Many thanks to ....

- all the talented students who entered this first SBS Writing Challenge and

the judges who read the fantastic entries.

- our creative Writer-in-Residence, Melanie Taylor who has worked hard to

bring the best out of our students.

- our Headteacher, Alison Saunders who enabled this inaugural project to

flourish.

- the supportive staff in our English Department who were full of ideas and

encouragement.

- our art students, Kate Wood, Zoe Perrin, Karys Barbrook, Katie Gresty,

Chloe Lake and Hannah-May Smith for their sketches.

- our Librarian, Janet Syme and Library staff for co-ordinating this exciting

project.

- Sarah Chandler in the Front Office who produced this booklet with artistic

flair.

- the Leaf Café, Old Cross, Hertford for contributing to the winners’ book

tokens as well as hosting the Writing Challenge Awards Evening on

Monday, 17th November 2014.

- award-winning children’s author, Sally Nicholls who travelled from Oxford

to speak to the winners and invited audience about how she started writing

which inspired our students.

- our supporters, staff, family and friends for all their encouragement.

@SBS_Library

Contents

Acknowledgments 2

Contents 3

Message from our Headteacher 4

Foreword by our Writer-in-Residence 5

Silhouette Sorcha McComb 6

The Return Emily Moore 8

A Home of her Own Olivia Rider 10

Better Shelter Chloë Shaw 12

The Hanging Tree Ruby-Leigh Smith 14

The Attic Natasha Walsh 16

Message from our Headteacher

“Writing is an adventure,” said Winston Churchill, and what adventures so

many of us have experienced at Simon Balle this autumn.

“Adventure” because it has indeed been an “unusual and exciting

experience” to have our very own Writer-in-Residence and who has, along

with a number of author visits, encouraged and inspired so many of our

young writers to put pen to paper.

And what a great privilege it was to read their submissions and then listen to

the winners as they read their work at the Leaf Café in Hertford, to an

audience of family and friends.

This booklet therefore is both a celebration and a great milestone, as it

demonstrates the talents, skills and imagination of our writers, acting as a

true inspiration to others.

Alison Saunders

Foreword

I was delighted to become the Writer-in-Residence at Simon Balle School

for the Autumn and Spring Terms, 2014-2015.

I wanted to give students the opportunity to become authors – not only

writing a story, but also reading it to an audience, and even editing it for

publication. The Book Banter Writing Challenge was the start of this

process. Students in Years 7-9 were given just two weeks to write a 500-

word story on the theme of ‘Home’.

The quality of the stories submitted made the task of choosing six winners a

difficult, but highly enjoyable task. In the end, the stories we chose had a

clear structure, made the reader see and feel things powerfully, and used

the idea of home in imaginative ways.

On the first day of the Book Banter Festival we had an inspiring Awards

Evening at the Leaf Café in Hertford, where the students read their stories

and were presented with prizes by Book Banter author Sally Nicholls.

Since that event, I have met with the winners several times and they have

shown enthusiasm and commitment to the job of editing and, in some

cases, extending their stories.

I congratulate all six authors, and encourage everyone who took part in the

Writing Challenge 2014 to keep writing and developing their talents.

I hope you will enjoy reading this wonderful selection of stories as much as

I, and my fellow judges, have.

Melanie Taylor

Writer-in-Residence

Simon Balle School, 2014-2015.

‘Silhouette’

Sorcha McComb

“Ladies and gentlemen, now for our fiercest act of all, our bronco horse!”

Phoebe gasped at the sight of the most stunning and the most frightened

stallion she had ever seen.

You could see his rib cage and the whites of his eyes. He tore off wildly around the

ring, bucking and rearing. The skin on his face had been rubbed raw.

Phoebe shuddered as she thought of what the people here could have done to this

terrified stallion. Without a moment’s hesitation, she crept out of the tent and

followed the sound of the stallion’s whinny. He was living in a filthy, rotting stable

which was bug infested.

“Here, boy,” she coaxed.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a red apple, then held it towards him.

He slowly stretched out his neck as far as it could go and ate the apple from her

hand. He munched happily, savouring the rare taste. She reached out and stroked

his gleaming black neck. He tensed, his ears pinned back.

“It’s alright you’re safe with me,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears.

“You need a name... I know - Silhouette!”

“Oi!” bellowed a stumpy, old man who looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“Get away from me 'orse!”

Phoebe jumped back as he cracked his whip and the stallion cowered in the corner.

This time he lashed out at Silhouette, but Phoebe stopped him just in time.

“Get out of 'ere or I'll beat the damned horse to death! Now scatter,” he shouted, his

voice slurred as he swayed violently towards Phoebe.

Phoebe sprinted all the way back to her house on the farm.

“I'll rescue that stallion and give him a home he wants to be in. With me,” she

thought firmly.

That very night, when she was sure her parents were sleeping, she ventured out

into the dead of night. Finally, she found herself at the circus. She crept silently to

Silhouette’s ghastly 'stable' and called out to him.

“Here boy!” she whispered, “it's okay you’re coming with me!”

He nickered softly and padded over to her. She led him out into the night and

tethered him to his stable. She vaulted on to his back, but he bucked her off so

suddenly that she fell to the ground with a thud. This time Phoebe was prepared.

With a look of grim determination she mounted again and grabbed his thick,

wispy mane. She sat through his bucks and rears. After a while he seemed to calm

and accept that Phoebe was trying to help him. Cautiously, they trekked into the

darkness on their journey to the farm.

They arrived at the farm when the sun was rising. She slipped off his back and led

him to his new field. She released him into his new haven full of juicy, green grass

and a warm shelter.

This is the place Silhouette

can truly call home.

‘The Return’

Emily Moore

I am standing in front of the unfamiliar gate that leads to the house I was born in. I

can’t go in.

When I last touched this gate, I was innocent and pure. My excited mind was racing

with the thrill of this new adventure; I had always loved the wild and survival. That

was why it was a dream come true to be off to France and about to fight in the

Great War.

As soon as I took my first steps through the many troops to find my regiment, reality

shook me like the jolt of an earthquake. This was no Scout trip. I was expecting the

fun-packed adventure camp my elder brother Charles went on to Brownsea with his

hero Mr Baden-Powell. He was picked out from our local brigade amongst twenty

others from around the country, to learn how to withstand life on a desolate island. I

can remember my mother’s proud face staring at his smart uniform with the

polished metal badges. Since the day he returned I was inspired. My sister and I

loved the long anecdotes he would suddenly spring on us when we were walking to

buy bread for Mother or cleaning our bicycles. We would often beg him to tell us

something they did on the island. The thing I loved most was not the stories

themselves, but the way Charles’ eyes gleamed with delight as he retold his own

special adventure.

When I got to the trenches, the experience I thought would bring amazing tales to

tell my family, completely dissolved. It was just the end of a powerful German

attack. I counted at least six bodies lying in the mud, covered in fresh blood and

dirt. On every other man’s face was a mask of the grim truth; what kind of greed

could make people so passionate, that they think killing in these numbers is right?

And it was only 1914; the start of the war.

I doubt I will ever forget the terrible sound of one screaming shell after another

shooting through the sky. Or the piles of men whose lives had been brutally ended

by a single bullet or an exploding shell. When the word finally came round that the

German army had retreated, I was too numb to be amazed at still being alive at the

end of the war.

So that is why I can’t go inside my own comforting home and go back to my family. I

have seen too much. It feels like they are in a different universe; one that, now I

have experienced the real world, is impossible to go back to.

A fleeting figure sees me through the net curtains of the living room and suddenly a

young woman is opening the front door and smiling joyfully at me.

I gaze at her. “Elsie?” My dear, younger sister was only thirteen when I left. How

could she have grown so tall and mature in only a few years?

She stared unbelieving at me. Then, without warning, she ran down the path, pulled

open the gate and flung her arms around me. A sudden rush of joy washed over me

as I hugged my sister back.

“William?”

I looked up. They were all there, my darling mother and father, my loving sister

Elsie at my side, and Charles - my brave, caring, inspirational older brother.

I was home.

‘A Home of her Own’

Olivia Rider

Whispers, slippers padding along the landing, the whole building was creaking into

life; another morning at Millwood Care Home. Sadie smiled; it was her final day.

She was off, to live alone, away from the difficulties of being in Care. This was an

opportunity for Sadie to discover home, because, so far, she’d just lived in a series

of houses, and never a proper home. It was her dream to find the right place, some-

where secure, sheltered and serene. This was her chance, although, Sadie was

nervous that it would be another house, another useless attempt.

Up to the age of ten, Sadie lived with her parents. She had been happy enough

until she was eight, when the trouble began. At first there was just tension between

her parents, but then it grew into continuous arguments. Their love for Sadie didn’t

die, but the care did. She’d felt as if she was invisible to them. What had once been

a place of warmth was now a war-zone. Then, without warning, Sadie was told she

would be moved into Care the next day, no longer seeing her parents: that was it,

and she’d hardly said two words of a goodbye to them. This had made her feel

lonely yet relieved at the same time. The fighting ended, but so did the relationship

with her parents. The closest thing Sadie would ever have to a home had slipped

away from her forever.

Sadie moved into Watersmeet Care Home. The experience was……. hell. She’d

had to endure it for three long years. There’d been no silence, no peace or comfort,

just noise and mess, like a circus without the cheer. Sadie hadn’t made any friends.

In fact, she hadn’t had much contact with anyone at all. That was probably because

Sadie had concealed her life to everyone. To her, that was the only way of seeming

that little bit tougher.

Eventually, Social Services moved Sadie to Millwood. It wasn’t better, just the

opposite. It was cold and lifeless like an abandoned graveyard. No-one had

conversations or friendships; the care workers stayed in the office. It was a building

where people came and went, not home. But luckily, now that Sadie was sixteen,

she could move into her own place.

Adoptive parents had offered to have Sadie, but she wasn’t interested. Not when

she had a home of her own to go to.

Once dressed, Sadie took a final look at her lifeless room, with its chipped paint and

damp walls. Even the white cushions were practically grey. The bare sight of the

room made Sadie shiver. She quickly dismissed the room and sprinted downstairs

to find her social worker, Alison, with all the bags.

“Ready?” she asked, cheerfully.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sadie replied. She couldn’t wait a minute longer to get out of

the grim building that had trapped her for so long.

Once they arrived at the flat, Alison didn’t stay long. Sadie unpacked, wondering

how this small flat would become a home. The furnishings were the bare minimum:

just a thin mattress slumped on a dark, dusty carpet with a faded orange stain in the

corner. When she realised what an empty shell it was, it made her consider waiting

until she had the money to pay for a decent room, but deep inside her, she was

determined to stay and conquer the lifeless place. She would never let it defeat

her. She chucked some cushions around to spruce the place up.

One month later, Sadie adored her new life. She admitted, the first nights made her

slightly uneasy, but this quickly faded. And after living in so many houses, Sadie

knew what home was. Despite what people told her, it wasn’t being surrounded by

loving people all the time, it was about being able to discover yourself. Feeling safe.

It doesn’t need to be a certain size, or in a certain place, it just needs to feel right.

That was the only way Sadie could explain it. She had also learnt, some people

have to experiment before they find the right place. Home.

‘Better Shelter’

Chloë Shaw

As Danny’s mind wandered he heard his mother call, “Danny, breakfast!” He could

smell the tantalising scent of golden syrup on pancakes. “Mmmmmm…yum,” he

thought.

He jumped out of bed and quickly got dressed into his swimming trunks and ran

downstairs.

The stairs were a striking shade of aqua blue marble, but Danny didn’t notice the

sun gleaming on them this morning because he was in a rush to eat breakfast and

get into the pool. He sat down in the beautiful, open plan kitchen and he only

managed to say one thing whilst he scoffed down his pancakes, which was,

“thanks, Mum!”

The kitchen was a dazzling white, the floors sparkled in the morning sun and

Danny’s mother was polishing a vase. A bunch of red roses was lying on the black

marble counter, waiting to be put into it.

Danny could hear his younger brothers, Josh and Toby, splashing and shrieking

with delight in the pool.

“Darn it,” he thought, “they got there first - there goes my peace.”

Danny thanked his mother, putting his plate next to the dishwasher. She nodded

towards the orange juice and said, “have a drink before you go out.”

Danny gulped down a glass of juice - the freshness relieved his thirst - and then out

he went. The sun shone down on his head as he looked up into the blue sky. He

heard the birds chirping and the palm trees swaying in the wind. Danny thought it

could not get any better than this.

“Ha ha! Got you!” shouted his little brother, as he sprayed water on Danny.

Hours passed as the boys splashed, giggled and dived into the fresh, blue water.

Danny whipped around and picked up Josh and launched him into the pool, before

joining him. The splashes were huge from the force of the boys landing in the pool.

As they resurfaced they were both laughing hysterically. Feeling left out, Toby leapt

into the pool, too, joining in the fun.

Hours passed as the boys splashed, giggled and dived into the fresh, blue water.

Danny climbed out of the pool and as he was drying himself with a fluffy towel he

noticed a buzzard circling slowly above the house. Danny was mesmerized by the

bird until he picked up the scent of his dad’s barbecuing. He broke his gaze, and

turned towards the delicious smell of barbecuing steak.

“There are burgers on the table everyone,” announced his dad.

Danny rushed to the table and picked up the biggest, juiciest burger there was. He

started salivating as he lifted the burger to his lips.

The blare of the horn

jolted Danny as he

snapped back into

reality. The sharp, cold

air hit Danny as his eyes

adjusted to the morning

light.

Next to him lay the half-

eaten burger he had

found in the bin.

He managed to move his

aching limbs, just

enough to get up off the

damp cardboard box

which was his home.

He picked it up and off he went to find better shelter for the day ahead.

‘The Hanging Tree’ Ruby-Leigh Smith

I woke up. I tentatively poked my feet out from under the rough, wool blanket and felt the cold licking my feet, engulfing them in their own icy blanket. I sat up, just as the door opened and my maid came in. “Morning Miss, time to get up and dressed,” she said, as she turned around and poured the steaming kettle of water that she was holding into the dish by my bedside table. I could hear the clanging from the kitchen which was down several flights of stairs. The damp, morning air smelt faintly of baking bread. I loved being at Hampton Court. Those days were the best, because I felt like I was almost part of a family. I loved it when Father would ruffle my hair as I stood next to him in the Throne Room. But I missed Hatfield House, the tree, my governess. All the time I lived at Hatfield House, I could never think of Hampton Court as my real home. To me, home meant waking up in the morning, and having a mother and father loving me. A real home to me was siblings. Blood siblings. A real home was not feeling like a prisoner in your own home, but instead being allowed to roam free. That is a real home, and neither Hatfield nor Hampton Court is a real home to me. But, Hatfield is the closest I have to one. The grounds were beautiful and there was a lovely tree that I loved to read under. The tree had been one of my mother's favourite places to read. I remember, my governess would tell me she sat under it for hours, reading book after book. Never had I yearned for my mother more than I had when I heard those stories. The maid drew my strings tightly and then slipped my dress on over the top. She brushed my hair and clasped it with an emerald hair clip to match my dress. I slipped my shoes on and went down the stairs. Breakfast was on the table. Hot bread and beer. Father was staring at me from the opposite end of the table. Mary and Father's wife Anne were sat either side of Father. It was a rare treat to have all of us around the same table. Little Edward, my dear brother, wailed from across the hall where he was being fed by his nursery maid. Before Father left the room he turned towards me. I met his eyes and they seemed to burn through me like they were urging me to spill my darkest secrets.

“Looking forward to leaving tomorrow, Elizabeth?” he asked me. I smiled wryly and replied, “Well Sire, I am looking forward to returning home, but I will be sad to wave goodbye to you and Anne and Jack.” “Jack?” Father asked, inquisitively. “The little, hairy dog that runs around the grounds like an unwell rat,” I answered. “If you love the dog and will miss him that much, then take him,” Father said. I suddenly felt my heart skip a beat. Another friend for me. I don't know why I liked dependent things. Perhaps because, whenever I found someone or something that needed me, it soon became independent and then I was left by myself, again. At least with a dog and a tree, neither could become independent. Mary scowled at me. “But Sire, that is my dog!” she interrupted. “Don't talk to me like that! My second wife was killed for talking to me like that!” Father exclaimed. My eyes brimmed with salty tears. He was talking about my mother. The carriage rolled up. Father helped me into the soft, plush seats. I had Jack in my arms. Just a bundle of fur; at least I would have a companion when I got back home. We arrived at Hatfield the next day. I went straight back to lessons and in my spare time I read under the old, oak tree which I had so dearly missed. I wrote letters to Father, but never usually got replies. But I never forgot that week where it had appeared that Father almost cared about me and made me feel at home.

‘The Attic’

Natasha Walsh

The house wasn’t the same. Now Mum was gone, the library which was once filled

with her and Dad’s laughter was deadly silent, and the kitchen’s wonderful smells of

sugar and fresh fruits were replaced by the pungent smell of bleach and alcohol.

Dad hadn’t left the house in weeks and we hadn’t spoken about anything other than

what he wanted for dinner. It was like he was guilty of something.

I sighed and pushed my black hair back before pulling on my pyjamas and crawling

into my icy cold bed.

The silence was a sound I had rarely heard. It was depressing hearing nothing but

the clanging water pipes.

“May, come play.” The voices echoed around my room.

I shot up in bed and stared into the pitch blackness. Nothing.

“Hello?” I whispered back.

“May! Follow me!” the haunting voice said. I hadn’t heard the door open or close.

“It’s nothing May, you’re just imagining this, you’re just missing Mum,” I whispered

to myself.

“Aren’t you coming, May?” the emotionless voice asked me.

I took a deep breath and stepped out on to the cold, wooden floor.

“We’ll be late, come on!” The voice now sounded like a child on Christmas morning,

while I was confused and tired; in fact, I was almost certain I was dreaming.

I staggered down the hallway until I bumped into the old, wooden wardrobe. I

remembered the story Mum had told me a million times before

and I suddenly missed the softness of her voice. The wardrobe had been there

since we moved in. Dad hadn’t ever been able to move it, so they had left it there

as a storage place for blankets and extra bedding.

I traced the dusty carvings with the tips of my fingers.

“Come on May, push.” The voice sounded like it was sitting in my ear.

“It doesn’t move! How do you know my name anyway?”

I don’t know why I was talking to something

imaginary. It was clear it wasn’t real and my

mind was just making up this ‘voice’. Maybe I

was going insane.

“Push,” the voice persisted.

I pushed my back to the wood and

felt it shift suddenly to the right. I

staggered before regaining my balance.

I peered at the gap between the wall

and the wardrobe.

“Follow me, May!”

A flash of white darted into the dark doorway. I blindly followed the stairs upwards.

Since when had our roof grown two storeys higher? As I neared the top, a blinding,

white light engulfed me. I squinted as I looked around the room. A female figure

stood in the middle. She wore a snow white gown and had black hair to the waist.

“Ah, there you are my dear May. There’s some things you need to know... the

truth.” Her haunting voice filled my soul.

Right there, right then, I felt the missing piece of me fall back into place.

Book Banter Writing Challenge November 2014

Winners :

Sorcha McComb (7M)

Olivia Rider (7R)

Ruby-Leigh Smith (7R)

Emily Moore (8B)

Chloë Shaw (8M)

Natasha Walsh (9M)

Highly Commended :

Chloe Hill (7B)

Danny Orpin (7M)

Isabella Christie Hobbs (8B)

Emma Liddle (8A)