Lower School Winning Authors
Over Half term, the English Department ran an inaugural Lower School Creative Writing Competition, open to all pupils in Years Seven and Eight. Pupils were challenged to write a creative piece of no more than 500 words, on a topic or theme of their choice. The standard of the entries was truly impressive. Entries ranged from dystopian fantasies to gripping thrillers to laugh-out-loud comedies, and it was very difficult to choose the winners.
We have now crowned Sophie Fisher as the Year Seven winner, and Hannah Agoston as the Year Eight winner. The girls will receive vouchers to buy a book of their choice as a prize.
Please do enjoy reading the winning entries – ‘A Martian Expedition’ and ‘913’ below.
Mrs Hannah North
Teacher of English
A Martian Expedition by Sophie Fisher
It was 2050, and Simon Stella, leader of the Mars missions, was waiting with terror for the signal from the spaceship Miracle – containing the first humans to travel to Mars in history. The six astronauts’ message that would hopefully say they had arrived safely should be arriving…now …
The message appeared word by word as one of the astronauts typed them into their computer.
“Houston – we have arrived safely! But I think I can see movement.”
The cheering, clapping and high-fives faltered at the last words. More words were appearing on the screen. Simon’s and everyone else’s eyes widened in fear. It didn’t look good.
“Houston, we have a prob-“
The signal went.
There were no more messages for five whole years. To every single person on Earth, it seemed obvious. The six astronauts had died. No one knew how, but they were all sure they were gone. Maybe there had been a storm. Maybe the rocket had exploded after the landing. Maybe the return rocket wouldn’t take off and they had all starved. But everyone was sure they were dead as there had been no sign of them for five years.
Until Miracle was spotted.
Everyone was extremely excited when Simon Stella revealed it on the news. A pilot had been flying his small plane over the North Sea and had almost crashed when he saw the rocket plummeting down into the sea. He had managed to take a photo once he regained control over the plane, and it was definitely Miracle. It was incredible that the astronauts had been thought dead for five years but had finally returned. But because Miracle had crashed into the North Sea, the astronauts couldn’t have survived. Still, a group of rescue seaplanes were sent by the British Prime Minister to look for Miracle and the six astronauts hopefully onboard.
On one of the seaplanes was Rose High. She was in the front plane, so she was the first to spot the floating rocket.
She was also the first to spot the aliens.
They were climbing over the rocket, holding some kind of dangerous looking glass contraption. They were also carrying a large cage containing six familiar looking men and women in spacesuits. One of the aliens saw the seaplanes and started waving an unfamiliar flag. It was very large and had pictures of two planets on it. One of them was Mars, and it was much bigger than Mars was in real life in comparison to the other planet, which was Earth. The Earth on the flag was in flames.
Rose had landed by this point, and she instantly got out her phone and started to phone the British Prime Minister. The aliens pointed the glass contraption at Rose.
The Prime Minister picked up the phone hopefully and heard Rose High’s urgent voice.
“Excuse me, Sir – I know this sounds far-fetched – we seem to have some aliens on this spaceship – they don’t look at all frie-“
The call ended.
913 by Hannah Agoston
My name is 913. At least, that’s what they told me. I don’t think it matters now. My name is the least of my problems.
Sometimes I find myself clawing at the stone walls, drenched in sweat, my heart thumping to what feels like a beat I can’t quite remember. I have to gasp to refill my lungs with the musty air that fills my room, which seems to be tainted with a lingering, sickly odour I’m sure I’ve smelled before.
Minutes pass before I can bring myself to get up off the filthy floor and straighten the cuffs of my grey jumpsuit in order to hide the now mangled flesh of my fingertips. Sticky blood coats my hands, the only splash of colour to the endless monotony of my surroundings.
It’s been happening more and more lately. I don’t know what the nightmares are about, but I’m not sure I want to know anymore.
Yours,
Me. (913)
Icy glares follow me through the endless passages on the occasion I am allowed a brief reprieve from my windowless cell. Even in the dim flickering of the fluorescent lighting I can feel the tangible loathing emanating from those around me. I still don’t know what I did. It must have been bad to land up in this place, though. They save this place for the worst of us.
Rhythmic thuds of regulation black boots on the hard floor puncture my bubble of thoughts. The owners of these thick-soled, dreary monstrosities all look the same to me: curtains of lank hair, waxy faces, dead eyes devoid of hope stare straight ahead like dolls in a shop window.
Their hands are slack at their sides as they trudge forward, knowing today will be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow, the same as each vacuous day left in their miserable existence.
Yours,
Me. (913)
I saw a new room today. They told me I was on trial. Told me to tell the truth.
A bald man with squinting eyes and a large wooden cross resting upon his chest told me that the truth would set me free. It would be easier if that was true. You see, I’ve started to remember. Not much, just a few random moments.
My hands were slick with blood, head rushing with fear, but the gun was in my hand. And I pulled the trigger.
The room was filled with polished surfaces and grim-faced people wearing dark suits. As I was shoved onto a short bench in the centre of the room, they brought in another man. His watery green eyes were wild with fear, his clothes crumpled and a gash on his cheek.
Turns out he was the new suspect for the case. They now think I’m innocent. I’m now sure I’m guilty. But the truth will have me locked up for good. Lie, and I could be free. Free. It’s him or me.
I know what I have to do.
Yours,
Me. (913)