I replied, “I AM WHO I AM. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I AM has sent me to you.’” So I continued, “Say to the Israelites, ‘The LORD, the God of your fathers — the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob — has sent me to you.’ Go, assemble the elders of Israel!” And so, Moses departed with great joy, and great fear, but with that I knew he was ready to go and save the people of Israel.
7KJY Juno Arnold
YEAR 7 WINNER
Moses Before me stood my brother and his brother. They came before me to address me. “The Lord, the God of Israel, says, ‘Let my people go, so that they can hold a festival in the desert to honour me.’” I looked at him and saw a child. A child. Was he a playmate? Was he to fetch and carry? Was he a plaything? No, he was my brother. I stared at the thing in the basket — such pitiful eyes. My mother had scooped him from the river. For what cause? Would it be an obstacle on my ascension to power? Father had promised me Egypt, that the sand placed and watched over by the god Seth and the tombs of the dead watched by Anubis and all of the great and mighty kingdom of Egypt would hear my name and worship me. Could that tiny baby ruin that? It was small. It was only slightly smaller than myself, but it awed me at how little a human being could be. My mother hugged me close. She then went to speak to some other women in the corner. I crawled curiously over to the baby. I caught its hand. It looked at me with round, brown eyes. I did not know what age gap there was between us. A year — perhaps two? It gurgled and shook its hand free. Then my mother came back and ushered me out of the room, handing the baby to a woman who took him away. Moses. That was his name. Moses, my Israelite brother — the one who got away on the Nile. We grew up, years passed. My mother took Moses back from the woman. She adopted him. He was one of us. He was my brother undeniably. I was still heir to the throne. All that had changed was I was not lonely. I had a brother. A brother. Was I proud of him? Perhaps. He learnt the Egyptian way, and though he possessed a soft spot for his heritage race, he remembered his place. Had we done a little too well, had we erased his religion and the person he was born? No, we had merely improved him and shown him a better world of riches. My place as the pharaoh was still secured. It had been foolish to worry about Moses taking my throne. Even though we had taken him in, he could never belong like that. Rumours, such horrible, terrible rumours. All about my brother Moses. They filled my head, screaming insults and abuse. It was not my brother, who we had cared for and nurtured so well. He would not do that. Such a cruel thing, such an evil, unnatural thing to one of us, one of his people. He had left the Hebrews behind, we were sure he had, but an act like this made me wonder… had he? Was he biding his time, waiting to attack from the inside? Was he a traitor, a traitor who we had welcomed whole-heartedly into our midst? No, that was foolish. I, who knew Moses perhaps better than anyone, could not bear to deny for a second that he was my brother. However, perhaps Moses was my brother, but this creature in his shape and form was not. I knew my brother and this was not him. Moses was not a murderer. True. All true. My mother was in distress. My father was severe. Moses killed. He killed an Egyptian. The body was buried in the sand, no care or respect, just disposed of. It made my heart twist into knots. My lungs sucked in air slowly, though they screamed, clawing at my throat for enormous gasping breaths. I controlled my emotions. A pharaoh (for father
was getting old) does not show his weakness for all the world. Moses was gone. He had run. To where? No one knew. There was nothing but desert out there. He would return and be executed by my father, or stay out there without food or water, and die. I am the morning star shining for everyone to see. I am the eagle’s eye, sharp as a blade, piercing the heart of traitors. I am lord over all of Egypt. The Egyptians and Israelites will bow to me and cower before my grandeur. No one can stop me. The gods will hear me and recognise my voice. The Hebrews will do my bidding and work until they are old and will die. My people will be safe from the wrath of others under my wing and never quiver in fear knowing their ruler will rescue them from the dark and wet and bring them to the light. I will be great. I am Pharaoh. “Who is this Lord?” I demanded, furious. I denied Moses as my family in my mind. This was not my brother, this was a man twisted by exile and loss to form a bitter soul. “Why should I listen to him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord; and I will not let Israel go,” I said. They then replied to me, “The God of the Hebrews has revealed himself to us. Allow us to travel for three days into the desert to offer sacrifices to the Lord, our God. If we don’t do so, he will kill us with disease or by war.” “What do you mean by making these people neglect their work? Get those slaves back to work! You have become more numerous than the Egyptians. And now you want to stop working!” I was furious. How dare they intrude on my lands and then demand that we give up what is ours. I pondered on the happenings of the day in fury. It was then that I sent out an order for the Egyptian slave-drivers and the Israelite foremen. “Stop giving these people straw for making bricks. Make them go and find it for themselves, yet still require them to make the same number of bricks as before, not one brick less. They haven’t enough work to do, and that is why they keep asking me to let them go and offer sacrifices to their God! Make these people work harder, so that they won’t have time to listen to a pack of lies.” Later on, the Israelite foremen approached me. It astounded me that they dare complain to me of their work conditions. These foremen said that we were working them too hard. They claimed it to be us, the great and mighty Egyptians, at fault. Myself and Moses are growing weary with age and yet he continues this dreary fight. What use will his people be to him when he is old and gone? He may not live to profit from their freedom. I failed see what good would come of the Israelite’s freedom. In this, I remained stubborn. They returned. “Let my people go!” they demanded. I demanded proof of their God. They were surely phonies. They could not possibly, such common folk, be in touch with divine beings. Moses’ companion and brother, Aaron, threw his stick upon the floor at my feet where it slithered as a snake. A trick — surely! I summoned my magicians and they equalled my foolish brother. I would not surrender!
I stood at the Nile, inhaling the fresh air and shivering at the breeze stroking my back. I closed my eyes. Aaron and Moses approached me, bearing the stick which had so cleverly transformed into a snake. “The Lord, God of the Hebrews, sent me to tell you to let his people go, so that they can worship him in the desert. But until now you have not listened. Now, Your Majesty, the Lord says that you will find out who he is by what he is going to do. Look, I am going to strike the surface of the river with this stick, and the water will be turned to blood. The fish will die, and the river will stink so much that the Egyptians will not be able to drink from it.” “They cannot and will not be free!” I screamed in outrage. Before my guards could intervene, the stick struck the Nile and outwards spread the scarlet liquid, making the air smell of poison and disease and small fish bob to the surface. I called for my magicians once more. Once more, they performed the same trick as Aaron and Moses. Yet, the blood was everywhere. There was not a river or lake or pond overlooked. In my palace, I desperately tried to come up with a solution for there was a water-shortage in all of Egypt. I heard them. Pounding in my ears. The drums, like a drum roll for what was to come. We were within our rights! Frogs all across the land — pray be rid of them, and they are dead. They worked for us! All the dust in the land of Egypt turned to gnats, and Egypt was a playground for them. They belonged to us! Flies, everywhere, great black swarms all except for the region of Goshen. They were our slaves! Our animals lay dead at our feet, yet the Israelites were untouched by the disaster. They would not be free! Ash from our fire, becoming our sickness and burden, great boils erupting on my people’s skins and plaguing all of Egypt. We would not surrender! Hail, striking down more and more animals, killing the slaves, destroying our crops. They will not worship this God! Locusts everywhere, eating the remaining crops and all of our food, our trees and nature gone, and so many of them that the sky was black. This is where they belong as slaves! Darkness, nothing, darkness so that the sun was smothered from view and the stars and moon had black ink blotted across them and covering them. THEY WILL NOT GO! Death. Every first-born Egyptian across the country lay dead in their mother’s arms. My son, my only son, lay cold in my grip. My tears held the memories of his life. How could a God be so cold and heartless. How could a God find it in himself to do this. I felt broken — broken by grief. Moses came into our land with evil intentions in his heart. He could have his people. He could worship his Lord, but he will feel grief some day and he will be sorry. He will plead for me to forgive him and I will not because I will be soulless. With the death of the first-born sons of Egypt, my soul was detached from my body making me inhuman, a shell. My son was dead and I would make Moses pay. For now, they were free to go and worship their God.
8AB Penelope Alexandre Epivent Slave Diary Entry [Date unknown] Beholding such a prestigious book like this is a privilege for a house slave like me. Most of us are mistreated and illiterate, but I am obviously not part of the ‘most of us’. The reasoning for so was because I wasn't always a slave; I was once a free man, who roamed nature, who trekked the horizon and begged for the cool whispers of the summer winds. I was also a free man who explored words; I swam in them until I drowned, I dug in them until I fell. When I fell through the words, I was reproduced as a soldier, a hopeless, helpless soldier that had been brought up with education rather than sheer bruteness. Weeks later, I was caught and kept as a hostage of war, which was more pleasant than watching others die heroically on the battlefield. From there, I was sold as a slave, a human with a price, an object, an animal, everything but a living being. The slave masters, often nicknamed the ‘domini or dominus’ for their consistent and tiring domination over us, enjoyed torture of all forms, but they always seemed keen on reprimanding us on the smallest details. The torture I always found painful was the food. Each time, it reminded me of the food that the consul would take, it would remind me that before I tripped up miserably and before I was removed from my noble position, I had a life. Before I messed up, I was a human. This morning, I woke up with no intentions of an interesting day. The birds screamed for me to wake just as the sun yawned and the moon retreated to its bed. I rose out of bed to do my usual house duties. I walked to the kitchen and was greeted by the cook who handed me a list of ingredients needed for the breakfast. I set off to the market watching the slaves in the other households along the road get beaten. Maybe I was lucky after all. The market was always quite loud and busy. There were seas of slaves that moved around and shores of shops. As I was buying what was needed, I could hear shouts coming from the far end of the market. I stopped discreetly to look. The shop owners gasped in fright and retreated to the safety of the surrounding buildings. I peered over the staring heads to see hundreds of men spill out across the market, beckoning us to come with them, promising our safety and liberty. They weren't soldiers commanded by the country, they fought against them. They were dressed in gladiator uniform, scary helmets and leather skirts. We all stayed put. Would they kill us? I moved forward desperate to break free, become anything but a slave. One by one, like prey we crept out. Some did not confide in them and stayed behind, but the others ventured on. We crept through the dark city like burglars, silent and mischievous. We walked through forests that twirled and tramped beside rivers that danced. I was free, but not safe. At the top of a mountain, we settled down. I took a moment to breathe in the landscape, inhale the beauty I hadn't gorged myself with for the last months, years, a lifetime.
8BHA Summer Currie The Calming of the Storm from the Point of View of Thomas The sea of Galilee was calm and quiet, peaceful but with a hidden deadliness about it. The sky was dark and twinkled with delicate stars. I knew it was dangerous to go out on the Galilee lake for a sail, but the others seemed to honestly trust that Jesus knew what he was doing. I was a little suspicious as I hadn’t actually seen one of the miracles people talked about. I was sceptical until I saw with my own two eyes him perform an act beyond belief. I think I went out on the ship with them all because it was night-time so it was less likely for a storm to pick up. Jesus was really tired due to days and days of teaching the people of Galilee. He asked us to sail the boat to the other side so he could sleep upon the gentle rocking of the lapping waves. When we set sail, crowds of those who love him crowded around the boat to wish him farewell. A couple of women even sent us off with freshly baked bread, and young children were throwing peony and iris petals at the boat. The bread was excellent; the group that follows Jesus have always been really generous with sharing and even prefer for someone else to enjoy something instead of keeping it for themselves. I think it comes with hanging out with Jesus; he does have a very selfless nature. When we were splashing along the waves, Jesus slept. He looked like he could probably sleep through anything. I, for one, can never sleep on a rocking boat. I’m always seasick. I remember it so vividly. Looking out at the dark, glistening water, the waves started to pick up pace, only gradually, but Mark (always a worrier) started to grow anxious. “Thomas, slow down your rowing!” he cried, “we may veer into a storm!” At that point I thought that Mark was being Mark, a usual drama queen. Minutes later the rumble of thunder bellowed through the hellish sky. Bolts of lightning were thrown at the boat, like arrows shot at targets. When the first wave pounced over the edge of the vigorously churning boat, the other disciples, that believe in Jesus and his miracles, were even shouting and screaming! I was petrified but kept it to myself. I didn't know what to do or think with people in chaos around me. The strangest thing was that John stayed really calm; he was confident Jesus would look after us all. But Jesus stayed fast asleep! I told you he could sleep through anything! At that stage I thought that there was a good chance I was going to die in this storm. I just had no faith in Jesus whatsoever. The man was still asleep! John started calling that we needed to wake up Jesus. This made everyone more worried than before. We knew that he needed his sleep and that he wouldn’t want to be woken, but this was a life-or-death situation! I went up first, slow and cautious. I prodded his shoulder and whispered, “Saviour, saviour, there is a mighty storm. We need you to save us!” But before long our whispers had turned into cries of terror. After many prods and
screams, John decided that more was needed. “Jesus, son of God? Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” he cried. Jesus woke up slowly with a look that indicated “Why do you need me? Am I not able to sleep for more than an hour?”. He stood up wearily and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. I could not believe my eyes. I was paralysed with fear. Neither could anyone else from what I could see. He said, “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” It’s two days after this phenomenon occurred. As I look out at the sea today, I am still scared with shock. We were all scared we were going to die, but when Jesus performed what even I must admit was a total miracle, we were even more frightened by what had happened. We cried when the sea was calm again. We were at his knees, but after he was done he told us not to be afraid and to keep our trust in him. For me, having never fully believed in the acts of Jesus, this was a bombshell. It transformed my views of him and my whole life will never be the same again. At the moment I feel no doubt in him, but I still don’t quite understand the miracles he performs. I don’t understand who he is or what he is, he seems so human and innocent, yet he does such wondrous things. I will forever ponder the same question we asked at that very hour: who then is this, that even wind and sea obey him?
8PBE Alice Day Jesus Calms a Storm The late afternoon sun peered through the clouds, casting a warm glow over our faces. I perched on the rough surface of a rock, with my fellow disciples on either side of me. We were all mesmerised by Jesus, who was standing in front of us on a gigantic uneven rock. Men, women, and children all littered the valley beneath us like confetti, gathered to watch Jesus speak, content just to be near him. The sound of a bird chirping filled my ears, and I jerked my head around to find a tiny earth-coloured bird hopping around next to my sandal. Ruffling its speckled feathers, it pecked at the ground, probably eating a breadcrumb I dropped earlier. I marvelled at the innocence of this tiny bird, the way it was completely oblivious to the dangers of the world. I was woken from my daydream with a tap on my shoulder from Matthew, who signalled to me that we were leaving. I grabbed my belongings, and we began to amble down the dusty path, tired smiles shared throughout the group. Jesus suggested we travelled to the other side of the sea of Galilee, and we all agreed, strolling onto the worn-down jetty, and choosing a wooden fishing boat that belonged to one of John’s brothers. When we boarded the ancient little fishing boat, none of us expected anything extraordinary to occur. We began to sail the peaceful waters, taking in the beauty of the surrounding lush rolling hills, pleased to be alone at last. But then came the dark clouds. They rolled in from the west, blackening the sky, bringing a sense of impending doom with them. Next came the wind. It started to rock the boat, not too much at first, but enough to make you unsteady. And last came the rain. Hitting us like knitting needles, it stung our faces and soaked us to our skins. Fear surged through me, assuring me this was the end. The waves became stronger and stronger, playing with the boat, tipping us to the point we were sure we would capsize, but then returning us briefly to a safe position. The colossal waves circled us like giant wolves, howling and occasionally pouncing, filling the boat with freezing salty water. I’ve been in many bone-chilling storms before, but none as rough as this one. A particularly strong gust of wind hit me and I fell, hitting my head hard against the side of the boat and collapsing on to the rotten wood planks. I felt a warm liquid trickling down the side of my forehead and brought my hand to my face to see what it was. Crimson blood stained my fingers, and clutch ing my head, I tried to stumble through the chaos to find something I could use to stop the bleeding. The pain blurred my vision, my heart pounding in my chest as I used all my energy to stay conscious. Screams filled the boat, my fellow disciples all trying to escape this nightmare. Whispering a prayer under my breath, I grabbed a container and, mustering all my remaining strength, joined all my friends in attempting to bail out all the water that was flooding into the boat. We tried to bail out all the water we could, but it was no use. Every time we almost got rid of the icy water, another monstrous wave would come crashing over the side of our battered boat. I glanced over my shoulder, thinking surely Jesus would be doing something about this, but was instead greeted with the sight of him sleeping peacefully in
the stern. Shock rippled through my body, we were surely about to die, and he was sleeping? He wasn’t worried, wasn’t panicking, but asleep? Clenched fists, I strode over to where he was resting and shook him awake. He wasn’t at all afraid of the violent waves, the intense winds, or the voluminous black clouds. Rising to his feet, he spoke calmly to the raging storm, only saying, “Peace! Be still!” I almost laughed at him. He really thought he would be able to calm the storm by speaking to it? But my opinion rapidly changed when the air was suddenly still, no longer pulling at our hair, and the waves shrunk down until they simply became ripples on the surface of the most peaceful water you’ve ever seen. The dense clouds scuttled into the distance, leaving the sky a mesmerizing blend of pinks, purples and reds as the sun settled down into the horizon. The other disciples stood, mouths wide open, in awe of Jesus. The clouds, now like cotton candy, illuminated by the rays of rose and honey coloured light which warmed our faces. Terrified, we were all thinking the same thing: “God is in our boat!” How is he so powerful that even the wind and the waves obey him?” Filled with a newfound fear, we always had faith after that evening, when he proved to us his power.
8JW Avani Chotai
YEAR 8 WINNER
The Calming of the Storm I will never forget that day, the day of fear and immense calm, the day a miracle like never before was performed and a day that started like any other… We arrived at the Sea of Galilee and there a boat waited for us, along with a faithful crowd, somehow aware of the feat we would complete. “Let us go across to the other side,” said Jesus, and so we left the crowd and set sail across the water. But the peace would not stay for long… Abruptly, a tremendous storm arose from the still water but this was a storm like no other. The wind did not shriek, it howled wretchedly, the rain did not beat the water, it sliced great wounds from its churning, inky depths! The thunder bellowed, the clouds were dyed a deep, sickening charcoal black, the lightning lit the sky like the sun but couldn’t cut through the vile clouds. This was a storm of the ages, a storm like no other, where you just couldn’t shake the feeling of evil, a sensation that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and we were in the middle of it. The snarling waves sought to drown us and we were in knee deep water already but in the middle of all this overwhelming chaos, our saviour slept. At the stern of the boat he lay, asleep on a pillow like a lamb, as the once green flora turned grey and solemn under the sinister shadows of the thunderclouds. “Wake up, wake up! Sir! Jesus! There is a storm upon us, a great storm, one for the ages! Save us! How can you sleep?!” I cried, while frantically shaking him from slumber. “Teacher do you not care if we perish?” “Do you not have faith in me?” he said, rising from his sleep. “Do not fear, I am here, all will be well.” He stood up amongst the raging chaos, impossibly balanced on the sickening lurching of our wooden cradle. Then, standing on the bow of our ship, he opened his arms as if to welcome the anarchy and chaos surrounding us. “Peace! Be still!” At his words in a second the world was still. Not a breath of wind or a drop of rain, it was calm. Not a bird sang, not a wave lapped, it was calm. Immensely calm. The water was no longer inky black but a peachy orange, the sky no longer malicious but kind and the sun no longer shy and hidden but happy and gracious. And as the sun began to peak through the now white, fluffy clouds, the distant calls and cheers of the crowd broke the silence. It was beautiful. But through the beauty we were shaking. At the power, strength and kindness of our saviour but also for fear of what he could do if we upset him. It was a fine line between fear and abandonment, and we were balancing carefully on that perilous tightrope. “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” But we were still afraid, the only words on our lips, “Who then is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?”
9B Isabella Middleton Dido and Aeneas The sun was shining low on the azure ocean, glittering and sparkling in the morning breeze. The sails of the ships billowed in the wind, and Trojans hurried over the decks, working and rushing over piles of rope and barrels. As the ships drifted out over the ocean, the sun began to crawl down from the sky. And as the hours went by, the exhausted travellers began to think about their new destination, their new homeland. But as dusk was settling, the winds began to increase and the waves began to grow. The seas were choppy and rough, and spiralling, twisting winds were ripping through the sails. The travellers were scrambling frantically over the decks of the ships, pulling ropes and trying to keep the boats afloat. The sea was rolling under its hull, and the waves were as tall as the masts. The winds were even sharper, tearing the sails and blowing loose cargo into the churning ocean. The light had left the sky, and in its place dark, ominous clouds blew in. The fleet had been nearing the coast of some foreign land, and the jagged coastline was protruding high from the waters. The first ship was thrown on to those rocks, its timber frame shattering on impact, terrible creaking and splintering noises drowning out the desperate screams of dying sailors. The wreckage of the first ship blocked the coastline, and the rest of the boats found themselves being wrecked on the rocky outcrop as well. The few surviving men urgently sought the sandy shore, swimming through the dark, churning waters. Their shouts and cries pierced the night air, and Aeneas, their leader was one of the shouting men. He struggled against the harsh currents, letting himself float past the sharp rocks. Finally, after what seemed like hours of swimming and almost drowning, Aeneas pulled himself on to a desolate beach. He lay there, the screams of dying companions haunting his memories. The sun began to creep over the horizon, letting peachy light cast a glow on to the wreckage of countless ships. The remains of masts and timber floated in the twinkling ocean. The worst part was the number of bodies that could be seen washed up on the beach. Many were obviously cold and gone, but as the morning arrived a measly few stirred. One man, looking exhausted and battered, stumbled to his feet and began to observe his surroundings. Aeneas, one of the only surviving Trojans, made his way across the dunes, tripping and falling from tiredness. He reached the crest of a small sandy hillock and crawled to the top. From there, he looked at the land they had arrived at. Luscious green hills and pastures rolled out before him, and forests full of emerald trees dappled the land. Glittering in the distance, stood a city built of yellow stone. It was large and beautiful, like a temple standing tall before the ocean. So as Aeneas returned to the remaining Trojans, lying barely conscious and depleted on the beach, he told them of the beautiful city lying to the West. He did not know of the hooded lady watching him from the cliff tops, a goddess disguised as a huntress. He walked with his surviving friends and family, over hills and across fields, through valleys and down paths, to the city of Carthage.
9C Imogen Whelan Dido and Aeneas — First Sightings of Dido Stepping off our weathered boat that heavenly afternoon, sighs of relief and awe were audible amongst my weary crew mates. As I cautiously brushed a levelled layer of sand from my arms, I let out a gasp; it had been three years since I'd seen, felt or smelt an air that differed from the suffocating breeze of the nautical atmosphere I had grown so accustomed to. My arms felt exposed, yet blinding rays of sunshine displayed Carthage to be a rich land; a canvas of diverse palm trees stretched out as far as the naked eye could see. Despite our past tribulations at sea, and having knowledge and experience with the greatest dangers known to man, I noticed that landing on Carthage was like a warm embrace to the crew. The natural surroundings alone provided a friendly greeting, with foreign bird song and the placid roll of waves on a crumbling shore adding to this effect. I was so occupied in spectating the natural beauty of Carthage that I had forgotten to greet, or search for, human habitation that could provide us with a place to rest, re -fuel, and plan our next course of action. I deduced that, despite its splendour, sleeping on the uneven Carthage sand would not provide adequate shelter, should a storm arise or the temperature cool. As if in answer to my thoughts, I heard a rustle amongst the bushes and a murmur of human voices travelling in our direction. This startled some of the crew, who, like I, presumed we were alone on this island, and knew that we had no means of defence should matters become unfriendly. From this crowd, I overheard the sweet voice of a woman, who seemed to be giving orders to heavily-weaponed men in a calm but firm manner. Eagerly, but wearily, we gazed at the bushes, anticipating to be met with swords and shields and angry faces. On the contrary, when the men, who I assumed were standing in front of the mysterious woman, parted the bushes, we were met with equally cautious but noticeably friendly eyes. I distinctly recall the woman ordering her guards to, “Lower your weapons, it seems as if these visitors mean well, and they appear to be weary.” The men parted to reveal the woman and, before I could gain a proper glimpse of her, she spoke: “I am Dido, Queen of Carthage. I will not burden you with questions and queries; you look tired. I will properly speak with you in the morning. For now, my men will lead you to a place where you can rest.”
Dido walked closer towards us, taking strides of graceful purpose, and making light conversation with members of my crew, seemingly shedding a blind eye to our scruffy state. I observed that the queen reflected all of the same characteristics as the island which she ruled; she possessed a hospitable demeanour, greeting us all one by one and reflecting her hopeful energy into our own souls. A setting sun showed her body to be surrounded by an auburn pale glow, accentuating a weathered mosaic of beauty and deity-like splendour. She was a joyous sight to sore, throbbing eyes, and, despite my fatigue, I refrained from surrendering to the shackles of sleep to introduce myself and the party. “I apologise for our abrupt arrival. You are correct; we are incredibly fatigued, and we thank you for your understanding. I am Aeneas, leader of our crew; it was a pleasure meeting you, Dido. I am sure we shall talk tomorrow”. Dido replied, “Welcome to Carthage, Aeneas. We shall certainly meet in the morning.” I knew my stay on Carthage would not be temporary.
9D Bridget Gilligan A Letter Home from the War Dear Margaret, It pains me not to be home with you and the kids for this Christmas, but I am fighting for the country and for the children and you so I am staying strong. I hope they are well and that they aren’t growing up too fast, but, how are you? My heart aches every second that I am away from you and I hope that we will be reunited soon. No matter how hard I try I am constantly cold. I warmed up just enough to be able to write this to you. The state of the trenches is terrible. There is nowhere to sleep without getting muddy. These steps are where we sleep and we have to sleep during the day because the Germans fight under the cover of the night. It is terrible, constantly having to be on guard. I feel like I can never go to sleep without feeling as though I might not wake back up. Some of my friends from the football team have passed away. Mark and Luke died in the infantry and Matthew died of trench foot. I have been trying to avoid going over and be part of the infantry because everyone knows that it is a death wish. Luckily, I have been able to keep my feet as dry as possible in the trenches (the mud makes this all very hard) and I haven’t yet got any pain in my feet. I am sorry to have to tell you this. I don’t want to worry you but I have no one else to confide in. Thankfully I am not part of the infantry; they are the men who have to navigate through the barbed wire of no man’s land but they aren’t able to run because there are so many obstacles. I have to sit in the trenches and fight with whatever we can. Sometimes, I help out with all of the cannons which make such a terribly loud noise and it can be heard from across the channel. Other times I help out with stopping the German infantry from getting too far across no man’s land. The weapons that we are using fire so many bullets per second it is absolutely ridiculous. The commander that we have on the other hand seems to not care about the lives of the men fighting for England. He lives in a chateau nearby and his generals report back to him but he fights the war terribly. We have to follow his orders but it is clear that he is just living in luxury whilst we are going weeks without a shower and barely eating any food. I am so sorry that I am worrying you with all of the details but I hope that you are staying well. I miss you all so very much and I hope that we will be able to see each other soon. If not I love you all very much and I hope that you all know this. Tell the children that I love them. Our Christmas next year is going to be amazing. Merry Christmas! Lots of love, John
9E Sarah Fleming The Storm from Dido’s Perspective As we hunted, my eyes refused to leave his face, the light carving into his skin, sculpted by the gods; I winced again. No! What are these thoughts, suddenly plaguing me? For days, I had been in constant torment, fighting a raging battle within. In my mind I visualised Sychaeus, my dear husband, my only love, dead. But I love Aeneas, cried my mind. Never, I responded. Sinking my head into my horse’s mane, burying myself downwards, attempting to rid myself of every thought running a rampage through my mind. It was no good, I had lost control of my senses, my own body refused to obey me and I felt my heart rattling against the walls of its cage at the sound of his voice. That arrogant, self-centred man who was blind to anything but the sight of his own reflection. Why did he hold the power over my heart that I had lost? Weakly, I lifted my head, twisting towards the reason for my inner torture and before my mind could protest, my traitorous body let out a lovesick sigh. Truly I was lovesick, in every sense of the word, my previous principles decaying around me. The infection was spreading and my mind was too tired to protest much longer. Above him, a foreboding shadow had been cast, a darkness that threatened to conquer the last remnants of my sanity as the clouds rushed to ambush our hunting party. Circling like sharks, grey and menacing as droplets began to cascade down, increasing in pace until the air was alight with the sound of rain thundering down and my senses were momentarily distracted by the blessing of peace from above. I pictured Sychaeus, but his image was fading. As water crashed down on me I began to gasp for air. My memories were drowning and I did not know I was crying until I tasted the salt, sharp in my mouth. A blade of lightning divided the sky as it struck the earth, searing a white light into my mind as I fought to protect my eyes. My hands tensed, slipping and sliding as I grasped desperately at the reins in front of me. I felt an abrupt change in the air as the sudden electric charge ran through it, sparking against my bare skin and I turned, glimpsing Aeneas, who was calling out towards me, gesturing wildly. It was at this moment I became aware that I was alone in the midst of the most dangerous rage Carthage had ever seen Zeus produce. Far off, safer from the storm, he was waiting for me. If I squeezed my eyes together I could fool myself… That the man in front of me was Sychaeus and that was why my heart had been conquered by a man and now was steering my horse closer. Unfortunately, the illusion was not to last and upon seeing Aeneas, who was so eager and foolish while I could only wallow in my own confusion, I felt sickened to my core. How could I even think that I could find a replacement for the man who was the love of my life. I knew I did not think it, but I felt it with every bone in my body that screamed for me to follow him into the cave he was now descending into. Then, as if I was watching some other thoughtless woman follow her love into an unknown sanctuary, I saw myself lead my horse down into the void of darkness.
… 7 hours passed. … Lifting my head felt like a task too difficult to ever consider as I shifted myself upwards, my vision smudged and distant, as I strained to observe the scene before me. The light brought my pulsing headache to the fore of my mind and nausea clawed at my throat. Then, in the corner of the cave I saw a male figure, his eyes shining brightly with love. It was my husband! Sychaeus! At last, I cried out “My dear husband!” as I rushed over and embraced him.
9A Isabella van de Grampel
YEAR 9 WINNER
Kristallnacht (9-10 November 1938): A Recollection The Night of Broken Glass is what history has called it. There was looting, arson, destruction and murder. Glass rained down on the streets of Germany as synagogues were defaced and businesses were destroyed. It was an event that sent shockwaves around the world, awakening people to the power of Nazi Germany. It was a warning to all; this was a mere prelude for what was to come. I witnessed Kristallnacht, and not only do I want you to understand the horrors, I want you to feel my desperation, hear my prayers and know my thoughts. My father was a well-liked and respected man who owned a Jewish delicatessen shop in central Berlin. At this time, and for many years after, we were quite poor and so we lived above the shop in a cramped two-bedroom flat. My parents slept in one room, my Oma and I in the other. We had been painfully aware for some time of the mounting support for the ideology of Nazism, Hitler and for the National Socialist German Workers' Party; all of Germany was, but though we feared it, we could not leave the city as our income relied on the shop. My father was also adamant that we Jews were not to show fear to this sadistic traitor who, as far as my father was concerned, was no Christian. Though we were of different faiths, he knew that Christians held love in their heart for others just as we did, and that to leave would be to submit to his wishes for a paragon population of Germans. On the morning of the 9th, there was an ear-piercing cry. “Ach, mein Laden! Bitte nicht, bitte nicht… 1” sobbed the woman. I rushed to the window and saw glass littered on the streets as flames licked the pavement. I traced the arc of the flames in horror to conclude that the fire was quickly pursuing the shops and houses opposite. Panicked and confused, I tore down the stairs and found my mother switching off the lights and pulling the curtains shut. I pointed to the fire and screaming outside but she could not hear me; her face was etched with a gently surprised expression, as if she could not quite perceive her surroundings. Her eyes were a well of panicked tears, and her skin paled as her hands fumbled with the door. Finally, she collapsed in a heap on the doormat, the look of incongruity replaced with one of terrible anguish. I suddenly realised her pain wasn’t one of empathy and horror for the situation raging outside. I realised my father was gone. A single tear slid down my face as I threw open the door and beheld for myself the carnage. Men were being rounded up like sheep and stuffed in vans while others lay on the ground, beaten. I moved forward, intending to search for him among the men on the street, but my mother tugged me back. Someone had noticed us. As they advanced my mother pushed me back into the house. “Protect your grandmother,” she said. Her eyes were blank, but I felt her fear. I ran upstairs. I heard screams, kicks, the sickening thud of a punch, and a streaming torrent of slurs and insults. Almost instantly, blind and lumbering footsteps entered the house and I stood still, barely breathing; my mind was immobilised by fear, my limbs were stone. Every muscle had seized up. As the footsteps began to ascend the stairs I awoke and silently scrambled to the attic, where my Oma was waiting 1
“ach, mein Laden! Bitte nicht, bitte nicht” – “oh, my shop! Please do not, please do not.”
expectantly, her hard features letting no emotion slip. She ushered me into a cupboard and we waited, our breathing laboured. Time passed quickly, the footsteps faded, and we were alone once again. Hesitantly, I hastened downstairs and I saw the true damage of this night. The damage of moments that requires the healing of years. I saw those years as I gazed at my mother’s bruised and harrowed face. There was a heaviness in her eyes, a sadness, an unyielding sorrow that remained for decades after, a sadness she could never let go of. I cleaned her up and helped her on to the sofa, and we sat there together for the rest of that night. In the morning, I dared to look outside once again. I was stunned by the silence. Alone in Berlin. That is what it felt like as the streets stood still in mourning. We had lost our freedom at that moment, and the city wept for it. To this day I have never forgotten the events of that night. Since then, I have never been able to read a scripture in the same way, with the same conviction, that I used to. I have often heard people talk of evil, and on that night I understood it. Evil was the look in the eyes of the people who took my father, the rallying cry of the looters who stormed the streets. I cannot reconcile these looks and cries with the existence of God. An omnibenevolent God would have the desire to eliminate this evil. To eliminate this evil, God would have to be omnipotent. Omnipotence and omnibenevolence cannot coexist with evil. One cannot survive while the other is wreaking havoc. This cosmic fault is something I have never been able to release from my thoughts. If God allows evil, then why call him God? I cannot. So, I do not. I have not for many years.