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”
intoxicating me - naturally I assigned a storyline of great opulence to my surroundings. Vast expanses of sky, to my infant mind, were the vaulted ceilings of some grand palace ballroom, adorned with the finest watercolour paintings crafted by the fanciful imaginings of a renaissance artist. Striding through my palace grounds with the air of superciliousness that inevitably accompanies a young mind, I examined the filigrees of leaves that hung as ornate drapes along the great hall and conjured the ghost of that long dead craftsman whose calloused hands built, brick by brick, my towering Scottish palace. When one dissects this childhood practice, they may consider the notion that I stripped away the natural beauty. But I implore those that do to note the following: there was always something within – an internal monologue if you will – that urged me to distil the scale and grandeur in order to somehow fathom its presence. Whilst not indulging in spiritual belief or the church’s preaching, I had to capture the landscape in a story more perpetual than God’s hammer having wrought the very hills I stood upon. That ‘story’ lay in my aforementioned childhood creation that encapsulated the beauty in human, not spiritual, form. Certainly, this florid description was necessary despite Finlayson having, on the surface at least, a spiteful and ill-mannered disposition; and it may appear, to an attentive guard’s ear, that refusing his request was just, considering his prior attitude. But this could never be so, as when entrapped in the vice of evil, there is nothing more necessary than expressions of serenity – especially for an individual like my friend here, who, it is evident, possesses a perennial yearning for his homeland. As these thoughts crossed my mind, I passed a fleeting glance across the room only to meet the vacuous eyes of my companion. I started with a great jolt as it appeared I had killed the man with my childhood tales, as though his harrowing stare had a spectral air to it – as though his soul had drifted out of this ghastly place. To my great relief, his heavy chest was heaving in a deep sleep - he was merely one of those who slept with their eyes wide open. Observing this, now he seemed almost celestial and surprisingly tranquil in returning to the leafy pastures of his homeland he so ached for. A transient exchange of humanity had passed in those few hours, in which one man longed for freedom and another had presented it. If we could reflect on those moments of humanity that I had previously preached and allow others their little moments of freedom, then that’s something. The single candle had now exhausted its wax, the guard’s pacing had stopped altogether, and the only utterance of a sound was the gentle breath upon the satisfied face of a man.
FRE EDOM UPPER SCHOOL WINNER: EMILIE NORRIS
We make landing on the top of a pine tree and you clatter down, meeting the ground quicker than you would have liked. Hush, we are in a strange area, the creatures here are older and not as forgiving. The ground ripples, roots ripping from the earth, branches snapping and rocks cracking. The old gods can hear us. He is the ground, the bark, the earth. In him you see oak, pine, willow. Fairies dance with him, horses bow to him, he will enchant you with his voice, drops of silver come from his lips. You know he is not from your world, his soul glows different. But, little one, there is much to learn, you cannot help but be enthralled. Sweet stardust slips through his fingers, back to the earth from where he came. Be kind, my friend, and take heed - speak to the gods - they are listening. A breeze tumbles through the forest, bringing us to its heart. Darkness is complete, sprays of stars are around us, and the moon hangs so low you reach out to touch it. Time works differently here. Magic is dense in the air: you can taste it, smell it, and feel it on the pads of your fingertips. We are here. Our journey’s zenith - now look around you. Smashed ice and fields of forget-me-nots reside in her eyes. As delicate as a butterfly, as strong as a bear - she is a paradox. She transforms in your eyes, into starlight, into the ground, into a group of shimmering butterflies - my god! You hope she’ll turn you. Her heart is the forest where treasure lies hidden, but if you find it you’ll be the richest man alive. Be cautious, she’s hidden monsters in that cavern too, but she’ll protect you from them in the best ways she can. Nothing goes unnoticed in her eyes. “Your sorrows are not your destruction, they are your birth.” When she speaks, you question your own sanity, still you want to tell her a thousand lies just so she will speak again. Our journey is fast over; you will spend eternity wondering the meaning of those words if you stay for much longer. The sun is rising, staining the sky a deep blood red. Golden light slices the skyline, and we walk without speaking to where the fields meet the forest. Kaleidoscope eyes survey you; you had not noticed how strange your companion had looked until now. You think their wine-stained smile is dangerous, their laugh is reckless? Careful what you wish for, I will walk with you for a while, but at what price? For now though, our journey is at its end and you can pass from this place with no debt to your soul. The giggling stream will wait for you, the bone-white birch will wait for you, and I will wait for you, my friend. But, the world is a very big, and there is much more to explore, so it would do best not to return. So go on with your sorrows behind you, over mountains and under canopies of branches until you too find your true home.
FRE EDOM ADULT WINNER: ANNABEL MOORE
Let me take you on a journey through the forest I call my home; under sun drenched willow and past dancing streams. Careful, the darkness calls to outsiders, so follow my step and do not stray from the path. There are creatures in here too, they look like us but do not be deceived, they have been here as long as the roots underfoot. Look up! Through the shafts of sunlight she flutters down, pollen dusting her eyelashes. Stay back; pixies are troublemakers, magnets, great balls of energy. You cannot help but walk towards it, waiting to hear the laughter of the giggling stream again. Her eyes are chunks of sun-kissed amber, and when she smiles the clouds clear. Pixies have the joyousness and innocence of otters swimming through the sun. Jumping, laughing, you want to be seen by those eyes, by that radiant smile, “drop your sorrows and go dancing,” she tells you, “You’ll forget sadness for a while.”
“In contrast, my
direction was to
dance to the beat of my own dr um”
Come now, follow closely. Men wiser than you have lost their sanity following the creatures of the sun and we have much more to see, my friend. The trees have changed to bone white, sprays of light green tumbling from delicate branches. Birdsong erupts in a cacophony of noise - listen! We’ve met our second creature. A small swallow dances through the sky, laughter crashes to the ground and you are awestruck. Precious gems surround the little bird: yellow apatite oscillating in the high-hanging sun, glittering garnets and milky white opals dust the ground. It has spent time with them, it knows them well. Its eyes of stormy skies study you; it is a child of wonder, yearning for life, for knowledge and an elder too wise and too clever for you. If we stay, it will teach you how to be happy, take your sorrows to the little bird and it will not make you forget your pain, it will make you love the person in the mirror in spite of it.
Tempting, but we cannot stay in this clearing forever. Let us continue. Trees reach up to meet the morning sun as we brush past dew-flecked ropes of fern, another is there and I hadn’t anticipated her coming to see us. Darkness flutters and settles around you as she drives us deeper into the forest, but it is comfortable and anyway, you are not one to be afraid of the dark. Deep fern stained with sun spans her face: peaceful, elegant - careful, looks can be deceiving. Her hands can move mountains, her tail can shake oceans. There is power in her veins like liquid gold, softness is not weakness, but she will show you a new way of life. A sleeping dragon, powerful and peaceful; it feels safe being protected by her. You have heard the tales of old - be wary of dragons, but when you are flying past the sun, how can you be afraid of anything?
My house has become my world, my mind’s eye its own vast globe that I walk, eyes closed Maytime for me,
a static square of window sun and dusted air I look beyond, but cannot go My travels acts of self-translation, all inward-moving A triune brain perfectly replaying past words and responses differently (Example: a love unspoken, moved into hyperbole –) I stray further than I should, at times Paired bodies walk past my window Duetted people, swatting up at knobs of kerbside green, bound for paths of winding numbers through a wood of history A different type of isolation They cover forty feet of tarmac, from inside my window width of three, disappear Heading for something also gone, really Stuck earth, piebald with sun
A smell of cold and uncurled ferns and empty trees, flies flaring The canopies of leaves, in one hundred different greens, speak of the wind Nod permission to the toppling breeze below, (its fingers already curling under things) to fling their seeds – All echoes, just spinning stardust, magnetic summer; its undersound, and giant sympathy, birds offering up their (million year-old) translations of what Maytime used to be