First Story National
Writing Competition
2016-17
Official Longlist
Key Stage Three
The Girl and the Footprints Through Life
Abigail Carr
East Point Academy, Key Stage Three
One foggy day on an island’s beach stands a girl. No different from any other. This particular girl had
blonde hair, a blue top, navy blue jeans and a rose tattoo on her shoulder. She was walking along the
beach when suddenly she saw footprints. Footprints. That seemed to come from nowhere, nowhere
to be seen anyway. As she walked she started to follow the footprints. As she did she became to
realise that she was young again. 3 years old and 1 month to be precise. She was running. But from
what? She turned. She seemed to realise that exactly the same footprints were with her. As she
took another step she got took to a different time of her life.
The next part of her life was that she was at a party, her 5th birthday party. She was with her best
friend who lives in New Zealand now. They were singing Happy Birthday to her. How she missed
being 5. They had now got up from the table and were playing on the adventure playground. She
laughed under her breath as she saw one of her old friends tumble down the slide.
She took a 3rd step. This took her to the day her parents split up. This isn’t as happy she thought.
She saw herself breaking down and crying in a heap on the floor. Her parents were saying it was all
for the best. Now she understood why this happened. She tried to pull herself away from this topic
but she just didn’t have the mental strength to. Finally she done it.
The girl was wondering what would come up next. She took another step. The flash-back came
quick this time. It was the day she started High School. She went to Riverside-lake Academy. She
liked her form tutor Miss Bunting. She can remember how understanding she was about her
dyslexia. How she couldn’t read came back to her quickly.
Her 5th step came as a surprise to her. It was the day she started getting bullied. She walked into
school with everyone looking at her. She didn’t know what to expect. The girl who she was getting
bullied by stood right in front of her and sprayed her right in the stomach with water. This hurt to
even think about. She suddenly snapped out of it.
She took another step. This took her to the day she had her tattoo done. Her mum took her in the
car. She was shaking. She walked into the parlour and laid in the seat. She chose the rose in memory
of her Grandma who died amonth before. The rose was her favourite flower. That’s why she chose
it. The lady leaned forward to start the process. It didn’t really hurt too much. She tried to snap out
of this one as quick as she could
Finally she came to her last footprint. This one was the future. The rest of that day was straight
ahead of her. Does she go, or does she stay. In your imagination there are no limits. But one thing
for sure is that you will always have someone to support you through every footstep you take. It’s
all up to you…
Just like Tom
Angel Gallagher Dasso
St Mary’s St Johns, Key Stage Three
I have a brother,
We share the same mother.
He wears a cap with his blonde hair,
As a bonus he cares,
He cares about my education,
He cares about the British nation.
I hope I end up like him,
Working hard and straining a limb.
I want to be just like Tom.
He went to college, University,
Even made his own community.
He’s had his ups and his downs,
But he’s a man with no bounds.
Every weekend we spent,
I was young and hardly knew what you meant.
I wish I did now though,
When you would complain about the Food Tech dough.
I’d try hard to make you smile,
Even though its been awhile.
You loved it when I came home with school work,
We would blow it off and chat up the shop’s clerk.
Getting free sweets was fun when you were around,
Now I can’t see you through that mound.
That mound of work that keeps us separate,
Once I thought it was deliberate.
I was alone,
You know I hate being on my own.
Why wouldn’t you want to see your own sister?
But of course, I never knew you were someone’s mister.
You have a wife,
A new life,
Without me,
Your lil’ sis.
I know you mean well,
But you’ll be missed.
I think back to the days when you gave your little sister a kiss.
You skipped your detentions to be with me,
And you taught me my ABC’s.
You’ve worked hard and got what you’ve earned,
A lovely life full of stuff you learned.
When I’m older just like a bomb,
I’ll turn out just like Tom.
All We Want Is You
Anna Huskisson
Wirral Grammar School for Girls, Key Stage Three
I remember when your blue dress,
Swished lightly through the grass,
And how your eyes lit up
When the sun burnt down to the wick,
Leaving orange and pink glowing in the sky.
I can still see your shiny red shoes,
The sequins sparkling like winking eyes,
While you ran about the hours,
Blissfully unaware of time,
Your whole life stretched out before you,
Or that’s what your eyes saw.
Behind you were just footprints,
Marking your twisting path.
But your dress was always muddy,
And your shoes were always scuffed.
Your smile was mottled with mischief,
And you hated washing up.
It’s so easy to forget
Your quick temper and your drama.
Of course you had your bad days,
But confusion drifts like smoke.
Once the fire is out,
It disappears, Hidden beneath the sun,
Because when you go you leave footprints,
Footprints we’re left to fill,
We don’t know why it was you
Who laid down all the cards.
You put their soul into living,
And you left the game so early,
But it’s hard to carry on.
It’s hard to wish for the prize,
When all we want is you.
An Eskimo’s Blood
Arno Hahn
Greig City Academy, Key Stage Three
I crept from under the tree. The snow crunching under my feet, I tried to avoid the frosty leaves on
the ground. That was my chance. I would kill an elk and bring it home. I touched my spear: a true
Eskimo’s weapon. My wolfskin hood kept me warm and focused. Then I could see one. Alone. That
was my chance. I raised my spear. I slowly exhaled for five seconds. Then suddenly I released my
spear. The elk was taken down with one blow. I would be the youngest of my clan to take one of
these majestic beasts.
I take my knife from its sheath and begin to prepare the elk for food. Firstly I cut open the
belly and take out the still warm liver. I eat this to give me strength. Then I shoulder my hide pack,
laden with elk flesh and trudge through the snow back home. Half way I stop to slowly roast them
over the fire. It is the best I’ve ever tasted: deep rich meaty flavours engulf my senses. I fall asleep
happy and fulfilled with a full belly.
The next day I wake early. Just a few more hours of walking and I’ll be home. Wow, just
thinking about it, my father will be so pleased. ‘Thirteen years old and already caught an elk,’ he
would boast to all the other clan members. Now I set off.
A fox is watching me. I toss it a morsel of food and carry on my journey. ‘Just over this hill
and I’ll be home.’ But when I get there all is silent. The blanket of snow beneath my feet is eerily
quiet. Something is wrong. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. The rags of a once-mighty
chieftain. And then I see them all. And I see the blood. A deep red stain. I can’t help but think it is
beautiful. I snap back to reality. Everyone is dead I think. I break down, a deep grief building up inside
me. Then I black out.
When I wake up, I see tracks, a single set of tracks, leading away from my village. They are
splattered with blood. An endless trail that will lead to their killer. I pack all that I have: my bow,
knives, every last bit of food. And finally I pack my spear with its emerald head and hard ash staff
with a strong beaver gut grip. My grandfather made it for me. It brings back deep old memories.
Then I race along the trail; the smell of fresh dead bodies left behind me. As I go, I think about the
killer – what he would look like, and what his motives for killing an entire village of people would be.
I think he must have two or three days lead on me. But if I play my cards right I will be able to catch
up with him. No-one knows the wilderness like us Eskimos.
The trail veers sharply to the right and I see the scattered ash remnants of a campfire. This is
good. It shows me that he only has two days’ lead. I go back into the main trail and check my rations.
I have enough food to last me three or four more days at least. And I’ve plenty of water. I can always
melt the ice. I am tired but I need to keep going. If I stop the person I am tracking will get an even
longer lead on me. I wipe away my tears. I promise myself I will do them proud. I will kill their killer.
As the light fades I take a short rest. I allow myself half an hour’s sleep and then keeping going
through the night.
Then on the trail I see another fire. And this time the embers are still warm. I am probably
not even six hours behind him. Then, five hours later, I see him. A black figure blurry in a blizzard.
He does not know I am here. I have the advantage, at least for now. At nightfall he stops, but I
follow his footsteps, deep and wide. That’s when I realise I recognise these prints. They are from
boots only used by my own clan. I creep up behind him. I draw back my bow and release the arrow.
With a sharp crack it finds its mark. He falls, his mouth wide open. A mouth that has spoken many
things to me. It is the mouth of my father. Using his last breath he touches his hand to his heart.
That night I change. That night I learn what it is to be betrayed. And that is a lesson I will never
forget.
Cerise Hood
Aurora Brown
Camden School for Girls, Key Stage Three
You all know how the story goes,
Of a little girl cloaked in rose.
Of pathways, flowers, wolves and tears
But our story jumps forward a few years:
Imagine a girl with her hair scraped back
And on her head a snapback cap
She’s wearing a tube top and bomber jacket
Whilst in her hand is a red crisp packet.
Her phone case shines as she snapchats trees
Her trainers flash as she walks with ease.
Back home, her mum, red riding hood one,
Is cheering on her legacy.
She speeds past signposts in the tourist attraction:
‘Big Bad Wold Wood’ reads each enactment.
The word ‘wolf’ sparks an idea in her head
For without her villain, the tale is dead!
Just as this thought reached her lips,
And was about to be posted by her fingertips…
A teen appeared with ears and a tail
With looks that scored high on the scale.
He led her to the field of flowers
Where she should be engaged for one whole hour.
But in her head a scheme began,
The remarkable girl has a wonderful plan:
She says to wolf: “I hate our story
Will you help change the ending with me?”
Then smiles to herself as she voices out loud
“I’m a feminist and won’t be pushed around!”
The wolf cub stares. He seems impressed;
But Cerice elaborates nevertheless
“I want to follow my mother’s footsteps, I do
But I won’t let a huntsman save me from you!”
So they sit, and rewrite outdated lines
Until an hour later the novel’s signed.
The friends walk swiftly to North
Then knock on old Miss Hood’s front door.
Cub apologies from all the wolves about their past eating of hoods,
Then tries to ask the young girl out.
Her reply is “no” and there’s no doubt:
The girl has feminism to shout about.
Untitled
Ayesha Kaur
Cranford Community College, Key Stage Three
The sweet, luring aroma of ginger wafted through my numb nose,
My ample cheeks were ruby-red and frigid like a frozen rose,
Refreshing sensations of joy and pleasure was what I was dwelling on,
Bells jingled and jangled whilst elegant reindeers pounced and bounced under the enchanting blanket
of black,
The gleaming diamonds in the realm of darkness affectionately watched down on me,
The crisp, blustery winter breeze kissed my rosy cheeks,
Crystalline, sparkling snowflakes began to dance down majestically,
My tongue tingled for the sweet taste of lush, intoxicating cinnamon pretzels that were sprinkled
with the finest of sugars,
My red, glossy lips formed into an endearing smile,
I plunged my cushioned leather boots in the white, pristine and untouched duvet of snow,
And then I gaped in awe at Christmas standing in many rows…
Oversized seasonal candy sugarcanes shot out of the ground like luscious bountiful trees,
Surrounding the delectable canes of richness and magnificence,
Were petit; ornate; chocolate cottages of flamboyance,
The toiling chimneys chugged up laughter and Christmas spirit,
Spreading it to the world every minute.
Marshmallows were doorbells,
The walls of the cottages were neatly assembled together with mouth-watering, white chocolate
shells.
Beside the doorstep mints were thoughtfully placed in a jar for guests,
Making the hunt for sweets no longer a quest!
Amaranthine, floral and exquisite were the wreaths upon doors,
And behind those doors I could hear hush little snores,
Delight and tenderness instantly filled my heart,
As the snores were so calming, setting all my worries apart.
I diverted my attention,
And set my eyes upon,
Something that made my eyes widen,
Something I had to keep my eyes on.
Stood solely in the middle,
Was a festive, lavish Christmas tree,
Embellished with ornate ornaments,
All one-of-a-kind,
Each branch of perfection.
With a twinkling angelic golden star at the top,
It added the cherry to a cupcake,
And the sprinkles to an ice cream,
Nestled in the limelight,
It was perceived from further than far,
Like shepherds trying to find Jesus with a glistening star.
I pinch myself repeatedly,
Blinking and blinking, bedazzled.
Then I squint my eyes in utter disbelief,
As I see a peeking smile.
From behind the tree of wonders,
A mysterious face cheekily peeps out,
I scratch my head curiously,
Which had cleared all the doubt!
Excitement bubbled inside me,
As I realised who it was,
He was the one and only,
The one there only was!
I giggled at the hysterical face he was making,
And followed him around,
To where he was standing,
To where the tree unbound.
He welcomed me with open arms,
And cuddled me to the core,
Then lifted a present from under the tree,
And gifted me a Christmas well and galore.
His eyes were green gleaming emeralds,
His smile was the cave leading to happiness,
His boots were black and long,
And he sang his merry old song,
He was indeed the man,
With the beard and the “HO!HO!HO!”
With the well-known red clothes,
He was Father Christmas for sure!
The footprints we left in the snow that day,
Will never, ever go away,
For memories remain deep in the heart,
And nothing can take them far apart.
I still re-live that footprint until now,
Because it’s the footprints that count anyhow…
Mistake
Aziza Brown
St Martins in the Field, Key Stage Three
A shallow indentation, blemish, blip, bruise. Staining the mud. Marking the place. A little bit
of broken, compressed, deflated ground. The grooves and lines all connected -like veins to the
heart- to each other and back again. More and more, all in a slightly wavering line. A long, trembling
line; Like beggars on a London pavement, these near identical shaped dents. Each more hopeless and
defeated than the last. Gradually seeming less and less determined, until they just, stop and cease to
be.
Two deep trenches in the ground wavering and wandering in place of those marks behind them. And
stopping and starting. Like a scratched record. Alternating left, right. Left, right. And then… Nothing.
Blankness. New ground is reached. A footpath. Concrete is too strong to be impacted by the weight
of one being. But one only has to look closer and
-Scratches. Oh the struggle that has been here. They lead to the wall, a damned trail of the
obligatory fight that comes as instinct, under the guise of trying to protect. And red. Red so dark
that it looks as though it was mixed using five parts shadow one part crimson. In fact, had you seen
it, you would have thought it was black paint. So unnatural in appearance one would only believe it
was the blood of a tyrant. Dark, poisonous, and turning to ice on the concrete.
And now, a flurry of snow so delicate it looks like icing sugar. But however delicate it seems against
the pale blue of the sky, when each shaving of frozen salvation touches the ground I swear I can feel
the earth move. And my ears begin to ring. I scream into the blizzard, my throat raw and
excruciatingly painful "You're destroying the evidence!" To no avail as I was quite thorough in making
sure there were no potential witnesses. But, there is no one near and the snow is roaring so loudly
that all else slips into insignificance.
Cheeks stinging and eyes streaming, I run towards the body feeling myself being repelled in the
opposite direction by the wind. Dropping to my knees, I ignore the feeling of my bones becoming
ice. I claw at the ground and I feel my fingers stiffen and lock up. I feel numb. The first thing I touch is
his chest and I immediately recoil. The blood is purging itself from his body. I push away the snow
on his face so I am no longer staring at a suspended image of just the blood stained shirt he wears.
With just his face and torso exposed, he looks like a tragic bust. His eyes stare at nothing. I look at
the blood on my hands and wish I could retract the trigger back into my gun.
I wipe my prints off the pistol lay it on his chest and run away. I decide against looking back as the
snow is falling fast and will cover everything. My regrets. My mistakes. My footprints.
Footprints
Daniela Faulds Mariscal
Chetwynde School, Key Stage Three
The girl enters the brightly lit hall; in her hand is a pair of soft satin slippers. She swiftly but surely
ties that familiar crisscross pattern and dips one foot after the other into a snowy mountain of chalk.
Her feet are marked with bruises as purple as pansies and her toenail is cracked, oozing with
crimson blood, yet all is concealed by the smooth satin of her ballet slipper.
She begins to dance, closing her eyes as she pictures the music before her. She is elegant, swift but
strong, like a paintbrush, and as she moves, her bristles create a masterpiece. Sizzling scarlet here, a
pop of sunny yolk there and a deep sky blue all around. Faster, wilder she moves, sending luscious,
vibrant colours after her, like a Catherine wheel setting off sparks.
Click-clack, tip-tap. No, this is not part of her world. She continues dancing although the passion, the
vibrancy is gone. Eagle eyes watch her as she bravely troupes on, though all emotion and life that
was once there is now gone. She is now dancing like a clockwork mouse wound too tight; dancing as
though she is a puppet who does not know how to work her strings. How she hated that woman
that was watching her. How she hated the way she treated dance as if it was prison and how she had
the girl in the tightest shackles.
She chances a look as she turns and sees a smile plastered onto her gnarly face. When most people
smile there is a sense of warmth, security; it is as if the woman’s face is a beautiful mask and you can
only see her wicked eyes, gleaming like a cat before she pounces.
Click-clack-clock. She is gone, leaving a trail of thorny footprints. The girls dance now has life in it
once more, rage powering every movement. She begins to paint a new picture, this time in black and
white. Raspberry, scarlet, ruby spins off! They are the rose shoes the woman wears, ready to grind
the girl’s hopes and dreams into the ground. Strawberry is the colour of her jammy smile when she
picks out imperfections, but way, way in the back is that same sky blue of hope, that yellow ray of
her dreams, and the sweet candyfloss pink of her passion. Her shoes.
She takes her bow and her surreal audience claps her. She will not give today, nor tomorrow, or
even the day after that because she was born with something that woman will never have. Her
staircase to fame, her passion, and now it will fill all of her dances with life and colour, no matter
whose footprints engrave in the music.
Footprints in the snow
Emily Piastra
Forge Valley School, Key Stage Three
Snow falling. The spirits in the sky sobbing. Flashbacks flooding; Blurring my senses, my thoughts, my
mind. Ghostly hands covering my eyes from the white-washed world. I stand there staring, just
staring. Confusion invading what’s left of my feelings. That day will never be forgotten, the day when
the image was embedded deep down in my mind.
It was on a winter morning when the sun had presented dawn. When the leaves had just shed a
layer of delicate white frost. When the lakes were coated in a thin sheet of unreliable ice. He was
leaving early for his day shift - how regrettable it was to let him go. I took the last bite out of my
buttered toast when it was time to say goodbye. It wasn’t as if he expected anything to occur within
the next 20 minutes of his life. So, we just said bye.
Reading. My red-rimmed glasses patiently sitting on the bridge of my nose. The sun filtered through
the living room window, casting a shadow of myself next to me. Ominously, my shadow lingered on
the wall, intimidating and tall, reflecting my regrets in a murky, mirror image.
Beside me, a light vibration broke the silence as my phone began to ring. I picked it up gingerly,
expecting a positive voice to softly make its way into my ear. But I was wrong.
A man started speaking, his voice frail and scared. I listened carefully as he muttered the unwanted
truth, barely talking, stuttering. I dropped the phone, not hanging up, giving up. Everything went
silent. My eyes started to swell with anger but also fear. Confusion and disbelief. Each drop an
emotion. Each tear a memory, escaping my mind, falling on to my open book. Soaking the pages and
spreading the letters.
I didn’t think. I couldn’t. I panicked. I grabbed my coat, not even thinking about the gloves and forced
on my tatty shoes. Because nothing else mattered. Only this. After yanking the frozen door open I
took my first step. A familiar sound, like glass crushing under my feet, was overwhelming. I ran
towards the car. A six-centimetre-thick pile of glowing white snow topped the vehicle like a hat.
Now it was a race. A race against time to reach my destination.
I drove and drove, not focused but conscious. Then, there I was. On the scene. I stepped out of the
car hearing the muffled noise under my feet once again. Then I realise something. One after the
other. Footprints. Footprints that I’ve seen before. Leading to a patch of road outlined roughly by
police tape. I carefully followed them, one by one. But there’s something else, another set of
footprints. However, I never recalled seeing them before, someone’s steps I don’t recognise.
They followed as I walked, chased as I stumbled. Tailed me in a haunting manner. I couldn’t help but
run.
Time was going fast, too fast. The future wanted me to hurry. It had something for me to see. As I
kept running, the footprints were getting closer, they were going straight for the patch in the road
directly in front of me. Closer. The prints in the snow became more visible. Closer. An unwelcome
feeling inside grew. Then I saw it, as gloomy and foggy it may have been, it stood out like a sour
thumb, crystal clear. Glowing for my arrival. Except, this arrival wasn’t planned.
Inside the square of police tape, sitting peacefully, patiently on the flakes, awaiting my reaction. A
solitary drop of blood. My head fills with questions, possible answers, but no explanation. I drop to
my knees. I had lost all hope. My love. My life. Gone…. Forever.
Another Lover – Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII
Eliza Hogermeer
Dame Alice Owen’s School, Key Stage Three
He stands there,
In his regal chair,
With his leering looks,
And flaming red hair,
He looks at me,
With a peculiar stare,
I’m uncomfortable knowing,
That his mind is elsewhere,
I know I’m just a fling,
A temporary lover,
Soon he’ll get bored, move on,
Find another,
At first it feels true,
That love was all I ever knew,
We were one, not now,
Without him I don’t know what I’d do,
Some say love is sweet,
Or that love is blind,
But love can turn sour,
Because love is not kind,
The guards come to my room,
I take a sharp breath,
They said tomorrow was my execution,
Tomorrow I would meet my death,
Now I am gone, nothing is left,
Not even a stain,
Except for the bloody footprints that remain,
Sometimes Henry regrets,
What happened that day,
So he follows the footprints,
That lead him away…
Footprints
Erin Byrne
Lancaster Girls Grammar School, Key Stage Three
What do I need to do to make my impression on the world? To leave my footprints on the highest
points, so as for them to be left untouched. Must I dive into a political abyss merely to get my
opinions known? Is the requirement in our society for us to have perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect
skin and a perfect body? And are we led to believe that we are not good enough? I have had enough.
I walk into a room full of people in my school, a room full of people that I do not know. I am in the
wrong class. Strike 1. I reach the correct classroom, Geography, and I answer a question about
glaciation. I say topiary rather than topology. Strike 2. I leave geography only to arrive in computing,
sit down and the chair breaks underneath me. Strike 3. Three strikes and it's not even 11am. Story
of my life. How am I supposed to leave my trail of footsteps all over the world, when the path is
littered with holes representing the moments I wished the floor would just swallow me whole. I
continue with the day. I drop my tray at the canteen during break. Strike 4. I say I am a toilet rather
than I need the toilet in French. Strike 5. At lunch I blindly walk into a teacher. Strike 6. Periods 7+8.
English. I fall over a chair. I drop my pencil case. I say "mini mum" rather than minimum. Strike 7,
then 8, and 9. Then PE. I trip trying to run for the hockey ball. Strike 10. How do I leave my
footprints on this earth when they're muddied with failure? When the shadows of those more
successful than me make my footprints invisible, how do I make them prominent? With so many man
made obstacles trampling on my footsteps, what do I do? After another 3 strikes on the bus alone, I
reach my house. I say hello to my mum, make my way upstairs and I collapse on the bed. I know that
if I fall asleep now I'll be rushed in the morning but that's just one strike added to a daily average of
10. My footsteps go round and round. They don't go in a new direction they just stick to the same
path as everyone else. How do I make my footprints unique? How do I stop them from being
masked by awkwardness and impurities? I arrive at school the next day and sit alone at my desk. I
listen to music. I get told off for still having my phone out when the teacher comes in. Strike 1. The
cycle starts again. Strike after strike after strike. I walk alone through the corridor. Someone comes
the opposite way and compliments my hair. Strike 2. Wait what? Somebody... compliments my hair?
Not laugh at me? Or ask why I'm not normal? They... compliment me? The next footprint I take is
solid. It remains prominent and obvious. Perhaps it will do for a number of years. Perhaps that
moment was my legacy. #669 Footprints KS3 The next day is no different. Except I know I have
made an impact on the world. I fall down the stairs on the bus. Strike 1. But it's different. I enter in
the wrong door code getting into school. Strike 2. But it's different. This one footprint leads to a
second further down the line. And then a pair in a month or so. Some of them due to little glimmers
of hope; a compliment or a praise. Others where I have helped someone, complimented them,
spread the joy. I build up my own path. I stray from my future, and by doing so I change the world.
Footprints
Iliana Fragkiadaki
Lancaster Girls Grammar School, Key Stage Three
Syria…. Bombs…. Danger… Immigration…
Syria is my beloved country. Bombs are killing weapons. Danger is everywhere.
Immigration is one-way. It is either survival or death.
Before the war, we used to visit many places like Paris, Berlin and Amsterdam. Every year, we
travelled to at least one European country.
Everything has changed now. This year, we didn't step an inch outside Syria. Fear? I guess that’s why.
As I remember now, our trip to Paris was my best holiday. There was this magnificent hotel with
room service and the lushest breakfast in the world. It had a huge swimming pool and table tennis
rooms…oh, but that wasn’t all. We had a picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower in the evening under a
magnificent sunset with hypnotising hues of pink and purple. When it was getting quite dark, we
decided to go to the hotel, but accidentally, I stepped on some wet cement. Picking up a stick, I
wrote my name onto the cement. There it was, my footprint and my name, in front of the Eiffel
Tower.
It’s nice remembering the past. People think of the past to escape the present, and that’s what I’m
doing. Why? Fear. The nightmares I usually have, come from reality.
Back then, I was a very clever pupil at school, the most popular person in our class too. Everyone
admired me. But suddenly, school stopped. All schools simply closed. But they didn’t just close. They
were forced to. They were bombarded.
Our house was one of the very few in our venue, to be proudly stood up straight. The other
buildings were only shadows merely reminding the old glory. I was afraid to look out of the window:
all I’d see was chaos. Soon, we were the only house in our square. Who kept us alive all this time?
Luck, no doubt. As time passed it became more evident we had to leave Syria, realising our lives
were in great risk.
Mum said the closest path to Europe was through Turkey. We passed Turkey until we reached a
shore separating Turkey and Greece. I could see Chios’s lights, a Greek island, opposite me,
reflected in the sea. It was dark and I knew my parents had given our last economies to the
smugglers to pass us across. Five thousand euros per person on the boat. My footprint in the sand is
the last I can remember.
Crossing that distance and bearing those hours in the cold water was what everyone dreaded.
Numerous families like us were there too. Next to me, there was a 12-year-old looking boy and he
was crying frantically like the baby near me. He covered his red face from the tears with his hands,
looked blankly at the sea, lost in his own thoughts, and then fell onto his knees, sobbing. I was twelve
and yet I didn’t realise this could be the last time I breathe.
We crowded into a big plastic inflatable boat that was so full, most of it was under water. They
pushed us all into that dinghy like we were animals. Even if small waves rose, our boat would
overflow. We held our breaths… The journey to Chios was not easy. It was a slow, painful, cold and
torturing experience. We were 1 kilometer before we ascended to land. Small waves prevented the
boat from moving on and before we knew it, our boat started overflowing with water and sinking.
Mothers and babies panicked although I would rather just disappear into the sea and never come
back up again. It’s extremely hard to swim when other people are hanging onto you, or even
swimming on your own, was nearly impossible in the freezing water, we were all dangling on each
other’s lives.
Reaching the Greek coastline we were helped by men and were given blankets to keep us warm.
Another footprint on the sand washed quickly by the waves. Then we walked to a camp. A camp
that had nearly ten thousand tents all cramped up together. The floor was covered in mud and litter.
Everything I could hear was whining, screaming, praying, and moaning…everything was a form of
hysteria and depression. We were offered a tent and stayed in that camp. That camp, was the
longest and most unpleasant period of my life.
Three months and one day. Our time here is increasing. The borders are closed, our future is dim.
My life is monotonous. Most of the time, I draw or daydream. Dream big, but you mustn’t dream
things beyond your reach. That’s always been my rule, but now I’m breaking it. I’m dreaming of going
back to Syria, and alternating what I could do to make my life perfect. But that, is dreaming out of
reach, because that will never happen again…
Footsteps
Ingrid Richardson
Loughborough High School, Key Stage Three
Why am I doing this? Why put myself through so much pain and suffering? Both good questions. The
answers are: I don’t know. I want to be fit and I want to be known for that.
One hundred press-ups.
One hundred squats.
One hundred sit-ups.
More.
I don’t like it. If you think I like it then you are nutty in the head! I’m not an enthusiastic person and I
detest it. But I do have stamina. My name is Charlotte Hannah Hurst and I will do it.
I’m running. I hear footsteps of the other runners. It’s like a stampede; it makes me powerful. I’m not
in this alone. Everyone is cheering. Not for me. Not for the guy next to me who smells. Not for
anyone running but what we are running for. The end of cancer.
5k. Should be easy but I push myself to the limits. It is for my mum who died of cancer and I can help
other people who, because of what I do, might have a better chance of survival.
I hated that day my mum died. We were supposed to go shopping but instead I had to wait at the
hospital. I heard footsteps then too, but sad ones. Ones that echo. When I looked up I saw the
doctor. He wore a white overall and a depressed look. He said, ‘I’m sorry but she didn’t make it.’
That day I ran. I’m not proud of it but I did.
But now I run for a cause. Now I run for the end of cancer. Now the footsteps are powerful.
Lead Me Home
James Prendergast
Corpus Christi High School, Key Stage Three
Running through the neighbourhood, following the large, dry, muddy footprints. I wondered
where he’d gone. The streets were empty and silent. The houses were black as the cold, dark night.
Suddenly a shriek rose from the forest in the distance. I entered a city of leafy skyscrapers, that
towered above me. I followed the footprints, half hidden by the rotting leaves, which crunched
under my feet like braking bones. The damp rancid smell of the forest caught in the back of my
throat, as if death was all around me. I felt as if I was being watched…
I started to run again faster and faster, my heart pounded on my chest. There it went again, a
shriek. There they were, the footprints in the brown sticky mud. The open fields lay ahead of me.
Still following the muddy footprints, they carved a path through the wavy long grass. They lead to an
old, derelict barn. The footprints lead up the stairs leading towards the door. I slowly walked up
trying not to brake or damage them. I poked my head around the old splintered door. “Hello!”, I
called through the silent, misty air. “Anyone here?”, as I wondered through into the crumbling barn,
there was no reply, just silence. I ventured around, avoiding the cracks in the wooden floor, mice
scurrying in all directions. Once again I heard the shriek this time louder and more chilling.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. My heart missed a beat. Goosebumps grew on my arms; the
hair rose on my skin. I scanned the floor for footprints, the same muddy footprints were ingrained
on the dusty staircase. Approaching with nervous caution, I held onto the banister to support myself,
the weight of my hand caused it to snap in half and fall down the stairs. I stopped. I thought to
myself, what if I was to be caught as well? What if he was not here? I wanted to turn back and run
for home. I love this boy; I am going to do the right thing.
I walked down the stairs with confidence and bravery to find him. Opening the door with
aggression, I faced a pitch black corridor, I took one deep breath I raised my hands in front of me
and began to feel my way. Cobwebs brushed across my face, as I staggered my way through a maze
of passages. Each door I approached I twisted the knob apprehensively expecting to face my worst
fears.
I heard sobbing, huddled in the corner of the passage way, was the small figure of a child. I
stopped and stared, my jaw dropped with shock, a tear came to my eye. I slowly walked over to see
the young child. I kneeled beside him and comforted him. Held in his arms was a toy. I recognised
the toy. I helped him up, as he whipped a tear from his face. He lifted his head and said, “I’m sorry”. I
started to cry.
“I’m sorry too”, I replied as I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “This
won’t happen again; I promise. We are brothers and we are always here for each other.”
“I was just so angry and upset that I just wanted to run away”, as another tear fell down his cheek. I
decided to hide in the barn but got lost in the maze of passages.”
“Come on let’s get you home”, I said, “Mum and Dad will be looking for us.”
Footprints
Kadian
Nottingham Academy, Key Stage Three
Footprints, map out your life:
first steps, first tantrum, birthdays
and celebrations, family gatherings
and holidays, tears and laughs.
Footprints they share our passions
and fantasies from A for All Powerful to Z
for Zapps of Fantasy
biting in to reality.
Footprints they have written the past
and we do remember yet have forgot
that they’re planning our futures from smart kids
to deaths, fantasies and families.
However they have dark sides
and some are bloody
and some are covered in there
victims’ shops glass.
They are dark and unnoticed and forgotten
and dead.
Footprints
Kathleen Tait
Icknield Community College, Key Stage Three
I hate Angus. I hate how he is two inches bigger than me. I hate how he is the boss. I hate how he is
stronger than me, but most of all I hate how he is my twin. Mum says she loves us both to the moon
and back but I think I would only just get to the moon. I know deep down that Angus is her
favourite. I can see it the way she looks at us, the way her smile wobbles when she reaches me. Even
when she was telling him off for pushing me off the side of the path I know that part of her thinks
that I had it coming.
Look at her, on the path below. That stupid hat. That silly pom-pom bouncing up and down. She
loves that hat more than me. Angus bought it for a quid from that car boot sale and she hasn’t taken
it off since. I bought her that cook book she always said she wanted and I spent all my pocket money
on it and she’s never cooked anything from it.
I hate being in the Lake District. Mum says it’s beautiful but all I can see are trees and hills and then
more trees and hills. It’s so cold I can see my breath like a small cloud of fog. My feet are frozen in
these cheap welly boots. I bet Angus’s feet aren’t cold in those new boots. ‘It’s because he grows
quicker,’ Mum said. The frost crunches under my feet like rice krispies. My footprints look so small
next to Angus’s colossal feet. Mum’s look like hoof prints from up here.
I look in front of me at my brother’s back. He’s huge, like Goliath and I am David. King David. One
small stone could make me the hero and finally he would be gone. It would be just me.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain on the ball of my foot. A flinty stone has wedged into my wellies. I pull
the boot up and yank out the stone. I can hear the crowd yelling my name. David! David! Robert!
Robert!
I imagine myself slinging the stone around my head and then I release it. The stone spins in circles
drawn like a magnet to Goliath’s head. Angus’s head. It smacks into his ear. I’m horrified. I actually
hit him. I’m secretly proud but I’m scared of what’s coming next. He turns round, his face red with
anger.
‘Hey! Why did you do that,’ he yelled.
I simply shrug my shoulders.
He picks up a stone at least the size of a table tennis ball and lobs it at me. I just duck in time but I
can feel it skim my cheek. Jesus Christ!
‘What would have happened if you’d hit me?’ I gasp.
‘Shame it didn’t.’
In that moment I realize that this wasn’t a game.
‘Psycho!’ I shout. As soon as I say that I know that will push him over the edge. I turn to run but as I
do I hear him shouting after me.
‘You’re dead Robert, I swear to God I’m going to kill you!’
I’ve got to get to Mum. I can see her. My legs are a blur thumping down the hill. She has stopped and
is looking up at us. I can see her mouth slowly moving, words about to tumble out. But then
something whizzes past. I can feel the wind gush and then it’s almost like slow motion, like I’m in a
movie.
Mum looks up. For a split second I can see the horror on her face. The next moment she drops like
a falling statue as if someone has swept her legs from beneath her. I look at Angus. Guilt surrounds
him like a thick cloud. I turn back to look at the slumped body of Mum. Her foot prints catch my
eye. They stop dead. It’s like a magician has made my mum vanish into thin air and only left her foot
prints behind.
It’s weird. I don’t feel grief or regret. All I feel is a strange tingling feeling spreading across my chest. I
don’t know what it is. I look up again at Angus and this time I see something else in his eyes: fear. He
is scared of what I know now. What I will always know. I might never tell anyone what happened but
I will always have the upper hand. Knowledge is power. I am the strong twin now.
Footprints
Louis Girling
The Latymer School, Key Stage Three
Footprints,
Thousands, millions, young and old.
In mud and rock,
Travelling.
Some starting, some ending;
But all escaping.
Journeys,
Desperate, forced;
Away from war and unrest;
Away from home.
Their possessions,
Left behind with their friends;
Who had to say goodbye.
Running, running, running.
Upon arrival, turned away;
Footprints, now going another way.
Alone, in groups, being led.
Not knowing what lies ahead;
But hopefully to safety.
Then: onto a boat they go;
Crammed and packed,
Clinging on,
for all they are worth.
Over waves capping a swirling sea;
Footprints over water.
The footprints, they tell a story
Each one, a locked memory;
Of ill-fated hardships,
On roads all leading
Away from the things they love;
Away from the things they know;
To bleak horizons;
With desperate footsteps guiding the way.
Footsteps
My Last moment Footprint
Louis Sayers
Acland Burghley School, Key Stage Three
I tread barefoot
through the snow; I am
naked, but cold is irrelevant
in this realm. I look around, and
see footprints flash before my eyes:
every indentation I have made on
this planet. I hear a convulsive sobbing
coming from the bright yet star- ridden
sky and realise that it is my mother,
cying beside my deathbed. I want to
reach out to her, comfort her. But I
can’t. I have used up the limited
amount of footprints that were
available to me and I have gone
on to a higher state of being.
As I accept this, a blinding vortex erupts before
me, and I know it’s time.
Tears streak silently
down my face as I listen to my father speak
gently to my mother
with his low, soothing
voice. A lump forms in
my throat. I tread purposefully, knowing that
these footprints are my
last physical ones. The
portal nears and then
it is before me.
I balance on
the divide between
life and death. I look up
to the sky and touch my
fingers to my lips, a final gesture to my past… And my final footprint. Before I step into the pure light, I look behind
me and see my footprints. They are solid and defined. My last one is half finished on the ground.
I smile as I fall backwards, into nothingness.To say I reach enlightenment would be wrong. Enlightenment reaches me. In a sentence. ‘Life is not about living, it is about the footprints you leave behind.’
I Don't Really Know
Madeline Flaherty
Ossett Academy and Sixth Form College, Key Stage Three
I don’t really know
how to start this poem
or end it
really
I don’t really know
why I miss the rain
in the summer
more than the sun
in the winter
or why I find inspiration
only at precisely 2:46
in the morning
I don’t really know
what they put inside these burgers
and yet all around me
people chew through it
as if they never heard the rumours
I don’t really know
what makes the leaves
of that tree green
but that one purple
I don’t really know
if what my eyes tell me is true
Shall I cut my soul from my body?
Shall I strip away the layer of paint
with the turpentine inside my mind?
Shall I let a wolf
take a bit of me
and howl at the moon
to replace my eyes?
Or shall I give up?
Let the paint slide over my eyes?
Let the wolves go hungry?
Live with the lies, until they become a part of
me –
(a square inch of my tongue
Labelled endless supply of lies)
or me a part of them –
(portrait: the shadow that was
once a girl)
like everyone seems to?
I don’t really know,
do I?
Footprints
Maks Narozanski
Forge Valley School, Key Stage Three
Frost crunched beneath his boots; a small shiver slit down his spine. He wished the cold would
freeze away the dirt. His OCD wanted to rid of the dirt on his hands. Stopping, he turned and
looked at the footprints behind him.
Old memories were blanketed by the dark of the room when the light was switched off for the last time.
When the door creaked shut for the last time. When the key turned and clicked for the last time. He couldn't let her out, there was no point. They were going to find her anyway, so it would be easier if he let them
move her.
On the pavement snow settled in a thin layer. The field was close now, only about two miles away.
He knew that he could wash the muck away, the muck that had been picking at him for so long. It
had to go soon, please. Just end soon.
Trembling, he put his red gloves in his pockets, hiding. In order to make it easier for them he'd decided to
leave the key next to the door so there didn't have to be any more damage. His throbbing head forced him
away from the place of the fresh memories.
Perseverance. That's what he needed right now, just to get to the Tap to wash away the dirt. He
dared another glance behind him, just to make sure that the prints were still on the ground. Good,
he didn't want them to go, ever. They were. Left, right, left, right. Throbbing. Please stop. Be over.
He faced his destination again; it was nearing fast.
Repulsive images, memories, formed in his head making him wretch. She was only a few hundred steps behind. Images flew through his head of her lying on the sofa, of the new red, messy kitchen, of the screams.
The throbbing got worse and it could only be stopped one way, but that was miles away. Maybe he could
wait and tell them, or hide like his hands. No, only one way.
In the close distance, it was lit up with darkness. He could still make it out though, it drew him towards it. It could, would stop the pain. Get rid of the past. Looking backwards again the footprints
were disappearing, replaced with snow. This was good news, it was just how he wanted it. It meant
freedom was close, only a few steps away. The Tap was almost within reaching distance, but he had
to be closer. Almost there.
Nearing the end of the street he quickened his pace. He needed to get there as soon as possible. The blood
was drying fast and it needed to go. So did he, but he'd already said that they'd do it. He thought about turning and moving her, but the flashing lights and the sirens were starting. They had received it then. Now he
only had to get to the Tap.
The Tap was heavier than he expected, clearly loaded, ready to cleanse. However he thought it was
too heavy, and it needed to be lighter. Click. His bloodied hand moved towards his left temple, shaking rapidly. It was time, time to wash away the dirt and stop the throbbing. Time to right the wrong.
Soon, very soon. The field was close now. Frost crunched beneath his boots. Each step created a new engravement, each step bringing back an old thought. Left, the letter. Right, the realization. Left, the fight.
Right, the knife. Throb, throb. All he needed now was for the end, to wash away the dirt. He'd left her lying
on the sofa, locked in the house, easy to find. He could've moved her somewhere, but they were always going
to find her. Why did he do it though? What was the point in what had happened? Each step forward moved
him closer to the field. The end.
The end.
Footprints
Mia Sayer
Marine Academy Plymouth, Key Stage Three
It was midday on Alternia and a young troll with pale grey skin who wore a large black hoodie
walked through the park, his bare feet leaving shallow imprints in the grass. The trolls scruffy, black
hair caught the light breeze and fluttered in the wind. His name was Maneki Nakahn and he was only
7 years old. Maneki’s mother was lying in the grass, watching the bees happily buzz around. “Don’t
go out of my sight, Maneki.” His mother’s soft voice called. Maneki turned around and nodded,
showing that he wasn’t going to disobey her. He turned back around and continued walking, coming
across a tall tree. “Hey!” he heard a voice from above him. “Why don’t you have shoes on?” The
voice sounded like it was from someone around his age, but with a lisp. Maneki looked upwards,
seeing another young troll (definitely around his age) hanging from a tree by his legs. “Heey I’m talking to youuu!” He whined (At least, Maneki thought that the troll was a he?) and crossed his arms,
somewhat annoyed. “U...Uhm I like to feel the grass between my toes..?” Maneki nervously stuttered. The troll that was hanging from the tree giggled. “Is that a statement or a question?” He asked
jokingly, his lisp strong and his arms now uncrossed and hanging down. “I’m Youcaa by the way.”
The troll known as Youcaa jumped down, performing a small backflip in the air and landing rather
spectacularly. “I…I’m Maneki…” Maneki hid his face in his large hoodie, he was very shy. Youcaa’s
four ears twitched with laughter and a slight yellow blush lightly dusted his face. “Do you wanna be
friends?” Maneki asked, his voice muffled by his hoodie. “Nah. Best friends?” Youcaa giggled again
and Maneki nodded.
~Time Skip – 10 Years Later~
“Maneki! Get your lazy butt up now!” Youcaa’s deep voice rang through the halls of their shared
apartment and Maneki groaned. He continued groaning as he got out of his warm bed, only to be
greeted by the cold rush of air that made him shiver. “Fiiiiine..! I’m up.” He yelled. Maneki was
*NOT* a morning person. “I got up at 5am and made all these pancakes so you better hurry up and
get out here!” Youcaa yelled back, obviously being mock-annoyed. Maneki lazily threw on his still
oversized hoodie and changed his shorts into his usual bright red shorts. He plodded along to the
kitchen where Youcaa was standing, wearing a frilly apron (ironically) and putting syrup on some
fluffy-looking pancakes. “Morning sleeping ‘beauty’.” Youcaa chuckled, seeing his best friend’s messy
bed-head. Maneki growled, sitting down at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Youcaa slid a plate
of generously glazed pancakes toward the still sleepy troll and chuckled again, seeing Maneki almost
fall asleep at the table. “Wake up!” Youcaa poked Maneki and he woke up almost immediately with a
flinch. “Go awaaay…” Maneki groaned but opened his eyes again. He stretched out and yawned,
grabbing a fork and then began to eat the pancakes. Soon after he finished, Maneki grabbed his bag
and began to make sure he had everything he needed for the special event he had in plan. “Hey
Youcaa I’m going to the beach for a bit.” He called out to Youcaa before he walked out the door. It
shut behind Maneki and he made his way to the beach. Maneki had made it to the beach and he
quickly ran to the caves, leaving shallow footprints in the soft sand. “There it is.” He said to himself
once he reached the caves, out of breath. Maneki then placed down inside the cave, hidden behind
the rocks. After he had set up some small fairy lights in the cave, Maneki began to make his way back
to his apartment where his soon to be (hopefully) boyfriend was waiting. It only took him about 10
minutes to get to the house as it wasn’t really all that far, it was an easy distance to run. Maneki
opened the door to his apartment and walked to Youcaa’s room. “Youcaa. Come with me.” Maneki
more so stated, grabbing the yellow-blooded troll’s large-ish hand. “Woah hey Maneki where’re we
going?” Youcaa sounded somewhat surprised. “It’s somewhere.” Maneki said simply. A while later,
they arrived at the beach. Maneki told Youcaa to take of his shoes, and they did so. Maneki did as
well. They left shallow footprints in the sand as they walked to the cave. Youcaa gasped as he saw
the fairy lights. “Sit down here.” Maneki pointed to a flat rock and Youcaa walked over to sit down.
Once Maneki was sure that Youcaa was sat down, he ran off to the area where he had hidden everything. He then came back out with a guitar and began playing a beautiful song. It made Youcaa tear
up as it was his favourite song. “So.. uh wanna date?” Maneki asked awkwardly. Youcaa smiled and
hugged Maneki, obviously a yes. The footprints that they left that day would remain for all eternity,
like their love.
Why You Mean So Much to Me
Shau’ri Wiggins
John Cabot Academy, Key Stage Three
I’ll wait patiently by the door for you,
And jump hysterically when seeing your face,
For you are my sunshine and deserve that very place.
High up in the sky, for everyone to see,
And then they’ll understand why you mean so much to me.
Creak, eek, before the gap in the door really is wide enough,
I will scoot round the door like a snake playing peek-a-boo;
And before you can get a word in edgeways,
I will wrap around my arms and hold my own hands tight,
So that I am very sure, you’ll never leave my sight.
We’ll go to the beach, you’ll plait my hair as it waves in the golden sun,
Then you’ll chase me and I’ll giggle because I never thought, sand could be so fun.
We’d discuss how there was no sand actually in sandwhitches –
and why I would always spell it wrong.
Soon the day was closing, and the breeze was picking up,
So up we got, brushing off the sand and walking in a sort of trot.
The sand would sink away from me every time I tried to stand,
So I partly gave up and watched you walk away into the sand.
If the sand fell so easy, why did feet shape it so well?
And why do my feet fit inside your feet so snug, do you know?
Well, I told you, you and I were meant to be, didn’t I?
And that’s all I wanted people to see.
Years have gone by, I’m much older now, and my interest has faded a bit,
I have watched you, intently, and your face as you sit,
You’re unhappy, aren’t you? About something I don’t know,
I see that sparkle in your eye – but not like before.
Before it was mischievous – you’d sneakily come and tickle me till I couldn’t breathe
But now it’s somewhat… sad?
Distant, spaced out as if staring intently at faraway trees.
Why is this? I just wish for you to smile.
You sleep a lot now, Mum let me come and see you,
Family visits are very rare and not the same as last year.
Oh, you don’t know how much you made the festive spirit come true,
That’s why I wish you were here.
Instead we are sat round the fire, it’s midday and bitter,
Mugs of warm in our hands and you’re snoring upstairs,
There’s not much talk but the reeling questions in my head.
What has happened that blew out the candle and made you live in bed?
I found out, you’re ill, there’s something disconnecting,
Disconnecting the threads that join your brain to your body.
I don’t quite understand, but you’re slowing drifting off
Like the sand on the beach and the lapping waves.
So we go to the beach today – just you and I like the good days,
You’ll muddle up the plait in my hair but smiling through the tangles,
You’ll try to run after me but have no energy off the rock,
So I’ll stay by your side.
I can’t giggle, instead the salty sea is trickling – making the salty ocean trickle,
And we bury into each other’s shoulders muffling the sound.
Sand just looks grey now and blurry at that,
You can’t even spell my name anymore, so we don’t laugh about sandwhiches.
It’s cold so you manage to get up and we walk back to the house – along the sand,
And still I light up inside when my feet still fit snugly inside yours,
I’m concentrating at the footprints – two in two – It must be that snug way – but I stop;
I’m still printing marks, with my little feet, but the guidelines have been lost in the sand.
Where did you go? Why aren’t you there when I reach out for your hand?
Why does Mum say you went to live on another land?
I guess you went high up in the sky, for everyone to see,
So that everyone can understand why you mean so much to me
7 Steps…
Stella Moren-Rosado
Langly Park School for Girls, Key Stage Three
Long sleeves,
Clenched into her fists.
Attendance slipping,
Grades plummeting…
I thought nothing of it.
The journey of tears,
Mapped down her face.
Silence.
Not a word…
I turned a blind eye.
It’s irrelevant. At least that’s what I thought.
Little did I know…
My daughter…
Friday 4th of November.
“Where are you sweetheart?”
“I’m sorry mother…”
My mother always used to say,
“My greatest joy is to see yours,”
It used to frustrate me,
Embarrass me,
Now I don’t know if I’ll hear her say it again…
There is no greater warrior than a mother protecting her child,
Except...
My mother didn’t know what she was fighting for.
7 steps.
A mere 7 steps before,
The world was different.
For some…
Not all.
Not me.
For me the world continues,
Though some may say that it has been reversed,
But they don’t know me…
For me the world continues…
I needed to express my thoughts.
But when I reached out in the dark,
The shadow of safety mocked me,
And let me slip away…
So now I take you back,
7 steps.
7 life changing steps…
I’m locked in a universe,
Where my name is unfamiliar.
My heart is incomprehensible.
An unexplored cavern.
I dig my nails right into my face.
A famished vulture.
Irritated skin.
Unrecognisable.
Superficial masquerade.
I am drowning myself,
Allowing my tidal fears to consume me further.
Lungs burning for relief.
Sudden breaths.
Swollen face.
Streaming tears.
Sorrow.
Frail as paper.
Scrunched.
Torn.
Discarded.
Anorexia. Anxiety. Insomnia.
The monsters chasing my thoughts,
Finally caught me.
Forced me,
To the ground.
Fake smiles.
Born to please.
Social acceptance.
Unsuspecting strangers.
Lift the façade.
Discover the damage.
A silent, internal war.
Punching crevasses in myself.
You can’t fix what you can’t see…
Unaware that I’m breaking.
Unaware that I need more time.
Trying pick myself up…
Depression. Self Harm. Suicide.
Pulling myself apart.
Clawing out my heart with my fingernails.
Serrated blades.
Jagged flesh.
As I stare at the pictures I drew on my wrist…
As innocent as those of a young, naïve child.
But these were drawn with knives.
And I drew them myself.
Step 1.
This could go anywhere…
Step 2.
It’s not too late to turn back…
Step 3.
I have to choose…
Step 4.
What will people think?
Step 5.
I’m not ready…
1 step back.
This is obligatory.
Step 5. Repeated.
Ever closer…
Step 6.
I can see the sky out the window…
Pause…
I am watching the people.
Fellow humans,
Beasts who have no empathy.
Stroll without a care in their averagely charming lives.
I am 6 steps closer than ever before,
6 steps closer to satisfying their wish.
“Oh, that worth for nothing.”
“If only she would stop contaminating the planet with dolour.”
That is what they yearn…
Step 7.
Step 7.
Step7.
The ultimate fate determiner…
I take it…
When the pain is inside,
No one can free you…
Except yourself…
Suicide?
A curious thing…
Is your weakness that keeps you alive?
You fear death.
Or your strength?
You battle the thorny universe.
Yet, is it your weakness that allows you to die?
You are incapable of facing your fears.
Or your strength?
You are fearless of fatal harm…
My last sight,
The sky magnified,
Through the surface of my tears.
I didn’t think about my mother,
As I jumped…
Selfishly,
Ego–centrically,
I dreamed of the misery,
Left behind,
I was out of its reach now…
Cynical…I know…
For a moment,
I was suspended,
Held up like a marionette.
I rose,
Out of the chasm,
I dug myself into…
Erupting from my grave above the ground.
Self–inflicted pain; dispersed,
Releasing me from the shackles,
That bound me to earth…
The sun illuminated
My corpse draped on the clouds,
A scene from a holy painting…
Mystifying…
My waves of tears,
Crystallised into shards of glass,
Refracted the light,
And from them…
Emerged a myriad of colours,
Each, an emotion telling the story of my existence.
Now,
Someone cut the fibres,
Carrying me through the sky,
And I fall onto the rivers of concrete,
Below.
It is truly over…
When I told her…
“My baby,”
“Nothing will ever hurt you,”
I truly believed I was doing it right.
I was there,
To hold her in my arms.
Step 1.
I was there,
When she crawled.
Step 2.
I was there,
When she walked.
Step 3.
I was there,
When she ran.
Step 4.
I was there,
When she tripped.
Step 5.
I was there,
When she danced.
Step 6.
I’m not with her,
As she flies.
Step 7.
Her eyes misted,
To hide the ache in her soul…
Her eyelashes cradled her tears,
Until they could no longer bear the weight.
But now angels surround her,
To dry her weeping eyes…
Her memories will be sunshine on the world,
The stars – the gleam of her eyes.
Her named will be scrawled on the sky by hurricanes,
And the winds – her dance.
Yet the rain,
Will be my mourning,
Of the 7 steps she took alone.
Walking
William Mackenzie
Queens Park Community School, Key Stage Three
All I remember is walking,
Walking till the sun went down,
Walking till we could go no further,
Walking somewhere, nowhere.
We left our motherland,
We left the guns.
The war,
The trapped liberty and the non-existent freedom.
Dictatorship, persecution,
Death.
We walked away from it all.
Our family, our friends,
Our lives.
Hoping to one day live a better life.
Live a peaceful life
Away from violence, conflict.
So we left.
We walked.
Had nowhere to go,
Nowhere to live,
We walked in hope that we would land upon the hallowed ground of heaven.
Step after step,
Minute after minute,
Hour after hour,
Day after day.
We finally reached our destination:
Freedom,
Righteousness,
Liberty,
Peace.
It was named the jungle
And we were given labels –
Refugees
Migrants
Immigrants
Rubbish
dirt.
We were nothing but numbers,
Statistics,
News stories.
That was a year ago.
I now live in concrete box,
No hope, no future.
We came here in search of a better life,
But in fact, we were walking into a snare of lies,
Dishonesty
And misjudgement.
Following the footsteps of others into darkness.
I will remember it well,
Walking.
Key Stage Four
A Killer's Footwear
Abdullah Mian
Wembley High Technology College, Key Stage Four
“Expert Forensic Inspector Henderson Felixbottom recording. I am at the crime-scene.
There is a shoe. It is a red shoe. Except it's not a shoe. It's a boot. It's leather, with buttons and
stitching. The sole is plastic. It sounds interesting; when you hit it, or stomp it, it sounds like wood. It
is old and withered, but quite nice. Past the elastication, inside, the heel is wearing away. The wearer
needs to fix their centre of gravity; there’s too much weight distributed to the heels. Toes also withered. Must have been a good kicker. Regarding the smell… stale ginger nuts. Not as bad as I feared.
The boot is from Camper and has an 'R' in a circle in the top right, indicating 'all rights reserved', so
enjoy prosecution if you decide to copy. Not much grip on this footwear. The wearer must have worn
them often. And they must have dragged and scraped their feet along instead of stepping nicely like a
mother commands a child. It's quite smooth, the sole. But… wait… oh dear. It is as I feared. Blood.
Violently distributed across the sole, like biological shrapnel. This is the boot of the murderer. I submit
this as evidence that Suspect 2 is guilty of murder. I will hand this in to be taken by the court, as
evidence against the killer. Such a shame. Really nice boot to be honest… Might buy a pair...”
Bridge
Aisha Borja
Oxford Spires Academy, Key Stage Four
Between here and Colombia
is a pontoon
of fishnet tights filled tight
with star fruit and green, salted mango.
From here to Colombia
is a pageant
of carnivals and parties
and 1am celebrations and girls
in homemade wedding dresses
twirling on their great-great-uncle’s toes.
Between here and Colombia
is a green wave
of parrots tumbling in cages no bigger
than their beady, red-glass eyes.
From here to Colombia
is a necklace
of gourds frothing
with brown nameless soups and fried
everything and big bottom ants and
sauces from everywhere and roadkill armadillo.
Between here and Colombia
is a zip line
of stretched elastic marriages
to high school boyfriends.
Between here and Colombia
are stepping stones
of thousands of lost relatives weaving
down hot pavements, dangerous with carts
ready to pinch your cheeks and say
You are too thin, what have you been doing?
And I will set out to travel
from here to Colombia
I shall step out
onto the stretched-tight washing line
which links our houses
and wobble onto
the telephone wires
which dangle in the mango trees.
I will ignore the calls
from great aunts and great grandmas
great cousins and first cousins,
and hold out the corners of my dancing skirt.
I shall point my jelly sandals
towards the Columbian sun
and dance cumbia, cumbia –
until I get there.
Emigree
Ana-Maria Coromelcia
Wembley High Technology College, Key Stage Four
Warm, welcoming and wonderful. The smell of freshly baked cherry tart filling the stuffy air. The
limited edition Hannah Montana posters covering the bright pink, cracked walls. The sound of cars
passing by being overpowered by the sound of melodious mockingbirds singing and dogs barking
There was a cosy, comforting atmosphere which made me feel safe and protected. It made me feel
loved and accepted. My home.
I left that perfect home for one far way, in a foreign and unknown land. One that doesn’t feel
welcoming. One that gives off a depressing vibe from its plainness and simplicity. One that has
undecorated white walls, too perfect to be true. One that makes you feel like a guest in your own
house from the its unfamiliar feel. Bouncy mattresses, Egyptian sheets, handmade blankets. These
things make this home unbearable. It is too posh. Too sophisticated. Too much for me. This is not
my home.
Five years ago I left behind my motherland. I came to a new country and felt like a newborn who
was just learning the wonders of the world. Everything was different. I went from living in a peaceful,
remote village to living in one of the biggest capitals in the world. I went from having numerous
friends to suddenly being alone. My native language that allowed me to express myself so well before
was now making me feel trapped and hopeless. You don’t appreciate your ability to speak a language
and to communicate to others until you find yourself in Asda, trying to buy food, and then realise
you don’t even know how to ask where the milk is. I felt helpless. Trapped.
I go back home as often as I can. I feel like I’m living a double life. It’s always hard to come back here,
but never to go home. My home is always there, waiting for me exactly as I left it. The light in my
room still broken, the roof still always allowing water to penetrate through, the walls cracked and
damaged by several years of weathering.
I commute back and forth every year, but a piece of me is always left home.
A Life in Footsteps
Anna Young
Chobham Academy, Key Stage Four
Government Guidelines:
•A PERSON'S LIFE LASTS UP TO 175200000 FOOTSTEPS, SO CITIZENS ARE REQUIRED TO
TAKE NO MORE THAN 6000 STEPS PER DAY. ANYONE WHO GOES OVER THIS MEDICALLY
APPROVED LIMIT SHALL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.
•IT IS ADVISED TO WALK EVERYDAY SO THAT WE AS CITIZENS CAN GROW AND HELP
OUR COMMUNITY. THE MINIMUM AMOUNT OF STEPS PEOPLE ARE INSTRUCTED TO TAKE
IS 4000. ALL ABLE-BODIED PEOPLE WHO DO NOT WALK THE MINIMUM AMOUNT SHALL
SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.
• PARENTS AND TEACHERS ARE EXPECTED TO CHECK ON THEIR CHILDREN'S STEP
COUNT OFTEN, AND SHOULD HELP THEM ACHIEVE THEIR GOAL.
•WHEN YOU REACH 100KM YOU NEED TO WALK BETWEEN 100-200 STEPS PER DAY. PARENTS ARE EXPECTED TO HELP THEM ACHIEVE THIS.
•WHEN YOU REACH 500KM YOU NEED TO WALK BETWEEN 1000-2000 STEPS PER DAY.
PARENTS ARE EXPECTED TO HELP THEM ACHIEVE THIS.
•WHEN YOU REACH 1000KM YOU NEED TO WALK BETWEEN 3000-4000 STEPS PER DAY.
PARENTS ARE EXPECTED TO HELP THEM ACHIEVE THIS.
•WHEN YOU REACH 5000KM PEOPLE SHOULD START TO WALK THE AVERAGE REQUIREMENTS. THOSE WHO DO NOT, SHALL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.
There was a time in my life after which I grew, no more. Not because I wanted that, or desired to
prolong my miserable existence. I just...couldn’t.
I used to dash around everywhere, moving rapidly from one place to the next. I never paid attention
to the government’s guidelines, and my parents grew annoyed. At first, they weren’t sure how to
keep me within my limits. “You’ll be older than us!” they often scolded. Eventually, they just
grounded me for weeks at a time. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried them so.
I wonder what they’d say about this now.
It’s been ages since I’ve last seen my friends. My fault, I guess. After my accident, I kept to myself,
wouldn’t see anyone. To me, they were just reminders, reminders of the me I used to be. The me I
will never again be.
Just because I stayed away doesn’t mean they didn’t. In fact, they were quite persistent at first. Ringing me up, visiting me at the hospital, coming round. Criticising my carers, recommending new ones,
eying my medical equipment apprehensively. But, like everything else in this cruel world, they faded
away, far too quickly.
Where did they all go?
My current carer is a man who’s taken far more footsteps than me. Half the amount he’s got, I’m
guessing. I don’t know his name. He treats me like an object, a job, a task to complete. In his eyes I
see he thinks I’m useless. I guess he’s right.
How did I end up this way?
“Where are you off to now?”
“Around, just around.”
Why did I end up this way?
Getting back in my car, I turn on the radio and set off back home. The night is dark and young, and the
street lamps seem to flicker to one another, as if conversing. Outside, a group of girls are walking back from
a pub, laughing hysterically and tottering around in their high heels. On the opposite side of the street, a business man is strolling, swinging his briefcase in a calm, controlled manner. He seems pleased.
When I hit a red light, I stop and drum my fingers into the steering wheel. I glance at briefcase man, who
has stopped swinging and is now on the phone. Smiling, I continue with my drive. It was going smoothly, like
any other day. But of course, this wasn’t any other day.
I take a left, and to my horror, can see something speeding towards me. It’s a car, on the wrong lane. I didn’t
know what to do. Swerve? But how, where? How do I get out of thisStabbing pain, agony rolling over me in waves, waves. Those clouds look like fishes, don’t they? I can sort of
see them through the window. Do you think they’re laughing at me? Do they even notice I’m there, me, a
trail of pitiful footsteps, ending here, now? B-b-but I can’t! I have so many things left to, to do. I can’t, I don’t
want to s t o p…
I was too late. Life as I knew it ended in that one moment…
“You’ve got a spinal cord injury, and it means you’ve lost function of both legs.”
“So, I can’t walk again?”
“I’m sorry.”
“...”
“You know, you’re lucky.”
“I’m what?”
“Lucky. The person who crashed into you didn’t make it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The government keeps a firm eye on all civilians, especially those who go over or do not reach the
limit. They’re honest, which is the only good quality about them. There really are consequences,
though not everyone knows this.
“He’s at the traffic lights.”
“Good. Everything is in position.”
“He’s moving now. He’s taking the left.”
Their methods are brutal, inhumane. The “accidents” are always ready, waiting for their next victim.
The Stag
Andrew Avison
Wirral Grammar School for Boys, Key Stage Four
Printed clearly in the half-frozen mud were the hooves of the frost white stag that he was hunting.
Amid bushes smothered in feet of snow he walked, tracked and stalked the beast, for days he was
immersed in the thickest parts of the forest, so much so that he couldn’t see day or night, only a
faint light illuminating the dense canopy of pine. Howling around him the wind sounded like a pack of
wolves, circling, snarling, hungry and eager for a meal, for him. Heavy, as if it were concrete, his rifle
numbed his arms until they stung like so many thousands of needles, like ice sinking into the skin, like
millions of maggots tunnelling into him, eating away at flesh, bone and tissue. Cold was sinking in too,
deep into his body, snow melting on his face, dripping down his neck in icy beads, a knife against his
throat.
As the pain grew he slowed, grew weary. He came upon a clearing where he fell upon his hands and
knees, eyes streaming. A howl erupted from the eerie stillness of the forest, another one, and there,
another, they started to mingle together into one long call for blood. Then he heard a low growl,
and a snarl sinister as the cracking of ice from behind him. He looked up into the trees, a pair of
yellow eyes appeared in the darkness, with blood red pupils, like rubies shimmering in the moonlight,
staring, silent as death, at him. They all came out at once, synchronized, in perfect harmony, as if
operated by machines, their paws barely imprinting in the ground, only making noise as quiet as a
whisper…
As they emerged from the dark green trees the wolves formed a large circle round him, he gripped
his rifle closer to himself as he stood to the tallest he could be and reached for the knife hanging at
his hip. The first was jet black, the one with eyes that looked like two garnets glistening blood red,
large, almost as tall as the hunter. Another, with fur like smog and soot, strode out of the brush, he
was smaller than the dark one, but he bit at the air, and opened his mouth to reveal raw gums and
stained yellow teeth, as sharp as razorblades. He whirled around in panic, looking around he saw five
great hulking figures, drooling with longing and desire for a meal, their slaver struck the ground with
a hiss, and melted the snow beneath them. They circled him, threatening him with bared fangs, like
his own knife which he now drew from its sheath, sparkling and twinkling in the pale luminescence of
the moon and stars, the blade shone, a cold silver, which winked at him in the light. Now they were
getting closer, tightening the ring around him trapping him in, they moved faster now, seeming to
blur into one monstrous creature, with five hungry mouths snapping at his heels.
Suddenly, swiftly, the largest jumped at him, mouth agape. He could see its tongue lolling in the back
of its mouth as it lunged at him. Suddenly, in a flash as quick as lightning and powerful as thunder, he
slid under the wolf and stuck his knife in its throat. Its life poured out of it as it let out a short squeal
of terror, and stained the ground a bitter rose, its eyes faded in their glow as it passed into death,
and was silent. The other wolves stepped back in terror for a moment as they saw what had just
occurred, then they resumed their attack. They all jumped upon him at once before he could react
he fell to his face and covered his head and neck as they began to rip into him, he could feel his own
warm blood soaking into his clothes and dripping down his body. He knew that this was the end for
him and decided to fight back, he rolled back over onto his front knocking a brown wolf on the nose
with his elbow he pulled his knife out of the pulsing wound of the previous kill and the wolves
seemed to cringe slightly with fear. He now jumped towards the chestnut coloured wolf that he had
knocked down earlier but missed his thrust, and they swatted him back down, and the knife flew out
of his hand, out of reach. There was nothing he could do now.
But the out of the corner of his eye he saw the beast that he had been hunting all this time, watching
the scene unfold, with its deep black eyes. Then it charged, putting its head down, and swept the
wolves off him, launching them into the trees beyond, into the dark of the wood. The stag now
stood over him, its antlers standing tall and proud were soaked in blood, it stared back at him with
those eyes, dark as coal, and he resolved to leave with the stag alive, unharmed.
Untitled
Imogen Harrison
Holyport College, Key Stage Four
When a rubber boot falls
Upon the ground below
Crushing autumn leaves
Or compacting fallen snow,
When a bare foot treads
With a sole and five round toes,
A secret is born.
By water we amble,
Under blinding sun we tread,
Our eyes follow silhouettes
Of birds overhead.
The river flows along,
As sunlight sets the leaves ablaze.
I feel the earth breathe relief
As sunset falls, and daylight fades.
But beneath the fiery leaves
And beneath the sprouting weeds,
Networks of roots twist and writhe.
Yet we walk on.
We turn our eyes to the dusty path
As our feet fumble in the silky dark,
We don't see the world below,
As we wander all together,
But altogether alone.
Out My Way
Kezron Betts
Holyport College, Key Stage Four
Friday, end of the day, all I want to do
is do my physics and go home but you’re all
Oh miss I’m too hot,
Oh miss I’m too cold,
Oh My God.
Not saying I’m perfect but
you just have to stop.
Stop moaning.
Stop complaining.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself because
the only way you’re gonna get good grades is
if you’re prepared to work for them
like everyone else.
You just go on and on and on
like seriously
you cause
more drama than an episode of Eastenders.
So I’m telling you right now:
Get out my way
cos this is where I’m going.
Suburban five bed family home, no pool, just
a big back garden
just so I can play family games and stuff.
Monopoly.
Football.
Have parties for my kids, all three, they’re 12, 13 and 3.
The little one’s called Max,
the oldest boy, the twelve year old, Joseph
and the girl, Nicole. She’s got brown hair, longish,
my brown eyes and her own small nose. She’s like 5’9 and
she always wears a hairband,
red, a present from her mum when she was ten.
Judith, we met in England when she came for college, then we met again.
She likes camping, like me, and she works in the music
industry, songwriter and a bit of a singer.
We’re watching a movie, the kids are playing somewhere, I’m making a stir fry.
Chicken and herbs and I’m happy.
That’s where I’m going so:
Get out my way.
Footprints
Maria Clark
Hemel Hempstead School, Key Stage Four
His footprints are two sizes too big and vast craters in the earth.
They are distorted, stretched out by the water clinging to the pavement.
They are his, but not his own.
They brand him, mock him for who he is. Just like everyone else.
Take that moment: he's walking along the pavement. A girl appears ahead. He keeps his head down,
trying to hide his face, staring at the footprints. They sneer up at him.
The girl gasps: a choking noise, hastily shoved down her throat. She must have glimpsed it.
Keep looking at the footprints.
She crosses the road, her feet slamming against the pavement in her haste to get away.
He sighs.
Knows she didn't mean it.
It was the wig.
It keeps his head warm, though, he argues. His footprints stare at him blankly.
When he removes it, his fingers get caught in the synthetic crimson curls. A twinge of doubt flickers
through him. Was she right?
He knows that what he does is dangerous. But it's his vocation.
But now everything's changed.
He's living to make people laugh. All they do now is shriek and scream, even if he tries a smile.
The footprints laugh at him.
They whisper cruel taunts, knowing they are responsible for how he is judged.
As is the wig, stuffed in his backpack.
As is the make-up, plastered across his face.
Something snaps.
Why should he have to do what they say?
He takes off his shoes.
Now, that's better. Two fingers curling around the heels of the shoes. Bare feet sighing as they slip
through autumn sludge.
He's heard people say bare feet is the best. Good for exfoliation, good for the soles, good for the
soul.
He doesn't think so.
Each step into the next, muddy, soggy, swirl of colour sends tremors ricocheting down his back. Red
and yellow and orange jumbles sticking between his toes. They feel like drowned cornflakes,
suffocating under milk.
His nails dig into the worn fabric of his shoes. Too big for him. He has to stuff the toes and sides
with cotton. They're painted red. The colour of love and cherries and the very first car he had.
But also the colour of blood.
Like the blood dripping from the knives that his cousins carry in films. They embrace their identity,
stamping their footprints into the ground, tattooing it for him to see.
All he wants to do is make people laugh.
But not this way.
He'll find a job.
But what he is - what he was - has vanished underneath the carpet of autumn leaves.
The shoes are in his hand. The wig in his backpack. The footprints - smaller, quieter, softer - are his
own.
There walks another ex-clown, casting the first footprints of his new life.
The Right Choice
Monae Bailey
Wembley High Technology College, Key Stage Four
The perfect shoe. You have to find the right one. It has to be comfortable. The right grip at the
bottom; you don’t want to fall. Holes. Your feet need to breathe. You’ll be doing a lot in these
shoes. They need to be perfect for you. A comfortable sole. The right size. Not too big, not too
small. Laces? Not too short, not too long. Specific colours if you like, what’s your favourite?
You’ve chosen the shoe and now you can practise in it. At the track, you prepare to run, stretching
beforehand. The shoes feel great as you jog during your warm up. Then, you make your way to the
starting point. Setting up like you usually do, you are prepared to run faster than you’ve ever ran.
Bouncing on your toes before you kneel on the ground, you realise you’ve made the perfect choice
as your feet seem to spring back up off the track. Then, it’s time. The air rushes through your hair,
adding to the excitement running through your veins. You can feel the cold air pricking your skin and
creating goose bumps but you ignore the feeling, focusing straight ahead of you. Your knees scrape
against the track, sending shivers through your body. You are cold as you impatiently await the voice
of your coach. Your toes tingle, ready to move and your hands are placed on the ground, prepared
to give you a good start to set you off. Your coach begins to speak and you ignore the voices of
other athletes, also practising around you, as well as the glorious smells drifting, taunting you, from
inside the nearby cafeteria, trying to distract you and reel you in. Ready, set, go.
And you’re off. Your hair moves around in the wind, flying around your face as the wind tickles your
ears. But unwaveringly, you continue. Sprinting along the track, you will your legs to go faster,
wanting to finally beat your record. Your feet pound on the ground as you move along the track,
sending vibrations through your body as your blood pumps. Faster and faster. Your arms move with
your feet, slicing through the harsh air as your heart pumps even faster to match your speed. Your
muscles are burning but the pain gives you an adrenaline rush, helping you to carry on. Faster and
faster. You’re gliding along in your new shoes. They seem like the perfect pick. You’re doing great in
them. They’re your special shoes now, almost as good as the old ones. You realise you have been
side-tracked so you set your eyes on the finish line and concentrate on pumping your arms and legs
desperately so they will bring you to the finish line. Faster and faster. You’re almost there, one final
push. You barely pass the line before you turn around, nearly losing your balance as you are anxious
to find out what time you ran in. Have the new shoes worked? Are they as lucky as the old ones?
Questions run through your head as you make your way to your coach, trying to catch your breath
and slow your heart rate.
“New shoes?” he asks. “Nice.”
Your confusion is clearly displayed across your face as he looks at you in amusement. You look
down at your shoes, before looking back up to him, still lost and he begins to laugh. The realisation
hits you as you look back at the track in excitement, hopping in ecstasy as you make your mark in
the sand beneath your feet.
I Can’t Remember Her
Nabina Pun
The John Wallis CofE Academy, Key Stage Four
I can’t remember her entirely,
I don’t know her face anymore,
I’m not sure what I remember is true
Or just imagination
But I remember she had dark eyes and dark hair,
Hair that fell down her back like fire
And eyes that scared me.
Her skin wasn’t tan like mine,
Neither was it satin nor bloom.
Maybe leather
But I think she had that sort of face,
Where you couldn’t guess her age,
I think she had protruding cheeks,
Not baby fat on her face,
She didn’t have chubby cheeks,
It was just the way her facial bone structure was,
I think.
I’ve forgotten the way she smiled,
A certain imperfection in the way she smiled,
I think she wore a crooked,
Yet charming and goofy smile
That creased and bent the corners of her mouth
Or if she smiled with her teeth,
And her eyes shone like marbles
And something glowed.
Neither, can I remember the moles on her face,
Maybe one above her upper lip near the left side of her face
But I don’t know anymore,
I don’t know her voice,
I’ve forgotten her tone,
The brittleness and the sudden rush of brisk words.
Her accent,
I’m sure it wasn’t high-pitched,
Or honeyed,
Maybe the opposite,
The voice of someone I trust
Though it wasn’t the voice of a songstress or an angel,
God knows she wasn’t a cherub.
I think I was fond of how she talked,
But most memories of her are mute.
I can remember walking on golden leaves,
Behind houses and their tall back garden fence,
Hidden from the road by a dark hedge.
In between we walked,
Secluded we thought,
But it was nothing special.
The park,
With the creaky metal gate,
With the graffiti sprayed roundabout,
That and the body of a red plum,
With our favourite swings,
I remember the other gate,
That led us nowhere in particular,
With small intertwining paths that were just treaded on grass,
We took one particular route always,
That took us to an open space,
Without green trees,
Or fallen masses of vivid brown, yellow and beaming orange
But grassy fields with golden plants
That looked like emmer or spelt
With skies that resembled sheets of cobalt silk
And the complete feeling of calmness.
I remember one time,
We saw dandelions,
And the bitterness of the cold weather
And the silly excitement of wishes
As well as the dark sky
I don’t remember what I wished for,
But it felt like praying.
The sun was covered by gathering clouds
And I remember she was adamant of not telling me hers.
The curiosity killed me at the time,
I hugged my knees,
I asked her a million questions,
She wouldn’t look at me,
And I remember a brusque grin,
The wave of her hand
My sniffles and her red eyes
And an unexpected silvery laugh,
But I don’t remember what she said next
Or the reason I was left alone.
I don’t remember the time,
But I remember the weather got better,
The way the grey clouds moved
And revealed pretty colours
Of blended orange like smudged colours on a paper,
With faded light blue
And perfectly shaded clouds,
The way the suns light painted the clouds and filtered through
In beautiful art
And I remember waiting.
I don’t remember the clothes we wore,
So it’s hard to remember if she came back,
Or if it’s another day
But the chronological changing colour of the skies mildly convinces me she came back.
After that we went back to the park,
We were on the swings,
I don’t remember words spoken between us
Or idle chatter
Just the creaking of the swings,
The shadow cast on the ground I stared at.
We were lazily swinging our feet,
Pulling them in and kicking out.
I remember later the sky behind her turn black
As I stood facing her.
I can’t remember her entirely,
I don’t know her anymore,
I’m not sure what I remember is true,
Or just imagination
Footprints
Samirah Yasmin
St. Pauls Way Trust School, Key Stage Four
I guess it’s cliché to say that I want to be remembered, but then again, things become cliché because
they’re true. Some may call me an idiot, and say that oblivion is inevitable – that we’re all to be
enveloped in the perpetual darkness of the unknown – and I suppose that’s right. One day there’ll be
no-one left to remember John F Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr, let alone little old insignificant
me. But that desire to be remembered is just one of my purely human traits.
Oh, humanity. Such a pure, corrupted race. So full of hope, and obsessed with being known,
yet their memory will disappear like the wind blows away footprints in the sand. How futile our
attempts at making it big are, because once we’re six feet under and turning to dust, will any of this
really matter? To be honest, does any of this matter now? Once we die and are in the ground, will it
really have been worth it? The suffering, the endless pain and struggle to try and make ends meet –
all for what? A pit of darkness and insects crawling into our unseeing eyes and nibbling away at what
we cared about so much.
Some say that God, the ever forgiving and loving master, gives us our deserved reward in
another life – but what about this life? What about all the wretched and corrupt politicians living in
the high life while people with hearts of gold and no money must subsist in destitution? God hasn’t
maintained any sort of balance – that is, if He even exists. What a laughable concept. A man in the
clouds who controls everything that happens, and yet loves us? If He loved us, why are there so
many natural disasters? Women and children taken advantage of by men who care for nothing but
things that serve their own interests? But whatever. What use is there in ranting aimlessly if He’s
never answered any of my prayers, and never will?
I sigh and get up from my seat, retrieving my now cold mug of coffee, which has just been
sitting on the table as I brewed in my thoughts. I do this a lot now, I’ve noticed. I lose time and find
myself thinking for hours that feel like minutes. Dysphoria follows, making my stomach uneasy and
my head spin. My footing slips and my equilibrium vanishes as I fall to the ground. I start seeing
double, and I try to help myself up by grabbing the couch and pulling upwards, but I just fall to the
ground again. It feels as though I’ve lost strength in all corners of my body – and let me tell you, that
is no fun.
The chemo obviously hasn’t been working. Chronic Lymphocytic Leukaemia. I was diagnosed
three years ago at the age of 18. I was just starting university – studying to be a surgeon. And then I
started to get tired. Really tired. At first, I just wrote it off, thinking it was lethargy from hard work –
I was a uni student after all. But then I began to lose weight, and a lot of it. I got nosebleeds, and
weird spots on my skin, and a whole load of other things. That’s when I realised something was been
up, and to the doctors I went, to be met with drastic news. I had cancer.
I drag myself along the floor, unable to muster the strength to stand, but I reach my
medicine cabinet, which I keep low in anticipation of moments like these, I grab my Chlorambucil
and dry swallow it. I can’t even attempt the feat of getting a glass of water. I probably take a couple
of too many, but at this point, I don’t care. It doesn’t make a difference. Supposedly, Chlorambucil is
a wonder drug whose alkylating agent will kill my cancer cells. But my cancer is everywhere, so I
guess that means it’ll kill me too. I don’t have any false hope. I am more than aware that my
condition will be my end.
I can’t take this anymore. All this waiting until the day my sickness finally takes me. I don’t
want to die because I’m weak and can’t survive a few nasty cells. It feels undignified. There’s nothing
brave about losing your life to illness, despite what people say. It’s pathetic. I don’t want to be
remembered as ‘Mr Miller’s sickly daughter’.
I want my footprints to be left in cement, not sand.
His Foosteps
Skye Kimber
Queen’s Park Community School, Key Stage Four
I Look behind me,
And lOoming,
Are his footsteps.
Ever closer, always one pace behind me,
But neVer.
Never.
NEver will
I let him caTch up.
Drops of scaRlet decorate the ground behind me
But I can’t tell if they’re from my ever-deepening woUnds or from
Some other victiMs misfortunes.
His footsteps are wispy,
Separated and varying.
They started out small, scared by our
OverPowering determination
But he grew,
Grew,
Grew.
A juggernaut, his presence ever greater
And more dangerouS,
His footsteps more secure and grounded every step.
Hatred echoed around him, a thick smog
Choking me,
Choking them.
Killing us.
He leaves a trail of filth
Behind him on the road
To nowhere,
His path framed by sickness and
Hatred.
Hatred.
The fuel for deAth and plague
The fuel for segregaTion and separation.
The fuel that empowered the rich,
The greedy and the white for centuries.
That was the past, a long time ago.
That had stopped in our present,
hope shining through the cloudy skies, but.
That is our future.
A futurE, we chose.
Footprints
Sophie King
Long Stratton High School, Key Stage Four
The footprint was fresh, created in the early morning light, amongst trees that glistened with frost.
Many more followed it and many it followed; taking shape through the forest, weaving in and out of
the trees, crunching leaves and snapping branches along the way. Scuttling creatures danced around
but stood stock still at the sight.
Deserts emerged, nothingness taking over as the footprints wandered on. Once in a while, a tree
would appear on the horizon, offering a hope of shade, only to be shattered by the act of
disappearance. Animals lurked in the sand unknown and unnoticed despite the eerie silence. Their
frozen glares fixated upon the lonely wanderer.
Mountains sprung up out of nowhere as the journey trundled on, tipped with snow and glazed with
ice. He battled with the cold his arms tied securely around him leaving no hope of escape.
Goosebumps formed on his arms as snowflakes fell through the bitter air, their course disturbed
only by the unforgiving winds. Shivers took over as the cold that penetrated his thin, hole ridden
jacket was finally too much. But still he wandered on, his destination becoming ever closer, his
determination undampened, his willpower burning bright.
Tears trailed down his cheeks, leaving the skin damp in lines. Defeat was catching up; his willpower
was still in the lead, still winning the race. But defeat was closing the gap, diminishing his hope.
With each step, it got both easier and harder to keep going. His muscles screamed in agony with
each contraction. But he was one step closer to his goal. The conditions: hot, cold, wet, dry, windy.
Tested his ability to will himself somewhere else. Anywhere else.
-------------------------------------Her hair was tied in plaits, scraped with precision into flowing braids that accentuated her beauty; by
hands that belonged to none other than herself. She strode towards him: a man in his early twenties
dressed up for the occasion. He complimented her and she smiled, her eyes glistened when she
smiled, he liked it when she smiled.
-------------------------------------A snapped shell jolted him back to reality, back to the hell that he was attempting to survive. He
tried desperately to return to his half comfort of a daydream but it was too late, his comfort had
faded away. If he was going to make it he would have to endure every single painful step. The sand
had felt pleasant at one time but it didn't take long for the tiny granules of rock to no longer provide
a small pleasure but just painfully eat away at the flesh between his toes.
The sunsets were beautiful, the reds bleeding into the oranges on the horizon, but he didn't stop to
watch. Just caught glimpses of them as the days went by, one by one. Then the habit was broken. As
his feet ground to a halt his legs gave way and he fell to the ground. He sat that day, “just long
enough to watch the sunset” he told himself. But as the day faded into night his eyelids grew heavy,
his willpower became insufficient. He fell into a deep yet restless sleep.
Visions danced around and tormented his subconscious, nightmares plagued his emotions until it
became too much and he had no other choice but to scream himself awake. “This is why I can't
sleep”, he reminded himself, there is no difference between my fantasy and my reality: they are both
equally terrifying. Therefore I must stay awake, I can't make a difference in my dreams, and I can't
change them. But surely I can impact reality.
The end was in sight, a cottage shaped blur on the horizon brought hope to his heart. So he
journeyed on, his footsteps heavy, his heart rate elevated in anticipation.
The blur on the horizon became clearer by the minute. He could see the red roof glistening in the
midday sun. Paint chips lying on the ground: long since forgotten. Clothes danced around the
washing line swaying in unison.
He was nearly there.
He could see her shadow through the window as he got closer. Then he stopped, halted in his
tracks. His mind racing.
He couldn't do it. Despite all his wandering he still wasn't ready, he still wasn't ready to talk to her.
So the journey carried on.
Footprints
Stephen Sowerbutts
Wirral Grammar School for Boys, Key Stage Four
The air bent to the will of the cannons, shot after shot after shot, their mighty power bellowing out
over the landscape and releasing upon the houses. The children’s houses, the families houses…the
houses of people who had done nothing wrong.
Decaying broken walls had surrounded the city, their might and glory faded to an immortal enemy.
Time. Walls, no matter their age, were a good enough deterrent for bandits, thieves and wild
animals but against a fully-fledged army they had crumbled in minutes. Sounds of explosions and
screams had roused me from my sleep, I knew them well enough.
Sadly I packed my things into the decaying fabric of my travel bag, the ground quaked with every
shot of the cannons. They weren’t an army of efficiency, they didn’t need to be, not with those
numbers. I knew this but the people of this city didn’t. Their children didn’t; their women didn’t and
their soldiers certainly didn’t as I watched them march in droves off towards the front line. Long ago
I would have joined them, not now, never again.
Emotions bubbled to the surface of my mind as I said my final goodbyes to this city. Sadness,
nervousness and familiarity…I felt indifferent and that feeling led to guilt, to shame and to… Rubbing
the sleep from my eyes I pushed away the thoughts that gnawed at my conscious and made for the
southern gates.
Slipping unnoticed through the traders exit I whispered a silent thank you to the vigilance of the city
guards, I despised killing people and that army would often surround a city if they were undetected.
The body count I have created keeps me up most nights.
As I felt the city get smaller behind me I felt a final pang of guilt as I saw the billowing smoke fly up
from the remains of the city. They were such a proud city, with an experienced fighting force to
back it. Nothing I said would have ever convinced them to flee, they would have denounced me as a
madman, a fool, or ignored me altogether.
The sounds of cannon shots, screams, the smell of fire and gunpowder had all faded behind me now
and all I could hear was the crunching of gravel beneath my feet. Blatant footprints left on the
desolate pathway.
All of the journeys I had been on, everywhere I had visited and everything I had seen was blurred
together. I can’t remember how many days it took to get to Haracsania but when I arrived I
immediately used the last of my funds to purchase a one-bedroom house and some food for the
night.
The first few weeks were a blurred haze as I filled every fibre of my body with alcohol, the mindnumbing tingly sensation replacing the thoughts of the people who had died on my journey here. The
torturous hangovers the next day, every day, were a cruel reminder that I could blur my memories
all I wanted but where I’d been and what I’d seen would never disappear. At least one imprint of that
malicious army’s misdeeds would remain as long as I walked this earth. Ghostly footprints that they
would follow until I was dead upon the end of a blade or splattered by a cannon shot.
After I’d stopped my endless drinking I spent a week recuperating before heading out into the city,
beyond the bar at least. I spent a few hours each day doing odd jobs around the city for a small fee
and then went sight-seeing. Cheerfully I chatted with the residents of the mighty Haracsania, I visited
shops, restaurants, parks and theatres. The people just as entertaining and amazing as the location
itself.
Months passed on and I was beginning to wonder if they’d gone the wrong way, the ancient army
that bathed in blood as it marched that land itching for mine. Sighing I jumped out of bed, trying to
push the thoughts out of my mind. Slowly clambering up onto my roof I looked out upon the city, its
walls making me feel almost secure…almost. Leaping back onto the ground I entered my house and
locked the door, my warm bed finally giving me a good night’s sleep.
It may have been hours later that I awoke, I certainly felt quite refreshed as I awoke to the sounds of
explosions and…cheers. Confused I rushed out of my house, grabbing only my practise sword as I
went. Pushing through crowds of cheering civilians and groups of soldiers I made my way to the top
of the wall. No permission needed as most were busy with the invasion.
Looking out over the battlefield I realised something, saw something, I thought I’d never see. An
army to rival my enemy. Cannon shots fired upon my enemy, legions of soldiers battling theirs, a line
being held…just. It was decided that this was my final stand, this time no footprints would be made.
Except theirs as I chased them away from my home, Haracsania. Nothing will stop me anymore.
How do you know an elephant is hiding in your fridge?
Tom Donaldson
St. Mary’s College, Key Stage Four
I am a detective. Whenever I take on a new case, I head straight for the fridge. I know that behind
that door is a whole world of mystery. Some men question my methods, others ask me to pass
them a beer. They may mock me, but I've been in this game a long time. Where you see cold beer, I
see icy death. Yes, I know you're there, hiding among the drips, the stains, the filth. It's just a matter
of time before you make a mistake. And then I notice the butter ...
It was late afternoon as I sat among the murmuring travellers in the old mill, now a coffee shop. To
my left sat a dour man, with loose jowls and a too tight tie, waiting for death or perhaps a buttered
crumpet. Instinctively, I loosened my own tie, and sat straight up, so as to lengthen my neck and
minimise the signs of age.
My crumpet arrived. I'd been so busy trying to remould my mortal clay that I'd failed to see who
delivered my order. I looked again to my left. How had I not seen the waitress' reflection in the
mirror? The young woman definitely had something vampiric about her, with her heavy make-up and
shock of black hair. Maybe she had no reflection? But then, how did I fail to see the small plate, with
it's cargo of crumpet, butter and spoon, seemingly sailing unaided through the air? The thought
brought a slight smile to my face, but it did not suit me.
Looking around, I tried to catch the waitress' attention, I thought to acknowledge her in some way,
as my absent-mindedness is often interpreted as impertinence, but my eyes alighted on someone
else; a figure stood just outside the window staring straight at me. A young, handsome fellow, with
pale skin and a smile that spoke of secrets. I could not help but interpret his smile and air of mystery
as a call to action, so I stood up quickly and walked towards the door.
Out on the street, the first thing I noticed was the malignant wind as it sunk it's awaiting claws into
my unprepared flesh. I'd left my coat back in the Mill Cafe, as if to assure the owner that I would
return presently. The man I'd observed through the window was walking purposefully down towards
the Edwardian bath house, now a popular art gallery, and was about to tum into the maze of old
cobbled streets that led down to the beach.
I jogged unsteadily after him down the steeply inclined street, half running, half falling towards the
grave walls of St Mary's, still a church of sorts, and only stopping when I managed to reach out and
hold on to a sturdy lamppost. The man had turned, and I'd lost him. I felt a sudden desperation, I was
already tired after careering down Hill Street, but I was also intoxicated with a heady mix of
exhilaration and wilful foolishness.
I turned the comer and regarded the deserted alley. I walked quickly to the first comer and looked
both ways. I saw no-one. The man had vanished into the evening. It was cold, I was tired and I had a
steep hill to climb to get back to my table. But as I turned, I happened to look down. The
cobblestones laid at this end of town are unusually light, bleached by the brine and the elements.
Across these pale undulations, a broken human footprint of soot was clear to see. And in front of it,
another. The tracks were fresh.
There is a fire in every man, fuelled by want and stoked by hope. I warmed to the chase, and I may
have even smiled again, before setting off to follow the trail of footprints, for surely it was a trail
designed to be followed? As I did so, I suddenly remembered a story by Lovecraft, and how the
narrator had noted the lack of footprints left by the crowd, and how he'd shuddered with fear as he
realised they were phantoms. But these transient human marks upon the Earth were made by a
corporeal being, a physical presence, a real man.
I pressed forward, following cracks and cobbles through the tight streets to where the path ended in
a steep drop to the beach. It was dusk and the daylight was fading, I should have considered waiting
until the morning, but I was already clambering down time worn rocks. Slipping, grappling, dwarfed
by the crumbling cliffs and deaf to anything save the mighty roar of the sea.
I crouched on the coarse beach and gulped in lungfuls of cold air. Behind me, the distant peal of eight
bells from St. Mary's spoke of a land now far away, whilst before me I could make out a path to a
new Jerusalem, where five toes topped an arch that promised, proved that there would be someone
there at journey's end.
The trail led, as somehow I knew it would, to the water's edge, and it was there I paused, beaten by
the ocean, abandoned by the land, and mocked by the stars. I looked out into the vast emptiness and
noticed a lighthouse standing guard on the horizon, her cultivated brilliance at once a warning and
yet captivating. If I were a brave man. If I were a younger man ...
I turned away. The only footprints on that beach were my own. Up to the water's edge and back
again, up the hill to an old cafe that used to be a mill.
Footprints
Tomi Hafferty
Silverdale School, Key Stage Four
At this time of year in the northernmost city of Alaska, the sun never rises.
To the four thousand or so inhabitants of Barrow, this is normal, you learn to go about daily
routines in the dark and ferocious cold, perpetually blowing into your hands for warmth and
squinting against the incandescent snow that glows like a neon sign in the atmosphere.
I had never before been surrounded by such heavy air that made my lungs thick with the
intense temperature, because people simply didn’t choose to move to Barrow. Every day, the walls
of my small residence at the edge of town rattled in seething winds that blew snow around my door
so that I was often an insect trapped under heaps of snow that would slowly suffocate me.
Usually, it took days for the snow to subside with the winds and I would be free again to
roam the town where I was so unwanted.
It was on one of these days, after being trapped in my house for three days, that I walked
into the town centre to a small store. The boy behind the counter looked at me sceptically then his
eyes widened and he ran through a door at the back of the store. Undisturbed by his behaviour I
took it as the general feeling of uncertainty around me.
After a few minutes, he returned with an older man who had an indignant look in his small,
snake like eyes.
‘I don’t think you should be here.’
I looked at him, bewildered.
‘Sorry; the other store is closed today.’
Shaking his head he took a step closer to me so that I could see his intense breath in the air.
‘No, leave my store. We don’t want the likes of you in our town, you’re a monster!’
Anger flashed through his eyes and it was at that moment that I realised he knew, and if one
person knows anything in this close knit community it meant that by now, everyone knew.
Dropping my empty basket with a clatter; I began to run back to my house, running so fast that my
whereabouts became a blur, I lost track of my direction and after a few minutes had run off course.
Suddenly, panicking that someone had been following me, I turned around, yet I realised that
only my footprints were visible in the deep snow.
In the distance, I could see flames and hear raging voices.
They were burning my house.
After a few hours, I had been wondering the forest on the edge of the town mindlessly. The
cold crept into the deepest alcoves of my body, piercing my senses and creating and unstoppable
shiver in my hands and teeth.
The darkness encircled me with ravishing strength, strangling me into lunacy as I lost my way
through rows of pine trees.
barrow.
Struggling my way through the snow with heavy feet, I thought of my past prior to arriving in
Would I ever be able to settle anywhere where people wouldn’t associate my face with a
malicious criminal?
The worst massacre in the USA had been carried out by someone with my face, but not my
heart: innocent people had been killed by the devil disguised as my twin brother who had lived in a
demonically psychotic fantasy.
As the frozen air seeped into my skull I wondered if I was creating hallucinations for myself. I
could not make out what was real and what was purely my imagination.
Was the sound of water cracking against rocks a fragment of my nightmares that I had
implemented into my life?
Perhaps the deafening cries of eagles that flew above the trees grievously was only a
memory I had resurfaced to help me escape my doomed reality?
Caught in my web of thoughts, I didn’t realise the snow beginning to fall around me.
It began to fall faster and soon the pelting snow bruised my bones, as I looked behind me
and saw footsteps stalking me.
My blurred mind wondered if they were mine or if I was being followed, but then I looked to
the left, and saw the same footsteps. Squinting in the dark I wondered where I was going, if they
belonged to me.
Which direction had I come from?
Surrounded by these footsteps, I turned around; it was at that moment that I noticed a light
somehow illuminating the trees around me.
With a sudden surge of hope and little energy I still possessed, I ran towards the light and
found myself at the edge of land, looking onto a vast grey ocean and noticed the orange light
escaping from the horizon.
Sunlight?
I was sure it was only winter, the days were dark for every minute, or at least they were
when I had left… so how long had I been walking?
Behind me, only trees for miles and then a world that I wasn’t welcome in, in front of me
laid the sun finally rising from its slumber.
Realising that I had reached my ultimatum…
I took a step forward.
Key Stage Five
A Cry for Help
Allegra Mullan
Camden School for Girls, Key Stage Five
He’s out there again.’ She said to her husband. ‘Sitting on the curb.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’
She had once thought, that James’ reserve in all things was attractive. Artistic, detached.
That talking to something in the air to the side of her face gave him depth. Now, it frustrated her.
least.’
‘Most husbands wouldn't let him do that,’ she suggested. ‘You might threaten him a bit at
‘It’s hardly like I can go around threatening teenage boys. Just close the blinds. It’s going to
be boiling today. He won’t be able to sit there long.’
The past week had been the hottest she remembered. The air trembled with it over the
tarmac and even the insects seemed lethargic. She looked at the thin boy sitting across the road. His
knees were awkwardly high beneath his chin. He returned her gaze earnestly. How old could he be?
Fourteen? It was always hard to tell with boys. They grew not at all and then overnight were thin
hunched men. It wasn’t normal. He wasn’t pining, or writing her love notes like teenagers should. He
just sat, and watched her. What bothered her was the way he watched. It’s the look in his eyes, she
thought, as she shut the blinds.
‘It’s not like he’d ever try anything,’ James continued, ‘he just likes you, take it as a
compliment.’ But it wasn’t that he liked her. It was something else, something crueller.
‘I might see if I can find out where he lives. Talk to his mom.’ She sat down at the table
facing her husband. Not turning away from the closed blind.
‘Sounds good. Look, at some point today can you go and pick up some more milk.’
‘Milk, sure.’
‘Yeah, we’ve run out. Anyway I’ve got to go, see you this evening.’ He rose and kissed her
on the head.
‘Love you.’
‘You too.’
He left the room and moments later she heard the thud of the door closing. She stayed very
still, and listened. Another, smaller thud – the car door. The engine chuckled into life and then faded
away.
The house felt very empty. It was like this every morning. As soon as he left the day seemed
to cool, and stretch out. Suddenly she had hours. She should get a job really, something to do, but
she couldn’t bear it.
She stood suddenly, almost without expecting herself to stand. The milk. That’s an activity
she could make take a couple of hours. Maybe go to the bookshop as well. Yes, there she could read
some blurbs and have a bitter Italian soda in the café. You were allowed to take as long as you liked
in bookshops.
It was in passing back through the bookshop towards the car park that she saw him again.
He was standing confidently in front of the display of staff recommendations. She felt her stomach
become sickeningly light. He was facing her, leaning back slightly, causing him to look even taller and
thinner. Each limb was somehow sharp, like the bared spokes of an umbrella. He stared at her, with
a careful coldness, as though something was happening to her in his head, something surgical and
precise.
Embarrassment fell like a cloud between her and the shop. To be afraid of him, a child. He
had humiliated her. She decided to walk the long way back to her car. As she opened the shop door,
the heat held her: a dampness around her temples and on her upper lip.
The sun hung like an apricot, broiling on the sky. She decided she hated it, the cars, the slow
itching heat of it all. She was glad when she turned into the slim gap between the bookshop and
another building. The shadow over her was beautifully cool. She walked down it with gathering
confidence. It was only before James came home. She could watch some daytime news, perhaps have
a shower.
She felt herself stiffen and almost fall as sudden horror hit her. There he stood, his narrow
figure just a silhouette at the other end of the alley. His body was directed at her. She flung herself
around, and began walking fast, terrified and ashamed. Why did she put herself here? She didn’t turn
to look at him. She didn’t need to. She could hear his every step; a slap then a slide as he dragged his
feet. She began to run, realizing with anger that her jaw was too tight to cry out. The steps became a
quick slap, slap, slap. He was running too. She tried to turn, but in doing so her shoe caught the
ground wrong.
Her knees hit the ground, her hands too; they scraped over the concrete. They burnt with pain. The
slapping sound had stopped. She raised her head slowly. A face was next to hers, looking. She looked
back. He grinned at her, displaying neat, white, wolfish teeth. They both kept very still for a moment.
Then he turned and walked off. The slap and drag of his footsteps receded.
Immigrant Epilogue
Annie Fan
Rugby High School, Key Stage Five
And here’s our father deep in mechanics,
elbows splayed hyperbolye as he spills green tea over
the table, now a line of itself, a turbine, a sun,
a function to hide behind. Last November, cut work,
glazed coins with spit, rumpled fivers. Blurry
in the nights he rubbed sores with shea butter
and wrapped cold yellowrice with foil – prepwork
better than hungry, he tells the open windows and finds
a wasp splinched on his tongue, honey seams rich
with lino grease – silver burr dreams, drawn
like slick gasoline. I saw him wake footless
at sainted midnight, lose struts, remember how
he wrapped bruises with cheaper sums:
eyes pressed together forcelessly, telling me
ways to fit the voice into a net, boxed and left
sucking past an engine he tore apart
in sighs; this night when he sleeps
softboned – neat vigour run from one point
to another, my father adds the ways he split himself:
with parapets and right angles, us like a fleas inside
a vacuum. Translated sideways, until he was on
his back; his dreams where England bruised the same
way as a morning when I woke to totaled car
and kept walking on; he is imaginary.
1969
Barirah Ashfak
Feversham, Key Stage Five
Cried the balcony to the midnight stars,
And the pen to the paper basket,
And the heart to envelopes,
And the beat to the dancing soles,
And the blind to the supernovae,
And the dead to the sunrise,
And the hysteria to the rubble,
And the graffiti paint to the top floor,
‘How blessed I am to have a lover whose love leaves trails like footprints on the moon!’
Women’s Shoes
Coral Dalitz
Cheney School, Key Stage Five
What are women’s shoes about? No feet are shaped like that!
Pointed at an angle that’s more vertical than flat.
Toes don’t meet in one neat point, all tiny and petite –
They need some space to spread, to share the weight that’s on your feet.
Women’s shoe designers only care for the cosmetic;
In terms of practicalities, they’re simply apathetic.
They give you aching muscles, blisters, callouses and bunions,
They’re slow and sore for walking and impossible to run on.
They change the shape and structure of your toes, your heels, your legs.
Men walk in broad flat walking shoes while women walk on pegs.
In China, women’s feet were bound to make them more dependent.
Today this incapacity is something that we spend on.
It’s a Sisyphean task to find the perfect fit for you
So instead, most women grit their teeth and change to fit the shoe.
Footprints
Erin Gilbey
Lincoln Christ’s Hospital School, Key Stage Five
“When I sleep, I can see a child who has my eyes, sitting barefoot on the sea wall. She jumps down
onto the sand and her knees don’t creak as she lands. Her feet leave shallow footprints behind her
as she runs, laughing. But, overnight, the sea meticulously remoulds the shore, effacing the footprints
so that the sand is smooth again for the early-morning visitors.” The nurse’s sympathetic eyes run
past me, towards the clock, but I won’t keep him long.
There are grown-up children gathered at the foot of the woman’s bed beside me. I nod across at
her. “She made her footprints in clay and they’ll be there to see forever.” I run my hands slowly
from chin to forehead, tugging at loose skin. Smiling at the nurse, I whisper, “Your footprints are already set like… like a cast. Here you are, keeping us alive. Keeping me alive, for what it’s worth.” I
chuckle.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the shallow, hoarse breathing around me and to the beeps of machines
that were invented by men whose names are inscribed on shields of achievement. I want to sigh but I
don’t have time. I think the nurse might be worried that I’m gone already.
“What did you used to do, Isabel?” He asks. He sounds condescending but I don’t mind.
“Isi. I was only called Isabel by my mother. She terrified me.” I chuckle again.
“I’m sorry.” He looks at the clock again but I only want five minutes more.
“I wrote stories. For my whole life. I was left money when Mother died and I bought a house and I
wrote stories- what do you think of that, nurse?”
“Very impressive.” He’s not impressed.
“I haven’t had children or invented machines to keep people alive. Or stopped wars or worked for
charities. Where are my footprints?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind. I was just asking what difference I’ve made. People haven’t even read my stories. Only
one was published. A children’s book- The Feral Boy.”
The nurse looks up, eyebrows furrowed. His right hand moves to rub the shadow of stubble on his
chin. He grins, suddenly, and his eyes shine.
“The Feral Boy!” He shakes his head, “Isi Saramond. That’s the book- our book.”
“Your book?”
“No- I mean it was our favourite book. Jamie used to read it to me- my brother, that is- when we
were kids. Bedtime was half past seven. We’d prop the duvets into tents with chairs and open the
curtains so that we could see the moon and sometimes we’d read until midnight. You have to be
back in bed before midnight, or else the witches’ll come,” The nurse closes his eyes, “Jamie used to
scare me but we loved it. I miss him.” He looks down at me. I think he’d forgotten I was there. “Isi
Saramond. Thank you. It’s an honour.”
I feel lighter. When I wiggle my toes under the duvet, they don’t ache. I smile at the nurse because
I’ve finally run out of words. I take hold of his hand and squeeze it. He squeezes back and his eyes
glisten, too.
“I’m sorry, Isi Saramond, but I have another patient who I need to go and see.”
He stands up and smooths out his blue uniform, adjusting him name badge a little. He passes his
hand across his face with a wistful sigh.
“In ink,” he says, “you made your footprints in ink.”
West Wittering
Lucy Tiller
Rugby High School, Key Stage Five
she learns to dance on the beach and cries when
the tide swallows her footprints. the sun paints
the sky bloody and the rented moon balances,
bloated and blotched and pregnant in the air.
daddy paints with revolution – slices the clouds as he
turns her about on the sand, the shallows and spray
dissolve her toes to foam. he will bury her in his handkerchief and line a stuttering footprint with her hand.
the punctured stars litter the sky, fragile as balloons.
the streetlamps on the promenade have wrung out
the black from the night, and the steps on the beach
are as delicate as daddy’s laughter.
fish and chips and minimum wage by the sea, she
squeezes a ketchup sachet at a seagull and he shows her
how to spin like a planet, feet as weary as the footprints now, eyes awake, strong as stars, he is teaching her
to be alive,
with both hands –
FOODPRINTS
Lynna Haltelli
Mossbourne Community Academy, Key Stage Five
Steps on,
Steps off,
Bangs against floor in denial –
It must be the batteries.
Back on again,
No, no, must be wrong.
Steps off.
Changes position.
God damned uneven floor, how
Misleading.
Tries “once more”,
And a “once more” more.
Steps back on.
Certain it will budge this time,
And budge it does Upwards.
Gasps and Roars with fury
Steps off.
Performed the ritual as strictly as religion, so devout she had scarred it with her
F O O T P R I N T S.
Tries her luck in the bathroom,
Light on
Light, yellow light, makes The Number seem bigger, so
Light off.
Deep breaths now, suck It in, cross fingers and close eyes.
Eyes closed tight, so tight, airtight, wishful thoughts were Phosphenes, bright.
Vivid flashbacks to The Binge last night.
Eyes open.
Looks down,
Won’t shift. Time shifts. Mind shifts.
Tells her to Uncross her fingers
And put them to better use
Whilst sat, knees raw against the black-and-white-checked-toilet-tile floor,
The other hand is handy in holding back hair.
Brush teeth. Wipe tears. Roll down sleeves. They’ll be home soon.
Note to self: Pull self together.
Slams it once more for luck – this “once more” was a promise – merely a final check, for good
Measure.
Steps on.
Ah, Victory!
Such sweet, sweet, honey drizzled, sugar sprinkled, jam-filled victory
Begins to drool
Er, a decent victory, she means.
Wipes Chin
Falls asleep to the Rhyme of the Rumbling Stomach.
3 am: M U N C H I E S
Should
Shouldn’t
Should
Really shouldn’t, really really should
Not
Leave those custard creams alone…
Perhaps Just the one.
Chaste she may have been
But couldn’t resist the artificially-flavoured sex, the additives, the un-natuarally occurring colours–
how was she to resist
since they complimented her own so well!?
How to deny the oh-so-fulfilling
e-numbers that fed her Number.
No boy’s number
On her
Phone.
Another couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?
Oh, to hell with it, they’re harmless. Harmless! Little cream-filled, joy-filled sandwiches. Harmless.
Reach in for one last one
For one last time, one last one, this time she would out-last time, so for the last time just take
One
Last
One.
Jar empty.
Damage done.
What have you
Done
It again.
The sin had been committed.
May as well ride the Rumbles to the depths of death.
Kitchen door open
Cupboard doors open
Stares blankly into the back of the Fridge
Door open.
W H I P P E D . C R E A M.
Check. Mate.
Performes a pilgrimage around the table –
Circulating the holy shrine, her slippers slip on
The cream
and leave
Footprints Seven times around.
Hungry for one last bite, she was,
Of anything,
Lost in the chaos that was the love-child of her empty stomachs and souls
- past and present One last bite
Of anything
Partial to anything sweet,
Anything savoury,
Anything
Bitter, burnt, bland, raw, seasoned, well-done, over-done, char-grilled, pickled, spicy, frozen –
There were no Right or Wrong answers here, nor did there exist a bad offer.
Tinned, canned and jarred,
All labelled like herself,
Mostly in “Grams” or “Full Fat” or “Expired.”
A Bad, bad religion.
Confession
Was what she needed.
She froze upon the sound of footsteps. They had arrived early. She gasped with relief to hear them
Walk
Right past her door.
They would be here soon.
Hide every trace!
Refuse to leave behind the crumb trails, little paths of destruction, seduction,
like footprints in fresh snow.
And the food prints were footprints,
Hints
That were easily
Traced.
Swept every morsel from the marble counter,
Wiped smeared jam, like blood, off the walls,
Scrubbed thick syrup that had set on the microwave, and caught
A glimpse of her face
Scrubbed chocolate spread from her cheeks, chin, wet lips
When keys jangled and jarred in the lock.
A quick glance was all the inspection she could spare
For Food-prints,
Footprints,
Promised this was the last time as she darted into bed and under her sheets.
Pretended to be asleep.
But alas, her secret was detected.
The detective?
A mother in slippers, happened to slip over a slipper-shaped whipped cream
Footprint
***
And so they tell me;
“You wouldn’t recognise her now,
All Confident and Self-Controlled.”
Not a man in town not dying for her number,
Not a woman in town not dying to know the secret to her Number,
The Numbers the lived in her jeans, dresses, in her bras.
She was a designer, now, of
High-protein, Low-carb, Sugar-free
Meal plans
Were her blueprints.
She grew
Obsessive
Over small-prints;
Ingredients, percentage of saturates, calories per portion.
I hear that her footprints now go un-noticed,
Come without the Thud Thud Thud theme-tune.
And how could I not run a search for her name?
Clicked on the first result, an Instagram page
Belonged to a user under the name of “Insta gram-by-gram”
With a Biography that read;
‘ Who needs to leave Food prints
When they could starve instead?
And who needs to leave footprints
When they
Practically
Float? ‘
Ancestral Steps
Max Gorlov
Mossbourne Community Academy, Key Stage Five
Dr. Avery was floundering through the forested valleys in the deep lands, where the air was droplets
on the back of the neck and thrummed with chirruping ambience. He had carved a path for many
days, embroidering his sketchbook with peculiar flora and fauna, and had just paused to take a break,
polishing his glasses with his shirt. When he replaced them he was startled to glimpse a boy making
his way through the rainforest, with a limp burden on his back.
“Hello!” Avery cried. “You over there!”
Jolted from his solitude, he gathered up his things and trampled through the undergrowth after him.
The boy was difficult to keep up with; approaching manhood, with tribal tattoos that snaked around
his bare chest. To Avery’s astonishment, the bundle on his back was a girl, unconscious, her head
lolling over his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Avery panted. “And where are you going?”
“Kohana,” came the curt reply.
Avery’s cheeks flushed. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his persistent nose.
“I am a doctor from the Royal Association of Medicine, exploring the New World.”
“She has no sickness that a doctor like you can treat, and the forest will not give up its secrets to
fools.”
Avery held his tongue but continued to follow the boy - there was a strange, magnetic promise
about him.
They entered a whispering clearing. Avery could see a trail of footprints running through, deeply set
into the ground. The boy was stepping in them with bare-footed precision.
“Whose footprints are these?” Avery frowned.
“The forest’s own child walked up this trail and cured many incurable diseases,” said the boy, fixing
him with his charcoal gaze. “For centuries, my people have walked these footprints, whenever someone is ill beyond medicine.”
Avery felt his professors’ voices in his head.
Stuff and nonsense.
They ascended out of the valley, bathed in cool night. The going had become gravelly and rugged.
The doctor’s legs were screaming at him; he set up his tent and mosquito net and rested while Kohana made a fire. Dense swathes of stars glitter-pulsed in the sky.
Avery went to take a closer look at the girl. She was pale and no older than fourteen, with a nest of
golden hair cushioning her head. He touched her cheek, then glanced sharply at Kohana, flames parading in his glasses.
“She’s dead,” he breathed.
The boy looked stoically to the mountaintop.
The footsteps were still there the following day, embedded in the rock.
Kohana squinted up into the sky. Avery raised his binoculars and his heart sank; there was a gathering of drab woollen clouds in the distance.
Soon enough the rain was hammering the ground to muck. Avery pulled a cord on the side of his
hat; it opened into a neat umbrella that offered some shelter, water shedding in sheets off its surface.
Something fathomlessly old and huge was awakening in the depths of the sky, and it rumbled ominously.
The mountaintop was a small plateau with many statues around the perimeter, squatting buddhas
and grimacing spirits, each drenched in emerald moss.
“What now?” Avery cried. He waited with heart pounding, droplets blurring his glasses.
Kohana laid the girl down in the centre of the circle. He was standing where the footprints stopped,
where the prophet’s journey had ended centuries ago.
The sky responded with resounding thunder that slammed a numb silence into Avery. His ears were
ringing, eyes bulbous, disbelieving.
A dim shape appeared in the downpour, indistinct but for the water streaming off its form. Avery
squinted but there was nothing there, only a feeling, a tugging at his soul, blossoming life and ravenous death.
Kohana looked to the thing with innocent desperation. Something like a hand snaked forwards.
There was a pulse that Avery felt in his head.
Kohana soundlessly collapsed. Avery could hear nothing but his own breathing; years of training and
conditioning crumbling.
The howling rain and bitter wind rushed back in. He ran to Kohana and pumped the cold flesh of his
chest, but the boy lay motionless. Avery stood slowly, assimilating what he had just seen. His glasses
were crooked on his trembling face.
“Excuse me,” came a voice.
He froze.
The girl was radiantly alive and her cheeks were flushed and tear-shined.
“Kohana…” she whispered. “Does he…live?”
Avery mustered the strength to shake his head.
She wept over Kohana’s body until her tears had washed away the storm. They were left sitting before a forested expanse, swathes of light breaking through the shifting sky, and the freshness of a
new beginning over the canopy.
The girl looked at him with electric blue eyes.
“Where will you take me?” she said, shivering.
Avery sniffled and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The association would only prod at
her and classify her, deaden her magic.
“We’ll find your family,” he told her. And then, with a new understanding surfacing like a fresh
shoot: “And I will make some footsteps of my own.”
Waja
Nathan Butler
Hills Road Sixth Form College, Key Stage Five
Brown sat in his solitary cave, eating soup from a husk. Squinting at the twin suns peering in through
the cave mouth, he decided it was time to make another cactus run.
The lonely waja are herbivores. Brown, like all waja, was unable to taste food but had discovered
that drinking soup produced a blissful, warming sensation throughout his bones. Until Brown
discovered soup, his diet had been joyless vegetation. Now, still alone in his cave, he spent his days
exploring and gathering vegetation, branches, flint and rocks to make more soup; yet, he had nobody
to share the soup with.
Tightly gripping his sickle (fashioned from branches and teeth from a dead wolodile he poked many
times with a branch before approaching) in his gloved hand and donning his dusty, brown cloak,
Brown emerged from the cave and ambled along his usual gathering track. The gentle rustle of trees
caressed Brown’s concealed black ears, while the crunch of fallen leaves under his feet caused his
yellow eyes to crinkle and his equally illuminated eyebrows to raise, as if smiling. The duelling suns
illuminated a vast purple sky, yet no deadly rays penetrated Brown’s hood, only blackness and two
illuminated eyes peered out along the horizon. Brown was startled by a streak of snow; a white
cloak, dashing erratically through the dense woodland ahead.
Brown was awestruck, as he had never seen another cloak besides his own, let alone one so pure.
The wind seemed to whistle louder, the sky brightened. Brown was ecstatic. The white had vanished
into the undergrowth, but a trail of frosty footprints lingered. Brown set off.
Brown dashed ahead, following the footprints diligently. Trunks, vines and plains rushed past him, as
he fell in to a trance of devoted pursuit. No matter what obstacle he encountered, Brown overcame
it. When faced with a pitfall across which he could not jump, being far less athletic than the elegant
white figure, he felled a tree and crossed, doggedly tracking her movements. The footprints
disappeared beside a narrow stream, yet scanning the opposite bank revealed a tiny, dwindling
glisten of crystal abroad. Brown swam across and resumed his course.
Another obstacle arrived in the guise of a sleeping wolodile, giant compared to Brown, scaled, razormawed and imposing. Brown’s eyes welled with tears when he saw a footprint on its head, and his
imagination skipped to the painful conclusion, until he saw more footprints beyond the wolodile.
Brown’s stubby legs couldn’t generate enough lift for a jump, he couldn’t even jump to grab a plant
off his cave’s wall two nights ago, let alone perform wolodile acrobatics. Consequently, he cautiously
stepped around the dormant beast and resumed his tracking.
The footprints terminated at a black spire on a hilltop, and a white figure beneath. Exhausted, Brown
halted behind the figure. It turned and Brown saw a pair of yellow eyes gazing back at his own.
Though far more elegant and alluringly feminine than Brown’s pudgy, dumpy physique, she was
nonetheless a waja. Like him.
White turned back towards the black spire, while Brown waddled up to stand beside her. The black
column was a piercing onyx obelisk, reaching for the violet clouds as if transmitting something
intangible into the heavens. Brown was oblivious to its purpose, until his gaze caught a picture of a
small, white painted waja, and a far taller, brown cloaked waja, holding hands.
A brown cloak (much bigger than Brown’s own) lay at the obelisk’s base. Realisation dawned on
Brown, and he gently tugged her cloak. The cloak below dampened as tears incessantly streamed
from below White’s hood. White sniffed and turned to Brown, nodding appreciatively. His presence
seemed to comfort her somewhat. Yet still, Brown wished he could help more. Mulling it over, he
drew a perfect solution. He motioned for White to sit and rest; he drew her over to a patch near
the obelisk, gently pulling the cloak with him and handing it to her to hold. White gripped the cloak
and slowly drifted into the comfort of slumber.
Brown, meanwhile, scuttled about frantically, gathering stones and branches and leaves and
coconuts. When White awoke, she saw a rudimentary bowl, containing a curious steaming
substance. Bright eyed and encouraging, Brown gestured for her to drink. White lifted the bowl and
drank deeply, the warm, tender liquid warming her bones and spreading throughout her body. Her
eyes brightened and she looked at Brown in shock. Her eyes crinkled appreciatively, and she sat with
Brown, both drinking the soup and silently enjoying each other’s company.
Several moons later, a small shelter had been constructed beside the obelisk, where Brown and
White lived with their own little waja. Brown made his rounds to gather soup ingredients, as he had
before, but now, his life was more worthwhile, knowing that he could make soup for others, besides
himself. Brown had lifted the curse of the waja, to never communicate and to never find others. Led
by the panicked footprints of another’s path, Brown discovered that the best way of
communicating… was warmth.
Parallel
Vivien Urban
Oxford Spires Academy, Key Stage Five
Parallel
I whisper to myself.
Frozen in a faded photograph
the same features but smaller,
pigtails and a wide, honest smile.
I tell her about it. From Hungary,
from a room of clean-painted walls
she laughs back at me,
and I tell her about the grey roads
and the pale, whitewashed skies
of England. I tell her she’ll get taller
and that her hair will be cut short
as the time she spent smiling.
I tell her a tale of giants
wrapped in purple hue: faces blurred,
careless features. I show her
through my magnifying glass
the echoes of the wind,
the whispering lies that echo
with the thunder of the storm
and strike with the power of its lightning.
I take her to the shore
and we swing back and forth
to the pulse of the waves
which lick our footprints away
in a heartbeat.
She takes me back
to a garden full of spring
and picks for me forget-me-nots.
She whispers in my ear
my own secrets I half-forgot.
I hold a piece of paper
and I watch the tip of my pen
leave a mark.
Now the room smells of tangled paralells
and forget-me-nots.
Teachers’ Category
STEPPING INTO HISTORY
Anne Taylor
St Crispin’s School, Teacher
It was my agent, Ron Dixon, who persuaded me to go back to Humbley (you don’t pronounce the
‘b’). It is a nowhere kind of place in Lancashire, but we all have to start somewhere, and Ron
reckoned that my fans would really appreciate the fact that playing Ryan Cooper in Chelmsley for two
years hadn’t gone to my head. People like to think that once you get famous, you don’t forget your
roots.
I didn’t bother to let my parents know I was coming; I figured they would read about it in the local
paper. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got inducted into the Humbley hall of fame.
Actually, that seemed a bit of a joke. I mean, Humbley is not exactly Hollywood. It’s not even
Birmingham, where Chelmsley is filmed, and where the stars’ names in Broad Street mainly belong to
glam rockers and Aston Villa players from the eighties … but Ron says that no publicity is bad
publicity.
I did wonder if Ron’s instincts had let him down for once when I got there. I had to park the
Porsche round the back of Tesco, where no one could see it. Then when I got to the High Street,
there was a decent enough crowd and some people from the press, but it seemed that the other
natives of Humbley who had been chosen as the first members of the hall of fame were not
exactly…how can I put it, without sounding arrogant? … not exactly in my league.
There were two others besides me. One of them was a lollipop lady who looked as if she had done
about a hundred years’ service, and the other was a man who had been in the Paralympics in Rio. He
didn’t win a medal or anything, mind, but the taking part was obviously good enough for the
committee who had chosen us. I did wonder how the footprint bit would go, though, since he only
had one leg.
A choir from the lollipop lady’s school sang something a bit squeaky which got a lot of applause, and
then the Mayor was up on the tiny stage, saying what a great day it was for the town, and how he
hoped this would be the first of many such occasions. It was difficult to see how, but you never
knew – there might have been someone in that choir who would go on to win Britain’s Got Talent, or
some sporty kid who might one day make it to the proper Olympics.
The bloke about my age who was in charge of getting us to do the hand and footprints hadn’t exactly
dressed up for the occasion, but then I suppose there’s no need if you’re working with cement. I
watched as the lollipop lady, who it turned out remembered helping me cross to St Peter’s, bent
over and pressed her palms into the cement where she was told, then her feet. ‘Agnes Bibby,’ she
wrote with a stick, quite neatly, considering. I began to wish I’d arrived in time to do the practice.
Good job I’d changed my name from Stephen Anderton to Jon Jones.
Next it was the runner. There was cheering and a lot of photography. I limbered up my smile; they’d
had the bronze and the silver and now it was my turn.
‘And finally, here is Jon Jones, star of Chelmsley. Welcome home, Jon – we know you can’t stay for
the party, so leave us something to remember you by! Mick – over to you.’
So, Mick was his name. I looked at him as he led me over to my block, but he didn’t look back at me.
I bent forwards with a flourish and pressed my hands into the cement, grinning up at the cameras. I
wondered if my parents were in the crowd. Those drama lessons they had shelled out for when I
was a kid had really paid off.
‘Let’s get the shoes off now,’ said Mick quietly.
‘What?’
‘Shoes. Off.’
‘The others didn’t,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but one of them is 88, and the other only has one foot. You, on the other hand, are a sex
symbol.’
There was something odd in his voice, but the public was waiting. Give them what they want, I heard
Ron’s voice say as I slipped off my shoes and squelched right in there. It was deeper than expected.
‘Time up?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Surely, now?’
‘Nearly.’
It was uncomfortable. I gave Mick a look. This time he looked right back. Instead of the sweatpants
and t-shirt, I saw a boy in a blue blazer and shorts. Shorts that were glued tightly to the mat in front
of the teacher’s desk.
‘Are you ok, Michael?’ she had asked him.
‘Yes, miss. I just want to sit here a bit longer.’ He hadn’t looked up, because he knew whose laughter
that was, at the back of the classroom.
I stood, rooted in time, and smiled for the cameras.
Newfoundland
Christopher Suckling
Pimlico Academy, Teacher
"In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue."
This morning, I walked up to the gun rail on the foredeck and closed my eyes. My position, turned to
shore, meant that no passing crew member could see this strange activity of mine. I wanted to
isolate the sound of this Newfoundland: the incessant hiss of its insects; the sigh of its waves
breaking on the muddy beach, which I imitated with my breathing; the screeching of an eagle at its
zenith and the dry caw of lesser birds. And then I opened my eyes to the cold light of a grey dawn,
the misty river mouth, the tall reed beds where moorhens walked gingerly on tiptoes. It was a
strange mixture: the frenetic energy of the sound verses the dormancy of the place visually.
I discovered this place.
I was more generous with my pronouns in my conversation with the crew yesternight, "We have
discovered this place," I told them, "this Newfoundland." It went down well with their port and rum.
"How many men can claim that!?" Again, loud cheers and drinking.
They do not understand what it means, of course: discovery. (How can I explain without sounding
condescending?) My crewmen think in real terms. It's why they like the name: Newfoundland. It is
what it says it is.
This is why, later, one said to his companion, "We ain't discovered this place. There's bloody
footprints all over the shore, loads of 'em in the mud under the trees. Out there!" He pointed
insistently with his finger and stamped his foot. Then was promptly shushed by his more sober
companion. "And 'andprints too," he added in a whisper. He held up his hand and pressed it on the
chest of the other man. "Markings .... "
Huddled in my wrappings, the two men didn't see· me there, eavesdropping. What would you have
had me do? Argue with them? To what end? Suppose I said, "Excuse me boatswain. Good evening
Steward. I'm afraid you did not comprehend what I meant. In life, we are all brought up in the same
way in the same Holy Roman Catholic church. As children, we learn about God and the Virgin Mary
and Jesus Christ, just in the same way that one learns about kings and battles long passed or
countries on a map that we have never visited. For God's sake man, stand up straight and listen!
Hold him up Steward! As I was saying, we learn about God first but it is only later that we find Him
for ourselves, that we really discover Him. On your wedding day, perhaps. At the birth of your son.
At the death of your mother. Discovery is a matter of sensation. It is not simply a case of being first.
Dear Lord man, you've been sick on your boots! Hold his head over the side Steward." Now tell me,
what would have been the point of that?
Afterwards, I went back to my cabin to read my bible by candlelight, it being too dark on deck.
There in front of me, on the first page, was the very meaning of discovery. There is always
something before the arrival of light, without form, and void, alongside the dark depths of the ocean.
Then the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light. It's the very
first words and no one ever remembers them. There was something before the light: In the
beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. I carried my candle to my bedside and lay down. I will
bring the light to this New World. I have moved upon the face of the waters and now I will divide
the light from the darkness. And then I blew out the candle and went to sleep.
That was last night. Maybe I had drank a little too much myself. The cold breath of morning is
refreshing on my febrile skin. My hands ache in their icy grip on the rail.
I have seen them, of course, the natives, with their lank oil-black hair, their leathery skin, pulled
tightly across their cheeks and arms, creeping shiftily like crabs. They belong to this land to its trees
and rivers and craggy mountainsides. I see that. Their footprints and markings, which the Boatswain
spoke of, they are as natural as the droppings of birds, pine cones amongst the needles, moss on a
rock. And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and
beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so.
And then God created man, like me, and said: let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over
the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth
upon the earth.
I discovered this place. And I intend to leave more than a few footprints. I cannot fly or breathe
under water, no, but nor do I creepeth upon the earth.
Footprints.
Jasmine Sheridan
Rugby Free Secondary School, Teacher
Our story starts before all other stories. Before the Earth was grown and nurtured, before
milkshakes and burgers and fries, even before your mother was born. Before all of that and
everything after, there were space whales.
Space whales were huge and mighty creatures that roamed the skies. They were majestic
and important and respected all of space life. Their slow, steady bodies carried them through the
whole universe, past uncountable moons and endless suns. Entire worlds and civilisations seemed
like specks of dust on an immeasurable canvas, with the space whales floating silently and sweetly
between.
Their path was known to them in their hearts. They always followed it exactly and took
great care to never harm anyone or anything on their way. They were gentle, kind creatures, with
beautiful big eyes that saw everything, good and bad. The whales often cried because they saw so
much pain and so much beauty all of the time that it overwhelmed them.
The whales moved steadily through space, their immense bodies not threatened by the
freezing cold temperatures or intimidated by the burning balls of light they passed. They could
navigate the darkness effortlessly. They would fall in love and furiously protect their partners from
any harm. They would mourn the fallen and celebrate the joys of new life. They were constantly
peaceful and incomparably breath-taking.
Footprints are left even by those without feet or ground to walk on, and the whales left the
most beautiful footprints of all. As they swam through the vast endlessness of space, they left hope
and beauty in their wake. Bringing life to perished plants and water to desert lands, love to the
unloved and help to those in need.
But soon enough, the unthinkable happened. The worlds they passed so respectfully began
to change. They no longer accepted the whales' help. They got lazy and threw their junk carelessly
into space. They got violent and entire planets started declaring war on others: fighting to the death
and often destroying much in their paths. They got greedy, they wanted to communicate with
worlds farther away and started filling space with signals that confused the whales.
The whales were in danger. They silently accepted that this was no world for them anymore,
but they had to carry on for their children, living in hope that one day they would know peace again.
The space junk tore at the whales’ sides, hurting them. They felt every death in the battles around
them, making them full with sorrow. Many of them lost their way through the confusion of radio
signals and transmissions, ending up alone in the depths of space, never to be seen again.
The whales had spent their whole lives understanding and respecting the natural shifts of
existence. They knew that the stars would die and that they would die. They knew that black holes
would destroy and suns would burn. They knew that there was always good where there was bad
and always bad where there was good. But they had never encountered the terrifying ships that
arrived. They did not understand other creatures wanting to kill for fun.
The whales were faced with a decision: to keep on following their intended path, or to flee.
Some whales chose to break away from their families, thinking they'd be safer on their own. Some
whales tried desperately to continue their journeys, but were injured or killed by the new
generations of space creatures who did not care about anything but themselves. The rest of the
whales, heartbroken by everything around them, grieving loved ones and wishing things were how
they used to be, noticed their hearts were beginning to call to them to go a different way now.
The remaining whales, largely depleted in numbers, were now very vulnerable. They had
grown tired and weak and were heavy with their troubles. They desperately loved those that were
left and knew they had to help each other keep going. They headed for the unknown, unsure of
where their hearts were leading them and too exhausted for it to matter. They closed their eyes
and travelled solemnly.
Eventually, with the murderous cries and terror of warfare behind them, the whales started
to open their eyes and let things in. What they saw was the most gorgeous sight they'd ever seen.
In a completely untouched corner of the universe, they had found paradise. Far off galaxies painted
pictures in the distance, and they were only close enough to feel the most remote and peaceful
planets. Colours swirled and spiralled and stars glittered and shone. They had never known where
they came from or where they were going but now they knew they were home.
As time passed, the whales became settled and found their happiness again. They started
new families and told precious stories of their fallen to the new lives they'd made. Nobody knows if
the space whales are still out there, but I'll bet they are. Trillions of miles away, leaving their
footprints among the stars.
Footprints
Lorna Hutchinson
Desborough College, Teacher
Only the drowning moon saw the boy leave the riverside cottage that morning. As it sank below the
horizon, his footprints were visible in the snow as he made his way down Newell Walk to the canal.
At the top of the steps he paused for a second and looked up at the sky; it was still dark and starless
and it made him think about his Da.
‘Your father is an absent fish.’ That’s what she’d always told him.
‘And when will he come back, Ma?’
‘When boats sail freely on frozen canals, son.’ she’d said.
He’d thought it a curious idea but, whenever the weather was cold enough, he went down to the
canal to wait.
This particular morning he found the canal only partially frozen. Ice is ice though, he thought. He
squatted down and trailed his fingers through the mossy debris at the edge. From his pack he took
out his penny whistle.
‘Sailors can hear a penny whistle on the breeze,’ she’d said, ‘your father left you this one, so that he
can always hear you.’
He began to play.
There was no breeze that morning, but he blew anyway, tuneless notes that seemed to die right
before him and sink to the bottom of the canal. Maybe it’s not frozen enough, he thought, maybe the
notes need to skip across unbroken ice. He’d try further up, near the bridge, where the water was
slower.
As he walked, a lone swan arrived and paddled alongside him. The boy stopped to speak to it.
‘Why are you alone, swan?’ No answer, just an inquisitive look. But each time he stopped, the swan
stopped too.
It followed him all the way up the canal, past the old factory and Leonard’s Yard, right up until he
reached the bridge. There it found a wall of ice, looked once more at him, paddled around in the
other direction and left.
‘I hope you find a friend swan,’ he called after it.
The water beneath the bridge was almost frozen. Only a small stream trickled through a gap down
the middle. The boy took out his whistle and began to play again. This time, more tuneful notes that
seemed to bounce off the ice and up into to the roof of the bridge.
‘Can you hear me, Da?’ His words echoed back down to him.
Nothing back.
And then, a voice came from behind him, ‘that’s a pretty song.’ The boy turned to see a young man
sitting on a low wall beneath the arches. He was wearing a shirt that looked like it had once been
white, soiled breeches and braces, but old. His face, beneath his flat cap, was dirty, but the boy could
see that he was also young and very handsome. Behind his ear he wore a white feather; it was the
only clean thing about him and it made the boy think once more about the swan.
The boy trusted him and so he spoke.
‘I can’t really play,’ he said, ‘I’m just trying to make my…’ but he didn’t finish the sentence; somehow
the words felt stupid, childish, speaking them aloud to a stranger. When he turned around, there
was nobody there.
He looked back down into the canal and then back around him to the wall…someone had been
there. Somewhere here, he thought, there was an answer.
He heard her footsteps before he heard her voice.
‘Danny, what are you doing down here again? Ma’s told you; you’re not to come here by yourself.’ It
was his sister, Marie.
‘I didn’t…I just…and then…I saw…’ he couldn’t finish his sentence before she took hold of his left
ear and with her deaf, sisterly silence, dragged him back along the canal and up the hill towards
home.
She eventually let go and as they walked, him following and her leading, the boy noticed his own
footprints from earlier, footprints that looked like they knew where they were going, footprints that
looked like they might find an answer. And as he followed her, he looked backwards, towards the
canal and he thought about what he’d seen and he knew then that there would only be one set of
footprints back towards home this time tomorrow.
Footprints
Lyndsey Chand
Ossett Academy and Sixth Form College, Teacher
You’re smiling in the photograph they choose for the papers. Your head is cocked to one side and
you’re trying to look cool, but a little smile plays around the corners of your mouth. This is how I
remember you, how I will always remember you. I remember the swagger as you walked into class,
the cheeky grin. I remember the questions you used to ask, the banter with your friends. And I
remember the stories we read in class, too. Your favourite was a short one. Evan Hunter’s On the
Sidewalk, Bleeding.
And now you are. Lying on the sidewalk, bleeding. You are twenty years old, and you do not
yet know that you are dying.
You didn’t see the one with the knife. Just his car. A silver car, a mucky Peugeot which you
know will be abandoned far from here by morning. A hand tight on your arm and a feeling of
pressure on your back, and they were gone. It’s not so bad, you told yourself at first. I just need to get
home. It’ll be fine if I can just get home, and you even jogged a little, hood up, head down, your black
trainers stamping the cracked pavement. You could see your breath as you ran, puffy little clouds
that dissolved in the air and vanished. It was only half past three and there were people on the
streets, teenagers in school blazers and mums with pushchairs, but no one stopped you. Why would
they? A young man running isn’t so unusual, after all, and you don’t stop someone on the street
round here, not without good reason.
After a few moments, you know that something is seriously wrong. Your back is throbbing
dully and when you touch it, your hands come away red and glistening. You are scared – of course
you are. You’ve been cut before, but not like this. Never like this.
You bend over, panting, try to catch your breath. It’s quiet now, on this side street, and you
know that you need to make it to the main road, need to get help. You are dizzy, your vision edged
by a black cloud, but you drag yourself onwards, leaning against the cars which line the pavement to
steady yourself. These are the images I will see hours later, safe in my new home, two hundred miles
and a whole world away. The bloody handprints smearing the windows of cars you staggered against
as you tried to get to safety.
Okay, you think when you reach the end of the road. Okay, I’ll lean against that wall. Just for a
minute. Just while I get my breath. Then your legs buckle and you’re sliding into the pavement. You
don’t mind. It’s a relief, actually, to have something solid beneath your head, something cool against
your cheek. There is a women kneeling beside you now, the wet concrete staining the knees of her
trousers as she asks you what happened. She takes off her jumper and presses it against that fire
which is spreading across your back. You’re alright, she says, her voice strangely distant, You’re going to
be alright, but suddenly you know that isn’t true. You want to tell her this, but you choke on the
words. From far away, you hear another voice. I’m telling you, if you don’t get here soon, this boy is going
to die.
These images stay with me too. Her. The rain, spreading your blood across the pavement
like watercolour paint. And you. You, just twenty years old, lying on the sidewalk, bleeding.
Your Two New Feet
Olga Dermott-Bond
Rugby High School, Teacher
The soles of your feet
astonish me.
They are the words of a promise
just about to be made.
Impossibly perfect,
as the memory of a
sky stretched pale
on an early summer morning.
Virgin sands,
with just the whispered imprint
of a starfish.
These exquisite criss-cross
of lines
pucker
to a hint of a soft kiss,
So lightly sketched,
they seem to me an offering.
A perfect outline
of your tiny life.
Footprints
Ruari Craig-Wood
Desborough College, Teacher
“Trouble was like you’ve never seen. Trouble came fast and thick but not out from nowhere. You’d
seen it coming on the screens, read about it, joked about it. You told your children not to worry
about it. Don’t think about it. Then it was here. It stepped inside your house and drove you out, wild
and thirsty. You thought you were safe outside but it was there too in your neighbours’ stare and the
things you held close went, dragged away, and you in another direction…”
The player’s voice rang out through the ruins on the edge of town. The people gathered there stood
in silence. For some of the eldest, it was more memorial than play. Remembering what had been was
a relief really; the sharp pain of change was now the dull drone of life that followed.
Yakkaton was a scar of a settlement, slowly stretching outward into the wounded city that had stood
before it in the times the player spoke of. Thousands of years that city had stood and grown and
shifted itself uncomfortably with each new development yet it had withstood till, it seemed, the whole
world had turned.
“Alarm was there! You did not listen! Alarm for more than a hundred years! You did not listen!”
There were many people there. More people had come in from the countryside to hear the stories
and some jostled one another now to see the player’s face twist and scowl as she presented more
warning to the crowd. People smiled to watch her. She spat fury and where it landed, no one moved.
To look her in the eyes and feel the echo of death was the attraction.
“You must remember and remind: we are all going to die.”
The crowd repeated, eager to continue with the performance. A few of them allowed themselves to
break concentration to glance at a group of young men and women who stood apart from the mass
of people. There were no guards for them. There was no real need.
“Who here does not listen? Who here does not remember? Who here thinks they are without death?”
The audience found their legs heavy with fright as the player stepped back and another emerged. This
one wore a long blue robe that hung loose and wide with the jagged rhythm of steps they took towards
the small group of faces that now wept or gritted their teeth. The head was covered in a mask that
gave a sickening height to its stature. Animals’ teeth of different sizes gave the mouth a clumsiness that
even so turned the stomach of everyone it passed. The smell of the treated skin that had been pressed
onto the mask’s wooden frame rotted the air about it as the player now began to circle the offered
men and women. It seemed to stagger now, its robe swaying in jerks. One of the women’s restraints
had come loose and she tried to struggle free. A quick hand flew out from the folds and she was soon
back with the others, ashamed and terrified.
“The earth turns and the sun rises. Who here will not see it?”
The crowd had turned by now and was greedily ready for the next act. It was the part that most had
come for, the part that kept most of them alive.
All but one of the captives quaked. Their moans were wild and guttural but the masked player didn’t
hesitate. The monstrous face leant close to the one young man who seemed unfazed, though the
closest in the crowd said later that he must have been in shock.
“You’ll get what’s coming to you, Adair!”
His eyes flickered as the stench from the mask charged up his nostrils and he began to retch.
There was a quick flash of metal, not the agonising performance he’d expected.
The creature lashed out with the blade again, this time severing the ropes that held the others. A great
cheer went up and the crowd waited, ready.
The freed captives blinked at each other, unsure. They knew what was supposed to happen but it
didn’t seem to be happening. There was hope. They looked about them, some crouching, some weeping.
“Please!” begged one, whose own husband had offered her up.
The masked player slowly raised their left hand and the clever ones ran, leaving deep and hurried
footprints in the mud.
The woman stayed where she was, searching for her husband with outstretched arms.
“Please, Alum! Please! Can’t you forgive?”
The once brave young man was staring sickly down at the blood that was swimming from him. It was
thinner than he’d thought but much darker.
From beneath the robe, the creature’s right hand thrust towards the sky. At this, the crowd broke
rank and surged after the panicked offerings, thundering past and over Alum’s wife. She was gone,
trodden into the mud.
The players looked at one another across the now quiet ruins, satisfied.
The mask was removed and a kind, young face looked down at Adair.
“It will heal. Now, get up.”
Some things I have forgotten about the year 2006
Thomas Moyser
The John Wallis CofE Academy, Teacher
I have forgotten the taste of the cheapest bread from the packet in Kwiksave. To be honest, I
have forgotten Kwiksave.
I don’t remember when it morphed into Safeway,
when it morphed into Asda, Tesco, Lidl.
I have forgotten the smell of fish ‘n’ chips,
that lucky once-a-year smell, fresh from the paper.
I don’t forget much. But I have forgotten the six o’clocks
and the waiting for dinner. Dad getting home tired in his suit.
I have forgotten what it feels like to tread barefoot on a Lego brick. I have
forgotten what it feels like to be punched in the arm. I have forgotten what it feels like when a
grandparent dies.
I have forgotten what it was like to hear the Internet, its roar from the box as it
lumbered up. In 2006 you could still hear it gurgle through the wires.
We’ve lost that now
and maybe that’s a bad thing
It is easy to forget
that wifi
is not just part of the air.
I forget too easily that,
at some point,
the things I have were
not there before.