Running Memories
By Eliska O’Brien, Year 7, Linton Village College

Heart throbbing, teeth clenched, blood pumping — running — we all run from something in our life. I’m running from someone, chasing me with blue and red lights. I need to hide…buildings. Making a sharp turn, I slide into the nearest skyscraper, running aimlessly up the stairs. I don’t have a plan. I’m just running. Thinking what to do, I lose track, my body on auto pilot. I slam into the railing of the top floor, nearly falling. “Dead end,” says a voice behind me, “Grab her.”

“I won’t go down like this,” I scream, turning around. “There’s nowhere to go,” the police officer says. “Well, there is one way: down,” and with that I lean over the railing and push. The cold night air rushes past my head, whistling in my ear.

My life flashes before my eyes; a distant memory comes to mind — my older brother in space, floating in his suit, and a crackly voice coming in over the radio: “You have two minutes of oxygen left.”

“Can we change that to something happier?” he says.
“No problem. What do you want?”
“Cookies.”
“The cookies will be done in two minutes.”
“Oh, yay, I love cookies,” he says in a quiet voice. Suddenly it fades away.

A voice comes into my head; a familiar quote: ‘There are many types of monsters in this world: monsters who will not show themselves and cause trouble, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood and monsters who always tell lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance; much more cunning than other monsters. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart. They eat even though they’ve never experienced hunger. They study even though they have no interest in academics. They seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such a monster, I would likely be eaten by it because — in truth — I am that monster.’

The cold concrete hits my back. My head feels a jolt of pain. My eyes grow heavy. I want to sleep. Slowly moving my hand to my head, I can feel my back turn wet; from the faint reflection of the mirror shop opposite I can see blood seeping slowly from my head, turning my black hair and white top crimson red. People yelling, kids screaming, mothers crying, the world is fuzzy. I just want to sleep. Medics rush up to me, trying to stop the blood. Someone runs to me crying, “Don’t go to sleep. Stay with me. I don’t want to lose you, not again!”

“Just leave me to sleep,” I manage to say. Hazy images move around me, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. I can’t keep them open for any longer. Darkness wraps around me.

The Trench Trudge
By Lydia Foote, Year 7, Linton Village College

I trudge half-heartedly through the sludge, the fields of upturned earth and musty rust of the barbed wire fences. We hear the cry of dawn breaking. This is the last time we soldiers will walk together. The cries of death, hunger and, most of all, regrets. They surround us, trying to warn us not to keep going. Turn around, RUN!!! It’ll be fun in the army, they said. More play than work in the army, they said. This was all gonna be a jolly good laugh. Whatever fool’s idea this was, it will be a joyful day when someone slaughters them. The soldiers marching next to me seem more nervous than I do. I don’t know a soul, picked out from the rest, good potential apparently — should I be taking that as a compliment? Some of them are singing the national anthem, I think to distract themselves from the life just starting. I’m not joining in. If this is what King and country has given us, then they are as bad as the people who started this. They’re just raising us like pigs to be slaughtered. Slaughtered — that’s my destiny.

We have reached the base — the dark, damp, life-draining trench. The deathtrap. Nevertheless, my order is where I go, and my order is here. The rats are laughing, I can tell. They provide no company, only bring hell. Their spiteful mockery stings as much as their lice.

The stone slabs, cracked and crumbling, carry me down to what is meant to be my home. This isn’t a home. These aren’t my friends. How could I ever consider this bunch of murderers my family? It’s like stepping willingly into a mouse trap, with the worst stench I have ever smelt.

As my foot sinks into the sludge, I feel the soft goo oozing into my feet. These socks won’t last for long. My sergeant hands me a rotting, musty tin. That’s lunch, my only way of survival!

I am blind with regret, fumbling with the others for a space on the small ledge that won’t hold us for long. The murky air surrounds me. Before I came here, to this — this place — I believed that no one deserved to die, no matter what they had done. Now I’m not that sure.

It’s closing in on us — sludge, rats, fleas, and worst of all the lice that get everywhere. It’s like they are having a war of their own. Corpses serve no purpose to us now. They form a barrier from our enemies, but they won’t protect us for long. The mud is squelching, sagging, searching out every crevice of my feet to infest. I look at my watch — the gift my father gave me when he found out I had joined up. I have been here five minutes. Only five minutes. Imagine what five months will do to me… I won’t have to imagine for long. Time ticks, and the mud thickens.

The Stranger In The Graveyard
By Poppy Montgomery, Year 8, Bottisham Village College

I walked through the hallway, startled at the greenery that had crept up over the years, hiding this place from sight. It had been ages since I had last visited, so long that despite its location being etched into my brain, it had taken a minute to find. Despite the overgrown state, the beauty of this place still lingered, as well as reminders as to what had once been here. I jumped down the rickety steps until I reached the bottom, where a small stream bubbled as it made its way through the room. Along the river were mounds of dirt, overcome with weeds and grass, but when summer came they would burst into bloom, for the copious amounts of bulbs poking through the undergrowth showed as much.
This had always been a special place for me, especially when I was younger, and it had become my refuge over the years.
It saddened me to see the disrepair that had fallen upon this place, and yet it filled me with hope as I heard birds singing around me. As a child, I had been certain that a ghost lived here, and even now, twenty or so years on, I could still feel the creeping sensation down my spine. I turned, looking up at the great arched windows through which light was streaming in, and shivered. Outside the first traces of spring were appearing, but here it stayed trapped in winter.
I roamed my eyes to the ceiling, where huge beams vaulted overhead. Birds of all kinds stared back at me, not making a sound, listening. I took their lead and, cocking my head to the side, heard the gentle footfall of someone else, not far away. I tensed, for this was my domain, and anyone else was — in my eyes — an intruder. Yet as the footsteps grew closer, still no one appeared, and I started to wonder whether I was going mad. It wouldn’t be the first time. I had been so certain of what I had heard, positive that someone else was going to appear any second. But time passed, and the hands on my watch continued to turn, and slowly, slowly, my breathing returned to normal. Then, out of the blue, a shadow cast over me, coming from the centre of the window itself. In the corner of my eye, I saw a silhouette, perched on the ledge: not doing anything, just watching, waiting. Waiting for what? A million questions blinked through my head, and one had only just formed when another came to take its place. The shadow moved, extending an arm towards me. Instinctively I backed away, and yet the figure wasn’t threatening. It was welcoming, as though extending an invitation. Unsure as to what thought possessed me at that point, I started walking towards the figure, and, walking along the small ledge that used to be part of some decorative pattern, I reached the figure, vanishing away, into the light with her.

Bullies In The Dark
By Josephine Baker, Year 8, Bottisham Village College

Myra was perched on the rooftop of the little church in the village, looking down into the graveyard below. It was dark. The only light came through the tall stained glass windows beneath her feet, flickering firelight pictures onto the gravestones and grass, like it was trying to animate a story. The smiling oak tree beside the spire shaded a row of stone tombs, looking like a clown at a party of miserable people dressed in grey.

A slight breeze chilled the back of her neck. She looked down onto the graveyard and saw three silhouettes that had been mysteriously absent until that moment. Two were skinny and tall, like a pencil before it has been used. The third was much shorter and squatter, a little bit more pig-like. Myra watched them, her eyes tight slits, her brows frowning deeply.

The pencils were laughing, their voices rough. The little pig was backing away from them, its entire body shaking, trembling like jelly.

“Go on, Timothy,” one pencil said in a patronising voice. “Hand over the cash.”
“I — I can’t,” the pig replied, his words stumbling over each other, as if each one was a foot trying to escape as fast as possible. “Mum said to bring back all the change.”
“A tenner? What did she give you, a fifty pound note?” snarled the other pencil. “Coz you bought like thirty pounds of crisps for yourself, dincha, you greedy pork pie…”

The pencils laughed cruelly.

Myra’s scowl twisted steadily into a horrifying glare. She looked at the fence that ran round the edge of the churchyard, half wondering if she could get help from someone and save Timothy the pig from being robbed. No, she decided, the pencils were in the way of the exit. Instead, she flattened herself out onto her stomach, tucked out of view, and called out in the most hollow voice she could: Leave this boy alone!

The laughter stopped instantly. She repeated herself. Leave this boy alone!
“Who’s there?” came a voice.

Myra smirked. I am the ghost of — she paused, thinking, and then hurriedly continued — ten pound notes! Leave this boy alone or I will haunt your dreams!

There was the sound of shuffling feet. Then, a high-pitched voice whispered, “Can ghosts actually do that?”
“I don’t want to stay and find out!” wailed someone else. “Run for it!”

A series of echoing thumps followed, gradually fading into the distance. Then, a more gentle voice called, “Who is actually there?”
Myra lifted her head up, and looked down at the boy. He looked less pig-like now that there were no incredibly slim people to compare him to.

“You go to my school,” he said suddenly. “Thanks for helping me.”
“No problem,” she replied. “But get going, before more thieves show up!”

The boy nodded, like he understood. “Alright. See you on Monday.” And, almost as cheerfully as the smiling tree, he walked down the path, and was lost to sight.

The Screelaw
By Esther Walden, Year 8, Bottisham Village College

The light of the campfire flickered over the Elder’s face, throwing eerie shadows onto the ground. Her voice spoke, barely more than a rasping croak.

“Young child? Do you know of the Screelaw?”

“No,” I answered, with my hands clasped on my head (as was tradition before the Elder).

“Humph. Then I shall tell you. The Screelaw are a group of trees, carnivorous and flesh-craving horrors — they are always here and will always be watching you.”

I sat up straighter and stared intently at the tree nearest to us — it does nothing.

“The Screelaw are evil, and cannot hide it. They are those trees that have gnarled, claw-like branches, that have no leaves and their bark is falling off. They are the trees, when you go close, you get such a sense of dread, and you are so frightened, you want to run in the opposite direction and never stop until you reach the edge of the world.”

The Elder coughed, a great hacking cough that shook her whole body. The tree I had been watching swayed and creaked in the wind, throwing horrible shadows onto the ground, huge and foreboding. I swallowed, a painful lump forming in my throat. Tears tried to seep out of the corners of my eyes. The Elder looked sharply at me; and her cunning grey-green eyes stared at mine, threatening to break in and rifle through my soul. She sniffed, a disapproving sniff.

“You see that tree, far off, in the distance?” She pointed, her wrinkled hand shaking, from age or fear I didn’t know.

“Stare at it, deeply, as deeply as you can, and you will notice something, something horrible.”

I watched it intently, its great snaking, contorted branches reaching out like some sort of mutant spider, like the feeling you get when you’ve said something unkind and want to apologise, but you can’t be brave enough to go and say it. Then, without warning, all of the memories of things I’d ever done that I regretted came crashing — cascading — down on me. It was overwhelming and heart wrenching, suffocating. I felt my stomach sink and myself curl up tighter and tighter with shame. Tears poured out of my eyes in a torrent of waves, like a salty waterfall. And I realised that I was still staring intently at the tree, eyes locked on the jagged, uneven surface of the bark.

I tore my eyes away and looked at the Elder, her yellowed, cracked fingernails picking at the dry flakes of dead skin on her knuckles.

“How do you destroy them?” I asked, deadly serious, my voice shaking from loathing of the Screelaw and fear of what they could do.

My Sanity
By Caitlyn Bonnyface, Year 8, Bottisham Village College

I watched from afar. Not knowing what to do next. Should I attack them or just run far away — away from my one true love? I didn’t know. I had scratches and blood all over me and a huge bullet wound on my leg. The agony I was in was unreal.

“I think he’s over here!” they said.
“Let’s go get him!”

I started running again, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my leg and the blood and sweat running down my face. My life would be ruined if I got caught now. I have a girlfriend waiting for me. If I got taken away then I would never be able to see her again. I mean… I was only doing the right thing, but these people wanted to lock me up for it. Wouldn’t you do something for your girl? You would do anything for her, wouldn’t you? Well that’s what I had done; now I’m being hunted because of it.

I turned the corner and jumped over the gate, holding my knife tight in my right hand. I was happy about doing that, because I was doing it for her. She is all that matters and if I was doing it for her then it had to be good. My mind was full of happy thoughts. I could imagine her beautiful smile and loving eyes looking back at me. Then, she’d come and hug me, saying, ‘Thank you.’ She would think of me as her hero. And then she would look deep into my eyes and say, ‘I love you.’ She won’t have to worry long because I’ll be back to protect her soon. We can be together forever. Just like I’d always wanted.

Someone came and tried locking my hands together with something. That’s when I knew. The bad guys had arrived. They hated what I had done, even when I told them that it was for her. They wouldn’t listen, and they said that they would have to take me back to that horrible place again. I didn’t want to go back there. Never. I tried my best to fight them off, but it was no use. There were too many of them. I tried to escape but something hard hit me on the head. All I could hear then were lots of people talking, and sirens. I hoped that she would come for me and tell them not to take me away. I yelled, “Angeline!”

At the station, Angie waited for the officers to come back. Her eyes were so empty that she’d run out of tears to shed.

“Miss Angeline Maze.”

She got up sluggishly, and reluctantly went over to the lieutenant’s desk.

“Miss Maze, the man that we arrested says that you’re his girlfriend. Is this true?” Shock and concern took over her face as she managed to get her answer out.

“No.” She spoke quietly. “Honestly, I’ve never seen that man in my life.”

Learning The Hard Way
By Scott Wilson, Year 8, Bottisham Village College

He sat up, dazed, while bursts of bright light flashed around him, the ground quaking violently. His head swam and felt like it had been microwaved for too long. The only thought that formed in his head was his name, Cecil. He rolled onto his knees and panned around, taking in the orange sand and dirt that lay around for as far as he could see. He struggled to his feet and looked at himself. ‘My God, Cecil’, he thought. His normal denim jeans bore burn signs, and what was left of his leather jacket was tattered and charred, blackened at the edges. Upon closer inspection of his surroundings, the ground appeared to be littered with scraps of metal, and objects that looked suspiciously like bodies were peppered here and there.

He brought his left leg up and took a step, which required an enormous amount of effort; but he managed, and step by step, he trudged forwards, making his way towards one of the corpses. The constant quaking of the ground was mysterious, and at one point he fell on his face and swallowed several mouthfuls of dirt. Choking, he got back up.

After what seemed like forever, he finally reached one of the corpses, and took in what met his eyes. It lay sprawled on the dirt, its clothes in a similar state to his, and one of its limbs had been ripped clean off at the shoulder and was lying in a crimson puddle nearby. The head was little more than a mess of bloodied flesh and bone, and the torso had been ripped open. He shuddered and wondered what on earth could have caused such horrific damage.

He got his answer.
The brutal quaking of the ground intensified, and a gargantuan machine that walked on four spider-like legs lumbered towards him. Its legs met at a circular, dazzling silver dome with a single red lens positioned at the very centre, now fixated on him. Each enormous step made it look twice as large, until it was looming over him — a predator cornering its prey. ‘Holy crud’, he whispered to himself. No way would he be able to outrun it, or fight it for that matter. He gazed up, whimpering, his heart thumping furiously in his chest. His legs seemed to have turned to jelly, his stomach, ice. Suddenly, its scarlet lens brightened dramatically, then screamed out a shrill note, blasting a beam of impossibly red light at him. He would not have time to breathe, only time to contemplate how he had ended up here.

Icy water splashed onto his face, and he shot upright, breathing rapidly and coughing. “Are you ok Cecil?” asked his friend, Jeff. “You just keeled over onto the coffee table just now.”

He was back in his living room, the VR game on the telly paused. He sighed. He never would look at computer games the same way again.

The Different Sides Of Happiness
By Isla Herczog, Year 10, Bottisham Village College

You know the hardest thing about goodbyes is knowing that you can’t say hello again.

My mum left when I was sixteen, dad when I was eighteen. It sucked because at that point I was an adult, an adult who no longer needed a family. But family makes you whole. Which is why I guess I’m not. I never knew any other family; we had been excommunicated when I was born, I guess. The daughter of a christian mother and a devout catholic. They made it work: I didn’t.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this; I don’t know why I decided to actually listen to my therapist and write in my ‘trauma diary’ as he calls it. It won’t bring them back! But alas, I feel I must if my story is to be told.

I cried for days after my mum had passed on. That was 2 years, 3 months and 14 days ago, yet it still feels like yesterday. Her fair skin paled by the sickness that had a hold of her heart, eyes hardly seeing anything important, her once gorgeous auburn hair tangled and matted. She smiled at me as if I was the only thing in the world; but then her breath stopped escaping. It stopped all together. My dad didn’t take it well. He drank away the pain until his liver poisoned him and he got to see my mum all over again. Without me.

The rest of the world carried on though.
The rest of the world didn’t even know what had happened.

All through school I heard whispers and felt the pointed stares from people when I entered a room, but you get used to it. The only good thing that happened from my becoming an orphan was the school bully left me alone. Is that a bad thing to say? I don’t think so. My therapist says trauma shows itself in different ways so I guess this is mine.

Well, hey, now you are all caught up on my past, let’s talk about my future: it’s December 29th and this is my final day alive. I have organised everything, from the roommates being out of the apartment, to handing all my school assignments in early, so people believe I was clever. Everything planned to perfection. I guess this is just my other way of dealing with trauma. The pills are in my room, hidden away in my sock drawer. A few doses of antidepressants should do the trick, I hope.

Dear reader, if you are reading this now, I am most likely either dead or have chickened out and my therapist is reading this back to me in the hope that it cures me. But just know that I may be lying on the bathroom floor, lifeless and cold, but I’m happy. Happy that I can have a family once more even if it’s not on earth. Happy that I can forget the pain and the suffering.

Happy.

Spring
By Elizabeth Edwards, Year 7, Bottisham Village College

It had been a week since the icicles dropped off the dustbins, creating puddles of water on the floor. The daffodils had created light in the world of whiteness. The snow had gradually melted, after two weeks of heavy downpour. The surface of the pavement was still covered in salt, and the streams were still covered in ice, but you could tell that spring was coming.

The fields grew spurts of green, covering the world in a layer of shamrock paint. The birds flew over, glancing to see if any worms were slithering across the green, nibbling at the leaves. They would dive down, grabbing the worm in their clutches.

The tulips burst open, revealing the colours of joy: pink, yellow, orange, red, purple. The trees’ blossom came out in pink balls, slowly touching a pompom to each branch. The grass grew back, defeating the wet mud that lay on top of it. The sun rose into the sky, melting the touches of ice that remained. It was funny to think that one week ago, the world was white. There were no flowers on the ground, no leaves on the trees. The rivers were frozen over, clusters of people huddling together next to the fire, and now the doors were open, leading to the outside world.

Animals came out from hiding: hedgehogs, running across the bushes, curling up in tight prickly balls; badgers, poking their noses out and swiftly jumping back down into the depths of their setts; toads, jumping out of the ponds, skipping along the grass, happy to see the sun one year more; butterflies, prancing across the blue sky.

Cotton candy was placed across the blue, some touching the sun with a pink shadow. At night, the sky turned violet and orange. The blend crossed over the world; silhouettes created by the trees. Birds flew over the fields, getting ready for the dawn chorus.

Early in the morning, the birds called out. The sun rose, blinding everyone who looked at it. Its rays flew over the world, telling people to wake up. People opened their curtains, letting in these rays, gazing for hours as the birds flew over the pink sky.

A single tree could be looked at for hours on end. The branches twisting upwards, blossom sitting on the end of every branch. Every colour was dotted on a tree, somewhere. The red and golden leaves had fallen from the now pink trees months ago, making the crunch on the ground. In winter, the trees had been left shivering in the darkness, empty and alone. Now, they were covered in the pink balls of blossom.

The gardens of the houses were filled with families having water fights, running around the sprinkler, lying in the pool. It seemed that in the one week, people had got used to spring. The cold had been freezing. The freezing had been bitter and now, in only spring, it seemed like summer.

Window
By Clare Graves, Year 11, Joyce Frankland Academy

You can’t open the window. Not after 23:13. Not before 05:53. Because that is when it happens.

‘What happens?’ She had many times enquired, only to be answered by the fear in her parents’ eyes — no words, only fear. Fear within her mother’s caring blue eyes. Her father’s eyes pale and haunted.

Every year the population of their town, a town in the middle of nowhere, dwindled. In winter only one or two disappeared (nightmares, it was rumoured). But in summer the relentless heat forced people to crack — and an open window would be all that remained.

Everyone in that room and usually the whole house.

Gone. Never seen again.

Ever.

Once, when she was eight, Chloe had put her hand on the clasp to undo the window — only as a joke; she hadn’t actually intended on opening it. She had only wanted to see her parents’ reaction.

The sting of her cheek the first clue that her father had slapped her. Hard. Swift. Lovingly. Lovingly, because he didn’t want her to go through what his childhood best friend had gone through. It was always in the back of his mind, as ever present as his shadow; yet he never spoke about it. Part of the trauma could be because he had been in the house when it happened. He had never told her what it was though.

He had never told anyone.

That memory — the sting of the slap — but moreover the hurt in her father’s eyes had been enough to keep Chloe from even contemplating opening the window at a certain time of night.

But tonight is different.

Today had gone badly, and it had allowed Chloe to realise that she was fed up. Fed up with living her life under the fear of a seemingly sundry action. Fed up with waking every morning and wondering if her friends were still alive. Still there.

Chloe opens the window.

Her trembling fingers betraying her attempt at nonchalance.

She lets out a warbling pent-up breath. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

She inhales. The air from outside was sweeter. Chloe inhales again. Fresher.

Another inhale. Deadlier.

Chloe tries to cough, to choke, to move. But nothing happens.

A half-lost fact stumbles into her conscious mind just long enough to make an impact before disappearing into the ether again. The chemical weapons factory ten miles away was rumoured to release toxic fumes to the world between 23:13 and 5:53 and the no window time was protection against —