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Senior Young Writers Competition 2025 Collection of Short Stories & Poems

Young Writers Competition 2025 Collection of Short Stories & Poems By Senior School Pupils, Age 11-18

Wimbledon BookFest, 35 Wimbledon Hill Road, SW19 7NB Registered charity: Wimbledon Arts 1120297 www.wimbledonbookfest.org ISBN 978-1-9192897-1-7

Notes School names have been abbreviated in some places; a list with schools’ full names can be found at the back of this book. Special Educational Needs categories and schools have been abbreviated to ‘SEN’ in some instances. All the poems and stories are published as students submitted them. Only minor and essential grammatical punctuation edits have been made.

Design and Layout: Kevin Smith Illustrations: Phoebe Manley Production: Connie Bostock, Tom Erasmus & Georgie Morley

Young Writers Competition 2025 Senior Judging Panel Chair of Judges Amy Waite

Research Fellow, University of Roehampton

Judges Darragh Murray Educational mentor & MPhil Literature Student

Georgie Morley Event Production Executive, Wimbledon BookFest

Margaret Reeve Teacher & Education consultant

Nathanael Lessore Children’s Author & Former Teacher

Contents Introduction................................................................1 Overall Winner �� 3 Ana Gumende

Soldier Proletariat

Ursuline High School

Winners...................................................................... 9 Juliet Capgras

i am medusa

Raynes Park High School

Milly Davies

Raynes Park High School

Death in My Mother’s Garden

Celeste Sofia Adami Ursuline High School

A Witch’s Tale

James Son I, Asterion Tiffin School

Ada Onur

Wimbledon High School

The Man with a Perfect Legacy

Lente Ottink

Fogged Up Glass

Max Latif

Boy Meets Blind Prophet

Calum Mason

Filming my Journey

Riylee Shearwood

Legend of Sarah Red Ruby

Marymount International School Nonsuch High School Cricket Green School

Perseid Upper School

Runners Up..............................................................29 Annaliese St Louis

A Girl’s Journey To AFC Wimbledon

Affan Naseer

Prologue: Ashes Beneath the Sun

Harris Academy Merton Harris Academy Merton

Brooke Hopkinson

The Legend

Putney High School

Noa Spencer-Brown

The Lady of the Water

Ibstock Place School

Tilak Patel Ashcroft Technology Academy

Erasure Protocol

Aanya Singh Nonsuch High School

Ben Bedford

Cricket Green School

Kaikeyi

The Magical Horse

Awarded Distinction: KS3 Years 7-9 (Age 11-14) Poems....................................................................... 47 Aashir Ahmed Angel Ghumdia

Ashcroft Technology Academy Saint Cecilia's Church of England School

Atticus Constantinou

Rutlish School

Bertie Murrell

Shrewsbury House School

Elizabeth Massey

West London Free School

Eric Song

Shrewsbury House School

Gabriel Bernard

Gianmarco Scognamiglio Jay Nimesh Patel Luc Houston Madeleine Sedda Syed Ahmad

Tiffin School

West London Free School Rokeby School Raynes Park High School Ursuline High School Ashcroft Technology Academy

Szymon Thrun

Wimbledon College

Tiffany Saisani

Southfields Academy

Stories...................................................................... 73 Alex Goldsmith Amelia Lubert

Rutlish School

Saint Cecilia's Church of England School

Ben Bradbury

Ben Huang

Wimbledon College

Shrewsbury House School

Cameron Sterling

Harris Academy Merton

Cara Lily McHugh

Ursuline High School

Charles Thomas Hughes

Wimbledon College

Evangelos Zacharias

West London Free School

Isabelle Hunter

Raynes Park High School

Jasmin Javorka

Harris Academy Wimbledon

Jisoo Park

Nonsuch High School For Girls

Kayla Fox Nguru

Raynes Park High School

Louie Voigt

Saint Cecilia's Church of England School

Muhammad Abdullahi Swayam Sharma

West London Free School

Tiffin School

Violet Melsom

The Holy Cross School

Zoe Lack

Wimbledon High School

Awarded Distinction: KS4 Years 10-11 (Age 14-16) Poems..................................................................... 107 Egan Rimmer

Marymount International school

Emilia Potts

Ursuline High School

Ericka Asi

Ursuline High School

Marisa Shand

Wimbledon High School

Rosie Skinner

Nonsuch High School For Girls

Stories..................................................................... 117 Abi Newcombe

Nonsuch High School For Girls

Azaria Logan-Jones

West London Free School

Elena Haran Tome

Ursuline High School

Harriet Quinton

Wimbledon High School

Liane Dias

The Holy Cross School

Malak Metwaly

Marymount International school

Maxwell Kennedy

Lilian Baylis Technology School

Vidyashri Karwa

Wycombe High School

Awarded Distinction: KS5 Years 12-13 (Age 16-18) Poems..................................................................... 135 Emilia Lygonska Isabella Gallagher Rattan Lukas Vedeika Shon-Shon de Peyer

Ursuline High School

St Augustine’s Priory West London Free School Ashcroft Technology Academy

Zoe Sheaf

Tiffin School

Stories.................................................................... 147 Hiba Mirza Jack O’Leary

The Holy Cross School

Tiffin School

Kathleen O'Sullivan

Nonsuch High School For Girls

Laura Jara de la Torre

Ashcroft Technology Academy

Awarded Disctinction: SEN Poems......................................................................157 Angel Harris-Cocklin

Perseid Upper School

Holly Rose Cook

Cricket Green School

Robyn Cooper

Cricket Green School

Stories.....................................................................161 Kallum Jones

Perseid Upper School

Participating Schools �� 165 Index....................................................................... 166

Introduction Never has the world needed legends more. In times of difficulty or uncertainty, we turn to stories for comfort. Legendary stories of remarkable feats; daring escapades; trailblazing heroes.These familiar narratives and figures underscore our world, shaping who we are and - perhaps most significantly - who we hope to become. And whilst the terms ‘myth’and ‘legend’are often used interchangeably, there is something distinctly and wonderfully human about the latter. Myth might speak of the sacred or supernatural; something symbolic, fantastic and other-worldly. But legends speak to the humanity at the heart of it all. Sometimes painful, frequently flawed, funny, ridiculous – the ‘ordinary’ parts of the ‘extraordinary’. And we see it all in these amazing anthology entries. A mother figure who has gone above-and-beyond; the harsh laugh of a fiery medusa; a son determined to move out of his father’s shadow; a rebel blazing through monotony with colour and art. So many of the joys, nuances and oddities of human nature are here, reminding us that – no matter how small or dark life might seem at times – greatness is always possible. Of course, it is important to remember. Legends only become legendary through the stories that are told about them. It matters how these tales are told: which words are chosen, the way an image is constructed, how a world is built or a character developed. And that is exactly what the young writers in this anthology have done. They have – through the power of storytelling – elevated the ordinary to the extraordinary. In short, they have brought legends to life for us. Dr Amy Waite Chair of Judges, University of Roehampton 1

Ana Gumende Soldier Proletariat Ursuline High School (Year 13 – Age 18) Briefcase, gilet, tie and suit Ammo, shield and combat boot Underground; Temple, Blackfriars, Bank Soldiers trained in PPE Stationed; cubicle cavalry And slick the cogs of war machine With morning coffee. Brave marine, Commute! Compete! Comply! Follow protocol, track cash flow Don your business casual camo Copy-cat your coworker Follow them through urban sprawl, And crawl, Commute, Underground; trench to Bank, barrack Camp and back Then drill again, Compete No fog-of-war same time tomorrow Camouflage and emulate 5

Till you are indistinct, Comply, Paints and mediums now melee weaponry Form a Square Mile-fit artillery Amorphous troops in suit and tie Repeat routine: march, sell, and buy A drill forevermore for war A battle that will never come. Hark. All quiet on investor's front A juggernaut of a jarhead approaches And the platoon supposes They extrapolate his maneuvers Surely, they abide by market impulses Ballpoint pen battalion charges front But he weaves, His paint brush mightier, His drill is trills, he makes music Dancing, beat by beat the barracks fall Untrained to tackle technicolor, troops retreat to trench and crawl Through tunnels and tubes just as pallid, Macabre and monotonous as their fellow men Until that rebel rose, orange and radiant Blue purple yellow red violence 6

The virtuoso’s dreams over their doctrine: Commute, complete, comply, And in his briefcase an instrument, And under his gilet a heart.

Juliet Capgras i am medusa

Raynes Park High School (Year 9 – Age 14) i am medusa legend to no one – libels and false truths hang from the tips of my teeth, my snakeskin curls lace up like a corset around your back. because this is no curse – they knew what they were doing. stone walls formed by bone and the things taken from me, bleeding out by your altar, candles still lit. i left a stain. nectarine flesh left, smeared, sacrilegious on your chin. i finger-paint flowers over your collarbone. they carve me in stone and i return the favour. again and again, as if that too will make things better – i laugh – it’s a harsh sound, and walk away. 10

Milly Davies

Death in My Mother’s Garden Raynes Park High School (Year 8 – Age 13) Golden rain Pours sickly sweet On the tip of my tongue Beautiful aromas Lilies Orchids Roses Stagnate in my mouth I am rotting In my mother’s garden Bones fertilising the soil Daffodils sprouting Around my disintegrating flesh Golden rain turns acidic Stinging like antiseptic cloth On cut knees Blood flowing hot Murky grey tears The warmth of the world’s mothers Charring my skin I linger on that sentiment Roll it around my skull Like a gleaming pearl In my oyster shell

She places a plaster On rough skin Iaso in corduroy dungarees Madonna and child Found in a supermarket isle I am ancient now Withered skin like an elephant The rest of me is dead Yet her silhouette is carved In my soil carpeted stomach Love in the shape of a womb Trapped with the burden of a baby These fragile bones Enshrouded with the same lumps of flesh Sewn with the same golden thread In a century When all left Is chalky fossils She with forever lurk In my broken cuckoo clock of a mind This is my time as it was hers To be reborn Into the orchard Shading the summer apples With my crimson blood I am walking with my mother In the garden of death Golden rain Turned sour and putrid

Lilies Orchids Roses Blackened and charred Yet the sun still shines In equal magnitude To the waking world Warmth on my spine And I turn to her Resting my head on her shoulder The legend of the world’s mother Contained in the blood on my fingertips

And so gently The earth collapses underneath us Devouring all our compassion Cannibalising my soul With its eternal hunger But I am peaceful As I am one with the earth Melancholy madness Turned to magnolias This is death In all its exquisite mystery And undeniable beauty In the calloused hands of a mother

Celeste Sofia Adami A Witch’s Tale

Ursuline High School (Year 7 – Age 12) I didn’t mean to eat them the first time. It was the hunger, I couldn’t help myself. I was starving, exhausted, and once I took the first bite they tasted delicious. All the guilt was gone in a second. How did I find myself here? This story starts when I left the orphanage, I had had enough of all the bullying, so I found myself running through the forest, all I could hear was the heavy breathing from my throat, and my heart hammering against my ribs… As the hours passed, my legs throbbed and the gnawing in my empty stomach made me dizzy. I had finally stumbled across a house- a unique house. It was adorned with colourful treats and sprinkled with white, powdery sugar. Icing hung decoratively like icicles beneath the golden-brown gingerbread roof, and the smell of freshly baked cookies drifted through the air. My eyes widened with hunger and excitement. Before I bit into the tempting sweets I noticed three small children standing by the door. They had plump, rosy cheeks and small round bodies; they seemed so innocent. With broad grins spread across their faces, the children invited me in. An endless amount of colourful treats were offered to me; I devoured them all yet I was still starving. I turned around to thank the kind hosts only to see them all holding sharp knives. 15

Instincts screamed at me to run. The next bit was all a blur… Behind me, I felt the burning heat coming from the closed oven. The three children circled around me. I was rooted to the spot, hands trembling and my face red and drenched in sweat. Immediately, they pounced on me, I ran to the side, the lace from my ragged dress caught on the oven handle, opening it. They fell in the sizzling oven just missing me by an inch as I instantly closed the oven door behind them. My eyes swept over the scene in front of me, my face froze with terror. I stared unblinking, horror-struck. The children were burning and I just watched. Watched and did nothing. My stomach growled as I realised the sweets in the house weren’t real food, but just an illusion. I was desperate to escape the house but no matter how many times I tried I couldn’t leave the front gate. I tried for hours and hours, the hunger was getting uncontrollable. Wafting in the air was the mouth-watering aroma of roasted meat, I went back to the kitchen...they tasted delicious. In time I developed a strong liking for that particular flavour of meat. So, that is how I have ended up living all alone in a house made of treats, and I wait. Wait every day for small children to come...well, for anybody. But who is so naïve to enter a candy house in the forest besides small children?

James Son I, Asterion

Tiffin School (Year 11 – Age 16) The crown’s crime runs poison through my veins born free yet everywhere wound in chains. Begot of he who dared deceive the wrathful sea of he I am a Prince, yet everywhere surrounded by tragedy. They call me a monster. Let them say. No statue ever names the clay. Shaped by a sculptor that scorns, moulding the axe that kills, but not the heart that mourns. Shackled within the Labyrinth, trapped by iron bars of inescapable height. Surrounded by obsidian black walls, I chose not flight but fight. Months of exposure passed, the darkness within me had long been caged it came out roaring, enraged. Knowing Ariadne, my supposed sister, so sweet and full of grace would watch me silent, unable to bear my monstrous face. Like God cast Lucifer into the fiery depths of hell she turned her back to me; condemned me forever fell.

She gave one of the Athenian boys, a golden thread to guide him through the maze, to end her shameful dread. Unravelling the maze of despair by her guide he lured deeper, his doom nearly tied. I spoke, but raging fury engulfed his eyes. He saw no danger, only his long-waited prize. My limbs did not quiver. My heart did not shake. I snapped his resolve in half like it was glass, brittle and made to break. With ease, I choked him, lifting him high, a single scarred hand tightened, causing his pathetic cry. His world grew quiet, his breath grew thin. His eyes squeezed tight as realisation seeped in. His breath jagged, his body losing fight. A fading gold spark in the suffocating black night. He flew like lcarus, bold and blind to the end. Yet I, the sun, will not let him ascend. He came forth a saviour, his sword drawn for the slain. A lionheart avenging Athen’s pain. If I let him fall, would peace then rise? Would I be free, if he never opened his eyes…? I chose to end the cycle, to break the chain. I let fate take me, release me from my pain. I lowered my guard, surrendered to his might. I let him end me, snuff out my waning light. But legends lie. They twist like serpent and bend like snake. They start in truth, and break bits until all fake. Do they know the suffocating rose blackthorns around my name were forged from their fear, not from any fault or blame? Tell the tale. Tell it true. I was not the beast that they thought they knew. I was a son fated to sin, the heart of a gentle boy, trapped in the Minotaur’s skin. 18

Ada Onur

The Man with a Perfect Legacy Wimbledon High (Year 10 – Age 15) The sound of applause reminds me of the smashing of glass. Not because of the noise, but the memories it brings. Standing in the numb darkness of backstage, I listen to the crowd cheer for him, the greatest mathematician ever, brain rivalling all others before him. Known worldwide. Admired worldwide. He is legendary. He was my hero. The person I wanted to become. And in a different life, I could become. Watching his tall figure stride across the stage, large, calloused hands accept an award, an image pushes its way into my mind. The crack of knuckles against my jaw. Hard, bruised skin, and a thick gold ring that always stung like ice. The taste of blood. Sour. Metallic. And then the pain, so searing that for a few seconds, it made me forget the fear that always controlled me when he was near. Around him I was invisible. Useless. And he never let me forget it Afterwards, he talks to the people who cheered for him. They weren’t just an audience to him, but people worth understanding. He made them feel special. Wanted. Years later, his story will be told not only as a genius, but the man who helped you reach your dreams. I stare at him in 19

discussion with a student, smile encouraging, hand on her shoulder, and remember how it feels like to be shouted at, so loudly I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Words that cut me deep, and stayed there, so I’d have to heal around them, until they became a part of me. He’d said I was useless, stupid, unwanted- said it so many times that they became fact. I had never challenged him. I couldn’t. Not when I knew he was right. I stare at the figure now strolling across the auditorium. He made me feel safe. Made me want to be something more. If only he was that person in my life, the one I went home with. Things might be better. Life might be worth living. I lower my eyes, knowing that’s impossible. I know what’s waiting for me at home. The insults. The pain. The gnawing fear that I will never make it out. Leather loafers on creaky floorboards makes me look up. There he is. A trophy cradled in one large hand, a smile cracking across his face. The man with a perfect legacy. He puts one hand on my shoulder, and as pain shoots down my back, I can feel the smooth gold band of his ring pressing into me, the cold stinging my skin. Knuckles gripping bone, he propels me forward like a puppet. After all that’s all I am to him. “Ready to go?” His words are still warm through his smile. I swallow the fear, knowing it will soon be forgotten. My mind filled only with the pain. “Yes dad.” All they see is his image. His legacy. And behind it all, no one will ever see me. He made sure of that.

Lente Ottink

Fogged Up Glass Marymount International School (Year 12 – Age 17) She stares into my eyes awaiting my instructions. My hands are sweating and my heart thumps so loudly I fear she may be able to hear it, so I take a deep breath. I motion my head towards the paper lying on the glass table between us, the writing on it points towards the floor. She cautiously places her hand on top of it then begins sliding it across the table, not allowing the temptation to take control. The pages reaches the edge of the table and threatens to fall to the ground, so she gingerly picks it up. She slowly turns it over while looking back up at me. I stick my head closer towards her and nod repeatedly, urging her to read it. Her eyes slowly glide down to the paper in her hands, she holds it so delicately I feel she might let go at any moment. The fingers holding on don’t even create indentations, they barely touch it. She tightens her jaw and sighs. I watch as her eyes move back and forth, drifting lower and slowly approaching the bottom of the page where I no longer sit in her line of vision. Her gaze stays fixed one the last line, then her hands begin to tremble as her eyes well up with unshed tears. A single drop falls down to the ground and her shoulders shake. Her grasp on the edges of the paper tightens, I almost believe she’s going to rip it apart. Before I have the chance to think I place my hand on hers. She looks up, and I give her a gentle smile. It is enough to make her calm down. I let go of her hand and return to my seat, pressing 21

my back against the spine of the chair. She takes a few deep breaths then puts the paper down in front of her, back in its position on the desk between us. In the exact same state it was in before, making it seem like nothing has happened. My eyes search her expression looking for an answer, but it remains still and unfazed. Emotionless all of a sudden. Our eyes meet again, and she stares at me, confused, saying, and doing nothing. My hands gesture forwards, trying to coax a response or at least a reaction out of her but I only receive an empty look. She continues to look forwards, staring directly through me. I don’t know what to do, so I wait instead. Her gaze flickers and she starts breathing again, I hadn’t even noticed that she had stopped. I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows, awaiting the words I hope to hear. “No.” she says. “No?” I repeat, but no longer in the same tone of voice. She shakes her head, then gets up and leaves. Eventually the dirt had burrowed under my nails as I continued my incessant tantrum, wallowing in the pitiful feeling of helplessness. Now it felt like all I had left to do was cry. I find an odd comfort in my own sobs, weakly hugging myself, my hands caked with mud dirtying my once clean skin, my nightdress ruined… But none of it matters. If it’s not real, if I’m not real…then truly nothing matters and that’s enough to stop my crying. But it’s enough to ease my mind, there needs to be more. I need a purpose. So now I sit, with an underlying sense of hunger for something more, I stare up at the moon. Silently yearning.

Max Latif

Boy Meets Blind Prophet Nonsuch High School (Year 12 – Age 17) Why, to find his way home, they’d sent him to the man whose main boast is solving Zeus and Hera’s gender troubles, he doesn’t know. And yet here he is, fingers curled around Tiresias’ door knocker. Molded into the growl of a lion, the sunlight reflects off its face and glowers at him with white hot rage. The metal’s still cold enough to bite, though. Strange. Just as his hand crawls back into his pocket, the old man opens the door. Odysseus smiles an awkward smile- raised eyebrows, bitten lip, dimples making an appearance – which always gets pensioners on side, but this skeleton gives no indication of sweetening up. He fumbles around in his corduroy trousers, then produces a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro. Odysseus’ eyes widen. “They cost a fortune,” he blurts out. Tiresias yields a smile. “Cash isn’t really a problem for me.” It turns out the gods offer a decent pension scheme. Once they’ve blinded you, made you live until you wither and dumped prophecy on you, that is. Odysseus shakes his head, but the geriatric still helps himself to one. He sniffs, gauging his visitor’s scent. He’s late, but Tiresias only put the kettle on a minute ago; naturally, he knew the kid would only come around eight-thirty. Nothing can be a surprise for him anymore, can it? 23

“Tea, boy?” The boiled water’s hissing coming from the kitchen sounds, to Odysseus, just like the four winds escaping when his men released them from Aeolus’ ox-skin bag. To think, if not for such titanic stupidity, they would’ve had a safe journey home. Nevermind. “Sure.” Soon enough, although he’d only wanted to drop in, he’s buried deep in an armchair, tapping the tips of his fingers against a mug, feigning concentration by nodding along. For a man who’s endured hundreds of years (and looks like it, too) Tiresias gestures with fervour, hands only resting on the coffee table when wanting to really drill in someplace’s importance. Aeaea, and the land of the Sirens, and Thrinacia, home to the sun god’s precious cows. “Not to be touched.” “Or else he’s smite us?” Odysseus retorts. But Tiresias, though blind, locks eyes on him. He’s seen what happens. Odysseus won’t return a stare. Looks out the window, to the bookshelf, back to his mug. What’s seven generations of living to a boy like him? Shaped too carelessly, Tiresias thinks. Warnings go in one ear and out the other. Poor Helios is going to lose all that cattle. But Odysseus thinks he’s got everything he needs to know, so draws himself up to full height, ready to go. All those adventures, but he’s still got smooth skin, eyes shimmering and no wisdom at all. Tiresias leads him to the door, lets the boy stride out. Knowing he won’t bother glancing back, the grizzled prophet withdraws into the hall. A pang of hesitation would have benefited the kid, but the seething temper of the lion knocker’s stare is met only by Odysseus’ back. 24

Calum Mason

Filming my Journey Cricket Green School (Year 12 – Age 17) Bus drivers get on their journey. They turn left, they turn right, Sometimes straight ahead according to the map. Bus drivers take your fare, They announce diversions and change destinations. I will sit still and wait. Final destination Pollards Hill I film.

Riylee Shearwood

Legend of Sarah Red Ruby Perseid School (Year 9 – Age 14) Once upon a time there was a prince named Tom. He wanted to see what was outside. So, he asked his mum if he can go outside and play and his mother said yes. Tom goes out and starts playing with his friends and then soon he found an interesting black castle in the woods. The castle was as black as coal and crows were sat on the roof. Tom was very curious about the castle but he remembered that his mum said never go in strangers’ houses. So, he did not go in. He then played with some squirrels that he found hiding in a tree. They all played keepy uppy together with the nuts the squirrels had been collecting. Tom was good at this game. Soon it was evening and Tom went home. Soon he had his dinner and went to bed. His house was really warm and cosy and made him feel sleepy. And then it was the next day. Tom went out again and soon he saw a pig. The pig asked Tom to give it some flowers to eat. Tom said yes and the pig ate the flowers and gave Tom some gold in return. Because the pig was nice. The pig asked the prince if he had seen the castle yesterday and Tom said yes. The pig asked if he wanted to go in and see if there was somebody in there. Tom said yes. Tom and his new pig friend, who he named Jack the pig, journeyed to the castle. They found some people inside the castle. He went to the first lady that he saw and the lady was very rude to him. She asked him to go home. The prince was really mad at this and went to the next lady. This lady was nice. She asked Tom where he had come from and Tom said that he had come from his castle. Tom said ‘who are you?’. The lady said ‘I’m a servant’. Tom said ‘can I help you clean up?’ and the lady said ‘yeah sure’. He helped the lady by starting to mop the floor. He was good at helping. In return the lady gave him some honey. Jack the pig was staring at pictures in the grand 26

hall. When Jack was looking at the pictures, he found a secret button hidden behind one of the pictures. He pressed it and was teleported to another room. Jack was really scared. He did not know what he was doing in there. Tom got worried and decided to look for his friend, Jack the Pig. He could not find him. Meanwhile, Jack was just looking through all of these twelve secret rooms. The first room was a ruby red bedroom. Jack wondered if someone was inside the room, so he decided to go inside and explore. While he was looking for somebody he saw a little girl. She was made out of solid rubies. He asked the girl what her name was, and she said that her name was ‘Sarah Red Ruby’. She was very sparkly and the light sparkled on her. She told Jack the Pig that she wanted to have some friends. Jack said I can take you to Tom and agreed. Jack leads her to Tom and they found him. Sarah, Red Ruby and Tom became good friends.

Annaliese St Louis

A Girl’s Journey To AFC Wimbledon Harris Academy Merton (Year 9 – Age 13) I’m not supposed to be here. A girl, In the stands, Eyes fixed on the pitch Fingers wrapped tight around a scarf That wasn’t meant for me – But they never told me what a girl could wear. They said ‘Football is not for you’ But I didn’t hear them Not with my heart pounding Not with the echo of every kick That carried me from the streets To a dream that tasted of grass and sweat Where the boys kicked the ball And the girls were told to watch My feet didn’t know how to stand still And my spirit refused to sit down So I ran, With he same fire in my chest As the people who called me crazy I was crazy, enough to believe in my place at – AFC Wimbledon – The place I didn’t know would feel like home It wasn’t my five brothers who welcomed me but The urge to chase my dreams

I belong here In the stands And in the fight In the love for the game So here I stand, Not a girl in the crowd But a warrior with a dream That echoes louder than doubt AFC Wimbledon is my community Not because of what I am But because of what I will become.

Affan Naseer

Prologue: Ashes Beneath the Sun Harris Academy Merton (Year 9 – Age 14) The scent of death clung to the wind like incense in a shrine. Corpses littered the rice fields of Kawanabe, their entrails steaming in the cold morning mist. Ravens gorged on eyeless sockets. Severed arms twitched in the mud, as if trying to crawl home. The clash of steel had ceased hours ago—only screams of the dying and crackle of flames remained. Villages burned in the distance, painting the horizon in blood-orange hues. A lone figure amidst slaughter. His name was Raikō Shigemura, son of a disgraced warlord, now nothing more than a blade without a master. His lacquered armor was caked in the grime of twenty battles, blood drying in thick clots across his chest-plate and face. One eye swollen shut from a blow. His katana, Tensho, dripped with viscera, the blade nicked from cleaving through bone. Raikō did not breathe heavily. He did not pray. He did not mourn. He simply stared at the ruined battlefield, as if daring the gods to descend and explain this butchery. He had led this assault on Kawanabe to reclaim honor—his clan's name, his father's legacy, the land they lost to the Shōrai, a brutal rival clan that fed its warriors opium and made prisoners fight their own kin for sport. His own men lay disembowelled around him. Raikō staggered to the centre of the carnage. There, impaled on a tree of spears, was Lord Daichi, the Shōrai general. His torso split from shoulder to navel. Raikō had carved through two hundred men to reach him. But it was not enough. War was only beginning. A rumble sounded across the ridge—hooves. Dozens. 32

Raikō turned, blood dripping from his blade, and watched as the next wave came into view. Shōrai reinforcements—twice the number of his original force. Their banners flapped in the wind: black wolves howling on crimson silk. Among them rode a man in obsidian armor, his mask shaped like a weeping oni. Raikō’s knees buckled. It was Ranmaru the Hollow, the Shōrai clan’s executioner. Said to have buried a thousand men alive. Said to speak with the dead. Said to be unkillable. Ranmaru raised his tetsubō—a spiked iron club as thick as a child’s torso—and pointed it toward Raikō. Raikō gripped Tensho tighter. “I am the last wolf,” he whispered, voice rasping like a dying flame. “Let them come.” Behind him, the flames of Kawanabe rose higher, consuming temple, home, and shrine. Ashes danced into the heavens, black snow heralding a new legend— —but a whisper in the wind stopped him cold. A woman’s voice, soft and broken: “Raikō… it wasn’t them.” He turned sharply. Behind the pyres stood a figure in a straw hat, robes singed, face hidden. The voice again: “Your clan’s death… your father’s shame… it was not the Shōrai. It was someone else.” Raikō’s blood froze. “Who?” he growled. But the figure was already gone—vanished into the smoke, leaving only the wind and the thunder of hooves approaching fast. 33

Brooke Hopkinson The Legend

Putney High School GDST (Year 9 – Age 13) You don’t know what draws you to The Gallery this time. You find yourself gliding further down the suffocating hall, trailing bloodless fingertips over jagged marble walls and cracking glass. You inhale a shaky breath of dusty memories as the mirror shatters under your touch. Seven years of bad luck… Your mother’s voice echoes through The Gallery, except she’s not here anymore, so you ignore Past. You bend down and run your hand over the dull shards, your lips turning upwards in an almost smile as pinpricks of blood appear on the soft skin of your palm. You stand, as Present draws your attention to the golden frame on the wall. You study it, as you have so many times before, and a girl stares back at you. The dark red of her riding cloak matches the unshed tears clinging to her eyelashes. As you look, you can almost imagine them rolling down her pale cheeks, soaking into the butchered skin of her fur coat, leaving phantom tear tracks the colour of dried blood. Tell me, can you name one hero who was happy? Didn’t think so. This time, Present’s voice graces the desolate chamber. You don’t try to reply. Every hour you spend examining the eternal residents of The Gallery in an attempt to disprove it only makes you surer that Present is right. 34

Your gaze travels away from the girl. Twelve princesses smile out at you from the adjacent frame, their skirts twirling around slender legs, arms outstretched, as though mid-dance. You find yourself raising your own arm towards them, thinking in a moment of innocent ignorance that you can save them from their inevitable fate - your inevitable fate - preserved forever in this macabre mausoleum. Their bodies are contorted in graceful silhouettes; aching figures trapped in piercing stilettos and stifling whalebone corsets. Restrict movement. Restrict speech. Restrict breath. Present speaks again. What are you? What are you? What are you supposed to be? What will you be? A hero. A victim. A princess. An ally. An enemy. A warrior. A murderer. A legend. 35

The last frame in The Gallery calls to you and, as you approach, you expect it to be empty, just like it has been since that night it appeared seven long years ago. But it’s not. The faint light of day struggles to reach here. Through the shadows you make out faint shapes etched into the stone. An apple floats just out of reach, deep red and alluring. You lean towards it and notice something else: the outline of a mirror, reflecting the concealed curve of the apple, shrivelled and blackened, like the decaying flesh of something long dead. You watch as your hand reaches out to touch the frame. You know you shouldn’t, but you watch. You watch helplessly as the fresh blood on your palm seeps into the gold. And as you watch, Future whispers in your ear. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?

Noa Spencer-Brown The Lady of the Water

Ibstock Place School(Year 9 – Age 14) With dark skies come hushed voices when you’re near the lake. Whispers of stories, of fears, of the Lady of the Water. Travellers often spend the night here to prove themselves, to show they aren’t afraid, but night after night I watch them cower under trees, eyes clamped shut. I used to leave the water to try and comfort them, but now I just watch and smile, laugh at the absurdity of it all. I choose to laugh because I’ve cried too many times over it, my tears joining the water, binding me to the lake. I hear footsteps along the bank and glide towards them, silent as I reach the rocks. Two men set up a tent on the shore, one tall with hair the colour of a tree trunk, the other shorter and bonier, with eyes like seaweed. They come closer and I sink further into the water, quietly untangling my hair, letting it rest along my back. They hammer pegs into the ground, puncturing the soil, and I can’t imagine acting this way, don’t understand why they would choose to sleep under shelter instead of watching the stars. They speak, and my breath catches at the sound of voices, envying the freedom to make noise. One of them mutters something, staring at the water, and I’m immediately aware they’re talking about me. I have a sudden urge to show myself, but remember what happened before, the reporters, scientists crowded around the lake, while I hid in the tunnel of caves the rocks form at the bed of the lake. I instead turn and return to the dark water, running my fingers along the sand, watching the seaweed wrap around my hand and holding onto it tightly. I lie on the sand

and stare at the sky, distorted by the water, the stars fainter, dimmer. I gently close my eyes, listening to the sound of the water around me. I hear a broken breath, a sob from the shore. I swim to the rocks again, and see the shorter man crouched by the tent, shaking with fear. I decide to leave the water to help him, but as I have begun to pull myself up the other man leaves the tent. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks. ‘I…heard a noise and…I thought…it was her…’ he stutters. ‘Relax, it’s just a story. Come back inside.’ They return to the tent and I blink, tears blurring my vision. I notice my arms are still on the shore, ready to save the man, but as I realise that I am what he needs saving from, I slowly descend into the water and return to the caves. I don’t know why I thought I could help him, why I thought he would talk to me. I furiously wipe my eyes and realise that maybe I should just give up trying. I will be who the legend wants me to be, as it is stopping me from being anything else.

Tilak Patel

Erasure Protocol Ashcroft Technology Academy (Year 10 – Age 14) The memory purge began at midnight. Solene Virell sat beneath the low hum of failing lights in Archive Substation B-7, hands trembling over a fragile, yellowing page. Outside, sirens wailed — Erasure Protocol Initiated. Across the city, people queued up to forget. Ten more years wiped clean. But Solene remembered. The page was barely legible, but the words burned: “The Legend walked through fire, unafraid of ash. They spoke of freedom in a language the regime tried to erase.” The regime called it treason. She called it truth. Beneath her desk, hidden inside a hollowed-out memory drive, was a book wrapped in lead-lined cloth. The Book of Virex. A relic from another world. A name you weren’t even allowed to think, let alone speak. Heavy footsteps echoed overhead — Memory Wardens. Close now. She moved, fast and quiet, through the maze of forgotten shelves. Down into the archive’s lowest level — where the Keepers had carved out a refuge generations ago. A place the purges hadn’t reached. There, she opened the book. The writing inside was hurried, familiar. “If you’re reading this, you are the continuation. The regime wins only if we forget.”

It was signed with her name. Her handwriting. But dated seventy years ago. Her blood turned cold. Shouts above. Boots on stairs. No time. Behind the altar was a panel, then a tunnel — carved long ago as an escape route. She didn’t think. She ran. Hours later, she emerged into the Wreck Zone — the abandoned spine of the city. Crumbling towers, rusted transit rails, everything covered in moss and silence. The regime didn’t patrol here. Too broken. Too forgotten. She followed the spiral symbol drawn on the book’s last page — Aetherlight. Buried beneath the ruins of an old subway hub, sealed behind a cipher only Keepers knew, she found it. The Aetherlight Library. A vast stone vault lit by soft, flickering blue. Rows of datacrystals. Walls etched with coded memories. And people — quiet, waiting, like shadows brought to life. “You made it,” someone whispered. “We thought the line had ended.” “I don’t understand,” Solene said, holding out the book. “Why me?” “You were encoded,” another voice answered. “Virex knew they couldn’t live forever. So they planted the memory — in story, in blood, in you.” Solene sank to her knees, the truth settling on her like dust. She wasn’t chosen. She was the continuation.

Not because she remembered the past — but because she refused to let it die. Above, the world purged itself again. But in the deep, the fire was catching. And this time, it would burn all the way through.

Aanya Singh Kaikeyi

Nonsuch High School for Girls (Year 12 - Age 17) Kaikeyi (A warrior queen from Hindu mythology) Blood on the chariot wheel. Blood on the marriage bed. Blood in the girl’s mouth the first time she bit her tongue and learned to swallow grief. Blood, because that is what binds a family together— not love, not duty. Not even a god. Years ago, she saved a king. Her hands pulled him from the jaws of war bent the battlefield beneath her palms, her body a barricade between death and his crown. She saved a man who would later forget that she once held him together with nothing but her bare hands. She was gentle, once, but a woman who listens too long to another’s fear begins to mistake it for gospel, whisper it like prayer. A woman who is told she will be forgotten learns to hack her name into fate before it fades. They say she asked for too much. That a woman should not want like that, should not name her hunger, should not try to shape the future with her own hands. She should have known a promise is only a promise when it suits a man. 42

Queen of two faces, one turned toward the son she bore— Bharata, dark-eyed and innocent, a boy who did not ask for power, but would inherit the very fate his mother made. The other toward the son she raised— Rama, golden-limbed, beloved, a god in the making, but still just a boy who once fell asleep in her lap. What does a mother do when love splits her in two? No one tells you that duty is a knife. No one tells you that loyalty is a slow kind of drowning. She did not send Rama away because she did not love him. She sent him away because what begins as devotion can bend into fear, fear into desire, desire into ruin. Exile, she said. Fourteen years. The whole world cursed her name. The man who had once pledged her everything betrayed her with a death too swift, And the son for whom she had done all this, looked at her as if she was a stranger, swore never to call her mother again— But what mother is not cursed at least once by the child she has wronged, 43

by the child she has tried to save? She was not soft, and so they called her cruel. She was not silent, and so they called her wicked. She was not sorry, and so they called her monster. But tell me— Have you never held love so tightly that it turned into the sword that severed you from it? Let them call her villain. Let them paint her in the colours of regret. But know this— If you must call her villain, then call her also mother. Call her ferocity and call her tenderness. Call her what she is: not just the ending, but the beginning of the story, too. Love is war, and war has never been kind to women.

Ben Bedford

Cricket Green School The Magical Horse (Year 13 – Age 18) Once upon a time in 1971 there was a horse called Royal Fury. He was a racing horse. He was a speedy, whizzy horse and had a twinkling eye. His twinkling eye gave him the courage to run faster. Royal Fury lived in Epsom Downs Stables and raced at multiple race courses. His favorite race course was Sandown Park. When he raced his jockey wore a checked shirt with a hat with yellow star on the top. One-night Royal Fury looked up to the stars and thought to himself I wish I could have the courage to race even faster than ever. The stars in the sky shone brighter than ever and the sky went white and then back to normal. The next morning Royal Fury noticed that when he went to have a drink he saw in the water a reflection of a twinkling eye that belonged to him. When he raced at Epsom Downs he was going faster than ever. He won every race that he entered because of his twinkling eye. His trainer noticed how he kept winning races and he stood proudly in his suit with his top hat when Royal Fury raced. All the crowd would cheer when he was galloping fast. Royal Fury was very happy that he had a twinkling eye and from then on he kept on racing forever and ever until he retired. He then lived happily in the field for the rest of his life.

POEMS AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 3 Years 7-9 Age 11-14

Aashir Ahmed The Legend

Ashcroft Technology Academy (Year 8 – Age 13) Long ago, when the world was quiet, a stranger came from the mountains. He wore a dark cloak, carried a silver sword, and never spoke his name. People said he had no home, no family—only a mission. Where there was trouble, he arrived like lightning. He helped the weak, fought the cruel, then disappeared like smoke. No one knew where he slept, or what he wanted. Some said he was a ghost, others said a lost king from a forgotten land. Children grew up hearing his story. Old ones swore they’d seen him on stormy nights, watching from the trees. Now, many years have passed. But deep in a quiet cave, his sword still waits. And they say, when the world is in danger again, he will return— not as a story, but as a hero. 48

Angel Ghumdia Dionysus Di-Vine

Saint Cecilia’s Church of England School (Year 9 – Age 14) Behind leaves you will see a gods group. They are friends with the Earth. They are one with its roots. Members are lost in a bacchic trance, Watch as they sing and dance. They scream in liberation. For this is their salvation. “Just another sip of wine Pure as grapes off the vine.” Their clothes are stained from blood spilled, Coming from animals they have killed. They embrace manic desires; Feeling their souls light on fire. Celebrating life and revelry, Dionysus, God of wine has set them free. Pleasure is just a disguise, For this is a cult where much more lies. This party lasts past sunrise, For divinity never dies.

Atticus Constantinou The Lost Ankh

Rutlish School (Year 7 – Age 12) Mystical power shone from the heart of Egypt The power of the moon channeled the very symbol of Khonsu himself. This golden Ankh with power to change the tides, summon the moon, change time itself The power of this object was unimaginable The Egyptians knew. This golden ankh was taken with Tutankhamun to the tomb Sealed with a curse inside. The curse would send out a great plague to all the world. Occupying Egypt, greedy for power, ruthless and brutal The Nazis wanted the Ankh. Digging desperately for the tomb Prisoners worked relentlessly in darkness, delving through layers of sand and stone, Oblivious to the upcoming curse The air grew thick, heavy with ancient malice.

In a tomb untouched for centuries, the golden Ankh was uncovered Gleaming surface glowing brightly under the moon A violent tremor shook the ground Wind swept through the tomb The gravest mistake And the world knew it too. The moon's curse was released Crimson now The moon sent down Reflected rays from the sun Disintegrating all.

Bertie Murrell

Shrewsbury House School Legends are Born from Stories (Year 7 – Age 11) In the clearing, a tale is told, Passed down ear to ear to the young by the old. The elders would relish the ghoulish face, Of the child who would one day take their place. But tonight, in the warm mysterious air, An altitudinous boy, youthful and fair, Saunters up to the fire, to hear the tale, That had made others wither and wail. Their hearts would turn as black as pitch, When they heard the deeds of the wicked witch, And when the ending came at last, They would go lame and stand, aghast. Released from the clutches of horror and dread, That would haunt them night after night, in their twig and straw bed. Akuntsu strode to the listeners’ chair, Where he was met by Belmira’s ghastly stare. Her malformed face, her shrunken eyes, But Akuntsu couldn’t help but snigger at her guise: An obscure ceremonial robe of bluish hue, Complimented by a hat with feather of emu. The story began with a dismal setting, Inclement weather, so humid the trees were sweating. And next: “Boom!” A rumble of fear, A monster so large one would have to peer, To see the top of his brow-stained blood-red; The clouds roll domineeringly overhead. The story rattled on in a similar tone, In the cracked old voice of Belmira the crone, 52

And in a flash the tale was done, The giant and witch were dead, and the hero had won! But suddenly a rumble resonated around the plateau, And they spotted a glimpse of the giant’s huge, hideous toe… Upon the battlefield, he stood, Defying darkness, seeking good. The giant roared, the earth did quake, Yet courage held, no step to break. Through swinging fists and thundering might, The hero moved—a blur in flight. His blade did gleam, and with a cry, He struck the beast beneath the sky. The giant fell, its wrath undone, Its shadow cast away by sun. The hero stood, his legend made, A light reborn where darkness stayed.

Elizabeth Massey Eye

West London Free School (Year 8 – Age 13) I see their stares Their heads creak creak creaking As their white painted eye fixes onto me Overlapping their shadowy heads Like a child stuck it on I know why their eye stare unmoving, black pupils clicking as they follow me down Like gears, Softly oiled, but I hear, I see the machine, hidden from view, they C L I C K Winding up, hand grenades As i pass, heads move, TICKING towards me and back, towards me and back It is relaxing, seeing the wave of stark white penetrate the inky black Now it's the only light I have These stares rows of stares, lined up like r o w S of grenades Winding up, unknown 54

And they all call me the legend Because damage doesn't have to be done by weapons And I've taken the most hits The sound of the soft clicking, machines, Shift over the white, white eyes Like the wind I haven’t felt the wind Numb, some may say No I’m just above Of life I've realized Death Is the most welcome break From pain But They call me The legend

In so long

The horrors

Eric Song

The Fire that Flickered Shrewsbury House School (Year 7 – Age 11) In the hush of dusk, a tale survives, Where willows weep and shadows creep. Not carved in stone nor written in ink, But carried in the wind, through the young and old. They speak of him as the Protector, The knight, with a heart of gold, won his spur When battling in storms that swallowed light And confronted beasts in the dead of night. With armour kissed by centuries of dust, He gallantly rode with none he trusts, Bearing in mind his ultimate goal, He swore to never lose his soul. His purebred horse had never failed To prevent them from being trailed, It galloped and flew through all terrains, It simply could not be restrained. No rhyme could explain what happened then, No meter could bind the ambitions of men. He fought not only with a sword, but with truth, With riddles and the fire of youth. His laughter was booming, his silence, a scream, He walked through this world like a half-buried dream. But Even legends begin to hush. Even myths fall to blush. When Time, the thief, the quiet knave, Reaches in to rob the brave. 56

And so, he vanished. No herald, no cry. Just a whisper of wind. A twinkle in the sky. Now We wonder: Was he ever real, or simply said? A fire imagined. A tale we fed. Yet in the hush of dusk, he rides once more, Not on roads, but through the core Of every soul who dares to cross On the line between living and legends.

Gabriel Bernard The Legends

Tiffin School (Year 7 – Age 12) They held my hand before I could stand Guided my steps with a tender command They taught me love with not just words But in quiet soft actions that were unheard Their comforting hand caressed my head gently Their sweet lullabies sang to me softly And I fall asleep in security, I look upon the challenges in the past They ended them with a swift blast They show unconditional love for me That powers up my faith in life and energy They work hard for me and my futures They are my awesome guiders Helpful words came out their mouths They push me like strong gales from south, I remember nostalgic memories Fun board games and funny theories We laughed and giggled infinitely, Baked cakes which were unusually puffy, We strolled in a park on a Sunday afternoon Or drew together funny animated cartoons, This park has no more secrets for me! However, one day my world collapsed She wears no armor, yet she stands so tall, In hospital halls where injections fall. My mum’s hair once a river of silk, 58

Now whispers goodbye, yet she feels no shame This unexpected monster caused pain and sorrow, However, she pulled strongly through This is sad unfortunately, But this is sometimes life’s reality We stayed as an unshakable family This monster failed in its torture Bright hope was getting closer My parents are the roots of the family, My heart deeply knows and agree That I owe them so much love. And every beat, in all I do, Is soaked in love they once gave too. I feel so much gratitude, My parents are legends.

Gianmarco Scognamiglio

Poem inspired by The Journey to the West West London Free School (Year 9 – Age 14) Born of heaven and hell’s relation Born from an egg of stone Observed by the constellations Flower-Fruit Mountain was his home Exposed to the heavenly winds, he bowed to the four quarters Golden light from his eyes reached the Palace of the Polestar The Jade Emperor of the Most Venerable Deva Sent Eye and Ear of Heaven to observe the Beast in his haven Royal Heralds went to see the new deity And on Flower-Fruit Mountain found a Monkey of Origin Heavenly As Monkey ate, the beams of his eyes grew dim Eye and Ear of Heaven returned from their mission Declared His Highness, “These creatures from the world below are born of the essences of Heaven and Earth, and they need not surprise us.” To the future danger of the new immortal bogus did he remain oblivious This Monkey would become the King of The Cave Heaven of Water-Curtain Cave. In all the Blessed Land of Flower- Fruit Mountain, Birds and Beasts kowtowed to him, the Handsome Monkey King Soon he would journey over the waves Seeking the gift of immortality To grant to the subjects of his royalty Across the ocean he would learn the Way From the wisdom of the immortal Patriarch Subodhi 60

By his master he was reborn With the religious name Sun Wukong After a time he would be turned away in disgrace And warned never to utter his master’s name Mounting the auspicious luminosity In one somersault travelled one hundred eight thousand li Self-Proclaimed Great Sage, Equal To Heaven, Stole the Riyu Jingu Bang from the Dragon King of the Eastern Ocean Refined by the Fires of Laozi, Strengthened by the Elixir Tricked by little Sage Erlang, Soon the upstart will follow the Tang ON the Journey to the Western Heaven, For Scriptures held at Thunderclap Mountain All will be forgiven Released by the Bodhisattva Guanyin Finally Wukong will take his place in Heaven No longer a bogus immortal, But Great Sage, Equal To Heaven.

Jay Nimesh Patel Identity

Rokeby School (Year 8 – Age 12) From downtown Manhattan, where the taxi drivers shout, To London, where tea is what life’s all about, I brought my wit, my laugh, joy and my silly Snapchat streaks, And an awful rugby mindset that's… let’s just say, I’m awfully unique. Dad’s advice echoes, sharp and wise, “Never trust bagels without proper size!” Mum’s laugh lives on in my humour each day, Even if my rugby skills have recently been astray. In New York, I’m quick with a clever joke, In London, my jokes leave folks bespoke. Funny and playful, with mischief to spare, Life’s too short not to laugh everywhere. But rugby? Oh boy, that’s another tale, I’m more of the English word “slob” on the field’s trail. Sliding, missing, tripping in an upside-down smile, At least I score laughs with every life’s hurdle and mile. So here I am, a mix of it all, Manhattan grit and London’s call. I live silly, sharp, and wonderfully be, carrying Mum’s legacy, wild and enjoyment to be me.

Luc Houston The Griffin

Raynes Park High School (Year 9 – Age 13) Secrets and legends, Sibilant songs and sun-bleached flags. All contained in a slither of gold and nailed to a wall for guests to admire. Your eyes, they burn like hibiscus petals, and your feathers flit from black, to bronze, to silver, Like the wings of those butterfly pins you’ll never wear. Or the diamonds tiaras, whose velvet boxes you stack so neatly, to make room for your dignity. How can I even look at you? You, whose razor blade feather shafts shot through so many hearts and through so many souls. They say diamonds crack stone But diamonds are no match for authenticity. Something which you conspicuously lack. You stand there. Head raised. Eyes shining the way embers do before they die. I am not scared of you. My weapons may not be a match for your diamonds, But I am certainly a match for you.

Madeleine Sedda I’m Not Her

Ursuline High School (Year 8 – Age 13) She is a legend. Maybe she is, But I’m not her, I'm just the little sister, I got the scraps of the talent, She got the lot of it, I only got the garbage, the waste, the extras. She’s great at sports, I'm not She’s a natural at socialising, don't even get me started on that stuff She knows how to keep her cool, I’m always hot headed. She’s so organised, I survive in the chaos She’s disciplined and studious, you’ll never catch me doing my work She’s basically great at everything, in short. But I’m not her. Yes, maybe I’m not disciplined, but I get things done, Maybe I’m not amazing at all sports, but I swear I’m good at other things. Fine, I'm not amazing at organising and arranging, but I try. I really do. It’s hard you know, To live up to that immaculate icon, It’s difficult to be her faultless self, And while I may struggle, I keep quiet I don't open my mouth, I don't because she wouldn’t. I’ve lived my life in her shadow, 64

Moulding into versions of her, Versions of what I'm expected to be. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” I wonder why. Its honestly not that difficult, It's simply that I'm not her. So, I'm sorry if i don't fit the perfect standards, I'm sorry if I can’t leap over the bar she set so high, I’m sorry if I’m not the perfect daughter, I'm sorry if I don't listen as much as she does, or help around the house, or do everything I'm asked to do, I'm sorry, if I've been chipped away so much, that all you can see is faults, But I’m not her I'm just used to being carved. into what she is, into what she used to be, I'm familiar with doing what she would, or following in her footsteps, But genuinely, I don't follow in her footsteps, that doesn't describe it enough, I am forced to walk where she walked, step where she stepped, say what she said, behave how she behaved, What about no? I'm tired, so tired. I'm tired of fitting her perfect shadow, I'm tired of sculpting this facade to look like hers. So I’ve decided, it's time to stop.

Watch me stray from where she walked, and not act like her, Watch me pave my own path, shape my own future, Watch me turn my back on who or what I'm ‘supposed’ to be. You call me a rebel; I'm just being myself. But what am I? Honestly, what am I? I mean, I'm well acquainted with being someone else, I'm so used to only copying, mimicking and imitating. All this time, who really am I? Who am I without living in the shadows? Who am I without sticking by her side? I might not know the answer to that one question, but at least I know one thing for sure, I’m not her.

Syed Ahmad They Were First

Ashcroft Technology Academy (Year 9 – Age 13) Before the textbooks, before the medals and headlines, there were hands working in silence. In open air schools, in ancient cities now forgotten knowledge bloomed without permission. Franklin showed the shape of life in a darkened lag he took it, and the called him a legend Hypatia traced the stars and numbers in sand he copied them and they called him a legend. In Baghdad, they named stars. In Timbuktu, they dissected thought. In China, numbers danced long before they were renamed, rebranded by others “Legends” who stood on stolen shoulders, whose stories where louder by silence around the ones they erased. True legends don’t need statues. 67

Their work survives in ink algorithms in truths that don’t forget where they came from. Its time to remember them not as shadows, but as the fire that lit the path first because after all, they came first. For Hypatia, Aryabhata, Mary, Tu Youyou, Al-Khwarizmi, And everyone history didn’t write down.

Szymon Thrun

The Legend of English Wimbledon College (Year 7 – Age 12) Embarking on a journey of words, Nice people writing nice stories, Glamorous techniques used in great ways to bring words to life, Life explained to the full in many stories, Imagination flows onto paper as a story is written, Similes pop out on the paper like little animals out of their shelters, Hearts of writers and children poured out onto the pages, Inside and out, love is put into every word, Start to end, fun is everywhere across a book, Genius ideas sooth people as they are read, Radiant in rhythm, english rolls in grace, Emotions expressed so well you can feel the moment, Anger and hate go side and side, Terror and hope spark out of the pages.

Tiffany Saisani

A Far Away Thought Southfields Academy (Year 9 – Age 14) When you think of the word "Legend", many things many come to mind: mythology, religion, folk tales. Other times people: Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Nelson Mandela. People who changed the world in their own way and fields, driven by determination, passion and belief . But sometimes I wonder, how women can excel, show unparalleled talent, be so driven, and yet are defined by what they were born as. How many girls have been branded by their sex, ostracised for something as superficial as a body, for one organ that decides how they are viewed by the world? Then this distant thought evolves, into how much we have missed. Half of a society put on a backburner. How many were not thought of or considered useful besides how many children (or rather sons) they could make for their husbands? How many scientists looked down at sinks instead of experiments? How many physicists calculated the years till they were “expired” instead of equations? How many musicians sang to babies in cradles instead of an opera? How many poets were told that men liked their women quiet? How many historians went to their wedding before a museum? 70

How many people were forced into silence, because they had the misfortune of being born a woman? How many "Legends" have we lost?

STORIES AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 3 Years 7-9 Age 11-14

Alex Goldsmith

Legendary Storyteller Rutlish (Year 7 – Age 12) It was a dim dreary evening, and Will was sitting in a dark pub opposite a hunched man drinking a pint of ale. The candles were casting long shadows like fingers across the low ceiling as the man told a story of an old Scottish King, about his victories and his downfall. When the tale was over and the pub had quietened, Will asked, “Ought we meet again?” “A week hence?”, the man replied. “Yes.” A week passed and the two met again in the dark pub. However, this time Will had a plan. A plan to steal the tales for his own. So, after another story – this one about two lovers - he went home, sat by a crackling hearth, took a quill in his hand and started to write. First about the King and then about the romance. He was pleased with his work as he had changed them slightly so that they were more like plays than something in a book. Will continued this strategy and wrote many other plays from people passing by, stealing their ideas and signed each work as if he wrote them himself. W. Shakespeare. ‘To be a legend, or not to be a legend’ The End

Amelia Lubert

Haunted by Nothing Saint Cecilia’s Church of England School (Year 9 – Age 13) A crisp, dark winter evening. The pearly white moon shone just enough pale light for me to find my way. Silent. A still, dead night. Overwhelmed with grief, I stumbled along the graveyard’s pebble path. Sharp thorns and overgrown weeds smothered the old, weathered tombstones like blankets. As I walked, my lantern in hand, the once bright flame began to flicker until… it went out. Darkness. Confused but determined I continued. Big mistake. Salty tears ran down my raspberry red cheeks as I approached my sister’s grave. Suddenly, something caught my attention. An animalistic sound seemed to be coming from a shed. Curious, I followed the noise. Rusty hinges on a wooden door shrieked as I pushed it open. I stopped in my tracks. A pack of some six foxes sat, feasting on something, or someone. Someone I loosely recognised but couldn’t quite identify. The thin lips, the rosy face, the long eyelashes vaguely familiar. Returning to reality I realised what savagery I was witnessing. Crying for help, an ear-splitting cry that sliced the tense air, I ran, like never before, my legs taking hold of my entire being, until I found the groundsman. Shocked, my words slurred, no longer making sense, as I tried to find the words to explain the crimsoncovered horror I’d stumbled upon.

My heart racing, I led the shocked, wide-eyed man back to the shed. That shed. Except this time it was different. It was empty. The large dusty window let moonlight leak into the room, revealing broken, dilapidated cobweb-covered floorboards. Everything was gone. The crimson, the foxes… the body. Desperately I tried to explain, hoping he’d believe what I’d seen. But it was futile. Within what felt like seconds, the doctors were already there. That doctor, in that car. I begged them not to take me away. My tears were hot against my fiery cheeks. My frenzied words were out of control. I was shouting, SCREAMING in the hope they would find a slim fragment of kindness in their hearts, and let me go. But now I seemed more crazy. I knew what I saw… I think. Was I hallucinating? But that’s how I ended up here. Strapped down. Tethered with stiff, rigid, skin-piercing leather, so tight my constricted limbs begin to go numb. I feel as if my body is no longer mine, just like my words on that dark night. My deteriorating soul floats in an empty void. I’m stuck. Powerless. Immobilised. I haven’t seen the light of day in… who knows how long, only they do. At night I never sleep. I lay, trapped, in the same position I do all day, haunted by the life-ruining horrors of my past. Who knows what I saw, if it real or not? I can’t remember anymore. But that’s what they want. The blurred line between fiction and reality becomes fainter and fainter as the days drift by. But that’s what they want. So, again I ask you, was I hallucinating...?

Ben Bradbury The Legend

Wimbledon College (Year 9 – Age 14) The city never slept, not anymore. It could only close its eyes and pretend. Rain coated the streets like oil, reflecting the vibrant neon colours that could be seen on every corner. Detective Grant Bourke strolled through the ins and outs of the city where he came across a body. His eyes widened with horror, even in this wretched city he had never seen someone beaten this bad. They were bloody and bruised, not quite dead, but barely alive. The body held no evidence of who may have done this to them, except one thing: a sliver pin with the black engraving of the letter “L”. “There’s no way..it can’t be..he’s been gone for a decade”. Detective Bourke snatched the pin quickly and stuffed it into his pocket. “I have to call this in, this changes everything!”, He thought to himself. As he reached for his phone, Bourke felt his heart start to beat fast in his chest, unsure whether it was due to excitement or fear, but there was one thing he did know; After 10 long years, the legend was back. Bourke started dialling on his phone, spreading his new discovery was the only thing on his mind. The sharp rings of the phone pierced the crisp sky. 77

Suddenly, Bourke fell forward as he felt his head get bludgeoned by something. Hours later, Bourke began to stir, he slowly opened his eyes, instantly welcomed by a blindingly bright light. He reached to cover his eyes but he couldn't move them. Where was he? Was he kidnapped? Who did this? All these questions circled round his head as all he could do was close his eyes to shut out the light. “Finally you’re awake, took you long enough” Bourke let out a questioning grunt, “Who’s this? Are you the one who kidnapped me?” He got no response apart from the light dimming. Now able to open his eyes, Bourke took in the scene surrounding him Before him stood a shadowy figure, wearing nothing but black, their face covered by a mask. “I am the Legend. I am aware I haven't been seen for almost 10 years. That will not change. You will not spread news of my return. That will only ruin the thrill I get from my hunts. Speak out, and you are next on my list, and you and I both know you don't want that. Do we have a deal?” Bourke nodded and was soon released. The legend went on secretly.

Ben Huang

For Whom the Bell Tolls Shrewsbury House School (Year 8 – Age 13) The once bloomed flowers were withered, and faded, they crumbled at his doorstep. The stone was marbled, and mossy. The tiles were poorly placed, each shard serrated, but blunt. An epitaph was scrawled across the head of the tomb, with strokes of earth traced through the contour of the letters. The patches of grass which defined the grave had lost its vibrant pigment, and etiolated into dull, pearly roots. His territory was isolated, and shrouded from all light. I stood there in the solitary night, where even the moon toiled to glimmer amongst the faint constellations. I rested the cutting edge of my shovel upon the moist soil. It sluggishly slit through the soft patch of sward. The fog hung low that night, at eye level. I picture it now as a sort of… signal, warning me about my blindness that eventide. Each delicate draft of mist whispered to me to go back, to leave it for that night. I was nervous. I always had been. I shuddered with the wind, then steadily heaved my shovel across the jagged, stone footpath. I stared directly into the inscription of the tomb. I peered behind my shoulder, and assured I was alone, crouched down, rigidly. As I rested my hand against the body of the headstone, a cold current surged through my body. Its soul began frenetically whispering, harmonizing its dissonant serenade past the fog. The mist grew into fierce, tempestuous 79

zephyrs, which howled past the tomb stone, and fled the twisting stone trail through the graveyard when it… Stopped. And the dim-lit moon flickered past the clouds. And the fog cleared for a blurry vision of it. The bell. I stared in fear, as it chimed once. Twice. Thrice. A raw, blood-curdling scream wailed through the cemetery, cutting through the puffs of fog, slicing through the silence of the night. I staggered backward, and tumbled to the ground. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

Cameron Sterling Rock, Paper, Scissors

Harris Academy Merton (Year 7 – Age 12) Upon one peaceful morning, Rock has awakened feeling the wind kiss his face. He stares awry as he watches the forest blossoming with flowers. After a brief amount of time, he trips and falls off the mountain (his home) into a blackberry bush. And there he saw. It was Paper, giving life to the forest in medical need. Rock makes a move, but Paper was aloof. But, at that point of time, the clouds cried upon their heads. It was like a swimming pool. Rock and Paper, now talking, walk into the unusually open space. And there. Was. Scissors. Papers teeth grinded together as her eyes lock on Scissors. Rock watches as Paper lunges for an attack, but gets knocked down and out. Rock, who feels the air become thick, just adds to his rage as he mercilessly lunges and slams Scissors, killing him. Rock touches Paper, but his finger cracks. Rock, offering his life to save Paper, carries Paper home as he crumbles. The next morning petrified Paper feels realisation hit her as she stares at the remains of Rock.

Cara Lily McHugh Cassandra

Ursuline High School (Year 8 – Age 12) An ocean away, a fallen city burns. Bodies lie in the dirt, rot and flame turning them into something unrecognisable. No pyres are lit, no ashes gathered, no rites preformed or prayers sung. An ocean away, the dead are forgotten, souls enveloped in a wine dark sea. A lone dog howls in the distance, a low, bitter sound of rage an agony. An ocean away, the world is drenched in darkness, the sun lost behind thick clouds. The sky seems to mourn the loss of life, salty raindrops falling to the ground, doing little to smother the flames. An ocean away, a long-occupied harbour sits empty, the swift ships launched across the churning sea, sailors drunken on victory, slaves hidden below deck, weeping for their lost homes. Slaves such as I. As we make our way to the palace, one of the children stirs in my arms, soft skin against my own. He looks up at me, face full of wonder, but all I can see in his dark eyes is his father. I can still hear him among the cries of war. The clash of metal against metal. The sickening thump of men falling to the ground. The sight of my little brother Troilus dead in the dust, crimson tears marring his perfect face. His blood staining apollos altar. The temple was never the same after that. From that moment on, I knew that the gods had abandoned us. We were doomed. I bring myself back to the present and rock the twins, Teledamus half-asleep, Pelops still staring at me with those big owl eyes. I cradle them close to my chest, savouring their warmth. It will not be long until they grow cold, limbs frozen 82

with death. They do not know what is to come. I envy them. My legs grow heavy as the moon rises, dew collecting on the grass and soaking into the hem of my dress. the shadow of the stone gates grows closer, but I try to calm my pounding heart. This night will be my last. I clutch the infants tighter. A figure approaches me, cloaked in shadow. I should be scared, but I know who it is. Agamemnon will take my arm, kiss his sons temples, and we will walk to the palace in silence. I have seen this before. The once great king is nervous and shifty, fiddling with his travelling clothes. he will die just moments before me. I feel a sick sort of satisfaction, as if his death, entangled in a net, slain by his wife, truly and utterly helpless, is deserved after all that he has done. I am disgusted by what I have thought. I believed that I was raised merciful, my parents teaching me to be forgiving, unlike these vengeful Greeks. Perhaps we are not so different after all. We walk closer, until the lion-headed gates loom over us. It is not long now. Not long until we are turned to ash and only legends remain.

Charles Thomas Hughes Kael and the Battle of Gods

Wimbledon College (Year 7 – Age 11) Before kings, before names—there was Kael. Known as the Red Hand, the Death-Walker, the God-Slayer, Kael was a legendary figure of war, an immortal force of nature who knew no peace, no mercy, and no master. Armed with a massive blade of black steel, called Ashrend, forged in the heart of a dying star, Kael was an unstoppable presence. When he rose from the northern lands, bringing with him the souls of the fallen, the world called out for heroes. But what it got was only more war. He descended from the mountains, barefoot and shirtless, cloaked in a skin that seemed to shimmer with otherworldly power. His body was a map of battle, each scar telling a tale of ancient conflict. His eyes burned with the intensity of the storm. Kael marched thousands of miles south, until he reached the kingdom at the edge of the world. When he arrived, he spoke only a few words: “I am death.” The kingdom's warriors looked to the horizon and saw an army of shadows, marching toward them. Kael did not wait for the sound of battle drums. With a mighty roar, he charged, his strength shaking the earth beneath him. The gates of the kingdom were no match for him. He tore through them, a whirlwind of fury and might. Nothing could stop him. Nothing dared to try. That is, until the Heaven King arrived. Clad in white robes and wielding a blade that promised

peace, the Heaven King descended from the skies to face Kael in battle. The two ancient beings stood against each other, a silence falling over the world. The Heaven King spoke: “You are but a man.” Kael’s voice was a low growl: “I am war.” They clashed in a storm of power, each strike shaking the heavens. The world around them trembled as their fight waged on. In the midst of their battle, a rift appeared in the sky, pulling them into a void where gravity itself seemed to battle their wills. Still, neither gave in. through the Heaven King’s defenses. With a final, powerful roar, Kael stood victorious. The battle ended. The King’s forces scattered, and Kael disappeared into the night, his laughter echoing in the distance. Some say he still roams the wilds, waiting for the next challenge, his blade ever-hungry for a worthy foe. And though Kael may be gone for now, one truth remains: when the skies darken and distant drums begin to sound, Kael will return, ready for the next war, with blade in hand and fury in his heart.The Heaven King summoned angels and mighty titans to his aid, but Kael pressed forward, relentless, unstoppable. And after millennia of combat, Kael landed a decisive blow, striking

Evangelos Zacharias

A Day in the Life of a Legendary Schoolboy West London Free School (Year 7 – Age 12) I wake up. Slowly dragging myself out of bed, I have breakfast, and quickly brush my teeth. Putting my contact lenses on, Athena’s gift of clairvoyance, I then wear my uniformed armour, now being ready for school. I am Agamemnon, King of Mycenae and brother of Menelaus of Sparta. I am finishing preparing my forces to sail to Troy, about to begin a great siege to retake my brother's queen, Helen of Sparta, who was abducted by the wicked Paris. The Trojan fort of knowledge will succumb! There is just one thing missing... ah, yes, my school bag. Walking on the way to school, I think of the day and yearn for the challenges ahead. Arriving at the gates, I am presented with a multitude of tasks, all dangerous and fearsome. I am now Heracles, ready to embark on my ten labours. Having slayed the Nemean Lion of English Literature and its roaring Shakespearean iambic pentamer, I have now moved on to defeat the Lernaean Hydra of Maths, it's multiple heads of problems and alternative solutions emerging constantly. The labours keep coming: Cleaning the Augean Stables of P.E following an intense rugby match, capturing the Ceryneian Hind of Science, sacred to Artemis and her parabolic optics, obtaining the belt of Hippolyta as I sail to Foreign Languages and the Amazonians – blast! I got a detention... My previously ten labours have now become twelve; I will now have to steal the Golden Apples of the Hesperides and capture Cerberus, a humungous three-headed dog guarding the gate of the Underworld’s detention room, before I have fully repented. Fortunately, with the thought in my mind that I had come this far, and the knowledge that I had gained from all my previous labours, I have soon finished my repentance to Hades and his demand of endless mundane lines. 86

I am now... well, me again. I emerge victorious! It is time to head home embarking on my trusted Homeric penteconter in the form of a humble bike. But how far is this home? And what other challenges will I have to face to get there? I am finally Odysseus, King of Ithaca, returning exhausted but jubilant from the long Trojan war. But it is not the victory I had hoped, and little do I know that I am about to go on one of the greatest, or perhaps the greatest challenge I will ever meet. Will I be lured by the Sirens of the Park and sunshine, or will be captured at the roadblocks of Scylla and Charybdis? What if the Laestrygonians and their ice cream truck make me lose my time? All I can say is that I do not know what mysteries await me, but I will surely need to overcome them all before I reach my Ithaca. Tomorrow is a new day! I am wondering what Sisyphus would make of it...

Isabelle Hunter Self-Portrait

Raynes Park High School (Year 7 – Age 12) I was painting, quick sharp strokes imitating the smooth round ring entrapping my dainty finger. Amber. Charcoal. Aqua. Quicker strokes. When I first started to paint, it was horrible. Faster quicker strokes. I used to think that the sunshine on hair was just yellow and white, but it was so much more than that. It was a mixture that took over 5 days to find the right blend. Quicker strokes. Faster. Faster, faster. Stop. I took a deep breath and continued. Forgot what I was painting now. My eyes started to blur, my grip on the paint brush tightened. Splatters of paint sprayed my face but I had no energy to lift my right arm to wipe it away. My left started to cramp, but I couldn’t stop now. It would be too painful to leave something that you had created out of pure desperation. It’s like abandoning a child: the one thing that would love you as long as you love them. I know I can’t say this, a painting can’t love you. But I have never been a mother, this is the closest thing I can have to a child. The pain was too strong now. I abandon the thought of the paintbrush and, as it clattered to the floor, I started to use my fingers. Ruby red and oily black, the combination creating an effect of blood smeared on my hands. No, is real blood. I felt the painful sting as a mixture of white paint and blood trickled down my arm. I could not fail, I had to finish. My 88

white dress started to fluttered around my knees as if there was a gentle breeze, but then it became more violent, more deadly. Then I saw her, me. I saw myself sobbing whilst painting the deep ocean blue into my eyes. I am painting, I am the paint, Paint is me, Entrapped in a canvas, Unlovable, As the worst version of me.

Jasmin Javorka

The War of the Riches Harris Academy (Year 8 – Age 12) “Mum, why do you have that scar on your leg?” said Blair. “Oh, sweetie that was a long time ago do you really want to know?” said Princess Emily. “Yes, yes!” repeated Blair. “Fine, then I shall tell you. As you know I was a Princess, a pretty one if I might add, and there was a war between the two kingdoms, the Waldorf and the Van der Woodsen. I was from the Waldorf, who owned most of Holland. The Van der Woodsen only owned a small portion of Holland, but they were very misanthropic. Once they found out that the king Michael, my father, wanted to conquer what was left of Holland they decided to go to war. Prince Eric was from the Van der Woodsen, and we were enemies ever since we were little, when he pushed me into a lake. Eric was tall and frail with wispy bangs that never seemed to stay put, and I was short and chubby with long hair that dragged on the ground as I walked. It was a warm summer day and as the days got longer so did the war. Our soldiers were heavily armed and drenched in sweat as they fought till the sun went down. I was in my castle staring from my balcony at the war that had spread in a matter of a few days. My room was small and sunny as it was at the very top of the castle in a little tower. I went to lay on my bed, I sunk into the warmth of 90

my mattress staring up at the cone shaped ceiling as I wondered ‘will I die during this war?’. I wandered downstairs, my high heels chipping into a marble floor, I looked outside and tiptoed into the battle field. ‘Bang!’ Everything went dark. I felt my hands touch the wet grass and a voice shouting ‘Emily, Emily are you ok?!’ It was Eric. Suddenly, I was lifted off the ground, and placed into a small room. All I could hear was a muffled voice as I unglued my eyes. There was a looming figure standing above me. In that instant, there was a click at the door. It was a sound that a door makes when it locks. Was I being locked here, with Eric, my enemy?! A voice next to me said ‘Emily you were shot in the leg. I asked you if you were ok but you were unconscious, so I carried you in here.’ ‘I don’t need your help’ I said, I startedto limp to the door leaving a trail of blood behind. ‘We are locked!’ I shouted as I started to fill with rage, I couldn’t feel my leg anymore. Frantically, I sat down as I tried to focus on a spot on the wall to stop my head from spinning. Was I ever going to get out?” “Tell me the rest!” pleaded Blair. “Another time, it’s time to go to bed.” Princess Emily whispered.

Jisoo Park

Immutable Decree at the River’s Edge Nonsuch High School for Girls (Year 7 – Age 11) Charon’s ancient eyes – hardened by millennia and untouched by pity – had seen beyond Chronos himself. He wasn’t Hades’ errand boy or obedient lapdog. He was the boundary. The gate. The final silence. The River Styx swirled beneath his raft, broken vows and forgotten dreams littering its banks. Souls wailed along the edges — empty hands outstretched, begging for passage. But without an obol, they were only echoes. Arriving on the shore, he motioned to those who paid to embark. Then - a tap on his shoulder. He brushed it off, assuming another persistent soul, stubbornly refusing to accept their fate. But then came the sound that didn’t belong: A cough. A breath. A thing not found in death. Charon turned—and saw warm flesh. Alive. It was Orpheus, the swaggering mortal who dared trespass into the land of the dead. A peacock in funeral garb, cloak billowing, lyre slung with confidence. Foolish. Arrogant. Hopeful. He had argued with Hades, serenaded Persephone, slipped past Cerberus with charm and chords alone—and all for a girl. Eurydice. Just one whisper in the dark among millions. In the gloom of Erebus, his body was a flare of colour, contrasting with the grey pallor of the dead. Even the wispy ghosts were drawn like moths to a flame.

Charon’s hollow eyes narrowed. He knew this type: the pleading mortal, the desperate lover, determined to cheat fate. Always thinking hope could bargain where time and fate held iron dominion. ‘I am Orpheus,’ he said, with a grin that had no place among the lifeless. ‘Son of Apollo and Calliope. I seek to bring my wife Eurydice back from death.’ Charon moved to deny him - to remind him that the river does not suffer the living - but then the music began. It rose like golden mist. Notes of love and light, of longing and loss, emotions that made the ferryman’s heart ache with phantom memory. The silent boatman was bound to the underworld, but this music stirred an alien curiosity and awoke a long-buried soul in Charon. And so – wordlessly - he stepped aside. The boat shifted under the weight of the living, and they crossed in silence. 93

Charon watched as Orpheus hurried into the dark, and waited. Soon, Orpheus remerged clasping the hand of a veiled shade – Eurydice. Charon watched them board, but this time, Orpheus was solemn. Tension coiled in his shoulders, jaw clenched, afraid to hope. The boat bumped the far shore. The edge of life. Its promise hung like tantalising fruit beyond Erebus’ yawning mouth . Orpheus looked at Charon, pleading for confirmation, for reassurance, that this arduous journey had not been in vain. Charon saw his chance to restore justice. He merely smiled with the coldness of a snake. Not in cruelty nor in malice. Just...inevitable. He watched panic spread; the hesitation, the frantic calculation, and then finally, the look back. The single glance that doomed them. Eurydice unravelled into mist. So close, he sneered, and still, they fall.

Kayla Fox Nguru The Eyes of Stone

Raynes Park High School (Year 7 – Age 12) She was never meant to be a monster. She was a healer once, a working Priestess for Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom. Living in the quiet, quaint village of Lyris, where the sea mist clung to the cliffs like breath to skin. People came from far and wide, just for her touch, which was gentle, steady and welcoming. Her beauty was undeniable- sunlit hair, eyes that were like sapphire diamonds. But what people came to her for most was her kindness. She listened when no one else did. She saw people, even when they wished to be invisible. It was like she had a gift for easing people's pain, a gift that came naturally, like breathing. But in a world ruled by power, kindness can be dangerous. One stormy evening, a stranger staggered into the village. He had silver eyes, a voice like velvet, and wounds that told a story which no one could confirm. Being the compassionate person she was, Medusa offered him shelter. She fed him, tended to his injuries and let her guard down. But he mistook her compassion for an invitation. When she said no, gently but firmly, Poseidon's pride fractured. Her screams and cries could be heard throughout the whole castle. With a wounded ego, he turned venomous. He twisted the story, saying that Medusa had seduced him, and that she had defiled the sacred temple. With that, the Gods didn't want to hear her truth. Athena, the very goddess that Medusa had served faithfully, descended in fury. No trial. No movement of mercy. “For your vanity,” Athena spat, “you shall become what men fear”. 95

Medusa’s screams split the sky. Her soft skin hardened into marble. Her golden hair writhed into serpents. Her once sweet, healing gaze became a weapon... But not entirely. Medusa could still see into hearts- every glance told her more than words could. If there was any cruelty in you, if you meant any harm, her gaze revealed your true self- and the stone you become was only the reflection of the soul that you carried. But no one ever asked about that. The cave that they exiled her to was filled with statues- heroes, hunters, arrogant fools, all coming to slay the monster. Not one of them saw her. Not really. Until Perseus. He wasn't like the others. He stumbled into the cave during a storm- soaked and shivering. Medusa could've turned into stone instantly. But her eyes met- nothing. No fear, no hate. Just... understanding. He set down his sword and asked if she was cold. For the first time in centuries, someone saw her. Not as a monster or a myth, but as a women who lost everything. They talked through the night. She told him the truth, not for pity, just because it felt good to speak. He left the cave with no trophy, just her story, and he told it over and over.

Louie Voigt The Legend

Saint Cecilia’s Church of England School (Year 8 – Age 12) The time traveller looked up. A large tower stood menacingly above him. Around it, overgrown ivy curled up the brick walls. He noticed that the tower only had one window. A barred window. That must be where Icarus was! He was wasting too much time just standing and staring. He had a mission. He had to save Icarus from his arrogancy - from himself ! The traveller darted to the tower door. Locked! Around his waist, a belt held the essential thing the time traveller needed now. A hairpin. He grabbed it and lodged it in the lock. He twisted it until the lock burst open and onto the floor. Pushing into the tower, he ran up the winding steps. The plan was running through his head. “Find Icarus, show him why he died and hope for the best. A plan with no flaws at all. Perfect.” The staircase twisted and turned, seemingly never-ending until he reached the top of the stairs. The figure stood breathlessly in the doorway. He looked around the room. On the floor lay a pair of wooden, wax wings, prepped and ready. There was still time left. And there he was, sitting on the floor. Icarus. He had piercing, green eyes and brown hair tied together in a bun. He looked just like the traveller’s son. The son he could not save. His heart ached with grief. “Hello Icarus, I've come to save you from yourself ” the traveller announced. “What? I've never seen you before in my life!” Icarus exclaimed “Listen to me, you may not know me, but I am about to save your life. I can’t lose you too Icarus, I’ve already lost too much…” explained the traveller. “You expect me to believe someone who just ....”. 97

“Icarus - this is your last chance” the traveller interrupted. And with a swipe of his hand, he transported them into the future. Icarus and the traveller stood outside the tower. “Now look up” the traveller instructed. Icarus looked up. In the sky he saw himself swooping and soaring freely. The prisoner yelped with delight. The blazing sun cast a magnificent glow on the beautiful scene. “I'm so good I will fly to the sun! I’m finally free!” exclaimed the flying Icarus. But as he flew closer to the sun, his wings began to melt. The wax dripped and the wood burned. Icarus fell plummeting from the sky.... the traveller couldn’t watch anymore, he couldn’t see Icarus die too. He waved his hand, and the scene was over. “See Icarus, your arrogance led you to your end” the traveller explained. “But why would you show me this?” Icarus asked. “I had a son he looked just like you. I couldn't save him. So, I decided I must save anyone I can” the traveller said. Icarus ran towards the traveller and hugged him. "Thank you so much” Icarus said. The traveller smiled - this was the happiest he had felt in decades.

Muhammad Abdullahi The Whispers in the Stone

West London Free School (Year 8 – Age 12) The wild, verdant jungle swallowed Silas Thorn. Brambles lashed his scarred legs, sweat trickled down his brow, and mist clung like a shroud. Trees loomed above; vines hung like glistening cables. His grunts echoed through the maze of trunks and tangled branches, bouncing off trees as thick as masts. El Dorado - the Mirage City. Obsession, myth, and madness blurred in his mind. Nights deciphering papers, staring at blank walls past midnight, filled his eyes with bloodshot resolve. Maps had failed. Only will - and maybe madness - remained. Sliding down a mossy tree, his thoughts returned to why he began this journey and who planted the seed. He was just a boy then, huddled in his grandpa's storm cellar. His grandfather saw the fear in his eyes and rested a callous hand on his shoulder. “Listen, boy,” his voice low and rough. “Out there”- he gestured to the storm “places meant to stay untouched. But greed outweighs sacredness.” That night, by the lamp, he told the legend. A city hidden behind rivers, guarded by jungle thick enough to consume armies. Streets dusted in gold, statues not of stone but gold, staring at the fools who tried to steal from them. “Most men get greedy,” his grandfather warned. “They chase it and die. But the right man - a real man - he’ll find more than wealth. He’ll find something that stays here.” He tapped his chest. Silas never forgot. After an eternity hacking through thorns, the path cleared. The 99

air grew heavier, oddly sweet. Insects hummed. Wet earth filled his lungs. Stone statues lined the trail - faces twisted in terror and awe. Their eyes followed him. A chill ran through him. He ignored it. First mistake. The jungle softened. A clearing bloomed: ferns, blossoms heavy with colour. Hummingbirds flashed like stained glass, monkeys shrieked, and water babbled. The scent of overripe mango hung in the air. Too perfect. Too alive. He ignored the feeling. Second mistake. He paused, letting calm seep into his limbs. Sunlight broke through the canopy like golden spears, painting the clearing like a cathedral. Then - silence. The birds stopped. Vines sagged. The air turned dry, metallic. Ahead, a statue stood. Not ancient. Not crumbled. Hands mid-reach, mouth open in a scream. Veins, fingernails — impossibly detailed. Too perfect to be human-made. Still, he walked on. Through golden gates. Rivers of gold. Treasures. Statues of gods sneering. At the end - a brutal throne. Sharp. Elegant. Deadly. Then it began. Voices: “Sit.” “Claim it.” “Take what’s yours.” 100

Silas fell, clutching his head. The voices rose — shouting, pleading, demanding. Days later, explorers found him. Raving. Chanting in a forgotten tongue. Beard ragged. Clothes torn. Face scared. Silas Thorn found El Dorado. There was gold - but also ruin. A graveyard of men and ambition. Some legends are roots - tangled, deep, better left buried.

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Swayam Sharma Rafina’s Reckoning

Tiffin School (Year 7 – Age 12) In the quiet coastal town of Rafina, two unsuspecting fishermen bickered over the monstrous catch they had just hauled in—a fish so massive it seemed to defy nature itself. But as they argued, unaware of the significance of their discovery, someone was watching. A stranger. Not just any stranger, though—this one moved with the silence of shadows and the purpose of destiny. His name was Merdyn, a mysterious agent of the king. Whispers in the court claimed he possessed powers great enough to destroy the world. He stepped forward from the treeline, eyes fixed on the beast, and muttered in a voice like gravel scraping stone, “So it is true. The prophecy has come to pass. The end draws near. We need a hero—now.” The prophecy he referred to was old—so old, in fact, that some claimed it was penned by the first human to ever walk the earth. It read:

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Should a fish of size beyond your mind appear, Know the world’s unraveling is near. A hero must rise at the king’s own hand, Choose with care—or none shall stand. Without hesitation, Merdyn vanished into the forest, returning to the hidden vault where the ancient scroll was kept. Time had turned it brittle, its ink faded like a dying star, but the message burned clear as ever. He presented it to King Hiromena, breathless and urgent. The king, recognizing the gravity of what Merdyn had witnessed, called for a great competition—a trial to find the world’s savior. Warriors, sages, rogues, and dreamers all stepped forward, each hoping to become the chosen one. From the crowd of hopefuls, five stood tall. The strongest among them: Aiden. The bravest: Jamalius. And perhaps, among them, a complete unknown— an underdog with fate on their side. The world held its breath. Who would rise as the champion of champions? And could they stop the doom foretold?

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Violet Melsom

Athena's Quest for Forgiveness… The Holy Cross School (Year 7 – Age 12) Medusa tried to tame her hair, but the snakes were being particularly cranky this morning. She continued the futile battle between brush and snake. Sighing desperately, she slammed her head onto the hard, peeling wooden table. A tear rolled down her weathered cheek, she watched it fall to the ground like a beautiful dancer full of grace, allure, and charm, gifts she no longer possessed. Athena effortlessly brushed her golden locks. She looked at herself in the mirror smiling at what she saw. Her dainty white skin, plump sumptuous lips and of course, her silver dress complemented by her deep blue eyes. Her smile twitched as she looked around, her father had gone. Her head fell into her hands, tears streaming down her face as the guilt seeped back in, it always does. She needed to do something… She began her arduous journey, feet slipping on the jagged rocks as she went. The labyrinthine path sent her in twists and turns, making her feel quite dazed so she took a deep breath and crusaded on determined as ever. Turning, she was suddenly aware of the ever-growing sound of hooves… The booming sound of the creatures' steps shook the very ground. Athena felt the earth tremor and cower in fear as the beasts revealed themselves. The Centaur’s slender necks rose up to the sky in unison intimidatingly. Athena, careful not to make

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too much noise, ran, but she was too late, all of the Centaur's eyes were locked on her. She turned her head. As she spun round she saw a glimpse of a bow and arrow. This surely wasn't there before. She looked above her, thanking the Gods above for this gift. Wasting no time, she loaded the bow, pulled it back and released, the shot expertly landing in the throat of the leading centaur. The others cowered in fear and ran fast. She soldiered on, suddenly looking up and realising that she hadn’t noticed how dark it was, it was late evening now. In the distance she noticed a cave and decided that this would make a good opportunity to rest and eat. She would normally go to bed feeling a heavy load on her shoulders, weighed down by guilt. Today was different though, today she was doing something. And so Athena shut her eyes with a smile on her face. She woke up with a start to the sound of footsteps…large footsteps. They crashed against the craggy stone of the cave, the sound ricocheting off the walls. As soon as the monster came into view, Athena shielded her eyes from the great one eyed beast. The colossal body of the creature bulged with muscle, veins emerging from under the flesh. Its eye searched menacingly for the blood of a Goddess, the best kind. But what Athena didn't notice was a lone figure in the distance, with hissing sounds trailing behind them, friend or foe, who could tell…

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Zoe Lack

Your Heroes – A Story Untold Wimbledon High (Year 7 - Age 12) I bet anyone reading this knows at least a few Greek myth or two, maybe the sad end of Medusa or maybe Athena’s birth, or Apollo and Pan fighting like stupid bickering siblings. I’ve seen it all. Been here longer than any of them... But what about me? What have they said about me? It all started with that moron Kronos, some uncle, and his even more infuriating fool of a wife Rhea... The idiot gave birth to more than I can count on one hand. But then, the blockhead Kronos decided he couldn’t be a man and raise a few kids. So, guess what? With the one braincell he has in his head, he ate them. I’m glad my father Iapetus had his brain intact, oh, I bet he isn’t quite better than him now... So, after what? Around five kids, or more - hard to tell, in Kronos’s digestive system, Rhea finally realised what happened and went through a mental breakthrough and tricked Kronos into eating a rock. No, I am very serious – Kronos ate a rock and thought it was his son, Zeus. That’s how smart he is, can’t even tell the difference between a baby and a rock. Years later Zeus took on the violent family heritage Kronos had done before him, let me spare you the details, he chopped his father into little minced pieces with his own weapon and threw him into Tartarus. What is Tartarus? Husband of Gaea, the Earth Mother, it’s basically the torture chamber for anyone the gods don’t like. Soon this led to a war. Obviously, I sided with the Titans. Who would give up their power to some annoying cousins who can’t get enough attention? Haha... Regret... They forced the sky on my shoulders. Literally, forced me to carry the heavens. Why? BECAUSE I STOOD FOR MY FATHER AND KIND, I STOOD FOR ALL THE 106

TITANS WHO DIDN’T WANT TO BE CONTROLLED BY SOME ATENTION SEEKING RELATIVE! WHAT I GET? PAIN, SUFFERING AND ETERNAL TORTURE! Your “hero” Zeus left all of us with nothing to and slowly lose our sanity... And what do you know about me? Go on guess, who am I? Heracles... Haha... I suppose we are similar in ways... Lost everything, pain, suffering... But his fate was much kinder than mine... I regret the day so much... You should have picked up and left, BUT NO... Haha... Reget is truly the worst feeling possible... Heracles was rewarded after death with immortality. I hate Zeus, and Heracles, Kronos, Rhea, all of them... I HATE ALL OF THEM! I HATE ALL THE STUPID, IDIOTIC, DENSE AND FOOLISH OLYMPIAN GODS! STUPID RHEA WAS LEFT IN PEACE!!! Helios lost his meaning to Apollo! APOLLO! He can’t even choose what to be the god of ??? Look at your heroes... WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS? WHAT DID WE DO? I ask you again, who am I? WHO AM I?

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POEMS AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 4 Years 10-11 Age 14-16

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Egan Rimmer

Hero, You ‘Won’ the War Marymount London (Year 10 – Age 15)

When soldiers in battle fall Pray tell, who will recall Their pain, their life and death What they uttered with their final breath For soldiers in battle are either forgotten Corpses old in the ground, completely rotten Or glorified, into a legend And should they come back some day And hear all we have to say About their life, their death, their final words They will shake their head. That’s not what I said Not for my country, what did it ever do for me? A letter that forced me there, but we won’t agree. I didn’t fight for blood, fight for honour, fight for war. I didn’t fight for my country; they will say as we ignore, Shake our heads and laugh. Dismissing them as how could they know more About their life than we would? And we will show them their grave covered in flowers and medals, We will show them the statue of themselves erected in honour and stone And we will mistake the horror in their widening eyes for awe. They will excuse themselves and walk away; 110

We will search for them for half a day. A cemetery full of people the war couldn’t save. Find them sitting at the foot of a grave, One of many laid out in perfect tight rows It is bland, blank, boring, we will wrinkle our nose The name will have slightly worn away, The whole place rotting from decay. There will be no medals, trophies, flowers It will be one in 15 million, yet they will stare for hours. We will ask them, who the person in that grave was before And they will clear their throat and softly say The one I was fighting for.

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Emilia Potts Pandora’s Box

Ursuline High School (Year 10 – Age 15) Before I was earth and water, Crafted by the craftsman. I was placed in a moonlit gown, Silver as the stars. I was made as a punishment, As a reminder for the stolen fire. The God of the treacherous skies gave me a gift, Well – a curse, really. The clear crystal jar was peculiar, Tempting me to unleash its silky ribbon from its precious jar. Years, decades, centuries grew by, as did my impatience. Every day, longing to know what was inside, I gazed out to the horizon, Admiring the aquamarine seas, And the barren landscape filled with dried-out olive trees. He instructed me to never open it, but I broke that promise. The tip of my fingers reached out for the cedar table with my little jar placed on top. My curiosity got the better of me, as I slowly twisted the brittle jar around. The jar was empty as my heart, but I instantly felt the worst imaginable emotions. Death. Sorrow. Strife. Misery. All over the world – what mess had I created? I jammed the jar shut with hope that nothing would happen, But it was too late. I had failed my master, And I had failed the earth. 112

Ericka Asi Mt. Mayon

Ursuline High School (Year 10 – Age 15) Two lovers One mountain. Of all women in Kabikolan, there she stood: the fairest of them all, Magayon She had ebony locks that shone golden in the light, Complimenting her sun-kissed skin, and her bewitching graceful movements, won the hearts of many. The Proud One, Panganoron He had a smile so bright that it could light up the night, Yet had eyes so dark and deep, that she got lost in themdrowned with emotion. With one look, their souls recognised each other And bound together for eternity. But when the wicked Patuga heard this; he erupted. He captured Magayon and forced her into marriage. A grisly battle broke out, blood, anger, and death. A poisoned arrow flew through the wind swiftly, striking into the chests of Magayon and Panganoron connecting their bodies together in an embrace

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No person could separate these two, even in death. Their grave was piled with emotions and grew into a great volcano. Her love overflowed like raging lava, His warm embrace shrouded like clouds at her peak Two Lovers, One Mountain. *(context + meanings) This is an old Filipino legend of the famous Mt Mayon which is believed to be a symbol of love and lost. Daragang Magayon- Beautiful Maiden Panganoron- The Proud One or Cloud Patuga- The Erupt one

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Marisa Shand Fame

Wimbledon High School (Year 10 – Age 15) They’ll remember me With coarse brown hair dripping from my scalp Bulges of obstinate purple rimming my eyes, eyes that look to the skies. They’ll remember. They’ll remember “that girl” With chapped lips, hair lined with neat silver clips Pinning down Her freedom. They’ll remember If I cross that finish line Thin scars of sweat pulsing from my neck “She’s a wreck!”, well, what the heck. And when victory finally shatters the bars of its cage, When the noose is loosened Will they choose… me? I remember Each torturous moment, for this moment How my aching bones have wrenched me forwards “just a bit more”. “You’ll be legendary!” “But… I don’t want to be a legend.” Time to take that last leap. Last? I doubt it. But What will it be like, I wonder? 115

The leap will be, well… a leap. But I will leap Not to jeers Not to cheers But to my fears. So, before I am written down Before my name draws ink from white cheeks of paper Just remember The throbbing pains The chains of attaining fame The strain of your insane reign The stains on MY paper, MY life Was all in vain And it was all For you.

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Rosie Skinner

Just a Pomegranate Nonsuch High School (Year 11 - Age 16) It is almost winter. I see him everywhere. Closing my eyes, he is the devil that haunts my dreams, dragging me down to the dark depths of the Underworld. The blinding darkness surrounds me and I scream and scream and scream, but no noise leaves my mouth and he stands there, disappointed in me because what kind of stupid song bird can’t ever sing? and then I’m falling deeper and deeper and I can’t escapeIt’s the same each night and mother tells me that it will be fine but she can’t deny the sepia filter slowly infecting the once vibrant green leaves. When I was younger, life was full of ease. Soaring above the world, I saw the eternally fertile land stretching out as far as the eye could see Mother and I were the governors of our glorious Earth, The birds sang with us, spreading hope with their cheerful chorus, We shone as bright as the sunbeams that warmed our faces and with a breath from her, flowers bloomed like jewels in a treasure chest… That joy is only a memory to me now. He arrived and decided that he wanted his Queen. With just 117

six seeds of a pomegranate I had chosen my own fate; I had clipped my wings. In a few days, as the frost slowly creeps over the Earth, I know that I will be unable to do anything. My mother will weep and I will weep for her, but all he will do is laugh. My suffering and the world’s suffering is all a joke to him and then I try to run but I trip over my fear and fall because this is a fate that from which I will never be liberated for it is as certain as the sun rising. I dread the coming winter.

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STORIES AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 4 Years 10-11 Age 14-16

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Abi Newcombe The Wisher

Nonsuch High School (Year 10 – Age 15) Let me tell you a story. This tale began long ago, with one man. Though, that’s not strictly true. You see, The Wisher isn’t really a man. He looks like one: four limbs, a head and torso, neatly trimmed beard and chestnut hair. But what he really is… Well, I’ll let you decide that. Some say that he’s a fairytale, a dream sold to the longing and the lonely. Others call him a nightmare, the incarnation of the devil and all his temptations. They’re both correct. He is awful, and he is brilliant. He is radiant, and he is ruthless. He is beautiful, in the way only a monster can be. I hope with all my heart that you never meet him. That he stays a story, an old legend from your youth that you will forget long before you come of age. But, if one day, you lay eyes on his wicked smile, I pray that you escape before he can let his silver tongue free, so that he never charms you with stories of wild dreams. So that he never tempts you with yours. I can hardly expect that from you, though. He has a way with words, a way a human could barely imagine. The moment he speaks, you’ll be bewitched. He’ll offer you a hot drink and a listening ear. You’ll find yourself accepting, even if you have somewhere to be. He’ll wrap his cloak around you, and it will be warm and comforting and you will tell him everything. You’ll tell him about the mother you never talk to, the sister you lost, the husband who ran off with some pretty young thing. You will talk and talk and talk, and he will listen, never once taking his eyes off you. I got a good look at those eyes, once. Two deep pools of night, but there was something more beneath the surface; a 120

hundred years’ worth of wishes, begging for their freedom. And then, he will take out his quill. He’ll hand it to you, and say, “Tell me… Do you have a dream?” And you’ll tell him, because why wouldn’t you? You’ll sign your name on his wrist, and he’ll smile his awful, beautiful smile. You will be so entranced that you won’t listen as he tells you the terms. Then, you’ll join me. Me, and all the others who fell for his spell. For six days, we will labour together. We will work, and work, and work, until our hearts ache more than they could ever ache before. But, on the seventh day… Joy like no other will balloon inside us. It will be like he looked straight into the chambers of our hearts and pulled your greatest wish from inside of it. And, for the first time in your life, you’ll feel happiness. True, unbridled happiness, embracing you like an old friend. But when the sun sets, we will return to the arms of the monster that we call home. 121

Azaria Logan-Jones Gentle Cleansing

West London Free School (Year 11 – Age 16) Amber flames danced against the endless abyss of the night sky. Their orange tips gently tickled the twinkling stars. Click. The small, ornate box of musky cedarwood opened between Dido’s trembling fingertips. Glistening softly in the warm orange light, three silver coins lay scattered at the bottom, half shielded by a limp corner of earth-stained cloth from a tunic. Chipped and dented by time, a small terracotta statue lay across the length of its wooden coffin, the end of a silver chain draped over it. The tangled string snaked its way around the coins to a rusted locket – three flowers bloomed from its centre, right from the heart. As Dido stared down at the locket through watery eyes, she both wanted to dash it to the ground and press it hard against her lips, coat them the sweet metallic tang of it. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. Wouldn’t dare to miss him. In the same moment, Dido snapped the box shut and threw it into the flaming sea of gold. She blinked back tears as she watched the flames engulf everything she had left of him. Her love.

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Her dear Aeneas. She wasn’t going to lie to herself – of course she loved him. He had seen her, truly seen all of her. But that wasn’t enough to outweigh the hollowed metal chest in the pit of her stomach. The guilt, the feeling of wretchedness at having broking the most important vows; the ones she’d made to herself. Love had driven her to make those promises, love had made her break them, and now it had brought her here – to cleanse herself of her shame. Regret couldn’t transcend death, could it? As she stepped closer towards the bonfire that would become her own funeral pyre, the damp grass tickled Dido’s bare feet, the sensation harsh in contrast to that of the burning heat on her face that sent adrenaline sweeping through her like wildfire. She clenched her fists tightly, curling her fingers against her palms. They dug into her skin like knives; a forerunner to the ultimate form of self-inflicted pain she was about to create for herself. Dido was now mere inches away from the inferno she’d built – its warmth caressed her face invitingly, and as she blinked at the colossal blaze, and it winked knowingly back, Dido understood that she wasn’t really afraid of death. Only afraid of the pain; she’d had enough to last a lifetime.

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Elena Haran Tome

My Name is Gerald Grey Ursuline High School (Year 10 – Age 15) No one has ever seen him: the renowned novelist. Perhaps that is because he doesn’t exist. My real name is Lucy Grey, a novelist but not renowned. The year is 1864 and as a woman, I have no chance to be taken seriously. So, this is my life, lurking in the shadows, sneaking drafts under publisher's doors. While the world gawks and gasps at a man. My hands danced across the page, pen in hand – my weapon, my word – casting shadows in the candlelight. The plot drips off every word I write, suspense gnaws at the edges of the paper. With furrowed brows, I let the story take over. Emily (my protagonist) is about to uncover the secret society’s hidden truths. Her hands fumble around encrypted letters and dust-caked books and-. My hand faltered, the pen dropped, sending a spray of thick ink across the page. My eyes slowly wandered to the side and fixed upon Gerald Greys latest review. Him. “The world has never witnessed a man with such intellect and elegant, profound writing” The Pulitzer, “Among such fine writers, Grey stands above the rest – we await the day that he unveils himself ”-The Times. My hands clenched the paper; my knuckles faded to a sickly white. Then snap. I crumbled it up and tossed it across the room where it landed and rolled into the corner. “What fools!” I exclaimed running my hands through my hair. “How can they only appreciate the beauty of literature if it’s by the hand of a man, they’re my words, my “rare intellect”” Suddenly, an urge possessed me, something I’d never dared before. 124

If they so desperately to see him, why don’t I let them…… The began: Dear publisher, I am writing to you with a name that holds no worth, yet one that may seem familiar, in the hope that you will read my words for what they are – not for who they are by. I’m the esteemed writer that you call Gerald Grey, and my request is simple – Mr Greys next book will be published under his real name. Lucy Grey – I am the woman that wrote the best novels of our time, not my words – yours. I hope you consider it. Lucy Every word bled with the ache of years of solitude. Signed Lucy, too unfamiliar, volatile. – it would never be accepted. I held the edge of the letter to the flame of the candle, the corners caught quickly curling up, crying out in pain, black. Only white ashes remained, pilled up like snow. I watched until the flame’s reflection in my eyes died out. There was no sound, my eyes closed. SLAM. The slam of a book shot echos through the classroom. 30 heads whipped their attention to the front of. “And that class, is the story of a real legend, the woman who never signed her own name.” Announced the teacher. “No one ever saw him, but everyone read her.”

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Harriet Quinton Lonely Legend

Wimbledon High School (Year 11 – Age 16) Mark turned the key in the door. He was looking forward to his dinner: there was some curry leftover from when he’d treated himself to a takeaway on Sunday night that he wanted to warm up. He’d ordered far too much, overwhelmed with options, forgetting the dishes he liked – he’d been too used to ordering what Catherine and the kids wanted. Chicken tikka masala, naans and dahl. Maybe he would get some chicken at Sainsbury’s to make it when the kids next stayed over – although the last time he’d tried that and bought some salmon especially to make Rosie’s favourite pasta, she’d ended up needing to go to her friend’s that weekend instead, and the salmon had gone all mouldy. Maybe he could freeze the chicken this time, he mused, as he took out the Tupperware to warm in the microwave. Everything looked a little congealed so he sprinkled some water on and gave it a stir. It would probably taste fine. By the time the doorbell rang he’d already finished. ‘Bit late,’ he mumbled, hurrying to open the door. It was Linda. ‘Hi Mark, how are you? I’m so sorry I’m a tad late, I just got so busy with the kids and everything. Anyway it’s so kind of you to offer to look after little Jeffrey, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she gushed as she pushed the terrarium into his hands. ‘No, that’s okay… he just needs feeding every couple days, right?’ ‘Yes, perfect, thanks Mark. Can’t think how we didn’t realise that under 5s aren’t allowed to be around reptiles, or whatever lizards are, because of the salmonella! But my Susie’s nearly five anyway so we can take him back in a few weeks, don’t 126

worry. It’s just so lucky we have a kind neighbour like you, no kids, willing to do us a favour!’ Mark felt very hot suddenly. ‘Oh, Linda, I do have kids—’ ‘Oh, yes, of course you do sweetheart, I just meant no kids really actually living with you. It’s not like they’re around to catch anything, will they? Honestly you lucked out, not having to actually deal with them – what a handful. Anyway, I’d better go, Susie’s got her Christmas play next week and they are so many costumes to make. You’re a legend for helping out Mark, really,’ she called as she hurried away. Mark watched her leave from the step, stupidly but desperately gripping the terrarium like it was going to numb the ache in his chest, because she was right, he didn’t really have kids, not kids who were ‘really actually living with him’, not kids who really wanted to see him or eat takeaway curries with him or invite him to their Christmas plays. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Maybe they held the divorce against him. Probably, they were just very busy. Maybe if he got some chicken and made some nice chicken tikka masala they’d want to come round again.

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Liane Dias The Legend

The Holy Cross School (Year 11 – Age 16) The imposing walls tower over me, their cold surfaces surrounding me from every side. I can picture King Minos’ face twisted with smug satisfaction as he enjoys the idea of the fourteen youths trapped in this labyrinth, struggling, fighting to survive; this fills me with rage. I glance around, the labyrinth continuing relentlessly before me. The air is thick with the scent of ancient dust, every breath laced with the faintest hint of blood. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but my legs have begun to ache. I glimpse behind me, ensuring that the thread Ariadne had given me was still there. A jarring roar shatters the sickly-sweet silence, causing the ground to tremble beneath its weight. My body locks up, my heart hammering. I try to slow down my panicked breathing as a human-like scream follows, its sharpness like a dagger to my heart. Then, silence. Another fragile life stolen by death. I try to compose myself before pushing onward. Almost immediately, cold sweat breaks out as I regard the monstrosity now entering my view. A creature with the body of a man and the head of a bull, one born of disobedience to the gods. The Minotaur. Its huge frame issurrounded by muscle, tense as if carved from stone. His fur, a deep shade of auburn, clings to his broad shoulders and blood drips from wounds across his body, the previous victim’s last mark before their demise. Twin horns, vast and ridged, frame his face, deepening his cruel countenance - though one has been freshly cut. My fingers tighten around my sword hilt - my only defence against death - as I dare to meet his gaze. Hungry embers lock onto mine as he inspects me, his next prey. 128

A vicious snarl rips out from his throat, and, without hesitation, he bounds towards me. I can hardly register his movements before his horn tears into my leg. I choke back a scream as hot pain spreads through me, my vision blurring. I squint at the monster, poised to tear me apart. Using all my strength, I drop down, keeping weight off my wounded leg, and slide under him. I thrust my sword deep into his flesh. He roars and I dodge as he claws the air. I study his movements, noticing how much weaker they are. It’s now or never. Lifting my sword, I pivot despite the pain, plunging my blade into his ruthless heart. I rip it out in one smooth motion. He staggers back, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His body stills. His legs buckle beneath him. His eyes widen with something unfamiliar. Fear. The Minotaur crashes to the ground in a cacophony of heavy impact. I step forward warily, blood dripping over my fingers in rivulets. I stand over him, panting, as I wipe the bloody blade on the fur of the dead beast beneath me. This is the end of it all – the suffering, the bloodshed, and King Minos’ twisted game.

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Malak Metwaly

Glory is a Grave: Lies of Legends Marymount International School (Year 10 – Age 15) Icarus is not a legend. We all know the story of the boy who flew too close to the sun. The boy who ignored his father’s warning. The boy who fell. It is a myth repeated through centuries, etched into poems, painted onto canvas, rewritten into novels. You’ve read his story a hundred times, haven’t you? Perhaps you scoffed and rolled your eyes once you read the first word on this page, uninterested in reading yet another interpretation of the same boy and the same fall. I must say, I do not blame you. Some write of tragedy. Some write of the reckless beauty in a boy soaring toward the sky, unafraid of fire. Some say he laughed as he fell. Others insist he wept. Some abandon Icarus entirely, choosing instead to tell the story of his grieving father, Daedalus, forced to fly on to safety on the same wings that failed his son. Others imagine a different ending: a world where Icarus outwits the sun, triumphing over the stars and the sea, soaring to safety with his father. Yet the common thread remains: Icarus flew. Icarus fell. And in doing so, he became a legend. In some people’s eyes, the legend. The true, authentic Icarian tragedy. A symbol of ambition, of hubris, of beauty in defiance. My friend, those writers are liars. 130

Icarus was no legend. Icarus was a fool. Icarus was a son, Daedalus’ most prized making. Icarus was, and remains, a child. He is suspended in time, forever young. And he is dead. He did not laugh, or cry, or rage. He simply died. We do not know what passed through his mind as he plummeted. Icarus felt no grand purpose, no sense that his death would change the world. He thought not of destiny or legacy. Yet we could not leave the boy to die in peace and instead bury the fabled fall under stories to disguise the terrifying truth: There is no meaning. Icarus died for nothing. Perhaps the flight was extraordinary. Perhaps the legend was the making of the wings. Perhaps his legendary achievement was pushing his father into a hole of grief so deep he would never resurface from it again. Authors write about his ‘legendary’ feats, yet here I am writing, and here you are reading, and I do not believe either of us are seeing what is so legendary about a meaningless death. As if death, by itself, is enough to make someone legendary. And yet, we raise Icarus up as a symbol. Glorifying death as it if is enough to make a boy a legend. There is no glory here. No nobility in a child’s fall. He barely began to live before he had no life left. Call Icarus what you want, but do not call him a legend, for he is not. He is just a dead boy, and we wrapped his fall with grandiose language and heroic poetry so we wouldn’t have to face the emptiness of it.

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Maxwell Kennedy

Disdain for an Absurd Man Lilain Baylis School (Year 10) 1901. Queen Victoria’s funeral. Hundreds of people attend. They watched her coffin being driven through St George’s Chapel. Total tranquillity. People in silence, reminiscing of the good old days of the empire. It is a day of true sorrow for everybody… bar one man. That man was Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke — the 2nd Baronet and politician. A bushy beard, a black suit, and an attitude. While everyone grabbed their handkerchiefs and wiped their flowing tears of unhappiness away with downcast faces, Dilke lifted up his hands and jovially shouted, ‘God save the lifeless Queen!’ Everyone subsequently turned in his direction, pulling faces of disgust and pain as to how a man could be so joyous at a serious time like this (after all, Dilke didn’t like the Queen much). ‘Right, that’s me done here.’ Dilke said to himself and made his way out of the funeral and onto the streets where people booed him and hissed him with contempt in their hearts. ‘It’s alright, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve suffered this kind of abuse before! Nothing I haven’t heard before! Do your utter worst!’ It was almost as if Dilke was encouraging the crowd to boo and hiss, but he only did it for his own self-gratification. As he walked along, one child — who was an unwashed peasant — threw a loaf of bread at him. Dilke — seemingly unharmed — picked it up and took a small bite out of it. Then, he quipped, ‘Greetings, boy, and thank you very much, boy! I’ll save this for supper! Bless your heart!’ As you can see, Dilke’s presence was hated by almost everyone in England. He could have had the opportunity 132

to settle in the North East of England where they haven’t heard of him but could still throw whatever stones they could manage to find and still despise him. And later, make up a fabrication, saying they ‘did not like him because of his beard’. Even his fellow politicians in Parliament didn’t care much for him and it states in the ‘Parliamentary Rule Book’ that every MP should like Sir Charles Dilke and shower him with gifts whenever expected. But Dilke wrote the book himself which you can likely tell why the politicians find him bothersome.

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Vidyashri Karwa

The Girl whose World was Coloured by Hope Wycombe High School (Year 10 – Age 15) There was once a young girl nestled in a wooden crib nearby a small village found on the mountainside. This girl would grow up to visit the top of the mountain everyday. When she glanced up, the sky had not been painted any colours, but she could see the glows of white and black as they mix into what she knew as the night. She pondered on whether the world had always been this dim. Even when people would tell her that it had always been like this, she knew that she felt differently; she wished she knew more. Unable to understand why people around her didn’t care of the mundane shades, she started to feel indifferent about her surroundings. This once warm and soft glow in her heart was burning away. The feeling of solidarity consumed her as she stopped visiting the mountains and trapped herself in the only room she was familiar with. One night she stared through her windowpane, looking down and watching as the transparent drops of water danced like piano tiles on the sill. As she sang to herself in her desolation, she reminisced about the moment of her birth. That’s when she truly noticed it: her crib. Her heart felt heavier when she remembered the first time she was held by her parents, only a couple of years and maybe if things would’ve been different and they would still be with her. She walked up to it, sitting in the corner where it was

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tucked and now being rocked away slowly. That’s when she felt it underneath. There was crippled letter that was stained with shades of grey at the underside. She found the note. Scents of dried dirt filled her sinuses as she picked up the thin sheet from her fingertips. There it was in faint writing… “My dearest girl, A prophecy was made; it was told to be written down and not to be given to you until you were old enough. If the world were ever unable to see the lights in which you were born to illuminate so brightly into this world filling it with wondrous colours, find the place you love and reflect upon it like a mirror does to beauty. – your loving parents.” The rest of the paper dropped faintly as she rushed to the place she felt most magical. She looked at the stars again, memories captured her mind like a nostalgic dream. A tear of joy as she sat reminding herself of the one thing she had forgotten: hope. She had been so lost in a black and white picture that she overlooked the fact she could make her own colours. Only then did the colours of the night sky appear again, shining bright. She realised that it wasn’t the world waiting on her: it was her waiting on herself. As she restored the colours in the world and the sky, faith was restored in the village air. She had found her spark in her courage. 135

POEMS AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 5 Years 11-12 Age 16-18

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Emilia Lygonska

Holding Hands with a Painting Ursuline High School Wimbledon (Year 12 – Age 16) i’m holding hands with a painting — a cave painting, that is — and though i’m told that we’re (the artist & i) separated by, say, ten thousand years my fingers align just where they stencilled theirs and i swear i could have done it myself though my daughter could give a more expert analysis than i can at this dig: she’s made a few pieces herself held her hand against the living room wall scrawled across it in crayon forest green, blood red, sky blue — it is a room for the living after all and the living like to leave a mark, or so i’ve heard. they’re sweeping up cinders now from the floor around the painting gently, gently since we hypothesise those fires burned ten thousand years ago illuminating the faces of those who watched their hands dance across the walls i like to think they told stories in that flickering light the way i tell my daughter stories to give her something to dream about

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i like to think they told legends that last with us still though told in different words i like to think i’m holding hands with someone through these eroding meanders of time that i would recognise because they’d hope (just like i do) that their legend will be told even ten thousand years after they’re gone.

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Isabella Gallagher Rattan Clytemnestra’s Fury

St Augustine’s Priory (Year 12 – Age 17) Rage of a thousand burning ships, Coiling and thrashing in her abdomen. Hopelessness of a burning planet, as her world crashes and falls to her feet. Guilt only worthy of a murderer, Reasoning explained to none. Sorrow of a hundred lifetimes, bundled up into one. A mother’s love, protecting and gentle, it is needed no more, Family, purpose, wealth and a husband, watch her turn it to gore. Because this fury cannot fit in one person, not even two, it leeches, oozes, overflows and spills out, It taints everything she’ll touch. It’s got to go somewhere, taunt someone else, A mother’s love turned fury won’t sit, its power greater than the force driving a thousand ships, it stands, runs, fights, stabs, then it sits.

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Lukas Vedeika The Phoenix

West London Free School (Year 12 – Age 17)

I was born from ancient stories, etched in whispered flame and lore, A myth that danced through centuries of ashes, flight, and more. They say I burned in battle skies, a sentinel of fire, Whose wings once fought through endless dark to dawn the stars admire. But even legends fall to grief, and I was torn apart, My feathers scorched by silence, the heat gone from my heart. Beneath the ash they buried me, forgotten, cold, and still, Just some old story no one tells a ghost, a fading will. Yet somewhere in the ruin's breath, a single ember stayed, It hummed the song of who I was and what I’m not afraid. I rose not just from flame again, but from the loss I knew, From every shattered dream I held and all I journeyed through.

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My wings still shook with memory, The pain not fully fled, Yet still I soared, with blazing cry, above what once I fled. I lit the sky with memory, with grief turned into gold, I flew through skies of silence, for those who’d lost their hold. For I am more than legend now, more than a tale retold I rise for those who’ve felt like me, for young and broken souls. We fall, we burn, we fracture but always, we ascend. And in the fire, we find the strength to fight, to dream, to mend.

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Shon-Shon de Peyer Urban Ghosts

Ashcroft Technology Academy (Year 12 – Age 16) There, rolled up belly-full on the shingle; Hushwork, stillwork, swathing burls tingleTonight phantoms walk in a twilight city, Under pillars in-situ stuff from moth fluffThe violet eye in its wilder fly, As the neck curves batter, and the corals patter, patter, patter The great metropolis skirts the churn, Their shadows proliferating sound The mouthy billow of the screaming urnThat mirrored night begins to shatter. Hollow fruit of ashen hip; The clutching birth of a berth of a touchingHence why beating hearts hide behind doors Instantaneous, smile, And laughter rings, mien softly wings, its way into the rippling sky. Streetlamps catch upon spectral coat tails, dress wake, bare feet on marble never quakeAnd the moon rolls on, on a lucent high.

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Up to their knees in the onyx river, while the Ersatz begins its sliverCrystal planes, bottle-fruit-flies; dead bees in an attic. Fingers drawing on the steam of a window, Breath pooling into cumulus drainStingers into lips in gentle little quips; That the gaunt figure makes on the coming spring. Tired of the way the ambers lulls lathers under skulls – beneath the earth, And slips like tears into the dawn static. The city sleeps and wakes once more. But the ghosts that its legends speak ofWill never sleep again.

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Zoe Sheaf Eternal Fire

Tiffin School (Year 12 – Age 16) Eternal Fire i. Fire billows From the mouth of the storyteller Hunched over her words As though they are heavy, weighty, immense Crushing In the blade edged night A child watches Eyes filled with stars As heroes and hunters race past her Flesh and blood replaced with Words and thoughts And cool air ii. Ale flows slickly As words spill across ancient stone floors Music chasing them Rhyme and rhythm Myth and tale High ladies and dragons Dancing, fighting, breathing in Smoky, heady air

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One boy stops Enchanted by enamelled falsehoods Platter slipping in one hand Aflame with passion and desire And fire let loose Rearing from the hearth iii. Curled over ink and dust She breathes in the scent of Secrets and whispers Of history's quietitudes Laughter sculpting her lips Tears tracing her face Candlelight dancing through sun's rays

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Stone goddess standing guard Sheer fabric spilling from Curves traced by inhuman hands Men and gods' Cruel touch Paint stripped, dignity stolen Fire unquenched iv. Hands fly Across plastic infinities As heroes and gods rise onscreen Revelling in digital Eternity Light flares and colour blooms An undying fire One teenager Disappears into portals of mythology Travelling with winged feet and riddled tongues Finding old gods and Sputtering torches A flame that refuses to die Eternal fire

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STORIES AWARDED DISTINCTION Key Stage 5 Years 11-12 Age 16-18

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Hiba Mirza

Pandora’s Box The Holy Cross School The box. Those two words seemed to echo in Pandora’s mind, like a dull, pulsing headache, constantly reminding her of its pressing existence. Epimetheus was out. Again. Working? Probably not. Pandora’s milky white eyelids fluttered shut, as elegantly as a butterfly in a soft warm breeze. Visions flashed in her mind of her lover, toying with the gods, their narrowed, wise eyes concealing red hot anger and the grinding of their teeth echoing the collective dissatisfaction they felt towards the nuisance which was Epimetheus. Pandora yawned and eyed the box again, how it was adorned with blood red rubies, wrapped in delicate light pink satin and how the intoxicating scent of jasmine seemed to seep out from every corner, slicing elegantly through the stale air. Enough, she thought. The box seemed to invite her, entice her, whisper her name. The thought of all the treasures which would be hers sent an electric shiver of excitement through her bones. Hastily, Pandora made her way towards the box, nerves and anticipation chorusing through her veins. With shaking fingers, she slowly prised the lid open, each second stretching for what seemed like a month. By the time this box opens I’ll probably be on my deathbed, she thought. All of a sudden, Pandora’s nostrils were slapped by a pungent scent, a mix of decaying bones, animal dung and sweat lathered bodies. In dismay, she watched six small creatures slither out of the box, coated in a thick layer of undistinguishable muck. They gawked at Pandora for what seemed like an eternity until a grotesque elf like thing approached her and in a distorted voice announced ‘I am despair, and these are my friends Depression, Disease, Lust, Hatred and Suffering’. Lust gave a wink and just like that, they all ran off, their footsteps sickening squelches echoing in Pandora’s panicked mind long 150

after they left. Suddenly, Pandora spun around. Soft thudding caught her attention. From the box? Surely not… Slowly, she lifted the beautiful lid. ‘I’m Hope.’ A small bird was curled up in the centre of the box, its feathers long and colourful, its glossy eyes shimmering with the intensity of a million stars and its beak glowing a faint golden. The bird flapped and flapped, each beat of its wings sending clouds of rose smelling glitter everywhere. ‘I’ll return them.’ Hours passed. Pandora spent the time conjuring up excuses ‘The cat got it’, ‘It fell’, ‘I thought it was my makeup box’. Each one was a futile effort, and she found herself imagining Zeus and the other God’s faces, anger pulsing through each, now pronounced, vein and their eyes radiating pure hatred. A series of chirps broke Pandora’s anxious thoughts. Hope! The bird flew in with nothing but sheer elegance, its golden beak carrying each creature. Pandora ran, slicing through the previously melancholic atmosphere towards the bird. With a violent yank, the creatures were grabbed by Pandora and thrust out of sight. Unfortunately, they landed in the human world. Now, gone forever.

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Jack O’Leary

The Incomplete Memory Tiffin School Every evening, once his imagination set free and the sight of the golden hush of dusk appeared through his window, Tito would sit by his desk with a sketchbook on his desk. Pencil sharpenings scattered like shrapnel around him, visible smudges of graphite on his fingertips. Drawing wasn’t simply the boy’s hobby; it was his sanctuary. A way of stepping through memory’s veil into places that no longer existed, or perhaps never would again. He liked to sketch landscapes, mostly. The moss-covered hills behind his childhood home, the river that gleamed like silver thread through his village. More often, though, it was his friends. Laughing in classrooms, sprawled out under trees, sharing jokes and secrets beneath the summer sun. His drawings were fragments of joy, of moments lived and re-lived in lead and paper. His drawings were full of colour. Deep greens, warm golds, skies brushed in soft blues, like memories trying to stay alive on the page but also brighter than anything the present could offer. That evening, he began to sketch his school trip to London. He remembered the chaos of the tube, the endless fascination of the museums, and the way the city lights flickered like constellations caught in motion. As he shaded the outline of the London Eye, his fingers brushed against a loose sheet, half-tucked into the back of his sketchbook. Curious, he pulled it out. The paper was worn at the edges, slightly crumpled. The drawing was unmistakably his – familiar in style yet older, the lines more tentative, the shading gentler. A park scene unfolded in black and white: a boy, arms flung wide in mid-laugh, leaves swirling around him like confetti. Opposite him, a woman with 152

shining eyes and wind-tangled hair reached out, caught midspin, her smile wide and warm as sunlight. Beside her, a man with a coat raised in mock defence grinned back at them. It was his parents. He remembered that day. The crisp bite of autumn’s air, the rustling of foliage underfoot, the way their laughter folded around him and warmed him like a blanket. Back in the unilluminated room, there was no sound save the faint rustle of wind against the glass. A tightness bloomed quietly in his chest – not sorrow exactly, but something deeper, more fragile. A recognition of what once was, and perhaps could never be again. Tito stared at it as if it was a million miles away. His fingers curled softly around the edges of the page. He noticed this one had no colour yet, just soft pencil lines and faint shadows, as if it had been waiting all this time to be completed. He didn’t cry. Instead, he just sat there, pencil idle in his hand, the old drawing resting upon his lap. And for the first time in a long while, Tito didn’t sketch to escape. The boy sat still, simply admiring his incomplete memory...

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Kathleen O'Sullivan

It was not Me. It was She, the Banshee. Nonsuch High School For Girls “Silence in the courtroom! The accused will now speak” And so, I do. “I still remember the smack of my heel on the church’s creaking floor. It was just me. In there. Alone. Or so I thought. I strolled down the aisle, stopping to dig my toe into the carved stone memorials below. It felt wicked – I am, was, wicked. The evening wind drifted in, snaking through the cracked stained glass, nudging at the ribbon clinging to my dying bouquet. I can still see it – poor lifeless thing. It had to go. The wilted flowers rustled, weakly protesting my abandonment of them, as they floated to the floor. They were jilted. Left abandoned. That made two of us. Partially still in my right mind, I stopped to reflect on the hours spent, sat silently, in the sorry pews. I thought about the sermons and the hymns. The promises of eternal redemption. It had never occurred to me that I’d fall short of His love. I had never imagined that my soul would align with such a creature. I can still hear her, urging me.

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But I continued to the altar, begging to be saved. I eventually turned away, but kept quiet – He might call me back. But He did not, I knew that He would not. It was then that she began to creep in, laughing at me for thinking such a thing. Perhaps it is because the priest was right, God knows us more than we know ourselves. He knew what IShe was planning. I left the church, stumbled into the moonlight. She let out a shattering wail and I listened as it echoed violently across the town. The same cry that the first witness described – I cannot deny it.” I watch as goosebumps crawl across the transfixed audience perched in the gallery. I let my head droop, swallow nervously and continue. “It was at this point she fully had a hold of me and He, God, had let me go – freefall. But she, she was so angry – she whispered in my ear, lulling me into my memories of the murdered man. How evil he was. And then it all begins to blur. I remember watching as my feet began to move, seemingly of their own accord. It was my legs that raced down the sodden winding lanes. It was my arms that tugged at gates, and propelled me across sloping fields. And it was my hands that reached for the door of the cottage he’d promised me. It was my mouth with its cries, that signalled the moment of his death. Revenge. But it was not me. It was she.”

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I pause. “The banshee.” I barely whisper, but I know I’ve hit my target. I watch as the jury cower – I sense their thoughts: better a woman of the fairies than a woman of flesh and blood. A supernatural tragedy. I’m handed a rosary and led away. Committed to legend, another woman’s shout of disobedience.

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Laura Jara de la Torre The Queue

Ashcroft Technology Academy I have been waiting in this queue for 3 years, 27 weeks, 5 days and almost 14 hours. I could never quite dislike queues. There’s something peculiarly soothing about standing amidst a questionable assortment of strangers, all waiting for the exact same thing. When you have stood in a queue for so long, the initial tutting subsides to a comforting stream of chatter that demands acquaintance from your fellow queue-waiters. We avoid sharing our names, unwilling to sacrifice the last fragment of identity we have left. I relish far too much in the extravagant but closely calculated tales they share when the question arises: Why are you waiting here? One woman promises she was the finest opera singer of the century, though my mother could’ve sung better with her voice, which made angels curl with jealousy. Another claims her novels were venerated by thousands of avid readers, yet my daughter writes better, with her dancing words and boundless imagination. A man guarantees he can create culinary masterpieces, but my grandma’s food could make one’s palate savor the sweet tang of heaven. A different one says he had run miles and miles along sharp mountain ridges, and still, he does not know that when my brother runs his wings spread and soar. I listen to their stories closely, looking out for my cues to Ooh and Aah, whilst the real answer unfurls in my mind: Perhaps we are all just tormented by the fear of being forgotten. Like a footprint perpetuated on hard cement, we need to leave a mark. Make a change. Bequeath a legacy. It’s human nature. Because otherwise, what does one live for if life is finite? 157

I think about this a lot (I don’t quite have anything better to do). It can get somewhat existential. Memories are the most common thought; they unfold from distant pockets of my mind, ebony ink flowing sinuously to form semi-familiar faces and inaccurate backdrops, ephemeral recollections that blink like frames of childhood video tapes. Regret, too, for surrendered dreams and faded moments and having never done enough. Enough to love. To feel seen. Then, the acidic blend of agony and discomfort when I realize it’s all over. Being dead – well, it’s hard to explain. You are consumed by grief, grief for the life you can no longer live and for the people you mercilessly left behind in it. It tears a hollow void in you, stripping away your bearings. A liminal chasm between the end and the end. An all-enveloping nothingness. The only way to fight the eclipsing darkness is to live on in people’s memories. And so, we wait in this queue like fools, desperate to prove ourselves worthy of being remembered. I reach the end of the queue (or is the beginning?), and they ask the question they’ve asked so many lifeless souls before me: What makes you legendary? I mull it over for a second; I am not sure where to start.

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POEMS AWARDED DISTINCTION

Special Educational Needs Schools (SEN)

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Angel Harris-Cocklin Tired Sleep Dream

Perseid School (Year 10 - Age 15) Winter castle elf snow Moon Inside magical winter castle Sparkly Snow White Fairytale Story Moon bride Good Fairies lost.

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Holly Rose Cook Legend

Cricket Green School (Year 7 – Age 12) L ottie E aster G irl E at N od D ancing

Robyn Cooper Legend

Cricket Green School (Year 7 – Age 12) L illie E ater G enius E xpert N athan D inosaur

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STORIES AWARDED DISTINCTION

Special Educational Needs Schools (SEN)

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Kallum Jones The Dragon

Perseid School (Year 12 - Age 17) Once upon a time at Perseid school, Kallum was sleeping. Grace woke me up. She told me to do my work. I did my work but I could smell popcorn. I followed the smell. It was not popcorn, it was a dragon! The dragon was breathing fire! The dragon was bigger than a horse and was black and grey like the sea. It was a good dragon. It asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. I said no hosey! Ee-eeh! The dragon looked sad and grumpy. He just wanted to help people. The dragon wanted to help take people back to the castle. The castle is as big as Buckingham Palace. The dragon told me he wanted to help people, and I went for a ride with the dragon and Denise.

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The dragon took me back to Charles’ castle. Charles is a funny king. When I arrived with the dragon, Charles said “Welcome to the cool class!”. Jessy arrived wearing dark clothes and armour. She was a knight who worked in Charles’ castle. Kallum, Charles and Jessy were having lots of fun. Suddenly, Kallum noticed the dragon was turning green. Kallum knew this meant the dragon was turning bad and was going to breathe out fire. “Get lost dragon!” said Kallum. Jessy was a brave knight and was ready to fight the dragon. Kallum wanted to help, but Charles ran away. He was scared. Jessy and Kallum worked together to stop the dragon. The dragon breathed fire at them, but Kallum put the fire out with a watering can. Kallum had an idea. “I know!” said Kallum, “I can get the hose so we can keep filling up the watering can”. Kallum ran super fast to find the hose and brought it back. Kallum used the hose to fill up the can and put out all the fires the dragon started. The dragon stopped breathing fire and slowly turned back to normal colour. The day was saved. Kallum and Jessy were heroes. Charles said “Well done!” to them and gave them medals for stopping the dragon. The dragon was a good friend to Kallum again.

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Young Writers Competition 2025 Participating Senior Schools Ashcroft Technology Academy Cricket Green School Harris Academy Merton Harris Academy Wimbledon Ibstock Place School La Retraite Roman Catholic Girls' School Lilian Baylis Technology School Marymount International school Nonsuch High School For Girls Perseid Upper School Putney High School Raynes Park High School Rokeby School Rutlish School Saint Cecilia's Church of England School Shrewsbury House School Southfields Academy St Augustine’s Priory The Holy Cross School Tiffin School Ursuline High School West London Free School Wimbledon College Wimbledon High School Wycombe High School

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Index A

Aanya Singh.....................42 Aashir Ahmed...................48 Abi Newcombe............... 120 Ada Onur.......................... 19 Affan Naseer..................... 32 Alex Goldsmith................. 74 Amelia Lubert................... 75 Ana Gumende.................... 5 Angel Ghumdia.................49 Angel Harris-Cocklin...... 160 Annaliese St Louis............30 Atticus Constantinou.......50 Azaria Logan-Jones....... 122

Ben Bedford..................... 45 Ben Bradbury................... 77 Ben Huang........................ 77 Bertie Murrell................... 52 Brooke Hopkinson...........34

Egan Rimmer...................110 Elena Haran Tome.......... 124 Elizabeth Massey.............54 Emilia Lygonska.............. 138 Emilia Potts......................112 Eric Song..........................56 Ericka Asi......................... 113 Evangelos Zacharias........84

Gabriel Bernard................58 Gianmarco Scognamiglio..60

Harriet Quinton.............. 126 Hiba Mirza ...................... 150 Holly Rose Cook..............161

Isabella Gallagher Rattan. 140 Isabelle Hunter.................88

Calum Mason................... 25 Cameron Sterling............. 79 Cara Lily McHugh.............82 Celeste Sofia Adami..........15 Charles Thomas Hughes...84

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Jack O’Leary................... 152 James Son.........................17 Jasmin Javorka................90 Jay Nimesh Patel..............62 Jisoo Park.........................92 Juliet Capgras.................. 10

Kallum Jones.................. 164 Kathleen O'Sullivan........ 154 Kayla Fox Nguru...............95

Laura Jara de la Torre......157 Lente Ottink.......................21 Liane Dias....................... 128 Louie Voigt........................ 97 Luc Houston.....................63 Lukas Vedeika.................. 141

Madeleine Sedda.............64 Malak Metwaly............... 130 Marisa Shand.................. 115 Max Latif........................... 23 Maxwell Kennedy........... 132 Milly Davies........................ 11 Muhammad Abdullahi.....99

Noa Spencer-Brown........ 37

Riylee Shearwood............26 Robyn Cooper.................161 Rosie Skinner.................. 117

Shon-Shon de Peyer...... 143 Swayam Sharma............ 102 Syed Ahmad..................... 67 Szymon Thrun..................69

Tiffany Saisani.................. 70 Tilak Patel.........................39

Vidyashri Karwa............. 134 Violet Melsom................. 104

Zoe Lack......................... 106 Zoe Sheaf........................ 145

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Young Writers Competition 2025

Enjoy our collection of poems and stories, selected from entries to the 2025 Young Writers Competition, around the theme ‘The Legend’. The anthology includes entries from 20 secondary schools across South London and Surrey. Enoy the wide range of talented writing and storytelling from the Winners, Runners-up and Distinction entries to the 2025 competition. These are poems and stories of fun and excitement, of courage and wit, of adventures from the past, present and future…