Esther J My name is Esther, I’m 12, I enjoy reading, playing the piano and acting. I joined creative writing club because I liked the idea that you can write whatever you like and experiment with types of writing.

Tabea R Hello! I'm Tabea and I'm a co-leader of creative writing club. I've always loved fantastical worlds and being completely absorbed in another universe, so reading and writing have always been a big part of my life. I also enjoy painting and singing.

Editors

My name is Mrs Bradley and I really

enjoy the peace and quiet of the

Creative Writing Club. We have so many

different people from all year groups,

which makes the club interesting and

diverse. I love to write poetry more than

prose; the concentration of language and

consideration of rhythm that poetry

requires makes it fascinating.

Other notable attendees:

Amelia M Maya T Sasa T Julia B Amanda K Cecily K-K Claire W

The Man with the Light Blue Eyes

The leaves crunched under the leather boots of a dark haired girl. It was nearly winter and a fine frost was frozen over the red and orange leaves that were strewn over the forest floor. Amelia Jessica Oswald was lost. Desperately lost. She had been wandering around for hours now. What was worse, it was getting dark. Thick grey fog came rolling in from a hill a couple kilometres away. Yep. She was defiantly lost. 'Keep walking,' she told herself. 'I must be close to home now.' Amelia went to turn a corner but a dark silhouette stood in her way. He was tall, very tall. He had a long trench coat and flat hair. "E-excuse me?" Amelia asked. "S-sorry I'm l-lost. Do you know where the town of Wormfreed is?" She knew it was best not to talk to strangers but this was an exception. The man turned around to show a grim and worried face of a middle aged man. He wore a pained expression as if he lost something very valuable. The man's lightning blue eyes widened as he took a couple steps towards her. "Ah no," he said, his voice as soft as velvet. "But I can't help but notice the gem that you have in your hand there." He continued, nodding towards a tropical green stone in her hand. "I happened to lose a gem that looked just like that one a couple hours ago." Amelia's eyes widened. She had only picked this stone up an hour ago. "This must be yours, Mister," she said nervously. " I only just found this on the forest floor. The man smiled and held out his hand that had dirt and plants on it. Amelia shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably and placed the gem gently in his hand. The stone started to glow happily and a low buzzing noise started. The light and humming noise grew bigger and bigger until it was the only thing she could see. A soft whoosh sounded from in front of her. The light started to fade. All that was left of the man that once stood before her was a small piece of paper. Thank you Amelia frowned as she picked it up to inspect it more. He had just seemed to vanish but... That was impossible! Or was it really? There was really no other explanation besides the fact that he was a magic person of some sort. Amelia sighed and started to trek through the woods, looking for the town of Wormfreed. Through the years, as Amelia got older and older, she never ever forgot about the curious encounter that she had experienced in that forest. And she never stopped believing.

- Megan C

I am trust; trying to offer comfort in the dark. Smiling, or sneering, from the deep space provided, A (w)hole in the blanket of the sky;

While beneath me millions stare up in (dis)belief. Absent, I see the sin, the shame

Of anger build, in governments not governing, The heat inside me smouldering, My laughter disappearing. The beauty of the star; Love, romance, once upon a time…is crushed. Heartbreak turns to tears – the noise on Earth

Starts shattering the silence of Space. I shoot, striking out a light, once more, A moment of fire-fury whispers in the night. While a hopeful lover makes a wish.

- Mrs Bradley

~ the fragility of time as it curls past her fingers slipping by unnoticed weeks mere flicks of a page recognition of the subtle delicacy of objects. Of moments. Adored ornaments cast aside in a speedy existence savoured tastes on buds that forget t t

- Emma W

How to write a haiku: Five on the first line Seven more on the second Five to finish off

- Cecily Köler-krüner

Time is a motionless feature to life

It goes by so quickly, like a slippery spy

Memories go and come with time

Every second gone so fast - Femke B

The exam room Quiet as a house at night I struggle for the words to write. I see my friend look around the room, reading it in her head and then BOOM! The words come gargling like a flowing stream, Like a dice rolling on, that is the scene. Tick tock, the clock stares at us. The time is almost up, I fumble to get the last words on the page. The bell rings and that’s enough for today.

- Claire W

A wink of gold, Slices the harsh sun, A scintillating sliver, Sweeps in vicious arcs. Then a raw cry, Hurtles down low, Cutting the waves, Wings shatter the sea. Glistening silver darts, Flit beneath, Like writhing veins, Beneath blue tinted skin. Then it erupts, Disarray of fragments, Shards of azure gleam, Fierce in the bright sky, Whilst limp and leaking crimson, Trailing see-through scales, It's carried up, Another life flicked out.

- Tabea R

Wanderer

Paths like ribbons, Grit under sturdy boots. Extending hillsides Made brand new by swept sand. An ant-like figure from miles away, One mere member of a line of marchers. Recalls behind shaded eyes; Companionless. It trudges on.

- Emma W

The rain beat down heavily on the roof of the car and rolled down the now translucent window, like tears rolling down a ghostly cheek. But one could still look through its window and observe the contents of the outer world. I could see the other cars rolling down the road that I drove along, however the darkness of midnight just made it even more difficult for me to see the next 10 meters in front of me. Then of course there was the heavy rain and thick fog that added to the problem. Sharp lights of my old, rusting car that was once red - as the owner of the shop I had bought it from had told me - cut through the fog like a searing arrow. Unfortunately, tonight the M25 had only one car I had seen about a mile back, and street lights that weren't working. Wait, no. That wasn't true. I would be able to see the pale shape of them trough my headlights but all I could see were two forests either side of me. However the green was then broken as a neon blue sign was caught in my headlights as I drove past it. In my wing mirrors I could just make out what was written on the sign before it was out of sight.

- Bruno G

The salt breeze, blue ocean is as far as the eye can see. The only thing that breaks the blue sea is a boat, sailing against the breeze. In the distance, grey clouds hang low. A storm is approaching, bad news for the stranger on the boat. Nobody shouts, only empty quietness. The sea becomes more violent as the grey clouds come nearer; the lonely boat gets tossed around, still no shouts or screams. The wind howls in rage, waves throw themselves at the boat, sending it flying. It's as though the storm is letting its anger out, but in the worst way possible. For a couple of seconds, the boat is gone, and then it reappears, showing no sign of a storm. The waves become calmer, the grey clouds move, in their place the sun shines brightly. The boat moves on, as though nothing ever happened, and continues its journey across the sea prepared to take on anything that comes its way. Blue sky, bright sun, salty ocean breeze.

- Flora C

Anger is like a flame because it is alive. It burns brightly, leaving no room for other emotions. It fuels actions. It is also destructive, with an intense hunger to devour, hurt, avenge. It is not passive; it takes action. It is also ever-changing. A flame may flicker or waver, perturbed by another factor, or it may simmer and die in certain circumstances. Perhaps most frighteningly, it may grow out of control, engulfing anything and everything in its hunger and uncontrollable rage. This leaves no room for rationality or recompense. That is when anger turns to hatred.

- Tabea R

Clunk. The Doctor and Amy stepped out of the tardis into nothing, just nothing. Blackness, really. For a moment, the Doctor was afraid they'd fall, but the earth seemed solid. "Doctor... where are we?” asked Amy. "I'm not sure" replied the Doctor "but it looks like something big's about to happen, shush a minute" he was right. The sky started getting slightly paler. Amy had thought the sky would turn blue but instead it turned red. Then the sun began to rise, an eerie, malevolent looking sun. The Doctor got that feeling it was looking at him. The air smelt like rancid butter. Amy was just about to suggest they leave because she had a bad feeling about this place, when the earth beneath their feet began to bubble and shake like hot wax; they stumbled in shock and nearly fell. As it shook it became coloured too, the same iron-red as the sky. As the Doctor looked down he saw it was all earth or soil, no grass. Holes appeared all over it, and black, beetle-like insects shot out of them like bullets. The Doctor and Amy barely had time to catch their breath before they had the urge to turn around.... Something else was stirring, behind them the shadows twitched and started forming shapes, animals (mostly panthers) made out of shadow started pacing menacingly around the tardis. Then the buildings appeared, not really buildings, but caves, the Doctor thought. They glitched into existence like a computer screen. Trees jumped out of the ground, literally shooting up two feet in the air and, when their roots came into contact with the ground, they grew into it. Then, with a final thump, it all stopped. The Doctor and Amy gazed, their breathing shallow in the cold air. Then they saw something else, figures coming out of the sunset towards them. He felt Amy inch closer to him. They were aliens, red ones with ugly faces, large, fat bodies and octopus suckers all over them. The animals paced towards these creatures and stood growling by their sides. Then the leader said something in an alien language, but the Doctor understood.

"Kill" - Esther J

mhgdmnhdhngdmhdmgdmg

A cold, sharp, bitter wind whipped Iris's long black hair around her face. She muttered harsh words, and the wind became more gentle. In its place, snowflakes started to fall.

"Really? You don't need to show off, I know how powerful you are," Iris shouted at the sky, her brown eyes glaring at everything in sight.

"Ah, it seems you're right," a ironic voice floated around her, Iris turned round in anger, seething as she tried to find the source of the voice. She looked up at the treetops, then back at the ground, then suddenly feeling something behind her she turned.

"Naya, it's good to see you again, long time no see," Iris muttered sarcastically. Naya had wavy silver-blond hair and ice blue eyes. She looked like a snow queen, with a heart as cold as the ice itself.

"You too," Naya smiled cruelly, serenely swerving around trees, until she was only feet away from Iris. "Care to show me the way to your hideout?"

"You only want to go there because we have the waterfall of immortal life," Iris said stubbornly.

"Well done! You just figured that out?" Naya clapped slowly, an even crueller smile spreading across her face. "Now, show me the waterfall."

"No," Iris said, her brown eyes started to glow with an eerie light. Don't use the powers! she thought desperately, but they took over. Iris gave a flick of her head, and Naya went flying into a tree.

"What?" Naya yelled in confusion, seeing as Iris hadn't actually done anything, except move her head. Naya wiped her hand on the side of her blue dress, then disappeared into the newborn wind.

Flora C

Remember when… Small soft hands clutched greedily, And the ground dwindled with each haul, Until all the land stretched below, All within arm’s reach. Remember when, Nothing mattered, Because this far up, Wrapped in oceans of soft blue, You were the only person in the world. Remember when, Swathes of glowing sunlight, Painted the bricks gold and yellow, And washes of pink soaked across the flawless sky, Stretching languorously along the horizon. Remember when, Your feet danced upon the moss, And branches clawed at your long hair, And you weren't at all worried, When your high laugh split the air. You weren't at all worried, To Slip. Please, Please, Don't, Slip. Tabea R

England Train I remember that time

Where I got stuck in grime Of a train, in fact

We got to sit down

To go to a town But then the lights turned off

We all looked around

And my dad got to the ground To see if we were on the right

train

He waved us round Because he had found

That we were on the wrong train

We went and got up

All our bags with us, yup And went to get off the train

But the doors were all shut

People outside thought I was a nut

No matter how much we pushed and tried

My dad cocked his brow And went to go plough

Through all the people to get some help

He came back

With a guy and his sack To unlock these silly doors

Now my poor sister

Is hesitant to go in, even for twister

We all look suspiciously at those trains.

- Megan C

Flora C

Message from the editors

The concept behind the title of this magazine materialised in

the 2012 Creative Writing Club. We envisaged a magazine that

just appeared around the school in a very surreptitious fashion.

This then led to the idea that we would make it look more like

a scrapbook than a polished magazine, which is why it has the

look it does today.

The Creative Writing Club is a very informal one which you can

dip in and out of depending on your schedule. We meet on a

Monday lunchtime in room 275 and discuss our ideas, think of

various inspirational ideas and then…write!

We hope you enjoy reading this year’s magazine

The Dead School pt.1 by Felix R

I glance sideways at my friend Jack. "Don't you think it unusual for there to be nobody else still on their way to

school? Are we that late?"

"Maybe your watch is off time," an untouched, misty voice answers me. I sometimes wonder what time he goes to

bed, but then maybe I don't even want to know.

I look at him again, only just, barely, being able to make out his dark form in the heavy fog swirling around him. It

hadn't been this misty in a long time, and although there were no more than two metres between us, I had difficulty

making out where he was.

Suddenly a noise. I almost fall off my bike when a bright headlight appeared before Jack's bike….

Silence. Then, "Look, there's the entry to the school,” said Jack.

"Why are there still no people?" I wonder, more to myself than to Jack.

Like every morning, we leave our bikes at the shed. Here everything seems more or less normal. There are the bikes,

but no students or teachers to go with them.

I carefully push on the door to the school, but no horror movie creaking, just the normal brushing sound of the

revolving door. As I look around I notice that not a single light is on. I am about to tell Jack we should just go, when

I notice I slightly darker shadow which seems to be quivering silently, either of cold, or of fear.

"Hello?" I ask carefully.

Jack and I move closer. Now I can see that it's a girl cowering in a corner.

"Hey, are you ok?" I'm speaking in a gentler voice, but still no reply. Only a nod towards the door leading into one

of the corridors. Jack and I slowly advance towards the double doors, wondering what is going on.

As I swing open the doors a strong smell hits me. I cannot recognise what it is, yet it seem strangely like a deja vu.

I don't recognise it until my eyes adjust to the darkness of the corridor

.

"What..." Jack is gasping for air next to me, and hear a sloshing and gagging as he throws up against the wall. My

eyes widen in horror as my brain tries to comprehend the scene laid out before me.

To be continued in next magazine....

When I had finally reached my room, where everything was nice and quiet, I looked at the envelope. To Scarlett Johnson, 32, Pamela Road, bedroom on the second floor. I assumed it was from one of my friends as a joke, after all, who else would anyone know where my bedroom was? I decided to leave the letter on my bedside table, and read my book. The next day I woke to the sound of birds chirping. Sighing, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But something was bugging me, something about that letter. I turned to my bedside table and saw not one letter, but three. "Did they come in the night?" I muttered to myself, swinging my legs out of bed. I looked around my room, and noticed the window was open. Strange, it was not open before, otherwise it would be too cold in my room. I reached out and touched the letter; instantly, an image flashed in my mind. "Help me!" a man cried desperately. A lone figure walked up to the man. "You think anyone cares?" the voice was bitter, filled with hatred and despise. The figure reached out, a wand in hand, and yelled unknown words. A blaze of green shot from the wand, hitting the man, who fell to the ground. He was dead. An unnatural laugh came from the figure in the cloak, who took his hood off, he had a truly grotesque face. "I have returned." There was cold laughter and then dark. I gasped as my room came spinning back into vision. What just happened? I tried to make sense of it, but that didn't work. My head hurt, my breathing was coming out in short gasps. I struggled to get dressed, ignoring the five letters in front of my door, then ran downstairs. "Dad!" I shouted. No reply. "Dad!" I tried again and again, but there was no reply. "Mother? Dad? George?" I panicked, “where did they go? "Mother?" I tried to scream, but I couldn't. Some weird part of me actually felt calm…calm. I paced around, determined to make sense of it all. I felt dizzy, so very dizzy; perhaps I should sit down, just for a bit. No! I couldn't forget about looking for my family. But my head hurt and my eyes were closing. I tried to resist it, but I couldn't anymore. I fell down onto the cold floor in defeat. By Flora C

Dear Mr Brooke,

I am writing to you about your 1915 poem, entitled ‘The Soldier’ which you

wrote shortly after the outbreak of the Great War. Despite the fact that this was

written close to a century ago, I have some arguments about the content which

I think are legitimate.

First of all, there is a clear nationalistic element that prevails throughout the

poem. Although nationalism and pride, especially in wartime, are often widely

accepted, you promote the idea that England is superior to other nations and

thus produces ‘richer dust’ than any other country, even France for example,

whose soldiers gave their lives for the same cause as English soldiers; and yet

you still regard as inferior both that ally and its inhabitants because their

‘dust’ was not ‘shaped, made aware’ by England, nor are they ‘a body of

England’s, breathing English air’.

Furthermore, nationalism, particularly in this instance, is a pernicious

ideology. So much so, it was one of the significant contributing factors to the

four year war in which there were 37 million casualties and 16 million

military deaths as well as 7 million innocent civilian deaths; 35.7% of

England’s soldiers were slaughtered. This was because all people believed in the

strength and greatness of their own nation. Just because they did not reside

under an ‘English heaven’ it doesn’t mean their moral worth is less than those

soldiers who ‘England bore’.

Indeed, though you write of ‘laughter’, ‘gentleness’, ‘hearts at peace’ and ‘all

evil shed away’, the fact is that your poem was used as part of a state

propaganda machine and a recruiting tool to get young men, who believed

they were making an honourable sacrifice for their nation, to fight an

unnecessary, bloody and violent war; one in which nearly half met an

untimely end or were wounded, crippled or permanently deformed.

If you have doubts about the propagandistic uses of your poem, consider this:

historians have referred to it as ‘an important document in the national

preparation for war’.

When we look at the war now, we are far cry from ‘English flowers’, ‘English

air’, ‘English ways’ and most ironically perhaps, ‘an English heaven’.

Yours sincerely,

Maya T

When? Monday Lunchtime Where? In room 275 Be there, or else!

Creative Writing Club

THE GREAT CREATIVE

CLUB

MONDAY LUNCHTIME ROOM 275

The

Creative Writing Club

Monday Lunchtime, Room 275

Written by any BSN Student

Any BSN Student

and the CreativeWriting Club

Room 275 Monday lunchtime

club”