What matters to me?

I have never be able to let it out,

What really matters to me?

Its starts like this,

Family is the most, the true gut feeling,

 When I see them I just want to dance and sing

Next is my mum wow she’s so great,

 When she hands me dinner nicely served on a plate.

My dad comes next when he sings in the shower,

 It makes me a laugh and cheer he’s so funny way he sings lady gaga!!

Brothers and sisters yapping on,

 O, what a day when there telling us what’s going on.

And this is where it ends,

 When I tell you what matters to me the most,

knowing my family and friends are with me close!!!!

©Brodie Bates      

The mystery of love

By Nicole Whitehouse

Love...            

What is love?

Is it an emotion,

Is it a chemical explosion,

Is it something you can keep in a flask,

Or something you can wear like a mask?

I stand here pondering,

What i mean is wondering,

Wondering whether the is any love left in the world,

Not roses and doves,

Not soppy stuff you see in the streets,

Which sometimes makes me want to scream,

Not the whole 'i love you, you love me,

Let’s get married and have three',

I'm talking about when boy meets girl,

And girl meets boy,

When the is an instant flow,

And there smiles start to glow,

I can't name it,

I can't explain it,

But, somehow, they just know,

They are soul mates for life,

We might as well forget about that,

Because love is a thing of dreams,

Because all couples like to do it fight and scream,

A thing that can mislead,

And disserve,

Love, love,

What is love?

© Nicole Whitehouse                                                                                                                        

THE RAIN

Creative Writing Competition Year 9 winner

CHAPTER 1

The rain pattered on the reinforced roof, dripping down the toughened glass skylights. Joe was depressed. He was always depressed after ‘The Incident’. The humid air, thick in his lungs made him long for fresh air, wind on his face, but not any more. Not after what happened.

The most powerful science company, WeatherTech® tried to experiment to see if they could control the water cycle. Using thousands of dollars’ worth of technology and chemicals upon chemicals, they thought they had finally cracked it, but things went wrong… After they had placed the chemicals in earths water sources, scientists observed the PH of the water decrease. At first it wasn’t so bad but then it got worse, the PH went below 1. Water is not highly acidic. It was all over the news, the papers, the radio. It wasn’t long before people knew they had to do something.

It cost Trillions but they finally managed it. All of earth’s population now live below the surface. Things were bad but it’s amazing what the human race will do to survive. Things had changed, birds were a thing of the past. A few species had been saved and let free to traverse the vast caves that humans now lived in. Joe missed the surface, the sun, the snow.

He peered out of the grimy HydroTough® window. Outside, 50m2 spotlights dominated the roof of the cavern, trying to recreate the daylight of the surface. Shops bustled with people, clamouring for goods.

Joe wasn’t very well off. He was a 15 year old orphan, short on cash and home comforts. If he saved enough he might be able to move deeper. The poor always got the highest homes. 3cm of roof was exposed to the constant rain above. The rain which might have been responsible for the death of his parents, but he could never be sure. He sat back on his standard issue bed. In the slums, you were given a bed, a bathroom and a roof to live under. If you moved into the cities you were on your own. No landlord and no standard issue beds (they were nicknamed ‘back-scratchers for a reason) but for now he was just a kid In a world that had changed. He needed to find out more about what happened to his parents but first he needed a map of the new civilisation, it was only fifteen days since he moved underground so he hadn’t had much time to settle in, he needed to see an old friend…

Joe strolled to the hydrogel® door and shoved. It moved about five inches, he rammed harder and the door burst open onto a walkway. Joe sprinted along and down a flight of stairs. He kept running, he took a sharp left at a restaurant and rounded on a five story car park. He found what he calls ‘the bucket of bolts’ clicked it open and climbed in. He swerved around a large bin lorry whose rather fat occupants recoiled in shock. Joe didn’t slow down though and plummeted through the alleys until he came out on the main street.

It was an impressive sight. Large towering buildings dominated the length of the road, restaurants, clubs, houses and offices sprawled as far as the eye can see. This was immense because it had only been built four months ago (the government had suspected something may go wrong and started to prepare before the incident happened). People strolled along the pavements, oblivious to the acidic carnage being battled 50m above them.

Joe flew down the fast lane and over a crossing, scaring an man so much he fell back onto a flowerpot in fright! Joe kept on driving and didn’t slow down.

CHAPTER 2

Since the incident, many new things had challenged the human race in the fortnight they had spent underground. We had drilled deeper than we had when we lived on the surface. New creatures had been discovered, some of them dangerous. Also, rumour has it that a new disease had appeared, details of which were classified by the NCR (New Core Reinforcements, the military). We were coping though, we had to. Joe pulled up at the building, it was fairly new looking (although everything was underground) he got out and slammed the door.

Joe knocked three times and waited. A huge round man of about 30 opened the door, tried to say something but burst into a coughing fit. Joe backed away a few feet and said “err, you okay George”? The coughing finished and George spoke in a deep, husky tone. “Yeah, what you doing around here Joe”? Slurred George. “I’ve got some business regarding my parents, could I use your network please.” Said Joe in a tone you couldn’t refuse. “Erm…yeah, I suppose you could.” George said uneasily, his piggy eyes darting back and forth. Joe stepped inside, the putrid stench hit him like a punch to the face. Joe staggered a bit but carried on down a corridor. George shambled after him. They finally reached a small room, Joe walked in, followed by George, who crammed himself through the door. In front of them was a 70’’ Neutron screen with a top of the range holographic display. Joe sat in a nearby armchair, grabbed the keyboard and got the name search engine. George was a friend of Joe’s dad and had a lot of illegal stuff, also he was a praised hacker and the website Joe was on was meant to be ‘secure’ government files, but for George, it was nothing. Joe punched in his parents’ names and started the long wait for it to load.

“So…err, what have you been doing lately”? Mumbled George.

 “Not much, you”? Replied Joe.

“Playing a bit of tennis, football and doing a bit of jogging”! Said George happily.

“That’s great George, or is that just your way of saying: Video games, eating pizza and watching TV”? Said Joe in an icy tone.

“Well… I did watch tennis once…” muttered George under his breath.

“You haven’t changed a bit you useless pile of fat!” laughed Joe, smiling for the first time in days, satisfied at the aggravated expression forming on Georges pudgy face.

The website beeped and loaded. Two silhouetted images came up with the faces blurred out. They had the letters: NLDS next to them. “What the…” said Joe in a voice that could cut through metal. “I’m sorry”. Said George. “Why”? Asked Joe “I’m going to-” Joes sentence was cut short and everything went black. George winced as a baton, wielded by a NCR member, expertly hit Joe in the back of the neck. “I regret it now”. Sighed George. “Too late” growled the NCR member before heaving Joes limp body onto his shoulder and walking out the door…

©Alex Bowell

What is writing?

Writing is a way of saying words

It could be about anything like birds

Writing is not for nerds it is for any one like you

If you think what you want to do

You can put it into a story

If it is about a person think of a name

Like dory

It is not a game

You can write about anything

This is writing what you will write about?

©By Joshua Joyce

Everywhere

2011 Creative Writing Competition Winner – Year 10

"Perhaps they are not starts, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

I remember it, the day of the funeral. Though it seems impossible for my mind to accept it. I do try to forget, but how can I? I remember so clearly, my sister’s lifeless body laying there in an open casket before my tearful eyes. Her lungs were breathless, mouth motionless, skin pale and heart still. Why won’t Mel wake up? I ask myself this constantly, I ask God, I ask the sky, expecting a reasonable answer, it hasn’t come yet. I wanted to shake her with all my might, to wake her and myself from this awful nightmare, to move this hovering grey cloud from above my head, to rid me of the crippling feeling in my chest which I have become familiar with. I wanted the sad faces to disappear and the sun to emerge again. I wanted Mel. I wish Mel was still here.

 Ever since the funeral I’ve avoided all contact from the sea of sad and awkward faces, the apologies and the never ending flow of tears. Surely tear ducts don’t last forever - I don’t want to cry, but I do. All the time, in fact. I should drown the world, end this terrible suffering, my body left to be found floating head down. My body crushed under the weight of salt which had evaporated from my tears. I was searching for a cure; there was a hole in my heart which grew larger each day. I wanted to cover it with a plaster, hoping it would heal. I wanted to stitch it with wool so that it wouldn’t become un-done again. I knew what I was searching for; the cure was my sisters company. She isn’t coming back from wherever she is, I’m aware, but I can hope. I can search for a place of contentment.

 I walked and walked until my legs were numb and feet were blistered, I enjoyed the feeling of being numb, not being able to feel discomfort or pain.  I wish I could pour the feeling into a bottle and keep it for future use. I wish my shadow would get up and walk beside me. Whilst I walked I  pondered through the box in my mind which secured all the memories I shared with Mel; I’d replay them over and over again to the extent where I could convince myself she was with me, laughing, talking, dancing, singing, walking…breathing. Some memories, or as I’d like to think; present moments, were bitter, others sweet. I spent the majority of my time with her, her face was still so clear in my mind; her out of control blonde hair, the most brilliant shade of blue pools in her eyes, thick red lips. Every girl who attended our school envied her; she was the true definition of beautiful. Though it wasn’t just her appearance many were jealous of, her personality was so vibrant, so full of colour. Mel had the personality of a puppy I often thought; determined, constantly bursting with life, gleeful, so very optimistic. If everyone in the world had a personality even similar to hers, it would be wonderful place to live. Unlike it is now of course, her spirit no longer in this world, consequently leaving behind a gloomy atmosphere. Flowers no longer grew, faces never smiled, leaves refused to dance in the wind. The world has stopped and so has she.

 Weeks had past, not that I noticed at first, I’ve become immune to everything the world possess, skin senseless, my brain produced no other thoughts than ones of my sister, thoughts which would not help me overcome this terrible feeling. It wasn’t so much a feeling, it was pain. Pain heals over time, that’s all it took; time. People say that time plays evil games, and that her face will begin to fade, I will struggle to re call the happy tones of her voice. She will leave the sanctity of my mind as well as the Earth. After what seemed like an eternity of walking and endless thinking my mind began to clear. The silliest things would cruelly remind me of Mel as I walked through the forgettable fields and past the lifeless lakes. This interrupted me imagining my sister was still here, still alive. Instead when I saw an object, a view or a place that reminded me of her I realised that she had gone, she wasn’t still here. Bells would ring from miles round, clanging, booming and chiming all sounding off in the moment; my heart would drop from my eroded chest into my stomach and then to the floor, where it was trampled on, orbited the world in an instant whilst my feet remained on the ground, though only just. The poor remainders of my heart were repetitively mistreated by death. I realised death would never leave me. It would certainly never leave Mel. I wanted death dead. It would be easier to handle if I wasn’t inseparable from Mel, if we were the type of sisters who would argue constantly, who would fight and curse at each other, the type of sisters who didn’t share the same love as I and Mel did. It then occurred to me that death and love were conjoined.  The risk of love is loss and the price of loss is grief. I began to hate love, what an odd feeling to have towards someone. How odd it is that people would die for the ones they love, how degrading it can be to love someone who is dead. Honestly, I was clueless that the most needed organ could cause such strife and trouble. It could be broken yet apparently it could mend, wounded and still heal. It could be given and returned, lost and found. Through all this a human could still live, though according to some, only just. I think my heart’s given up, grief has overwhelmed it.

A year pasted, a lot had changed. I realised my heart hadn’t given up, it was healing, recovering from the grief. Though it hasn’t completely healed, I know that it never will. Grief is forever, you adapt to live with it, step for step, breath for breath. I will always grieve because I will always love her. She’ll always be here, in photographs, in memories of many precious moments, especially in my heart. Her thoughts, her opinions, her secrets, her knowledge; they’re all gone now, body decomposed. They’ve dissolved into the atmosphere and surround everyone she knew, I can feel it. The sun feels it; it now shines, the leaves dance and my lips smile knowing that she’s not dead, she’s just a very sleepy Mel. On occasions I cry, I’ve learnt that tears aren’t a sign of fear, but of power. They speak more sense than a thousand tongues; they are messengers of grief and unspeakable love. I’ve found a place of contentment at her grave, her remains are there physically, evidence of her existence, a source from outside my mind. Gravity pulls me there. She’s still here, everywhere…

©Katie Pawlowski

Alive

2011 Creative Writing Competition Winner – Year 8

Jack’s eyes flickered open and immediately slammed shut again in the gleam of the sun. He could easily have fell asleep on the gritty sidewalk he was lying on. Jack wasn’t aware of where he was, his memory was clouded. He managed to open his eyes to two slits, what met him was a tranquil blue sky with a blazing sun, if it wasn’t for the sidewalk Jack would’ve said he was on the beach. Ever so slowly the feeling started coming back to his arms and legs. He coughed uncontrollably. Then for the first time a thought struck him, where am I and why am I lying on the sidewalk. Steadily he got to his feet, he still felt extremely dazed so it wasn’t an easy procedure. His legs wobbled but he managed to stay standing. Jack looked around. He knew exactly where he was; in fact he was a mere five yards from his own house. Then another thought struck him, where were all the people? The usually bubbling streets of New York were completely deserted. Not a soul in sight, nor were there any cars on the roads, all was quiet as if he was the only person left on Earth.

Whilst trying to remember just what had happened Jack noticed that the front door of his house hung ajar. Crime rates were high and it was no surprise to Jack that someone had broken in. So maybe a burglar had knocked him out and dumped him on the sidewalk? Well might as well see what’s been nicked Jack thought to himself. Jack slowly approached the house not so much in fear but to prevent himself from nose diving into the sidewalk. He walked into the house through the door frame half covered by the battered door. Looking into the front room he could see all his furniture had been well and truly wrecked. In front of him was the kitchen, he walked towards it and suddenly stopped. What was that? There it was again, a sort of murmuring sound followed by chomping. It was coming from the kitchen, Jack pressed himself against the door and peered around it, the fridge was open but the fact there was a young boy standing in front of it took him away from that detail. So he was been burgled by an infant?

“Hello”, said Jack. The boy murmured something under his breath; Jack stepped into the room and could see the child was eating something with his back to him. “Are you lost?” Jack asked as he approached the boy. Again in an inaudible voice the boy said something. “Hello, I need you to answer me please”. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder which immediately triggered him to turn around. The sight that met Jack left him stunned. The boy’s eyes were red and swollen, his nose was horrifically broken and he was completely covered in blood from head to toe. Then Jack’s gaze met the child’s hands, he had several fingers missing on both of them. “A-a-a-are you okay?” The boy growled and unexpectedly lashed at him. Jack jumped back “Calm down”, he said. This only seemed to make the child angrier, he leapt at Jack and grabbed on to him, he could feel the child’s head close to his neck, god damn it he was going to bite. The boy wriggled around, Jack tried franticly to get him off but he was unbelievably strong. He could see the boy’s eyes and for a second they met, Jack saw emptiness. Then there was a bang and the boys head erupted into a mass of blood and flesh, the remainder of his body crumpled to kitchen floor, Jack stared at the horrible scene, a puddle of blood was quickly forming and bits of the child’s head were splattered on the wall. Jack swivelled around, now in front of him was a young woman reloading a shotgun. “Well I’ve just saved your life, would it be too much to ask for a thank you”. The room fell silent. “Er...thanks”, stuttered Jack. The woman smiled.

“Hi I’m Lindsey and I’m in charge now”

Jack had followed Lindsey out of his house and they were now walking down the street outside. Again it was eerily quiet; Jack was replaying the events that had happened back at his house. Finally he broke the silence. “Mind telling me what’s going on”, asked Jack.

“Hell”, Lindsey answered.

“What?!” Jack exclaimed. Lindsey finally turned towards him and stared into his eyes. “You could call this hell, why? Because if this isn’t the apocalypse then I don’t know what is”

“What the hell are you on about?” Jack shouted. Lindsey slapped him hard around the face. “ Don’t you dare talk to me like that, now listen, the dead are rising right here right now and they’re hungry and they are gonna kill us both if we’re not careful”, Lindsey boomed. Jack laughed.

“Zombies? Really, sorry I wasn’t aware the dead were walking”, Jack said sarcastically. “What would you say that was back at the house then?” Lindsey asked. Jack went silent. “Well...answer me!” she shouted. Jack raised his finger and pointed over Lindsey’s shoulder. Lindsey turned slowly, “Oh damn it, run!” she screamed looking at the charge of zombies. She turned and ran, Jack followed suit, the group was slow but one or two of them were fast. Jack kept looking over his shoulder and consequently tripped and fell. Lindsey sighed and readied her shotgun. “Stay down!” she shouted. Jack obliged and she fired a shot at the closest zombie, hitting him in the stomach, growling it crumpled to its knees. Franticly reloading Lindsey fired another shot at a large on rushing female zombie, the bullet pierced the flesh on the arm, she yelled but stayed standing. Once again she reloaded hitting the male zombie in the face as he was getting back up. Next she hit the female zombie in the stomach and went to reload again. “Damn it!” she shouted as she realised she was out of ammo. Lindsey looked at Jack. “Up!” Jack sprung to his feet as the female zombie flung a hand at him. He scrambled away and quickly ran towards Lindsey and he assumed safety. “Now what?” he asked. Lindsey looked at the scramble of zombies more had joined the pack and the new one’s were faster. “We run!” she screamed as she charge away, Jack stood there for a moment and then followed. It was tiring running up hill and the zombies were getting ever closer, the two of them were on their last legs. Just when it looked like all hope was lost the roar of a car engine was followed by the appearance of two Ferraris, they swerved around the two of them and smashed into the pack of zombies taking them down like bowling pins.

Four people now stood at the top of the hill. Jack was franticly trying to find out what was going on. Lindsey simply pointed. Jack looked out at the city, and froze, hundreds, no thousands of them. This wasn’t a joke…

©Jake Winwood

A job beyond the grave

2011 Creative Writing Competition Winner – Year 7

          Busy days, busy days. People are dropping dead everywhere and expect me to clear it all up. You know, it’s not an easy job being Death. It’s not even a war. But, I remember World War II as well as anything– I’ve never worked so hard in my life! I never get any credit for what I do because no-one can see me or know when I’m coming (a few people being the exception). I’ve had my job for 150 years now and I was hired when I died. You’re probably wondering now, how I died, well it’s simple, I was murdered. Murdered by my own father in fact. The filthy lying murderer. Well now I’ve told you that, I suppose you’d want to hear how it happened. Here goes...

January 1861
              Willow Cottage was covered in overgrown leaves, several of the windows were smashed and the door hung off its hinges. The garden consisted of nothing but weeds and thorns. A fierce wind entered the house through the shattered windows causing the things inside to be knocked over or broken. The house overall looked as uninviting as ever.  Despite the unpleasant state of the house, it was still used as a home. It was home to the Jones family. The father was uncontrollably violent and often treated other people like dirt, and his wife was rather the opposite. She was called Lucy and was forced to marry Derrick Jones, as her family supposedly got on well with his. The remaining member of the family was me – John Jones.                                          
         Like my mother, I despised Derrick and we planned to run away but it was not to be. The day of our planned escape we found out that my mother’s dad was murdered. To show our respect we decided to stay for the funeral (which my father refused to go to) and to not run away. My mother’s family needed her more than ever.
        One dull evening, when Lucy was with her family, I saw my father in the living room. However, he was not the only one because I could hear shrieks of pain coming from another person. I went to investigate. The sight was something you wouldn’t want to look twice at. A bloody mass lay upon the floor, clearly desperate for help. He was writhing and wincing whenever my father hit him.
        ‘Why don’t you just keep your nose out of my business,’ my father yelled. ‘Answer me you useless lump.’
        I hid behind the sofa and to my astonishment I recognized the man at once. He was my Uncle. I always thought they got on well together but I was most definitely wrong.
        ‘HOW DARE YOU THREATEN ME,’ my father continued. ‘ANSWER ME!’
        My uncle spoke in sharp breaths. ‘Please – I – didn’t – mean – to – do – this.’
        ‘GIVE ME ONE GOOD REASON WHY I SHOULDN’T JUST KILL YOU NOW!’
        I had plucked up enough courage to speak and I would do anything in my power to help my uncle.
        ‘I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t kill him now.’ I tried to make my voice sound confident and fear free. But somehow this didn’t seem to work.
        ‘YOU DARE TELL LUCY – ‘he stopped mid-way in his sentence because I had interrupted him.
        ‘What. Tell her you’re a filthy murderer, of course I’m gonna tell her. Oh and I bet you anything that it was you who murdered my grandfather as well, didn’t you.’ I don’t know what came over me. I had never spoken to someone like that before...ever. I was going to get it now, I knew it.
        ‘If you don’t tell Lucy, I won’t kill your beloved uncle.’ He pleaded.
        ‘Well, he already looks dead to me now anyway’. This was true because he had stopped writhing on the ground and by the looks of things, he’d also stopped breathing. My father was now looking worried as he stared at the dead body on the ground. If that didn’t add to his troubles, my mother would arrive any minute. I didn’t know what to feel as I stared into my father’s cold black eyes. He stared back into mine as though he wished me a painful death (which was what I would certainly get if I didn’t get out of his way soon).
         I ran to the door and saw a figure getting bigger and bigger, this must be my mother because no-one else would want to come to this excuse for a house. She became more visible as time wore on. When my mother was drawing nearer to the house I ran to her.
        ‘Mother, please – come – now.’
        ‘Whatever could be the problem, John dear?’ She said, eyeing the anxious look etched upon my face.
        ‘No time – for – explanations – follow me.’ I ran with my mother at my tail towards the house again. It seemed like years when we finally reached the front door.
        ‘Right mother, be careful.’ I finally drew my breath back and tip-toed my way to the living room door. And there he was. My father had picked up a knife and clutched it so hard he was shaking. My mother screamed deafeningly.
        ‘I-I-Is th-that my b-brother?’ She asked with a petrified expression wrapped around her face.
        ‘YES!’ My father bellowed. He smacked his fist against the dining table and one of the legs dropped off causing the table to collapse. I and my mother had to jump out of the way for this unexpected event. My mother had started to cry uncontrollably and she too collapsed to the ground like the table. My father had a blank expression on his face as he looked at his wife lying despairingly on the ground. He walked towards me with the knife still held tightly in his hand and looked at me face to face. There was complete and utter silence only broken by my mother’s sobs.
        ‘Why did you tell her’? He said in a dangerously low voice. I didn’t know what to say to this so I fixed my eyes on my mother as though in a trance. There was going to be two murders tonight, I could sense it. Unless I gave my father a decent answer (which I surely couldn’t) that knife would slice me up into smithereens.
        ‘Well, I suppose there’s only one thing for it then.’ He brandished the knife in front of my face and my mother screamed. My father showed no sign of remorse as far as I could tell. He lifted up the knife and plunged it into my stomach.

        150 years later...
When I look back on it each time, it makes me hate my father more and more. One more thing I wish to know is what happened to my mother. Death must have come to her at one point but how it met her I don’t know.
        You must welcome ten new people into the arms of Death.
How I said, people are dropping like flies, there won’t be any people left at this rate. Anyway, I have to go and recruit more people to help me with my job. And boy, do I need it.
       

©Jasmine Samra