THE GOULDSTONE PRIZE 2025
Published Summer 2025
The
Gouldstone Prize 2025
An anthology of winning entries
Foreword
It’s been another excellent year for our annual St Chris Creative Writing Competition. Once again, our students have amazed us with their imagination, talent, and dedication. This year ’ s entries – spanning four categories: I & II Group Short Fiction, III & IV Group Short Fiction, Poetry, and Non-Fiction –showcase not only a deep love for language and storytelling, but also a powerful sense of voice and originality.
The quality of the work submitted has been outstanding. From thought-provoking essays and vivid poems to gripping short stories, each piece in this anthology reflects the hard work, courage, and creativity of our young writers. Their ability to express complex ideas, emotions, and perspectives through the written word is truly inspiring.
This e-book is a celebration of that creativity. We are proud to share these pieces with our wider community, and we hope you enjoy reading them as much as we have.
Congratulations to all our writers – your words matter, and your voices deserve to be heard.
Contents
Gouldstone Prize Winner 2025 - Page 1-5
Matthew Margolius - II Group
I & II Group Short Story - Page 6-24
1st - Beatrix Rabinowitz - I Group
2nd - Sofia Petersen - I Group
3rd - Adam Jannaty - II Group
III & IV Group Short Story - Page 25-45
1st - Ladina Ruether - IV Group
2nd - Ben Gaze - IV Group
Joint 3rd - Alessia Amadei - III Group
Joint 3rd - Emily Carter - III Group
I-IV Group Poetry - Page 46-53
1st - El Benn - III Group
2nd - Max Nyquist - IV Group
3rd - Enya McCarthy - IV Group
I-IV Group Non- Fiction - Page 54-60
1st - Ariola Shonekan - IV Group
2nd - Sophie Pascanu - II Group
3rd - Charlotte Wailes - IV Group
‘Noir
Gouldstone Prize Winner
’ , by Matthew Margolius- II Group
The steam train was bustling with all sorts of people, and my flask was empty, so I was prepared for an uneasy half-hour trip to the station. It was difficult to ignore my craving for water, but I had to do what was necessary. I could wait. In confined spaces such as that train, fresh air was seldom. But I could wait. It was blatant that smokers and the sick were packed on there, because the stench made my nose wrinkle. But I could wait. Patience was of the essence. After all, I’d waited eight years to be free of my pursuers: and I hadn't lost them yet.
The floors and metals were stained with God knows what, leaving some patches of red a pale brown. I turned my gaze to outside the window; a sign stated that we had entered New York. It wasn't far. I thought I had lost my former co-workers back in Kentucky. But time travel is perilous. I used it to create a normal life in the 1900s, in a futile attempt to run away from my past, to desert it once and for all. But the past, or, technically, the future, has a funny way of catching up to you.
“Alright, we ’ re at our next stop, ladies and gentlemen, New York.”
The grimy and rusty train doors creaked open as the elderly lady in front of me pushed them forward. Picking up my suitcase, I strode out into the open, eyes peeled. All I then concentrated on was the familiar city odour of billowing smoke and strong black coffee, however the sound of squeaking shoes reverberating around the station halls was almost impossible to ignore. As I continued onwards, a ringing noise filled my head, muffled and subtle. A blazing white light blocked my field of vision, instantly making me realise that I had not lost them. They had found me.
Once I heard a gunshot, I knew my theory was correct. My nerves, as usual, got the better of me. Panic rising in my body, I swivelled around and ran for my life. The seven men in suits I knew so well were scanning the room for me. But the chaos had already ensued. People were screaming, crying, sprinting. I thought I was home free.
I always managed to underestimate them, despite knowing what they were capable of. A fatal error. I began to feel a writhing pain in my left calf as a bullet pierced the muscle. The cold and harsh feeling of absolute and utter fear seemed to take over my body. I was somehow able to bury the indescribable pain as I crawled my way to the exit of the station and the entrance to the city.
My desire outweighed my sense. It was imperative that I made it. They’d kill me. I knew they would. It was a certainty rather than a likelihood. I knew their secrets. The things they had done – we had done. My mother would roll in her grave if she knew what I had become: a pathetic coward, with a life of running, too scared to face his destiny.
I used a ledge to pull myself up. I had never been so happy to see the Big Apple. “TAXI! TAXI!” I screamed, desperate for a chance at survival and preservation. It fortunately didn't take long for a taxi to pull up beside me. Relieved, I took a deep breath and climbed in, finally succumbing to my pain. Wincing, I sat down as quickly as my body would allow me to.
“Where would you like to go, sir?” the taxi driver, a short, bald man, asked me.
“Anywhere. Anywhere but here. They found me. ”
Hitting the accelerator, the driver heeded my request. Lady Luck was on my side. The business and noisiness of New York City allowed me to escape undetected. Looking back, I saw the men had finally exited the station, filled with rage and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.
“Mrs. Whitworth?” questioned a sheepish and timid voice
“What?”
“Gonzalez, he-”
“Escaped?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“No buts,” she retorted, “I want him dead. I need him dead. Bring me his head by Friday.”
“Yes, ma ’ am. Sorry, ma ’ am. ”
I was in Texas. The taxi driver dropped me off at some sort of barn, and I tipped him for the extra journey. The barn looked like it had been uninhabited for a while, so I hoped to have the place for myself. This was the perfect place to lay low, to stay hidden. I opened the barn door, praying for it to be empty. I halted instantaneously as I discovered it wasn't. All seven men were there. But they laid still in a large pool of blood. Standing on top of them was the one woman I had hoped to never see again as long as Death himself darkened my doorstep. They called her the Queen of the Shadows. The bounty hunter. Mrs. Whitworth.
“Here we are once again, Gonzalez.” I gulped, frozen with pure terror. The life left my eyes. The spring left my step. The hope left my heart. This day was the day I’d die. All that running . . . just to reunite with my mother.
‘Gifted’ ,
I & II Group Short Fiction
by Bea Rabinowitz- I Group
It was unusual for Julia to wake up early. Usually, the late nights working at the factory made her so exhausted, it was all she could do to drag her legs out of bed when morning came. But today was different, she didn't quite know why, but somewhere in her subconscious, Julia was sure today was special.
The bell rang, the shrill piercing shriek like a tortured cat split the air in two, signalling the beginning of the day. All thoughts were driven out of Julia’s head, but she refused to let the siren dampen her joy. She breathed. In for a count of four, out for a count of six; imagine yourself in a happy place, with all the doubts and worries floating away. Now get out of bed.
She threw on some clothes (a green turtleneck today, with navy trousers that were only a bit patched and frayed), gobbled down some breakfast and dragged Maria out of bed. As usual, her roommate refused to look on the bright side, insisting on complaining about the weather, the state of the dormitory and some nonsense about truth. But soon they wer and joined the rush of people crowding to get t
Once at the factory, the two friends took their places at the Grinder and started placing chunks of steel in the tray ready to be pressed. It was laborious work, but Julia tried to take her mind off it by imagining her new baby. She had been saving for months so that when he was born, he could have the computer chip implantation that could alter his DNA, giving him the gift of one enhanced sense. Julia wondered what it could be, enhanced strength maybe, or the ability to see infrared light! Anyway, it didn’t matter, what did matter was that as one of the Gifted he would be promoted and able to live in the Upper city. Once there he would be using his power for good and living in a palace and eating ginormous banquets and, and . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure what, but it was going to be amazing! She smiled at the idea and went back to carrying metal.
That was when the first odd thing happened. Maria had been acting funny, looking over her shoulder and dropping every second steel plate she grabbed. Julia was about to ask her friend what the matter was when a commotion arose among the other workers.
“Hey, look over there!” someone called.
“What do you think he’s doing here?” another muttered.
“What do you think happened?” Maria asked. “I hope someone fell in the Mixer. At least that would give us something to talk about.” It was a joke but something in her voice sounded off. “Let’s go check, surely no one would notice us if we just go for a look!”
This startled Julia considerably. “What, abandon our post? What if the Grinder gets jammed? Or runs out of fuel? Or needs oil? And this is definitely not allowed!”
But Maria was obstinate and soon the pair were able to see what the commotion was about.
“A Gifted!” cried Maria. “My goodness!”
“But . . . but . . . but why would a gifted be down here in the Lowercity?” blurted Julia staring at the tall man with the cyan suit.
The man in question was talking to the supervisor, but as if he had heard her question, he turned and gazed across the crowd of assembled workers. Julia was just able to make out the tiny details, how his fingernails were perfectly manicured, unlike her filthy, ragged ones, and how his eyes were a milky white with pinprick pupils, before he reached out a hand and pointed, with one gnarled old finger, directly at Maria.
That evening, Julia lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. What had happened today? She still didn’t quite know. She had questioned Maria, oh yes, she had asked her about it all the way home but not a word did she get in reply. She glanced over at her friend who was making hot chocolate at the kitchenette. Maria saw her watching and quickly turned away.
When the hot chocolate was ready, the pair sat together on the futon to drink. Julia loved chocolate but it was expensive and if the supervisors saw it, it would be confiscated for being “ a distraction” and causing the workers to “shun their duties”.
Julia hated breaking rules, so she only drank it in emergencies.
Oh, well, might as well give it another shot. “So, are you ready to talk about what happened today?”
Maria took on an unnamable expression. “Julia, I, I have to tell you something.”
“If it’s about the secret stash of books under your bed, I already know about that.” Julia tried to lighten the mood. But her friend still looked stony faced.
“No, it’s not about that. Do you ever feel regretful, like your life’s not all it could have been?”
Julia blinked “Um, no? Why would I? My life’s g
“Is it though? Think about your baby. Wouldn’t it be nice to know who his father is? Or to get to do something other than work in a stuffy factory all day and night?” Maria was getting agitated now, she had gotten off the bed and was pacing up and down the room. “We slave away, hand and foot, but we never get a thank you! Wouldn't you like that to change?”
“What are you talking about? The Gifted protect us, stop talking about them like they’re monsters!”
“But they are. ”
This startled Julia so much she was dumbstruck for a second. What was wrong with her dorm-mate? Was she ill? In shock from the event in the factory?
“You still don't know, do you?” Maria’s expression was resigned and she looked more tired than ever. “It’s the chip, the one implanted in their neck, the one that gives them their abilities. It, it controls them. You think being a Gifted is a sacred thing. That it is to be valued and cherished. But, well, it allows their very will to be bent and for the scientists who gave them the power - the freedom - to take it away again, and use it all for themselves.”
Julia opened her mouth. What she was about to say was, Maria, that is utter nonsense. You are not feeling well, and I think you should lie down and finish your cocoa. But before she could get a word in, there was a noise.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
“What was that?” Julia asked.
“Oh no! I thought we’d have more time!” Maria looked stricken.
“You have to listen to me. There’s a group, a rebellion camp who are trying to overthrow the gifted. You must get this to them.”
She pulled a small package out of the cabinet and stuffed it into Julia’s hands before she could examine it properly.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Whoever was at the door was getting more insistent, hammering on the door like thunder in a rainstorm.
“What? But I don't-”
“The group is called the Truthtakers and they usually live outside the city walls, but you can find a scout at the end of Cemetery Lane. Now hide.” With one deft movement Maria grabbed Julia and shoved her under the futon.
Soon all she could see was the darkness of blankets and her friend’s bare feet.
The knocking came again, and this time Maria answered it. Julia had trouble making out what said, but it went something like this:
Maria - “Who is it, I was fast asleep?”
Unknown - “This is a regulation search, and we are afraid you must come with us. ”
Maria - “In the middle of the night? Can't it wait until morning?”
Unknown - “This is an emergency, please come with us. ”
Maria - “But I”
Then there were sounds of a scuffle, a thud; someone tripping, a yell. Then the door slammed shut. And Maria was gone.
It was unusual for Julia to wake up early. Usually, the late nights working at the factory made her so exhausted, it was all she could do to drag her legs out of bed when morning came. But today was different, because everything had changed The bell rang, a siren’s wail slicing through the signalling that the day had begun.
Groaning, Julia dragged herself out from under the bed, where she had slept the night and looked around the dormitory. Filthy foot prints dirtied the room, a mug of cocoa lay strewn across the floor, the bed where Maria usually slept was cold and empty. What should she do now? The package that her friend had given her was digging into her leg, so she pulled it out. It was a book, a small leather book wrapped in blue cloth. The inside had drawings of some kind, but they looked unusual. A map, maybe? Whatever it was, it had been important to Maria, and she owed it to her friend to keep it safe. Where did she say to go . . .They usually live outside the city walls, but you can find a scout at the end of Cemetery Lane. “Ok,” said Julia, “I guess I'm going to Cemetery Lane.”
She put on the same green jumper as yesterday with another pair of denim jeans and grey sneakers. Instead of eating breakfast (her stomach was too tied up in knots), she stuffed the few worldly goods she owned into a satchel. These consisted of a comb, a change of clothes, her petty savings and the carved wooden lion Maria had given her last year. Slipping out of the door, she exited into the throngs of people.
“Cemetery lane, Cemetery lane,” mumbled Julia. It was harder to find the road than she’d thought. Trying to avoid watchful eyes and inquisitive questions was hard enough, but in these abysmal alleys, thugs and pickpockets lurked around every corner and if she was not careful, she could be with a knife at her throat in three seconds flat.
Finally, she found the street she was looking for, but, well, it didn’t look like there was a secret rebellion hiding in a corner. It was a small skinny alley, a couple of garbage bins in one corner, one of them cracked and spilling mouldy apples and plastic bags onto the sooty pavings. A drainage gutter dripped some kind of green ooze that definitely looked poisonous, and a rat skulked in a corner. What now?
Then a door to Julia's right banged open and a withered old man stood framed in the doorway.
“Ye ain’t Maria!” he muttered, “what are ye doing back ‘ere?”
“Maria told me to come here.” Julia stuttered. Why did this random person know her roommate?
The man studied her “but . . . why did’n’ she come ‘erself?”
“Some people came and took her. They said it was an emergency. Who are you?”
“That ain’t important.” the sulky man croaked “if Maria’s not ‘ ere then ye should probably come inside.”
Hesitantly, Julia followed him inside to a small, comfy sitting room where a group of the oddest people she had ever seen were gathered.
“Ahh . . . ” said a tall dark woman in a faded orange turban. “I assume Maria will not be joining us, then.”
The man who had answered the door coughed, “Not as such. Apparently, she was taken.”
“Oh, dear. Poor girl. What of the package, do you know if it was recovered?” The question was not directed at Julia, but she considered what was said. The package.
“Um, is this it?” asked Julia, holding out the bundle Maria had given her. “I was supposed to give it to you. ”
Julia heard a sharp intake of breath, “It is!” exclaimed the tall woman. “This is exactly what we need!”
“What is it? Who are you? Why do you need it?” Julia was so full of questions, she hardly knew what to say.
“We are the Truthtakers, and my name is Quinn Parkley. And this book? Well, this book is very important. It is a book that Maria and a few other agents have been working on, and contains maps to the entire Lowercity, the buildings, the sewer system, all of it. We’ve been planning a city-wide evacuation for years, and this book is the key to it.”
Another member spoke up, “ we can't hang aro much longer, someone will notice!”
“You are right, we must leave.” Quinn stood and started ushering everyone else.
Julia panicked, what about her? She couldn't go back to work at the factory, not after she knew about the Gifted! And she was going to give birth soon, she had already signed up for her son to get the implant, was her son to become a mindless zombie like all the others in the Uppercity? “Wait!” she blurted. “What about me?”
Quinn watched her for a long time. “Well, you made it this far. You delivered the book. Why not come with us?”
A YEAR LATER
It was unusual for Julia to wake up early. Usually, the late nights studying and learning how to live in a forest made her so exhausted, it was all she could do to drag her legs out of bed when morning came. But today was different.
Julia opened her eyes to the sound of laughter. It was Koji, his round face peeking over the edge of his cot. On seeing her, he shrieked with delight, clapping his tiny fists together.
Giggling, she scooped up her son and got dressed. Today, she wore red cargo pants and an extra-large hoodie. After making breakfast for herself and Koji, she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the house. Once outside, she looked around, still able to wonder at how blue the sky was, how green the trees. Twenty feet up in the air, all the houses were perched in the trees, and even with all the refugees from the city that had escaped with the help of the Truthtakers there was still enough food to go round.
There were still people to rescue, the Gifted were still under control, but for once things seemed to be going their way. There were plans for another mass rescue mission, and Julia had a lead on where Maria had been taken. Things were all right.
I & II Group Short Fiction
‘
Glossia’ , by Sophia Peterson- I Group
Every street in Glossia bloomed with colour, and every bird sang a tune. It was filled with endless mirrors, nail salons and countless makeup shops. Everyone in Glossia was obsessed with one singular, flawless kind of beauty, a standard with which Ellie did not meet making every day a struggle. Her skin was clear though did not sparkle, and her lips were not as plump and as glossy as the rest of the city. She felt like she was an un-photo-shopped image in a world of filters.
Ellie walked through the glittering streets trying to ignore all the looks and and whispers which made her want to disappear, when suddenly a small, crumpled scrap of paper caught her eye. The letters were smudged and almost illegible from the rain. Ellie could just about make out a number and the words “leave Glossia.” Her eyes widened, was it just a trick or was it an actual way out? Nonetheless, she decided to take the note, knowing she would regret it if she did not.
Ellie hurried back home feeling real excitement for the first time in what seemed like forever. Could she fin cruel place? When she finally reached home El y searched for her phone, and began to put the number in.
Her heart hammered fast with both excitement and fear at the same time. Then, there was a small hum and someone picked up.
“Hello, are you Ellie?” A croaky voice asked.
She replied shortly after with “Yes.” Her voice was filled with uncertainty wondering how they had known her name.
“Good. Meet me tomorrow at 12 outside Sunset Salon.” The voice told her before hanging up.
Ellie was both terrified and confused, how had they known her name? She wondered if it would be a bad idea to meet them, but it was too late now; she would have to go.
The sun came up, it was a new day, the day that would be either the worst, or the best day of Ellie’s life. The morning felt like an entire year, each tick of the clock made Ellie feel even more nervous than before. She was eating her usual breakfast which was supposed to make her skin glow when she heard the familiar sound of her alarm, it was 11:30. Ellie began to head out out of her apartment and began her journey sunset salon, she tried her best to keep her head down as she walked along the sparkling streets when finally, at last, she had reached Sunset Salon.
Ellie spotted a discreet bench tucked away in the corner and decided to wait there for awhile, and at precisely 12:00 a figure emerged from an alleyway, she looked nothing like how Ellie had pictured. She was an old woman with grey hair, genuine wrinkles and did not wear eye catching shiny clothes, instead only plain and dull fabrics.
The woman slowly approached Ellie. “Hello, my name is Matilda, and I used to work for the government before… well, before they decided ‘natural’ was a disease, many people like you, want to get out of here which is why I wrote that note,” Matilda croaked.
“How… How can I get out?” Ellie stuttered, the nerves getting to her.
“Take this, it is a small USB that contains a map to a way out,” Matilda whispered, handing her the USB before leaving back down the alleyway and into the darkness.
Ellie’s mind raced she would have to leave everything she would have to leave everything she knew behind, just the thought of it terrified her, though another day in Glossia was even worse, so with a little hesitation she plugged the USB into her phone and a picture of a map popped up on the screen. It went towards the east of Glossia until it stopped at Celestia Drive.
She decided she would wait until night before she began the journey. Finally, the sun set, and Ellie clenched her phone in one hand and her suitcase in the other. Her heart pounded heavily sounding like a drum and started to head off. The city’s hum felt different to how it had before, no longer a blanket, more a restrictive net. She carefully followed the directions on her phone and after a few hours of constant walking, aching legs and almost falling asleep she was about to stop when she noticed a wooden sign in the corner of her eye which read ‘Celestial Drive.’ Ellie stared in disbelief; she could not believe it! She had finally made it, what now?
Taking a deep breath, Ellie squeezed through a small gap in the fence. The air felt different it was much colder and wilder in fact it was all so different to what she knew, the ground was uneven, covered in real grass, not fake or artificial, then she looked back one last time at the shining, glittering view of Glossia, and then turned. Ahead, into the real darkness and took her first step into the unknown.
I & II Group Short Fiction
‘Untitled’ , by Adam Jannaty- II Group
Light flooded in through the grand windows like a spotlight searching for someone below. Shadows ruled the areas no light could touch. A monochrome hall built on greys and blacks. The station was so huge it seemed like a waste of space. It could be 10 stories high, yet only had one floor with exists leading to the platforms. Tall brick pillars and the hard wood floor made this place cold and unforgiving, even in the sun ’ s rays. The room was empty and that is all it needed to be, a place of transport. This was never meant to be the destination but it was.
The man stepped out into the station, overwhelmed by its complexity. He walked with a limp, growling with every step. Blood dripped from his ankle but nobody seemed to notice. Hundreds of mobile figures felt like five in a room so big; only focusing on their own business and so ignoring the injured man. Just like he wanted.
As he walked he felt the rock like wood beneath his feet, he heard the rapid rattling of a train leaving as ant-like people swarmed out of a platform. He ventured over to a newspaper stand and peered at the date shown on the black and white paper. 13 of July 1916. The mysterious figure started to shuffle along again, avoiding the harsh light staring down at him.
He noticed a fountain and had deemed it calming in this depressed land. Focusing on the movement of the water and the peaceful, natural splash it made loosened his shoulder for the first time in years. No more was he bothered by the pains outside and in but determined to finish what he came for.
Tossing a silver coin into the endless waves, he wished. Now the world was not so black and white.
Murmurs and laughter travelled wide spread across the crowd of bustling people. While still gloomy, some people started to migrate into the light. This time was not so perfect but it was better than his home.
Smoke filled his lungs, however, and the stench of coal and oil remained polluted in the air. Most people still kept to the shadows of the looming room surrounded entirely by darkness, darkness that the man had brought with him.
He spotted a father among the crowd with his two daughters drowning in their own tears as they placed a plaque upon a bench in memory of a loved one. An old man fell upon his knees in agony but not one person seemed to care. A child screaming as they were being trampled by a surge of darkened lives who were late for work. Yet it still better than his home.
The man could taste the blood of his cut tongue and it reminded him of the place he came from. A place of war and debris; a place of starvation and thirst. The world has gotten worse from terrible.
He hobbled to a large arching window at the end of the hall, stared blankly into the light that was trying so hard to break into this station on darkness, and sighed a deep, deep sigh. It was no better out there than it was in here. Still a land of misery and pain. This was not the time but when would be. He turned back and headed for the machine. Once again having to pass by the horror, but he was used to it. Once he got back from the other side he stepped back into his contraption, glancing back at the sombre room. He ventured out once more. This was his last chance for a home.
III & IV Group Short Fiction
‘Untitled’ , by Ladina Ruether - IV Group
It was a calm Sunday afternoon, or so I thought. I had just pegged up the last shirt on the washing line when I heard it. The sound. The sound that confirmed your fears. The sound that you’d heard a thousand times before, yet the feeling of dread rose from the dead each time. I thought to myself it couldn’t be, it was suspected to be clear and sunny that day. It wasn’t even the season for it, yet before I could continue, my spiralling thoughts were disrupted by my dad shouting up the driveway. “What are you doing? We’ve got to get the animals.” I trudged up and put my boots on. The clouds had already started to form. We had only an hour until our whole town would’ve fled. Good reason, you don’t want to be here when it arrives. My Dad’s face was pale and looked tense.
“It’s a category Five, Alice.”
We both knew what that meant. We hastily scoured the house for anything valuable. Dad brought the box down, filled with sentimental things: baby photos, awards and the last picture he had of the wedding. It used to be fuller, but ove lost boxes.
I never really understood my father’s need to take them. They were just reminders of a past. A past where I had two parents and a brother. A past that was exactly that, a past.
I took the keys for the truck and we packed everything up, a week’s worth of food, clothes, teddies … We drove to the barn, trees and rows of fields left behind us. The branches were stretched out wide like the arms of figures who were stuck in time. The dirt sprayed up onto the wheels in the desperation of fleeing. The sky crackled with thunder, a ceiling of dark clouds loomed over us in anticipation of what was to come, smirking at our feeble attempt to leave.
A flash on the horizon took our attention and we leaned into the windscreen. The air and gusts of wind were twisting round in the sky. The tornado looked like it wasn’t moving, but it was coming towards us. My dad sped up, we had to get to low ground. A ditch in the field was all we needed. It came closer, the sky scrunching into a spiral. We were reaching ninety miles an hour, the crops screaming underneath us as we drove through the farmer’s field. It was relentless and just before it crept up to us, I blacked out.
III & IV Group Short Fiction
‘
Anti-Cluedo’ ,
by Ben Gaze- IV Group
Imagine you are sitting in the apartment of a recently deceased man. There are fifteen others, all eager to know what happened. You can hear the sound of water slowly dripping out of the tap and into the sink, the pipes groaning and the family grieving. The paint on the walls is flaky and browned underneath, like an old derelict cottage in the middle of a woods. But what catches your eye the most is a deep red blood splatter across the four poster bed. You stare at it for six long minutes, not blinking once in fear that if you do you won't ever forget it. The air goes still and cold, as if a ghost has come in through the door. All the sounds stop, it's eerily quiet. He begins to speak. Your gaze widens. The story begins.
“On the 20th of June, 1697 a man was stabbed sixteen times through his back, mangling several of his vital organs. His name was James Peterson. Over the past few months my team and I have been trying to understand how this all came to be. We now know how it was done, what the motive was and most importantly who ‘done’ it. In a few moments I will arrest the person responsible. They will spend the rest of prison, never to see the light of day again.
But first we must travel back to the beginning, to the very beginning, years before the murderer was alive. We will travel back to the 19th of May, 1576.
It was a dark and gloomy night. Lady Orventine had just finished her supper when she heard a clatter from the drawing room. The butler, George, had spilled something all over the deep oak floor and into the fire. Her dog Geranti’s ashes had been broken, disrespected and thrown. You see Geranti was Lady Orventine’s last companion in life. Her husband had left for the battle of Dunbar many years ago, never to return and her only son had died at a very young age. Now she had reached the grand age of 52, with her next birthday fast approaching. Death yearned for her too. As soon as Lady Orventine saw what had happened to Geranti, she burst into a fit of rage, shooting the butler through the head with her late husband's rifle, splattering brains all over the opposing wall.
Lady Orventine didn't make it through that night, dying from extreme stress of the brain at three minutes to four in the morning. This meant that she was never punished for her reckless actions. Since she hadn’t any close family, no one would ever was held responsible, much to the abhorrence of the good butler George’s family.
This case was never heard of again until the late summer of 1593.
Lady and Lord Orventine had born a child only two years before the war. Unfortunately, tuberculosis caught up with the tiny heir only two weeks into his meagre life. The baby died six days later, causing the pair to go into deep mourning.
Unbeknownst to the family, when the baby was born there had been a mix up at the hospital, with a very similar looking child that had been given exactly the same name. This meant that Lady Orventine’s actual son Friedrich was still alive and living with a family not six miles from her grand estate.
Twenty years after Lady Orventine died, Friedrich went to an auction at the estate, where a selection of items were sold, one being a portrait of Lord Orventine, who looked remarkably similar to Friedrich. Tucked into the back of the frame, rather conveniently, was Friedrich’s birth certificate. Since the portrait had looked so eerily familiar to Friedrich, he decided to buy it. Later that day Friedrich inspected the birth certificate and it was clear that the certificate was his. As soon as he found out, he claimed his title and news articles were written and published in papers all over Britain about the great scandal.
Of course, news of this extraordinary event reached the murdered George’s family and they were furious; so much so that they drove their carriage straight to the police and asked for him to be arrested, right that very second. Nevertheless, nothing could be done, since Friedrich had nothing to do with the murder. This answer drove George’s family to madness, causing his youngest son to shoot him whilst he was on his way to the bank to collect his inherited fortune.
Eventually the whole ordeal was forgotten to time, only vaguely remembered deep within a great tale full of death, deception and deceit written by one of Britain's most famous writers. The story, moulded by the playwright, developed and became more commonly known as Romeo and Juliet. Created from the concept of how the two families could feud over miniscule actions, to the whole ordeal being started by such an insignificant accident.
No one would ever have thought much of the story, unless a historian known as Gerald Krief had found a clipping of the newspaper article sent out by Friedrich, in the diary of a young boy living in Suffolk over two hundred years later. This historian had many friends and colleagues who he would tell about his findings. Unfortunately, one of his less sober friends felt it was his duty to avenge the family of George.
This friend spent days and days searching through many records of births, marriages and deaths, until he stumbled upon the birth certificate of James Peterson, the great, great grandson of Friedrich’s daughter. He was living in Suffolk at the time. He then caught a train from London to Ipswich and walked to the window of his apartment, under the cover of night. He climbed up that gutter and in through this window, walked past the kitchen, picking up this carving knife on his way, pulled open the shutters of that bed and stabbed poor Mister Peterson sixteen times in the back; creating this rather impressive blood splatter.”
The inspector then started to pace slowly from one side of the room to the other, eyeing each individual, one by one.
“Someone here killed James Peterson that night, but who was it?” Every person had the same expression of fear, smothered across their faces, as if they were doubting they weren't the ones who did it. But there was one person who was free from this guilt, a man known a Jeffery Frucht, well known for his weak case of schizophrenia. Unfortunately, this caused him to think he met a fortune telling woman who told him that he was related to George’s family and therefore had to finish what was started all those years ago.
The inspector then stopped pacing and looked into Jeffery’s eyes. “You don’t seem scared, why?”. Jeffery looked straight back at the inspector and said, “ you know it was me, you ’ ve known all along, but let me tell you something. I'd kill that man a hundred times over to keep my ancestors happy, because what you don’t know is that they’ll never be happy, never be satisfied, never be loved again until they avenge their dead. They’ll never walk this earth again, so why not try to finish what they started all those years ago. ” A police officer then cuffed Jeffery’s arms behind his back, escorted him down the stairs and into a police cart, never to be seen or heard from again. This is what would usually be the end of the story, when I stop talking and you put down the book, but this is not like any other story you ’ ve read. Unfortunately there is no telling if there will be another crazy person who will try to avenge James Peterson. I ask you to keep this between us, not to tell a single soul, because for all I know, it could be the death to us all.
III & IV Group Short Fiction
‘The Day I Discovered Another World’, by Alessia
Amadei- III Group
Blue jeans, pink tank tops and Birkins. This is it. This is who I'm meant to be; in the tight dressing room of the store on the beach front, blinded by fluorescent lights, squeezed between two blonde girls like I'm the lead singer of a girl group called (Polly and the Dalettes), or something corny like that. We're trying on some pink shorts. Mom would kill me if I went outside in them and they're so tight I can feel my blood circulation being cut off (sizing up would be too mortifying to consider) but none of that matters right now because for once, people like me. Actual real people. I was technically born in Dehli, but I've lived in LA for thirteen years, so it doesn't really count any more. Even mom's losing her accent. The girl to my right, Riley, is my best friend. She taught me how to dress, how to use a straightener, where to hang out. Her mom drives us home, two striped shopping bags between our knees.
When I was young, I wasn't liked like I am now, but I worked hard, to be like Riley and the other girls, to erase my individuality.
Before bed should be ‘ me time', according Riley. To put on facemasks and slippers and fancy creams. Mom's skinbleaching cream is still on the bathroom counter, gifted to her by my grandmother for her wedding. It's thick and pink, and sticks to my fingers like butter. I put a little on my forehead, under my eyes, on my chin. ‘Works like a charm', according to mom.
My bedsheets are fresh and cold. They had been owl-patterned and pink, until a month ago when I'd forced my parents to buy some plain white ones, leaving any shreds of childhood behind. I shut my eyes.
I wake up the next morning, and crawl out of bed. The house is quiet. I open my blinds to a pink sky. Not sunset pink, cotton candy pink, almost familiar, but just off, too cool a tone to be safe. The floor creaks a little more than usual as I drag myself to the bathroom. I look in the mirror. Red patches on my chin, my forehead, under my eyes. I lift my fingers to touch the raw skin, and it begins to peel, melt away, uncovering burning flesh underneath it, bleeding down my fingers.
I wake up; panting, sweating. I touch a single apprehensive finger to my forehead. No blood, just cotton candy pink cream. My bedroom door opens, my mother’s face peering through the gap.
"Cici?" she whispers.
I've been told I look just like my mother when she was young. Black, shoulder-length hair and chocolate skin, although I've always looked less elegant then she did: chubbier cheeks, wider eyes. She's dainty, sophisticated, delicate. "Morning mom," I murmur, swinging my legs out of bed.
The next night is like the first. I think I'm waking up, pulled into a false sense of safety, until the sky above me turns rosy. This time I don't wake up so quickly. Downstairs, it's all the same once again, besides the hazy light flooding through the windows. I take an apple from the fruit bowl and bite it. The flesh is orange, and crumbles under my teeth. It's almost regular, the skin is familiar, and when I squeeze it, it's firm, as it should be, but beyond the skin is something alien. Unease grows in my stomach, down to tingling, and then burning that swells in my stomach –
I wake up.
The faint buzzing of voices comes from downstairs. It's my grandmother, and two cousins.
I'd forgotten. My hair is unbrushed, my clothes far too western for my grandmother’s approval. The calendar hangs next to me tauntingly: "10th of June: family to come over!" I enter the living room. "Cia!"
It’s my cousins, my grandmother watching from her armchair. Her accent is thick, never having learned English entirely. As a young child, I spoke to her fluently, Indian coming to me with the same ease as English, but lack of practice has allowed me to lose that fluency. Words are jumbled in my head, coming out in broken sentences, dusty and foreign. My cousins translate for me, but after an hour I leave my grandmother to talk to her daughter, saving myself the embarrassment of having forgotten my own language stumbling through more forgotten sentences.
Eventually, my family leaves after dinner . My mother is sat on her armchair, eyes shut, with that look on her face she gets after work, or when I'm being 'difficult’. Leaving her alone seems right, so I wander to my room. In the bathroom, I rinse my mouth out with mouthwash and water, scrubbing away spices and rice, saving myself from jokes from Riley. The skin bleaching cream sits on the counter top.
I reapply it to my forehead, under my eyes, my chin, covering the darkness I inherited from mom. I slip off my pink shorts and store them in a drawer, covering old clothes.
I dream again, of my bed, my house, with pink skies. This time, however, I'm not alone. Downstairs, is a small child, sat on the lap of a woman I do not recognise. The woman is wrinkled, with kind eyes and mahogany skin. She is saying something, words that sound real, but that I can't decipher. They're sat by my fireplace, laughing, smiling. My mouth feels tight, my lips heavy. I can't speak. The child looks at me. Its eyes feel familiar, a deep brown, almost soot. I know I've been somewhere. I try to force my mouth open, but it's stubborn, sewn shut. The girl raises her hand gingerly to touch my arm, but where her fragile fingers touch begins to burn once again. I tear my arm away, running up the stairs to the mirror. My face is red, peeling away in layers. My clothes are tearing, revealing cracked skin underneath, speckles of light glimmering through the cracks.
My pink face keeps peeling, falling to the floor like the shed of a reptile. Where my mask of skin cream, foundation, concealer, peel away, a light shines through. It burns like a lamp left on for hours, forces its way out like a landslide, until all of me is glowing. The child appears at the bathroom door, smiling a smile I know all too well. My grandmother, still young and naive. She squints her eyes at my light, but smiles.
My eyes finally open. I move my lips a few times, more like usual. My room is still dark. My skin is perfectly intact. I crawl out of my bed, and wash the pink cream down the sink, place my shorts aside, and lay out my mother’s old skirt on the floor. It's a small step but good enough for now. The rest of my light will wait for the day I accept it .
III & IV Group Short Fiction Joint
‘
Someone Else’s Shoes’ , by Emily Carter- III Group
The rain didn't wash her clean. It just made her quieter. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and her socks were soaked through. She walked slowly, not because she was tired, but because being in a hurry meant she had somewhere to be. She didn’t. The city blurred around her. Grey buildings slumped under greyer skies. At a crossing, she stopped - not for traffic, just out of habit. Then she stepped off the curb and kept going. A narrow side alley found her, one of those alleys that seem to find you. The noise faded away, swallowed by wet brick and flickering neon signs.
That’s when she saw it…
Between a closed newsagent and an old storage unit. Windows glowed, foggy at the edges. No posters, no music, just shoes. Hundreds of them, lined up, stacked, hanging like windchimes. Above the door, faded hand-painted letters read:
“Try them on. ”
Her fingers touched the door. It swung open before she could push. Warmth hit her first, then the smells, old leather and damp wood, but in a good way. The shop stretched wide, wider than it should. Shoes everywhere, boots with frayed laces, heels with mirrors on, sandals carded like animals and trainers with names she couldn’t read. Some worn, and some shiny and new. Behind the counter stood someone. Their face was hidden in shadow; their voice was neither young or old.
“You can try any of them,” they whispered. Continuing but louder now, “But if they’re not yours, you have to return them.”
She said nothing, her eyes moving form shoe to shoe. The shopkeeper didn’t blink. She was tired of walking. Tired of her shoes. She reached for a pair of thin-soled, worn and patched. One lace tied too tight, one too loose. She turned them over in her hands, sat down and slipped her feet in.
The world didn’t spin - it clicked.
Heat. Thick and still. A narrow alley between crumbling walls. Something burned far away. He crouched low, one arm across a trembling girl. She looked six years old, with a small ribbon in her hair. He scanned the streets. Empty, for now. The soldiers had passed an hour ago, maybe less.
She tugged his sleeve and whispered, “Is it safe?”
He didn’t answer, just nodded. That was what she needed, not the truth. They moved. Half a block. Then another. He kept her close but avoided her eyes. The checkpoint loomed ahead. He didn’t know who was at the gate this time. He took her hand, her fingers curled into his. He didn’t feel brave.
The shoes came off like strings pulled inside her.
Back in the shop. The shopkeeper dusted a high shelf, like nothing had happened. The shoes still look like they were moving.
“I didn’t even get to know his name, ” she said softly.
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one, ” countered the shopkeeper.
She didn’t want to try another. Her hands still remembered the heat and the weight of fear, but the shop didn’t wait. Neither did the shoes. Her eyes caught a pair of simple black flats - the kind your grandma might wear. She didn’t choose them. She just found herself sitting, finger brushing over smooth leather, sliding her feet in.
She was in a kitchen.
Old, muted wallpaper, a radio murmuring the news. The smell of tea and burned toast. Hands, old, with veins like rivers. A back that ached, not sharply but enough. The phone hadn’t rung in weeks. The calendar was a month behind. She hummed without thinking- just to fill the silence. Outside, the postman passed without looking in.
She waved anyway. She walked to the bakery in a jolly mood. In the bakery, the man answered someone behind her instead of her. She walked home more slowly. Kettle still warm. For a moment, she forgot why she had even left.
The shoes slipped off softly.
She didn’t move. Just sat, chest full like something had been waiting there for a long time.
“She wasn’t sad?” she questioned.
The shopkeeper glanced up. “No,” they said. “Just gone unseen for a long time.”
She stood. Not ready. Not wanting more. The shop shifted, or maybe it was her. Lights dimmer, Shelves taller, shoes quieter. She trailed her finger along the sandals. Before, she tried shoes without knowing their weight. Now she hesitated
She wanted something she couldn’t name. At the end of the shelf, a warped mirror caught her eye. She didn’t look like the girl who came in. But she still didn’t know who she was.
“What if I never find the ones that fit?” she asked softly.
The shopkeeper said nothing. They swept quietly, broom never touching the floor. She breathed in. Her hand hovered over silver shoes- clean, no laces, no marks or scuffs.
She passed them.
The shop darkened or narrowed. She wasn’t sure. She kept walking. This time she reached for the next pair, knowing she might not like what she’d learn. But she wanted to understand, even if it changed her.
She tried on another pair. The shift was fast. Just - there. Hands aching. Back hunched over too early. A crowd that never saw her. A laugh too loud. Eyes avoiding mirrors. A meal eaten alone. Someone running. Not toward anything, just away. Each time back in the shop, it took longer to feel real. Another time, on a stage, spotlights bright, applause deafening; but no one clapping for her. Stories blurred. Feeling stuck.
Someone walked down the alley for a smoke break. They look up. For a second. She froze. Had she been them before? But they were gone.
She found another pair hidden behind a curtain. Soft leather, but worn, but whole, lace undisturbed, waiting. They touched her feet - everything was different, but there was no rush, just silence. Warmth rising through her bones. The world shifted gently. A home she had almost forgotten. Photos on the shelves, a cat rubbing her legs, knowing her name. She sat in a chair, for the first time not a guest. She stayed, had some tea, laughed at old magazines. Almost forgot the shop.
But later a sliver of cold crept in. She went to the mirror, the face looking back wasn’t hers. She started to panic. She pulled the laces, but they were stuck, so she yanked harder. The world spun, the cat hissed and then she was back in the shop.
She didn’t move, shoes unlaced beside her. “I don’t think I have shoes.”
The shop keeper stayed silent, no argument, no correction. She wished for answer. She thought about the boy, the woman and the home that almost held her. The shop keeper hummed. And handed her a box. No labels. No shine. Inside, shoes - normal.
No glow, no magic. Just ordinary and that scared her. She slipped them on. They fitted, not perfectly but they fitted. The shop stayed still. No spin, No shift.
She stepped outside. It was still raining, but lighter now. People passed, a woman smiled, a man waited at a crossing, a child waved. She looked down. Same shoes, same street. But the world tilted, as if she saw herself but differently. Somewhere behind her someone called her real name. It felt like home. She turned -
And the shop was gone.
I-
IV Group Poetry
‘The Same Star’, by El Benn- III Group
You know, almost every atom in our bodies was formed by a star in some way
Either fused in its heart or born of the beautiful destruction of a supernova
Which begs the question
Do you think we came from the same one?
How romantic would it be
If we were both made of the same stardust
Being a man of science at heart
You would think I did not believe in something such as a soulmate
But perhaps our atoms were close together when they were first formed
And have spent the remainder of their time trying to find each other again
Perhaps my heart knew you billions of years before its existence
Clinging onto the way it is drawn to you
Like it was all those years ago
Perhaps my heart has known yours since it was first fused in that cosmic furnace
It may explain why I love so violently
So passionately
Like the fires of a dying star
Perhaps we do come from the same one
Given life by the embers of heavenly destruction
Perhaps my heart has been waiting all this time
For it to finally find its stardust again
I- IV Group Poetry
‘Untitled’, by Max Nyquist- IV Group
Crests of great waves crash down upon the seaboard; The claws of a vast mass struggling to return Swathes of land to her abyssal embrace.
Dancing across her fingertips: lives
Of those who fled her murky waters aeons ago, now call her wrath Gentle whispers - murmurs of rest, Deafened by the hollow metal shells,
Ripped from the thin veil of skin atop her flesh, They construct.
Needles rack her arms, pressed deep into skin.
Burt as the grass
Ripped from their foundations: tall, rowed
Vet rigid in their standing - unyielding to her breaths
Rolling across the tide.
Grand walls stretch across her limbs, restraining movement.
As those she granted life
Stifle hers.
Her screams howl
Across the breadth of the waters, Her fingers tearing streaks across her arms.
Her calls are stifled, asphyxiated: She chokes
Upon the burning of her own flesh.
Her lungs fill with her own acrid tears.
And they are silent.
I- IV Group Poetry
‘Kindness’, by Enya McCarthy- IV Group
A man comes into a school to give some children a talk
He asks, what do you want to be when you grow up, writing his name on the board with chalk
A girl says a florist, dealing daisies and dandelions and dahlias
A boy says a firefighter, nudging his mate Bryan Bryan says a cop, to catch all the bad men
A girl says a baker, ‘ a cowboy’ said Ben
And all the kids spoke and there was one boy left
It was Johnny in the back, the kid was known for theft
Of an apple, the teachers to be specific
And all the kids looked at Johnny, expecting something horrific
And Johnny stared back, thought of all the bad things he’d done He’d stepped on an ant, said to the teacher that he can’t and sometimes at break didn’t have fun
And Johnny knew what he wanted to be, but he didn’t want to be laughed at
The other kids would taunt him, call him idiot and brat
Just coz he took the apple
But on a Sunday Johnny went to the chapel
He went with his nan and prayed for his mum
And he stayed with his nan because his mum couldn’t afford a crumb
He thought the apple was free, not belonging to the teacher
And when the other kids found out, their mouths did feature
Some bad words, ones that weren’t very nice
But Johnny thought he deserved it, like a bad roll on a dice
Just bad luck, not a bad life
But a few years later Johnny was accused of carrying a knife
And he was, but not for an attack
It was for defence since his eye was black from a boy called Jack
Johnny had tripped over Jack’s shoe
It was an accident but jacks shoes were blue and brand new
And Jack had given Johnny a right hook round the face
He used his mums makeup to cover the trace
Of the brown and purple mark
But still raw to the touch, it showed up pretty dark
So with a knife in his pocket and a black eye
Johnny looked like he was spewing one fat lie
Because he’d taken the teachers apple a couple years ago, He’d stepped on an ant but then a snail and dropped his friend
Joe
Coz Joe nicked a ton off him, money for his mum, Coz they were living in a slum.
But Johnny never told no one, he didn’t wanna cause trouble
He reckons he’d be called a liar, his sentence would double
And the police officer sits him down, calling him young lad
Because he was, only sixteen but expected to ‘ go bad’
And the policeman asks him what he wants to be
And Johnny thinks back to when he was in year three
All them years ago, he would’ve said kind
He wanted to be kind
But what person of his kind says they wanna be kind
Johnny never changed his mind, he always wanted to be kind but the cop weren’t blind
He could see the knife and the cop had an idea of Johnny’s future life
It weren’t all that good
So Johnny pulled down his hood and said I want to be believed I want people to see that I am kind
Johnny was never believed
He returned the teachers apple, buried the ant and snail
Got a job, paid money to his mum and managed to get bail
And people looked at him differently
Not a frown, not a smile but something in between
Like a reformed criminal but an offender he’d never been
A victim of sorts, one to the system
And this newfound difference was not one of wisdom
But acceptance, but not enough
Not when what he’d been through had been so tough
The amount of times he’d been called bluff
It had all been so rough
Just to not be glared at
So Johnny moved cities, got a job in the state
The people were nicer with a lower crime rate
And he went about his day, he helped, he gave
Trying to be something other than a knave
And one day Johnny helped a woman cross the street, she was blind
She couldn’t see, but could feel his warmth and said, my boy, you ’ re so kind.
I- IV Group Non- Fiction
‘In a World of Darkness, be a Light’, by Ariola ShonekanIV Group
If you could fix one problem, what would you fix?
It will not be a shock to hear that most of us look inwardly to the problems and trials in our immediate lives and surroundings. But if you take nothing away from all I say today, take away this – look outwardly. Look around for the people who have nothing but are grateful for everything. And think again of what problem you will fix.
A fundamental right I believe, every single citizen walking on the earth is entitled to clean water, food, shelter, electricity, and education. This is a right we all believe in, yes? We believe in freedom; freedom of speech, exploration, and growth. We believe in a world free of dictatorship and fear. But this is not what the world looks like right now. We see our brothers and sisters picking up debris and rubble to find bodies of their children; women and children all over the world fighting and dying for their rights, voices that are not heard and some that will not be heard and so much that we feel that control.
Does this not evoke something in you? It shows us that as a community, as citizens of the world, we all must do better, and we all have so much to work on.
I try to pride myself on keeping a light of joy and humour as much as I can, and light up every room I step into, and today I want to show you how you can be that light in a world of darkness. I want to show you that one person can start the difference we need to be a real society- a true society. And we can make that difference with one idea, one thought and one chance for you to be that light.
What did Jesus Christ, Prophet Muhammed, and Guru Nanak have in common? Love. They loved no matter the race, gender, or nationality. They had so much love to give. A love with light so bright it shines for centuries still to come. A love with no stipulations, no greed, and no sin in between. Do not be fooled of what love is- love is patient, love is kind, love lacks envy or pride. A desire for the well-being of another. Love is a gift of one's most innermost soul to another so both can be whole. The giving of love is an education, and we must all learn this love.
A love that will heal the hurt and the hate we see, and we feel in the world around us. A love that will create peace without prejudice. A love that will change the world starting with our own thoughts.
Today look around and see who needs love, to be kind, be courageous, be compassionate. And we may not change the world today, but tomorrow the world will start to turn to the music of love. And you can be that light of love to start it.
I- IV Group Non- Fiction
‘200 Years’, by Sophie
Pascanu- II Group
Humans are cruel…
They spend their time worrying about themselves and don't care for anything else. They spend their time living on a planet they don't care for, and in turn it crumbles. Slowly.
Silently.
Now I look at the world once more and wonder how something so beautiful and warm is now so cold and grey. Our world is so empty and barren that the loudest thing you hear is your own footstep, pushing against the ground. It looked like a desert, just bitter like a sour lemon if they still existed now.
But if you look up, and away from this deserted land, you will find something more precious and captivating than you have ever seen.
The stars, the sky, meteors crashing into each other and planets that have not been destroyed by greed and power. Galaxies and universes that have not been consumed by the wrath of monsters, whose only goal is to make their life less miserable. But, monsters aren't real, or so the stories say, so who destroyed our world?
Who took something so diverse and beautiful and stuffed it full of machines and factories and gases that affected everything we knew and loved to the point that we can't go back to how it was as we have gone too far.
And now the world is done, it had been pushed too far and tumbled past the breaking point and became a wasteland. However, the world continued spinning onwards; watching, waiting for a new place to start over. A new place to call home.
‘
Self
I- IV Group Non- Fiction
’ , by Charlotte Wailes- IV Group
‘Love is love’ is what is claimed. This is up until it’s people of the same gender. From hate all the way to criminalisation and execution in some cases. Being gay or trans is still a tricky topic within our society today. Why is this? It is not something someone chooses. Yet, these ‘choices’ are still criminalised in many counties up until this day. How would you feel if you were imprisoned for a choice you didn’t make?
Why as a society have we decided to hate love? It’s a simple feeling such as happiness, jealousy or confusion. Some claim it to be ‘everywhere’ yet it’s nothing they have to be bothered about. It doesn’t affect them so why does it have to affect those simply trying to live their lives?
Have you ever had a haircut you ’ re not sure on? Worn clothes that you don’t exactly feel yourself in? Well this a dulled down version of how a trans person feels about their body on a daily basis. The dysphoria of not looking as how you are on the inside; feeling like a completely different person.
A feeling of insecurity, unsure and self-hatred. Yet every day they’re out there trying to survive. To be their true self. It’s a terrifying world to live in knowing what could happen if you ’ re a trans person at the wrong place at the wrong time. People have been murdered due to gender identity. Yet, people wave it off like it’s not an issue with some even glad that it happened. How as a society have we progressed to this?
Even slurs towards the group are still used today, most often as ‘jokes’. Those being used as a ‘joke’ doesn’t improve the meaning in any way or clear up that it was said, it’s still the same word as before. Moreover, while words can be seen as simple and harmless they can still leave a mental impact.
Haven’t you ever had a time where someone ’ s said something towards you that you haven’t forgotten? Well I have with the example from just before. It does stick in people’s minds and leave an impact.
While it’s a short step to a decline in homophobia and transphobia, it’s the small movements that count. The less we use words such as these, the closer we can strive to acceptance and a better world.
Acknowledgements
We would like to extend our sincere thanks to the English Department for their continued support in encouraging and guiding our students with their entries.
Special thanks to Simon Cockle for his time and effort in collating all of the work for publication.
We are incredibly grateful to Holly Jackson for her thoughtful and meticulous editing of this publication.
This edition was created and published by Amy Anderson.