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My workshops aim to create a relaxed and supportive space in which children and young people feel encouraged to write without the pressure of having to reach prescribed targets. They are open to anyone aged between 6-17, both budding writers and those who have never written before. Each session begins with games and warm-up exercises to stimulate the imagination, followed by focused activities to inspire a poem or story. We finish with the opportunity for the children to read their work to the group and receive sensitive and constructive feedback.
We have worked with local artists who illustrated the children's stories, featured in the local paper, and entered competitions. Children from our groups have won and been highly commended in the Brighton Festival Peacock Poetry Prize. In 2018 we collaborated with Shoreham Wordfest to organise a children's poem-a-thon - a non-stop hour of around 15 children and young people reading poems to raise funds for the Unicef work to support Rohingya refugees.
Scroll down for details of our groups and to see examples of the children's work.
We have worked with local artists who illustrated the children's stories, featured in the local paper, and entered competitions. Children from our groups have won and been highly commended in the Brighton Festival Peacock Poetry Prize. In 2018 we collaborated with Shoreham Wordfest to organise a children's poem-a-thon - a non-stop hour of around 15 children and young people reading poems to raise funds for the Unicef work to support Rohingya refugees.
Scroll down for details of our groups and to see examples of the children's work.
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Group 1 meet at Shoreham Library. Group 2 meet on Zoom. I have spaces in both groups, so do get in touch to find out more or to book a place.
Group 1: Ages 9-11
Alternate Saturdays 10am-11.15am
Dates for the autumn term 2023 are: 2, 16 and 30 September; 14 and 28 October; 11 and 25 November; 9 December
Sessions cost £8 each, payable as a termly block of £64
Group 2: Ages 11-16
Alternate Tuesdays 4.30pm-5.45pm
Dates for the autumn term are: 5 and 19 September, 3, 17 and 31 October, 14 and 28 November, 12 December
Sessions cost £8 each, payable as a termly block of £64
Group 1: Ages 9-11
Alternate Saturdays 10am-11.15am
Dates for the autumn term 2023 are: 2, 16 and 30 September; 14 and 28 October; 11 and 25 November; 9 December
Sessions cost £8 each, payable as a termly block of £64
Group 2: Ages 11-16
Alternate Tuesdays 4.30pm-5.45pm
Dates for the autumn term are: 5 and 19 September, 3, 17 and 31 October, 14 and 28 November, 12 December
Sessions cost £8 each, payable as a termly block of £64
I love this club because it inspires me to be as creative as I can be. Tess is very encouraging and gives us all kinds of inspirational ideas and prompts that we can turn into exciting stories. She keeps it interesting so that we always do something different every session. I enjoy the mix of poetry and fiction and I love how supportive the other students are. I have tried some online creative writing platforms, but they are nowhere near as good as Tess’s club.'
— Tali
'Thank you for your patient and gentle approach, it was just what was needed.'
— Parent
— Tali
'Thank you for your patient and gentle approach, it was just what was needed.'
— Parent
Private tutoring
I have worked with several young people on a one-to-one basis, tailoring creative writing sessions to suit their interests, aptitudes and needs. Do get in touch if you would like to discuss how I can help your child.
Workshops in schools
I have led workshops in school settings, both mainstream and special needs, and am registered on the Poetry Society's database of Poets in Schools. I have also run workshops for local arts festivals. I am always interested in new projects and ideas - do get in touch if you'd like me to run a workshop in your setting.
poetrysociety.org.uk/education/poets-in-schools/
poetrysociety.org.uk/education/poets-in-schools/
What we've been up to!
Read on to find out what we've been up to in our sessions and to see some examples of the children's amazing poems and stories. You won't be disappointed...
Ways of Looking
This week we thought about different ways of looking at and describing something, and challenged ourselves to incorporate poetic techniques such as alliteration and personification into our writing. Ammar came up with some wonderful ways of thinking about flames.
Flames
Flames like the sun’s iridescent beams but compact.
Flames like a vicious creature engulfing everything in its path.
Flames like an infection slowly turning your body to crisp.
Flames like a star, ready to explode.
The flames are as cold as the Arctic.
The flames are green like grass.
The flames are miniature.
The flames won’t do harm.
The flames dance devilishly, swaying in the wind.
The flame like a lonely lamppost in an empty street.
The flames roaring with passion, burning its surroundings.
Ammar, 12
Flames
Flames like the sun’s iridescent beams but compact.
Flames like a vicious creature engulfing everything in its path.
Flames like an infection slowly turning your body to crisp.
Flames like a star, ready to explode.
The flames are as cold as the Arctic.
The flames are green like grass.
The flames are miniature.
The flames won’t do harm.
The flames dance devilishly, swaying in the wind.
The flame like a lonely lamppost in an empty street.
The flames roaring with passion, burning its surroundings.
Ammar, 12
Happy New Year!
It was wonderful to see the children again this week, and to be back in our old home at Shoreham library almost three years after we had to move to online sessions. In the spirit of embracing newness, we thought about what a cliché is and had a go at coming up with original ways of describing our emotions. Maisy came up with some startlingly unique similes to portray a vivid and thoughtful picture of grief.
Grief
Grief is like the pull of gravity,
Drawing you away bit by bit
Until you’re completely faded.
It’s like a game in your head
That you are incapable of escaping.
It’s as manipulative as the voice inside you
That relentlessly drones on.
Like a thief it can steal your purpose in life
And like a ghost it will haunt you.
You cannot escape it.
Ever.
Maisy Brayne, 10
It was wonderful to see the children again this week, and to be back in our old home at Shoreham library almost three years after we had to move to online sessions. In the spirit of embracing newness, we thought about what a cliché is and had a go at coming up with original ways of describing our emotions. Maisy came up with some startlingly unique similes to portray a vivid and thoughtful picture of grief.
Grief
Grief is like the pull of gravity,
Drawing you away bit by bit
Until you’re completely faded.
It’s like a game in your head
That you are incapable of escaping.
It’s as manipulative as the voice inside you
That relentlessly drones on.
Like a thief it can steal your purpose in life
And like a ghost it will haunt you.
You cannot escape it.
Ever.
Maisy Brayne, 10
White Wings
The child is beautiful,
With bright features and stardust hair.
His outstretched arm beckons,
Inviting me to be carried away
By those feathered white wings.
I shake my head, telling him I’m not ready.
That it’s fast, and inevitable.
Even through moments incredible and unpleasant, it has to end.
And I am not ready yet.
Time is too fast.
I ask him, ‘Why?’
His response is minimal and in no way satisfying.
I tell him that I know that
The sea will, some day, dry up
And the universe will, some day, end.
I shouldn’t be angry
But I am; he can’t understand!
Some jellyfish are immortal, I say,
Why don’t I have the privilege?
When the world is dust… That’s when I’ll be ready.
I tell him how my bones ache
And how my head hurts
My pillow is too hard, and my blanket, too scratchy.
I whisper that I’m scared,
To which he smiles, I think it’s almost pitifully.
He beckons more urgently, and I close my eyes.
I know what I must do.
I stop protesting and take his hand.
My head clears itself
As he leads me to the stars.
Corin Motley, 12
The child is beautiful,
With bright features and stardust hair.
His outstretched arm beckons,
Inviting me to be carried away
By those feathered white wings.
I shake my head, telling him I’m not ready.
That it’s fast, and inevitable.
Even through moments incredible and unpleasant, it has to end.
And I am not ready yet.
Time is too fast.
I ask him, ‘Why?’
His response is minimal and in no way satisfying.
I tell him that I know that
The sea will, some day, dry up
And the universe will, some day, end.
I shouldn’t be angry
But I am; he can’t understand!
Some jellyfish are immortal, I say,
Why don’t I have the privilege?
When the world is dust… That’s when I’ll be ready.
I tell him how my bones ache
And how my head hurts
My pillow is too hard, and my blanket, too scratchy.
I whisper that I’m scared,
To which he smiles, I think it’s almost pitifully.
He beckons more urgently, and I close my eyes.
I know what I must do.
I stop protesting and take his hand.
My head clears itself
As he leads me to the stars.
Corin Motley, 12
Christmas Eve
Corin, Frez, Isobel and Emine set themselves the ambitious challenge of writing a poem describing the twenty-four hours before Christmas. The end result includes excitement, love and sibling rivalry, a 'great being' and 'shivering' berries in a medley of ideas and experiences, which they performed to their families at our last session this term. A huge well done to our inspired and inspiring young writers.
The Twenty-Four Hours of Christmas Eve
1am
Everyone’s asleep except for one person, who’s up and contemplating.
Their face is pressed against the bedroom window, staring at the gently falling snowflakes.
2am
They’re resting with their head on their hands, excited about Christmas.
They’re reading a book of Christmas poems they’ve always loved.
3am
They fancy a midnight snack and go downstairs, avoiding the creaky step.
They see the fairy-lights on the tree and feel that nameless fuzzy feeling again.
4am
This person feels like the only person in the world: strong and powerful
yet small as a holly berry, shivering in the frost.
5am
They realise they’ve been so busy thinking about the future
they forgot to find food. They grab a mince pie and go outside.
6am
Robins dance on the trees like living ornaments. The stars twinkle as if laughing with joy
as the first Christmas lights come to life below them.
7am
The person hears footsteps and laughter from upstairs as their siblings emerge.
They go back inside and greet them with joyful hugs (and a couple of insults!).
8am
In the sky, red bleeds into blue as the sun peeps over the horizon
like a great being that’s looking over everything with love.
9am–12pm
They settle down for a Christmas movie marathon
sipping hot chocolate and nibbling sprouts.
12pm–3pm
Everyone’s frantically signing their name in shop-bought cards
to give to their family later.
3pm
They bundle into the car, listening to Christmas music
and gazing at the colourful lights whizzing by, transfixed.
4pm
The Christmas boxes are opened with anticipation and yells of delight
and the person receives tartan pyjamas and chocolate with their initials, JP, printed on it in edible
green.
5pm
The wish lists are thrown onto the crackling fire one by one
as the smoke spirals into the deep blue sky.
6pm–8pm
They go home in the dark, looking out of the car window at the stars and the moon
wondering why the Earth is so beautiful.
9pm
Despite the excitement, the person falls asleep straightaway, leaving Christmas to arrive.
Outside, the colourful lights dim and disappear.
10pm–12am
The person lies in bed, sleeping peacefully as Christmas sneaks through their window.
The Twenty-Four Hours of Christmas Eve
1am
Everyone’s asleep except for one person, who’s up and contemplating.
Their face is pressed against the bedroom window, staring at the gently falling snowflakes.
2am
They’re resting with their head on their hands, excited about Christmas.
They’re reading a book of Christmas poems they’ve always loved.
3am
They fancy a midnight snack and go downstairs, avoiding the creaky step.
They see the fairy-lights on the tree and feel that nameless fuzzy feeling again.
4am
This person feels like the only person in the world: strong and powerful
yet small as a holly berry, shivering in the frost.
5am
They realise they’ve been so busy thinking about the future
they forgot to find food. They grab a mince pie and go outside.
6am
Robins dance on the trees like living ornaments. The stars twinkle as if laughing with joy
as the first Christmas lights come to life below them.
7am
The person hears footsteps and laughter from upstairs as their siblings emerge.
They go back inside and greet them with joyful hugs (and a couple of insults!).
8am
In the sky, red bleeds into blue as the sun peeps over the horizon
like a great being that’s looking over everything with love.
9am–12pm
They settle down for a Christmas movie marathon
sipping hot chocolate and nibbling sprouts.
12pm–3pm
Everyone’s frantically signing their name in shop-bought cards
to give to their family later.
3pm
They bundle into the car, listening to Christmas music
and gazing at the colourful lights whizzing by, transfixed.
4pm
The Christmas boxes are opened with anticipation and yells of delight
and the person receives tartan pyjamas and chocolate with their initials, JP, printed on it in edible
green.
5pm
The wish lists are thrown onto the crackling fire one by one
as the smoke spirals into the deep blue sky.
6pm–8pm
They go home in the dark, looking out of the car window at the stars and the moon
wondering why the Earth is so beautiful.
9pm
Despite the excitement, the person falls asleep straightaway, leaving Christmas to arrive.
Outside, the colourful lights dim and disappear.
10pm–12am
The person lies in bed, sleeping peacefully as Christmas sneaks through their window.
Advent Poems
For our last Saturday sessions this year we returned to our pre-pandemic home of Shoreham Library and put on a little performance to a room full of proud parents and siblings. It was so lovely to see the children in person again, and for those who had only seen each other on Zoom to meet properly. The children each read two pieces of work individually, and then finished the performances by reading a poem they had collaborated on together.
Advent Calendar Poem
I open the first box and find some chocolate as usual: 85%, the one I hate!
I open the second box and find an ordinary pencil – nothing too interesting.
I open the third window and see a picture of the joy of presents in the house.
Inside the fourth little bag, I find some twisty blue hairbands; well, I do need them, I suppose.
Oh! This seems more interesting: a heavy block of Lego, bigger than my face, coming into my room.
While listening to some Christmas carols, my mum brings me a wispy tuft of dragon hair with the fragrant smell of lemons – my sixth present.
Big dreams stop me from falling asleep. Downstairs, on the seventh day of advent, I find the luck of seeing Santa, but he doesn’t bring any presents.
Behind the eighth cardboard door, a golden book with a dark smudge.
Number nine is a lime-green glass bottle with a spark of dragon fire swirling round in different directions like lost worlds.
On a velvet mustard-yellow cushion, stitched with the number ten to represent the day, I find
a swan’s dusk-pink ballet shoe in adult size 13.
Inside the ballet shoe I discover a velvet purple box – number eleven. From inside, a chocolate worry elf talks to me in reassurance.
While I’m looking inside the twelfth bag, suddenly, a snowy-white owl greets me at my living- room window.
A small bouncy bunny with a shiny black nose awaits me at window number thirteen, followed
by the joy of snowstorms in my back garden.
On the fifteenth day, snow falls from the sky and I catch a snowflake on my tongue.
A small silk mouse eats all my food on the sixteenth day.
Chocolate burns my mouth on the seventeenth day – ouch!
Seven days until Christmas; I can’t wait! I see a squirrel sketching some mushrooms on my evening walk.
I find a sparkly old pillow that shines so bright on the nineteenth day – only six more!
A fire crackles in the book of Christmas in the twentieth drawer.
A small budgie sings me Christmas carols, perching on the twenty-first window-ledge.
A very cuddly toy roars at my face because it wants the burning hot chocolate I’m drinking
on the twenty-second day.
Mashed bananas with specks of brown on a pretty bowl. Weirdly, eating them makes my tooth fall out.
I put my tooth under my pillow at midnight: no longer the twenty-third day.
Oh no! Oh boy! What is this? An incredibly small, lilac-pink Hippogriff’s egg, which is hatching right now, singing happy Christmas: it’s almost time.
by Iris, Flora, Luna and Mina
A Selection of Memories from Twenty-Four Christmases
1 A collectible figure, its mouth painted into a permanent smile.
2 The snow makes a blanket of ice in a cottage garden.
3 Baked honey from the North Pole warms your house.
4 A paper picture displays St Nick chuckling in his crimson coat as his glasses slide down his nose.
5 The finest snowflake preserved to perfection.
6 A snowman staring, glaring at the warm interior of a shed.
7 Reindeer whirling and twirling in the cold night air.
8 A ball of infinity kicked by God into the horizon of dreams.
9 Paint so vibrant and dazzling, yet invisible to the human eye.
10 Warm hot chocolate spilt outside in the snow, steaming up and up.
11 Sky gods throwing tantrums known as storms to people watching below.
12 A child’s cold breath captured in a glass jar.
13 A window that’s empty, yet full of sorrows.
14 The glitter from a Christmas picture exploding into a shining light.
15 Pitch-black geckos slithering along the rock-hard ground.
16 The last ember of fire crackling in the fireplace.
17 Sunlight beaming out through windows, melting the icy frost.
18 Fairies flying gracefully to the top of the Christmas tree.
19 Snakes disguised as tinsel hanging by the window.
20 The silver silk of a spider wrapped round the pull of gravity.
21 Frosty winter wind prancing and dancing in the cold North Pole.
22 Walking, talking Christmas trees with bells jingling on their many arms.
23 The eyes of a magpie spying the glow of a candle through the fogged window-glass.
24 Warm winter memories exploding out of the advent calendar.
by Maisy, Verity, Martha, Chloe and Sylvia
Advent Calendar Poem
I open the first box and find some chocolate as usual: 85%, the one I hate!
I open the second box and find an ordinary pencil – nothing too interesting.
I open the third window and see a picture of the joy of presents in the house.
Inside the fourth little bag, I find some twisty blue hairbands; well, I do need them, I suppose.
Oh! This seems more interesting: a heavy block of Lego, bigger than my face, coming into my room.
While listening to some Christmas carols, my mum brings me a wispy tuft of dragon hair with the fragrant smell of lemons – my sixth present.
Big dreams stop me from falling asleep. Downstairs, on the seventh day of advent, I find the luck of seeing Santa, but he doesn’t bring any presents.
Behind the eighth cardboard door, a golden book with a dark smudge.
Number nine is a lime-green glass bottle with a spark of dragon fire swirling round in different directions like lost worlds.
On a velvet mustard-yellow cushion, stitched with the number ten to represent the day, I find
a swan’s dusk-pink ballet shoe in adult size 13.
Inside the ballet shoe I discover a velvet purple box – number eleven. From inside, a chocolate worry elf talks to me in reassurance.
While I’m looking inside the twelfth bag, suddenly, a snowy-white owl greets me at my living- room window.
A small bouncy bunny with a shiny black nose awaits me at window number thirteen, followed
by the joy of snowstorms in my back garden.
On the fifteenth day, snow falls from the sky and I catch a snowflake on my tongue.
A small silk mouse eats all my food on the sixteenth day.
Chocolate burns my mouth on the seventeenth day – ouch!
Seven days until Christmas; I can’t wait! I see a squirrel sketching some mushrooms on my evening walk.
I find a sparkly old pillow that shines so bright on the nineteenth day – only six more!
A fire crackles in the book of Christmas in the twentieth drawer.
A small budgie sings me Christmas carols, perching on the twenty-first window-ledge.
A very cuddly toy roars at my face because it wants the burning hot chocolate I’m drinking
on the twenty-second day.
Mashed bananas with specks of brown on a pretty bowl. Weirdly, eating them makes my tooth fall out.
I put my tooth under my pillow at midnight: no longer the twenty-third day.
Oh no! Oh boy! What is this? An incredibly small, lilac-pink Hippogriff’s egg, which is hatching right now, singing happy Christmas: it’s almost time.
by Iris, Flora, Luna and Mina
A Selection of Memories from Twenty-Four Christmases
1 A collectible figure, its mouth painted into a permanent smile.
2 The snow makes a blanket of ice in a cottage garden.
3 Baked honey from the North Pole warms your house.
4 A paper picture displays St Nick chuckling in his crimson coat as his glasses slide down his nose.
5 The finest snowflake preserved to perfection.
6 A snowman staring, glaring at the warm interior of a shed.
7 Reindeer whirling and twirling in the cold night air.
8 A ball of infinity kicked by God into the horizon of dreams.
9 Paint so vibrant and dazzling, yet invisible to the human eye.
10 Warm hot chocolate spilt outside in the snow, steaming up and up.
11 Sky gods throwing tantrums known as storms to people watching below.
12 A child’s cold breath captured in a glass jar.
13 A window that’s empty, yet full of sorrows.
14 The glitter from a Christmas picture exploding into a shining light.
15 Pitch-black geckos slithering along the rock-hard ground.
16 The last ember of fire crackling in the fireplace.
17 Sunlight beaming out through windows, melting the icy frost.
18 Fairies flying gracefully to the top of the Christmas tree.
19 Snakes disguised as tinsel hanging by the window.
20 The silver silk of a spider wrapped round the pull of gravity.
21 Frosty winter wind prancing and dancing in the cold North Pole.
22 Walking, talking Christmas trees with bells jingling on their many arms.
23 The eyes of a magpie spying the glow of a candle through the fogged window-glass.
24 Warm winter memories exploding out of the advent calendar.
by Maisy, Verity, Martha, Chloe and Sylvia
The Dream Catcher
In our sessions this week we talked about dream catchers and the dreams they might hold. Read on to see what caught in Myrto's mind.
The Dream Catcher
The dream catcher holds everything. The lovely sound of my little sister laughing as she grips Dad’s hand, the sound of a baby crying noisily for some more hot milk and the sound of a sad toddler screeching for her lost, pretty doll. It holds magical castles with fairies and princesses playing, giggling, running around the ginormous building.
The castles from old, grey dusty books that were not entered in for hundreds of years and may possibly be haunted. Or maybe even yummy castles made from every single type of chocolate in the world.
It contains the hypnotising smell of multi-coloured sweets sitting in a sweet shop dreading to be picked and eaten. The smell of the wildlife as you skip through the forest passing beautiful flowers and tall trees that stretch up to the erratic clouds. And the smell of a brand-new book in the bookstore getting chosen and read by a confident child that wants to get lost in their own world.
It contains pink unicorns with long, sparkly horns and big hooves that are ready to run. The sneaky but adorable cats that always seem to be purring for more cuddles whilst you’re working. A humongous dark-blue whale that sings mesmerizingly in the night-time when there’s a full moon.
In its nets it has black nightmares, when you’re stuck in your worst fear; you’re trapped in a dark forest with wolves and bears nowhere to go in the middle of the night with no stars to guide you. But it contains good dreams such as: you being a witty fairy with light wings and a smart mind. Or being a princess, you ruling your servants around to bring you more cake as you wear a light blue dress with necklaces and instead of beads precious, glimmering stones that shine in the sunlight.
Myrto Vermot-Soutoglou, 10
The dream catcher holds everything. The lovely sound of my little sister laughing as she grips Dad’s hand, the sound of a baby crying noisily for some more hot milk and the sound of a sad toddler screeching for her lost, pretty doll. It holds magical castles with fairies and princesses playing, giggling, running around the ginormous building.
The castles from old, grey dusty books that were not entered in for hundreds of years and may possibly be haunted. Or maybe even yummy castles made from every single type of chocolate in the world.
It contains the hypnotising smell of multi-coloured sweets sitting in a sweet shop dreading to be picked and eaten. The smell of the wildlife as you skip through the forest passing beautiful flowers and tall trees that stretch up to the erratic clouds. And the smell of a brand-new book in the bookstore getting chosen and read by a confident child that wants to get lost in their own world.
It contains pink unicorns with long, sparkly horns and big hooves that are ready to run. The sneaky but adorable cats that always seem to be purring for more cuddles whilst you’re working. A humongous dark-blue whale that sings mesmerizingly in the night-time when there’s a full moon.
In its nets it has black nightmares, when you’re stuck in your worst fear; you’re trapped in a dark forest with wolves and bears nowhere to go in the middle of the night with no stars to guide you. But it contains good dreams such as: you being a witty fairy with light wings and a smart mind. Or being a princess, you ruling your servants around to bring you more cake as you wear a light blue dress with necklaces and instead of beads precious, glimmering stones that shine in the sunlight.
Myrto Vermot-Soutoglou, 10
The Furniture Game
In this week's sessions we played 'the furniture game' to come up with intriguing images, which we then wove into poems. To play the game you keep a person in mind (it helps if you have a strong emotional connection to them) and then ask yourself questions like: if this person were a piece of furniture, which piece would they be? If this person were a flower, a breed of dog, a clock, a season, a time of day etc, which would they be? We looked at Sinéad O’Reilly's wonderful poem 'Portrait', which was inspired by Simon Armitage's poem 'Not the Furniture Game', and then had a go at writing our own poems.
Who I Used To Be
If you were a phase of the moon, you’d be a half moon
Because of your smile and how you throw your head back when you laugh.
If you were a building, you’d be a skyscraper
Because of the way you reach your arms to the sky and how you carved your future out of stars.
If you were a mode of transport, you’d be a bike
Because of the taste of freedom the wind spoons into my hair when I ride.
If you were a drink, you’d be ice-cold lemonade
Bitter, dissolving into sweet like the sugar on the tip of my tongue.
If you were a body of water, you’d be a river
Because of the way you whisper your song and run forever, never looking back.
If you were a clock, you’d be a sundial, always relying on someone other than yourself as you watch the shadows grow
When you choke back tears because your sunlight disappeared.
If you were a tree, you’d be a sycamore, rising to the top with self-pride and arrogance,
Your leaves plummeting down like a rock under water.
If you were an item of clothing, you’d be a pair of trainers
So you could race until the sun dies away, prying fire from my fingertips.
If you were light, you’d be candlelight
Because of the way you shine and dwindle away, leaving me to catch your ashes in the wind.
Because of the way you burn bright like fire
Of how you think of yourself as impenetrable
Of how you refuse to let in pain
Of how I admire you
Of how I hate you
And how you blew away, leaving shards of yourself and I.
If you were a smell, you’d be freshly cut grass
Because of how it smells of summer, freedom and how you used to frolic in endless summer days
And throw grass at your sister.
If you were a season, you’d be summer
Because of the gleam in your eyes and how you are always looking for more.
If you were an insect, you’d be an ant
Because of the weight you carry on your back
How you run and scamper
And leave nothing but my footsteps in the snow.
Tali Sedelmeier, 12
A Heart of Light
She was an otter-like girl
Always slipping through negativity’s fingers
And caught by a sunflower
In the early morning sunlight.
She was the smell of her mother’s perfume
Which she would wear on nights out
When she would drink fizzy orange juice
In the starlight’s glow.
She was the man in the moon’s face
Her smile a milky marvel
As light spilled out of her heart
Into the world’s darkness.
She was the arrival of spring
When each day emerged with excitement
And the caterpillar of her sorrow
Would transform and fly far away.
She was a powerful ocean
Lapping at the banks of her personality’s islands
As she ran on the beach
Her flip flops sending sand flying.
She was the steady tick-ticking
Of her grandmother’s grandmother clock
In a beautiful country cottage
Like one from a fairytale.
Abi Kimber, 13
Who I Used To Be
If you were a phase of the moon, you’d be a half moon
Because of your smile and how you throw your head back when you laugh.
If you were a building, you’d be a skyscraper
Because of the way you reach your arms to the sky and how you carved your future out of stars.
If you were a mode of transport, you’d be a bike
Because of the taste of freedom the wind spoons into my hair when I ride.
If you were a drink, you’d be ice-cold lemonade
Bitter, dissolving into sweet like the sugar on the tip of my tongue.
If you were a body of water, you’d be a river
Because of the way you whisper your song and run forever, never looking back.
If you were a clock, you’d be a sundial, always relying on someone other than yourself as you watch the shadows grow
When you choke back tears because your sunlight disappeared.
If you were a tree, you’d be a sycamore, rising to the top with self-pride and arrogance,
Your leaves plummeting down like a rock under water.
If you were an item of clothing, you’d be a pair of trainers
So you could race until the sun dies away, prying fire from my fingertips.
If you were light, you’d be candlelight
Because of the way you shine and dwindle away, leaving me to catch your ashes in the wind.
Because of the way you burn bright like fire
Of how you think of yourself as impenetrable
Of how you refuse to let in pain
Of how I admire you
Of how I hate you
And how you blew away, leaving shards of yourself and I.
If you were a smell, you’d be freshly cut grass
Because of how it smells of summer, freedom and how you used to frolic in endless summer days
And throw grass at your sister.
If you were a season, you’d be summer
Because of the gleam in your eyes and how you are always looking for more.
If you were an insect, you’d be an ant
Because of the weight you carry on your back
How you run and scamper
And leave nothing but my footsteps in the snow.
Tali Sedelmeier, 12
A Heart of Light
She was an otter-like girl
Always slipping through negativity’s fingers
And caught by a sunflower
In the early morning sunlight.
She was the smell of her mother’s perfume
Which she would wear on nights out
When she would drink fizzy orange juice
In the starlight’s glow.
She was the man in the moon’s face
Her smile a milky marvel
As light spilled out of her heart
Into the world’s darkness.
She was the arrival of spring
When each day emerged with excitement
And the caterpillar of her sorrow
Would transform and fly far away.
She was a powerful ocean
Lapping at the banks of her personality’s islands
As she ran on the beach
Her flip flops sending sand flying.
She was the steady tick-ticking
Of her grandmother’s grandmother clock
In a beautiful country cottage
Like one from a fairytale.
Abi Kimber, 13
Imagery and the Senses
This week we looked at the poem Sometimes your sadness is a yacht by Jack Underwood, where sadness is the 'yacht' of the title, a 'rock on the lawn' and the sound of 'our neighbours’ voices having the voices / of their friends around for lunch'. Inspired by Jack's poem, we had a go at coming up with our own sense imagery to describe someone's qualities.
Wisdom
Wisdom is the sound of a pencil scratching, itching to write down everything.
It is a hummingbird sound; it can easily go unnoticed but can still have great effects.
Wisdom is shoes pattering, slowly making their way to an unpredictable future.
Wisdom is the keys on a computer, tapping out the unlimited words and phrases that your mind is yearning to tell.
It is like running your fingers over unvarnished wood – taking the risk of shards piercing your skin; you must trust the warm sturdiness of your wisdom.
But wisdom can be dangerous. All oblivion will vanish. You will taste the truth, but it may stab you in the back like pain you have never experienced. Because that is part of the wonder of wisdom. It is all in your mind. No matter how lost you feel, you will always return to biting the end of your pencil, wondering what to write next in a story you’ve been adding to your whole life.
Verity, 10
The Awful Truth
You were sitting patiently on my bed
When I got home
As always
You were cracking jokes
And being kind to me
After all, you are my best friend
That day, I decided we had been friends long enough
I had to tell you…
The awful truth.
I opened my mouth to speak
You smiled
And I remembered your laughter
Ringing through my head
And the feeling that you were passing
Your yellow blob onto me
And your empathy like a fresh sweet
Or a juicy berry
And your kind words
And the smell of sugar
And the taste of tears of laughter
And the flower
And the curve
And the mismatch
And the colours
And that smile
That one unique smile
That one contagious smile
That makes me smile
You were smiling at me now
I smiled back
It felt like soft fur against my face
“What do you have to say?” you asked
Your voice was like wrinkles
Strange, but in between the creases…
Smooth.
And I made up my mind
I couldn’t tell you
“Nothing, Billy.”
Two words.
But the greatest lie I’d ever told.
But I couldn’t tell you
That you are, and always have been…
Like a tall tale
Like a ghost
Like an idea
Imaginary.
Yes.
I made you up.
You’re my imaginary friend.
Corin Motley, 12
Wisdom
Wisdom is the sound of a pencil scratching, itching to write down everything.
It is a hummingbird sound; it can easily go unnoticed but can still have great effects.
Wisdom is shoes pattering, slowly making their way to an unpredictable future.
Wisdom is the keys on a computer, tapping out the unlimited words and phrases that your mind is yearning to tell.
It is like running your fingers over unvarnished wood – taking the risk of shards piercing your skin; you must trust the warm sturdiness of your wisdom.
But wisdom can be dangerous. All oblivion will vanish. You will taste the truth, but it may stab you in the back like pain you have never experienced. Because that is part of the wonder of wisdom. It is all in your mind. No matter how lost you feel, you will always return to biting the end of your pencil, wondering what to write next in a story you’ve been adding to your whole life.
Verity, 10
The Awful Truth
You were sitting patiently on my bed
When I got home
As always
You were cracking jokes
And being kind to me
After all, you are my best friend
That day, I decided we had been friends long enough
I had to tell you…
The awful truth.
I opened my mouth to speak
You smiled
And I remembered your laughter
Ringing through my head
And the feeling that you were passing
Your yellow blob onto me
And your empathy like a fresh sweet
Or a juicy berry
And your kind words
And the smell of sugar
And the taste of tears of laughter
And the flower
And the curve
And the mismatch
And the colours
And that smile
That one unique smile
That one contagious smile
That makes me smile
You were smiling at me now
I smiled back
It felt like soft fur against my face
“What do you have to say?” you asked
Your voice was like wrinkles
Strange, but in between the creases…
Smooth.
And I made up my mind
I couldn’t tell you
“Nothing, Billy.”
Two words.
But the greatest lie I’d ever told.
But I couldn’t tell you
That you are, and always have been…
Like a tall tale
Like a ghost
Like an idea
Imaginary.
Yes.
I made you up.
You’re my imaginary friend.
Corin Motley, 12
Sentence Starters
We started our sessions this week by taking an opening sentence and then developing it into a story. Read on to enter the wonderful world of Martha's imagination, conjured simply from the words, 'As the mist cleared...'
The Wolves in the Wild
As the mist cleared the wolf saw a shadow moving in the dim light.
Snow rolled back her gums to show shimmering, sharp teeth.
The wolf pounced, but stopped suddenly.
I edged forward and a wolf lay in the snow, bleeding. I lay down, next to the wolf. It was only then that I realised that this wolf was a prisoner of the Darkers, and did not know how to hunt. I decided to give the wolf a name. It was not a sun wolf, a moon wolf or a fire wolf. It was a winter wolf, like Snow. I touched the wound and lifted my finger above the wolf and spelled out the word ‘Frost’. The word glowed in mid-air, then fell on the wolf. Then the wound healed.
I smiled, and shoved one leg over Snow. The wolf sped away. I clung to the wolf’s back and watched as Frost started to pound after us.
Martha, 9
The Wolves in the Wild
As the mist cleared the wolf saw a shadow moving in the dim light.
Snow rolled back her gums to show shimmering, sharp teeth.
The wolf pounced, but stopped suddenly.
I edged forward and a wolf lay in the snow, bleeding. I lay down, next to the wolf. It was only then that I realised that this wolf was a prisoner of the Darkers, and did not know how to hunt. I decided to give the wolf a name. It was not a sun wolf, a moon wolf or a fire wolf. It was a winter wolf, like Snow. I touched the wound and lifted my finger above the wolf and spelled out the word ‘Frost’. The word glowed in mid-air, then fell on the wolf. Then the wound healed.
I smiled, and shoved one leg over Snow. The wolf sped away. I clung to the wolf’s back and watched as Frost started to pound after us.
Martha, 9
Giants
This week in the younger group we used an idea from Roald Dahl's BFG. Taking inspiration from creations such as the 'Bloodbottler' and 'Bonecruncher', the children thought of words they could add together to create new characters. Mina didn't want to write about a frightening giant so she came up with the original idea of an Animal Helper.
Starry and the Animal Helper
Once there lived a wolf called Starry, she was a kind and gentle wolf. She lived in a cave near a green glade. One day at midnight she was at the green glade. The green glade at midnight looked absolutely beautiful. A small pool was shining in the moonlight when the fish jumped out of the water, they were part of the night sky. Starry's fur glistened like stars in the moonlight but then a shadow cast over the pool.
She turned round and saw it, the terror of the forest, the fright of all the animals. It was a hunter. He lifted up a sharp silver knife but then a huge creature raced across the field. He stood in front of Starry and face to face with the hunter and he lifted an even sharper knife. He raised the knife, Starry couldn't look. There was a loud slicing sound and Starry opened her eyes and then closed them again. There was a munching sound and then she opened them properly and there was a blood patch on a rock.
The huge creature turned around and looked at her saying, ‘Hello wolf.’
Starry managed to stutter, 'Hi, and you can call me Starry.’
‘Okay, hello Starry,’ said the animal.
‘What shall I call you?’ asked Starry.
‘AH or animal helper,’ answered animal helper.
‘What are you doing here?’ questioned Starry.
‘Helping animals,’ said AH.
‘Makes sense,’ said Starry.
AH giggled.
‘Also, do you want to come home with me?’ Starry said.
‘I guess so,’ said animal helper.
They walked back into the forest. As they walked through the forest, Haily the fox came out of her burrow and her eyes went as wide as tennis balls. They carried on and saw Sam the squirrel freeze in his tracks like he had been frozen in an iceberg.
Mina, 8
Starry and the Animal Helper
Once there lived a wolf called Starry, she was a kind and gentle wolf. She lived in a cave near a green glade. One day at midnight she was at the green glade. The green glade at midnight looked absolutely beautiful. A small pool was shining in the moonlight when the fish jumped out of the water, they were part of the night sky. Starry's fur glistened like stars in the moonlight but then a shadow cast over the pool.
She turned round and saw it, the terror of the forest, the fright of all the animals. It was a hunter. He lifted up a sharp silver knife but then a huge creature raced across the field. He stood in front of Starry and face to face with the hunter and he lifted an even sharper knife. He raised the knife, Starry couldn't look. There was a loud slicing sound and Starry opened her eyes and then closed them again. There was a munching sound and then she opened them properly and there was a blood patch on a rock.
The huge creature turned around and looked at her saying, ‘Hello wolf.’
Starry managed to stutter, 'Hi, and you can call me Starry.’
‘Okay, hello Starry,’ said the animal.
‘What shall I call you?’ asked Starry.
‘AH or animal helper,’ answered animal helper.
‘What are you doing here?’ questioned Starry.
‘Helping animals,’ said AH.
‘Makes sense,’ said Starry.
AH giggled.
‘Also, do you want to come home with me?’ Starry said.
‘I guess so,’ said animal helper.
They walked back into the forest. As they walked through the forest, Haily the fox came out of her burrow and her eyes went as wide as tennis balls. They carried on and saw Sam the squirrel freeze in his tracks like he had been frozen in an iceberg.
Mina, 8
Puppets
What would a puppet say if it could speak? What is the relationship between puppet and puppeteer? These are just some of the questions we discussed at our sessions this week, before turning our ideas into poems and stories. Read on to enter the minds of two very different but equally imaginative puppets conjured by Abi and Rose.
The Travels of a Cardboard Cutout
I am the shadow dancing on waves of air,
I am the mystery of ‘Never Know How’,
I am the bird in the cage wishing to be free,
The bird that can never fly high, never sing his song.
Except once I was freed. Free to fly. Free to sing. Free to fall to the floor. Touch granite, gravel and rock.
I wake up. Look and glance: see if I can glimpse this futile destination.
On a boardwalk, far, far, away from the cold hoary building I once knew; and the sooty, stained rag used to curtain me away from the world. I was unlocked from my cage, but knew I had to survive. A cardboard cutout could not make safety, a cardboard cutout could not stop rain. A cardboard cutout was useless. Like paper without ink, I am without my ventriloquist.
The sea came in and dragged me away. I lay on the sea bed, disintegrating for months, years, decades, centuries. How was I to know? I was just a cardboard cutout on a stick.
Then came the storm, waves like muscles, and I, a miniscule speck of dust, getting lifted, dropped, lifted, dropped, lifted, and dropped on a beach.
I got used to that beach, I liked that beach, with all the shells. Although I wished I could have turned green when the Punch and Judy show came out. I even made friends with a spilled can of Coke. Despite all this, I was still not satisfied. See I was a cardboard cutout on a beach holding water. I was afraid of the tide.
I should have known then. There are worse things than the tide.
Rose Cotton, 10
Puppet Master
She drags me, with her strings of arrogance
Towards the spotlight
Her laugh drowns out my protest
As all eyes turn on us
My breath chokes me,
My eyes glassy with dread.
She stitches my smile so deep
That I cannot change it, cannot alter one thing
In my life that she possesses.
Even my emotions belong to her
As she clings to whatever she has left -
The fake joy that she comforts herself with
My heart beats louder
As she walks into the room,
Splintering my innocence.
She paints me with her words,
Keeps me shining beside her
As I crack under her pressure
I worry that if I do one move wrong
These strings that bind us would break
But perhaps that is the only thing left to do
To sacrifice what we used to have
For my final freedom.
Abi Kimber, 13
I am the shadow dancing on waves of air,
I am the mystery of ‘Never Know How’,
I am the bird in the cage wishing to be free,
The bird that can never fly high, never sing his song.
Except once I was freed. Free to fly. Free to sing. Free to fall to the floor. Touch granite, gravel and rock.
I wake up. Look and glance: see if I can glimpse this futile destination.
On a boardwalk, far, far, away from the cold hoary building I once knew; and the sooty, stained rag used to curtain me away from the world. I was unlocked from my cage, but knew I had to survive. A cardboard cutout could not make safety, a cardboard cutout could not stop rain. A cardboard cutout was useless. Like paper without ink, I am without my ventriloquist.
The sea came in and dragged me away. I lay on the sea bed, disintegrating for months, years, decades, centuries. How was I to know? I was just a cardboard cutout on a stick.
Then came the storm, waves like muscles, and I, a miniscule speck of dust, getting lifted, dropped, lifted, dropped, lifted, and dropped on a beach.
I got used to that beach, I liked that beach, with all the shells. Although I wished I could have turned green when the Punch and Judy show came out. I even made friends with a spilled can of Coke. Despite all this, I was still not satisfied. See I was a cardboard cutout on a beach holding water. I was afraid of the tide.
I should have known then. There are worse things than the tide.
Rose Cotton, 10
Puppet Master
She drags me, with her strings of arrogance
Towards the spotlight
Her laugh drowns out my protest
As all eyes turn on us
My breath chokes me,
My eyes glassy with dread.
She stitches my smile so deep
That I cannot change it, cannot alter one thing
In my life that she possesses.
Even my emotions belong to her
As she clings to whatever she has left -
The fake joy that she comforts herself with
My heart beats louder
As she walks into the room,
Splintering my innocence.
She paints me with her words,
Keeps me shining beside her
As I crack under her pressure
I worry that if I do one move wrong
These strings that bind us would break
But perhaps that is the only thing left to do
To sacrifice what we used to have
For my final freedom.
Abi Kimber, 13
Abstract and Concrete Nouns
This week the children mixed up abstract nouns and concrete nouns to come up with new and unusual ideas. There's not a single word in Molly's poem I would change.
Fear – a black box of infinite knowledge
Fear, a black box of infinite knowledge.
Fear is being alone in the dark.
Fear, a gentle giant.
Fear is being afraid of something that won’t bite.
Fear is a lot of things. It can grow the size of a mountain or it can float away like a butterfly on the horizon.
Molly Byrne, 10
Fear – a black box of infinite knowledge
Fear, a black box of infinite knowledge.
Fear is being alone in the dark.
Fear, a gentle giant.
Fear is being afraid of something that won’t bite.
Fear is a lot of things. It can grow the size of a mountain or it can float away like a butterfly on the horizon.
Molly Byrne, 10
Animal Stories
This week the younger group came up with ideas for animal characters and then wrote stories about them. Flora wrote this delightful piece about a very resilient, resourceful and independent fawn.
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Flora Motley, 8
Writing a Secret
It was wonderful to welcome the groups back after the summer break, and what poems the children came up with! We began the session by mulling over what secrets a kangaroo, a stone, a photo frame might know, and then came up with ideas for what a secret might be made from, where you might find one, etc. The children took flight as always with their own ideas on secrets and came up with some incredible work.
The Secret
When I saw the lonely face
Trapped inside the newspaper’s news
Stuck inside the sewing machine
Caged inside the blue moon
Prisoner of the horizon
I could not resist
Those pleading eyes
And so I
Let it dance free
Again
Wild in the forests of nowhere
It looked as joyous and free as
The empty space between lines
Mistakes
Stardust
Your first words
Could look
And I loved the secret as if
It was my own
And not stolen from
The beginnings of time
Hope
The cracks on a keyboard
Peppa Pig’s favourite woollen hat
I ran after it
Laughing
Shouting
Calling
Playing
I caught the secret
Held it close
Hid it in
A medicine bottle
The clutch of a young rose
Mama’s best Sunday hat
The eye of a golden needle
But it did not
Try to escape
As it was
Happy
For now
Sylvia Harrison, 9
The Secret
When I saw the lonely face
Trapped inside the newspaper’s news
Stuck inside the sewing machine
Caged inside the blue moon
Prisoner of the horizon
I could not resist
Those pleading eyes
And so I
Let it dance free
Again
Wild in the forests of nowhere
It looked as joyous and free as
The empty space between lines
Mistakes
Stardust
Your first words
Could look
And I loved the secret as if
It was my own
And not stolen from
The beginnings of time
Hope
The cracks on a keyboard
Peppa Pig’s favourite woollen hat
I ran after it
Laughing
Shouting
Calling
Playing
I caught the secret
Held it close
Hid it in
A medicine bottle
The clutch of a young rose
Mama’s best Sunday hat
The eye of a golden needle
But it did not
Try to escape
As it was
Happy
For now
Sylvia Harrison, 9
Our 11+ Group's End-of-Year Performance
A huge well done to Isobel, Abi, Niamh, Eva and Robyn for the effort, commitment and inspiration they have shown throughout this year. It has been a privilege and a pleasure to work with them and an absolute treat to hear their wonderful poems and stories. We rounded the year off with a performance on Zoom to parents and grandparents, which included a powerful and moving group poem.
Writing Is
Isobel, Abi, Niamh and Robyn
Writing is a mysterious figure who comes to offer me advice and criticism, then is gone.
Writing is the glimpse of sunlight between the rain clouds.
Writing is a time machine that helps me at the hardest of times.
Writing is a butterfly – when you have it in your hands, let it fly.
Writing is the screaming of the million voices in your head who know something they don’t.
Writing is the tap-tap-tapping on my shoulder, letting the joy seep in.
Writing is the splashing of ideas swimming down your arm and onto the paper.
The ink drips and drops leaving the pen and oozing into the whites of my page.
Writing is when words flood onto a page creating anything from the colour of blood to the scent of sage.
It lets my creativity unfold and spreads my feelings which were left untold.
Writing is an idea brought together with words, feelings and emotions soaring high like birds.
My hand writes the poem, my mind thinks the story, my heart finds the courage, my smile shows the glory.
Writing is the calm after the boiling anger I felt moments before my pen touched paper.
No matter the joy, the regret, the hate, poems let me express my emotions with no shame.
I write with sadness, anger, happiness and ambition hoping to write a page of inspiration.
Writing is the shut of the door after a long day; it’s a sign of goodbye, hoping for a better tomorrow.
Writing is the only thing I have the time for in a schedule of everything repeated over and over and over
again.
Poetry lets me write and write, no need for explanation or apology.
Writing helps me forget my worries, writing helps me focus on what matters, writing shows me the right
path.
Writing teaches, writing calms, writing learns, writing harms.
Writing is pen point, paper, pencils, inspiration, innovation and integrity.
Writing is sweet but sour, happiness but hate, joy but jealousy.
Writing is a microphone for my voice, making a speech with similes and synonyms.
Writing is a screaming silence to my sharp pain.
Writing is a feeling that runs through my brain and clouds my thoughts.
Poetry is new life, speaking its first words, taking its first steps, towards opportunities waiting to be seized.
Writing is an explosion of words: planning, drawing, painting a world.
Writing jumps into your imagination, stealing and pinching ideas she likes best.
Writing is like an escape into another world.
Writing is like an old friend, found amongst a crowd of troubled thoughts.
Writing is as hard as getting the courage to go on a rollercoaster but as exciting as one once you are on it.
Writing dances as a swan with her ink trailing behind her like jealous, ugly ducklings.
Writing Is
Isobel, Abi, Niamh and Robyn
Writing is a mysterious figure who comes to offer me advice and criticism, then is gone.
Writing is the glimpse of sunlight between the rain clouds.
Writing is a time machine that helps me at the hardest of times.
Writing is a butterfly – when you have it in your hands, let it fly.
Writing is the screaming of the million voices in your head who know something they don’t.
Writing is the tap-tap-tapping on my shoulder, letting the joy seep in.
Writing is the splashing of ideas swimming down your arm and onto the paper.
The ink drips and drops leaving the pen and oozing into the whites of my page.
Writing is when words flood onto a page creating anything from the colour of blood to the scent of sage.
It lets my creativity unfold and spreads my feelings which were left untold.
Writing is an idea brought together with words, feelings and emotions soaring high like birds.
My hand writes the poem, my mind thinks the story, my heart finds the courage, my smile shows the glory.
Writing is the calm after the boiling anger I felt moments before my pen touched paper.
No matter the joy, the regret, the hate, poems let me express my emotions with no shame.
I write with sadness, anger, happiness and ambition hoping to write a page of inspiration.
Writing is the shut of the door after a long day; it’s a sign of goodbye, hoping for a better tomorrow.
Writing is the only thing I have the time for in a schedule of everything repeated over and over and over
again.
Poetry lets me write and write, no need for explanation or apology.
Writing helps me forget my worries, writing helps me focus on what matters, writing shows me the right
path.
Writing teaches, writing calms, writing learns, writing harms.
Writing is pen point, paper, pencils, inspiration, innovation and integrity.
Writing is sweet but sour, happiness but hate, joy but jealousy.
Writing is a microphone for my voice, making a speech with similes and synonyms.
Writing is a screaming silence to my sharp pain.
Writing is a feeling that runs through my brain and clouds my thoughts.
Poetry is new life, speaking its first words, taking its first steps, towards opportunities waiting to be seized.
Writing is an explosion of words: planning, drawing, painting a world.
Writing jumps into your imagination, stealing and pinching ideas she likes best.
Writing is like an escape into another world.
Writing is like an old friend, found amongst a crowd of troubled thoughts.
Writing is as hard as getting the courage to go on a rollercoaster but as exciting as one once you are on it.
Writing dances as a swan with her ink trailing behind her like jealous, ugly ducklings.
Bailey Miner and the Sea Kingdom
A big shout-out to Corin, who has written a 27,000-word book! It's a fantasy adventure story aimed at 8–12 year olds and is the first in a series of four books featuring Bailey Miner. It was sweet of Corin to thank Tiger's Eye Writers in his acknowledgements. If you'd like to get your hands on a copy, follow the link below:
www.etsy.com/uk/listing/1045842767/bailey-miner-and-the-sea-kingdom?ref=shop_ho
www.etsy.com/uk/listing/1045842767/bailey-miner-and-the-sea-kingdom?ref=shop_ho
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Murder Mystery Stories
This week, inspired by Robin Stevens and her Murder Most Unladylike series, we thought about the six main features of a detective story (setting, victim, crime, suspects, clues, resolution) and then had a go at writing our own. Get ready for a tense ride as you read Eva and Tali's wonderful work!
Mystery Story
No one had ever expected such a tragedy to take place at the Year 6 Swimming Gala; it was meant to be fun! It was meant to be a day off school so we could compete against the other class.
My friend, Poppy, and I were in the top group along with five other girls to compete in the one-against-one races. We changed separately from the lower groups because we went in the pool at the end.
The other five girls were: Alice Meadows, the second fastest swimmer in our year; Lila Ford, the best at butterfly stroke out of all of us here; Madeline and Maisie Roberts, twins who had competed in the top group since Year 3 and finally, Lillian Haslam, the fastest swimmer and our school’s biggest gossiper. It was rumoured that she knew everyone’s deepest secret, and had them all tucked away in a small black notebook that she carried in her blazer pocket. Poppy had told me that she was planning to steal the notebook when we got there, but she never got the chance.
It all began when Lillian spoke to our teacher, Mrs Bartly, about being worried about her anxiety attacks, and how she was feeling very sick. We all thought nothing of it, as she was quite lazy and tried to get out of hard work, but she liked the attention of being in the top group of swimming.
After that, we changed in our separate cubicles, as normal, and waited on the balcony.
“I hope there aren’t any dead bugs in the pool,” Maisie said, holding her stomach.
“Why would there be bugs?” I asked.
“Everyone knows that it is rarely cleaned,” Lila announced. “My brother told me that the green bits in the corner are nests of the water-centipedes!”
“Everyone knows that isn’t true,” I replied mockingly. Lila’s brother told her a lot of stuff.
Lillian looked a little shaken. She was silent all the way to the edge of the pool.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “If it’s about the centipede whatevers – it isn’t real.”
“I just have a tummy ache. It’s nothing. Really.”
Alice and the girl from the other class entered the pool, and prepared for the gym teacher, Mr Wallice, to blow the whistle. When he did, everyone began cheering loudly, and the sound bounced around the room making it very hard to hear anything.
When it was my turn to get in the pool, I could feel the butterflies swarming around my stomach like bees. I pushed off the wall at the piercing sound of the whistle and I could hear everyone on my side of the pool yelling my name. I could hardly focus, but my limbs miraculously continued to push through the thick water.
“Come on, Elena!” they said. “Almost there now!”
When I reached the wall, I splayed my left hand out on the side and pushed my legs down to the floor of the shallow end. The girl I was up against had been just inches away, but it was clear that I had won.
Finally, it was time for Lillian to get in the pool. She lowered herself down and grasped at the side with white knuckles. The whistle blew for the last time that day and the two girls pushed off the side. For just seconds we were cheering for Lillian, but halfway to the end, she stopped and started thrashing in the water. We all yelled, “Are you okay?!” and Mr Wallice jumped in the pool after her, splashing us with water. Then we all went quiet, whispering. Mr Wallice called for help and Mrs Bartly went in too, even in her shirt and trousers. They pulled Lillian to the side and pushed on her chest.
“What are they doing?” Madeline asked.
“C.P.R.” Alice replied.
“Is she okay?” Madeline said, looking back and forth between us.
We stayed as silent as mice around a cat.
Then Mr Wallace stopped pushing on Lillian’s chest and started dialling hurriedly on his mobile. Mrs Bartly felt for Lillian’s pulse and her eyes widened. “Everyone! Back to the changing rooms. Quickly! We’ll meet you outside,” she said, her voice hoarse.
As I walked past her, I heard her whisper to the reception,
“Call for the ambulance. A child has just died from unknown circumstances.”
Eva Hooley, 12
A Murder at Bluebrooke Academy
My best friend, Cat, and I were walking towards the science classroom to get some books on the periodic table. Despite knowing everything already, we wanted to make sure that we aced the big science test today.
Cat, who was in her usual rumpled Bluebrooke uniform and had a large brown plait tied with a sky-blue hairband, walked in as I quickly stopped to look at the student’s art board. The paintings were so pretty – but mine was never chosen because art was never my area of expertise.
As I was staring at the board I didn’t notice the head girl, Maria, walk by.
“Hello Tilly Sadler.” She nodded at me as she walked on.
“Hey Maria,” I was about to say, but she had already walked off. I was going to enter the science classroom, when I heard a shriek. A horrible ear-piercing shriek that unmistakably belonged to my friend, Cat. I rushed in. “Cat!” I shouted. “What’s wrong?!”
Cat only uttered, “T - Tilly, look.” She pointed to the right of the science classroom.
I slowly turned around, and got this horrible feeling of déja vu, as if I knew something terrible was about to happen.
Then I saw her. I let out a little strangled cry. It was Ms Bendam. Lying on the floor of the science classroom. Her eyes were glassy and blank, her mouth was opened in a scream that was never heard, and blood was all over her body. In the middle of her chest, a bloody knife was stabbed deep into her heart. But believe it or not, that was not the thing that scared me most. The knife was stabbed in her chest, then scraped over and over to form a cross over Ms Bendam’s heart. This was a planned murder. And whoever killed her killed her in a ruthless, gruesome and aggressive way. I looked away – I couldn’t stand to watch anymore. I never liked Ms Bendam – no-one did. But this was too much for me to bear. She didn’t deserve this. No-one did.
As Cat grabbed my arm, I found my voice and said, “Oh my God, Cat. Someone murdered her. We have to get a teacher! Fast!”
As we ran out of the science classroom, emotions overwhelmed me. This was my school. It was supposed to be a safe haven, and everyone I trusted and cared about was a suspect in a murder. Like pieces in a game. I read many murder mystery books – but I knew this was real. Really real.
We bumped straight into our other best friend (who completed our trio), Kate. Kate was a tall and gangly girl, with long ash-blonde hair. “C’mon guys!” Kate shouted. “I was just coming to get you! Miss Sporeman’s gonna go nuts if you aren’t in the sports field in two minutes!”
Cat grabbed hold of Kate’s sports shirt and shook her.
“Kate! Someone’s murdered Ms Bendam!” I shouted.
“Oh, it’s horrible!” Cat wailed. “We have to get someone, now!”
Kate, who was a quick-thinker, took no longer than two seconds to digest this, ran over to the sports field (much faster than both me and Cat) and explained everything.
Soon enough, every teacher and child had piled into the science classroom as Nurse Nancy sobbed dramatically, “She’s not breathing!”
Kate and I held poor Cat’s hand – she was still traumatised from seeing the dead body. But I couldn’t help noticing that our science teacher (who was also called Miss Sporeman because she and the other Miss Sporeman were sisters) looked far too unperturbed by the fact someone had just been murdered.
There had been a big assembly with the headteacher, Mr Bland, who I noticed had puffy red eyes and had clearly been crying. He said that anyone attempting to leave the school would be immediately suspected of the murder. That meant that we were locked in a boarding school with a murderer on the loose.
We sat down for lunch, and the atmosphere was quieter than usual. The police had come in and taken away Ms Bendam’s body and science class was off limits. I sat, silently chewing mashed potato next to Cat and Kate.
“I don’t know if my mums will let me stay here,” Cat, who had two mothers, said miserably.
“Or my mum and dad,” Kate added, taking a bite of her ham and cheese sandwich.
“Don’t say that!” I said. “We’ll figure this out.” At least, I hoped so.
“Someone murdered her,” Kate said blankly.
“I know!” I snapped.
Kate and Cat looked taken aback.
“Sorry,” I sighed, “but I’ve read enough murder mystery novels to know that the clues are on the dead body.” I took out a camera from my pocket and showed them a picture of the dead body.
“Dude!” Kate said jokingly, in the way that she did when she was actually very impressed. “Creep much?”
I forced a grin for their sakes. “Look, she has dried blood on her body. The murder didn’t happen today. And the police didn’t figure that out. We’re going to have to investigate by ourselves.”
“You’re genius Tils!” Kate exclaimed, clapping me on the back.
“Like in murder mystery novels?” Cat asked hopefully.
“Like in murder mystery novels.” I smiled at her.
I saw Cat looked genuinely cheered up.
“The question is who? And when? We know it must have been at least yesterday night because …" I started.
“Because we were in the science classroom in the afternoon, then the bell rang and it was time to go to our dorms!” Kate realised.
“Exactly!” I shouted.
“So someone must have been able to sneak out from a locked door if it was a student or creep out if it was an adult,” Cat agreed.
“The question is, what was Ms Bendam doing in the science classroom anyway?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” admitted Cat.
Kate was staring angrily at the meanest girl in our year, Clarissa. Clarissa would make fun of the first-years, snoop and try to be the best student, although she never actually did any work.
“I bet it was Clarissa,” Kate said gruffly.
“Kate!” both Cat and I said at the same time.
But I realised that Kate may have a point. I looked around at the teachers and students.
The murderer could be in the room with us.
Tali Sedelmeier, 10
What Does Home Mean to You?
Niamh, 13
Can You Write a MORERAPS Poem?
Iris certainly can! Devised by Joseph Coehlo, the MORERAPS is a poem written on a single subject and which includes the following poetic devices:
Metaphor
Onomatopoeia
Rhyme
Emotion
Repetition
Alliteration
Personification
Simile
Here is Iris's wonderful response:
The Moon
The moon is a ball of rock
It whizzes through space
The moon grows like a silver rose
I feel excited because I don’t see it often
The moon, the moon, the moon, it shines like a piece of rock
Mysterious, magical moon monster
The moon glides across the sky
The moon is like a tall tree.
Iris, 7
Metaphor
Onomatopoeia
Rhyme
Emotion
Repetition
Alliteration
Personification
Simile
Here is Iris's wonderful response:
The Moon
The moon is a ball of rock
It whizzes through space
The moon grows like a silver rose
I feel excited because I don’t see it often
The moon, the moon, the moon, it shines like a piece of rock
Mysterious, magical moon monster
The moon glides across the sky
The moon is like a tall tree.
Iris, 7
An Open Window
This week we drew inspiration from pictures in the wonderful book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg. Who is Lady Blue and what does the mysterious acorn signify?
The Window
There was once a window. An open one, that howled like the wind and sang like the sun.
The noise had been described as ‘the voice of lightening’.
Lady Blue had owned this window; and the house that came with it.
She had bought it from a man with a snarly grin and eyes that made you feel uncertain.
The Man gave her a box and what was in that box would change her life.
Lady Blue opened the box and found a wallpaper. Wallpaper which was enveloped in birds with silver wings.
At that very moment Lady Blue saw the same birds fly overhead. They dropped something. An acorn?
Elspeth, 10
The Window
There was once a window. An open one, that howled like the wind and sang like the sun.
The noise had been described as ‘the voice of lightening’.
Lady Blue had owned this window; and the house that came with it.
She had bought it from a man with a snarly grin and eyes that made you feel uncertain.
The Man gave her a box and what was in that box would change her life.
Lady Blue opened the box and found a wallpaper. Wallpaper which was enveloped in birds with silver wings.
At that very moment Lady Blue saw the same birds fly overhead. They dropped something. An acorn?
Elspeth, 10
A Garden of Poems
It was brilliant to see all the children again this week after the Easter break. We used ideas from Kate Clanchy's excellent book How to Grow Your Own Poem, and what beautiful poems we grew.
TOWER OF MEMORIES
A woman came home full of joy
She put her hat on the hook
And her book on the chair
She placed the smell of lavender on top
And then the sound of sleep
She sprinkled the taste of sugar icing into a bottle
And sat it on the arm of the chair
She tucked the adrenaline of falling in the cracks
And shoved sadness under, into the shadows
She threw her nightmares into the dishwasher
And twisted them into happy dreams
Then she balanced the melting pool of worries into a cupboard
The chair overflowed, whispering their tales in her ear
She put the tickle of dandelion petals on the chair
Along with the colour of confusion
And the smell of yellow
To quiet the murmurs
She wrapped the feeling of her heart bouncing on her chest
In the softness of her childhood toy
The chair creaked, but she built a wall of determination underneath
And it no longer wobbled
Eva Hooley, 11
The Broken Wish
A student, full of disappointment, came home and put his bag on an armchair.
On the armchair he put a toy zebra,
A water bottle.
His sixth birthday,
Soft fur,
Purring.
A teacher,
Excitement,
Shouting and crying.
The sound of a storm,
Catching fireflies in a net,
Drinking hot chocolate,
Clothes,
Fresh air,
A thought.
He put hope on the armchair,
Sadness,
A friend,
A cat waking.
An emptiness,
Hard scales,
Smooth shell,
Wonder.
A worry,
A realisation.
A lifelong wish to pass a test,
Broken.
Ella Jesson, 10
I Come From ...
I come from the smell of my dog's fur,
And sunshine on my back,
I come from the nice soft purr,
The nice soft purr of Baubles the cat.
I come from the taste of home-made pizza,
And family movies on movie night.
I come from a fear of dolls,
Which gives me quite a fright!
I come from my blue pool,
Which I love to swim in,
I come from the cry
When my mum pricked her finger on a pin.
Being an archaeologist, going to Rome,
My sister, Papa, Mama and my dog's squeaky ball,
I think you can plainly see,
I come from it all.
Luna Sedelmeier, 7
TOWER OF MEMORIES
A woman came home full of joy
She put her hat on the hook
And her book on the chair
She placed the smell of lavender on top
And then the sound of sleep
She sprinkled the taste of sugar icing into a bottle
And sat it on the arm of the chair
She tucked the adrenaline of falling in the cracks
And shoved sadness under, into the shadows
She threw her nightmares into the dishwasher
And twisted them into happy dreams
Then she balanced the melting pool of worries into a cupboard
The chair overflowed, whispering their tales in her ear
She put the tickle of dandelion petals on the chair
Along with the colour of confusion
And the smell of yellow
To quiet the murmurs
She wrapped the feeling of her heart bouncing on her chest
In the softness of her childhood toy
The chair creaked, but she built a wall of determination underneath
And it no longer wobbled
Eva Hooley, 11
The Broken Wish
A student, full of disappointment, came home and put his bag on an armchair.
On the armchair he put a toy zebra,
A water bottle.
His sixth birthday,
Soft fur,
Purring.
A teacher,
Excitement,
Shouting and crying.
The sound of a storm,
Catching fireflies in a net,
Drinking hot chocolate,
Clothes,
Fresh air,
A thought.
He put hope on the armchair,
Sadness,
A friend,
A cat waking.
An emptiness,
Hard scales,
Smooth shell,
Wonder.
A worry,
A realisation.
A lifelong wish to pass a test,
Broken.
Ella Jesson, 10
I Come From ...
I come from the smell of my dog's fur,
And sunshine on my back,
I come from the nice soft purr,
The nice soft purr of Baubles the cat.
I come from the taste of home-made pizza,
And family movies on movie night.
I come from a fear of dolls,
Which gives me quite a fright!
I come from my blue pool,
Which I love to swim in,
I come from the cry
When my mum pricked her finger on a pin.
Being an archaeologist, going to Rome,
My sister, Papa, Mama and my dog's squeaky ball,
I think you can plainly see,
I come from it all.
Luna Sedelmeier, 7
Imagined Worlds
This week the older children took a notebook and pen to a chosen place in their houses and made notes on their sensory experiences. They then changed their perspective – perhaps lying down if they'd been standing up, or imagining the scene from above – to see how this altered their writing. In the younger group we visualised a journey and wrote notes on what happened while we were away. Follow Abi to a special place in her garden, Maisie into a story inspired by sounds she could hear from her high sleeper, and Flora through a small door she had never seen before.
(Resource adapted from: poetrysociety.org.uk/education/learning-from-home/)
Behind the Shed
Behind the shed is a place of nature,
A place blanketed in a blackberry bush,
Inhabited by a family of foxes,
Ruined by a storm on the horizon,
Fixed by gardeners,
Pollinated by the bees,
Grown by the sunlight,
Visited by butterflies,
Nested in by blackbirds,
And cared for by a child.
Abi Kimber, 12
Untitled
Molly used to believe in her grandmother’s stories. “Just take off the shelf!” her grandmother would say. “There is a magical tunnel behind!” So Molly would climb onto her bed and prise off the shelf time and time again yet she found nothing but the dull grey wall. “You must wait for the right time,” her grandma would say, but Molly knew it was nonsense. But if she knew it was nonsense why was she waking up at midnight for the third time that week with the strange urge to prise the shelf off the wall? When Molly could resist it no longer, she sat up and pulled as hard on the shelf as she could. To her surprise, it opened up like a door. Molly was hit by an icy breeze that almost expressed her utter shock. Without even thinking she picked up her reading torch and a white shawl left on the edge of her bed. Molly wrapped the shawl over her nightie and crawled into the tunnel.
(to be continued)
Maisie, 11
(Resource adapted from: poetrysociety.org.uk/education/learning-from-home/)
Behind the Shed
Behind the shed is a place of nature,
A place blanketed in a blackberry bush,
Inhabited by a family of foxes,
Ruined by a storm on the horizon,
Fixed by gardeners,
Pollinated by the bees,
Grown by the sunlight,
Visited by butterflies,
Nested in by blackbirds,
And cared for by a child.
Abi Kimber, 12
Untitled
Molly used to believe in her grandmother’s stories. “Just take off the shelf!” her grandmother would say. “There is a magical tunnel behind!” So Molly would climb onto her bed and prise off the shelf time and time again yet she found nothing but the dull grey wall. “You must wait for the right time,” her grandma would say, but Molly knew it was nonsense. But if she knew it was nonsense why was she waking up at midnight for the third time that week with the strange urge to prise the shelf off the wall? When Molly could resist it no longer, she sat up and pulled as hard on the shelf as she could. To her surprise, it opened up like a door. Molly was hit by an icy breeze that almost expressed her utter shock. Without even thinking she picked up her reading torch and a white shawl left on the edge of her bed. Molly wrapped the shawl over her nightie and crawled into the tunnel.
(to be continued)
Maisie, 11
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Flora Motley, 7
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Colours
In this week's writing sessions all I really said to the children was, 'Think of a colour, then think of things which are that colour, then think of moods, feelings and places you associate with that colour.' Just look at what they came up with!
Rainbow
Blue is the colour of the summer sky,
it is also the colour of the sea and waves.
Blue is the colour of my water bottle.
The beautiful sunset is purple blue and pink.
Green is the colour of the colourful spring.
Yellow is the colour of the boiling hot weather.
Orange is the colour of my friendly Mummy.
White is the freezing arctic.
Love is the colour pink rushing through me.
Mina, 7
Yellow
Yellow leads you to adventures,
Joy, happiness and sublime sights.
The summer is spread with this shade,
Everlasting wonder,
Warmth and freedom.
Tranquil, peaceful picnics with tea
And beautifully decorated cakes.
Cherry blossoms spring out of the ground,
The most yellow sunflower sways in the breeze.
Birds chirp with delight and thrill,
All wildlife thrives.
It's such a vivid scene.
But is it all a dream?
Millie Alexander, 10
Clear as Crystal
Clear as crystal,
Hard as bone,
As unnatural as water from a stone.
You may have done so,
You may never.
But seeing such a thing is like a treasure.
Cold as ice,
Yet warm as fire,
It changes to reflect your heart’s desire.
You may like it,
You may not.
People talk about it a lot.
Shimmering diamonds,
On the cave walls,
Water glistening like waterfalls.
You may think it magic,
You may think it’s normal,
Some say it’s so wondrous it ought to be unlawful.
Sunlight steaming,
Through gaps overhead,
It can make you forget any fear or dread.
At least, you may think so,
But you might disagree,
You will find the experience unforgettable I guarantee.
Clear as crystal,
Hard as bone,
As unnatural as water from a stone.
You may have done so,
You may never.
But seeing such a thing is like a treasure.
Isobel, 11
Rainbow
Blue is the colour of the summer sky,
it is also the colour of the sea and waves.
Blue is the colour of my water bottle.
The beautiful sunset is purple blue and pink.
Green is the colour of the colourful spring.
Yellow is the colour of the boiling hot weather.
Orange is the colour of my friendly Mummy.
White is the freezing arctic.
Love is the colour pink rushing through me.
Mina, 7
Yellow
Yellow leads you to adventures,
Joy, happiness and sublime sights.
The summer is spread with this shade,
Everlasting wonder,
Warmth and freedom.
Tranquil, peaceful picnics with tea
And beautifully decorated cakes.
Cherry blossoms spring out of the ground,
The most yellow sunflower sways in the breeze.
Birds chirp with delight and thrill,
All wildlife thrives.
It's such a vivid scene.
But is it all a dream?
Millie Alexander, 10
Clear as Crystal
Clear as crystal,
Hard as bone,
As unnatural as water from a stone.
You may have done so,
You may never.
But seeing such a thing is like a treasure.
Cold as ice,
Yet warm as fire,
It changes to reflect your heart’s desire.
You may like it,
You may not.
People talk about it a lot.
Shimmering diamonds,
On the cave walls,
Water glistening like waterfalls.
You may think it magic,
You may think it’s normal,
Some say it’s so wondrous it ought to be unlawful.
Sunlight steaming,
Through gaps overhead,
It can make you forget any fear or dread.
At least, you may think so,
But you might disagree,
You will find the experience unforgettable I guarantee.
Clear as crystal,
Hard as bone,
As unnatural as water from a stone.
You may have done so,
You may never.
But seeing such a thing is like a treasure.
Isobel, 11
Recycling Opening Lines
Stuck for a writing prompt? This week at Tiger's Eye Writers we chose an opening line from a poem and recycled it into something new. In the poems below, Corin offers us a masterclass in how to use rhythm and rhyme to great effect, and Molly takes us on an emotional rollercoaster in just eight lines.
Kitchen sink
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where spiders crawl and
snakes brawl and
the water is cool and
I'll look like a fool.
I think I'm overreacting?
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where water is poured and
there's soap I can't afford and
there are things that once roared and
I'll be really bored.
I think I'm overreacting?
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where things get washed and
people are posh and
monkeys speak tosh and
I'll get boshed.
I think I'm overreacting?
Though it is covered in
grime
the kitchen sink is
fine
for my
home.
Corin Motley, 10
(Opening line taken from 'sink' by Lucy Thynne)
Emotions and peace
Anger is a red bull running through my mind’s fields
It stops to eat the grass
Then keeps running and chasing
It slips and falls into a ruby red blood river and drowns
I regain calm and serenity
Peace fills my mind
Water trickles in my mind to keep me calm
Till I shut my eyes and rest my head on my cushion
Molly B, 9
(Opening line adapted from 'Anger' by John Foster)
Kitchen sink
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where spiders crawl and
snakes brawl and
the water is cool and
I'll look like a fool.
I think I'm overreacting?
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where water is poured and
there's soap I can't afford and
there are things that once roared and
I'll be really bored.
I think I'm overreacting?
I've decided to live in the kitchen sink
where things get washed and
people are posh and
monkeys speak tosh and
I'll get boshed.
I think I'm overreacting?
Though it is covered in
grime
the kitchen sink is
fine
for my
home.
Corin Motley, 10
(Opening line taken from 'sink' by Lucy Thynne)
Emotions and peace
Anger is a red bull running through my mind’s fields
It stops to eat the grass
Then keeps running and chasing
It slips and falls into a ruby red blood river and drowns
I regain calm and serenity
Peace fills my mind
Water trickles in my mind to keep me calm
Till I shut my eyes and rest my head on my cushion
Molly B, 9
(Opening line adapted from 'Anger' by John Foster)
Invitations
If you could send an invitation to anyone or anything, what would that invitation be? This week, Rose invited her imagination ‘to speak/Her crazy words’, Flora travelled far into the past to invite a baby diplodocus to a disco, and Sylvia was invited by a mysterious stranger to leave the ‘mother world’ and journey to a foreign land. Read their wonderful poems and stories below to accompany them on their adventures.
Light Disco
It was a normal and gloomy Saturday and I was bored. No glitter, no paint, no fun. But then poking out of my cupboard was a glittery, shimmery purple bike with gold pedals. On the handle was a piece of what looked like water. On it, written in glitter, were the words: Time Machine. I didn’t recall putting a time machine in my cupboard but I got a card and started scribbling words to make a letter.
To Baby Diplodocus,
You are invited to a light disco at half-past midnight. Please wear all white (or if you have it, glow-in-the-dark). I will come and collect you at midnight.
From Flora
PS Please let your Mummy know.
“Here I go!” I went outside and got on the amazing bike. To dinosaur time. Zoom! I felt all the air ruffling my hair and I was super excited. I landed in a dry forest. I was very lucky because at that moment an egg hatched and out came an adorable baby diplodocus. I flung the letter to the baby diplodocus. It chirped merrily. “See you at midnight!” I shouted.
When I got home I turned out the light. I set an alarm clock for midnight and put a light on the time bike so that I could see it. At midnight I set out on my bike to find the baby diplodocus. Soon, I heard the familiar chirping noise and followed it. I found him. I scooped him up and went home. At home, I got all the lights ready. He was wearing his white costume. I had such a great time that night.
I took the baby back to a delighted mummy and went home. I wasn’t bored anymore.
Flora Motley, 7
The Invite
Hello there, I am foreign,
But yet I have a right
To take you to another world
If you accept my invite.
Life is cunning on your mother world,
That, you shall soon see,
But if you take this path of mine,
Earth shall be history.
I know I am a stranger,
Walking on new land
But I know all my way around,
You just take my hand.
We can leave behind all terror,
Loneliness and being sad
Unless you decline
This invite of mine,
Which would make me quite mad.
Out there where I will take you,
You’ll be happy as can be
And if you take this golden chance
You can spend all those good times with me!
This is your last chance now,
Say yes or just say no,
Say yes and I’ll take you with me
No, I’ll leave you alone.
It was obvious that I said yes then,
What else was there to do?
That invite changed my life then,
Maybe it will do so to you.
Sylvia Harrison, 9
An invitation to my imagination
It's my imagination
I invite
To declare her opinion
And her rights
She needs to speak
Her crazy words
Of excitement and tragedy
All in one big splurge
I invited her to accept
That she's part of me
But can't control
What I see
The day has come
Where we become one
Me and my imagination
Entwine like the moon and sun
I can't even believe
She exists
I don't want to
But they say she has gifts
Inside my head
All this rests
But when stirred up
It transforms into a mess
She can create a disaster
With one touch
Or settle a tsunami
Before it gets too much
I've shut her out
I’ve locked my doors
I can't have
Insane thoughts anymore
Is it peace?
Or is it war?
It's not like
Anything I've seen before
They say I'm unusual
Not a normal girl
Guess they are right
But when they can see my imagination unfurl…
They won't, they can't
They will refuse to believe
What is hidden
Inside of me
A beauty or a beast?
Who will ever know
Until they take a trek
Into rain, wind and snow
by Rose Bailey Ornellas, 12
Light Disco
It was a normal and gloomy Saturday and I was bored. No glitter, no paint, no fun. But then poking out of my cupboard was a glittery, shimmery purple bike with gold pedals. On the handle was a piece of what looked like water. On it, written in glitter, were the words: Time Machine. I didn’t recall putting a time machine in my cupboard but I got a card and started scribbling words to make a letter.
To Baby Diplodocus,
You are invited to a light disco at half-past midnight. Please wear all white (or if you have it, glow-in-the-dark). I will come and collect you at midnight.
From Flora
PS Please let your Mummy know.
“Here I go!” I went outside and got on the amazing bike. To dinosaur time. Zoom! I felt all the air ruffling my hair and I was super excited. I landed in a dry forest. I was very lucky because at that moment an egg hatched and out came an adorable baby diplodocus. I flung the letter to the baby diplodocus. It chirped merrily. “See you at midnight!” I shouted.
When I got home I turned out the light. I set an alarm clock for midnight and put a light on the time bike so that I could see it. At midnight I set out on my bike to find the baby diplodocus. Soon, I heard the familiar chirping noise and followed it. I found him. I scooped him up and went home. At home, I got all the lights ready. He was wearing his white costume. I had such a great time that night.
I took the baby back to a delighted mummy and went home. I wasn’t bored anymore.
Flora Motley, 7
The Invite
Hello there, I am foreign,
But yet I have a right
To take you to another world
If you accept my invite.
Life is cunning on your mother world,
That, you shall soon see,
But if you take this path of mine,
Earth shall be history.
I know I am a stranger,
Walking on new land
But I know all my way around,
You just take my hand.
We can leave behind all terror,
Loneliness and being sad
Unless you decline
This invite of mine,
Which would make me quite mad.
Out there where I will take you,
You’ll be happy as can be
And if you take this golden chance
You can spend all those good times with me!
This is your last chance now,
Say yes or just say no,
Say yes and I’ll take you with me
No, I’ll leave you alone.
It was obvious that I said yes then,
What else was there to do?
That invite changed my life then,
Maybe it will do so to you.
Sylvia Harrison, 9
An invitation to my imagination
It's my imagination
I invite
To declare her opinion
And her rights
She needs to speak
Her crazy words
Of excitement and tragedy
All in one big splurge
I invited her to accept
That she's part of me
But can't control
What I see
The day has come
Where we become one
Me and my imagination
Entwine like the moon and sun
I can't even believe
She exists
I don't want to
But they say she has gifts
Inside my head
All this rests
But when stirred up
It transforms into a mess
She can create a disaster
With one touch
Or settle a tsunami
Before it gets too much
I've shut her out
I’ve locked my doors
I can't have
Insane thoughts anymore
Is it peace?
Or is it war?
It's not like
Anything I've seen before
They say I'm unusual
Not a normal girl
Guess they are right
But when they can see my imagination unfurl…
They won't, they can't
They will refuse to believe
What is hidden
Inside of me
A beauty or a beast?
Who will ever know
Until they take a trek
Into rain, wind and snow
by Rose Bailey Ornellas, 12
