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Published July 2021

This anthology is a collection of fiction and non-fiction.

Within the works of fiction, names, places, and incidents are either products

of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright in all cases remains with the author of the work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

by any means without the prior written permission of the writer of the work or of

the school.

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Contents Foreword ........................................................................................................... 5

Again by Lucia Browne ..................................................................................... 6

Is Don John entirely to blame for everything? by Harry Holmes ........................ 7

Cat by Hannah Ward ......................................................................................... 9

An Empty Sky by Elanor Rooney .................................................................... 10

Bazyl by Piotr Tomczak .................................................................................. 13

The Modern Frankenstein by Olivia Morris ..................................................... 14

Mr Hyde and Freud’s Theory of Personality Development by Leonie Robson . 15

Inspired by Macbeth – Ellis Stint and Alfie Leahy ........................................... 16

I have never watched Star Wars by Callum Hawkins ....................................... 17

I Remember… by Martha Warde ..................................................................... 18

Holmium Atoms Poster by Jessica Gillingham ................................................ 19

All I’ll Ever Know by Leanne Jeffries ............................................................. 20

Detective on the Case by Leonie Robson ......................................................... 22

Dobby by Rosie Dethridge .............................................................................. 25

The Last… by Lily Holden .............................................................................. 26

If I Die in a War Zone by Tom Neish .............................................................. 27

Madison’s Story (excerpt) by Olivia Morris..................................................... 28

Various Pieces by Charlotte Stevens ................................................................ 30

What Is Hiding Behind Donald Trump’s Fake Tan? By Leonie Robson........... 32

Dawn of the Day by Rachel Holland................................................................ 34

An Arrangement of Miracles in December by Bethany Meredith ..................... 35

Escape by Carys Williams ............................................................................... 36

Crochet by Kalila Newark ............................................................................... 38

A Poem in the Style of Blake by Ellie Hawkins ............................................... 40

Inspired by The Haunted Hotel by Holly Torrens ............................................ 42

The Peococke by Lucy Atkins (inspired by The Tyger) ................................... 43

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Superhero City Perspective Task by Jessica Gillingham .................................. 44

The Warbling Wacko Widgeon by Lily Holden ............................................... 45

Et Tu Schofield? By Callum Hawkins ............................................................. 46

Eye by Lily Alston .......................................................................................... 48

The Scarecrow by Liam McLarnon ................................................................. 49

The Spinosaurus by Harry Holmes .................................................................. 51

Pro Create Works by Samara Slatter ................................................................ 52

The Spinning House by Elanor Rooney ........................................................... 54

Frog – Charima Ungerer .................................................................................. 55

Roll of Achievements ...................................................................................... 56

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Foreword

When I edited the first lockdown anthology back in July 2020, I had no idea

that our lives would continue to be so badly affected by COVID-19 for the next

twelve months. I had no idea that I wouldn’t teach in my regular classroom for

the whole year. I had no idea we’d lose almost another entire term of face-to-

face classroom teaching.

What I could have predicted, though, is the reaction of our pupils. In the face

of challenges never seen before (I’m not saying unprecedented… its overuse has

relegated it to the realm of cliché), our pupils have largely coped so well. In

school they have been dedicated to their studies and as inquisitive and

determined as ever. When at home, they’ve adapted to the use of technology and

found new ways to engage. Outside of school hours, with normal routines

disturbed, they’ve picked up new hobbies, and improved their skills in a range of

different areas. I could not be prouder of the efforts of students at Cottenham

Village College this year. So when I say, I could have predicted the reaction of

our pupils, I mean that I knew they were a resilient bunch, and I had faith that

they could work hard in the face of adversity. Perhaps what I had not expected

was the range of talents that I have discovered our students have!

This year, I’ve opened the anthology up beyond writing to include a range of

other arts and crafts. If you enjoy what you read and what you see here, this is

only the tip of the iceberg of what our young people are capable of.

Parents and carers, I thank you for your continued efforts. Thank you for

creating and maintaining environments that allowed pupils to study at home.

Thank you for giving the opportunities to try out a range of other activities to

keep everyone occupied and stimulated.

Pupils of Cottenham Village College, well done. You have been amazing this

year. Overcoming this adversity and showing so much resilience will help set

you up to go on to achieve all sorts of amazing feats.

Have a great summer,

Mr Langley

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Again by Lucia Browne

I cannot wait to be at the beach again,

To feel the cold wild waves splash against me.

To know the weather is not always rain,

To feel the soft sand between my toes.

I cannot wait for the sun in my face,

To smell the bitter sea salt in the air,

To compete against the tide in a race,

To then get wiped out by the rolling waves.

I cannot wait for my hair to go wavy,

To make late nights into early mornings,

To wake up to see the sheet of navy,

To watch the sun escape and disappear.

I cannot wait to be free in the waves,

To then escape the everlasting days,

To capture the moments I will save,

To desperately hope I come back again.

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Is Don John entirely to blame for everything? by Harry

Holmes

Your Honour, I present Don John, half brother of Don Pedro, Prince of

Aragon. The prince, having come to Messina, with his soldiers, brought Don

John and his right-hand men, Borachio and Conrade, with him. After

causing bits of mischief here and there, he fled after his greatest plan had failed.

Don Pedro sent men, after the double wedding of Claudio and Hero and

Benedick and Beatrice, to find him. So, let the trial begin!

I introduce the acts of Don John on this scroll, in the hand of Leonato, ruler of

Messina, under Don Pedro’s supervision and word. The first act we shall look at

will be his mischief at the masked ball. Him, Conrade and Borachio, all

masked, attempted to ruin the strong relationship between Claudio and Hero.

Don John walked up to a random person, asked if they were Benedick and the

person said yes. It was in fact Claudio and he heard the whole speech of Don

John. Claudio was told by Don John that Don Pedro, who was winning Hero for

Claudio, was wooing Hero for himself. Claudio, filled with jealousy, walked

solemnly up to Don Pedro, who was waiting with Hero and Beatrice. Don

Pedro told the count that he had won Hero for him and Claudio was

suddenly happy again. Seeing that Don John’s plan had failed, I see this man so

far as innocent, only guilty when proved that a plan worked.

The second act was a joint effort by not only Don John but including

Borachio and Conrade. I bring them forward now! As I explain this, listen

carefully as it is a lot to take in! As his first scheme hadn’t worked, he had to try

another. This time, I see him as innocent as Borachio here was the one who

hatched the plan. However, this plan involved Margaret! Boys bring her in! This

scheme was a very smart one, I’ll give them that. Margaret here was with

Borachio in Hero’s chamber and was told to answer by the name of Hero. Don

John, however, went to fetch Claudio and Don Pedro. Once fetched, the prince

and his soldier listened as the voices of Margaret and Borachio filled their ears.

The plan was designed to make it sound like Hero was unfaithful and it

worked!

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Before I get to the details of what happened, I would like to say that Conrade

is cleared of all charges. Bang the gavel, judge. Bang the gavel.

Now as I was saying, the next day, the wedding day of Claudio and Hero, the

plan was in its final phase. As the friar started to read the book, Claudio started

to look more and more sour. As he got to the part when you are supposed

to say “I do”, Claudio snapped a solid “No” and Hero burst into tears. That was

a plan well done, I have got to congratulate Borachio for thinking of that

masterpiece. Now as this is the final piece, I will leave the gavel banging to you,

Your Honour. Farewell Don John, Goodbye Borachio. Until next time Margaret.

See you later Conrade…. Oh, wait come with me Conrade. You are free to

go! Well thank you for listening judge and I’ll leave you to deal with these

three. Cheerio!’

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Cat by Hannah Ward

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An Empty Sky by Elanor Rooney

I ran across the forest floor, a large smile on my face. The large carpet of

emerald grass hugging the vast floor still dripped with pearly beads of morning

dew and tickled my bare feet. I wove in and out of the tall trees that stretched up

to the sky. With an effort, I skidded to a halt, my feet sliding slightly on the

dewy grass and looked up to the sky, a small frown appearing on my face. It was

very blank and white. I thought it was just cloudy, but I’d never seen clouds so

purely pale, not even before it snowed three inches in the village. The weather

was oddly still too. It was not hot. It was not cold. There was no wind, not even

the slightest hint of a breeze. A bird gave a loud, chirruping call, making me

jump. Shaking my head, I kept on running through the forest, all thoughts of the

mysteriously blank sky.

A few minutes later, I came to a stop again. I’d reached a tall fir tree with

rough bark. Fingering the trunk, I felt the tree’s rough armour. The dark brown

bark was rugged and cracked but formed swirling patterns if you looked closely.

I ran ahead, counting the trees straight in front of the fir tree with the swirling

bark.

One, two, three, four. I leapt over small crystal puddles and balanced along

fallen tree branches.

Five, six, seven eight. My running feet kicked the auburn leaves that

remained from autumn.

Nine, ten, ELEVEN! For the third time that day, I came to a halt beside a

large tree. This was my favourite tree. Its branches stuck out all the way up its

large, sturdy trunk. I grasped the lowest branch, put my feet against the trunk

and began to climb the tree.

When I reached the top, I sat down on the sturdiest branch. This tree gave the

best view. Treetops stretched out all around me, leaves of every different shade

of green. I wish the forest would go on for miles and miles, but industry was

catching up with the magical forest. You could see the tops of buildings much

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taller than the forest trees and cranes working tirelessly. I shook my head and my

flaming orange hair whipped around my face. No-one ever understood the true

beauty of the forest anymore. They were disappearing faster than I could count.

Thank goodness they hadn’t reached my forest. Yet.

After climbing down, I took off running through the forest again. I wasn’t

exactly sure which way I was going, but I never got lost in the forest. No matter

how deep I went into it, I could always find my way back. The forest was like

my second home.

Finally, I decided to stop in a glade which was pure magic. Mossy boulders

were gathered in one corner and delicate crocuses sprouted from the floor like

curious children, tilting their heads and whispering in their own rustling tongue.

Best of all, a small waterfall trickled down into a circular pool that shone and

sparkled like a single diamond in a pitch-black cave. Exhausted from all the

running I’d done, I lay down on the clearing floor. I felt the slightly damp grass

on my back and breathed in the fresh moist air. It smelled of the sweet blossoms

blooming from the trees, and the pine needles from the coniferous branches.

Closing my eyes, I felt like I was home.

I sat bolt upright, breathing in the fragrant forest air. I had not meant to fall

asleep. I wondered how long I'd been asleep. It surely was night-time. I’d arrived

in the forest in the early evening and had clearly slept a while. But something

was wrong. The sky looked just as blank and pure white as it had done when I’d

first arrived. It wasn’t even dark. Looking around the glade, I spotted something

lying on the floor. As I approached it, I discovered it to be a cloak. It was made

of midnight-blue velvet with tiny diamonds scattered across it. A large diamond

was in the centre of it, a shadow falling across it, so it was in a thin, crescent

shape, rather like yesterday's moon, only slightly thinner. The inside lining was

silken and blue, with very realistic clouds and a sun patterned on it. As I picked

the cloak, a large golden pocket watch fell out. It was unlike any other watch I’d

seen. Around the edge of the face were tiny pictures. A sun, a raincloud, a

normal cloud, wind, snow, a rainbow and a storm cloud. One of the two ornate

hands was pointing at the sun, the other at the wind. Frowning, I looked up at the

sky.

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The sun was not shining. A wind was not blowing. The sky was completely

blank.

I shook out the cape and even though there was no breeze, the rustling of the

cloak seemed to whisper my name. Erika... Erika... Frowning, I whisked the

cloak around and put it around my shoulders. It sat on my shoulders like a

guardian angel. I did up the detailed clasped which was engraved with a symbol

of a cloud a sun poking out one side, a moon the other.

The second I put the cloak on, I heard a loud whoosh and felt myself shooting

upwards. I felt like something had gone through me, like I’d just passed through

a cool sheet of water, though I remained dry. Suddenly I landed, the cloak

around my shoulders, standing on something that felt and looked like cloud.

Shocked and confused, my eyelids began to flutter shut. I fainted on the spot.

“Erika....Erika...” My eyes slowly opened. I was in the same spot I’d been in

before I’d fainted. This was not exactly good news to me. I had hoped I’d been

dreaming. Someone stood above me, whispering my name. “Erika... Erika, you

must save us... You must save us all...”

She was beautiful, with the darkest brown skin and green eyes that shone

emeralds. Her moonbeam white hair flowed in the breeze, a waterfall that

swished past her shoulders. She wore sleek dress that glittered as green as her

eyes. Something was fluttering behind her, something like wings, delicate and

patterned like a dragonfly’s. Before I could talk to her, before I could even make

a sound, she began to flicker like a faulty hologram until she had completely

disappeared. I sat up but there was no point. The mysterious girl had vanished

and I might never know who she was or how she had come to me...

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Bazyl by Piotr Tomczak

During lockdown, Piotr has been helping look after his puppy, Bazyl. He took

this awesome photograph too.

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The Modern Frankenstein by Olivia Morris

I looked down, tears stinging my eyes. I felt like I had been shot through the

heart, with only mere minutes of life left. I held her close, my sorrow crashing

down over me, an enormous wave swallowing me whole. As I dragged her back

all I could hear was that blood-curdling scream.

The next morning, I rushed downstairs hoping to realise it was only a dream,

to see her, arms open wide, and feel her hug me and say that she loved me. But

there was no hug, no ‘good morning’ and no mother. The attack had been swift,

and lethal. I could see them now, fierce, monstrous wolves bigger than me. I

could see them pounce, delivering that deadly blow. Down in the basement she

laid, blank, expressionless, eyes and limp, lifeless, limbs. I looked down at her,

guilt stabbing my side, if I hadn’t ... no. It didn’t matter now. I vowed then and

there, to bring her back by any means necessary.

I spent months isolated from the rest of the town and devoted my time to

mother. She had some shredded limbs to be replaced, and as I didn’t have the

heart to dig up innocent graves, I used the wolf’s ears, hind legs and some facial

features. I tried everything I could to bring her back, but all my efforts were in

vain. Until one night, I discovered the cause of all the problems. A part of

mother’s heart had been damaged in the attack. Carefully, I removed the

imperfect section, and replaced it with part of the wolf’s heart. If I could go back

in time, then I would have stopped myself, but what is done cannot be

undone. All I needed then, was a spark. I stared at the crackling jar behind me, in

which had been stored a bolt of lightning. Hands trembling, I shocked the

heart. I held my breath, there was silence. And then, I heard a noise, the heart

was beating! She sat up and opened her eyes, her mouth stretched into

a malevolent smile. I gasped. The eyes were of a dull yellow and had slits for

pupils. Her mouth had teeth like swords. It was at that moment I realised what I

had done, what a horrible mistake I had made.

The monster I had once hoped to call ‘mother’ grabbed my arm; her claws

were sharp as needles. I cried out as they dug into my skin. She pushed me aside

and ran, fast as a bullet up into the rest of the house. I paled and felt slightly sick.

What had I done?

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Mr Hyde and Freud’s Theory of Personality Development

by Leonie Robson

When learning about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, we were shown Freud’s

principle of the three components of personality: Id, Ego and Superego. We

were then given Mr Hyde, Mr Utterson and Dr Lanyon as representatives of

each type of personality in that order. We also looked closely at the devolved

representation of Mr Hyde, supposedly playing into Victorian fear of Darwin’s

Theory of Evolution.

What if we took Freud’s theory of Id a little bit further?

In Freud’s theory of personality development, he states that starting from

birth, children go through different periods, fixating on different ideas and body

areas, until they learn important qualities such as productivity and resolve

conflicts within those fixations. He also talks about how the different

components of the personality develop and when. Id supposedly dominates in

the early years as we use our mouths to explore and learn independence. In the

first year of our life, children have no restraint or idea of morality as the

Superego has yet to form. This stage is also important in learning to trust others.

However, Freud theorizes that if a person fails to resolve these periods of

development, it can cause issues later in adult life. He believed that these adults

would suffer from issues with aggression and dependency.

Dr Jekyll admits to having suffered from severe repression in his younger

years. He blames it for his lack of restraint at the time of Mr Hyde’s appearance.

This would conform to Freud’s theory. Mr Hyde–Dr Jekyll’s physical

representation of his repressed desires–perfectly displays samples of an

explosive, unreasonable anger and an inability to trust.

These ideas also carry the theme of degeneration within Mr Hyde. Using

Freud’s theory of personality development, Hyde represents not only Id, but the

child in Jekyll, that he failed to grow away from.

Taking all this into account, it would be reasonable to assume that Mr Hyde is

a result of Dr Jekyll failing to learn restraint from his Id and balance it with Ego

and Superego as a child. It allowed him to become consumed later on as he gave

in to his supressed desires.

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Inspired by Macbeth – Ellis Stint and Alfie Leahy

Inspired by Macbeth, Ellis Stint (top) and Alfie Leahy (bottom) have created

these two models of the witches around their cauldron.

Well done! Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and caldron bubble.

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I have never watched Star Wars by Callum Hawkins

I have never

Watched Star Wars.

When people find out

The reaction is

Much more entertaining

Than any film I’ve seen.

(Read from bottom up for Yoda version)

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I Remember… by Martha Warde

I remember that the grass was green beneath my bare feet that day. There was

some sort of flower in that field as well, maybe daisies, because I remember I

was searching for more of them to make a crown–in that case, they must have

been daisies–which was why I didn’t see it sooner. A patch came into my sight

and I launched myself at it. I remember the pain in my elbows as they hit the

ground. Even in my haste to pluck as many as I could for my design, I was

searching for more. I must have been excited. The next thing I can remember is

the sudden drop in my stomach and the fear that still haunts my nightmares all

these years later.

The actual body is blurred in my memory, something the therapist my mother

insisted on me seeing said was normal. ‘Little girls shouldn’t see blood,’ was my

mother’s mantra from then until her death. I guess there was blood; the image of

my small hands covered in viscous scarlet is another memory that stuck in my

head. I might have started screaming then–when I want to appear tough, I’m

adamant it was later–but I don’t know how long I stood in morbid silence.

That memory was the first of a body, a collection that still builds to this day,

maybe I’ve seen ten, or it could be fifteen or even thousands for the dulled effect

that glassy eyes and a trail of blood has on me now. That is the memory that I

reach for when I want to feel human around bodies, it helps to stop people from

whispering “psychotic” and “strange” under their breath.

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Holmium Atoms Poster by Jessica Gillingham

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All I’ll Ever Know by Leanne Jeffries

Why am I smiling

Even though I feel like crying?

Why do I keep appearing

Even though I feel like hiding?

Why is my heart still beating

Even though I feel like dying?

Why do I feel so lost

In a place I’m supposed to call home?

Why do I feel so broken

When I can see I’m clearly whole?

Why do I feel so empty

Yet I’m filled with blood and bones?

Why don’t they like me?

They pretend I’m not there.

Why don’t they stay with me?

They don’t even care.

Why don’t they love me?

They say I’m too much to bear.

I’m crying

And they don’t even know.

I’m hiding

And they don’t even know.

I’m dying

And they don’t even know.

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They know happiness.

But I don’t.

They know friendship.

But I don’t.

They know family.

But I don’t.

The one thing they don’t know

Is the pain,

The pain that I guess

Is all I'll ever know.

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Detective on the Case by Leonie Robson

Colour fills my vision. A startling scarlet splattered over the finery of the

room. It pools around a man, a startling pallor overcoming his face. I cannot tell

whether I put it on him with excitement, or whether his ghostly appearance

would be apparent to anyone.

Either way, the taste of death in the air is intoxicating. A presence so intense,

it consumes my mind in a haze of ecstasy. I dip my finger into the pool, ripples

chased away as I pull back. I inhale the scent desperately, the blood a gateway

drug. I am high on life as I brush the edges of the ruffles on my shirt with red:

the most beautiful addition to my accessories.

Lost in reverie, I nearly miss the shouting and stomping of feet behind me. I

jump, startled, nearly knocking my hat off my head. I push the bubbling panic

back, taking one last look at the deceased before planting a limp purple butterfly

on his forehead.

I rush away without hesitation, just as an echo of breaking wood echoes

through the hallway. Momentarily, I am bounding over the rooves, my blazer

flapping, a cape in the artificial wind.

Later, I’m flopped over my chair, a cigarette hanging limply over my

protruding lip. My clothes remain as they were, albeit a little more crumpled, a

ghostly reminder of my adventure.

My cigarette is knocked from my mouth by the harsh sound of a ringing

phone. I crunch it into the carpet with my heel, heading toward the pale phone.

“Miss Stephenson, we have a murder on 6th street, you’re the detective on

case,” an isolated voice hails me.

I smirk. I can’t wait for them to see my newly accessorized shirt.

It takes me less than ten minutes to make my way there, but I still have to

push my way through to the tape. I show my badge and a slim man in blue

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escorts me onto the scene. In the rising sunlight, the tall building is not enough

to hide the carnage of the grounds. I take a breath before I force myself to slowly

survey the mess.

Splinters cover the ground, soaking up the blood of dog carcasses, heads all

rolling separately from the body. I’ve seen it all before, but the blood seems to

glisten with a new light and the dead eyes of the dogs are watching me with

every step. I know the answers, but I pause and take care to run my eyes over

every new detail once more just in case I missed something. Just in case

someone is watching.

I was right to do so, as soon as I rise from my crouch next to the third carcass,

I am interrupted by a man. He holds a notepad in front of him, glancing between

my face and the words upon it. He rubs his stubble as he says my name. I

recognize him as one of the many junior police roaming the town; I remember

his stubble, broad shoulders and particularly the ring on his finger. His wife

works in the grocery on the other side of town. He has no children.

“Were there any witnesses?” I ask, although I know there weren’t.

“No, only the anonymous caller the neighbours were asleep,” he says

frowning.

“Anonymous caller? Send the recording to me,” I say, eyebrows risen as my

mind reels. Someone had seen me. I bite my cheek, forcing myself to calm the

anger inside my chest at my carelessness. I turn away from the man and walk

towards the door, breathing in the scent of blood as I rest my eyes on the maid

slumped against the wall. Stepping over the debris from the broken door, I

crouch next to her, bringing my face close enough to hers, that if air moved from

her parted lips, I would see it. Close enough that if I whispered in her ear, no one

else would hear it. Close enough to be alone.

A crunch outside startles me, the authorities packing up the evidence

reminding me that I am not alone. I stand slowly, keeping presence of mind and

fighting the urge to touch the blood leaking from her neck. My left-hand

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twitches at my side, the other clenched into a fist, my gloved nails biting into my

palm. I walk up the stairs.

Another half hour passes, as I stare again at each corpse, blood bubbling at

each of their neck, barely cold. Finally, I find myself once again at the top floor.

Another woman is bustling around the room, photographing the limp man. I

stare at his face, at eyes I closed, at the head I put back on the neck, at the dead,

purple butterfly I placed on his forehead. I feel strangely empty as I stare at the

room I was in less than half a day ago. I look towards the opened window,

remembering the abrupt interruption of my hunt. I smirk. The dark brown

staining on my shirt’s ruffles is truly striking.

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Dobby by Rosie Dethridge

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The Last… by Lily Holden

The raindrops had plastered his cheap raincoat to his skin and his flimsy mud-

covered hiking boots were obviously ruined, but he had to know if it was true.

Despite the torrential rain his flask had barely a drop of water left and having

eaten his last cereal bar hours ago his stomach was grumbling, but he had to

push on to know if the rumours were true and then he would prove them wrong;

he could prove them all wrong. He pushed on through the darkness. He had to

keep going; he had to.

The trees warned him, whispered and told him to go no further, but he

couldn’t hear them; he had been transfixed. He had seen it there: it was a spindly

crooked chimney spewing smoke. He had found it!

Now sprinting faster, pushing aside the plants until there, there it was. He

approached the door staggering, breathless, but he was here. He had found it.

He pushed the door and with a creak it swung open. Suddenly he was

swarmed with smells of burning wood and a sweet, welcoming but

indistinguishable aroma. This felt familiar. Even the missing floorboards and

sense of uncertainty felt familiar. He knew this was where he was meant to be,

knew this is where it was.

Venturing further, the sound of crackling logs and the glowing light were

closer now so close. He entered the room. A shadowed armchair faced him.

Someone was there. He knew it, but before he could muster a breath to speak, he

fell to his knees choking and all he could gasp was “the rumours they were... I

knew it was all...”

A loud cackle rose from the chair and a malicious smile shone in the fire’s

light. “Of course they were,” said the shadow with a mocking snarl. “I do have

the last roll of toilet paper…”

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If I Die in a War Zone by Tom Neish

If I die in a war zone,

box me up and send me home.

Put my medals on my chest,

tell my mom I did my best.

Tell my dad not to bow,

he needn’t worry for me now.

Tell my brother to study perfectly,

the key from my bike is his permanently.

Tell my sister to not be upset,

her bro will take a long sleep after sunset.

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Madison’s Story (excerpt) by Olivia Morris

Chapter 1:

The clouds erupted with heavy droplets of rain, thunder rumbling, lightning

flashing. Madison ran home, arms over her head, soaked to the bone. Finally,

she reached her block of apartments, but was horrified with what she saw. The

building was ablaze, screams coming from inside.

“No, no, no! Mum! Dad!” Madison cried pouring her water bottle all over her

handkerchief and holding it over her mouth. Valiantly, she ran into the flames.

Every person she met ran past her screaming, “Madison you must leave!”

“I can’t, my parents are still up there!”

“This building is coming down! Don’t go up there. There’s no point, your

parents...... your parents are dead.” shouted the maid named Maria. She was the

one who cleaned her flat. “I saw their bodies in the wreckage. Come with me.”

Madison felt sick, faint, all kinds of messed up emotions. Then suddenly she

couldn't take it anymore, swaying slowly she said “I...I..” but before Madison

could say another word, everything went black.

Madison woke up in a dirty room she didn’t recognize, she was lying on a

mattress which felt as hard as rock, covered with a paper-thin blanket which was

ragged and had holes in it. Her schoolbag was at the foot of the so called ‘bed’.

Madison made a grab for it and searched longingly for something she knew was

in there. At last, she pulled out a locket, a present from her birthday, which had

been only two weeks before her parents’ death. It had a picture of them all, arms

around each other. Madison closed the locket and put it round her neck, vowing

that she would never take it off. “Hello, is anyone there?” she called timidly.

A kindly looking woman entered the room and said, “Hello Madison, my

name is Anne, I run the orphanage.”

“This is the orphanage?”

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“Yes, I hope you are at home here and I apologize for the conditions. We

have no other blankets; the staff will find you another somewhere.” Madison

was shocked. She was an orphan. “You will go to the public school, provided

with second-hand uniform.” Madison wasn’t really listening. Anne sounded

muffled, distant.

“May I be alone for a bit?” she interrupted her.

“Yes Madison of course,” Anne replied calmly. “I understand this will take

some getting used to.” and with that, she left the room smiling in that horrible

way a person smiled, when they felt sorry for you.

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Various Pieces by Charlotte Stevens

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32

What Is Hiding Behind Donald Trump’s Fake Tan? By

Leonie Robson

Trump is a major influence in the modern world, having just been evicted

from the American Presidency. He is the butt of many jokes and the source of

much attention. Even before his dismissal, his controversial opinions and

tendencies brought a lot of negative attention and roused the strong opinions of

many critics. This in turn, roused his supporters into frenzies in his defence.

So, what drives this disagreeable man? What moulded the young boy into the

hard-nosed businessman we see before us?

Born into the wealthy family of a New York real estate tycoon, he didn’t ever

experience the wide variety of the hardships he almost seemed to encourage as

President. Poverty skipped over his door and discrimination gave him a wide

berth. This doesn’t mean he lacked any hardships in his youth. In fact, his

brother died at the age of forty-three due to alcoholism. This had a profound

effect on Trump, causing him to reject drugs and alcohol completely so that he

would never fall like his brother. This also notably plays a major part in Trump’s

aggressive ambition as he has striven to live a better life and leave a better

legacy.

This wasn’t the only take-away from his family. The similarities between

Donald and his father are striking. Not only did he take on his business ventures,

but also his racism. Fred Trump discriminated against people of colour in his

business ventures and even went as far as to take part in a Ku Klux Klan

gathering. So, when Donald first introduced his ambitions of physically

separating Mexico from the US, it’s obvious where his racist ideals originated.

Trump’s father was a major success in real estate, using secrets and dirty

tricks to take his business to the top. He even hid his ancestry to persuade people

to work with him. However, it can’t be denied that he was an excellent

entrepreneur (starting his work at thirteen); he took advantage of situations

superbly. His frugality and natural skill made him a formidable opponent in the

industry. Donald may not be the man his father was, but he learnt the tricks of

the trade well.

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Yet rather than putting all his efforts into the company he inherited, he

divided his attention. His ambition took a step further, into politics, leading him

to become the US President for four years. His presidential announcement

speech tells us a lot about his motivations. He bursts into accusations against

China among other countries, condemns leaders for their inadequacy and

constantly talks about his experiences. His ego, racism and lack of agreeableness

seem to be hiding a great deal of anger. From this we can infer, his motivation

for wanting to lead people is not to work with society, but to fight it, to take his

believed superiority and condemn undeserving people with it.

Hiding behind Trump’s fake tan and accusations is unrelenting anger and a

fear of letting the flaws in society drag him down. He is desperate to avoid the

fate of his brother and strives to be better than his father, whom he idolises.

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Dawn of the Day by Rachel Holland

My footsteps echoed along the street,

Only me and the sun to meet.

The wind blew cold on the east,

In all the darkness the sun was there at least.

The beams of warm light became bright,

The sun had risen and there’s no more night.

Where have you been? I ask once again,

But its reply was its light yellow stain.

The stars had now faded away with the moon,

I know they came again very soon.

The street candles were waiting to be out,

But no noise, not even a child’s shout.

The fire red and a sandy yellow,

I finally heard a silent bellow.

The shimmering currents of purple and blue,

I wish I had those beautiful colours too.

The factories of smoke started its shift,

The dark mist then began to lift.

Every house then seemed awake and I can say,

the only focus of mine was the dawn of day.

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An Arrangement of Miracles in December by Bethany

Meredith

During lockdown, I listened to a lot of music and decided I wanted to learn to

play some of the songs I liked on the piano. I looked for piano arrangements

online but either they were too expensive to download, too hard, or they weren’t

very good. I therefore decided to write my own arrangements using Musescore,

basing it on the arrangements I had found. My favourite arrangement is the one I

did over Christmas - Miracles in December by EXO. I was inspired by the

beautiful harmony created by three of the members and the dramatic bridge

section. Even though it isn’t Christmas anymore I still enjoy playing the song.

Bethany sent me the whole arrangement. I’ve only included the first part

here. Also, Bethany shared a recording of her playing the piece, and it’s great.

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Escape by Carys Williams

This is the moment I have been waiting for: my chance to get revenge has

arrived and I am ready. My hands are steady, my breaths are regular and not a

shred of guilt is threatening to enter my system.

Throughout my years of waiting, I thought I would feel something, whether it

be fear or intimidation. I would have thought that seeing her distraught face

would cause me to lower my gun. Instead, the cool, metal shape in my hand is

directed ruthlessly at her heart.

“I don’t blame you,” she says, her voice echoing through the dimly lit room.

“What?” I ask her as she returns to her silent state.

“I don’t blame you,” she says again, “I would want to kill me too but I

wouldn’t follow through.”

“That’s because you’re weak.”

“No. It’s because I would want to prove to the person who hurt me that I am

stronger than them.”

Even now, as I hold a gun to her, she wants me to feel like the coward. “I am

stronger than you,” I say while I glare into her eyes. “Any more words of

criticism or can I shoot you now?”

“I’m done, fire away.”

I am ready to pull the trigger. Right? I just can’t shake this feeling like I am

missing something. “Why are you so confident, are you really that willing to

die?”

“No, but I’m not going to die.”

“You seriously think that I am going to let you live after you tore my family

apart?” Anger rises inside me now. “You seriously think I won’t shoot you?”

“Oh, I know you’ll shoot me. I know you better than anyone, remember? It

isn’t going to make a difference though. It doesn’t matter how many bullets you

fire, you’ll never be able to kill me.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

She lowers her voice so her next words come out in a deathly whisper. “This

isn’t real.”

I don’t understand. Is she serious? “What do you mean?”

“Take a look around you.” I look. “What do you see?”

I think she is serious. Wow. Okay…so how do I respond to that? I stare.

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She rolls her eyes. “Okay. I guess I’ll tell you. Everything here is by your

design.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“I thought you knew me.”

“What’s your favourite colour!”

“Okay, okay. Red.”

“What colour are these walls? Which makes you feel safer: day or night?”

“Night.”

“Look out the window, what do you see? You’re interested in interior design.

What is one design you have always wanted to try?”

“Corridors down the side of the house with windows to the outside.”

“Don’t you think where we are standing is a little long to be a sitting room?

Look down at your chest.”

I look down and realise that fastened around me is a stiff bulletproof vest.

I look up at her as she starts to speak again, “Everything here somehow

makes you feel safe.”

“Where are we?”

“Think about it. You watched your house fall at the hands of a fire, a fire that

was caused by my friend. You didn’t even like this guy but I wanted to be nice

and I knew my foster parents wouldn’t let him anywhere near their new carpets

so I took him to your place. So really it was as much my fault as his but that

doesn’t change the fact that you two were the only two that lived!”

“I... what?”

“I. Am. Dead. This is an escape.”

It is all starting to come back now. Somehow being here has allowed me to

open the doors in my mind that were once bolted shut.

“I... um,” I don’t think any words are coming out of my mouth anymore.

“You... er... um. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes. I did. I said that you had escaped but I didn’t mean physically.”

“I escaped?”

“You escaped.”

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Crochet by Kalila Newark

39

40

A Poem in the Style of Blake by Ellie Hawkins

Small drab squirrel, scurried,

Scampered in a hurry

Towards that tantalizing treat.

What had thou greeted?

Careless.

Flourishing, but our wax branches thaw,

So we down oil to numb the sore.

Synthetic sunshine on cerise greenery,

Gulp our fabricated fumes by machinery.

Fully-grown Lamb still tender,

Oh, how thou wished thee could splendour

But the wheel spins on,

And the furnace roars.

Your sinful purity a dishonour,

Hurled

o’er the black and white rainbow.

Small drab squirrel, scurried,

Scampered in a hurry

Towards that tantalizing treat.

Thou fell o’er the rainbow

Where the soft songbirds do not tweet,

but the foxes eat.

In this poem, I have used extended metaphors to refer to us as ‘being nature’,

so what it relies on and what controls its health. I have also used religious ideas

Blake may have included in his poems. Some of the many ideas in each stanza

are:

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In the first and last stanza, I have connected it to the story of Icarus and how

he attempted to become capable of he was not supposed to do, only ending in

failure.

In the second stanza, I have related us to the environment, as if we have

created the new kind nature, but it is not as powerful as the ‘original’.

I use ‘Fully-grown Lamb’ in the first line of the third stanza, implying that the

Lamb lived on to be adult, but was never provided with what was needed to

grow. I capitalize ‘Lamb’ and leave it in its singular form to show it as Christ.

The meaning behind this stanza is to show God, or Jesus as failing their duty,

and letting people get out of hand, with the idea that the natural life they have

created is enough to supply people. ‘Rainbow’ has religious significance, so the

idea of it being ‘black and white’ suggests that religion is dying. I also use the

noun ‘splendour’ as a poetic style, since you cannot do a noun.

The last stanza is repetition of the first but is the outcome of what has

happened and summarises why you shouldn’t try to achieve what is impossible.

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Inspired by The Haunted Hotel by Holly Torrens

Fog was surrounding the castle. No noise was coming from the manor. The

air was dense. It looked like it was about to rain considering the clouds above

the turrets.

Mysteriously, some crows, perched on a conspicuous dead tree, started

cawing. The trees, however, started to sway despite there being no wind. The fog

lifted a little exposing the overgrown garden and the ivy choking the decrepit

building.

The castle was abandoned and eerie–abandoned in that the windows were

boarded shut with planks of wood, eerie in the sense that all the lights were

turned on in the house. Suddenly, rain started to slap the cracked stone steps.

The overgrown shrubs were now wet with rain, glimmering like a freshly

polished knife, as the light from the manor reflected off it. There was something

not right about the property. The clock on one of the turrets struck midnight. The

crows took to the sky cawing trying to escape. Abruptly, the front door to the

castle opened…

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The Peococke by Lucy Atkins (inspired by The Tyger)

Beautiful peacock, how did you become so fair?

With the blues and greens, your pretty colours are everywhere.

In the misty moonlight, your feathers are dead

But in the morning, the fabulous colours are spread.

Your aggressive nature is what makes you strong

Is that true? Or could the people be wrong?

Are you truly grumpy and sad?

Or are the people just making you look bad?

You tend to flock in large groups

Are you maybe gathering troops?

Are you planning an attack on the government?

Or is this all just a misjudgement?

In my opinion, you seem really cute

So, I am asking the people not to shoot.

They want your feathers, so they shoot you dead

Couldn’t they ask politely instead?

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Superhero City Perspective Task by Jessica Gillingham

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The Warbling Wacko Widgeon by Lily Holden

As I glisten, the bee says to me

Listen to my tale hee hee

He begins

With a hefty chin

One day upon a ruler

All I could do was hula

Of course I had an idea

I saw a lady on a pier

Then I did cheer

Something to clear my boredom near

So I pushed the lady off the pier

Then an ugly beast appeared

A warbling wacko wigeon here?

So I pushed that too off the pier

Then the wigeon came flying back

And he told me not to whack

So I attempted brutal slaughter

Then the wacko wigeon sued me

That is why I am but a poor bee

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Et Tu Schofield? By Callum Hawkins

Et tu, Schofield?

We should be forgiven for thinking that a shared passion for literature would

be enough to create unity between authors and their readers. Clearly, this is not

the case for Mrs Schofield, a reader so offended by a criticism of knife violence–

almost to a point at which one must consider how this reflects upon herself,

remembering the colloquial ‘we hate in others what we fear in ourselves’–that

she took it upon herself to push for the removal of ‘Education for Leisure’ from

AQA’s anthology. However, such a fear did not stop Schofield from embracing

an inner Brutus and leading the backstabbing of not only Duffy, but literature

itself.

‘Nothing will come of nothing’ Duffy quotes, echoing the sentiment of many.

How can we fight an issue which they refuse to acknowledge? If the only action

they will take is to pretend it does not exist, then we shall have to take matters

into our own hands. Education has never been for leisure; if school is truly to

prepare the next generation of children to enter society, then this is a detriment

to the system and an embarrassment to Britain. It takes Duffy only a single line

to make her message clear: ‘You must prepare your bosom for his knife’. If an

entire generation of kids is going to be raised shielded from any tough topics, we

are practically preparing them for the knife of the real world.

And how can we truly hope to raise rounded members of society if the only

critical thinking skills they have allow them to argue whether Tybalt deserved

Romeo’s blade? Is school truly about education anymore? Was it ever? If

children may read of Othello’s jealousy, Caesar’s murder, or Romeo and Juliet’s

suicides, surely, they must also be exposed to the jealousy and murder of the real

world; what a warped view they must hold if all they are handed is a

dramatization of an old time long left behind.

‘We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in another language,’ this is

the child who now won’t hear the message of Education for Leisure. It’s not just

the future bankers or desk workers, it’s the future murderers, thieves and gang

members. I hope they’ll thank you, Schofield, for easing the indoctrination. We

certainly shall not. There’s blood on your hands.

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Now, to those making their transition from school to society, do not try to de-

platform those who you do not agree with; they shall expose themselves for what

they are the second they open their mouths, much like Schofield.

It is time to fight for a change to education.

You may begin.

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Eye by Lily Alston

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The Scarecrow by Liam McLarnon

It was 5am and I couldn’t get to sleep, literally. If I did, it would probably get

me and though I don’t know what would happen if it did, honestly, I don’t want

to know.

The first sign I get that tells me it’s awake is the creak I hear as it gets off its

pole. The loud thud I hear as its feet touch the ground and from a distance, I see

a bright light emitting from its head. The next is the straw dolls that somehow

enter my house staring at me with their button eyes on top of the kitchen shelf.

You would think that after two whole years of this I would get used to it, but I

never did. It always felt as if they were staring into my soul, but, they are

nothing compared to their master.

The fiery orange glow gets closer and closer until the scarecrow emerges out

of the corn maze. I expected the usual; I expected a long skinny scarecrow that

wore a black, old and torn trench-coat, black torn trousers, and a Jack-o'-lantern

for a head to stare at me. I expected myself to stare back and never take my eyes

of it and, I expected it to then leave at 5:30am with its dolls, I expected them to

leave when the sun came out, when the daylight pushed through the horizon to

block out the evil. That’s how it usually went anyway, but, tonight was different.

The dolls let out an inhumane shriek so loud I thought my head would

explode. I covered my ears and rolled around the floor howling in pain. I

screamed for them to stop and eventually they did. Panic swept through my body

like a tsunami as I looked outside and the scarecrow wasn’t there and neither

was its glow. I looked at the dolls who were still sitting on the shelf and then

looked at the time: 5:20am.

I heard my door creak open, despite me locking and barricading it with the

heaviest thing in the house (my fridge). The dolls started to cackle and as I

looked around the room for a place to hide I heard footsteps and the creak of

floorboards. I darted across the room, crawled under my bed, closed my eyes

and held my breath.

The door swung open and I could smell its dirty leather boots. The dolls

stopped cackling and, I heard the scarecrow opening and closing the cupboards

50

and wardrobes. I opened my eyes and saw it look under my desk and then look

in my direction, my heart stopped as it approached the bed.

‘Please, God please, don’t let me die not today, and if it is my time, if I am

meant to die today don’t let it be at the hands of this....ABOMINATION, this

FREAK OF NATURE please, God, oh, please,’ I thought to myself with tears in

my eyes and sweat dripping down my forehead. I saw the glow; it was right in

front of me now, the beast staring at me.

I closed my eyes and prepared myself for death’s cold embrace and the long

darkness but, it never came. Everything had gone quiet.

I opened my eyes and saw nothing: no glow, no scarecrow, no dolls. As I

crawled out from under the bed, I heard footsteps once again and retreated back

under, but, then I heard the door close. I waited for a good two or three minutes

before crawling out. I looked at the time 5:34! I had done it. I had survived; it

was light again and as I looked outside the window and saw the scarecrow back

at its post its dolls on top of its head, ‘EUREKA’ I shouted at the top of my

lungs ‘Thank you, all merciful Lord, thank you’ but then sudden realization hit

me like a truck: I would have to relive my worst nightmare all over again, in just

23 hours and 26 minutes.

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The Spinosaurus by Harry Holmes

Spino, Spino, deadly beast,

Eager for your tasty feast

Your long snout for eating fish,

But you prefer a larger dish.

The Cretaceous period was your era,

You were real, unlike the Chimaera,

And those creatures you have slain,

Owned hearts that were full of disdain.

Being carnivorous, you never starve,

In your skin, there is terrible carves,

From foes a many that you have beaten,

And now they’re gone, they’re dead, they’re eaten.

From head to tail, you are monstrous,

Almost the size of the tyrannosaurus,

Your sail a magnificent masterpiece,

And spear heads are your razor sharp teeth.

Spino, Spino evil dino,

You were unknown by many, but now I know,

Fighting with your neighbour, the T. Rex,

You will win as you are the best.

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Pro Create Works by Samara Slatter

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54

The Spinning House by Elanor Rooney Have you heard of the Spinning House? I’d be surprised if you hadn’t. It’s

been seen throughout history, scattered in different parts of England. Christopher

Columbus travelled the length and breadth of England trying to find it, but he

never did: a small house with a domed roof and a friendly front door, red and

circular with an ornate doorknob and a stained-glass window. It’s hundreds of

years old.

Some say it’s looked after by a witch, who lures hungry children in with

cakes and pies before roasting them in her oven, like in Hansel and Gretel. I

don’t believe that. Some say it’s filled with topsy-turvy magic. It’s definitely

filled with magic. The old fairy tale says that there are five round windows all

around the house. Each one has a different view from five different places in

England. Choose a window view, and the house will start to spin. Round and

round, it’ll spin. And when it stops, you’ll be in the place you chose. That’s the

magic of the Spinning House.

I was first told about the Spinning House by Mother. I’d had a nightmare. I’d

come crying into Mother and Papa’s bedroom. Mother gave me a hug and a cup

of cocoa. She held me close against her chest and whispered to me the story of

“The Princess and the Spinning House” about a girl who lived with a kind witch

in the Spinning House. She found out that she was a long-lost princess but

instead decided to find a magical flower which would heal the sick, old witch,

She ended up staying with the witch in the Spinning House. I’d listened,

intrigued, fingering the scarf around her neck. It was very handsome: forest

green silk with butterflies every colour of the rainbow. It had been Mother’s

Mother’s scarf, and her mother's before that, and her mother had been bought it

for her thirteenth birthday. Mother always loved that scarf. She put me back into

my bed and stayed by my side until fell asleep. That night my dreams were filled

with crying princesses and spinning houses. I slept soundly until the sun rose.

Papa doesn’t believe the Spinning House exists. Mother always gave him a

sharp look, and she’d go red. But he stubbornly says that the Spinning House is

just a fairy tale. But I believe in the Spinning House. I’m certain it’s more than

just a myth. Papa is mistaken. I know that somewhere out there, a kindly old

witch and a long-lost princess are here in England, travelling around in a house

that spins…

55

Frog – Charima Ungerer

56

Roll of Achievements

I asked pupils to share some of the things they’re most proud of achieving over

the last year. Not only are they a talented bunch, they’re also rather humble, and

don’t always like to boast about their achievements, so here we have a few

additional students and achievements to celebrate which is only a small portion

of all of the amazing achievements this year..

Ollie Barret and Ellis Stint worked together to script and perform a radio

news bulletin which was really well received.

Felicity Sutherland has developed her juggling skills this year. With three

balls, she is learnt in excess of 30 different tricks, and she can juggle

competently with four balls.

The following pupils did an absolutely astounding job with a Horrible

Histories assignment on the Enlightenment: Lana Haigh, Pedro Dos Santos,

Luke Farrant, Stefan Stratila, Luis Dives-Turmo. Jack Pake, Ali Simpson,

Freddie Wilson and Harry Lewis.

Maya Young has been in training for a majorette baton competition and

has been working hard to improve her skills.

Evie Jennings is really proud of the progress she has made with her

drawing in recent months.

Millie Coe has been working really hard in English and is proud of how

many quotations from Romeo and Juliet she has memorised.

Cosmin Petrariu managed to solve a 3x3 Rubik’s cube in an incredible

40 seconds.

Sophia Grace has learnt to sing Panis Angelicus.

Susannah Lowes has been recognised by Miss Farzad for her incredible

effort and her kindness to all.

Mary Felton choreographed an inspiring dance for her final performance

exam. The subject matter was how we can make our community safer and her

group chose bullying and the impact of on young people. She has worked

with a really professional ethic with her peers. The progress Mary has made is

fantastic.

Reuben Wilson is proud to have achieved an A in science.

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Eddie Bowstead managed to run 2k in 7 minutes and 45 seconds.

Tom Broad and his friend raised £125 for Marie Curie

Miss Harward would like to recognise Elanor Rooney’s exceptional

dedication to her study of English this year. Elanor routinely contributes to

class discussions and has produced some excellent pieces of writing. Most

notable work includes the analysis of a collection of poems during the

Romantic Poets topic, along with her own poems and creative writing.

Emma Percival urges you all to check out The Percival Push to find out

more about great charity work done by this group.