On the Theme of Echoes
Key Stage Three Longlist
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Contents
Echoes from Home
Macsen Brown
Queens Park Community School
4
Echoes
Bridget Coleman
Babington Community College
5
War
Zack Hill
Brigshaw High School
8
Before You Forget
Mariyam Hussain
Cheney School
9
Echo
Eloise Johnson
The East Manchester Academy
10
Echoes
Lucie John
Corpus Christi High School
11
Your Screams
Skye Kimber
Queens Park Community School
13
Haunted Lullaby
Amy Rose Koikkara
St Bede's Catholic College
14
Trapped
Kloee Lloyd
The Bolsover School
15
Broken Records
Nadia Rehman
Chelsea Academy
17
Echoes of Home
Fadail Shamallakh
Fulham Cross Girls' School
19
Echoes
Neave Smeaton
Penglais School
20
The Quiet
Darcy Snape
Cheney School
22
Echoes
Lee Steel
Westbourne Academy
23
Until the Echoes Fade
Hannah Stephenson
Cardinal Griffin Catholic College
25
2
Witness
Frances Thompson
Oxford Spires Academy
27
Echoes
Chloe Trappes
Hackney New School
28
Echoes
Emily Tucker
The Holy Trinity C of E School
30
Help, the Echoes
Rosie Williams
Dunraven School
31
Echo
Arthur Wills
Latymer School
33
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Echoes from Home
Macsen Brown
Queens Park Community School, Key Stage Three
I Come From
I come from some CLASSIFIED mixed into the pizza dough.
I come from Yorkshire pud with EVERY roast, not just beef.
I come from bangers and mash, with absolutely no gravy.
I come from big and small, tall and short.
I come from jolliness, and negativity.
I come from a little devil, guarded by an angel.
I come from a land dominated by blue,
A flash of red, like a dragon.
I wave the red flag, the people’s flag in the face of tyranny.
I come from an atheist Christmas.
I come from cold and the blizzards of winter.
I come from a vast library, in which I often get lost.
I come from learning, I come from knowledge
I come from not knowing what a ‘scissor kick’ is.
I come from infinite parallel universes, each more bizarre than the last.
I come from fact.
I come from fiction.
I come from a dream that will never end, only stopping and starting, over and over again.
I come from joining in, but not where you’d expect.
I come from a world that locks me up with billions of systems of rules.
But it brings order, I like that.
I come from a red dragon, a red cross and a white one.
I come from red, white, green, and blue.
I come from the ancients, the first ones.
I come from home.
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Echo
Bridget Coleman
Babington Community College, Key Stage Three
Deep down
we’re all echoes.
We go through life
copying what people say.
Why?
Because
we believe
they are right.
Just because
they posted it on
social media
and it got “bare likes”
people classed
as inspiration
or “goals”
the people in life,
that mothers and fathers
tell us to follow
to respect
to, “be like them”
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but,
we rebel
against our parents
for the wrong reasons
let’s change
to be free
and chase our dreams
with our own bare feet
how do you expect
to be successful
all you are
is a copy
a copy
a copy
of what they turned
themselves into.
Your parents and idols
they should not be the ones
who tell you what you should believe in
and to copy people
who are wrong.
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So lets stop
being echoes
And start being free
Shout
At the top
of your lungs
Your own
beliefs
That is all
That matters!
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War
Zack Hill
Brigshaw High School, Key Stage Three
You’re back they say how are you they say but you don’t tell the truth by lying you spare
them the pain you’re suffering under the flesh and bone in your head echoing around the
sound the noises screaming. It’s all one thing. War. War it’s just an echo going on and on it
never changes. Just repeating itself. Kill kill kill, die die die, bang bang bang. Just little people in
a much bigger game, being used just for fun. A cruel game played by rulers for centuries in an
endless tunnel of despair. Echoing images blood limbs blood limbs friend foes can’t tell who’s
who constantly driving you insane until you end it all with just a click point and bang pain no
more suffering all over.
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Before You Forget
Mariyam Hussain
Cheney School, Key Stage Three
I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something before you forget. I'm not perfect
or amazing or someone you give a second glance to. I'm not easy to remember or pay
attention to. So listen -let me tell you something before you forget.
There is a change swimming in the air and we need to prepare. Nothing will be the same
and all memories are to be left in limbo. You will forget who, and what you are. You will need
an anchor. So let me tell you something before you forget.
The past is haunting and taunting but don't fret. You are the light in your own fears and
the grey against the black and white world. You are the beautiful and the ugly, the right and
the wrong — so let me tell you something before you forget.
Grip my words to you, now, grip my finger. I am leaving you now, but I promise to return.
I'm sorry it had to be this way. If I could, I would keep you, and raise you up. So let me tell
you something before you forget.
I'm not going away because I hate you, or am ashamed of you, but this is for the best. You
deserve all the good there is to offer. And that is not with me. So let me tell you something
before you forget.
"I love you"
And the young woman laid the sleeping baby in the basket on the rough concrete step,
and rang the doorbell. As soon as she heard footsteps she ran away, never to be seen again
by her daughter.
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Echo
Eloise Johnson
The East Manchester Academy, Key Stage Three
She was nature’s guardian and beauty, you fell right down a rabbit hole when you looked into
her eyes, they held specks of green and stolen sunlight. One minute a tree with slender arms
becoming branches practically skimming the stars! Her fallen leaves forming a blanket over
the earth. Then in a single heartbeat a woman in disguise. She loved Narcissus’ with all her
heart. She wanted to shelter him with her branches. Unfortunately Narcissus’ heart belonged
to the waters reflection.
Her love for him was a budding flower, his love for himself was an uncontrollable tide.
They both strived for Aphrodite’s kiss but fell in the hands of Ares’ fists. The words poured
out of her mouth like a stream, he ignored her like a child who believes he is the source of
all knowledge. Their flaws loomed over them like a creature in the night. The gods on their
high chairs cursed them both. Their lives were a game to them.
With one swift motion Narcissus’ was entranced more so with the man in the waters
ripples, his soul chained to the water’s edge. She could only repeat what was said to her, if
sounds were things we could see her voice was a shadow. Her last word was everyone’s last
word. Her attempt to communicate was like a hiccup. Their cove became a growing hunger.
Her only words lingered into the air and fell empty like an abyss. Her name was Echo.
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Echoes
Lucie John
Corpus Christi High School, Key Stage Three
As the solitary figure sat by the tranquil lake, loneliness crept over her like a giant’s shadow.
Abi Green had everything you could possibly want in the world: looks, kindness … all except
for one thing, she didn’t have a friend!
Every day, she would sit by the lake and dunk her feet in, all by herself, wondering what
it would be like to have someone as a friend. The sound of her gentle cries echoed across the
still lake until a different echoing sound rang in her ears, not the familiar gentle weeping, but
the calming, soothing call of what seemed to be a mysterious sea creature in the distance. The
echoing sound grew closer, until Abi could almost touch it. A feeling of warmth surrounded
her as if the echoes of the mysterious creature were sent to comfort her.
Abi closed her eyes and for the first time in months she allowed herself to smile, she felt
that this strange creature could somehow feel her pain. She had only moved to Scotland six
months ago and during this time she had lost her confidence and had still not managed to
make any friends. So today as she sat by the lake she felt a connection to this strange creature.
Moments later, the echoes disappeared and Abi returned melancholy and desperately sad to
her desolate house in the wilderness of the Scottish Isles.
Day after day she returned to the lake hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious
creature but the echoing sound was becoming a distant memory and she wondered if her
imagination had been playing tricks on her. All she could hear was the gentle rippling of the
cold wind on the lake, the rustling sound of the leaves and the sound of emptiness all around.
This emptiness echoed in her heart.
She would recall the happier times back in Wales, full of laughter and friendship, running
freely up the mountains and chasing the waterfalls. This memory was shattered when her
father had lost his job and they were moved to Scotland for his work. Abi had desperately
tried to make friends but she seemed invisible, the children were in their friendship cliques
and she wasn’t wanted, she felt outcast and different!
A few weeks passed and nothing had changed! Anxiously she entered the school gates,
her head low and body dragging along. She sat listening to the whispers and laughter about
her. She wanted to curl up into a ball and hibernate like a hedgehog. She could feel her heart
beating faster, the butterflies in her stomach grew. She had to get out! Now! She ran frantically
out of class, through the fields and ended up besides the lake.
Beside the tranquil lake, she burst into floods of tears. Her sadness echoed around the
lake as her tears rolled down her cheeks. Slowly her body fell to the ground and she let out
a loud, piercing cry. This sound could be heard for miles, it bounced over the lake and through
the trees until silence re appeared!!!
In the distance, a familiar sound began to echo as if answering her cry. She started
following the sound until she reached a wooden jetty where she gazed over and into the
water. The sound was now whispering distance away. But what was making the noise?
Swiftly and suddenly a beautiful blue dolphin appeared right in front of her eyes, leaping
and diving much to Abi’s delight! Abi sat on the jetty with her feet dipped in the crystal water
and felt a warmth flood through her body again.
Every day after school she would happily race to the lake and sit beside the water listening
to the echoes of the magnificent sea creature that she now called her friend. There were no
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more echoes of sadness but laughter echoed around the lake and although Abi and the dolphin
couldn’t talk, they had an understanding.
Abi’s smile had returned and one sunny afternoon as she skipped to the lake she couldn’t
hear the echoes of her favourite sea creature but instead the sound of another child playing.
As they looked at each other they smiled and from that day on a special friendship blossomed.
Abi was so happy that at first she didn’t realise that the echoing sounds of the sea creature
had disappeared. In the distance the tail of a blue dolphin was seen swimming away.
Silence returned to the tranquil lake while in the nearby, not so desolate house, the
laughter of two friends echoed around the place!
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Your Screams
Skye Kimber
Queens Park Community School, Key Stage Three
Your screams
Dance across the walls,
Echo across the cavern in
Your chest.
Your heart
Beats quietly, still
Strong enough to shatter
Your bones.
Your cries
Are lost in the empty space
between each of
Your lungs.
Your face
cannot be seen through
The tracks of tears running down
Your cheeks.
Your mind
Is dark as night, cold, and bright,
Dreaming of the colours that left
Your body.
Your throat
Is hoarse and rough, cries echoing
Back down, recoiling from
Your hands.
Your blood
Is black and thick against the darkness.
Circulating your body, it suffocates
Your heart.
Your screams
Dance across the walls,
Echo across the cavern in
Your chest.
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Haunted Lullaby
Amy Rose Koikkara
St Bede's Catholic College, Key Stage Three
Echoes…
The winter wind carries its haunted lullaby
Each blow hitting stronger
Each blow hurting harder
Echoes…
A beacon of darkness,
A mirror of the past
The voice of lost ones
Echoes wait to chase you at night
Lurking around my deep, dark abyss of a mind,
Echoes…
I dance in its whispers
I cower in its sharp glare
I write about its harsh stabs
Echoes…
The winter wind carries its haunted lullaby
Each blow hitting stronger
Each blow hurting harder
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Trapped
Kloee Lloyd
The Bolsover School, Key Stage Three
Ever since Briony could remember, she had been intrigued about the old, derelict cottage in
the woods. Her grandma used to tell her tales of ghostly goings on, but Briony was never
scared – in fact it just made her more determined to go and explore the cottage for herself;
she didn’t believe in ghosts. The grown-ups wouldn’t let her go anywhere near the woods
alone.
Today was going to be different.
Since her eleventh birthday two days ago, she had been planning a little adventure. The
torch her Auntie Irene had given her as a gift was going to prove to be the perfect present.
Now that she was eleven, Briony was allowed to walk home from school on her own.
Instead of walking from the bus stop today she had decided that she would run, taking a
detour through the dark, devilish woods, giving her a good fifteen minutes to explore the
creepy old cottage without anyone realising that she hadn’t gone straight home.
Jumping off the school bus that afternoon, she ran full pelt towards the woods, making
sure that nobody saw or followed her. Out of breath, she began to feel a little nervous – being
this close to the forbidden cottage felt strange. She wasn’t sure if she was scared of what
might be inside, or frightened of being caught by the grown-ups.
She slowly crept around the outside of the cottage, peeping through the glassless
windows, trying to pluck up courage to go inside. Knowing time was against her, she flicked
on her torch and made her way to the doorway, where once a large wooden door would
have stood. Slowly she made her way inside, thankful for the torch, and shone it around the
damp, dark, derelict building. The walls were cracked with crumbling plaster, covered in moss,
cobwebs and other undesirable stuff! The putrid stench of mould and mildew brought tears
to her eyes.
By now she had totally lost track of time. She curiously moved further into the cottage.
The fusty air became colder and she began to shiver. Suddenly Briony realised that she had
no idea how long she had been there, and that she probably ought to think about going home
before anyone realised she was missing. She turned to leave, but as she did she could just
make out, in her ever dimming torch light, what seemed to be a large hole in the corner of
the room. She wondered if it was perhaps one of the many tunnels her late Grandma had told
her about. According to her grandma, these tunnels ran deep beneath the woods, a labyrinth
of passages, supposedly haunted.
But Briony didn’t believe in ghosts.
As she walked towards the hole, she caught her foot on a large stone, sending it hurtling
down the passage, into the black abyss. She felt as if she was being dragged into a vortex…
but to hear the echo of the stone, as it landed at the bottom of the passage really excited her.
She crouched down and shouted into the dark opening, ‘’Hello’’
Almost as if someone was at the other end of the tunnel, she heard ‘’Hello’’ in reply as it
reverberated back to the opening.
But Briony didn’t believe in ghosts.
Smiling to herself, intrigued how echoes worked, she yelled into the passage again, this
time hearing the echo come back. ‘’is there anybody there?’’
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Curiosity proving too much for her, Briony needed to know what was inside the passage.
She tentatively started to climb down inside, but losing her footing on the slimy walls she
slipped downwards for several seconds, falling heavily on the ground below.
Slightly dazed, but not injured, she made her way slowly along the passage, glad of the
little light her torch was still providing. She walked and walked for what seemed like an
eternity, until the passage seemed to come to an abrupt end. Using what was left of the torch
light she tried to see what was blocking the way – and then realised. She screamed in fright.
She was surrounded by skeletons; skeletons and torches. Torches that once shone the way
for other curious children.
But Briony didn’t believe in ghosts . . .
Panicking, and looking behind her, she realised that the passage had closed in on her,
trapping her inside. Although she was terrified she strained her ears to listen. She wasn’t sure
but she thought she could hear a voice – someone at the opening of the passage perhaps,
shouting ‘Hello!’
She shouted ‘Hello!’ She wasn’t sure but she thought she heard them shout again.
Struggling to breathe. She replied ‘Is anybody there? Then, before very long, the torch
batteries ran out. And so did her oxygen it all went dark, quiet, and cold.
**********
Ever since Alfie could remember he had been intrigued about the old, derelict cottage in
the woods. His Grandpa used to tell him tales of ghostly goings on, but Alfie was never scared
– in fact it just made him more determined to go and explore the cottage for himself…
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Broken Records
Nadia Rehman
Chelsea Academy, Key Stage Three
The sound of music pounded my ears. The metal bars around my wrists started to dig into
my skin. I lay flat on a bed, surrounded by blinding white lights shining in my eyes. I thrust my
arms about frantically in an attempt to escape. Glass walls enclosed me. “Good evening, and
welcome to Treble,”. The sound of a young woman echoed from a speaker in the corner of
the room. “You are here today to take part in an experiment, an experiment of mental
capacity and physical skill. You will undergo a series of tasks through the course of this
examination and the outstanding performers will be selected to become a member of the
Treble. You cannot recall any memories of your past and it will only be regained once you
pass the test. Others who fail will be leaving the institution and will never gain their past
memories again. It is important that you ensure to fulfil our expectations to regain your
memory. All will be returned as normal. Please remain seated as we will be proceeding with
medical tests shortly and my guards will show you to your temporary accommodation. Any
attempts to leave the Institution during training will be dealt with accordingly. Enjoy your stay
at Treble Institute. Thank You.”. The music quietened and the sound of revolving doors was
heard. A man wearing a surgical mask and a stethoscope wrapped around his neck
approached, followed by a cart trailing along behind him. He leaned over me, blocking the
lights. The doctor pulled out a syringe with a sharp needle at the tip and faced it towards me.
Without hesitation, he pierced it through my neck and I screamed.
***
The bitter breeze nipped at my fingers as I grasped the door handle. The doorbell above
the door rang as I entered the cafe. I pulled my jacket off and headed to the counter to order
something warm. I grabbed a chair on the small table in the corner and my newspaper out of
my bag, later warming my numb, cold hands clutching a cup of hot chocolate. I flicked through
some pages until I finished reading and decided to head back home. I got up out of my chair
and left. I twisted the key in the keyhole and unlocked the door. The aroma of my mum’s
cooking wafted up through my nose. I threw myself on my bed and stared motionless at the
ceiling, contemplating life. My arms were strewn across the bed, one arm hanging over the
edge. It slightly knocked on the floorboards and the noise seemed different. I lifted the carpet
off the floor and tugged at the wood plank. It lifted. Several did, and underneath lay a red box.
I cautiously lifted the lid and peered through, gradually revealing a record player and a
collection of black, circular records. Without a seconds thought or question, I viewed each
record and selected one at random. “The Echoes”. I set it down on my bedside table and
positioned the tonearm on top of the record. The scratching halted and the music began to
sound. I shut my eyes and listened for a moment to the soft melody of the music, adrift with
my thoughts, imagining myself lost within a tunnel, being held captive by ebony black darkness
and the only thing I could hear were echoes. The music ceased and a sudden rush of cold
wind swept me off my feet. I opened my eyes, again, several times, incessantly blinking and
rubbing my eyes, trying to awaken myself from this fantasy. My bedroom vanished. My body
lay helplessly on the floor. I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or not, for the darkness
remained. I cursed out loud and it echoed, soft whispers of my voice which gradually faded to
silence. I scrambled off the floor, straightened up and headed towards the direction the echoes
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followed. After what seemed like walking for hours, I glanced and a ray of light beamed down
from above, and it seemed like I was metres underground. A small ladder continued upwards
and I placed my foot on the first handle and followed towards the light. I lifted the lid of this
sort of drain, but a second before I could escape, a human hand grabbed at my ankle, its fingers
squeezing into my skin. I looked down but nothing seemed to be there. It was tugging at my
leg and I was falling. I waved my hands to slow down my fall but I didn't feel a landing. The
next thing I know, I am in a room, a room with no windows, no doors, just a brick wall, and
the record player, singing The Echoes. I turned up the volume, and it was the echoes that
freed me, the echoes that broke the walls, but also the echoes that brought me to a room, a
room with glass walls that enclosed me.
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Echoes of Home
Fadail Shamallakh
Fulham Cross Girls' School, Key Stage Three
I come from the scent of chicken, rice
And spices in the cupboard,
The taste of ful and pita bread
Invading my tongue.
I come from a family where my brothers
Watch cartoons constantly
Blaring out from the TV,
And lilac paint on the walls of my room
And the grin on my face when I bite into a Crunchy bar.
I come from parties and weddings with my family every weekend,
The voice of my mother telling me to wear
Soft floral dresses and flats “for occasions”,
From a city where it’s busy and grey
Where the buses, cars and trains are packed
And school children run across playgrounds in innocence.
I come from a neighbourhood of shops,
Where the bell rings as you open the door
And market vendors sell fruit and vegetables
Shouting, calling, singing.
I come from London.
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Echoes
Neave Smeaton
Penglais School, Key Stage Three
The look on a soldier’s face after war would make even the oldest of men feel like a child, like
he needed to live longer, suffer more to even begin to understand the torment behind the
eyes.
I have seen this look many times, in faces of my friends, my enemies and even myself. We
are all old men now, though I occasionally see the look I know so well in the eyes of such
young men and women. Though they have fought in a very different war to me I know they
struggle with the exact same problem; the guilt of mindlessly killing so many people because
it’s kill or be killed but then after, you remember what was whipped out by the adrenalinthey’re still people even if they’re bad people, but every time you serve you see all the people
they have killed unlike you they killed the innocent.
Yes, I have seen that face many times but no face has ever looked so torn up, so
dishevelled, so scared at what they have seen that they will never be able to trust anyone
again. It was the face of a child curled up in a corner, not in Bosnia or Rwanda but the streets
of London, this was a face I had never wanted to see again, but I can’t ignore her for another
day even though I’d seen enough of it. All the men I served with, the pain has faded for them
and me just like a scar which has had 21 years to heal, since the beginning of the Rwandan
Civil war in 1994. This young girl she looked like someone has just given her the same wound
but there’s no one there to bandage her up and start the healing process, just a lot of people
walking past trying to get on with their day without this reminder of the darker side of life
obstructing their view.
I can’t take it anymore- I have to know; what has this girl seen? What has happened to
her? Why is she on the streets alone? You see a lot of people on the streets of London but
not children, not on their own.
I walk over and sit next to her sliding down the wall so my back doesn’t hurt; this gets a
few odd looks, a middle aged man sitting next to maybe a…12 year girl does look creepy.
“What happened to you?” I ask, sure she knows what I mean.
“Something that you could never understand,” she says sounding bitter and young at the
same time.
…”Something that you could never understand,” I say wistfully. I remember when I was
telling my wife the exact same thing. You weren’t there you didn’t see hundreds of innocent
people get massacred, you can’t tell me to act normally I screamed. Memories of Rwanda
flashing through my mind, seeing children die all over again, seeing their confused faces,
wondering what was happening, knowing nothing but the undeniable pain they were feeling,
whilst I watched on unable to do anything, but wonder what kind of person could do such a
thing to a child. We’re in the job to stop these things happening but we couldn’t do anything,
not in Rwanda, no one had the orders. I sometimes wonder whether it would have been
worth being discharged if I could just save some of those people, even just one person.
“I said that to so many people including my wife after the war ended, I ended up pushing
them all away when I really needed them, I regret that so much. Don’t push people away who
want to help you; you’ll only end up hurting yourself.”
She just stared at spot between my face and the wall, her eyes glazed over, listening to
the echoes of the past. I know that I just have to wait for it to pass; bad memories are like
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echoes; small things can trigger them, and once they are triggered there is no stopping them,
they repeat in your mind sending you crazy.
Even though this is just an echo, a memory of my past, I can still feel the coldness radiating
from her, how I didn’t even know what to feel when I came back to that street corner the
next day, not to find that little girl sitting there like every other day; the optimistic part of
me thought she could have found help, but the realistic, sceptical part of me somehow knows,
has known since that day that it wasn’t a good Samaritan that pulled her away from that
corner.
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The Quiet
Darcy Snape
Cheney School, Key Stage Three
I am trapped in the quietest place in this world. So quiet I can hear my every breath, my heart
beat, my blood rush through my head. No lights either, total darkness. I am about to tell you
what led me to be in this place. Usually I try not to think about my past; my memories are
too loud for this place. But I need someone to know who I am.
If I remembered my name I would tell you. This goes for most of my personal details like
date of birth. After the first 4 years or so, I just forgot them. They vanished from my memory,
like leaves blowing away in the wind. I remember loving science and maths. My love for these
two things is probably what led me to get a job at a recently opened audiology centre. I
became a sound technician, but not the usual kind. I was to do research into different sound
frequencies, and how they affected humans. I was extremely enthusiastic and began work
immediately.
The softest sound a human can hear is (by definition) 0 decibels. The loudest is just under
160 decibels-any more than that and your eardrums would burst. The lowest sound is about
20 hertz, and the highest around 20-22 kilohertz. .These were my findings, but of course
people already knew this. What was interesting was how people reacted to them. I eventually
found a frequency that, when played for about one minute, had the power to disorientate
people, made them confused- and also made it harder for them to lie. This was because the
brain was so confused by this sound it could not formulate even simple alterations of the
truth, let alone full on lies. I revealed my findings to my boss, who then told me to keep them
a secret and not let anyone know of them. I nodded, promised her I would and as soon as I
was done for the day, I drove straight to the head of the British police.
Let me explain my logic. Interrogations are a major part of police trials. If people cannot
lie during these trials, then the innocent would be freed and the guilty convicted. There was
also a chance I would be paid a significant amount for this discovery too, a win-win situation.
However, there was a catch. Exposure to this sound could cause bleeding in the eardrums.
This was why I was told to keep it secret. Despite this, the British police accepted my offer,
and used it in many trials from then on.
A few months later, a prisoner who had been victim to this sound was let out of prison.
He then visited a doctor about his ears that had started hurting ever since he had been
imprisoned. She did some research, and eventually discovered the same thing I had. However,
after some inspections in the prisons, she wrote to the government saying that many prisoners
had been subjected to this sound. Inquiries were made, then several arrests. Mine one of
them. The person who sentenced me had a sense of poetic justice about them-as I had
meddled with sound, I was to be subjected to 7 years in an anechoic chamber-a place that
absorbs all echoes. Currently, I reside in the quietest anechoic chamber there is. However,
there is a reason I am writing my story down now. Smoke is leaking into the room, from the
tiniest crack underneath the permanently locked door. I do not know how the fire started,
but thankfully my door is fireproof. I am running out of oxygen. I will die within the next hour.
All I can do is hope that someone finds these words, written on the wall with a piece of
charcoal. All I can do now is listen to my every breath, my heart beat and the smoke sneak
its way into this cursed place.
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Echoes
Lee Steel
Westbourne Academy, Key Stage Three
It’s not the fact that I’m the only one with this disease, it’s the fact that nobody understands
the pain I go through every day. The pain when I wake up. The pain when I walk. The pain
when I think. Not every day do you find an average person who will walk through a serene
forest and feel like death is just around the corner, carefully taking every step like it were
their last. But… you found me.
Despite myself being an antisocial emo who would rather sit in their depressing room
filled with an array of rock posters listening to heavy metal as if it was my drug, I am a generally
nice guy… well… was. That was until I started hearing the noises, of course.
Firstly, they were ticks at the back of my mind and, unfortunately, I didn’t notice them
until they started to get louder and more frequent. I was slowly losing sleep and, eventually, I
couldn’t even concentrate on the television because they were constantly provoking me,
slowly sending me into a state of madness.
Then, it was the echo’s time of terror. I first heard the echoes in my room although it
wasn’t me who was speaking. I couldn’t understand what was making the noise and how it
was so loud. I knew that nobody else could hear it which infuriated me even further.
My rage had been building up for months when, eventually, sitting alone in the library, I
snapped. It was like I was in a trance, a muse, a schizophrenic frenzy. In one swift motion, I
jumped up, reached into my pocket and pulled out a zippo lighter. My one arm was suspended
in the air below “A Boy Who Played with Fire” - ironic really. I flipped the top and watched
as the fire clung to the pages, turning from a white to black in a matter of seconds, scenting
the air around me. I walked over to one of the shelves and placed the book back. Then
watched. Gradually, each book was turning into a pile of ash. A small fog had now started to
come down. I knew that I should have left but I couldn’t move. The soft flames started to
crackle and, with each snap, I could feel myself healing.
No more ticks.
No more tocks.
No more echoes.
Just the fire alarm.
The fire had now spread around me, covering each shelf and table with an orange sprite.
Increasingly, the smoke got thicker, making it harder to breathe, but I didn’t need to. I lay
there on the floor in my own world, reminiscing. I lay there on my death bed. I was
comfortably breathing in the smoke, inhaling the poison that would bruise and blacken my
lungs. I spent years avoiding death, as if it were an old mistake, but now I embrace it. It took
my last breath to realise that I had been so arrogant in thinking that death would let me pass
through the fiery gates of hell. Not even the devil could take my life.
No more ticks.
No more tocks.
No more echoes.
*crack* *crack* *crack*
The fire exit was splintered shut but they still managed to separate them, letting the
smoke out, destroying my remedy; the only thing that could keep me sane.
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The last minute release was my one way of living. If it hadn’t have been for that, I would
have burnt alive.
My skin melting onto the floor.
My only remains, a set of black bones, disfigured.
My life taken from me.
Even more ticks.
Even more tocks.
Even more echoes.
My life wasn’t over but it had only just began as, in the hospital, there were others who
heard the ticks.
Others who heard the tocks.
Others who had a zippo lighter each.
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Until the Echoes Fade
Hannah Stephenson
Cardinal Griffin Catholic College, Key Stage Three
Memory:
Excitement of packing bags,
Not able to zip them up,
Fun-packed car journeys,
Laughter and singing songs.
Echo:
The rush of packing bags,
No time to zip them up,
Uneasy car journeys,
Whispers and muttered prayers.
Memory:
Holding her hand,
Smiling and waving,
Father is taking us,
Back to our home.
Echo:
Clutching her arm,
Screaming and wailing,
As father is taken,
Away from our home.
Memory:
From the deck of our cruise ship,
We cheer and we point,
As the fireworks’ farewell,
Lights up the sky.
Echo:
From the back of our dinghy,
We sob and we cower,
As the fire and the gunshots,
Tear through the night.
Memory:
Lying on the beach,
Searching the sand,
Too relaxed to swim,
Cool water soothing my skin.
Echo:
Washed up on the beach,
Face-down in the sand,
Too exhausted to move,
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Icy water numbing my toes.
I hold on to my memories
Until the echoes fade away
fade away
fade away
fade
away
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Witness
Frances Thompson
Oxford Spires Academy, Key Stage Three
Echoes carry from under the bridge
where dead flowers strain
in the wind against the cable ties
that hold them down. This is the bridge
where the boy was cycling and crying
onto the string of his red balloon.
If the girl who was mourning
hears my echo, I wish her well.
Under the bridge the ducks
seem silent, speechless, but
they call out the boy’s thoughts
before the water filled his mouth.
And I hear them, and I see the flowers,
and I carry on listening.
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Echoes
Chloe Trappes
Hackney New School, Key Stage Three
The waves of a memory come to the surface
splashing softly at the shore
a ripple disperses through its waters
dimming into the depths
she tries to think
the currents flowing, low tide in the bay
reminiscent of a warm summer day
70 degrees and fading away
a ghost of what it used to be
nothing comes
a hollow shell, left on the sand
concave and empty
a ghost on land
a fake
the words that seem to linger in the air
is it really there?
a lesser copy in place
surrounded in a world of fakes
silent and vacant
a ghost of former grace
a word
it feels eternal when it’s said
but once you say it again, it’s dead
inside or outside your head
pausing or perpetuating words that are read
or it continues in its midst
stops and fails to coexist
an echo
one that escapes
knowing it won’t last
patiently, it comes back
a voice rings out
a sound comes out
another follows
its persistence keeps.
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But eventually it will end
it leaves when it has to - nothing stays.
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Echoes
Emily Tucker
The Holy Trinity Church of England School, Key Stage Three
When we are young we always imagine what we would be like in the future; most girls dream
of being a princess or, for the more superficial of us, to be the most popular person in school.
I never knew the biggest portion of my life as a teenager would be spent wanting to die. We
all have our reasons; it’s like living in a body that tries to survive with a mind constantly trying
to die. This is a story about angels and demons, about watering dead flowers, about a place
where there are no happy endings.
The echoes never cease. Even when I sleep I can’t avoid their vicious clawing inside my
head; they seep into my dreams, turning milk into poison and making them nightmares. Even
when I’m supposedly awake, the grim hallucinations still appear in front of my eyes and the
echoes are even worse: louder, clearer, persuasive.
You know you’re messed up when those late night thoughts hit you in the middle of the
day. My lungs fill and deflate as I recline my head enough to stretch but not as far as to touch
the bacteria crawling walls of the school’s bathroom stalls. It’s the middle of class so my
thoughts can’t be distracted by chatter from the oppressing echoes that fill my head. Stumbling
out of the confined cube, I wash my hands, like a sinner, to rid the layer of grime that has
settled. I chuckle to myself at my futile attempt to act like I’m fine even though I have got to
the stage where the smile I draw on is no longer believable. The phrase ‘I’m fine’ is the lie we
all make every day, but then again no one is ever listening, just waiting for their turn to talk,
so it doesn’t matter.
My demons always surround me, clinging onto my skin with severed talons. Each one is
different by the echoes they spread; Ana tells me to starve but if I eat I know Mia will be there
to take it away. Depression and anxiety work hand in hand, one being too scared to do
anything and one not wanting to do anything. I lie and cover up because they tell me to. They
say nobody cares and I’m not important and I believe them. They’re my best friends you see,
they’re always there when I need them and they made me get rid of my old friends anyway;
the echoes said that they never liked me in the first place.
Every day is the same – living in a world where nobody cares. I guess that’s how I find
myself here. Schools ended and nobody’s home so I’m left with my echoes, alone. Despite my
deep breaths, my heart flutters violently against my rib cage as I stare blankly at the orange
medical pot. No one will miss me. They’ll get over it. Maybe if I die it will make them realise
who the girl was behind the smile.
I unscrew the lid with encouragements from the braying demons. The echoes get louder
as I tip the pills into my hand, screaming, exclaiming, egging me on. I realise all I want now is
for the echoes to be gone, to be free of this world and join the angels in the sky. Downing
the pills, my suicide, the echoes start to laugh then quietly fade, leaving a trail of silence. Finally
I can’t hear them anymore.
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Help, the Echoes
Rosie Williams
Dunraven School, Key Stage Three
Help me. Help me now because it won't leave, it won’t go. Why me? Why out of all the people
in the world? It had to be me, it always has to be me. The echoes, they keep coming back.
Where was I? What was I doing? Why me?
The day it all happened was the 25th of November, the worst day ever. The day all the
birds fled from their trees, the day the choirs stopped singing. It rings in my ears like a clown
laughing in my face, like the song of a thousand guns. Always there, never leaving, stretching
into the four corners of the earth. It seeps through closed doors, it runs through shut
windows. Why me?
No I know why, because I'm cursed. It's the echoes, it’s all the echoes. I feel like there's
a rain cloud hanging over me and it's not going to leave until I find out what happened to me.
When I say it was the worst day ever, I mean, I can't exactly remember what happened.
In fact, I can't remember that day at all. One thing I do know however, is it wasn't a good day.
The vast expanse of echoes, you don't understand. Someone has taken my memory and
sprinkled it into all of space and just expects me to pick up the pieces? What? The echoes are
like memories but so dark I can't quite make them out, it's torture.
All I can remember is dark fog and a park at night. Then I was here at my house, on the
26th of November the day after, in bed on a perfect Saturday and everyone says I was at
home all day but I know I wasn't.
All I want to do is come out of the gloom and find out what happened.
Why won't the echoes stop? Why won't they go away?
I mean, in a kind of weird way you could say that the echoes were helping me because I
want to know what happened. They're not. They're taking over my life. If the echoes weren't
here I wouldn't be writing this stupid story! I'd be writing in my stupid diary instead and…
Wait, it's the echoes, they're coming back, please no it hurts! My memories feel like
they're being stripped and rewritten but they're not something coming back. One clear image.
The park! Whatever happened I was in the park and that's where I need to go.
But first , where are my manners , I'm Alice Patten born in London , and I love London,
it's where I grew up. I was born on the 27 of October 2003. I just turned 12 but if you don't
mind I think we’ll get back to the park.
I'm running so, so fast but I’m not quite sure why. And it's all coming back. And I know
why. You see, the thing with me is that I'm quite organised, my brain is like it has a million
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different pages of all my memories, and that day's page was all scrunched up. But now it's
revealed itself. It's unfolded. I know. Why me? I know why. Would it eat at your skin if I didn’t
tell you what I know? But I’m not that mean don't worry.
Ok so I'm going to tell what happened to me but you can't tell anyone or he’ll come for
you just like he came for me. Now the last sentence in this stupid story is the last thing I’ll
ever do, but once I’ve said it he’ll come, he’s probably coming right now. OK, here goes, my
last story, the last story I’ll ever tell. In the park he come over to m… oh no, goodbye, he’s
here.
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Echo
Arthur Wills
Latymer School, Key Stage Three
My boy has the face of a ghost. His eyes hang glumly below his forehead. His mouth mutters
for eternity, but nothing comes out. My boy can’t control his hair. It always veers towards the
left like a hand, reaching for something to hold onto. My boy has skin of leather, but the colour
of ashes – the colour that you find lurking at the back of the cupboard.
My boy likes to play with friends, but only has one, and that’s me. Sometimes, I try to
understand what he says to himself, to see if I can talk to him.
He tells me that he likes looking at people, at what they do.
Sometimes, I can hear my boy breathing heavily at night, as if he is scared of something.
In the morning, he quietly nibbles on a piece of bread before returning to his position out
in the garden, looking up into the sky for a bird. Sometimes, he spends an entire afternoon,
just listening to the birds’ calls; sometimes, there aren’t even any birds, but I can still hear him,
humming a tuneless tune.
My boy says that he can’t feel his hands when he stays outside. I worry about him being
too cold during the winter. But then he says that he feels like that the whole year.
If I try hard, I can hear his heart beating when we’re alone. The pulse has no rhythm, but
a perfect unevenness, like the chugging engine of an old car. Suddenly, his beat would stop,
and then he would look at me with a puzzled face.
Sometimes, I think that my boy is very much like me, just as inquisitive as me, with the
same voice, and the same curious nature. In fact, one of the only things that makes us different
is how much more empty he is, compared to me. Sometimes, I have to wake him up at night
just to know that he’s there. It’s almost an involuntary reaction. Then I whisper to him, and
he replies by saying the same thing, and that’s enough to comfort me.
It pains me to say that I, sometimes, I feel like he is the only one there, my boy.
He carries his bag over to the table, just like I do, and sits in a heap, his arms in a
bedraggled mess, sticking outwards from his slumped stomach. A tear rolls down his face.
I ask him what’s wrong and he responds by sniffing a little bit, before clutching my fingers.
My boy says that he can feel his hands now.
I move my head towards his, and he immediately coils away from me, as if threatened by
my affection. We don’t talk for the rest of the day, but sometimes, it’s too quiet in the house
without him.
Our house is a flattened pile of bricks and slate, with some cement seeping into the gaps.
The light projected from the Sun is funnelled into a corner of the upstairs room. This is my
room. My boy sleeps on the roof.
Sometimes, his legs walk him, slowly towards the edge of the roof.
My boy doesn’t like the world, he says it’s too big.
So he jumps.
He says he envies me.
My boy escapes my arms and over the roof
And from behind me, he runs his hand through my hair
And says
“Nice to meet you.”
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