St Mary's Calne - Literally 2014 by St Mary's Calne

Jessica Mendoza UVI Form

Welcome to Literalily St Mary’s Creative Writing Magazine This year, the girls were asked to consider ‘What happened next... ?’ when creating imaginative written work and they rose to the challenge admirably. 2013 2014 marks the introduction of a poetry section in the competition and, as you will see, a number of poems were written in response to the centenary of the outbreak of World War One.

with our musical colleagues; some truly moving performances were the result of poetic lines set to music and sung by pupils of St Mary’s Calne.

An exciting new choral work, Drifting in a Starless Space, was commissioned for St Mary’s Opera Ensemble by composer Mark David Boden, to commemorate the centenary and it was based on texts provided by the literary talents of the LV Form. The English Department is delighted with the highly successful collaboration

Keep writing!

Many thanks go to all the girls who contributed either poetry, prose or artwork to this year’s edition and to the staff who supported and inspired them.

Ms Sophie Dunkin Editor, Summer 2014

The Winners Fourth Form Winner Mary Petherick UIV Form

Fifth Form Winner

LIV Form Poetry Winner Lucy Jefford

Eleanor Chelton UV Form

MIV Form Poetry Winner

The Runners Up

Frances Arnold

Maia Jarvis UIV Form Rosie Norman LV Form

UIV Form Poetry Winner

Lily Innes LV Form

Rachel McNeile

Lucile Allender UIV Form

Fourth Form Winner

Sophia Guinness UVI Form

Harry May’s Cave Mary Petherick UIV Form The Maria Rosa approached the coast of Cornwall in a terrifying storm. The black waves were the colour of charcoal against the cloudy sky. The sea shot icy cold splashes of water like bullets onto the deck of the cutter. All men were on-hand as they desperately tried to keep the boat under their command, but the waves were too strong and the boat creaked as it was thrown backwards and forwards on the ruthless sea. All the lanterns had been blown out and the sailors were forced to fight against the terrific squall in darkness. Water collected on the boat like an angry crowd, pushing and soaking the weak sailors. The sea continued to rage, showing no mercy, when, as they rounded the rocky spikes known as the Manacles, a gigantic wave leapt onto the boat like a ferocious dog and the main mast collapsed into the hungry sea.

The rusty sign of The Dolphin Inn creaked in the eerie darkness of night. The Reverend Augustus May, owner of The Dolphin Inn and vicar of the local church, sat waiting in the dark hallway. A short rap on the door brought him to his feet. He entered the damp night and closed the door behind him.

The cutter now stood at the entrance to Carlyon Bay. As the waves lashed against the boat, the captain calculated that they would not be able to make the long journey to the next safe haven of Fowey: the boat was unable to continue rolling and dipping through the destructive waves. Seeing twinkling lights in the distance, the captain was flooded with relief. Thinking this was the small harbour of Charlestown, the broken boat battled on through the dangerous tempest, but disaster hit as they fought their way across the unknown bay.

Harry was a good-looking man, soon to be married to the local landowner’s daughter. He was his father’s pride and joy and Reverend May had been organising the wedding with great pleasure. Harry was determined to have a brilliant night out before his wedding day arrived and so, at low tide, on the eve of his wedding, Harry May and his best friend,Tony Whiteman, stole away unseen in a small sailing boat with the bottle of brandy. They made their way into a hidden cave in order to have some fun during Harry’s last hours as a single man. The bottle of brandy was swigged quickly, leaving Harry and Tony blind drunk: they were slurring their words and an occasional loud hiccup brought on heaps of laughter. The water gurgled at the mouth of the cave and the waves splashed against its smooth back, as the brandy splashed against the sides of the young men’s stomachs. Harry’s eyes drooped down as the sun sank in the glowing sky. The two lads were soon asleep, their snores echoing off the cave walls. Time passed and the tide rose fast. The slow fingers of night crept into the cave and rocked the boat in a sweet lullaby. A larger wave, brought in by the unreliable current, forced the mast of the boat to hit the top of the cave. The tide was at its highest point and the small sailing boat was pushed under the waves. Water bounded in and as the boat sank down into its tomb, so did Harry May.

The Maria Rosa was wrecked upon the Lisken Reef, which lay hidden under the heavy swell. As the boat was forced to a halt, a sudden jerk pushed many sailors overboard into the mouth of the murderous sea. The rest of the men jumped overboard as the boat was torn apart like a helpless rag. Those who were lucky enough not to drown, were killed by a gang whose boats lay hidden in the caves by the reef. They were under the leadership of one-eyed Jack Berryman, a local smuggler and pirate wanted for theft and murder. These barbarous smugglers raided the ship, and its goods, mainly consisting of port wine, brandy and spices, were brought ashore and hidden in secret caves under the small village of Porthpean.

Dawn brought in a beautiful clear day. The sea was glittering in the beaming sunshine and there was no sign of the harsh storm that had raged the night before, except the shrieks of horror that rose from the beach as the wreckage was discovered. Fishing boats surrounded the demolished cutter and men and women onshore collected the storm’s debris. Reverend May prayed amongst the villagers who were gathering wood for the lost sailors. As he did this, his son, Harry May, found his way into the inn’s cellar and took a hidden bottle of brandy.

Fifth Form Winner

Princess Eleanor Chelton UV Form

The sound of hooves thundered over the valley. The princess had finally been rescued! The witch was dead. The spell was broken. As they rode, the princess’ long chestnut brown curls bounced with the rhythm of the horse. The princess’ name was Tiana, she had been stolen from her home when she was but ten years of age to be a source of power for the witch Nerissa. She had been waiting seven years to be free of that tower. The princess and the prince rode off into the sunset to live their happily ever after. They rode until the first hint of dusk crept over the treetops. The prince slowed the horse down to halt in a grove of fir trees. After helping the princess down, he took out two sleeping mats from the burlap sack around the horse’s middle and made a camp. Tiana opened her eyes. She looked over at the prince; he was snoring loudly and drooling. She sighed and slowly started to get up so as not to wake him. She tiptoed over to the horse, glancing at the prince in disgust. My God he’s fat, she thought, maybe he ate the witch. She had not seen the witch’s defeat and, looking at the ‘hero’ who had saved her, she could not for the life of her imagine how he did it. Maybe he used magic. The princess, Tiana, was deemed to be the fairest maiden in all the land, a new sparkly jewel in the royal crown, certainly worth whatever price was paid for the spell used to defeat Nerissa, but Tiana had her own destiny and it did not involve playing wife to a proud, stuckup prince who thought that the world belonged to him because of where he had been born. She had learned a long time ago that birth did not entitle you to happiness or safety – that, you had to earn, or steal. Carefully, she removed the steel dagger placed by his side and put it into her own satchel which contained everything she owned. ‘Hey there, Carron,’ she whispered, ‘we’re just going to go for a little wander.’ She pulled the hood of her dark green velvet cloak over her head and taking the bridle in her right hand, she led Carron out of the copse, distracting him with an apple. She mounted the horse with ease and set off at a steady trot.

Tiana rode for the best part of the morning and some of the afternoon. She eventually came to rest at an inn on the outskirts of a small town on the borders of Faranheide and Storkbrode. Taking Carron to the stables, she handed him to a skinny stable boy with a large nose and squinty eyes, and then walked round to the front of the building. The inn was called The Wounded Deer and it seemed out of place in the picturesque setting, with its disordered dark grey stone slabs and oddly slanted red-bricked roof. Tiana gave the large oak door a confident shove and entered the inn. The inside of the pub was dingy and cramped and smelled strongly of stale beer. It was almost deserted. Tiana strode up to the bar and sat down on one of the crimson cushioned stools, sweeping her cloak under her with an arrogant swish as she went. The bar attendant smirked at her. ‘We don’t serve little girls,’ he sneered with a thick accent, ‘come back in three years.’ Tiana stared him straight in the eye. ‘I find it saddening that, after twenty years of faithful service to my family, you do not remember me, Mika. Well, I suppose I was only little then and I have heard that our kingdom was taken by the North, which explains your current state.’ The bar attendant’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Princess Tiana?’ he croaked, ‘My Lady, I am sorry, it has been-’ ‘Yes, yes, it’s been a long time. Now, do you have the book? I need it.’ ‘Yes, it is in the back. I will get it for you,’ Mika gushed, ‘just a moment.’ Mika returned soon after with a hefty dust-covered volume labelled The Alijanne Family Book of Spells. ‘Perfect,’ purred Tiana. The bartender made to speak but she cut him off. ‘Thank you, Mika, that is all I needed.’ She marched out of the inn and went to stand in a secluded ring of trees some way off. Placing the book down on the floor, she opened her satchel and removed a large ornate mirror rimmed with gold. She tied it to a tree with string. Staring straight at the shiny surface she said in a clear voice, ‘Mirror, mirror on the tree, who can the fairest maiden be?’ Smoke arose in the mirror and the outline of a luminous face spoke back, ‘You, my princess, are the fairest.’

Olivia King LVI Form

Jessica O’Grady UVI Form

Runner Up

Spotlight Maia Jarvis UIV Form The bright beam turns so it’s pointing directly at me. It burns with a surprising intensity and I know that it’s just me on stage. I can’t see a single person because the light has cast a dark shadow over the audience, but I can sense a thousand eyes staring at me, eager and expectant. I take a slow step forward and reach my hand out towards the mic. I curl my fingers around the smooth metal and take a deep breath. *** I sat in the waiting room, drumming my fingers on the armrest - my hands were shaking anyway. I had fleetingly thought about how this could be the day that all the wishes I made as a girl in a pink tutu singing Somewhere over the Rainbow came true, but once I started thinking about everything that could go wrong, it was like opening up a box full of anxiety that just wouldn’t shut. Several times I contemplated picking up my guitar and simply leaving. ‘Lucy Phillips?’ My head jerked upwards in response to my name. ‘Yes?’ I replied hesitantly. I slid my fingers through the handle of my guitar case and stood up. ‘They’re ready for you now.’ She guided me through some white double-doors whilst smiling pleasantly and wishing me good luck. I had a feeling she had mentioned something about how the director wasn’t really that scary, but I wasn’t listening. I was instead having a mental argument with myself about whether I should try to make a run for it whilst the lady was distracted. The kind woman ushered me into a large studio and I took one step onto the varnished wooden floor. My eyes quickly found something very familiar – me. I glanced at my reflection in the two huge mirrors that covered one wall of the room. My trembling hands quickly tucked a strand of escaped hair behind my ear. I spotted a small desk at the back of the studio and a tall man sat there reading some papers. Before I began to walk towards it, he said, ‘You must be Lucy.’ I replied with a nod of assent and sat on the stool placed in front of him. ‘Well, we’re all on a tight schedule today but please do start in your own time.’

I furrowed my eyebrows at his contradictory statement and reminded myself that I was a little solo artist with no agent and no record deal; no wonder he thought I was a waste of time. This strengthened my resolve and, as I took out my guitar and brushed my fingers lightly across the strings, the familiar sound calmed me slightly and I began to play the first few notes of my song. As soon as I started singing, I could see all the lyrics come to life in my head like a pop-up storybook. I could hear echoes of my own voice chasing each other round the room as I slowly closed my eyes... I was just about to begin the second verse when I froze. My voice unexpectedly caught in my throat and my fingers slid down the neck of my guitar. I was no longer calm, all the worries I had in the waiting room had assaulted me like a violent tsunami. I thought about how long I had been counting down to today, how proud my mum had been when she found out that I had made the shortlist. My mind was running too slowly on a treadmill that wouldn’t stop. I looked up at the desk and saw the man staring right at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I choked out, ‘I’ll um...’ ‘Do stay,’ he said with unexpected sincerity in his voice. ‘Just carry on from where you left off.’ I continued steadily but it wasn’t the same. It was as if all the passion within me had dissipated and I was now a hollow, insecure version of myself. I finished my last note and couldn’t wait to escape as quickly as possible. I picked up my guitar hastily and dashed to the door. I grabbed the handle and turned it swiftly. I was just about to leave when I heard a loud cry: ‘Wait!’

Runner Up

Distraction Lucile Allender UIV Form It was a wonderful June morning in Paris: the air was crisp and the sun was spreading its golden light over the awakening French city. Birds were singing to celebrate the arrival of another beautiful summer day. In all, it seemed like a perfectly normal morning. A tall, rather nervous-looking man was walking down one of the city’s main streets, heading towards the mighty Eiffel Tower. He was carrying a light bag containing a pair of climbing shoes and a T-shirt to replace the smart, ironed shirt that he had on. Alongside him was a young woman with long, well-groomed brown hair, who was wearing a casual outfit of jeans and a polo-shirt. They seemed to be having a heated conversation but made sure to keep their voices down, so that the few people they walked past could not hear them. Of course, this precaution was unnecessary, as everyone they came across was still completely absorbed in their dreamy thoughts. The strange couple soon arrived at their destination, but separated straightaway. Once he had found an empty bench to sit on, the man swapped his hard leather footwear for the climbing shoes he had brought, whilst the woman hurried away to the nearest café. What happened next was totally unexpected: the man started climbing the Eiffel Tower, quite hesitantly at first, but more enthusiastically with each step he took. He was moving rapidly, like a spider, his long arms and legs stretched wide in opposite directions. From time to time, he would stop his ascent and look at the city over his shoulder. His capacity to climb without a rope, without fearing that he could die at any moment, had always been one of his biggest prides, and knowing that hundreds of people would see him in action filled him with great egocentric happiness. On the whole, the mysterious climber was thrilled about what he was going to achieve; however, a part of him also felt guilty for how his companion was going to take advantage of the situation…

Without him really realising, people started gathering beneath him, adding themselves to the never-ending crowd peculiar to this part of the city. All that one could hear was a mixture of camera flashes, shouting, whistling and gasping. Television presenters were commenting on what was probably going to be the headline in tomorrow’s newspapers. Whilst everyone was standing confused at the bottom of the tower, the young woman, who knew exactly what was going on, started wandering through the crowd from stranger to stranger, from gasping old lady to chuckling teenager, swiftly filling the little bag she had brought with her. Of course, there was too much chaos for anyone to take any notice of her, and she was very much aware of that. After around an hour of ascending the tower, looking down and smiling to himself, the man finally arrived at the top and, without a word, he took the lift and went back down to where a hysterical crowd was impatiently waiting for him. Barging his way through them, he went to find the possessions that he had deposited on a bench earlier and, after picking them up, he rapidly moved away from the gathering of journalists, tourists, teenagers, businessmen and others. When they realised the show was over, the mass of people started dispersing, each one going back to their daily routine. They were all so wrapped up in their petty concerns that none of them realised that their purses had gone.

Grace Keeler UVI Form

Tiwa Sagoe LVI Form

Runner Up

The First Lady of Civil Rights Rosie Norman LV Form

I boarded the bus at 6pm; it was raining outside and as I paid my fare I gazed, worn-out, into the drizzle. I ambled down the bus to the coloured section and sat down in the first row, exhausted after a long day at work. I stared out of the window and watched drearily as the fat, sluggish drops fell and hit the pavement, making a dull, drumming noise that was strangely comforting. It was hot and sticky on the bus; I couldn’t wait to get off. At the third stop, a man got on the bus, the white people’s seats were already full and so were the black seats - the bus driver demanded that I move.

Everywhere I looked I saw injustice: black people being murdered for something they had been unjustly accused of, or being savagely beaten in the streets until their blood ran into the dust. I saw how my people suffered. It made me so angry to think that one human could be so cruel and heartless to another just because of their skin colour. Even though I wanted to do something, I felt I couldn’t and I knew that hundreds of other people felt the same way too. We needed somebody to kick start it, to light the spark so the dynamite would blow up and everything would change.

I was born on February 4th 1913 in Tuskegee, Alabama. I grew up on my grandparents’ farm; I was mostly brought up by my grandmother, as my mother and father were usually at work, and later my father left us. My mother was a teacher in the local coloured school and my father was a carpenter. As a young girl, I saw how black people suffered: I would walk past fields of black workers sweating in the blistering heat whilst white farmers forced the work out of their tired and aching bodies. It didn’t take long for me to realise that there were two kinds of worlds: a black one and a white one. For some reason, that I didn’t understand then, the white world seemed like an easier place to live. When I was young, I went to the local school and every day me and my brother would have to take the long walk through the fields to school and back. It was a strenuous walk in the heat of the scorching sun. I remember seeing the bus pass by everyday but back then, it was just a way of life: there was no school bus in the area for black children and we weren’t allowed on the same bus as the white children. At the time we didn’t question it; we just got on with it.

The day had been a normal day: I woke up at 5:30am to make my way, by bus, to the dressmakers where I worked. I worked a full day and, by the time I had finished, I was very fed up. I was fed up with all the haughty white women coming in and treating me like some sort of contagious germ, like they were above me. I was fed up with having to do as they ordered. Most of the time I just wanted to slap their pretty little faces until they remembered that I was a person as well.

As I grew up, I began to notice just how hard a time black folks had. I saw speeches given by Martin Luther King that were inspiring and moving and it made me want to do something. People were already beginning to act but not quickly enough. Didn’t they see that if somebody didn’t do something soon, nothing was going to change? The white people just seemed to be ahead of us every step of the way, trying to make our lives as difficult as possible. It wasn’t fair and they knew it.

When it happened, I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I wandered down to the end of the bus and sat down. It was just a day like any other day. At the third stop, the man got on the bus; he was quite content standing up but the bus driver saw and demanded that I move. Until then, I had been quietly minding my own business, but I snapped back to reality at this demand. It took me only a few seconds to realise that, no matter what, I was not going to move for him. I felt a huge rush of anger and determination engulf my body like a quilt on a cold night. Miss Parks, I thought, this is your chance to do something about all the injustice you have seen. This is your chance to stand up for yourself. I controlled the usual urge to get up and concede. I carried on starring silently into the rain. I would not give in again.

Runner Up

Sirens Lily Innes LV Form

The icy seawater sprayed up against my face, my cheeks were numb and all I could taste was salt. My eyes stung as if the saltwater was slowly but savagely gnawing its way into them. The jagged rock beneath me pressed into my feet and I could feel a perpetual sharp pain as if I was standing on a bed of knives. I tried in vain to think of anything, anything but the pain, for I knew that if I did not, I would go mad.

Even the pain, the cold and the immeasurable emptiness were better than what I saw: there, on the grey horizon, was the indubitable silhouette of a ship. My whole being filled with dread, in my head I begged it to turn around but I knew it was in vain. Oh, those poor men, their families! I knew I should not think about them, for I knew their fate and it was not a kind one.

I looked around me, but that only made me feel even more hopeless. Everything was the same colourless grey and the sea stretched out endlessly in front of me. The island was devoid of life and sharp pieces of rock prodded out in all directions making it perilous to traverse. I thought about the time when I had been free, when my sister and I wandered wherever we wished. The memory was too painful, so I let it go and turned my face back towards the heaving waves. I wished I had not, for what I saw made me tremble with fear and I struggled to remain upright.

Too quickly I saw the ship getting bigger and bigger as it approached our island. I started to try to guess how many people a ship like that would be carrying, but I managed to check myself. Soon I could see the sails clearly and, eventually, the outlines of men became visible even to my damaged eyes. I struggled against the inevitable. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sing, do NOT sing!â&#x20AC;&#x2122; I repeated to myself again and again, getting louder and louder, and finally shouting it out into the spray. I knew that my sister, Pisinoe, was trying equally as hard, struggling in vain. I could feel it coming, but I could not resist the urge however hard I tried.

As the words sprang from my mouth, I tasted salt again; this time it was not just the salt from the thunderous waves, but also the salt from my tears - tears that now streamed down my face, warm against my freezing skin. I sang and sang, until I was no longer aware of anything but the deadly melody I was involuntarily forming. Then he jumped - the first one - unable to resist the haunting, calling song spilling from my lips. I knew then that it was no good, no good trying to stop myself. I knew that once the first sailor succumbed, the others would undoubtedly follow. Many died from the bitter cold, others drowned, sinking into the inky black water never to find their way back up, and still more were dashed to pieces on the sharp, ominous rocks surrounding the island. Not a single man reached us - no-one ever did.

No, they do not have coins to pay the ferryman; they will never be at rest, they will be forever wandering, never still, and it is my doing. If there are any words with which to describe my guilt, I have yet to hear them. When every last man had disappeared into the raging depths, I collapsed, exhausted, onto the rocks. I cared not for the stabbing pains running up my legs as the razor-sharp edges of the rocks dug into my skin. I sat there and watched the now empty ship as it sailed away, pitching, plunging, lurching and reeling on the inconstant, fickle sea. I sat there until I could no longer see the ship against the blue-grey backdrop of the rolling waves. All the while, the tears continued to roll piteously down my aching face.

I know as well as anyone that there is no worse way to die. Unlike those who die quietly among their family and friends, those sailors would not be on their way to the underworld.

Sophia Guinness UVI Form

Emily Chaffer UVI Form

UIV Form Poetry Winner

A sonnet for my sister By Rachel McNeile UIV Form Shall I compare you to a spring flower When the clouds clear and the sky is blue and bright? Or maybe you represent an April shower, When the day isn’t great and you put up a fight. Despite arguments, when I see you grin and smile, You’re a friend and a shoulder to lean on when I’m sad. For you, I would run many a mile. Life without you? I would probably go mad! You were one of the first people I knew; We have so many memories, some a bit crazy! I know you so well, I could write a book about you; Sometimes you can’t be bothered and are a bit lazy. When I’m without you, it’s like a painful blister – You’re my beautiful, caring, older sister.

My Sister By Aimee Tian UIV Form My sister’s eyes are not like tranquil water on a moonlit night; Roses may be red, but there are no roses on those lips of hers; Her hair is not a curtain of rippling gold, shone on by the light, But a chocolate brown river is what tumbles down from her head in a blur. Her voice, in times of comfort, is always reassuring at the time, Though her voice is not as beautiful as a nightingale that sings sweetly in the dusk. Her cheeks, though sometimes rosy from the cold of snow and the wind of chimes, Are not like beating hearts and, if they were red, they would be like rust. Flowers may bloom in sun, but her skin will be covered in freckles. If feet walk like mice, lightly and softly brushing the ground, My sister walks with heavy feet that are trapped in shackles. If snow be purest white, no snow in her skin would there be found. Despite her endless imperfections, she is perfect to me through each day; If love be perfect, she is perfect in every way.

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My View Jess Patel LV Form A swirl of sand in the warm haze, Cargo ships which look like sailing boats upon a queer pond, Figures of surfers riding those intense waves, One moment they’re there, one moment they’re gone. The swooping gulls fly overhead, Carried by the light spring breeze, Whilst I’m watching their young being fed, The angry cormorant is waiting to seize. Fragile harbours are home to few, Shells and all sorts can be found by the beach, Homemade ale waiting to brew, Fish at speeds too fast to reach. All of these things seem so near, Their beauty will always stay clear and new, In Cornwall, there is no need to fear, Especially not from the things I see in my view.

Dear Anonymous By Verity Page LV Form Dear Anon, I’ve written this note To say I love the things you wrote. I love the way you change your style, You’re so adroit and versatile. From Rolling Thunder, Ode to Joy, To Arabian Nights and The Farmer’s Boy, I read them all with great delight, Is there anything you cannot write? You make me dream of beggars, liars, Kings and ladies, holy friars; Some so simple, others deep, You make me laugh, but sometimes weep. But a burning question’s on my mind, I ask myself from time to time, Your work is known of near and far, But no one knows quite who you are.

MIV Form Poetry Winner

To Fall Frances Arnold MIV Form This is the end. Everything we have, everything we never had Going Going Gone. The stars, once orbs of fire, Marvellous Wonderful Gone Replaced by cracked dust, stark and ugly. The lightning of passion is gone, All the sparks of electricity have disappeared, Ruled by craving, Poisonous craving, A craving that reaches into you and Tears out your humanity. A single apple plucked off a tree, Once fresh, bright and whole, Now gnarled, rotten, broken, Except A seed Falls to the ground, Round Small New. This is the end. This is a beginning.

Cicely Haslam UVI Form

Pilot Jemima Webb MIV Form I woke up drenched in sweat. Please don’t come true, I prayed. That night I’d dreamt about failing the most important exam of my life; quite frankly, it was a nightmare. Today was my big day; I’d always wanted to be a pilot. I’d never told anyone because I knew what they would say: ‘Don’t be silly Michael.’ I jumped out of bed and, after having a cold shower (Mum always forgets to switch on the hot water), dressed in my favourite jumper. Then I wolfed down a bowl of Cheerios whilst gathering my stuff together. ‘You’ll do great today, darling, just remember to check your answers afterwards,’ Mum said, ruffling my hair as she walked into the kitchen. ‘Yes, Mum, I know. I promise I’ll check. Wish me luck!’ I said, trying for her sake to sound cheerful. ‘I think I’ll need it,’ I said under my breath. I gave her a quick hug and reluctantly walked out of the front door. I opened my backpack when I was out of the house and took out the revision guide. I flicked through the pages trying to take some of it in, but my brain was still half-asleep. I had tried to have a good night’s sleep last night, but I was just too nervous. The walk to school is always a tiring one, I live in a small village, so everybody knows everybody and I usually have to say hello to at least five people on my way. When I arrived at school, there was the usual buzz of people doing late revision in preparation for their exams. It was busy in the playground and seeing everyone made me more nervous. How embarrassing would it be if I failed? I felt a tap on my back and I turned round to see my best mate, Tom. Luckily for him, Tom never worried about anything; he wasn’t bright but he didn’t really care how he did - unlike me. ‘Hi mate!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nervous?’ ‘I feel awful. I had the worst dream last night and I think I’m going to fail,’ I blurted out. ‘Wow, dude, calm it. You’re going to be fine, anyway it’s no big deal if you fail,’ said Tom casually. ‘I know but I really really want to do well. Anyway, we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up.’ Sighing, I beckoned him up the school field towards the classrooms.

The exam room was quiet and, as I entered, Mrs Wright was standing in the doorway. ‘Michael Evans,’ she said whilst checking a list, ‘middle row, third seat on the right. Good luck.’ I nodded and walked over to the seat. When I had my pencil case out on the desk, I just sat there staring at the wall. I jumped as I heard our Headmistress over the tannoy. ‘Morning girls and boys, I am very pleased to see that you are excited about your exams, but please absolutely NO flying in the corridors. Thank you.’ Just as the Head finished speaking, Mrs Wright gave me my exam paper titled: A Level Flying Written Paper. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I walked back home. The exam was over and all I had to worry about now were the results. The questions were challenging, but nothing that I hadn’t done before or learnt about in my revision. If I didn’t pass this exam, it was all over, my dream would never come true: I would never even be allowed to go to college, never mind flying school. I had always wanted to be a pilot, ever since I was a child. I can remember looking out of the window and seeing all the huge planes flying through the sky - it just looked amazing. I knew it would never happen if I failed my exams. ‘Muuuum,’ I shouted, as she quickly ran down the stairs. ‘How did it go, how did it go? Tell me everything!’ she exclaimed. I pushed past her and walked into the living room. ‘It was better than I expected; I think it went ok.’ ‘Was it easy, or did you find what they asked you to do hard?’ she said, following me into the living room and sitting beside me. I didn’t reply straight away, thinking hard. ‘Mum?’ I said questioningly. ‘Yes, sweetie, are you ok?’ she said sympathetically, obviously worried. ‘I want to be a pilot.’ ‘A what, darling, a pilot?’ I nodded. ‘Don’t be silly, Michael, oh come on, you know you can’t, darling: you’re a bee!’

Gladiator Emily Peel LV Form It is not butterflies in my stomach but serpents, writhing and twisting in a distorted shape, diverting me from what I need to concentrate on to win, to survive. My goal is hazy and indistinct; there is no way to prepare myself for the challenges that face me. Death is the opponent in my upcoming fight. It is quiet in the space in which we sit, a chilling quiet that pierces the bones of oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body. A cacophony of silence surrounds us; it is almost tangible; it is an imperceptible pressure on our backs, a burden which cannot be lifted. Benches line the four walls and bars block the windows which cage us until it starts. The air tastes stale and stagnant, like sweat and fear, unclean bodies and disease all merged together, clinging to our bodies like parasites. I lift my face to the smell of sawdust and leather, and the stench of men about to die. My hand unconsciously runs across the sharpened blade of my knife and I wince when a drop of scarlet liquid rolls down my finger. The men swivel round to regard me, an unrecognisable expression on their faces. My fingers grasp at my only other weapon: a long spear resting against my exposed knees. I take the slim, ash shaft and marvel at the object which is an extension of my arm; the sharpened head is refulgent and gleaming as it bathes in the bronze autumnal light. I swipe it through the air, practising my fighting dejectedly, without putting any effort into it. Dust motes divide as the deadly object impales the tranquil expanse of air.

Hysteria rises in my stomach and, for a moment, I think about trying to escape, yet I know that I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t - it would be insane. I think of my family and I see them by our farmhouse surrounded by olive trees. In my memory they are happy, they are well, they are alive. It is a bittersweet moment, as the realisation of their death hits me in a way that it never has before. It is almost ironic, seeing as I will be reunited with them in the next few hours. My vision blurs and I unconsciously lift my hand to my eyes, it comes away damp, all my grief clinging to my grimy skin. The gong sounds. The tigers roar. Around me are men with apprehension written on their faces and others with blank faces set in an emotionless expression. I wish for my face to appear like that, for the lines permanently etched into my face to uncrease and smooth out leaving no sign of worry, fear or defeat. For I know I will be defeated, that is certain, try as I might. We all look at each other, looking for some sort of comfort but not having the heart to give it. We rise in unison, a mutual, unspoken understanding between us. The door opens and my comrades, like a swarm of wasps, snap into a sort of hysterical frenzy as they rush into the arena. Like true gladiators, they snarl as they viciously stab our trained opponents. Time does not stand still, nor does everything seem still, instead, everything is rushed and fuzzy. I see blood and death, all from my place behind the gates. I enter.

A feeling of discomfort and anxiety washes over me as I think about all the people who will be observing this gruesome entertainment and my personal humiliation: men and women, patricians and plebeians. It has been rumoured that the emperor himself will make an appearance. I shiver, my bare chest exposed. I am frozen and the canvas loincloth does nothing to help with the bitter temperature. I cannot feel my feet, they too are cold, and slaves like me do not have the luxury of sandals. The manica chafes against my wrist uncomfortably, I debate taking it off but I choose not to - it may prolong my life.

Leto on the Island of Delos Delphyne Findley-Ramsbotham LV Form

Fists smash. Daggers gash. Knives and glass tend to lacerate and slash. Finally, I awoke. The sky surrounding my wooded outcrop was tormented: dark, painful shadows enveloped the dying moon as if it was being smothered by a million starving mothers. The sun, puce and bruised, staggered drunkenly towards the verge where earth meets air, where men have been known to vanish: they slip, unobserved, through the hems and seams of time into the unknown. Delos is an entranced, bohemian island that drifts pointlessly across the great oceans, never stable. Few people inhabit this dirty quagmire. The vast plains of earth are interspersed with gnarled forlorn copses. Weeds straggle and beg at the foot of dilapidated trees. Surrounding the island sail schizoid swans, who savage and maul the sterns of passing galleys. Birds belch overhead whilst, in the forgotten olive groves, ferocious cows shuffle and sneeze. The fields, barren and battered from heat exposure, have been invaded and encroached upon by the vicious woods, who overtook their edges and duplicitously infiltrated their territory. I concede that I alone am to blame for my incarceration. It was my own capricious lack of loyalty. I should have trusted Hera, however venomously she had given her advice. How can every other creature around me be able to inflict both joy and catastrophe so freely? They are all unworthy and blissfully ungrateful for the freedom I so desperately desire. Even the air in my lungs cloys: it asphyxiates and causes me to splutter.

Some women have survived; Callisto guides lost travellers to shelter and smiles down upon them from the Great Bear, Arctos. Seen every night for the rest of time, eternally a source of help, she gives the desperate and deserted hope. Although, she was turned into an actual bear first. Matters had escalated since I had been vindictively cast out of Olympus: I was unwelcome in any place. In fact, I was ostracised from any area of firm ground. I was a wanderer, a pregnant woman daily assailed by chthonic demons, with no place to bear my child let alone bring it up. Which is why I came here. In times gone by, there was no one person who, in comparison, was more devoted to Hera than I. Then, after one indiscretion, her love for me turned to unappeasable rage. Zeus kept his image intact, which was the accepted norm during these situations it seems. I just wish I was free. Dithyrambic bees stuttered heavily from flower to flower; selfish beetles snored; phantasmagoric butterflies ignored the outside and gazed enraptured at the chrysalises hanging from the protruding tangle of branches above my head, silky empty cobwebs strewn across them. Activity had long since ceased, the spiders had become bewitched by their own reflections. I felt wickedly corrupt pain claw at my abdomen: long, rough torn fingernails stabbed and dragged, biting through my skin deep into my stomach. Was this our child? My body had enlarged, had bloated out into some type of voluminous vessel, but with this increase of proportion, I had withered. It was an unhealthy, malignant growth. My stature had depleted to that of an ancient, crippled, contorted hag, twisted and knotted up in an inescapable snare that ripped unbearably at my torso.

My clearing contained little pleasing company. Banishment by the queen of the gods does not yield contentment. All were of a materialistic nature, even the insects did not lack the insatiable serpentine hunger of the self-obsessed. To them, I was a lamb: innocent, obedient and about to be led to slaughter.

Doubled over in agony, a barbaric scythe began to tear and scrape at my stomach. Then something utterly different began to move, to kick and struggle within me, it strained itself and began to wrestle, to battle for life.

I accept that I am lucky - look at what happened to the rest of Zeusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; women, the ravaged mothers of all those children: Io was conjured into a heifer; Lamia was transformed into a guilt-stricken, child-eating monster and many of the others were simply killed.

A new smell filtered into the dank phosphorus fragrance of the wood: it was the caustic odour of man.

Sadistic Hera.

There were two.

A stooping, cadaverous figure broke through the clearing, a beacon of hope in a decrepit, rusting form. He approached as softly as a roof tile clatters to the ground. The moths immediately rushed obsequiously around him. Finally, eventually, motherhood had materialised. Or was it Charon, come to release me from this hell?

Vassula Wong UV Form

Cicely Haslam UVI Form

The Atomic Bomb Sassie Patel LV Form The wind whispers through the derelict land; The land is bare, nothing stands. Buildings and objects were completely obliterated, The people of this land did not know how much they were hated. When the bomb was dropped, they all ran screaming, For miles around, hearts stopped beating. From the bomb that was dropped so much destruction was created, From the skies the enemy watched, and waited and waited. There was nothing anyone could do, everything was gone; Everything vanished from the single drop of a bomb. The land was dead, not a soul had survived; Anything that once lived was now vaporised. The wind whispers through the derelict land, The wind is death, let it take your hand.

Nobody Cared Emily Peel LV Form Dust on the floor, Lock on the door, Alone in the room, Nobody cares. Sick in health, All by themself, Lost in the world, Nobody cares. Twisting and writhing, Only just surviving, Doubles over in pain, Nobody cares. A knock on the wall, Dragged into the hall, Screaming and shouting, Nobody cares. Pulls them by the hair, Sits them in a chair, Points a gun to their head, World goes black. And there is nothing. Only silence. Because nobody cared.

Seasons Amber Dunne UIV Form Signs of life are emerging from every corner: snowdrops, bluebells, daffodils, crocuses and many more bulbs, force themselves up through the tangled forest of grass and earth, fighting for breathing space. Lambs pester their mothers to play with them, dancing in the long, luscious grass, dozing under the gently swaying trees in the soft spring sun. Shadows dance like fairies on the woodland floor. The aroma of earth, flowers, animals and spring fills my nostrils, whilst my ears are engulfed by the sound of twittering birds all frantically trying to find food for their newly-hatched chicks.

A couple more paces and a scene drastically different from the previous window’s stares blankly out at me. Whereas the other window’s had oozed life and broadcast amazing colours, this one shows Death. Tall, bare, lifeless trees sinisterly sway in the icy cold, breathtaking wind. Snow carpets the ground, smothering any daredevil plants. Frost glitters like crystals on all the bushes. The brook, frozen solid, traps everything - condemning life to a watery doom. The reek of the dead overpowers my senses. The sound of silence presses in on my eardrums.

After a couple of steps, two broken breaths which seem to last a decade, I reach a second window and look out tentatively, unsure what I might see. The scene has changed but only slightly; everything appears somewhat more mature. The colours are deeper: the leaves, instead of the light soft green, are now a dark, beautiful sea green. The flowers are now in full bloom, their faces turned upwards like they want to do God’s will. The brook bubbles and gurgles as it makes its way over and around rocks, down turquoise waterfalls ‘til finally reaching its destination. Baby birds fall out of their nests as they copy their parents in an attempt to learn how to fly.

I run forwards, away from the scene of the dead, with the eagerness of a child opening presents on Christmas Day, but darkness awaits me. Suddenly, a sense of fear and dread overpowers me, making me stop dead in my tracks. ‘I want to turn back’ is the only thought in my head but turning back is impossible. Flashbacks of my life, my regrets, ensue. Pressure on my back, like someone pushing me, forces me to step forward towards The Door…

One step. One pounding heart. One glorious sight. Splashes of gold, yellow, orange, red and green litter the treetops. The flowers’ younger glory slowly seeps back into the earth ready for next spring. Squirrels scamper hurriedly over the ground, desperately trying to scrounge the last few nuts before hibernation. Birds ready themselves for the long flight ahead of them. A battle-hardened robin catches the last few rays before autumn slowly dwindles into winter.

Olivia King LVI Form

The Church Anna Hastie UIV Form 2013 – Now I was walking through the soundless corridors, taking in all the magnificent pictures covering the walls. I was about to walk out of the room, when a painting caught my eye. I crept slowly towards it. It was an ordinary landscape, nothing special about it at all, but, as I looked closer, I noticed a clearing among the trees. There was something wrong with the picture… something was missing. 1568 – The Fugitive I ran and ran, through the fields, through the long, dry wheat whipping at my legs, I couldn’t stop - they were after me. The Queen’s men were after me. I saw them in the village looking for me; I escaped, but only just. I ran until I came to a plain, grey towering church. The church was my home: I was a Catholic priest on the run from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. I pulled hard on the heavy oak door, it opened slowly and I hurried inside and slammed it behind me, securing the iron bolts. The Painter Finally, I finished it, my masterpiece, my magnum opus. I looked at it again with proud eyes, taking in every detail. Everything was perfect now, down to the oak trees, the twilight sky, even the fine wooden joists of the church among the wheat fields. The Fugitive I made my way up the roughly hewn stone steps to the bell tower. I cowered beneath the window and peered out, but wished I hadn’t - I saw a troop of men with muskets and torches. I ducked out of the window, but it was too late: they had spotted me. I heard their voices, they were telling each other that they had seen me, and then their footsteps coming closer and closer. I heard their hammering knocks on the door. I prayed to God and thanked him for my life through the Apostle’s Creed because I knew that I didn’t have long. A small, insignificant tear dropped from my eye onto the firm, wooden floor and seeped into the musty floorboards. My head told me to pull myself together, that I must die a heroic martyr, not a lonely peasant with a weak and feeble mind. After a few minutes, which felt like hours, I heard the voices go silent. Nothing living moved and I could sense the tension in the air. I rose steadily and stole a glimpse out of the murky window.

The sky was darkening quickly, as though it was in a hurry to finish the day and end me, but a crimson streak of light ripped across the sky. It was beautiful and it broke my heart that this was the last time I would ever see God’s amazing power on earth. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief and tell myself that the soldiers had gone away, but then, something caught my eye: it was a faint spark of burning red on the edge of my vision. I looked closer and saw that the soldiers were stationed there, whispering in muffled voices to each other. Then I understood their awful plan with dread: killing me wasn’t enough for them, they were going to burn me alive. The Painter I was admiring my painting, telling myself how wonderful it was, when I looked out of the window one last time to check it against the landscape and I saw a burning light on the top of the hill. Something was burning, I could smell it in the hostile, glacial air. Then it struck me, it was the church; they were burning down the church. The church had wood running down its spine, so the flames quickly lapped up over it - it was a roaring flame in the distance. I suddenly realised something and looked at my painting. It was wrong: soon there would be no church on the horizon. My painting was ruined and the Queen would punish me if I displayed it in public. I ran over to my painting cupboard and brought out my palette. I painted over the church, turning it into an ugly green smudge. It wasn’t as perfect as I wanted it to be, but it would have to do. 2013 – Now I stared at the painting, trying to figure out what was wrong, what was missing but the more I hopelessly looked at it, the more the clearing on the hill looked as though it was wasn’t meant to be there. I looked for the name around the painting. A little plaque told me everything: The church, painted in 1568 by an artist who witnessed the burning down of a church that held the last Catholic priest to be killed by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth I. The painter had to erase the church from the picture so that the Queen could deny that her men burned down a church of their own God.

Charlotte Paterson UV Form

World War I

Let Us Remember By Hannah McLintock LV Form Let us remember those who fell Amid the Flanders Fields, Where poppies grow and memories dwell And Mother Mary kneels. But more than them, oh so much more! The women left behind. No gallant death for them, oh no, To home they were entwined. And when the mournful news stepped in, Into another house, Another set of curtains closed, Another ravaged spouse.

My Last Patient By Imogen Ellis LV Form Freshly washed white sheets now stained a deep red, Lungs choke violently with the deathly stench, The wounded soldier shifts his heavy head, As he prays for others still in the trench. His wild heart now beats, but with painful cries. I search for the nurses in his section. He holds my reflection within his eyes, His face now a chalky, pale complexion. I read the card written for his lover, My quivering lips touch his clammy head. ‘Now you sleep tight my brave little brother,’ My apron now damp with the tears I shed.

Harriet Gerard Leigh LVI Form

The End of Dreams Phoebe Love LV Form No time to think, No one to dream with, Too late to imagine. Apply your mask of twisted disguise And make room for those Whose time for laughter is long to die. A voice tickles my ears, I’m without companion. Drifting in a starless space A thousand grains of sand Grate away my burning soul. Crimson pours from every pore. Constant. Ecstatic. Agony. At sight of an ethereal face, All falls hushed, Tranquillity terminated. Over the edge, I tip too far, Conclusion never comes. An incomplete end to An incomplete story, Searching for the never to be found. O fateful wheel has spun thy web, Curse the Fates who cut his thread.

Alexis Purdy LV Form

The Nurses By Eve Webster LV Form Behind the thunderous roars of fiery hell, A woman in white wheels a severed body clutching to a soul. Another body cries like a babe, shrapnell’d by a shell, Another spotless angel heals men as helpless as foals. But these women aren’t just Angels, they’re soldiers too, But armed with bandages and kind words, not guns. These women bravely did, not thought: ‘What can I do?’ They fought the enemy, saving our fathers, husbands, sons. These women did not say self-righteously, ‘I would if I could,’ Because they knew that anyone can. They wilfully went and did their part, did good, Not just cowardly sent out a scared young man. These women knew it wasn’t a war where only men fight and fall; These women knew it was a war where everyone fights for all.

Name & Form

The Tree Juliet Baker UV Form I stood still and peered out past the copper leaves onto a meadow littered with buttercups: a scattering of golden stars in a green sea. A cluster of beaming faces lolled about on the moss-green floor, munching cheerily on cheese and ham sandwiches, ripe strawberries and melting chocolate. They erupted in raucous laughter as soda pop and ginger beer exploded everywhere. The group began to cartwheel and roly-poly through the billowing waves of foxgloves and wild parsley, and they sprayed dandelion seeds into the air. The group of friends began to explore, scampering over thistles and brambles where the Red Admirals lounged, leaping through hedges seething with sumptuous honeysuckle and dog rose, squishing clover and daisies, and paddling in the nearby stream. Then one of them stumbled upon me, falling through my veil of foliage. She let out a cry of delight and all of the others soon rushed over. I blushed crimson as they stood there speechless, staring in awe at my graceful, slender limbs. I rustled with satisfaction. All of a sudden, they sprinted into my arms and swung up onto my robust frame. Their scurrying soothed my lichencoated skin. I was lulled to sleep by their slipping and sliding. In a stupor, the flies buzzed about. Shafts of sunlight flickered upon me – I glowed rich maroon. There was a great flurry of wind and, in a paroxysm, I lurched forward. The girl screeched as she soared into the air like a bird, only to fall with a thump on the hard debris. I was left paralysed. The other children abandoned me to fetch help, thoroughly alarmed. The girl’s face looked like a snowdrop: mottled purple and blue. Bindweed draped over her fragile body. Tearfully, she examined her scratches. An anxious parent soon came with plasters and cream, and the snivelling girl was whisked away.

Thoroughly shaken, I was left wondering - what happens next? What do I do? It was entirely my fault! A swift floated up into the sky. I watched as wisps of cloud whizzed past. I was green with envy: I wanted to uproot myself from the ground and go far, far away to glimpse the intricate mosaics of woodland and undulating landscapes for myself and abandon any sense of guilt. Instead, I was left crippled and alone. I was engulfed in an omnivorous mist; a shroud concealed my deformed and knotted body. I became hollow inside and, as it grew colder, I was left naked and exposed. The whole meadow was barren and desolate - not a bloom in sight - everything had wilted. Nettles and ivy encroached upon the once idyllic scene. Mushrooms and fungi rotted my flesh, their musky stench stifling. Trees’ haggard and crude branches drooped and snapped. The stream was murky and stagnant. Time crawled on. Spring came and crocuses nestled at my feet. Primroses, bluebells and orchids intermingled on a thick carpet of green. Butterflies flourished on the coppiced floor. Warblers gorged themselves on rich fruits such as blackberry and elder. My canopy was quickly replenished. Emerging from the undergrowth, I saw them. I was overjoyed and relieved! Their faces were vibrant and mischievous as they clutched a rope and a small plank of wood. I ruffled my leaves and stood still.

Tiwa Sagoe LVI Form

Travelling with Dust Tilda White UIV Form ‘Isaac! Bring that one over here, quick!’ A man with a white shawl, a dark beard and green eyes pointed his large finger at a slightly taller, scruffier version of himself - Isaac, my master - and then at me. ‘Key?’ Isaac questioned, pointing a finger at me. ‘Yes, come on! We don’t have all day!’ Isaac led me by a rope and handed me to the leader, who then pulled me over to a woman and a man both dressed in scarves. The man smelled of wood and the woman had a kind face with a big smile. ‘There you go,’ the green-eyed man said, with his dirty hand out, palm facing upwards. He handed the man the rope and the man placed something in the grubby leader’s hand which he snatched quickly and murmured, ‘I think it’s called Kay or something.’ I dared not correct him, for I would be whipped and, anyway, nothing would come of it. I turned to look behind me, the rope hurting my neck, to see the leader checking the substance in his hand. Isaac was just staring. I turned back to find the man and woman looking directly at me, both grinning. I tried to copy them but my broken teeth hurt so I nodded my head. They placed something heavy on my back. It was so heavy that I fell forward a little, but the man caught me and I started walking. The weight was not pleasant. The man was talking to the woman, who I could not see, and she replied in a fair voice. We travelled a very long way that day, along a dusty road the trail went all sandy. They didn’t talk to me. Why would they? It would be weird to talk to their help.

Isaac. His name popped into my uneducated brain. I missed Isaac; I would see him soon, I hoped. Isaac would talk to me, he would feed me too. This thought made me hungry – I had missed my daily meal. The man started talking to somebody new, using a different, simpler, tone of voice. I could not tell who he was talking to because I had closed my sun-hurt eyes, but I opened them when there was no answer. Was he talking to me? If I replied, they would laugh at my voice, but it seemed I didn’t need to. ‘Kay? Hello? Is it Kay? Shall we stop? It will soon be dark and we will need to rest for tomorrow’s journey.’ The weight was taken off my back and I saw the woman again. ‘I’m Joe, or Joseph, and this is my beautiful wife.’ I didn’t hear anymore, for I was almost instantly asleep. I woke at dawn and we set off again. The load felt heavier today. We travelled all day and arrived at dusk. I didn’t like the place where we stopped: they wouldn’t let us in and animals weren’t allowed inside. There was a lot of noise and we were hurried off round the back. They tied me up next to the ox and I shared his food. ‘Thank goodness for the donkey, Kay, this wouldn’t be possible without him.’ The load was heavy because of the baby, a miracle baby. What was his name? Jess? Just? Jesus?

Francesca Pullan UV Form

The Beat of the Jungle Marina Vestbirk LV Form An orchestra of animals Tuning to the beat. The pitter-patter of the ants Strutting underneath. Fling and flummoxing monkeys fly High from tree to tree. An orchestra of animals Tuning to the beat. A chorus of amphibians Blurping to the tune. Water bouncing off the leaves Glistening in the moon. Snaking, slurping, slithering snakes Masters of dark gloom. A chorus of amphibians Blurping to the tune. A strangely peculiar creature approaches Like nothing Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever seen, Ropes entangled like writhing worms, A filthy crown on top its head, It has four limbs, yet walks on two. It stares my way with beady eyes. Menacing and unpredictable. What will it do next? The beat vandalised, Skyscraper trees tumbling. Encompassing my tree with barrages, I shall never escape. The rhythm dissipated, harmonies corrupted, The melody never to sing again.

Heaven or Hell By Sophie Mallinson MIV Form Always there, but never really. So great, but easily avoided. Perfect, but so evil. Devastating, but so much hope. Sacrificial, but life is wasted. Everything is created, but destruction echoes. Favours one, but the other is lost. All is light, but darkness thrives. So much power, but for what use? Irresistible, but must escape. Running towards, but also from. Knows all, but so much to be discovered. The beginning, but the end draws near. All you crave, but it poisons you. Love radiates, but will betray. Trustworthy, unreliable. Heaven Or Hell?

The Tree By Hope Nicholson MIV Form It starts as a tiny seed, A new beginning, With a brown shape, Beautifully figured, Ridges dominating the smoothness. Suddenly, it plunges into the soil, Soft, strange and amazing, Burrowing down into the depths of imagination, Crossing paths with magical creatures, Lonely, yet popular, Scared, but excited. As it relaxes, the seed starts to grow, With an effort, it splits and a shoot comes out, Like nothing before, But tradition for all trees, Leaves slowly spurt out of the new creature.

Phoebe Pugh LVI Form

The Tree By Annabel Dring LV Form He stands alone, withered and dry, No leaves on his branches, no colour in the sky. Branches snap off from the weight of the snow, The cold has set in; he is unable to grow. Animals begin to dash and leap Across the branches of the aged tree. Hedgehogs come out of their dark, long sleep, Cherry blossoms flourish, helping the busy bee. The leaves are replenished, the foliage is full, The sheep have been sheared, there is plenty of wool. His widespread arms provide an abundance of shade, Autumn is almost here, heat starts to fade. He no longer has leaves of green, But reds and yellows with a shiny sheen. Squirrels collect their nuts and acorns For hibernation from dusk â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til dawn.

It gets used to the sensation and matures, It is still young and exploring, However, the same habits dominate its mind, It names itself seedling, Joy is its emotion for many hours a day, The seed is still with it, happily attached. With a long goodbye, The seed separates from the green growth And a small tree is living and thriving, It is just beginning many processes, But is bending on the wind, Snapping is a risk, but it still survives. It is now growing And a strong trunk is starting to form, It is attempting to make fruit And meeting many inquisitive animals, The birds are keeping its branches strong And it is still young, yet maturing. The tree has now reached full maturity, It has now explored enough And is calm and relaxed And used to daily routines, The fruit it is producing is juicy and delicious, Many seeds have been dispersed and germinated. After many winters, the tree slowly dies And breaks its branches like bones, Just a stump is left because human destruction Takes its toll. The spirit is left in a boat, Adrift in the open sea.

Cicely Haslam UVI Form

And Beyond Annabel Dring LV Form

The harbour was eerily quiet; the large expanse of water within the port’s walls sent a cold shiver down one’s back. The eye could only sense darkness and great depth. The enclosed water reflected the surrounding waterside buildings and their shadows. Boats, all varying in size, lined the pontoons, huge fishing boats gave off a strong stench of crab and seagulls circled aimlessly above them. There must have been forty yachts huddled close to the now silent and empty cafés and restaurants. There was a gentle buzz of noise from the cabins of the yachts. It was just before dawn and a group of young men had appeared on the deck of their yacht. The yacht must have been 60 feet in length and its hull was made from exquisitely varnished teak. There were eight young men and one older man - he had very coarse, rough skin and silvery wispy hair. It was clear he was a sailor; he was easily identified by his appearance. With the sound of grinding metal cogs, their engine rumbled into life. The engine spat and belched as the boat edged slowly out of its mooring. The stern and bow ropes were released from their iron cleats as the boat parted the expanse of water below, leaving a slight ripple in her wake. The sound of water against the wooden hull became more evident as the Skipper accelerated towards the huge sea beyond the harbour’s walls. Salt encrusted ropes swung in the early morning breeze and large sails were released from the rigging ready to be reattached and used for the day’s journey. The crew that were scattered around the deck began to attach and haul the sails into position. A large stretch of coastline lay to one side of the port’s walls, it was bare, and sheer white cliff faces clung to the mainland. Coves and inlets of shingle and pebble lay in their natural state, leaving jagged, deadly rocks on the shore. The boat began weaving along the ragged coastline, the water gurgled and bubbled around the hull. The yacht was now in full motion and caught the light breeze in its strong white sails. The landscape seemed so silent: no animals had woken and the sea only rippled as the waves broke on the shore.

A white flash of lightning shot across the sky and a thick layer of dark cloud obstructed the view of the yacht’s surroundings; only occasionally was a ghostly white sail of another vessel visible. The crew moved rapidly around the boat, pulling the sails in on a tight reef as the wind swept them off their course. Ropes swayed freely as the Skipper prepared to change the course of the yacht. As the wind picked up, the yacht began to heel over. The boat was no longer balanced, but gracelessly angled down towards the engulfing water below. The waves were angry and the size of them was increasing by the second. White froth gathered on the crest of each wave, like galloping white horses. The yacht rose quickly to the top of a wave and then crashed down awkwardly and unevenly into the trough hidden out of view. Water was covering the wooden deck of the seemingly miniscule boat in a vast and roaring sea. The sky was in a terrible rage; an emphatic and tremendous uproar could be heard from above. The bleak morning sky showed a scene that made one’s whole body tremble. Commands from the Skipper had been given, but he had little control or power over the yacht that was fighting against the storm’s anger. The yacht had drifted rapidly away from the sheltered coastline into the heart of the ocean. No other boats had dared to venture into this overpowering whirlwind of water. The boat was no longer moving forward, only viciously heeling over from the immense power of the wind and waves. The heavens had opened and rain was bucketing down. The deck of the boat was now covered in water and the crew members had only a flimsy guard rail between them and the engulfing ocean below. A loud scream struggled to be heard through the deafening sound of crashing waves and pounding thunder. A colossal wave engulfed the yacht completely, swamping anything and anyone who still had a grip on the rail – they were now being swept away aimlessly by the howling wind and water. Someone was in trouble. Someone was overboard, yelling and screaming at the top of his voice. There was little to keep him buoyant as the wind and waves crashed against each other. He was stranded. His ancient life jacket kept his head just above the water. The future was unknown.

Angel Wings Georgina Higgins UV Form The early 1970’s London glam rock scene was in full swing: anarchy was in and formality was out. London was buzzing over the outrageously flamboyant Jack Dean concert the night before. Jack Dean was a real artist, a performer. He had enough charisma and talent to completely captivate scores of audiences for hours on end. He was tall, with broad shoulders, blue eyes, slightly hollowed cheeks and voluptuous pink lips that made people strain to catch his every word. On that night, his naturally dark brown hair had been dyed blue, he was wearing a silver sequined body suit, white platform boots and huge white feathered angel wings that spread along the width of his back. As he walked out onto the stage with fog swirling around his feet, he looked not unlike you would imagine an angel to appear. The entire stage was draped in darkness but for a single spotlight on Jack’s white powdered, rouge-cheeked face. In his seemingly blank, heavily made-up eyes, there was a faint flash of fear, which vanished quickly, but did not go unnoticed; a slight smirk of arrogance was on his lips. Jack had a wife, an insignificantly beautiful socialite called Clarissa. Very few people knew her second name because nobody had ever asked or cared enough to find out. By her peers, she was only deemed useful because of her relationship with Jack. Apart from her apparent beauty, Clarissa was not special - in no way did she stand out or attract attention. She was beautiful in a conventional way, with long brown hair, small pink lips and a pretty round face. Her only memorable features were her deep ocean-blue eyes. Jack was not particularly attracted to her, in fact, the only thing they had in common, other than the same social group, was their joint habit of taking hard drugs like heroin and cocaine. When Jack first met Clarissa at a party in the glamorous West End of London, she had seemed fun. Their relationship had been something of a ‘whirlwind romance’.

When the couple were together, it was of the utmost importance to Jack that Clarissa did not upstage him: he must always be first to enter the room and the last to leave. This irritated Clarissa immensely because she felt that, as the woman in the relationship, people should marvel at and admire her. It angered her to the point that she almost hated him. When left alone, Clarissa’s thoughts would often stray to what life would be like without him. Life, she thought, would be far more interesting as Jack’s widow than as his less-fabulous wife. She liked the thought of it. Jack sat in his dressing room backstage. He could hear the audience cheering and shouting his name through the thin walls. Some of the fog was coming in beneath the dressing room door, adding a mystical, suffocating feeling to the room. The walls of the dressing room were painted a sunny shade of yellow, but they were ruined by large patches of damp creeping down from the corners of the room. The room itself was small and relatively empty, with only a table, on which there was a square mirror with lights around the edge and the chair in which Jack was sitting. He sat opposite the mirror looking into his own face, studying it with great interest as if it were showing somebody different. A small, nearly unnoticeable tear escaped down Jack’s white powdered, rouge-cheeked face. Bursting through the door, the stage manager shouted, ‘Five minutes, Mr Dean!’ With that call, Jack switched off the lights around the square mirror and sat in darkness until his final call. Jack Dean walked onto the stage with fog swirling around his feet and angel wings brushing against his back and stood in the spotlight. He did not say or do anything. The opening bar of the first song started to play. Jack Dean sang the first lyric with his melodic soft voice and then he sang no more.

LIV Form Poetry Winner

Autumn By Lucy Jefford LIV Form Rusty orange blur, speeding through the forest, Springing from a rotten stump, Scampering all over the shadowed wood, Scarcely seen by human eyes. An owl hoots, a leaf crackles, It pauses, startled, then continues on. Pearlescent pools of clear water Glint in the silver moonlight. A beacon begins in the heart of the woods, Licking at the ancient trees, Swallowing the forest whole, Brash sirens break the stillness. Water soaks into the matured bark, Wildlife escaping back and forth. A tomblike silence descends down, As the woodland turns to ash. The blur takes a final look As its habitat is ruined, Scampering to another wood, Disappearing foreverâ&#x20AC;Ś

Mid-Autumn Festival By Charlotte Newcombe LIV Form Gasps of delight as the full moon appears From behind the mountains, Everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hearts fill with joy, As children laugh with glee. Lanterns float gently up towards the moon, People crowd the beaches, All the children run towards the calm, waveless sea And send beautiful white flowers floating Out into the endless ocean. The smell of smoke hangs in the air, As people sit round campfires Eating moon cakes and watching the children play With glowsticks and small lanterns. Finally, the fun comes to an end: Flames are extinguished And the children are no longer laughing, Everyone is ready for bed. Tomorrow will be a day of rest. Charlotte Fitzwilliam-Lay UV Form

Juliet Baker UV Form

The Snowman Georgia Patterson LV Form Dappled sunlight poured through the trees, reflecting off the iced-over lake. I was trudging through a beautiful winter wonderland. Trees curved under the weight of the snow to form a perfect, majestic arch that resembled that of an abbey. The ice on the tree trunks had formed an intricate pattern similar to lace encrusted onto a wedding dress. The delicate icicles hanging from the branches looked sinister, waiting to fall on their next victims, but also gave the appearance of a sparkling chandelier. There was a gentle breeze whistling through the forest, it was as if the trees were whispering to me, telling me their dark secrets. We were searching for my little brother Johnny. He’d been missing for days and, at last, the council had sent out a search party made up of all the men in the village, a few policemen, my mother, father and me. My parents were distraught with panic and worry; every night my mother still set his place at the table in the hope that he would come home, but he never came. ‘Esther? Have you found anything yet?’ my father asked anxiously from a few metres back. ‘No, nothing but snow. I hate to think of him freezing in this weather,’ I mumbled. I know I should have been more reassuring or optimistic, but no one is happy when a child goes missing, especially when it is the sixth one in three months, and especially when it is your brother. The fact that my brother was the latest in a long line to disappear from our village in that short period of time meant that everyone was a suspect and that nobody trusted each other. Only this type of occurrence can rip a rural community like ours apart. The only thing that united anyone was that five of the eight families in Charlesworth had lost their sons, so at least they could support each other through the same pain. ‘I think I’ll gather the party together; it is getting too cold to go on. Just let me call your mother,’ he sighed. I grudgingly watched him turn away into the darkness as he went to find a signal. I didn’t feel comfortable being left alone in Moreton Wood, for that was where the gossip had pointed its finger and when there isn’t a logical explanation for something, people turn to rumour. It was said that all the boys were last seen making their way to the woods before they disappeared. That was another strange thing, all of the children who had gone missing were boys, no girls. No one could piece together the mystery, although I was determined to.

I knew my father was only a few metres away and would be coming back any minute, but I wanted to look for answers. I would simply look for some more clues before the search party came back and then I would return to the log I had been left sitting on. Besides, staying put made me feel unsafe and the idea of exploring whilst searching for my brother reassured me. I ventured deeper into the woods, hopping from rock to rock, clinging to the birch trees for support. I carried on walking, leaving my footprints in the thick blanket of snow, until I reached a clearing. I carefully looked around, noticing that there was no life apparent anywhere. I contemplated what was underneath the snow, perhaps shells of the creatures that used to inhabit the once teeming place, or maybe withered grass, only echoes of life. The torn amber sky stood in great contrast against the silhouette of the trees, which swayed in the wind like drunken soldiers. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure: not a human figure. Curious, I turned to face it and found that it was a snowman. It was a simply made snowman, just like a child’s. I cautiously edged towards it to inspect it further. I circled it a couple of times and then a dark wave came over me. The snowman was clothed in Johnny’s hat and scarf. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ I asked myself. I was petrified and confused. I should never have strayed from the log I was left sitting on by my father. ‘Dad,’ I yelled with all the volume I could manage with my gravelly voice. ‘Dad?’ I repeated again. No reply came. I looked back at the threatening snowman. It had moved. It was no longer standing a few metres away, it was now right in my face. Not only that, but the spindly twigs that made up its arms were raised in the air, as if it was waving at me. I couldn’t breathe, my airways started to choke up like an electrical system shutting itself down due to overheating. I collapsed in a crumpled heap in the snow with my back to the snowman, but I should never have turned my back on it. I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, a cold and withered hand…

Literalily

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Front cover artwork by Vassula Wong UV Form