Freedom Creative Writing The image of my dad and me in my photo frame, propped on my bedside table, captured my attention. Standing there in our football jerseys, in the middle of the Cowboys stadium, we seemed to exude happiness and team spirit. Seeing my football jersey draped over the back of my chair, I briefly considered the possibility, but it didn’t quite fit in with my Friday freedom mood.
FREEDOM
Creative
WRITING
W
ith many of our normal ‘freedoms’ removed under lockdown, and aware of how creativity and the arts can enrich our lives in the most challenging
of times, we asked our pupils, their families, staff and alumni to think about the
I was jolted from my reverie when my phone buzzed. Flicking on the touch screen, I saw a photo of my friends and me. It was as though we were wearing some type of teenage uniform: a functional shirt and pants, classic Air Force Ones and a gold necklace. It was so striking that it caused me to pause and reflect. At the time, I’d thought I dressed for comfort, but now I see that that motivation was conformity. It awoke within me a hunger to express myself. Ten minutes later, I was surrounded by a sea of discarded clothes. Even though the evidence suggested it was not true, I felt as though I didn’t have a single thing to wear. Despondent, I slumped down on the edge of my bed. The draught caused a card to cascade onto the carpet. Picking it up, a spontaneous smile crept across my face. On my last birthday, my Grandma gave it to me and it has never failed to make me laugh since. The message, ‘In a world full of cornflakes be a cheerio’, was emblazoned across the top. From the moment that it slipped out of the envelope, I knew exactly what message my Grandma was trying to convey. She wanted me to be a tall poppy, towering above a meadow filled with dandelions. I knew what I needed to do.
I had reached the realisation that what mattered to me more than anything else was the freedom to throw off the shackles of my uniform and relax into the comfort of my own home. After wandering in and out of all the houses, I’d finally chosen tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. Despite the lack of glamour, they fit like a second skin and I wouldn’t trade this outfit for the world. On my way to join my family, I paused for a minute to reflect. This was what I wanted. This was what I was comfortable in and this is what I chose. To me that is the true meaning of freedom!
concept of freedom. A creative writing competition sparked an outpouring of thoughtful reflections on what freedom means to each of us. OUR CAP TIVE PAL ACE MIDDLE SCHOOL WINNER: OLLIE SMITH
FRE EDOM
The hazy amber light, emanating from a single candle, only just illuminated the part of my notebook I was fervently scribbling on. It was getting rather late for my seemingly clandestine activities, but nonetheless, the metronome that was the guard’s pacing provided a modicum of comfort in this god-forsaken place. It wasn’t a God, or a saint, or a loved one for that matter, but these unsullied moments of humanity that preserved a certain amount of faith within me. Faith in what, I’m not sure; faith in the purity of the human condition? Perhaps that is slightly too philosophical for one’s thoughts in Holzminden, but a prisoner of war camp, for me, has been almost a sanctuary, where one has an abundance of time and expressions of the soul are inadvertently accommodated.
LOWER SCHOOL WINNER: JESSICA BRENTNALL Trudging up the stairs, I hungered for the haven of my bedroom. Stepping in through the door, I closed it behind me with a resounding click, leaving the worries of the day outside. I threw my school bags down and sank onto my sumptuous bed. Reflecting on the day, I was glad to be back on my bed and felt a wave of relief wash over me. It was time to release all the pressures of the week: deadlines, maintaining a strong facade, jumping through hoops and meeting expectations. The weight often pressed heavily on my shoulders. Taking my tie off, I couldn’t help but think that I had earned my freedom on the cliff face of St Oswald’s. Shedding my uniform like a snake sheds its skin, I felt that I had earned the right to self-expression. Approaching the wardrobe, I yanked the doors open and my eyes swept along the array of colours, each one triggering a memory. I was always very lucky to have many choices in what I wear. My mind flashed back to a history lesson where we read about a governess only having two outfits to wear, one for everyday and one for Sunday best. It’s hard to comprehend how much times have changed. Nowadays, it is the norm to have a full wardrobe of clothes and still feel as though you to have nothing to wear. Indecisive has always been my middle name and today was no different. My eyes were drawn to the back of the door and the outfit my mom had picked out for me. It had obviously been inspired by the idyllic perfect little princess image into which my mom had always tried to mould me. Excessive sparkles on flowing dresses; not my cup of tea! Without a second thought, I lifted the dress and buried it in the back of my wardrobe. It reminded me of an outfit my sister might wear. She was always trying to please my mom and was clearly her favourite. In contrast, my direction was to dance to the beat of my own drum. It was as natural as breathing to me to form my own opinions and make my own decisions, and to me this freedom was as precious as any jewel.
‘Are you really still plugging away at that thing?’, piped up my Scottish cellmate, Finlayson. He interrupted his rhythmic humming of some obscure Highland folksong to make this snide comment. ‘It seems to be taking you an awfully long time.’ I assumed his backhanded remark alluded to the set of memoirs that I busied myself with writing every night. Invariably, every evening, whilst recumbent in the musty confines of this rather comfortable POW ‘cell’, he would make reference to his superior experiences of the Scottish Highland vistas we both grew up admiring.
“In a world
full of cornfLakes, be a cheerio”
My eyes came to rest on perhaps my most cherished possession, suspended in pride of place on my shelf. My great aunt, the Olympic medal winner, loaned it to me for safekeeping and I will never forget the fateful words she uttered. ‘Be inspired,’ she counselled. Admiring its golden lustre, I flipped the medal over and read the inscription. It never failed to encourage me: Mary Rand, Great Britain, 1964 Tokyo Summer Olympics. She was the very epitome of an original: driven, determined and freethinking. I too wanted to be perceived in this light.
Tonight was different as his questions were laced with a slight tone of scorn, ‘I say, in those memoirs of yours, do you do Ben Wyvis justice?’. This oddly placed question did lead me to question his motives but naturally, being a place I have fond memories of, I had done my utmost to describe everything from the musky scents of autumnal leaf-litter to the blanket-like clouds that burned as if faltering embers in the evening. I’m not the loquacious type but replied with defensive assertion, ‘Of course, I grew up in that region. Why do you ask, Finlayson?’. ‘Oh, I was just pondering on whether you could read a few paragraphs aloud, and - oh - I don’t know, prove how sufficient they are.’ Certainly, his formal tone set me on edge, but I hesitated to curtail this odd exchange and instead retreated to the pages of my notebook to select a passage which would perhaps please this rather irritating Scotsman. My mind sedated by the smoky fumes of a Kensitas cigarette that Finlayson had engaged himself in lighting, I was hard-pressed to find a paragraph that would abate my cellmate’s doubts. However, eventually I found myself recalling the vivid boyhood memories upon the mounds surrounding Ben Wyvis – in Scotland – to the intense presence of the Scot. As if mirroring my nigh on opiated state, my thoughts drifted into the yellowed pages as my guard’s pacing dwindled and the bitter taste of smoke faded. The feeling that first enters the mind is that of sheer freedom; albeit restricted by the steep inclines of the hills. Being young and innocent - without the poison of cynicism
“The feeling that enters the mind is that of sheer freedom”