St Mary's Calne - Literalily 2015 by St Mary's Calne

Clara Krantz LVI Form

Welcome to Literalily St Mary’s Creative Writing Magazine With a new academic year came a fresh challenge for the girls and their creative endeavours. ‘Choice’ was the theme for this year’s prose writing competition and entries covered a wide spectrum of subject matter and style. The senior winner is Imogen Ellis and Agnes Arnold is the winner of the juniors - congratulations to them both. Following the success of last year’s collaboration with the Music Department, students of English have been encouraged to write poetry that may be set to music by composer Thomas Hewitt Jones. This new and exciting project, based on Hans Christian Andersen’s tale of The Brave Tin Soldier, is underway and we are eagerly waiting to hear whose work has been selected. The English Department hope you enjoy reading some of the possible contenders. Many thanks go to all the girls who have contributed to this year’s edition and to the staff who have inspired and guided them. Keep writing! Ms Sophie Dunkin Editor, Summer 2015

The Winners Fourth Form Winner

Fourth Form Runner Up

Agnes Arnold LIV Form

Rebecca Mutch LIV Form

Fifth Form Winner

Fifth Form Runner Up

Imogen Ellis UV Form

Maia Jarvis LV Form

Fourth Form Winner

Alexis Purdy UV Form

Is there another way to go? By Agnes Arnold LIV Form

The sun rose over the hills and the battered crossroads sign was suddenly illuminated by a burst of golden sunlight, tinted rose and crimson at the edges like a watercolour. One of the signs pointed jauntily towards a sprawling city lying down below in the valley. The other led the eye to a path winding over the hills, twisting and turning, eventually leading into the mouth of a sunlit forest. There was one main difference between the two options: human inhabitants. Even this early in the day, there were already tiny figures bustling around the city, going through their mundane morning chores over and over again on the hamster wheel of life. The forest, however, was completely deserted by all human inhabitants. Only animals lived there in the depths of the shady wood. *** A man walked on the hill where the crossroads lay, waiting, watching. His monocle glinted gold in the early morning sunlight. He was tall, with a confident walk and arrogant features. He obviously thought that the whole world was beneath him and therefore not worthy of his attention. After a disdainful glance around, he sniffed haughtily, burying his overlong nose in a lace-edged handkerchief monogrammed with the initials R F. Should he go left, where the city beckoned with a silkgloved hand, or to the right, where the forest slept, tranquil? The city must be better, he thought, as more people had chosen that dwelling as a place to live. He looked to the right and, for a moment, the man thought he saw a bush tremble. Mentally shaking himself, he peered closer. There it was again. What was it? Then the answer revealed itself: a rabbit. For a heartbeat, the man locked eyes with the rabbit and then it hopped away into the heart of the sleeping forest. The man straightened his shoulders and set off in the direction of the city, soon leaving the crossroads far behind.

The outside of the casino was brightly lit up like a Christmas tree, offering riches, reward and renown for those skilful enough to win. A newspaper (which told the reader that today’s date was 16th March 1923) had been carelessly thrown onto the road, its headline blaring: ‘Billionaire Robert F has gambled away all his money and is left in poverty!’ *** A man slowly hobbled out of the casino, one hand on a back bent from bending over a gambling table, the other grasping a twisted walking stick. Could it be the proud man who had stood at the crossroads all those weeks ago? A passing gentleman with a large and luxurious moustache reached into his heavy overcoat and brought out a gold watch with a heavy chain, which he examined closely before glancing up. Seeing the other man, he flicked him a silver coin and disappeared round a corner. The hunched man looked down at the coin in his red palm and began to cry; harsh, hacking sobs that racked his whole body then, suddenly, he was quiet. His red-rimmed, wild eyes were calm, even peaceful. He stood up straight for the first time in weeks; he threw the stick aside. He would not need it any longer. *** The man had returned to the crossroads - the ears of barley in the adjacent field waving to him as if greeting an old friend - where he had made his life-changing decision. It had turned out to be the wrong choice: he had lost all of his money gambling in the casino. It didn’t matter anymore; he knew what he had to do. Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the luxury of the city and faced the forest. Without looking back, he plunged into the depths of the forest, never to return again…

***

Fifth Form Winner

Choice By Imogen Ellis UV Form Choice involves judging the merits of multiple options and selecting one or more of them. Choices carry symbolic meaning and speak to a person’s sense of identity. When you have the luxury of choice taken away from you, you become imprisoned, bound, dependent, a slave to a master; nobody. She stood on the doorstep of the hut, waiting under the shelter of the tin roof. Beyond the village and over the Himalayan Mountains far away, the rain had passed; the sun cast her illuminating rays over the city and the sky was a soft blue without a cloud in sight. Round the edges of the rice fields, the children ran in the luscious elephant grass and the mud squelched between their toes as they chased each other. Every so often, their shrieks and laughter would break through the lull of the pitiless downpour. The scent of uprooted trees and grass lingered in the cool air which seeped through her gauzy shawl, chilling her skin. She drew her gaze away from the beautiful scene on the horizon to the girls in the foreground. She noticed a girl who used to attend her school. They used to talk during class but one day the girl left and never came back. Nobody really noticed. Her old classmate struggled to collect her laundry in the thick mud. Her murky brown shawl hugged her ribs and weighed down her frail body, making the job harder. Once she had gathered her few items of clothing, she hurried back into the hut and tended to her distressed newborn. The men were returning that week. They left for long periods of time, taking jobs at factories or on work crews. When they came home, the village became stiff. The children wouldn’t be in sight or earshot unless needed, and the wives would go about their routine with their heads bowed, obeying their husbands. She was waiting for her stepfather; he had been in control ever since her father died. Her stepfather didn’t receive the same wages as the other men; he had a withered shoulder after breaking it as a child when there was no money for a doctor. When he wasn’t around, her mother tried to convince herself and her seven children that they were lucky to have a man at all and they should thank him for taking them in. They all knew it wasn’t the truth. As she stood there, she wondered whether anyone would notice when she didn’t turn up to school the next day. It wasn’t rare for girls above eleven years old to disappear. Usually it was when the family needed more money and they would be sold, like her, or traded.

She was simply of no use to the family anymore. She knew what she was. Her stepfather would say ‘A son will always be a son, but a girl is a goat: fine as long as it gives you milk and cheese, but not worth crying over when it’s time to make a stew.’ For this reason, she would be sold to a man in a village far away once her stepfather returned that day. She stepped out into the open. The rain was lighter and the fine droplets beaded her ebony hair. Her bright blue shawl collected mud as it trailed behind. She walked towards her old classmate’s hut. The girl stood in the doorframe with a baby propped on her hip. Her limp body struggled to carry the weight of her child. Her baby’s head rested under her chin as she quietly mumbled the soothing lyrics of an old lullaby. The mother’s face was drained and her empty eyes stared past the blue-shawled blur in front of her and into the distance. With just its mother’s humble warmth for comfort, the baby’s eyelids began to fall heavy and eventually shut. She stood just metres away from the hut, watching the scene as if she was watching a preview of her future. Realisation kicked in and knocked her down flat. Her eyes welled with unshed tears. She didn’t want to be like the girl in front of her. The mother’s eyes suddenly came back to life and focused on something beyond the rice fields. She turned around to see what the mother was looking at. ‘They’re back!’ the children shouted as they raced back towards the village. One by one, silhouettes appeared. Their painful feet fell heavily with each step, exhausted from the long and tiresome journey. The moist air buzzed with post storm insects and the little village in the heart of the Himalayas was hushed. The rain had now stopped completely and the evening sun peered over the mountains. She was sold that day to a man in a faraway village and thrown into the depths of a whole new world. She became a wife, a mother, a slave, afraid and alone. She was just one of the fifty million twelve-year-old girls living in poverty. She had no choice.

Helena Boase LVI Form

Olivia King UVI Form

Runner Up

Amy’s Choice By Rebecca Mutch LIV Form The incessant buzzing of my phone told me that it was time to get up. As I went through my morning routine, I couldn’t help but think of another morning when I had been rushing to get on the tube. That fateful Tuesday morning, I’d already made my choice between staying in bed an extra ten minutes or catching my usual tube (bed wins every time). As I waited at the bus station, I impatiently tapped my foot in irritation because the bus was late again. I could not face travelling on the tube, so I had no choice but to put up with frequent delays. I was keen to get to work because I had a big meeting with some possible financial backers for my next charity project - a fun run. I unconsciously rubbed at the scars that snaked up my arm and pulled my sleeve down to hide them. Eight years ago, I wouldn’t have been standing here looking forward to my day with quite so much purpose. I was a boring banker, working in the city, staring at numbers falling and rising on a computer screen. I think my life was fairly pointless: all I had to worry about was my next bonus and what I was going to spend it on. The shareholders were faceless and all they cared about was the profit at the end of each day. Even though the scars from that dreadful day are still with me, inside and out, I feel like my life has changed for the better. It makes me feel good knowing that what I’m doing makes a real difference to real people’s lives and, most importantly, that I’m making a difference to people who have suffered like me.

We were told that the explosion caused the tube train to come off the tracks and batter the sides of the tunnel. We were all flung to the other side of the carriage which had caved in. I am not entirely certain about what happened, but apparently part of the roof collapsed and my arm was caught in the wreckage. I was too weak to lift the metal and release my arm and, by the time the firemen cut us free, I had burns all over it. I don’t remember much about the journey back to the surface, but I do remember the hours of pain that started soon after getting to the hospital. It must have been a week or so later, when I was reading an article in the newspaper, that I learned that there were more burn casualties than fatalities. Seeing the families crying over their loved ones really made think about how I could support them and victims like me. It was then, lying in that hospital bed, that I realised that I had another choice in life: I could either stay in the banking world or set up a charity to support those people and their families with a similar story to mine. I am scared to death of travelling on the tube again, which is why I am now stuck in London traffic, but I really feel that I have made something of my life. Now I think about it, maybe it was not such a terrible thing that I chose to stay in bed for an extra ten minutes.

That day will stay in my mind forever, just like those scars on my arm. I can still hear the screams of metal scraping on metal and the terror in the voices of my fellow commuters. If I had not chosen to stay in bed, I would have missed all the horror. The official accident report said that it was a gas leak at one of the stations. It should not have happened, but it did. I was trapped inside the carriage as the fire raged outside the window. The smoke filled the air and burned our lungs. The smell of burning flesh is the vilest thing I have ever experienced and I hope I will never have to suffer it again.

Runner Up

Noticed By Maia Jarvis LV Form When their eyes meet mine, they are presented with a choice: to ignore me and carry on with their busy lives, or to stop for a second and help. Within my gaze lies a question: will you do what is right, or simply follow the crowd like a sheep within its flock? In a silent reply, emotions that are usually camouflaged by false smiles and shallow compliments are swiftly revealed. Most onlookers then walk by without a second glance. With every person that turns away, rejection spirals up from my stomach and threatens to escape as wild cries for help. I am in perpetual exile, yet surrounded by people. In that momentary, fleeting glance that I share with so many, I become the observant dealer watching poker players as they reveal their tell. I see men with business suits who stare straight ahead but angle their briefcases just that little bit closer to their bodies, and mothers who tell their children to hold their hand and not stare at the man on the side of the pavement. My life is a twisted contradiction: I have learnt to notice everything and yet nobody notices me. One thing I have learnt, is that people rarely pay attention to the world around them; selfish eyes constantly filter out ‘irrelevant’ information and so the majestic landscape of life goes unseen. In the daytime, individual conversations form a choir of voices, footsteps beat to form an irregular drum roll and steady traffic creates a low, background hum. It is a comforting soundtrack, yet no one seems to appreciate it. This city symphony gradually fades as night creeps in accompanied by dark figures that skulk around narrow streets. Street lamps, like lifeless fireflies, give everything a sickly, orange glow and the occasional flicker causes objects to be swallowed up by light’s enemy: shadow. At this time, I am a scavenger, akin to a rat scurrying outside a restaurant’s kitchen. There is one thing that creature lacks, however, and that is shame. Even when my face is gaunt and my body howls for food, the disgust that accompanies my actions is almost as overwhelming as the hunger itself. Feelings are what make me human and yet they are strongest when I am reduced to the actions of an animal. In this two-act performance, I am the only constant; a man in dark grey rags with his life in a rucksack and a square foot of concrete as his home. I clutch a cup that used to hold precious treasure, but my tiny bounty has been transformed into a different currency, one that lies within my hollow stomach. I look up from my empty cup and spot a sudden swish of pink fabric. The innocent eyes of a young girl search my weary, fatigued ones. She whispers to her mother and walks over to me with determination. Clutching something in a tight fist, she moves closer and when she opens her palm, two golden coins fall into my cup. Jangling metal and childish giggles melt into one mellifluous sound that flows like honey through my body. Happiness radiates from her smile and so does an emotion with which I am not well-acquainted: hope.

Olivia King UVI Form

The Tiny Paper Lady By Isabella Depla LV Form Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. I stand all day long Awaiting my call. I balance on one leg, Not noticed at all. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. 25 brothers in arms Laid upon the baize. 25 remarkable soldiers, Only one caught my gaze. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. Out of the snuffbox sprang a goblin, Over the soldier he cast a spell. Out of the window and onto the street, The remarkable soldier, he spun round and fell. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. I heard a cry and outside I saw The soldier in a boat. I saw him duck into a drain, If only it were a moat. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. The water rat recounted this With fury in his voice. The rat had asked for pass and toll, The soldier rejected the choice. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. A sailor he was not to be, But fodder for a fish. A life like Jonah was cut short, As a fisherman answered his wish. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. To market went he, To be sold to the cook. To her great surprise, By the waist she took Out of the belly of the great fish, The brave tin man â&#x20AC;&#x201C; he emerged unscathed. Out of danger, back to the nursery, Carefully placed onto the baize. Firm resolution in his eyes, He strongly held my gaze. Firm also was my own resolve, No tear was spilt upon the baize. Fate would soon destroy our love, No future would there be. Fate reunited us, The brave tin soldier and me. Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave.

My Little Black Goblin By Helena Gray LV Form Feathery white skirts, all laid out neat, I wait for him silently, excited to meet My little black Goblin, ready to love, A delicate kiss under the castle above. A shining glimpse catches my eyes, A papery breath, such a surprise. A tin soldier standing there With his painted mouth, his painted hair And those black eyes staring at me, Unrelenting, unchanging â&#x20AC;&#x201C; how strange could this be? Where is my love? I feel most vexed, My Goblin must protect me, that soldier must be hexed. Finally, my lover appears, My worries are gone, all my tin soldier fears. My Goblin has saved me, as the soldier is whisked away, Finally, me and my love are together again another day. A few days pass and all is as it should be: My Goblin and I, just him and me. The tin soldier is back, face no bigger than a thumb, Neither Goblin nor I can tell what is to come. First that soldier and then I, Into the flames, to watch my Goblin cry.

Spring As cold as death, as depraved as the devil, The cold slapped my face leaving me dishevelled. A bird flew past with a frozen wing and was not even able to sing. I closed my eyes, just waiting, just waiting for spring. A shout, a scream, the blissful memory of laughter, Rooted to the ground, I had to wait to see the disaster: Giants were playing so close to my spot near the swing! I prayed not to die, just waiting, just waiting for spring. I let out a sigh as the giants ran home, One could get jumpy when here all alone, But why were they laughing? That was the thing, Weren’t they too just waiting, just waiting for spring? The giants were puzzling, but I did not mind, For the sun was poking through clouds, though I am still resigned; Spring would come whenever it pleased, however much I prayed for the thing, So here I am just waiting, just waiting for spring. My eyes fluttered open; what was going on? The sun was out and the snow all gone. Could this really be true? Oh what joy the light can bring, When I, just a small flower, am no longer waiting for spring. By Susannah Hirst LIV Form

The snow-stifled forest slept a deep winter’s slumber. Daybreak came and went, the sun far too weak To even peep through the smothering clouds. The wind howled on. As gingerly as a baby giraffe taking its first steps, A single stalk pushed through the icy barrier of snow. One leaf unfurled, struggling through the raging gale. The wind howled on. The sun saw the brave little plant and smiled upon it. She stroked the leaf softly with her warming rays, As gentle as a mother’s loving caress, But the wind howled on. A week went by. The plant grew heavy with a flower As orange as a summer’s lazy sunset. The forest was soon carpeted with the bright blooms Spring’s messengers; the champions of sunshine. Yet still, the wind howled on. The gale lost force – it had blown away the clouds, Leaving the sky cornflower-blue, the snow melting. Winter was fighting a losing battle, hanging on by his fingernails; The sunshine had broken something deep inside him. The wind ceased its howling. By Charlotte Slater LIV Form

Juliet Baker LVI Form

Catherine Roberts LVI Form

An Innocent Man By Alexandra Tsylnitska LV Form

‘You’re fired,’ my boss, Phillip Renold, muttered nonchalantly. ‘What?’ I exclaimed, mystified, not trusting my ears. ‘Are you even more vacuous than I thought you were? Well, let me repeat it very slowly for you: You Are Fired. You’re dismissed. Done. Goodbye. Adiós. Do svidania. Capisce?’ he drawled, as if speaking to an idiot. I couldn’t read his facial expression; it was as if he was wearing an impassive mask, revealing nothing but indifference. ‘W-wait, Mr Renold, I do not understand,’ I stuttered, completely thrown off guard. ‘Do I have to walk you to the door? I don’t want to listen to your whining, so get out before my sanguine mood vanishes.’ He waved me out dismissively and drew his attention back to his paperwork. I could feel waves of exasperation and disdain radiating from him, snaking their way out of his emotionless mask. Without another word, I stormed out of the office, knowing that I would never change his mind. I didn’t understand; why was I fired? I’d worked for the company for fifteen years and had always completed my projects on time. As far as I knew, I was the most valued worker at the company – I never missed a target. I didn’t bother to collect my things from my office; everything there was of little value and I didn’t want to see my co-workers. I entered the lift, the smell of sweet lemongrass hitting my nose. Usually, on stressful days, the scent would calm me. Yet from this day onwards, the once relaxing smell of lemongrass would be cloying and would sicken me, always reminding me of the events of that day. I absentmindedly pressed ‘Ground Floor’, staring into space. Was I dreaming? Would I wake up from this nightmare in a few minutes? There was only one way to find out: I pinched myself, flinching at the sudden pain. I raked my hands through my hair as realisation dawned on me with a steady sinking feeling. I was fired. As I began to think about what would happen to my collapsed life, the elevator doors slid open accompanied by a ‘ding’ sound. The world passed by me in a blur as I trudged out of the building on autopilot, bumping into a few of my colleagues along the way. Some spoke to me, yet I couldn’t respond. Outside, black clouds loomed low and ominous.

I silently roamed the streets like a solitary ghost, replaying the events of my day over and over again. When I found myself in the car park, I saw my old faithful Toyota Camry parked amongst the more ostentatious, brightly-coloured, high-gloss vehicles. I climbed into it, thinking about how many times I had driven it to and from work. A wave of melancholy washed over me as I twisted the key and exited the car park, again on automatic, knowing that I wouldn’t be back the next morning. I navigated my car through the narrow streets, passing a few gloomy, dilapidated shops. The dense fog outside the car seemed to crawl through the gaps in my windows, snaking their way into my mind, enshrouding my thoughts and emotions in an ominous cloud of sorrow. After what seemed like hours of aimless driving without purpose, the fog lifted and so did my mind. When I could finally think straight, I noticed that I was no longer in the city; the road on which I was driving was surrounded by thick groups of wild willows, along with a few shrubs that nature had randomly scattered. I pulled over, deciding that it would be good for me to clear my head and breathe in some fresh air. I walked further and further from my vehicle, enjoying the welcoming rays of the sun that were now faintly shining through the dancing branches of the trees, shedding dappled light across the ground. I lay on the cool damp grass and closed my eyes, listening to the faint melodic chirping of the birds above me. For a moment, I forgot everything: how I’d lost my job, how I needed to pay the rent, how I’d have to tell my mother that there was not enough money to pay for the surgery… and then I remembered. My heart felt like lead and the fog was threatening once more. The lead weight continued to drag at my heart, until something within me snapped, releasing a wave of energy that coursed through my body. Red. All I could see was red. The comforting trees were no longer inviting and the song of the birds was no longer music to my ears. The sound of thunder rang instead and tiny sharp raindrops began to prick my skin. One pressing thought, a thought that I knew didn’t belong to me, emerged in my mind. One insistent thought that grew stealthily, insidiously, maliciously, like poison. I knew what I had to do. I knew what I longed for: Revenge...

The Lonely Dancer By Emily Sandbach UIV Form Loose curls fall softly across her face. Delicate arms form an arch. Posture strong, from head to toe. Toes form a perfect point. Flexible limbs neither tremble nor bend. Each move perfectly planned. A slow but beautiful dance Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Still, her heart longs for love In a world filled with loneliness. Her body stands firmly on the ground, Her head floating high with the clouds. She leaps and soars beneath the stars, Burning and twinkling so bright. Yet her tears fall silently down her face, For her one true love who never came.

Tabitha Ellis LVI Form

Crying my tin tears By Charka Stout UIV Form Crying my tin tears, I sit, I stare, But never blink an eye. My mind elsewhere, I sit, I stare, My silence is my battle cry. To call or to ask for help Is a thing I could not bear, So, silently my tin tears fall, But I sit, I stare. The fire that rages, rages on; Flames of misplaced affection. I melt away, I cannot stay, For my silence, I shall pay. From tin to toy, my story goes, Silencing all my fears. Swapped the darkness for the flames, To drown in my own tin tears.

The Swan by Katharine Stone LV Form Staring aimlessly into my polished lake, I sit, waiting for the boy. The door swings open and he bursts in, Panting As if he has run for miles and miles. He picks up a box of soldiers, grinning. He sprints out. The door shuts. The silence returns just as quickly as it was broken And the wait begins once more.

Helena Boase LVI Form

The Silent Moments By Leo Monson UV Form

Dawn was a beautiful haze of gold and blue, and I couldn’t tell where the earth ended and heaven began. The sun tossed thousands of shimmering sparkles over the water and the serene waves rippled over the shingle with a soft, scarcely audible murmur, as if they were only just awakening from slumber. An elegant pair of seagulls soared over the water, mirroring each other’s intricate and invisible paths, throwing shadows onto the glimmering surface below. Yet it seemed to me, as I sat there by the water’s edge gazing over the ceaseless sea, that this place, so calm and content, was not all that it seemed. A dull mist slowly spread towards the shore and, out of nowhere, a dark and menacing cloud began to linger along the cliff tops, as if it had been waiting for a moment of total tranquillity to drift over and leave a black stain across the landscape. The pair of seagulls had become a mob and, what were once embodiments of elegance and grace, had now shattered the serenity of the scene and their piercing shrieks echoed over the water, drowning the whisper of the waves. I lay in that same spot for what felt like hours, flickering between reality and oblivion, contemplating how to cope with the situation I had been placed in. I had to explain to the parents of the woman I had loved and married what really happened the day she died. I imagine them heartbroken; feeling betrayed that it had taken me this long to muster what courage I had left to tell them the truth. Three years today and they’d only just begun to move on with their lives. Should I be the one to send them plummeting back into their inconsolable grief? I have a choice, but is this choice a blessing or a curse? The guilt has never left my conscience, not even for an hour, and I constantly replay the moment that the police came and told me what had happened. I held in my anguish until they had left and then collapsed against the door in a heap, sitting there for days on end, dreaming that she would walk in. I was alone, all because I had persuaded her to go to work on my motorbike instead of walking in the rain.

I know everyone has to go through the loss of loved ones, that over time wounds will heal, but that’s nothing like this. Sophia had revealed news that husbands and wives dream of, and joy had clouded my vision. As she disappeared into the distance, little did I know that that would be my last glimpse of her. The door gently closed and I watched the droplets slicing down the window, obscuring the outline of her figure driving away. Everything that mattered to me died with her that day. Suddenly, I wake up from my grief-stricken dream and hear the sound of a distant conversation. A mother, a father and their child have appeared like ghosts washed up by the tide; the father keeps a watchful eye on his daughter as he and his wife sit on the shore. The little girl wanders up to the water and lets out a giggle as an icy wave splashes over her tiny feet. Her innocence only triggers remorse for what could have been and I look away, trying and failing to fill my mind with anything but the thoughts surrounding the crucial choice that must be made. I realise that soon the beach will be filling up, but I still need those last silent moments to decide what to do. I stagger to my feet grasping my bottle and stumble aimlessly towards the route leading away from the cove. I clamber over the debris covering the pathway and, finally, I stop at the highest point of the cliff and catch one more glimpse of the sea. A peace settles upon me as I stare into the crystal clear sky and, without my awareness, my mind clears. All of a sudden, I know the only right thing to do: I must never share this hidden burden I’ve carried on my shoulders for three whole years. I have to leave Sophia’s parents with the shred of solace that I am happy and that I haven’t lost everything. Only I know that the moment Sophia left this world, as her soul blew away in the breeze, so did our child’s.

The best thing about living at my house By Lauren Wiltshire LIV Form It has to be my sister’s clothes. She had this pair of trainers for walking and, when we took the dogs into the wood, just as we were crawling through the brook, her sole fell off. As she was walking home, her shoes went FLAP! SQUELCH! Then the dogs went WOOF! FLAP! SQUELCH! WOOF! She wears wellies with holes in. She won’t let my mum buy her a new pair because she loves them so much. So, to make them waterproof, she puts shopping bags in them. She can spend 15 minutes trying to find a pair of shopping bags (obviously, she has to have the same brand bags) without holes in. Every day, just as we need to leave for school, my sister will come running down the stairs without wearing her tights. We will be dragging her out of the door and she will still be trying to pull them up. Then, the puppy will come along and jump up at her and create a massive ladder with her claws. Then, my sister has to go and change her tights… AGAIN! In general, her dress sense is terrible. She will go around wearing mix and match leggings from Asda… spotty with floral! I mean…WHO DOES THAT?! (Many apologies if you do.) I just hope she will grow out of her phase of ‘unique fashion’ soon… but, until then, FLAP! SQUELCH! WOOF!

My Pet Bichon Frisé By Georgina Auvray MIV Form It’s so sweet. Every morning, I wake up and open the door. As soon as the classic creak sounds, I can hear my sweet little furry dog scampering to her feet, and the soft repetitive and rhythmic thud of her climbing up the stairs. Occasionally, you can hear a tiny yelp as she misses a step and tumbles, floppily, back down. The little thuds start again as she re-tries. Finally, she makes it up. The steady panting grows louder and louder as she gradually gets nearer and nearer. Then you hear lots of bangs as she crashes into the walls, trying to find my room (even though she’s been there many times). It’s really odd! She never walks or runs through the door, she always leaps or jumps – there must be some reason for it, but I can’t think why. Maybe she thinks there is an imaginary fence there, or perhaps there is a gap filled with a river and crocodiles are trying to eat her. Whatever it is, it’s funny to watch. In the end, she bounds onto my bed just as I am getting up. She runs to my face and licks it. I love her. My pet dog – a Bichon Frisé called Fluffy.

Tickling my dog By Katherine Mackenzie-Yates LIV Form When I get home, I always give my dog the most attention (sorry Mum!). I call him over and he comes straight to me. He is a sausage dog, so when he walks, he wiggles like a worm. I can almost fit him into a Pringle tube (not animal abuse). When I tickle him, his leg will start twitching as if he is running a race. I never know if he has had enough of being tickled, because he lies there forever and ever. When I stop, he then turns his head and gives me the look that tells me â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;you better not stopâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. If he ever did end up walking off, he would probably sprint away to his bed!

Joyce Lam UV Form

Tin Hearts By Lucia Vint LV Form His tin heart ground to a halt, The fire in his eyes died, The love began to subside. There could have been an us. His soul became a deep abyss, Taken downstream by a life unclean. I remember the happiness in which I used to live. I knew this was the end, I would never be able to mend My soul, broken in two. The clouds turn dark, The flame flickers, The end draws near. It all became clear.

Megan Piper UV Form

The Tin Soldier By Charlotte Newcombe MIV Form Twenty-five soldiers nestled in a box, Waiting for the moment when the lid would come off. They were waiting for a little boy to come and clap his hands And lay them on the table top where they were to stand. These little soldiers stood proud and tall, And the one with only one stout leg did it better than them all. He stood to attention, brave and strong, When across the room, he heard a song. He dropped down off the table where he had been put And made his way to the ballerina who was twirling on one foot. His heart skipped a tinny beat as he stood stock-still and stared, He wasn’t the only one with one leg: she his problem shared. In his ear, the soldier heard a low tone: ‘Don’t wish for what you don’t own.’ The next morning, a boy came in and stood him on the ledge, A gust of wind caught him up and he tumbled off the edge. Two little boys picked him up and wanted him to play; They fashioned him a paper boat and set him sailing away. The spray splashed his shiny face, but he did not dare to blink, As he approached the inevitable brink. The paper boat was ripped apart, pitching in the dark; This vessel would not save his life: it wasn’t Noah’s ark. He sank to the murky depths, clinging to his knife; He was swallowed up as a huge fish came to claim his life. The darkness took him for the night, Until there came a flash of light. He heard familiar sounds of home, Then realised that it was his own. A little boy came into the room and threw him in the fire; The flames licked at his painted attire. He fixed his gaze on the dancing girl As she fluttered to the stove with a pretty twirl. The next morning, all that was found Was a small tin heart nestled in the ashes. Next to it lay the tinsel rose, Black as a cinder in its repose.

Jealousy By Tegen Dixon-Clarke MIV Form Hidden, lurking, waiting, It’s a dark desire, A hunger that can’t be satisfied And can only corrupt. It creeps through your mind, Like tendrils of acrid smoke, Waiting to suffocate all goodness, Turning the human mind to chaos. This black creature can’t be beaten, But it must be kept at bay, Caged, on a tight leash, behind bars, To preserve our fragile peace of mind.

Ananke By Ally Leow LV Form Some say life is an adventure, Splendid moments for us to capture. I say Life is a puppeteer; It’s the boat of fate he steers. Some say to connect the dots By looking back you’ll learn a lot, A billion dots plotted on the wall Linked by Fate, controller of all. ‘Life is an unfinished book Written by the paths we took,’ But if we look at the cover, We’ll see that Fate is its author. We often yearn for freedom, Never learning our lesson. It’s the game of chess, dear And Fate will always win, I fear.

Falling By Selena Corsellis MIV Form Wind whistling, Howling sounds dodge the intruding trees, Wood peels off like wallpaper. Snow crunches, White snow like puffy clouds of wool, Footsteps leave distinct footsteps. The clouds roll in. Distant raindrops fall As if stones; they hit the ground like bombs And make waves of water as they concede to the snow. Hair flies out of place, Darkness is travelling fast over the sky. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m lost, Miles away, alone.

Juliet Baker LVI Form

Woods By Victoria Rassmuss LV Form I stood before the woods, watching the soft breeze rustle the golden leaves. The sun peeked through the closely interwoven branches, casting dappled light over the narrow path. I smiled. These woods brought back memories that I had long since forgotten. I was home. The ground was littered with fallen leaves, creating a carpet of russet and scarlet. They danced around each other when the wind blew, waltzing across the burnished woods. Underneath the leaves, tree roots, like bony fingers, snaked across the ground, protruding at random intervals. I stepped onto the thick carpet with a soft comforting crunch, the leaves easing under my feet. The path before me, little more than an indent in the ground, twisted, turned and forked. It weaved round the trees and I followed it, knowing that if I stopped paying attention, I would be lost in the labyrinth of trees. It sometimes disappeared and then reappeared a little way ahead, taunting and teasing, hiding behind the trees. The ancient trees stood tall and majestic, cloaked in crimson and amber. Their gnarled trunks bore the scars of time and the bark was peeling. Their tenacious limbs reached out to each other, yearning for company. The leaves swayed, whispering, telling tales of all that had passed in these ancient woods. They looked like fire, flames curling around those dried limbs, cavorting in the wind. As I walked further and further into the woods, the trees grew older and taller. The branches formed an archway before me, welcoming me back into the woods where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d spent so many days as a girl. Standing at the end of the archway, at the heart of the woods, was one of the tallest trees: its branches soared far higher than any of the others and formed a canopy overhead. I remembered when, as a child, I used to climb to some of its highest branches and gaze out blissfully on the endless woods surrounding me, imagining I was a bold, brave explorer discovering a new land. A squirrel scampered past me. It stopped a few metres away, staring at me with its head cocked to one side, swift and alert. I stared back, captivated. I brought my hand up to my mouth to yawn and, in that moment, it scurried off. Its red fur glistened when the dappled sunlight licked its back. Its sleek muscles moved in perfect harmony as it climbed up a trunk and gracefully soared onto the outstretched arm of another tree, disappearing from sight.

Leaves drifted down from their perches on the branches, preparing for the oncoming storms of winter. I walked on, savouring the rich, damp smell unique to these woods; the crunching of the dried leaves under my feet; the comforting chirping of the birds; the rustling of leaves brushing against each other whilst clinging on to their branches; this was what made these woods so special. Soon enough, a new sound joined the harmony of the woods: the gurgling of fresh water. A small delicate stream peered tentatively through the glowing leaves hanging off the long limbs of the closely intertwined trees. It surged elegantly down the rocks, overcoming any obstacles that stood it its way. A layer of froth shimmered, flowing smoothly on the top of the gushing water. The occasional leaf was caught, skimming over the folds and creases of the soft silk of the stream. I sat on a nearby rock, watching the water endlessly cascade down to the depths of the woods, hidden from sight. A flash of brown and yellow revealed a sparrowhawk swooping down to catch its prey. Its wings curved in an arc, forming a stunning silhouette against the light of the setting sun. Weaving in and out of the closely intertwined branches, it was little more than a shadow in the uncertain light. The shadows grew longer and started to incarcerate the trees; they swarmed around the roots, highlighting every feature. The sun leaked over the skyline, staining the clouds pink and the sky a faint yellow. The birds twittered quietly and I started to make my way, leaving the woods I once knew and loved.

Esme Lane Fox LVI Form

Tiwa Sagoe UVI Form

The Cut By Alice Wade LV Form Beads of sweat lazily slid down my face and onto the floor below me. I gnawed at my raw nails like a famished mouse, my face puckering as a trickle of blood entered my mouth. Someone was standing in front of me; I could taste their breath. My face contorted as warm garlic dispersed itself through every pore of my skin. I forced my eyes to open; it was like yanking at elevator doors. ‘So, what do you want?’ he sighed, his jaw erratically chomping. I continued to stare vacantly ahead. He laced his inky arms. ‘Look, I haven’t got all day and I’ve got lots of customers to get around to.’ I focused my eyes on the nametag that dangled from his shirt. I could make out the D, A and N. Daniel tilted his head, stalking me with his eyes. ‘Some rolls, maybe a bun?’ ‘No, too plain,’ I murmured. ‘She speaks!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘Do you just want a chop then?’ I nodded. Daniel reached down and picked up a chunk. ‘How much do you want off?’ I jerked my clammy hands apart and motioned. Daniel smirked. I shifted my gaze away from him towards the other customers. I traced my eyes over a vivid fuchsia jacket and a pair of leopard print gloves; she was getting a mullet. I swiveled back around and smiled. That was what I was going for: something textured and interesting - something memorable.

I drove my paper cup into the button and focused my eyes on the jet of icy water. I tried to block out the whir of the printer, the tapping of keyboards and the general boredom that lay in the air. It smelt like cinnamon and I smiled wistfully. A finger jammed into my shoulder blade, jerking me out of my serenity. ‘What the he-’ I froze mid-sentence and sheepishly turned around. ‘Miss Reecey!’ I exclaimed, plastering a smile on my face. ‘I love your perfume, cinnamon, right? ‘Your cup is overflowing,’ she sighed. ‘God dammit,’ I gasped as I let it slide out of my numb fingers. I looked up to see her fingering the silver cross that hung round her neck. Groaning, I opened my mouth but she cut me off. ‘I just wanted to remind you about the very important dinner you are holding tonight. Some vital clients are attending and I need to know that you are suitable for such a task.’ She cleared her throat and glanced at the puddle that my cup was now swimming in. I wiped my clammy palms together. She continued, ‘It is vital that we make an impression on them. We need to be memorable.’ She leaned in, almost whispering now, ‘If you screw up, don’t even bother coming back.’ *** I opened my eyes. The sweet musk of cheap perfume swept into my nose, corrupting my lungs. ‘Something memorable’ rang in my ears. Grinning, I declared, ‘Stop. I want a Mohawk.’

‘This won’t take long, but you’re welcome to relax a bit while you wait,’ he slurped. I wanted to remind him that he was chewing a piece of gum, not impersonating a mechanical bull. ‘Okay?’ he belched. I nodded and let my eyelids droop. ***

Megan Piper UV Form

Brotherly Love in Caledonia By Delphyne Findley-Ramsbotham UV Form ‘Choice is a powerful thing,’ he lied. Along the ridge of a scarp slope, a heather-dusted meandering blue hill, a lone piper piped his last pure note. Choice is the excuse of the devil. He fawns desperately over any dictator. Choice will be his one true friend, to be used as a withered fall guy. He is a fickle coward. Crucially, though, he serves whichever master treats him best; he does not care for destitution or destruction. For Choice is the slave to whosoever controls the here and now. He cannot yet contemplate the realities of the future. Choice is no longer the manipulator; he is the manipulated. He represents all earth’s falsehoods and untruths. The music flew, buffeted from bruised clouds to barren treetops, swept from emaciated hedgerows to wasting waysides, and then lacerated by the starlings sat upon the telegraph poles. The sound swiftly grazed down each dale before rising once more and, as it reached the industrial asphyxiating towns, became more and more warped. It choked on the smoke from the dockyards and spluttered through the smog of the morning traffic until it came to rest, wholly unrecognisable, outside a corrupt, bitter, tartan-swathed crypt. Here, Choice would confront its final Judgement.

Once, however, there was a time when Choice was not a pathological liar. Choice did not emerge from Pandora’s Box accompanying the Seven Deadly Sins. When they prowled maliciously into being, tearing ravenously at each other’s flesh as they sought out untarnished minds to scavenge, Choice was not there. Back then, Choice escorted griefstricken Hope as she crawled, with broken knuckles, into the world. He acted perfectly the brazen attaché. The southern dominion invaded, pillaged, burned and desecrated. It hanged, drew and quartered. Control was a necessity, but was it a necessity to force its will upon its sister-at-arms, to rewrite her history, change even who she was related to? That kind of totality was unreasonable. Choice changed. He abandoned Hope and, at first, much preferred the raucous iniquity of conspiracy to truth. Vice quietly wove its gossamer cobwebs around him. Fraternisation with treachery, however, soon began to etch its scars and runes across his body. The high initiated by betrayal became neurotic: it was no longer recreational and restraint was no longer conceivable.

Two siblings faced each other across the summit of that vast blue hill. Their bond was ordained by blood, but not simply by that which flowed cloyingly through their veins, but by the blood that each had spilt on the battlefield that now congealed on the ferns at Bannockburn.

The English relentlessly persecuted the Scots. Thousands starved. Along that vast blue hill now runs a crippled, suffering wall speckled with the blood of the freedom fighters. It is a fractured and defective wall, a wall that symbolises the disinterest and arrogance of its southern neighbour. The rabble had been conquered, had been kept out. It was no longer a threat. It owned no weapon of mass destruction. Scotland was powerless.

These two empires were raised in the same island cradle, born to the same mother, yet one had always tried to suffocate the other. Of the two, he was the most vindictive, the most duplicitous: the type of child who tears the wings off butterflies to see how they die. That type of child eventually grows up to be an oppressor.

Silently, as the wall began to erode and the straggling weeds began to grow over the bodies at Falkirk, the Scots bided their time. They lulled the English, with the honey-sweet wine of silence, into a false sense of security. The centurions and then the garrisons had dispersed. The blue hill once more became dusted with heather and not the bodies of children.

Unlike its marauding brother, the other empire had no malicious intent. It wished to live peacefully; there was stability in its society. Its aim was not to prove its worth, but to consolidate its success – to look after its own, not conquer and increase the mouths to feed.

Two siblings glared at one another across that vast blue hill. Only Choice now lay between them.

The brother nation, over time, had become covetous: savage, callous and deranged. Unquenchable jealousy set in. The kingdom across and beyond the hill, so far away that the very thought of its success somehow diminished with its distance, was a changeling empire, so Choice sided with the malevolent aggressor.

The Tin Heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cry By Jessamy Money-Kyrle LV Form A tin heart amongst limbs of brittle wood and white ash Beating to the sound of the pulsing, fiery air. Its perfect valleys and troughs glint, Plucked from its protective cage of flickering twigs. Cold metal fingers squeeze the throbbing heart, Its silver, mirrored surface Slowly distorts the faces it reflects.

Tiny Tin People By Katya Green UIV Form Tiny tin people scattered around, Some on the table, some on the ground. Taken from home and painted with red, Turned into tiny tin soldiers instead. Row after row, they go forth into battle, Herded by officers, like lowly cattle. They face danger and tragedy, toil and woe, At the end of it all, home they will go. Not many are left, not many are sane, Lots of their souls left back in the rain. Many have done the most terrible things; Haunted by ghosts that live in their dreams. They try to go back to what was before: The joy and laughter which now are no more. The good days were over, lost in the past; The memories of war, they last and they last. Tiny tin people scattered around, Some on the table, some deep underground.

Set down quickly and carelessly, The heart taps once, twice, and thrice. With each beat, the heart changes And loses its hot pulse. As it cools, the sheeny surface turns into a featureless grey, Deepening the scratches marring its surface And hardening it. The heart is lifted with small, warm hands, Its outside turning a dull blue with the mirroring of curious eyes. Turning circles and rough rubbing, the heart stays dark, Metal slides on flesh and the heart is falling all over again, But this time it hurts. Stone slams up and cracks appear, A shrill cry rips through the air. As molten rivers seep through the fractures, The heart collapses, giving up under the strain. It gives one last shudder before it freezes, Silver tears sliding away over cold, dead tin.

My Metal Masquerade By Sophie Mallinson UIV Form I sit, my gaze unwavering; I am so near, but yet so far. In painless pain, despairing; Such sweet sorrow leaves a scar. My metal heart still beats For something pure and unrequited. It seems I wander Hellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own streets Till her heart, with love, is lighted. Desperation floods my soul, Like a battleship that sinks. A war within, beyond control, Yet still I watch and never blink. Drowning in a silent sea, Till time itself grows old. Worthless I may always be, Yet love has turned my heart to gold. Night enshrouds all - it is foolish to hide It is evil and so very heartless. Yet, if my lady were here by my side, I should not care for any darkness. My expression is vacant: a sword-less sheath. A soldier I was made, But a furious passion lies underneath My metal masquerade.

Literalily

Wiltshire SN11 0DF Telephone: 01249 857200 Fax: 01249 857207 Email: office@stmaryscalne.org www.stmaryscalne.org

Front cover artwork by Joyce Lam UV Form