RMS Storymakers Issue 5 by RMS for Girls

Storymakers Issue 5

The

eCreative Writing Societyy

editor’s letter: Storymakers is back for another edition! This is the fifth issue that the Creative Writing Society has made; we have a range of types of writing, not limited to the club members. We have the winning texts for the competitions held during the Michaelmas term and for the first time, you have the opportunity to see writing from members of the Junior Creative Writing Club. As always, the last two pages are dedicated to our book recommendations, however, this time is slightly different: instead of club members suggesting books, all recommendations are from the staff in the English department. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the first edition of this school year!

contents: 01 02 04 05

Calm After Death by Anonymous To Live by Eliza Evans The Letter by Ella Sage A Star and a Sunﬂower by Revathi Karthikanand 09 Ganster Capybara by Annabel Crump 12 Journey Home by Ruby Neale 13 Refuge is… by Alex Sandison 14 The Refugee by Mimi Sun 16 Lost Lands of Lahaina by Anonymous 17 The Wall by Eliza Evans 18 Tea and Texts by Eliza Evans

Death stroked my cheek just as tenderly as my father used to carry me to bed as a child when I fell asleep in the car. I look back at Death now and he has my father’s face, but not the eyes these are full of love. I grab hold of the outstretched hand and hold tighter to it than I ever have to anything before, clasping onto it like a lifeline. Mine cradled in the strong calloused hand of my father’s own and I feel calmer than ever. By Anonymous

I live in the secondhand smoke of passers by in the unsaid words between lovers in the dregs of cold coffee on an empty café table in the light bleeding out from under your bedroom door in the raindrops on window panes left over from the night before in the shadows in the lonely corners and in the first flowers peeking up from the ground. By Eliza Evans

To live

In September, the English department ran a short story competition for all year groups around the theme of ‘communication’. It was a tough to select the winners in each category, as there were some fantastic stories submitted! I hope you enjoy reading the winning entries as much as we enjoyed selecting them. These were the competition guidelines:

Write a story focused around an important message You may choose to write a piece set in any period, any country, with any characters. You may choose to base your piece around a letter/ telegram /newspaper notice/ landline phone call/ answer machine message /pager /email /voice note /group chat /social media post.

How is your message going to change the lives of your characters? 3

Short Story Writing Competiton: Submit an original short story on the theme of ‘communication’.

The Letter C rash! The vase splintered into a thousand tiny pieces. As I sunk to the ground, I put my head in my hands. It was my Grandma’s. Actually, it was my Great-Grandma Amy’s vase, handed down to Grandma Carole. As I picked up the pieces I felt a tear roll down my face. It was so emotional cleaning out Grandma’s house and looking at all her old memories. I still missed her every day of my life. I found some grimy books and blew the dust off them. I coughed vigorously. It said ‘Amy’s Photo Album’ on the front. All the pictures were in black and white and some had writing underneath. Some of the photos you could barely see as they were discoloured and completely faded. Some were stained with yellow marks. One picture puzzled me. The person looked like my Great-Grandma when she was a teenager, holding hands with a younger boy. It just said: ‘Amy and Herb’.

gone. Thank you for a very happy marriage. Before I die, there is something important that I have to tell you. It is a terrible secret I have kept my whole life. I had a brother called Herbert. He was younger than me and he got himself into serious trouble. He was caught for a burglary when he was 17 and went to prison. He wasn’t a good man. He was convicted of another crime and went back to prison again. In 1963 he was involved in a famous bank robbery. He rang Mum and Dad after the robbery and sounded crazy. He told them he committed the perfect crime and now he was rich enough to live anywhere in the world, and that he would be disappearing for good. That was the last time we ever heard from him. We never told anyone what happened, and for years we were terriﬁed people would ﬁnd out about what he had done. We all agreed never to talk of it. It brought so much shame on our family. I hope you can forgive me.

I sighed, picking up the books and piling them near the doorway. The last shoe box. I opened the lid and found more creased and faded photos. There were also a lot of letters in envelopes that my Grandma must have kept when she cleared out her mother’s house. Right at the bottom of the box was a folded letter with a ribbon tied on it. In ink, it said: ‘My darling Edgar’. With trembling hands, I untied the old ribbon and opened the letter. It was written in pretty handwriting. The date was 29 August 1990.

Your Amy

To my darling husband, The time is near now and I don’t have long left. Cancer is very cruel and I will be glad the pain is

After reading the letter, I folded it slowly and tied it back up with the ribbon. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. A criminal in my family? I paced up and down the loft room for an hour. I wasn't sure what to do. Then I decided. I grabbed my phone and googled ‘famous bank robbery 1963.’ It came up with ‘The Great Train Robbery’. I opened my mouth in shock. I read through the information and couldn’t believe what was at the end: ‘Most of the gang were arrested and served time in prison. The mastermind was never identiﬁed. He escaped with £2.6 million, and the money has never been found.’ By Ella Sage 4

A Star and a

Sunﬂower

Chapter One Polluted with abject melancholy, Himari felt suffocated. Crowded with people everywhere dressed in white from head to toe in Kurtas, Saris and Lehengas. A cultural normality she was not accustomed to. Himari blended into the background, the priority for comfort being family and blood relatives. Those that are said to have loved the deceased the most. Crouched in the corner of the room, Himari released stifled sobs. Silently weeping and grieving the dead. Not far beyond, the deceased’s mother is heard sobbing, bellowing and wailing for her daughter to come back. Himari winces at the dynamic of her projection while her mind forces her to reminisce with the power of a tsunami. About how she’d held Himari in her arms. About how she would caress her face before leaning in to press their lips together. About the impish grin which invaded her face whenever Himari snickered at her jokes. About how she swore that her heart belonged to Himari and Himari alone. About how Tarika adored Himari, but chose to leave her. Overwhelmed, Himari wanted to shriek and bellow until her voice was lost. She desired to join the one she had lost so that she would never feel such hurt again. Her heart ached with want, and love, and for its owner to come back. 5

Choking on her tears, she curled further into herself, wishing she had died in the past rather than jailed in the present. Wishing she did not know of her partner’s fate. Eyes stinging as if she were attacked by a herd of wasps, Himari willed herself to stand, albeit with difficulty. She hobbled to collect a glass of water, she was ambushed by Tarika’s father. He stood as weak as she did, slouched and with puffy red eyes to match everyone’s presently. Looking as if he was holding the blemishes of his heart; when he was really holding an envelope. “How are you doing? I understand you and Ta- my daughter, were quite close” His voice was hoarse and dry, cracking on each word. Grappling with saying the name of his child, as if it would confirm she is gone. “It’s hard, but I’ll pull through” she lied through her teeth. Feebly, she smiled at him in an attempt to provide comfort. It did not work. Anurag cleared his throat, before laying out his hand towards Himari, presenting her with the envelope. “We were clearing her room out and found this on her desk. It’s addressed to you. Himari’s eyes snapped open, her mouth hanging partially agape. Taking the envelope from Anurag with a quivering hand and indeed seeing the writing on the front written in Tarika’s scribbly handwriting. ‘Himari Hanako’

The envelope was of average size and width, physically weighing as much as a minuscule pebble. Absolutely nothing unique or special. It was just a letter. But to Himari, it was the nightmare she had hopelessly dreamed of. Her mind echoed a plea to tear it in half, to throw it away, to turn away and never look at it again. Nonetheless, she accepted it from him while murmuring a small thank you. He didn’t leave Anurag directed his attention to the ground. “When you read it, do you mind telling me anything that uh, holds any significance?” “Of course, I promise,” she replied, smiling limply. Understanding he must have asked because he had no letter. She looked back down at the burden in her palm, and time slowly came to an end. As if she was with the writer once again.

Chapter 2 Opposing Himari on her desk sits the burden. Laying flat on her desk, Himari glared at it, her thoughts and emotions bubbling at the surface. When Tarika was alive, Himari was certain she was an open book, but what if this was a version of Tarika that she had never seen or spoken to? What did the ubiquitous girl she had fallen in love with keep hidden from her? What if she revealed it was Himari who drove her to… The room lapsed into a pregnant silence; eyes aflame, Himari willed herself to not break just at the burden’s presence. Unsteadily, she reached for the envelope and held it limply in one hand. Thumbing the seal of it gently, she forced herself to come to terms with reality. Her mind was at war with her heart, and her heart was close to victory. No matter what the letter says; Himari was desperate to know. Throwing caution to the wind, she quickly tore the envelope open before she could lament. Quaking palms unfolded the letter, bloodshot eyes scanned the words and a shattered heart absorbed the connotations.

Dear Himari, If this letter has reached you, then that means I am gone. I won’t lie and say that I’m sorry for what I’ve done. You don’t deserve that. I feel no remorse, but I do feel gratitude. I want you to know everything that was kept hidden from you. Everything that was preserved in my heart, Seeing it was the heart which I said belongs to you. I never imagined living past the age of 15. As if my head was telling me that there was no chance I would live to see adulthood. I believed that I would be in a fatal car accident, or I would be murdered, or ill. Irrelevant of what I envisioned, it was only the end result which persisted. For some time, I was reticent about this fact. Absolutely refused to share it with anyone. In fact, I soon anticipated it happening. I became vigilant. Eyeing every car on the road, glancing behind to see if I was followed, monitoring every symptom of my colds. And then there was you. Benevolent, beautiful, vibrant you. I was enamoured with you. I asked you every question, gave you every flower, pulled every stunt. All so that you would smile at me before responding, blush before accepting, and laugh at every antic. You looked to me as if you had hung the moon and stars. And despite the feelings of my past, my future was as clear as the horizon. My future was you. We would study every subject, read every book, embark on every excavation and return with our hands intertwined and our minds at ease. Smiling tumultuously, you would run towards the sweltering sun while grasping my hand. And I would follow yearningly. Because it was you. Like your name, you are a sunflower. Resplendent, scrupulous and forever drawn to the sun. But where you are a sunflower, I am a star. In spite of this, I am not your star. Your star is the sun, and I am nowhere near close in comparison to the sun. Futures are hopes, dreams and aspirations. Beyond family and friends, they are the next stages of your life. Futures cannot be people. 6

My future is not you, because it is nothing. Perhaps, in another life, I am the sun. And you are a sunﬂower. Not in this lifetime though. Himari, your future was always conceivable whether or not I was a constant in your life. Unfortunately, my future was not. Which led me to realise that with no future in store, there was no reason to continue my life. Thank you, for making me feel as if I had potential to live. Thank you for giving my life meaning. Thank you for loving me as I was and for who I was. I love you, and will continue to love you in every life. Whether it be the afterlife or another reality. I love you, Himari. Forever yours, Tarika Chebium She clasped the letter tighter in her palms, crushing the weak paper. Eyes uncontrollably released tears and the tightest knot she had ever felt in her throat, freeing small whimpers and choked cries. The letter was everything Himari

had feared; And everything she had wished for, only adding insult to injury. Burden clutched to her chest, Himari released a petrifying cry. And then another. And then another. She shrieked and yelled for the star she had lost. Crying out nonsensical words and shrieks of pain. She needed her back. She needed her back. Wiping her eyes, she tried to stand… Only to immediately collapse. Gripping the carpet under her fingers, she curled into a ball and released a bloodcurdling howl of despair. How long she lay in such a state, she could not care. She needed every world to hear her. She needed to let it all free. Storming in, her parents rushed to her side and held her close as she collapsed. Silently, she made a declaration to herself. To shriek and cry and scream in this moment like a spoiled brat. To live the life Tarika could not have. To hold her first and only love close to her heart. To devote herself to her future. To hate the sun for the rest of her life; who took the place of her most beloved star. By Revathi Karthikanand

KS3

Creative Writing

This year Mrs Williams has started a Creative Writing club for students in years 7-9. It’s been very popular so far and there is a lovely group of students who come back every week.

You can join them on Wednesdays at 1pm in room 18 with Mrs Williams. Some weeks, Mrs McCurdy and sixth form writers will join the group for extra inspiration! This is a peaceful, open, creative space where young writers pursue their own writing projects or participate in teacher-led tasks, including competitions!

Club

The senior Creative Writing Society will also be dropping in to run some writing workshops in the Hilary term.

I'm in Brazil, on a tour with my dad to see the wild animals but it's so hot and the rusty camouflage van we are in has no air conditioning. The old tour guide stammers, “Now we come to Capybara Oasis'’. My heart leaps and a grin crosses my face. I'm so excited, this is the place in the brochures, the place where capybara lovers find themselves in heaven. Here I can see a small pond with clear sparkling water and luscious palm trees around the sandy border, providing shade to the abundance of capybaras roaming around happily.

“Yo!” says a small voice. As I look around frantically a furry little paw taps my foot. I look down to see a capybara in shades and a hat saying ‘capy life’. I know most people would be concerned about a talking capybara but I can't suppress my excitement and a smile spreads across my face.

I run to get out of the car but a large hand on my shoulder stops me. It's my dad.

Gang

ster

“Don't disturb them, honey,” he explains, “they look so peaceful’’. I sigh and lump back down in my seat. I know I should not let this small problem get the better of me, but it is hard because I have been looking forward to this since June.

The money (which I had been saving for the gift shop) in my purse rattles as we chug around the oasis. SCREECH!!! Our jeep halts suddenly. I take a sharp intake of breath. I peer into the front seat. The driver is looking stunned and stuttering some sort of random gibberish that sounds like, ‘Capybara, shades, gold chain, rad dude’. My dad is getting out to see what is causing this commotion. He comes back now just as stunned as the driver. 9

“Hello little guy,” I say, reaching out my hand to stroke him. “Gimme a lift won't ya,” he says, swatting my hand away. I know I shouldn't, but I open the door and tell the driver to go. As if waking up from a dream he drives on his but Dad still sits there staring. We sit in silence, apart from the rattle of my money and I'm suppressing the urge to hug the capybara. To break the awkward silence I say, “How can you talk?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, but I'm not sure it was meant to be a question. He looks at my pocket (which has my purse in it) hungrily, I think he's looking for food. “Yo, how much cash do you have?” he demands. “Twenty-five pounds,'' I explain. He nods his furry head, making the chains around his neck clunk together. “Can I ’ave a look?” he asks. When I was younger my daddy told me ‘Never give strangers your money,’ so I shake my head. He takes off his glasses and peers at me with his big baby blue eyes and says in a sweet sad voice,

“Oh I wish I could see human money; I have never seen it before and the other capybaras tease me about it.” I feel a pang of guilt. The poor little guy. “Maybe you could have a little look,” I relent. “Oh pretty, pretty please,” he begs so I hand him it. “Thanks bruv,” he says, talking in his usual gruff voice again. He pops on his shades and claps his hands. “Right, that's all for me dudes,” he explains, ”let me out bruv.” I hesitate as I don't want him to leave yet. I barely bonded with him let alone became his friend, but I open the door.

Capy

bara As he goes to get out I lean over and pull him into a hug. He sits in my arms frowning for a couple of seconds then jumps out of the car and scampers away. I wave to him as he runs into the sunset. Then I notice a pink object in his paws. IT’S MY PURSE! I can't get him now so I sit back down and think to myself: I think I just met a gangster capybara! By Annabel Crump 1

The school also mirrored the country-wide competition for National Poetry Day and asked students to write a poem on the theme ‘Refuge’.

As with the short story competition, there were two winners from each category: one for years 7-9 and another for years 11-13.

What does the word ‘REFUGE’ mean to you? ● A home? ● Safety? ● Friends

● Something you can create? ● Something you can ﬁnd?

Journey Home

The colours and sounds are deafening. They blur into one and my senses vanish. The people are changing, they look different. The faces I once recognised, now disfigured shapes. Like strangers to me, they pass by and I wonder if I’ll see them again. The street light glows, it steals the darkness. Almost like it wants to hold on tight and never let go. Almost like how us children hang on to our childhood, leaving claw marks when we let go. The people, the lights, the sounds are all moving. I can’t tell them to slow down. Just like how I can’t ask time to slow down. The house stands tall, yet I slouch. My room slouches too, it’s a reflection of me. I stand up straight, my room now stands proud. Eventually I get tired of standing so I lie on my bed, the ceilings cave in. The light coming from my phone blares, it banishes the darkness. I banish the quiet by playing music. The music blares, it doesn’t get tired, it battles the darkness. My eyes close, they feel heavy, I don’t fight it. Jolting awake, I check the time. It’s the middle of the night. I can’t remember my dream, just like how we don’t remember most of our childhoods. We forget, then we remember and then we forget again. Yet we can’t forget our belonging. The place we yearn for when the light can’t banish the darkness. When the sound can’t battle the silence. We find our belonging in our journey home, our home becomes the thing we love the most, our refuge. By Ruby Neale

Refuge is…

Refuge is the night Still and unperturbed while Darkness envelops you. Wrapping alleviating arms around, Safe and sound. Refuge is the giggling brook It’s laugh breathy and bubbling Greeting you earnestly Before it slips back out to sea, Running free. Refuge is a cottage A hearty fire burning brightly While soup stirs, sighing The cottage stands, weathered but warm, Against the storm. Refuge is a voice Whispering sweet nothings Soothing and soft You listen, a hush descending, The silence extending. Refuge is a book With the smokey scent of its pages It’s story engraved deep within. Transfixed on the precious phrases Afraid of drawing yourself away, You’ll wish you could stay.

By Alex Sandison

THE R E F U G E E

Battle broke throughout the country, Forcing us to flee and scurry. With no food, we’re forced to run, Of a home we had none. Time passed, minutes like hours, Through the fields with no flowers. ‘Til we reached the vast blue sea, To a place to set us free. Once we used to live in peace, But those times would have to cease. Running from war dreadfully, That is the life of the refugee. By Mimi Sun

Dystopia

As part of their study of the dystopian genre, our year 12 English Literature students were asked to write their own version of a dystopian story. Dystopian fiction is speculative, meaning it looks to our future and wonders what it might be. The twist is that it usually imagines how our current society and its values might destroy the world or our freedom and individuality. Read on to find out what we think might be the downfall of the human race… 1

Barren. Eerie. Lifeless The once majestic island of Maui now lay overpowered by Mother Nature creating havoc. A disruption in the natural order of the natural world caused hundreds to lose their precious lives. Grey. Grim. Ghastly. Gloom had taken over the historic town of Lahaina forever. Trees burnt to ashes as wildfires took over the brilliant blue sky and the aura of the once vibrant town. The thick grey clouds enlarged as the fires escalated, endangering the wildlife. The grey light rose above the thick ashen clouds. A symbol from God of better times to come. Mother Nature finally at rest. Barren. Eerie. Lifeless. Only this time with a ray of hope and something promising.

By Anonymous

THE WALL NOTE A It’s been 4165 days now. At least, I think it has it’s difficult to keep track. The clock says it’s period 9 they’ve still got clocks, but when I was a child they all had different numbers on them. Today is death 1496. Counting is the only way I can try to keep track of how many days have passed. Every day that passes, it feels like the city walls have grown - but I know that’s impossible. I think. It’s State Day. We never had State Day when I was little. It’s new, it came when одно did. With одно came the death of everything. Or maybe it was before. Yes, that sounds right. The world was dying and одно saved us. I don’t know who will read this, or even if anyone will. It might just be for my own piece of mind (is that the phrase? It’s quite an old one if it is, we don’t use ‘peace’ or ‘mind’ really - we are always happy and content, we’re meant to be). The city is cold. It’s dark for longer which means working in the night. I was peeling potatoes today. I’ve got a cut on my finger. The peelers are blunt and dull, I have to press hard to get the skin off. It was the same meal as last night, and the night before. Boiled potatoes, cabbage and beans, and meat. I guess it’s easy to grow in the little fertile soil we have left. Л64 told me she saw past the wall. She sinned. She went against одно. After одно saved us. They told me it was Russian. I never spoke it, but some tried. одно said the Soviet Union could have

saved us, that’s why our name is in the old language, our state’s name. I think I have picked up some of it, we all know the alphabet. Languages aren’t much use anymore. We all speak одно language. I used to like languages. I learnt some old French and old German. My mother used to be old German. But I can’t think about that now. I can’t write any more, I will think something that is not right. Even this is illegal. I should be asleep. I’m being измена. My head keeps going back to Л64 and what she said. It was wrong, bad. She did измена. We know stories of outside our walls. It’s dangerous. No one has left, and no one will. There are whispers about it - what it looks like, but never what it used to be like. We keep those memories for ourselves (they are illegal, but surely we must all have them), for fear that they will be taken from us. Л64 told me what it looked like. She has never sounded like that before. She sounded excited, giddy. But it didn’t fit. She described the blackened moors and the silence. She told me about the massive crack across the earth, a scar from the event we all heard about it or saw it, I lived it. The trees are all dead, sad and brown looking - that is if there are any. There are no animals - not any flights, I can’t remember what they were called, I think they were flights. There is no chance you would survive out there, it’s impossible. I thank одно every day for saving us. I like the life. I like the city walls, they protect us. We are safe. одно saved us.

By Eliza Evans

Small Things Like These Claire Keegan

Writes beautiful short stories set in rural Ireland, presenting the simplicity of life using stunning poetic prose.

Tea

Texts

A wild berry tea highlights the importance of nature and the natural imagery throughout this masterpiece

the Society reviews

“He found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another?” This may not look like much, but don’t be fooled: it’s small, yet mighty. I read this in one sitting an easy read, while being incredibly impactful. Small Things Like These is not an action-filled book, but rather driven by narrative and development of the main character and the beautifully and very deliberately crafted writing. Set in a small village in Ireland in the mid-1980s, it not only is picturesque and filled with vivid imagery, but also highlights the struggles in the late twentieth century that many women and children faced at the hands of the the Catholic Church. (While not being particularly ‘in your face’ - it is a very accessible presentation.)

Keegan’s writing is very thought-provoking and makes you ask yourself questions you may not have once thought important. The description reads like poetry, and presents the most intricately detailed landscape of the town, New Ross. An integral part to the story is that of the main character being a good person, and showing how simple actions can truly help another. One of my favourite books to date, this book is phenomenal. By Eliza Evans

Reading Recommendations fr

Mrs McCurdy

Ms Adamson

Mrs Gardner

Ms Gough

om the English Department

Mrs Gardner

Ms Bergman

Ms Adamson

Ms Stuart

Storymakers

Issue 5

January 2024

Please be aware that the book recommendations are made by KS4 and KS5 pupils and as such may not be suitable for younger years. All images are used with the permission of the owner and, unless credited, are sourced from free stock photography. All stories, poems, and other writing within are the intellectual property of the stated author and should not be used or reproduced for any purpose without permission.