Write On! Magazine Issue 9

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Issue 9
Apr 2016 Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 1
Title On! Magazine
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Welcome to Write On! Magazine
Of course the most important part of Write On! is the writing. Actually, the only important thing is the
writing. Even the writers come second to your having a good magazine to read and this is exactly the
reason that Write On! continues to be a success. Were not about showcasing writing just because it
comes from our region and is by young writers: were here to make the very best magazine we can and to
publicly demonstrate what we already knew was true. There is startling writing in the West Midlands and
there is a degree of talent and expression that you can so clearly see when the best of it is presented in
one place.
Im not going to say you can have too much of a good thing but privately I did wonder: this issue received
more submissions than ever. Strong stuff, too: Rage by Hillery Phillip is written like a knife. Then Phoebe
Cases Technology is Not the Answer is a kind of intelligently silly poem that delights but makes a point
you wont miss.
As editor, you read work like this and you wonder where it comes from but you know where its going.
Around 60 percent of pieces submitted this time are in this issue waiting for you to read them. Thats
a slightly lower acceptance rate than in recent issues yet with the volume of submissions its still a
substantial read.
I envy what you have ahead of you: there are treats here and there are pieces that will stay with you. So go
get a coffee and have a very good time.
William Gallagher
Write On! Magazine Editor
Write On! Magazine is a publication of Writing West Midlands. We support creative writers and creative writing across
the region.
More information about us can be found on our website: www.writingwestmidlands.org
This magazine features writing from children and young people aged 8 - 20 who live in the West Midlands. It is also
available to read online at www.writeonmagazine.org.
Copyright of all pieces featured in this magazine remains with the contributors.
Writing West Midlands - Company Registration Number: 6264124.

We are a Charity - Registered Charity Number: 1147710.
2 Write On! Magazine Issue 89

Contents
5 Technology is not the Answer 23 Bullet
Phoebe Case Lily Murphy-Burke
Denial New Light

6 24
Joe Pickles Katie Gayton
7 Photographs are Amazing Basketball Shirts

25
Jude Parker Lucy Merry
The Passing of Lenore Fay The Perfect Cake

8 26
Lyanna Choi Maryam Alatmane
Words and Sounds and Gibberish 28 After Dark

9 Rebecca Spruce Lily Turner Hurd
10 Tim Peake Recount Words

Daisy Aratoon 29 Matthew Baxter
11 The Moonlight Maiden Limbo Land

30
Eleanor Withers Rebecca Spruce
I Could See Again Books

12 Alice Tyler 31 Tanita Patel
13 A Friendly Clown Pancakes Perspective

Jasmine Sandhar 32
Similoluwa Osunsanmi
The Complexities of Being Dead The Man Who Sold His Soul
14 Lily Murphy-Burke 34 Asher Jordan
15 The Frost 35 Ruff Rivers

Nayantika Chaudary Evie Unsworth
Flightless Bird 37 Thanatophobia

16 Jessica Sandhar Claire Howland
17 Caf Bonne Biere 39 Wildlife

Jasmine Sandhar Ava Forrest
Proud Bird Surviving Syria

18 40
Aisling Rogers Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest
19 Come On...Bazza 41 Not Quite

Erin Ridgway Megan Depper
20 Boys and Girls 42 The Revenge

James Calloway-Brady Harry Hawkesford
21 Shadows 43 Paradise Bay

Eve Connor Grace Banks
The Tunnel Mrs Crawleys Keys

22 Jessica Sandhar 44 Grace Banks
Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 3

Contents Continued
A Beautiful Poem
45
Hattie-Rose Barnett
Jam
46 Bethan Olliver
47 Wishbone
Sioned Gill
Belchy and the Time Machine

48 Zoe Belgian
Rage
50 Hillery Phillip

Technology is Not the Answer
Phoebe Case
Last night I found a silly man,
Watching TV whilst using a frying pan!
I thought he might be crazy,

Giving the TV a stern look.
The problem was with him,
He wasnt writing a book!
They just use their technology all the time,

Even if theyre only at the age of nine!
Whats up with them, those silly old people?

It might even make their eyes turn square!
Just looking at it all the time,
Oh no, its you now, the fancy mare!
The point I am just TRYING to make,

Is that you should be writing as soon as you wake!
I know whats wrong now,

Youre worried you wont be like Dr .Seuss.
No ones EVER as good as him!
Oh no! Ive let my pen on the loose!

Denial
Joe Pickles
We forget the promise that we once made
We forget to remember what fades shall fade
We forget what we see to fake discovery
We forget how to see, blind with me
We forget because its easier, better for all
We forget, forget we always have to fall
We forget to feel wounds none can soothe
We forget because what hurts most? The truth.

Photographs Are Amazing
Jude Parker
Photographs are amazing. Top notch. Flat out brilliant. Ok Right Get to the point I hear you
saying. Calm down, I was getting there. A photograph has the ability nothing else does: to pause
time. Whether it is a moment to remember or one to forget, one to treasure or one to leave at the
bottom of the drawer and make an oath never to look at again, photos capture a split second in
time, an exact moment that nobody else has any record of but you. A memory is just a single string
of recollected knowledge, buried away in your mind, but a photo is the real bearer of happiness. Or
sadness.
But the thing is, when you invite a friend around, you start to chinwag over past events in the far
away distance of your minds, buried under the shopping list and the kids music recital. Past events
you both half-remember: Oh, do you remember the time when and then your friend thinks and
says, Oh yes, thats the day that Then you sit and drink your tea, until you think, Oh actually,
Ive got some pictures from that day. Then you show your friend and that starts bringing back more
memories, until it all starts flooding back.
Thats what I love, everyone can relate to a photograph taken at a particular time and place.
Sometimes, I wish I could dive back into a picture and relive the exact moment it was taken.
In this modern day and age, we are still taking photos, even if they may be of pretentious selfies
(look it up) when youve just spotted you have amazing cheek bones and want to tell the world. Or
maybe youve kept an album of a particular time you enjoyed, then stored it away, discovered it a
few years later and relived the years you thought youd forgotten.
It doesnt matter whether you look awful in it, we all have those. 97% of pictures of me look like Im
a contestant in the Village Idiot competition, but it doesnt bother me. I just look forward to the days
when I look at the picture and say I had an awful smile back then. And you know what, everyone
will remember and smile and agree.

The Passing of Lenore Fay
Lyanna Choi
White sheets, white clouds, white shrouds.
Cold marble skin untouched by frost.
Ephemeral elegance immortalised on a frozen face.
A flock of strange faces gather,

All equally chilled by the biting winter wind
To witness the passing of Lenore Fay.
A word of condolence uttered by a forgotten friend.

A word of comfort offered by a distant relation.
She hears them not.
The whispers fade as does the light.

Silence befalls the crowd once more
And the evening breeze chills their bones.
The sound of silence broken by a bell.
One.
The church doors open.

Her father stands beside her,
Mourning the loss of youth too soon
As she glides like a phantasm down the aisle.
Two.
A man in black takes her hand and she is delivered

From the arms of an old life into the next.
With a loving touch she departs.
Three.
The last scripture is uttered

And the priest sends her away with a prayer,
Wishing her all the best.

Words and Sounds and Gibberish
Rebecca Spruce
Did you ever stop to think that every book ever written is just a combination of 26 letters, all
muddled up? Theres punctuation too, of course, and sometimes numbers; but that just ruins the
effect. This that youre reading now is just symbols on a page, but and your brain understands
them and turns them into sounds in your head. Maybe not even that, but as youre reading this, you
understand it, because if you dont understand it, youre not reading it, are you? If I put a paragraph
in front of you in Greek, and you dont speak Greek, you wont be able to read it, will you?
If somebody speaks to you: really, its just sounds, isnt it? But you understand it, your brain gives
it meaning, you translate it into sense. Thats a funny word, isnt it? Translate. What about the word
translate means... to translate something? Who made the decision that thats what that sound
means? Who decided what was called what in the first place? I suppose it doesnt really matter. But
words really are brilliant, arent they?
And theres more. Languages. People use different sounds all over the world. We always say that,
for example, hola is a translation of hello. But not to the people who speak Spanish. To them, hello
is a translation of hola, the same way bonjour is a translation of Guten Tag to the Germans. The
only language that really exists to you is your own, and the others are just translations, but to the
people that speak them, your language is just a translation of theirs. It really messes with my head.
So what was the first language? Latin, maybe? Every word we use today seems to derive from
Latin, or maybe Greek. So why doesnt everyone in the entire world just speak Latin? Who said,
right: for each country, were going to have different words. Words specifically that country. Which
begs another question...
Why do languages seem to suit their country? Its as if Spanish seems an exotic language to
suit sunny Spain and French is sophisticated like the baguettes and the Eiffel Tower. Its amazing
how identifiable a language is to its country, almost like a nametag in a way. If we all spoke one
language, then would countries still be the same as they are? Or would they be different?
Who knows? The point is, languages do exist, containing lots of sounds and symbols that mean
different things, but, if you think about it - I mean really think about it - its all just gibberish, isnt it?

Time Peake Recount
Daisy Aratoon
t all started a long time ago, when I was eight. You see, I have always dreamed of being an
astronaut; I would have given anything, just to be in a space shuttle, on my way to space. After a
long time of disappointment, applying and waiting, I finally got the chance. Anyway, I have a lot to
tell you before we get to space!
When I was at school, I loved learning about space and space travel. After education (high school,
university and all,) I joined the Royal Air Force; at the time, it felt like the closest way I could
simulate my dream. I worked exceptionally hard and soon qualified to be a helicopter pilot. Finally,
the day of selection came. We gathered in the main hall of the astronaut training camp, seated
nervously to await our fate, hardly daring to breathe. As the first person was picked, I thought for a
moment; would all this keeping fit, applying for the ESA astronaut stuff and living in caves pay off?
My vision went to a blur. My wife nudged me urgently. I then realisedI had been selected.
I stood up as the ringing of applause crashed over the room like a wave. I was going to space!
Blast off finally came. Tucked up in insulated space suits, extra boosters were added to the Soyuz
rocket space shuttle, (in case we broke down after we left our atmosphere.) Scott Kelly and Tim
Kopra were reassuring. As we ascended the space shuttle ramp, a feeling of excitement as I had
never known it washed over me. As we took our seats, and were strapped in, that feeling multiplied
100 fold. As mission control boomed the count down, my pulse was racing, my feet tingling and
my stomach churning. Mission control thundered: BLAST OFF The smell of burning filled my
senses; roaring explosions burst outside like fireworks. That was it. We were off, it was magical.
A few hours after blast off, we were in the dark rounds of space. Suddenly the shuttle came to an
alarming HALT. We glided into the brightly lit ISS. Perversely, we tucked in to our breakfast on ISS,
having just had lunch on earth. Sleeping conditions werent great. We had to choose between a
sleeping bag on the wall or a hole in the ground with a glass cover over it, it reeked, the rank smell
of stiff blue sheets. I picked the sleeping bag (for obvious reasons.) Even though it was lumpy and
unstable, it felt amazing to be there. I was overjoyed to have arrived safely. The days blurred into
one.
We were literally in another world, thoughts of earth 240,000 miles away.
Returning, forced my body to deal with gravity. Scott told me that it takes a year or so to get used to
gravity again. I wonder if life on earth will ever feel the same without the wonder of knowing life in
space.

The Moonlight Maiden
Eleanor Withers
Love scars show on her
dainty skin,
Her home is forever the
night sky,
She keeps safe the ones
with no sins,
And holds the blue moon
pearls,
The moonlight maiden,
The fairest of them all,
And along her pearls,
her moonlight shawl.

I Could See Again
Alice Tyler
Blackness and darkness was all I could see before but now I can see colour not darkness at all. I
can see rainbows and Flowers lighting up the ground. I can see the bright stars at night twinkling
on the midnight black sky. I can hear dogs yapping and cats meowing for food from their owners.I
can see children playing all happy and smiling. I can see the aqua blue sky on the warm summers
day and the sun all yellow and bright. But best of all, I CAN see my family laughing happily. I
COULD SEE AGAIN !!!!

A Friendly Clown
Jasmine Sandhar
On one corner of the innocuous stand sits a smiling toy clown on a tiny unicycle- a gift I received
from my Aunt Helen. The clowns short, yellow hair, made of yarn, covers its ears but is carefully
parted above the eyes with a few stray fringe-hairs framing its forehead.
The cerulean blue eyes twinkle devilishly in the din of the dreary slivers of daylight that crawl
through the barred window. Outlined in black with thin, delineated strokes, it has cherry-red cheeks,
nose and lips that contrast with its paper-white complexion. Its broad grin disappears into the
withered, lace ruffle around its neck. The deteriorating, two-tone, nylon costume is composed of a
washed-out light green and a faded yellow; the two colours merge into a dark line running down
the centre of the small outfit that is almost obscure among the multitude of dusty smudges.
Two big, pink bows surround its ankles, disguising its long, black shoes. The white spokes of the
unicycle gather in the centre and expand to the black tyre so that the wheel somewhat represents
the inner half of a grapefruit. Although the seams are ripping at its back, the clown and unicycle
together still stand about a foot high. As the only endowment Ive ever inherited, this colourful figure
greets me with a sickly smile every time I enter my room.
Yet behind the sardonic grimace it bears, I know a certain blackguardly presence lingers there from
before. Before everything changed for the worse. Before I ended up in these white drapes, sitting
for hours on end, staring at my only friend who remains.
Im not like them. I may look like them, I may act like them and weve all been through traumatic
experiences, but were not the same. I shouldnt be here, locked away from the world; but nobody
else believes me, apart from the clown.
They all think its a figment of my imagination, but the clown and I know better, and
soon you will.

The Complexities of Being Dead
Lily Murphy-Burke
Seeing your own grave is an experience best described by a simple phrase:
Oops.
That was my initial reaction to the cold stone slab that marked my passing. The next was one of
ungodly rage followed by a dawning feeling of reality slipping through my fingers like smoke.
How am I here? What am I? What?
I knew I wasnt human; that much was certain. It was strange. Stranger than anything I have or will
ever fail to understand.
I wasnt standing, but I wasnt floating. When I moved I was still and everything else moved around
me.
I couldnt see myself, but I no longer needed to. I felt like a pair of eyes, looking and seeing without
a body.
Flowers. Flowers, flowers, flowers. Lots of them. Why? I dont know. I have hay fever. And Im dead.
Very, very dead. And allergic to pollen.
I was wondering whether dead people could sniffle when I noticed them. I couldnt see them but
I knew they were there. Other pairs of eyes belonging to other bodiless souls. Rifts in space time
that resulted in odd diversions of light that were only there if you were really looking. One stood
(hoveredfloatedexisted.) in front of me, glaring into my gravity.
I wasnt too familiar with ghost etiquette. My supernatural social skills were pretty rusty; so I just
stared. To be fair, I wasnt even sure if I could speak. As I moved closer I realised that it wasnt
looking at me but rather gazing at the sky.

The Frost
Nayantika Chaudary
That terrible morning.
Whoosh, whoosh! I awoke with a start, gasping and panting, shivering in cold sweat. I lay
there for a while, just lay there under the protection of my crisp duvet, clenching my
clammy hands, trying to slow racing heart. With leaden steps, I crept out of bed and glanced
at the dark, suffocating, walls around me. Tiptoeing across the wooden floor towards
my only source of light, like a moth drawn to a flame. I peeled back the curtains, to my
bewilderment
It was as if God had shaken icing sugar over the world, and told no one about it. Natures
palette was now a mix of a million shades of glistening white. I had never seen anything
so spectacular. It was everywhere; as a coat for the trees, a blanket for the ground, a hat for
the roofs.
A lone robin sang its sweet tune, hopping from tree to tree. The sky was pale, in harmony
with the canvas of pure white. There was no sign of the smiling sun, thin wisps of grey cirrus
clouds sat in its place. All though it looked as though the snow ruled eternal, the trunks of
the trees were still the same old chestnut brown, their leaves half emerald green.
Just staring at these beautiful sights, made me want to feel the cool texture of the snow in
my hands, I wanted to be able to stomp around in it, to be with it. I meandered in between
the various toys littered across the floor and crept downstairs. I slipped into the comfort
and warmth of my coat and boots, whilst trying not to smile.
Gazing at the untouched beauty of the snow, I turned the handle of the back door.
A gentle breeze rushed in taking me by surprise. The air was clear and cold, but exciting all
the same. The rug of snow crunched behind me, crisp and soft. My nose turned a peculiar
shade of pink, and my breath turned into mist in the sky.
Gently as if not to disturb its tranquillity, I drove my hand it. A tingling sensation ran up my
arm. Scoping it out I stared at the beauty of it, every inch was so perfect. I just stood
there doing that. Until I spotted the pond. My eyes became as big as saucers. I dropped my snow,
in my haste, and lumbered over to it. I had never seen anything so mesmerising before, I
saw my own reflection in it in the glazed ice.
It lured me in. It trapped me.
I took one step. For a few seconds it was amazing, so slippery and smooth. But in a split
second, it all changed.
I heard a sickening crack, the world span around me, the snow revealed its true colours;
Harsh, frost bittencold. I let out a silent scream. The world dissolved into darkness, as I slipped
under forever.

Flightless Bird
Jessica Sandhar
There was darkness all around. Silence shrouded the gloomy attic room. Where all of us shoulder
to shoulder lay on the dank ground, us the cooks, smiths, butlers, ironers and cleaners. All compact
in a small attic.
We lay so still only the soft murmur or stir from the Mistresss baby could be heard. I knew I had to
sleep, to rest before another exhausting long day of assisting Cookies cooking. But I couldnt I was
restless and thinking of all those times the Master shouted at his maid to give me a licking. The
ringing of her pan-like hands smashing on my skin still vibrated in my ears. And I feared another
day of work. I couldnt stand it. The bruises were seeping all over my skin the dark mauves and
blues that mocked my hazelnut skin. The skin colour almost everyone hated these days.
Next morning I woke to a hoarse bellow and a harsh slap. I rose abruptly looking around. It was a
nightmare but it was also early morning. So I sat and watched the yellow sun rise up in pink clouds.
I hated to think a new day had started. Suddenly the trapdoor slammed open and the housewife
stormed in kicking our legs and yelling in our faces. I hurried to the kitchen and waited for Cookie
to come down stairs. I darent say a word. Soon all of them raced down the stairs running to their
jobs where they needed to be. Cookie and I made the Masters and Mistresss breakfast avoiding a
lamping and succeeded we shared a crust of bread for breakfast and started on the lunch. But the
Mistress called me back to collect the plates. So I did but they started getting heavy and I dropped
a metal fork it hit the floor with a clang. Master stood up faster than a bullet and let the dogs on me.
The scraped the flesh off my face a dragged me along the floor. The Mistress couldnt watch any
more she screamed in despair and pulled them off me. She quickly picked up the plates grabbed a
hot rag and dabbed my cuts. The stung so much but I bit my tongue. I wanted to scream out in pain
but I couldnt. I bit my tongue so hard I felt blood trickle out. But I have to thank the Mistress one
day because I swear if it wasnt for her Id have died.
I still knew I had to run away.
The night drew in quickly silencing everyone in the attic. I gathered some pillows and stuffed them
under my sheet, which is my duvet, and raced down the stairs more than two at a time. I sprinted
to the nearest door. Locked. I tugged at the handle until it was near to breaking off. I tiptoed to the
back door and it was locked. I hurriedly spun around the room looking for an escape route.
I was panicking now. My heart pounding in my ears. My head spinning. Beads of perspiration
dripping from my forehead.
My eyes darted over an open window and as quick as a flash I had thrown myself into the dark
night.
I sprinted about a mile away before I heard raised voices shouting and all the lights were switched
on. They were looking for me hunting me down. They knew I was a runaway maid.

Caf Bonne Biere
Jasmine Sandhar
Avez-vous fini Madame? I asked her, again. This was her third caf latte in two hours. I knew
not who she was waiting for, but every minute or so she would still glance at the silver Dior watch
coiled around her slender wrist. Or when a young, handsome man strode past, she would study his
features and compare them to the picture on her rose-gold phone.
Oui, merci, she turned away from the window and smiled at me, but it never quite reached her
longing, hopeful eyes. I picked up the tall, lean glass; the residue of the foam clung to the rim like
the wisps of the cumulus clouds outside. It was a beautiful day, no different from any other, and the
streets were bursting with Parisian life.
Businessmen strode briskly down the cobbled streets weaving in and out of the crowds, whilst
elegant women sashayed in striped dresses with their designer sunglasses and floppy hats that
reminded me of lopsided pavlovas. Couples cycled past with their vintage bicycles and wicker
baskets full of purchases, whereas young children with wild imaginations threw away their money
foolishly into the nearby fountain.
Yet she didnt feel the buzz. Instead she sat there still, emotionless looking onto the scene as if
finding any possible way to criticise it.
Carefully, I backed away from the corner table and hurried into the back of the caf for wash up
duty. The others hate wash up, but I love it, because when I unhook the clattering shutters and
push the rusty windows wide open, it reveals the only view I yearn to gaze upon for hours on end.
My beacon of hope, La Tour Eiffel.
At this moment in time, the sun was just beginning to set. Pastel orange and yellow hues painted
the sky, whilst toasted marshmallow clouds hung from the sky like paper cranes, but there, amidst
the pastiche, she stood proud. Intricate metalwork weaved in and out, up and up until the very
precipice met the skyline. I stood there admiring the view, whilst scrubbing a few of the mugs in
between, and once my hands were calloused and wrinkled, my shift was already half an hour over.
The time had really flown and the counter would be closing up soon, which left me wondering
about the mysterious woman. Had she left yet? Did the man she was waiting for turn up?
I removed my apron and rushed into the main dining area, rather excited and curious to see
whether she was still there.
But nobody was there.
Well thats what I thought before I stepped in front of the counter. Bloodied corpses lay all over the
floor, bullets scattered everywhere and shards of glass from the shattered windows spread around
the room. Frozen with terror I didnt scream for help or call for the police, instead I walked over to
the corner table. She lay there still, emotionless, dead.
Dead like my hearing. I sat down, crying, in the deafening silence.

Proud Bird
Aisling Rogers
There was once a bird who was different to all the others. His name was Dirb. He had lovely,
multicoloured feathers and was forever preening them and fussing if the wind ruffled them.
Im the best! he would boast. And then he would toss his head and run around, making the
feathers glisten in the sun.
Stop boasting! his friends would call, youll meet your end one day!
But he would laugh and strut away.
One day Dirb went a little too far. Im faster than the wind! he cried.
Now this time, the keeper of the winds heard him. He flew down and challenged Dirb to a race.
Dirb eagerly accepted.
What the keeper of the winds next said was what the conditions were: if Dirb won, he would be
spared, but if he lost then he would be punished.
Ready, steady, go! yelled the crowd, and off they went. Everyone was astonished at Dirbs speed
and when he crossed the finish line a second before the keeper of the winds, the crowd went wild!
Silence! yelled the keeper of the winds. I demand a rematch!
Hey! exclaimed Dirb, I won fair and sq-. He was suddenly silent. He was floating up, up into
the sky, through the atmosphere and into the night sky. Suddenly a burning pain spread up
him from his feet. Dirb was on fire! He was soon a fireball. Suddenly he exploded! Balls of fire
flew everywhere, forming the shape of a much larger bird. The last face he saw before his spirit
withered and died was the sneering face of the keeper of the winds.
You see, the race was just a cruel joke. The keeper of the winds had always meant to punish Dirb.
And Dirb will stay where he is, head proudly raised for all eternity.
The End

Come On...Bazza
Erin Ridgway
See ya later, Bazz! Oh wait, that doesnt make sense! Lets go from the start so it does
make sense, right here we go. Bazza is a flower, a Pansy to be more specific who lives in Hyde
Park, the flower you heard speaking at the start was Larry his fellow Pansy friend, best friend to be
exact that lives next to Bazza. Its spring in the park, Bazza and Larry are getting ready to shoot up
to the surface (they are seedlings right now.) The only thing is, Larry is growing faster than Bazza.
Excuuusse meee, came a sudden shrill voice from nearby, I was just wondering ifff the voice
trailed off Just get on with it already!! Yelled Larry as he lost his cool, chilll Larry, dont get your
knickers in a twist, uttered Bazza let the lady speak.
Ok, fine Ill let the lady speak then. Larry violently swung his head around in the soil to find where
that extremely annoying, shrill voice was coming from. Well, came the mysterious voice again,
well what? Spat Larry finally figuring out where the voice had come from. It turned out the voice
had come from the seed next to him! Well, I was just wondering if you knew what the weather
forecast is?
Hang on, just gimme a sec, Ill check my phone and have a look. Larry viciously tapped with his
shoots on his phone in desperation to find the forecast and get this stupidly annoying seed out of
his hair. The forecast is.... torrential rain, whatever that is, for the next week or two.
Larry looked at his phone and suddenly yelped whats the matter Larry? questioned Bazza as
he attempted to look at his phone to see what Larry had been yelping at. Hey look, these other
seeds started a petition to get every single seed in the park to say Im a horrible bully. To top it off
they want to get all of the seeds to stay away from me, because if they come near me they say Ill
deck em Larry moaned, his face crumpling into the pouty expression of an outraged child.
A terrifying picture swirled into Bazzas head, all of those other seeds were crowding around Larry
trying to murder him and take him away!! It was only one day away from emerging day, emerging
day was when all of the flowers (and the weeds) sprout up to the surface and spread their amazing
technicoloured petals.
But now we come to a slightly sad part in this story, every flower had grown, except for Bazza it
seemed as if he would never grow, not ever. He had been too busy to worry about this but the day
had finally come! All the flowers were emerging into the light! It was so exiting, Larry and all the
other pansies were just about to sprout See ya later Bazz Larry was gone.
Im coming Larry!

Boys and Girls
James Calloway-Brady
Why do boys have to be so different from girls?
Toys for Boys and Toys for Girls
Helicopters and Tanks versus dolls and make-up
Why do Boys have to be stuck with blue?
And Girls stuck with Pink?
It stinks.
If boys grow their hair, why should anyone care?

But, it seems people do.
Princess parties for girls, Pirate parties for boys
Boys should become doctors or detectives
Girls should be hairdressers or airhostesses
When we are adults its easy to tell

The women from the men
Why cant kids be kids?
Maybe wed all get along better
If we could just be
Ourselves.

Shadows
Eve Connor
A shadow is an evil thing,
That lurks within the soul,
It cannot be escaped,
Only hid,
It emerges with the light behind you,

Follows you around,
It is your dark other side,
That shall always be beside you.
A shadow has many names,
Demon, Dark and Foe,
It holds all your scheming plans,
And knows your darkest fears.
When it unfold its ragged wings,

And takes flight,
So does your rage,
And the storm begins.

The Tunnel
Jessica Sandhar
All was total blackness again - blacker, it seemed, than ever. Gordon scrambled to his feet grasping
the chest once again. They walked on. In complete silence. Sheila was petrified: hands shaking;
lips trembling; thumbs twiddling. The pair of them could see anything except the light at the end of
the tunnel that seemed endless in the distance it was impossible to reach.
All too soon Gordon and Sheila heard formidable yet familiar voices. They both knew trouble was
only a few feet away. Someone was shouting at what seemed only a boy (maybe even younger
than them) and the voice sounded angry. Sheila could only hear a few words but that was it.
Gordon was trying to tell Sheila - by mouthing it - to turn around and run! Suddenly they could
hear the water being kicked about and only then did Sheila realise the danger was walking towards
them!
She dropped the box and plunged underwater. The coldness wrapped around her like a blanket.
Gordon watched her, and watched the evil men behind him. He dived underwater and let the
refreshing water cover his body.
The familiar men waded on and finally they reached Sheila and Gordon. One of them trod on
Gordons fingers and pain surge through him. He bit his tongue to stop him from screaming in
agony. It was so dark the men didnt realise there was anyone there.
Gordons lungs were screaming for air. As soon as they passed they sat up and gulped down air
like a drink.
Gordon stood up and Sheila followed they went back to grab their chest only it wasnt there
They both spun around rapidly, listening intently they both heard a low bellow Ive got it! Instantly
Gordon knew that at the end of the tunnel a man was clutching his treasure. They both hurried to
the light, that seemed further than ever.
Sheila runs on ahead. Not knowing where Gordon is. He was running behind panting all the while.
Eventually he cant run any further he collapses to the ground. He feels his head spinning and
stares at Sheila racing on.
He knew he could not shout otherwise the men would see them. So he lay on the dank ground by
himself. Waiting. Hoping Sheila will come back...

Bullet
Lily Murphy-Burke
Thats insane! Adam Butcher hissed, wiping the sweat off his brow with one hand and scrunching
up a piece of paper with the other. He was a short, plump man with a round face and a receding
hairline. Insane? Possibly. Gloria Gravesly replied, her painted lips barely moving as she glared
intensely at the hateful man in front of her. She had stern eyes like bullets that darted from
place to place at lightning speed before settling themselves on his face and burrowing into his
skin. The two sat opposite each other, a cluttered desk in between them in the small office with
the flickering bulb. The room was tall but claustrophobic; bookshelves covering each and every
wall; a slim, window-less door; and a dying plant squatting in the corner. A moth was fluttering
aimlessly towards the light. It landed on the bulb and with a hiss of wing on glass it fell to the desk,
dead. Gloria moved the lifeless insect out of the way with the tip of her pen smoothly. She was
determined to keep Adam in the verbal choke-hold he had fallen into. Are you saying youre not up
to it, Mister Butcher? She whispered. Butcher jumped slightly, his attention being snapped away
from the moth and back of the face of his employer. He gulped and pulled a silk handkerchief out
of his pocket, embroidered with the letters L.C. He dabbed his dripping forehead again. The room
was hot and the distant buzz of a fan could be heard but was not visible. He silently begged for its
cool relief, his collar tightening around his flabby neck. II dont think Imshes He spluttered
hopelessly. Eventually he dragged his eyes up to hers pleadingly and she understood.
Gravesly pulled out a pistol and shot Butcher in the head.
Of course, Adam Butcher wasnt meant to die that dreary September morning. When Gloria sat
over her bowl of watery porridge he hadnt planned on becoming a murderer. But Butcher was
covered in his own blood and Gravesly was behind the trigger.
And what does one do after committing such a heinous crime? Hide the body? Dispose of the
weapon? And after that? What then?
How can you go about a normal life?
For a woman of such high power, the answer was simple blame someone less important.
And thats just what she did. Arrested, charged, shipped off to jail; Adam Butchers case was closed
and an innocent person was behind bars.

New Light
Katie Gayton
A mask to cover up the scars of my past, The fear and the pain, the stress and the strain,
Disappear as I hide behind this new reign.
The clouds start to part as I walk on by, A spotlight will shine as I open my eyes, To see a new light
where I used to cry.

Basketball Shirts
Lucy Merry
I remember small but meaningful moments of myself, eyes wide smiling and laughing, wearing my
sparkly pink Barbie jumper.
I remember staring up at my brother as we wore our basketball shirts together drooping below our
knees. I never liked basketball, but I wanted my brother to like me.
I remember wanting to be just like him.
I remember enjoying life as it came fantasising over the perfect future you were going to certainly
have, living as a princess in a castle. Mimicking the lifestyle of the cartoon princess movies I
watched on my television covered in stickers.
I remember as a child when it was easy to only be hurt by a cut or scrape on the ground, the things
that I know are harmless now were always treated, as I melodramatically screamed that parts of
my body were going to fall off.
I remember putting on a plaster to make the pain go away, the magical teddy bear patterned
stickers that could patch up anything. If only I knew they didnt work for feelings.
I remember in primary school making friends was as easy as seeing someone in the playground
and saying hello. Then you were best friends forever.
I remember when I used to skip into school with my summer dress on and little plaits in my hair
with not a worry or fright on my mind.
I remember when it wasnt everyday when the thoughts in my head decayed my happiness and
replaced it with tears and a frown.
I remember when I didnt have to talk to a stranger about all of my problems.
I remember when change wasnt an issue that didnt bother me at all.
I remember the days at school when I didnt feel like the depressed weirdo who doesnt know how
to socialise and share their thoughts.
I remember feeling alone.
I remember not knowing and I wish that had stayed. I closed my eyes and remembered
remembering.

The Perfect Cake
Maryam Alatmane
225 grams
of flour
and butter
and sugar
4 eggs
And a teaspoon
of baking powder
I follow every single rule and regulation

Folding in the flour properly
Without leaving lumps
Making sure that there is no eggshell left
None of those hard, jagged edges
Just smooth
And nice
And perfect.
But my cake
Never seems to turn out like yours
It is always sunk
in the middle
Or not risen as high as yours is.
And sometimes
it takes longer than those 15 minutes
you give it to cook
Or I leave it too long
And I am left
With blackness
overtaking the sponge
And a foul stench
That reaches my nostrils
And makes the fire alarm scream.
Maybe
Maybe it does not need to be
Flawless.
Maybe
Maybe you learn
From your mistakes
Maybe

Maybe the next time
It will be better
But
All the same
I follow the recipe for a
Perfect cake
Again and again and again
Praying
Hoping
Dreaming
That one day
Mine will turn out
Like yours.

After Dark
Lily Turner Hurd
Darkness sweeps the dirty streets now,
The moon shines,
All dirt cleared and day done.
The windows swing eerily,

howls echo,
not the plainest voice follows.
No one cares, no more,

Pleasantly extinct,
Fast winds blow steadily.
Dew appearing,
All dead, now lie still.

Words
Matthew Baxter
Words
Words are magical.
Words are powerful
And yet cannot hurt you.
Words are confusing
But clear.
Words are a mystery
Yet they hold no secrets.
Inside words there can be war and there can be hope.
Words can destroy your life or can help you find love.
They represent us. They display our feelings.
But words can only tell so much.
They have limits, boundaries and they are contained.
Inside you and inside me there is something that cannot be captured,
Something wild
That is your heart.
Your heart is beyond words.

Limbo Land
Rebecca Spruce
I dont know what to say. I really dont. How do you greet someone whos dead?
What are you supposed to say?
Oh, condolences on your unfortunate demise, Mrs Ainsley, but I do hope well be seeing you at
Bingo later!
I understand youre feeling a bit blue today, Mr Harrison, due mainly to the fact that you are
recently deceased, but please, don It just mope around all day! Do familiarise yourself with the
place, take a walk around the complex, introduce yourself to people. Bear in mind though, supper
is served promptly at 7:30 and its steak night tonight! You wouldnt want to miss that.
Well, hello there. Have you been told yet? No? I guess, then, the duty falls on me. I should
introduce myself. Welcome to life after death. Im Stephen, and Ill be your host. Its my first day
here. In fact, youre my first client. Hey, I guess thats kind of a big deal, really.
CONGRATULATIONS!
Sorry, is that a bit inappropriate? You know, considering that Ive just broken it to you that youre
dead? In all honesty, Im not really doing a very good job of it, am I? Humans arent the biggest
fans of dying. In fact, you seem to spend your whole lives trying to avoid it. Actually, Ive not thought
about ow it might affect you. I suppose it really put a crimp on your week, didnt it? Dying? Hmm.
Yes. I suppose it would.
Well, ifs not all bad. I mean, it could be better, Ill grant you that. But it could be worse, too. You
could be alive, not knowing when its coming, not knowing when youll kick the bucket. At least
thats over and done, with.
I havent really explained it very well. Yes. Well. Um youre dead. I suppose youve figured that
out by now, considering I keep repeating it. Sorry about that. This is where youll be spending the
next few days, months, or years. Who knows how long? Youll be here until it is decided upon where
you are to spend the rest of eternity: with winged angelic beings dressed in white, wearing halos
and carrying harps; or roasting in fiery pits of hatred and evil with horns, claws and vampiric fangs.
This place is called The Rift Complex (you know, like the Rift between Heaven and Hell), but most
people call it Limbo Land.
Heres a leaflet.
Welcome to The Rift Complex. I hope you enjoy your stay here, whilst you wait for Judgement
Day. Your host (thats me, hello) will guide you for your first few days until you get used to this new
environment. Youll need some time to adapt to being dead, and youll find a whole host of services
here, a t The Rift to help you settle in to your new self. If you have any questions, concerns, or
requirements, feel free to ask.
Ok. Well, thats that. Let me show you to your room.

Books
Tanita Patel
So many of them, so many are alike yet, so many are not
There is mystery, drama, romance; the whole lot
You pick one up and see what it is all about
Then you decide whether or not you want to take it out.
You open it up and each and every one a different start

Some start in lines, paragraphs or even the shape of a heart!
All with a different creator like a different singer for every song
Every one of them interpreted in a different way, with no reason that is wrong
That feeling when its taken over your love of everything you normally do
When it has taken over your study and your homework too
When you cant think of anything else as it is invading your mind
It makes you relate all your thoughts to it and sometimes your words are similar to it youll find
Then when it is eventually finishing and it is coming to an end

And you see everyone leaving and you feel as if you are losing your best friend
It feels as if you have just finished a performance and you have to come off the stage
That horrible feeling when you are at the end of the book and you dont want to turn the last page.

Pancakes Perspective
Similoluwa Osunsanmi
Dear Prime Minister
Most people think its simple being a pancake, some people just take us for granted, its silly how
humans just treat us like pancakes, we have feelings too, just like you humans. Youre just too full of
yourselves and this story will help spread the word about how pancakes feel and should be treated.
Day 1
Breakfast
To be honest, I think were going to go off soon if that Mother of theirs wont get us out of the
packet, were all squashed like beans in a can. Silly people, how can anyone choose toast over
yummy scrummy pancakes for breakfast! You cant even imagine how annoying they can be.
Lunch
You never know what pancakes get up to whilst the humans are away. We dont just sit there, oh
no, I wouldnt bear a second of just sitting there. We sprout out legs and arms, and go mad in the
kitchen! Clever, isnt it, and the children get blamed for the mess... Result!
After all, no one would guess that it was pancakes.
Evening
Boring. Nothing at all. Just sitting in packet roasting like chicken in an oven.
Day 2
Breakfast
Ooh, la ,la. We had some French amongst us, French toast actually.
Im surprised that they didnt bring their fluffy poodles with snails and slugs and whatnot.
You should have figured by now that I am a very knowledgeable and well spoken pancake as
you can see in my writing, not many pancakes are like this. I am doing this for the PRA (Pancake
Rights Association) and other pancakes because none have enough brains to manage one word of
this.
Lunch
Being treated simply!(again)
Evening
Call from the PRA about how pancakes should take over London. People are pulling at the bag of
pancakes and we are being tossed about like well...pancakes, not like normal tossed around but
tossed around as in being thrown around.
Day 3
Breakfast
Pancakes perspective
Finally! After an endless wait of three whole days(Please note that 3 days is a very long time for a
pancake, dont judge.), we are taken out of the package and get to be tossed around (this is the fun
kind of being tossed around) in the frying pan which is a bit like a hot tub for us pancakes. We got

onto the coolness of the bottom of the plate. No one spoke to us, because we are pancakes (which
is a bit unfair mind you) and soon I got swept into the digestive system of a girl! Hurrah! I have
made myself cosy down here.
So, Mr Prime Minister, tell your people to be nice to their pancakes at breakfast, take them to Shoe
Island to buy them shoes or at least give them a little badge saying My BFF is a PANCAKE! If
you dont listen then it is your fault if in 2 weeks we attack London Pancake shops. This is very
important.
Yours faithfully, truly and flatfully

A very intelligent pancake

The Man Who Sold His Soul
Asher Jordan
Falcon wanted eternal life. Falcon would get eternal life. But God saw what Falcon was doing and
made sure that Falcon would never get eternal life. Falcon was 31 and hunted every day for eternal
life and never found it. He searched, sacrificed, and even murdered to find it. One night he had
a vision. A vision that terrified him. He saw himself wandering to the edge of the world, old and
weary, and he dropped dead. He was so terrified, that he ran through the ancient forest that not
one person had ever come out alive. He ran so fast that his eyes hurt and it seemed like everything
was against him. He ran and ran like he was riding on a cheetah. He ran and ran and ran until he
came to an ancient stone circle.
The ancient stone circle was, well, ancient. But it was creepy. Turn back! The wind seemed to
say. Turn back before its too late! The whole stone circle smelled mouldy, like gone off cheese.
Falcon felt the wind rushing past him, stinging his eyes. Suddenly, he fell and he tasted mud. His
legs ached after all that running, and ached like they would never stop after he fell. He stood up,
stretching his back. He was still terrified after he saw the petrifying dream that almost turned him
to stone. Imagine seeing the future? You see your lifelong wish crumble in front of you. This was
exactly what happened to Falcon.
He would still find eternal life, whatever happened. This was of course, very stubborn and Falcon
vowed to find eternal life before his life ended. But when he looked around, all the exits seemed all
the same. He was lost. At night it was dangerous for many reasons. Wolves roamed the city and
most certainly the forest. Going out in the middle of the night was what a 12-year-old would do for
a dare. Falcon heard movement outside the stone circle and faint growling in the distance. His body
turned to ice; he was super-glued to the spot. Suddenly six wolves swiftly pounced towards Falcon,
ready to enjoy 180 pounds of meat. Be gone! A voice called out, concealed in the darkness. The
voice sounded like all the evil in the world had been trapped into a bottle like a genie, and a devil
had drunk it. The wolves slunk off, like a naughty child who had just been told off. Who are you?
asked Falcon. I am Satan! Master of evil! the voice said, What do you want? E-e-e-eternal
l-l-life stuttered Falcon. Ah! But there is a price for that. The voice said. Your soul. T-t-take i-it
t-then. Falcon stuttered, disbelieving he was actually going to get it. The devil came out of the
shadows and reached his hand into Falcons mouth. Suddenly Falcon found himself in hell. He
would have eternal life-and eternal suffering. But what good it is to claim the world, but to lose your
only soul?

Ruff Rivers
Evie Unsworth
Finally approaching the end of her pregnancy, Maceys mum hobbled along the path beside the
river, hand on her rotund stomach.
Gracefully, the weeping willows dipped their emerald canopies in the smooth-flowing river. I longed
to take a refreshing dip, but all Maceys mum cared about was Dads new sports car.
As we strolled along the path, Macey chattered like a chipmunk about her adventures in school,
when suddenly, she started racing ahead. Her small, stubby legs barely keeping up with her body.
Eventually, she stopped. Wheezing, her chest heaving, she pointed a chubby finger at an ice cream
van (which I assume, were Maceys first words).
Ice cream. She panted.
No Macey, itll ruin your picnic. Mum told her, firmly.
Gripping Maceys fingertips, Mum tried to yank her away.
No! Macey bawled, I want ice cream!
Its OK, Ill get it. Dad rummaged around in his bottomless coat pocket for loose change.
What are you doing, Dave? She is not to have an ice cream! Mum ordered.
But shell keep on crying otherwise! Dad argued.
So? I spent ages on that picnic, and now she wont eat it! Retorted Mum.
Embarrassed by the public argument, I dived into a bush, and escaped from cruel, harsh reality.
Birds sung softly in the gentle breeze, and I almost fell asleep at the forest lullaby. Mums name
(Rosy) was mentioned a few times before a scream that pierced my highly sensitive ears.
MACEY! Mum had screeched.
Instinctively, I shot out the bushes, armed branches scratching my cheeks.
Weeping, Mum cried out again.
There was Macey, frantically paddling amongst the icy waves. Immediately, I plunged in, the
freezing coldness soaking me.
I swam with all my might other to where Macey was thrashing. Rippling waves surrounded her,
creating a protective force field, which I was defenceless against.

At last, I reached her. Hastily, I grabbed the scruff of her clothing. It snagged on the sharp edge of
a jagged rock.
Help! She squealed, as I lost grip.
Again, I tried harder, and hauled her limp carcass on the dampened river bank.
Rumbling, tumbling, crumbling, went the muddy earth of the river bed. Plummeting into the swirling,
crashing currents.
Fiercely, I dug into the soft soil, despairingly, I attempted to hoist myself up, but I could feel the
large clumps of earth loosen from my grip.
Determinedly, my muscular back legs kicked the frozen water, and something grasped my
wounded ankles and was yanking me down into the depths of the river.
Gargling on polluted water, I drowned.
Scanning the area, water blurring my vision, I saw a twisted vine wrapped round my ankle.
Running out of breath, I clawed at the knot, once it had freed me, I burst up to the surface.
Under each of my forearms, Mum and Dad hoisted me up.
Rasping, I shook my muddy body dry, splattering all of the surrounding crowd. Mum examined
herself and laughed unexpectedly.
Dog really is mans best friend! Dad laughed, light heartedly.

Thanatophobia
Claire Howland
The phone is ringing. Reluctantly, I pick it up.
Hello, says a voice. I say nothing.
Hello? This is Kylie from next door. Im ringing to make sure youre ok. Weve not seen you
go out for ages. Are you ill?
No. I answer, my voice a quiet croak from disuse.
Ill come over, if you like? Kylie says.
No! Its dangerous. I throw the phone at the wall, rush to the door and check the bolt.
I pull the blinds down, rush to my bedroom, and climb into the wardrobe. Each second I
spend in there seems like an hour. Then I hear a noise - a thump on the front door. Or is it
footsteps?
I close my eyes, breathing heavily. There it is again. Thump, thump, thump.
Im being strangled! I feel hands around my throat. I open my eyes. Theres no one behind
me - just an old jumper.
I listen. The thumpings stopped.
Carefully, I open the wardrobe door, and step out.
I look thoroughly, but no one is in the flat.
I should probably eat something. The milk in the fridge is off, and the bread in the bread
bin is mouldy. I shudder at the thought of venturing to the supermarket again. I find some
beans in the cupboard, an overripe banana, and a cake that is still in date.
Carefully, I turn on the hob to cook the beans. The sound of twisting the knob terrifies me,
so I turn it off, opting for cold beans instead. I open the can, the sharp edge sending
shivers up my spine. I eat the beans, and the banana then tear of chunk off the cake (I
dispensed with knives long ago).
That night, I lock my bedroom door and get onto my bed - I dont have sheets in case they
smother me.
As usual, I cant sleep. What if I never wake up? I fight to keep my eyes open.
The dark scares me. Anything could come after me, concealed in the blackness.
I see... a body, lying on a bed, a shroud covering the face. I see black figures crying, a
coffin, a hole in the ground. Im sinking, down into the earth.
Help! I gasp.
I can hear footsteps again.
I get up, standing uneasily next to the bed. Thump, thump, thump.
I flee for the wardrobe. Thump, thump, thump. I cover my ears, trying to block the sound
out, but it gets louder. I cant breathe, Im so terrified.
Thump, thump, thump. Why wont it stop?
Thump, thump.
Thump.
The Times, February 21st
MAN DEAD IN WARDROBE
Yesterday, the body of Karl Martins, 55, was discovered inside a wardrobe in a room

of a London flat. No signs of injury were found on his body, and the flats door was
bolted, showing no sign of forced entry. Police believe a heart attack was the most
likely cause of death. Why Mr Martins would shut himself in his own wardrobe
remains a mystery.

Wildlife
Ava Forrest
A great clump of ivy hanging carelessly off the fence,
Plump purple blackberries sitting on a branch,
Unripe berries along with tiny dark green leaves,
As well as a thorny raspberry bush.
The soil at the back of our garden is overfilled with weeds and plants galore,
Its a good habitat for wildlife.
My everlasting apple tree is filled with sunny red and green apples,
The branches are chocolate brown and all the leaves are emerald green too.
Our clumped flowery grass is quite prickly and hurts your feet.
I see the swooping of bats,
I hear the hooting of an owl,
They are important to me,
Because they are wildlife.

Surviving Syria
Clodagh Delahunty-Forrest
My country has been torn apart
And so has my grieving heart,
Our life has been turned upside down
The bombs have tortured our town,
Shall we go or should we stay?
Or fight on for another day?
Our life now fits inside a bag

It weighs me down, my feet drag,
As we walk mile after mile
Gone are the days when we could smile,
Shall we go or shall we stay?
Fear consumes our every breath

Each step we take is close to death,
Our fate lies in a strangers hand today
There is no other way,
Around me people fall and die

As orphans all alone cry,
Should we cross the dangerous sea?
Should we take the risk and flee,
Will I survive I do not know

Each day my hope seems to grow,
Will I live to see the end of this war?
Or like the rest will I fall?
But I will fight for another day.

Not Quite
Megan Depper
I am not a poet, not quite. Not yet.
My mind isnt fully formed;
My ideas are imitations,
My love for punctuation
Stems from e.e cummings: my desire to read
next to of course god America i offbyHeart,
My heart is not mine, not quite. Not yet.
It belongs to Rudyard Kipling, If
If I were older than maybe Id
Be less influenced. But somehow my
Imitations are not limitations, or copycat
Admirations. A journey W. B Yeats
guides, T. S Elliot in my rear-view mirror.
It is not my downfall that I plaster
Sean OBriens words on the inside of my skull.
My youth, not yours, not quite.
Like a baby learning first words
And if my poems from years ago smell
Like Wilfred Owen and feel like John Burnside
Then I am not ashamed. My mind is easily influenced,
From the poets to the songs and the movies,
It is not a folly to be young and love others
More than yourself. To find warmth in
The shadows of the noble, in anthologies
or the poetry section of Waterstones.
I know I am not a poet; I am fragments of others.
My words are not mine, not quite. Not yet.

The Revenge
Harry Hawkesford
Billy liked where he lived. Southfield was a quiet place, but there was a gang. A horrible, mean
gang of bullies. They didnt bully people for a reason, they just did it for fun. There are five
members of the gang: George, Justin, Dan, Shay and Kasper. Every time Billy went out they
would call him names and laugh at him. Sometimes, even do physical stuff. But after a while, Billy
got angry, really angry. That night, Billy made a plan, a great plan, to stop the bullies forever. The
Revenge.
Billys plan was to take place at next Sundays football match. Billys team, Southfield United, were
to play Huckleberry FC, who the bullies played for. It was a big match, because whoever won
would go top of the league.
On the day of the match, Billy was nervous. To make the plan work, Billy needed the match to go
to penalties. Half time Southfield were 2-1 down, but made it 2-2 in the second half. Finally, The
Revenge could take place.
The two teams gathered to decide who would be taking the penalties. Southfield decided very
quickly, unlike Huckleberry. George, Justin, Dan, Shay and Kasper were busy bullying the other
players in their team to let them take the penalties. This was Billys chance to get his secret
weapon The Boomerang Ball. Billy crept away from his team, unnoticed, into the changing room
and got the Boomerang Ball. Making sure no-one was looking, he quickly set off towards the
penalty spot, swapped the balls and then sprinted to the side-line to keep the real ball safe ready
for Southfield to use.
Huckleberry were first to take a penalty. Shay stepped forward.
He took his run-up and smacked it over the bar, but just before it hit the crowd it swung round
heading straight towards Shays face. Shay had no time to react. And with an almighty THUD it
wacked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. That wiped the smirk off his face Billy giggled
to himself.
It was Southfields turn and Billy kicked the proper ball over to his team-mate just in time. Bring the
ball back to me Billy gestured and mouthed. His team-mate took a good penalty, but the keeper
managed to save it.
The same happened to Justin, Dan, George and Kasper. The ball kept coming back and hitting
them in the face! Nobody noticed Billy secretly swapping the balls the bullies were too busy
bothering about missing their penalties and other people were too busy bursting with laughter!
Unluckily, Southfield had missed all of their penalties but they had one left. Billy stepped forward.
The crowd fell silent, even the bullies stopped their bothering. All eyes were on Billy, the ball and
the goal. He ran up and smashed it right in the bottom corner, sending the goalkeeper the wrong
way. Billy had done it. He had won the match, Southfield were top of the league and Billy had got
his revenge.

Paradise Bay
Grace Banks
Hazel wood boat stretches out,
Trying to reach the shore,
Cerulean glass beckons to the boat,
Tempting it to come back into the sea.
Lush green jungles entwine themselves around the camel cliff,

Trying to hide the bare rough rock.
Rude balls of cotton wool are covering up the sky,

Attempting to conceal the azure expanse.
Tiny white shells all crushed together

Create a peach blanket; rich and soothing, pure and clean.
Paradise.

Mrs Crawleys Keys
Grace Banks
An eerie light from the lampposts bathed the sleeping school in an unnatural glow. Mrs Crawley,
the deputy head teacher, glanced apprehensively at the school that was shrouded in darkness,
and started walking forwards uncertainly. By the time she reached the entrance, her sopping hair
was plastered to her head and she nervously fumbled with her school keys to let herself in.
Exit light flickering, stained glass glowing, the night had transformed the usually bright and cheerful
school into a dark fortress. Nerves were starting to kick in. Rain hurled itself at the windows
creating a never ending beat. The faces of the previous year 6 leered down at her from their
paintings, unearthly in their different colours. Hoping only she could hear her thudding heart, she
stumbled blindly into the dark corridor.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see plastered white walls glowing spookily, and she
could almost imagine ghosts appearing out of them. The pegs on the other side of the corridor
seemed sharp and menacing. A clattering sound made her nearly jump out of her skin, until she
realised she had knocked a step ladder from its place. Gulping, she nervously pushed open the
door and jumped when it creaked in the darkness. Had anyone else heard it?
Heart throwing itself against her chest like a frightened bird trying to escape from a cage, hands
shaking uncontrollably; she stood for a while, gaining her courage. Mrs Crawley felt a chill run up
the back of her neck and she ran as fast as her heels would let her to the foot of the stairs. Far
away, in the distance, a clock rang 12, its strike echoing into the night. Clutching the prison bar like
banisters, she tottered up into the unknown darkness. The walls reflected the moonlight, giving the
stairs a greenish glow. Although it was now a clear night, there was not a star to be seen in the
midnight sky. It was as if someone had draped an inky cloak over it all. Only the moon glistened
through.
Instead of an eerie glow, the moonlight that shone through into her office was warm and
congratulating. She noticed that the stars had now come out; twinkling like jewels on the midnight
cloak. The cluttered office contained comforting objects of her family and friends, encouraging her
on her quest. Feeling much braver, she confidently strode over to her desk. Ecstatic, she snatched
up her house keys from on top of some papers and clutched them in her hand. Joyfully, she
exclaimed out loud, Ive done it! Ive got my keys! Now I can finally get into my home! The stars
winked back at her.

A Beautiful Poem
Hattie-Rose Barnett
Soft books, Hard books,
Big books, small books,
Short books, looonnnggg books,
Exciting books,
Dull,
Books that make you full,
Of ideas but when youve finished,
All of your ideas disappear!
BIG books , both old and new,

can make you sneeze because of the dust,
Achoooooooo!!!!!!
Who is your favourite

Author?
They might even come from
Yorkshire!
Whoever you are, you all
Love
Books!!!

Jam
Bethan Olliver
Dad had taken all the jam. Again. Id heard him get up extra early and scrape the last few drops out
the bottom of the jar. There were only the crusty remains around the rim left and theyd started to
go green. Thomas didnt care (he preferred cheese anyway), but I wanted jam! Id even hidden it in
that tiny gap at the back of the fridge behind the mango chutney and the out-of-date scotch eggs
but hed still managed to find it. It just wasnt fair! I wouldnt have ham or sausage or cheese or
mayonnaise or tuna or anything! I wanted jam.
I was going to have to have manky school dinners again! Uuugh. The sandwiches tasted like theyd
been thrown in the duck pond. Dont even get me started on the desert. The custard was out of
date and its the really lumpy stuff with skin on. It was served with rice pudding and a sprinkling of
Mrs Rodgers dandruff! If you were really lucky and you were first in line, you might have got some
jam on the side I was NEVER first. By the time I got served there was hardly anything left. Some
people would take that as a blessing. I didnt. Food equalled life; even if it was revolting.
Jams not my favourite food anymore. Its the reason Im stuck here, in the afterlife. Its all because
of jam. At least, I thought it was.
You see, I was out on a morning stroll, dreaming of jam, when I saw a half-eaten jam sandwich
outside my house. It was summer, my favourite season, so there were often bits of food left around
the place. However, Id never seen a jam sandwich left unattended. The sweet, delicious filling
oozing out between two slices of white bread- I couldnt resist! It looked a bit different; it had what
looked like a dusting of snow: strange in mid-summer. It smelled soooo good. So, after checking
no one was around, I dug in.
It was about an hour later when my breathing went a bit funny, all wheezy like an old person. I
guess I didnt take much notice at first but as time passed it got worse and worse. Then, all of a
sudden, I couldnt breathe. It was like all of the air had been sucked out of me. I started coughing. I
collapsed onto the floor, drenched in sweat, trying to scream for help but no sound came out. Multi-
coloured stars popped in front of my eyes; everything went blurry. I bashed my fists on the floor,
using up all my remaining strength. The last thing I saw was a drop of rich red intoxicating jam and
then everything went black.
So thats how I died. I thought it was jam, until my uncle told me what that white stuff on the
sandwich was. Wasp killer- typical. Didnt bother me much; it seems to be how most of us wasps
die these days.

Wishbone
Sioned Gill
The guilty ruby lipstick you leave in a smudge
Those loaded looks, I know will misjudge
Lying underneath your faltering smirks
A soul dark, shadowy in nature lurks
Holding a childish, rose tinted grudge
My argument could never ever budge
I, nicely mannered, poorly paid clerk
You, vain pitiful rugby playing jerk
And how ever could I not adore

Your eyes would soften but ignore
A flicker of blue is all I ask for
Afar from my solemn shattering shore
Dreams filling the slowly dying, darken night air

Stripping my mind from all but you - wholly bare
I resist at first, a sparking flare
My silken skin betraying me, that I swear
The goose bumps stay, unable to bear
The ache of unreturned, I now wear
Stained still, with your power, so rare
A link, too fragile to ever share
The fingertips I have now, trembling touch

Yet still I pine for you so much.
Love stays, wholly joined with the ever young

Songs of joyous courage and happiness were sung
The inches upon your frame, you couldve grown
My eyes dart swiftly past the dulling grey stone
Unlike the coiled rope from which you swung
The bitter words, even now still sting my tongue
Holding you, safe in that old wishbone
Your feelings remain, aching unknown.

Belchy and the Time Machine
Zoe Belgian
May 12th, 4987
Dear diary,
I feel really old writing in a diary, nowadays people just use their robotic writing machines and
special high tech paper to write in a diary or for math and stuff.
Anyway, school today was the worst! Brooke (the most ugly and meanest girl that ever existed)
threw my special pink computerized pen across the classroom and broke it!
I tried to tell the class teacher, who was an Android Robot, and of course I got the same response
all the time when I try to tell off her. Which is Brooke is perfect; she would never do such a thing!
then Brooke gives me a dirty and evil look. I absolutely hate her.
I just wish I could go back in time, to when we actually used to use our hands for writing and when
wheels were on the bottom of cars instead of rocket blasters. And then an amazing idea popped
into my head, why dont I make a time machine?
May 13th ,4987
Dear diary,
Today I asked my robot assistant called SAM, which stands for Super Awesome Machine, if time
travelling is possible and the reply he gave me was Only if you are super smart and if you have
something called the time travelling core you will be able to do it I had no idea what a time
traveling core was.
So I opened my laptop and looked it up. It said it is a tiny piece of metal that had been lost for
50,000 years and has some special chemical that makes going back in time possible.
Then I thought to myself, how am I supposed to find that tiny piece of rubbish if it has been lost for
50,000 years? Exactly. I wont be able to find it so I should make my own I guess.
So I ran into my kitchen and looked in the cupboard where I had found an old robot pancake maker
and an old wet cloth. I searched deeper into the cupboard and saw a tiny piece of tinfoil.
I rolled it into a ball and found some random pieces of old junk in my shed and added it to the little
ball. I had done it! I had made the travelling core!
I had a good look round the shed and managed to find some other bits and bobs for my time
machine!

May 14th 4987
Dear diary,
I had made my time machine and tested it out and everything! I saw those cars that travel on the
surface and everything! I love my time machine and Im never going back to this modern world
again. 2016 is where I feel like I belong. Bye! ;)

Rage
Hillery Phillip
Parents
I blame you for all of this. You knew I know you knew you, my parents, knew what had been
happening to me, to us but you refused to get rid of him. To make him leave. To stop him, but he
was dependent on you, he was your black sheep and you had to protect him. As he did it to us we
lost our childhoods. The childhood you gifted our other sisters. You gave them the gift of childhood
innocence, and we were robbed of that. Youve created an illusion of an idyllic paradise. I dont think
anyone, suspects the darkness that lies behind our familys faade. Trust me, I hadnt planned this.
I hadnt planned for it to go this way, I swear, I thought I would be at home when they finally kicked
in. Honestly, its not my fault you decided to drag me out to one of your parties. I know you blame
me for what happened, never him, never Uncle P; I should not have encouraged him, as you say.
Of course you would, you wouldnt, couldnt blame your rising star Rose, and with Rose in jail you
needed to focus on keeping the others on the straight and narrow, I had already been corrupted.
But you made it very clear to me that her imprisonment was my punishment, my burden to bear.
Whilst at court, my sisters, much to your chagrin, told the court and the prosecutor that I, had been
the closest to him. You made it very clear to Rose that she would have to pay for her lawyer and
bail because you would not give her any money. After the incident you replaced our au pair to stop
her from talking about what had happened, because she was the only one who believed me after
Roses arrest.

The last thing I remember is the glass falling and biting the floor, splintering before I fainted. I
remember, the shards of glass slicing into me before I lost consciousness completely. But, you
dont care about that do you? You got me a therapist because my brokenness slipped into, and
affected my school work. I imagine my little stunt which occurred at one of the biggest parties of
the year, was not well received by you. Mainly because of the embarrassment it caused you. You
wouldnt want your friends to know about the shadows and monsters that lurk behind our closed
doors.

Behind the Walls
Chloe Day
Friday 13th March
I was inside a mansion, not any old mansion a haunted mansion.
I was terrified when I entered the main hall and my mission to lift the curse of the mansion being
haunted began.
In room one I couldnt see anything until I heard footsteps, hissing and flying bat wings
As I turned around, I saw vampires and bats surrounding me in the darkness. I had to finish
the mission so I ran around the room feeling the walls when suddenly I came to a light switch. I
switched it on and pulled garlic bread out of my lunchbox. The vampires were gone.
Room one complete.
Entering room two, again what did I see?

Nothing.
Until I heard a howl and saw a stitch.
Frankensteins and a wolf.

I can handle this.
I ate my chicken leg and fed the bone to the wolf so then it became my dog and helped me fight
the Frankensteins.
Heading towards the next room, I thought about what monster it would be next. When I opened
the door I was suddenly surrounded zombies. I finished quickly all I had to do was lead them to
daylight.
Preparing my dog for the upstairs rooms, room four there were skeletons. I crept up on them and
pulled the neck bone so they could no longer live.
Moving on to room five there was a Boogeymonster.

How could I fight it?
I checked the other rooms I found bones to keep my dog away and a sword to fight the
Boogeymonster.
Yes! I thought. I went and fought and won.
I got medals and trophies, flowers and weapons. I was proud I completed the mission. I ended up
rich and powerful.
THE END
Title
Name
We hope you enjoyed Issue 9 of Write On! Magazine.

Look out for a new look magazine in summer 2016.
The deadline for Issue 10 is Friday 3 June, 2016.

Please see www.writeonmagazine.org/get-involved/
to find out how to submit your writing.
52 Write On! Magazine Issue 9 Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 52

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More information about us can be found on our website: www.writingwestmidlands.org

Writing West Midlands - Company Registration Number: 6264124.

2 Write On! Magazine Issue 89

Denial New Light

7 Photographs are Amazing Basketball Shirts

The Passing of Lenore Fay The Perfect Cake

Words and Sounds and Gibberish 28 After Dark

10 Tim Peake Recount Words

11 The Moonlight Maiden Limbo Land

I Could See Again Books

13 A Friendly Clown Pancakes Perspective

15 The Frost 35 Ruff Rivers

Flightless Bird 37 Thanatophobia

17 Caf Bonne Biere 39 Wildlife

Proud Bird Surviving Syria

19 Come On...Bazza 41 Not Quite

20 Boys and Girls 42 The Revenge

21 Shadows 43 Paradise Bay

The Tunnel Mrs Crawleys Keys

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 3

Belchy and the Time Machine

4 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

I thought he might be crazy,

They just use their technology all the time,

Whats up with them, those silly old people?

The point I am just TRYING to make,

I know whats wrong now,

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 5

6 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 7

A flock of strange faces gather,

A word of condolence uttered by a forgotten friend.

The whispers fade as does the light.

The sound of silence broken by a bell.

The church doors open.

A man in black takes her hand and she is delivered

The last scripture is uttered

8 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 9

We were literally in another world, thoughts of earth 240,000 miles away.

10 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

Her home is forever the

She keeps safe the ones

And holds the blue moon

The moonlight maiden,

The fairest of them all,

And along her pearls,

her moonlight shawl.

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 11

12 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 13

How am I here? What am I? What?

14 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

It lured me in. It trapped me.

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 15

16 Write On! Magazine Issue 9

My beacon of hope, La Tour Eiffel.

But nobody was there.

Dead like my hearing. I sat down, crying, in the deafening silence.

Issue 9 Write On! Magazine 17

Silence! yelled the keeper of the winds. I demand a rematch!

18 Write On! Magazine Issue 9