ink inc 2014 - weeblycaxtonmag.weebly.com/uploads/2/3/9/0/23906036/inkinc_v5...ink inc comenzó como...
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ink!INC.
ink!INC.
Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine
Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine
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Dedicated to Liz Edwards,
without whom this project
would not have been possible.
ink!INC.
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Ink Inc began as a creative writing magazine to show-case the
latent talent of potential future authors in Caxton College.
However, in collaboration with the Art Department, it
developed into an art-inspired creative writing project,
incorporating original artwork from our GCSE and A level
students, and encouraging Caxton's modern-day Hemingways
to conjure stories from their imaginations, based on what they
saw in the artwork.
The result was an enormous amount of creative output, and
due to the fact that the quality of the work was so high and
the ideas generated by the artwork were so vastly different,
the task of selecting which stories to include in the magazine
was incredibly difficult.
I sincerely hope you enjoy the beautiful artwork and the
creative writing talents of Caxton's students in this first edition
of Ink Inc.
The magazine is free to download as a PDF document, but you
can also purchase printed copies from the school. However,
rather than setting a price per copy, we are asking for
donations which will go to charity: €2 will cover the cost of
printing each copy, so any contribution you make above that
will go to a good cause, to help people less fortunate than
ourselves.
Please dig deep!
Myles Gunji-Jardine, 2014
Myles
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Ink Inc comenzó como una revista de literatura creativa paramostrar el talento latente de los futuros autores en el CaxtonCollege.
Posteriormente, con la colaboración del Departamento deArte, se convirtió en un proyecto de escritura creativainspirada en obras de arte originales de nuestros estudiantesde GCSE y A Level. De este modo, se pretende animar a losHemingways de hoy de Caxton a usar su imaginación paracrear historias en base a lo que vieron en las obras de arte.
El resultado fue una enorme cantidad de produccionescreativas y dado a que la calidad de los trabajos era tan alta ylas ideas generadas por las obras de arte eran tan diferentes, latarea de seleccionar qué historias incluir en la revista fueincreíblemente difícil.
Espero sinceramente que disfruten de las hermosas obras dearte y la escritura creativa de los alumnos de Caxton en estaprimera edición de Ink Inc.
La revista se puede descargar gratuitamente en formato PDF,además se pueden comprar copias impresas en la escuela. Sinembargo, en lugar de fijar un precio por copia, estamospidiendo donativos que irán destinados a caridad: 2 € cubriránel coste de imprimir cada copia, y cualquier contribuciónsuperior a 2 € se destinara a una buena causa, ayudar apersonas menos afortunadas que nosotros.
¡Por favor sea generoso!
MylesMyles Gunji-Jardine, 2014
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Table of Contents
Artist Author Page
Carlos Flors Bel Josh Mitchell 1
Sofya Abramchuk Edu Parilla 6
Coralita Arnold Sofia Webber 7
Alicia Civera 8
Alejandro Lis Del Cerro Pablo Rodilla 9
Madeleine Penree 3
Zoe Zanón Rives Edu Parilla 5
Nieves Felipo Llopis Alicia Civera 11
Nieves Felipo Llopis Vicente Rambla 12
Nieves Felipo Llopis Arturo Aleixandre 13Lavara
Caterina Valenzuela Jorge Sala 15Fizedeanu
Yasmin Mitchell Bea Felipo 17
Ana Araj 19
Cover art: Natasha BinniePolina Iegorova
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Surviving The Storm
Joshua Mitchell
I was never really attracted to the sea and
I definitely never thought I would be a
sailor, but one experience – or should I
call it an adventure – made that decision
for me: the storm.
Me and my dad took a small 25-foot boat
out for a day trip; it was windy and quite
choppy but good fun. The sun broke
through the clouds and burned warm on
my face.
We were heading out a few miles and my
dad was teaching me how to use the
compass on the boat, heading east away
from the coast, and then showing me
how to turn the boat around to head back
west, back to the coast.
The upper deck was highly polished and
the sea spray as
small waves constantly hit the side of the
boat. Dad was heading down the boat to
tie off a rope, but he slipped, hitting his
head hard on the deck, knocking him
unconscious.
I scrambled across the deck, avoiding the
ropes and tackle, calling out to him as I
ran, but when I reached his side I could
see he was bleeding heavily and he was
out cold: I tried to wake him but I
couldn't, so I went to fetch the first aid kit
stored below deck.
I returned to find him moaning in pain,
made it very slippery,
and he was in and out of
consciousness as I bandaged
his head to stem the bleeding.
Then I had to drag him across
the deck, back to the cabin,
but as I did, I looked up at the
sky and saw dark, gloomy,
black clouds heading towards
us.
I finally managed to get him to
the cabin, hauled him up onto
the bed and put a warm
blanket over him, but through
the cabin window I could see
the clouds were right on top
of us and the sea was getting
angry.
I rushed to the wheel to turn
the ship around, grabbing
onto the ropes securing the
sails, but the storm flung the
boat around in the water and I
kept slipping on the wet deck.
It was no use: we were
already in the belly of the
cloud monster.
Fighting with the wheel, trying to
maintain our course back to land, I was
glad my dad had taught me how to use
the compass, and that I knew how to
steer back towards safety.
Finally, dad started to come to, moaning
and trying to lift his head, but he was still
too dizzy to stand or to help, so he had to
guide me from the bed.
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“Hold onto the wheel… don't let go!”
The wind and the sea were still as angry as
ever, thrashing the boat from side to side,
and the waves pounded the boat so hard
that I thought I was going to throw up.
But we kept fighting, steering into the
wind, not knowing if we would make it
out alive, but determined to make land if
we could; determined not to allow the
angry sea push us away when we were so
close to home.
Suddenly, through a break in the clouds
and the sea spray, we sighted land, and
steering into the calm waters of the bay, it
was as though the whole thing had been a
dream. But looking over my shoulder as
we finally set foot on the safety of the
beach, I could see the angry clouds
cursing behind us and the sea foaming in
frustration.
I no longer wish to sail. I prefer to keep my
feet on solid ground.
Carlos Flors BelGCSE work
Carlos Flors BelGCSE work
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The Ocean’s Signs
Madeleine Penree
I always thought that it was just
yesterday that we used to sit here, on
this dock, in these old and worn oak
deck chairs and watch the sea. Watch
the tides go in and out as the sun
would make its way across the sky.
Or was it yesterday? It seems that the
days have become muddled in my
head since you left, my dear. Perhaps
it was a thousand afternoons ago that
we would sit here and relish the simple
pleasure of sharing our existence. A
thousand yesterdays ago. You would
have given me a wry smile at that one.
And as we sat, the waves would crash
against the support beams below us;
the sun kissing – or rather, viciously
slapping – our faces and skin. I would
make offhand comments about the
shoddy structure of the dock below us,
and you would say something about
how we were going to end up with skin
cancer if we didn't put some sunblock
on soon.
Sometimes I dream of the hours we
would spend there: two once strangers
bonding over nothing. I can still hear
all of the fabulous tales you used to
spin. Some so close to reality; some
distant dreams. The one about how
the sun loved the moon so much he
would die every day so she could
breathe; the one about a man who
made a deal with the devil; the rather
strange one about a Juniper tree; and
the one about the mourning mother
which never failed to make me cry.
After hours sitting on the dock, whenyou finally ran out of your marvelouslycrafted words, you would look me inthe eye and you would demand
knowledge about me in return. So Iwould offer my beating heart to you.And in return you would adopt it asyour own and sew up the jagged holesand rips.
All the while the sun would crawlacross the sky, and when it finally set,I would receive one of two things fromyou: a lovely smile and a promise ofreturn, or an embrace that wouldsalvage the little warmth that the coldsea breeze didn't steal away.
And it was in those moments that Iknew I had made my home insomeone else, that I was vulnerableand open, and that you were kind andgentle.
I remember the day when the shoddyold thing finally broke. We felt thebeams below us shift and creak, butwe did nothing. We just sat there untileverything collapsed and fell into thesea. And while our little plane ofexistence shifted, like a zone of AM ina world of FM, and was stolen awayby the effects of time, age and wear,we clasped each other's hands tightly.I wonder if that’s how the people on asinking ship feel?
We didn't let go until we were lying onour backs in the shallow waters belowwhat once was the end. It was then,as the backs of our thin summerclothing soaked up the salty water,that you told me your last story.
You pulled me close and calmly toldme something which unraveled yourcareful needlework. And as I heardyour words I felt my heart ripping andbleeding; mixing with the churningcurrents around us and turning thewhole thing an ugly, blotted red.
Was it the sea's salty foam or a broken
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human's tears you kissed off mycheeks that day, my love? I don'tremember that either.
"When I was little I lived in a littlefishing town on the coast, a few statesdown," you murmured once the starshad come out from hiding. "It wasreally small. One of those postcard,ripple-in-time places. Everyone prettymuch knew everyone. There was thissweet old couple who lived down thestreet from us. The wife ran the town'sonly bakery, and the man fished. Iwould always go there after schoolwhen my mom was too busy withwhatever she did to bother. It wasnice.
“I remember one day though, when Ipushed open the old heavy glassdoors; the old lady barely looked up. Itwas obvious she'd been crying. Iwalked over to her, and when I wasright next to her she grabbed my armand told me that the sea was just asyou and me. It was living andbreathing; it felt and it knew. Whensomeone wrongs it, the sea willremember and it will detest them. It'llruin their fishing, and createdangerous waves to punish them andtake its anger out on them. But thesame applies the other way: whensomeone loves the sea, the sea willlove them in return. That means whenthat beloved person dies, if they areburied at sea, the sea will mourn withus. The waves will crash as we weep.The sky will blacken like our clothing."
You didn't look at me during your longrecount; not once. Your gaze wastrained on the sky. Were you happythen? Were you crying like me?
"Sure enough, just like clockwork, laterthat afternoon the sky turned dark and
a storm hit. Just like she'd said it would.So, she and I, we sat by the windowand we watched the angry waves insilence until my mother came to takeme home to our apartment.
“So that's what I want you to do for me,love, I want you to make sure that mybody's buried in the sea. That way I canbe here forever.”
I don't think I said anything to you afterthat. Not that I remember at least.Perhaps I did. Perhaps that's why Inever saw you again. Did you hate me?
I made sure that they did what you'dasked of me, though they fought metooth and claw all the way. Will you tellme why, now?
I came back to this place. That's howmuch I love you, dear. It's been years,so I suppose you could say I'm a littlelate. I tried to come earlier. I really did.But it seems that those around me thinkthat this isn't healthy. (What have theyever known?)
All of my time with you has becomemuddled. I've forgotten your eyes.Were your lips chapped? Did you havefreckles? I can't say.
I do know one thing though, my sweet.And I'm damn sure of it. The oceandidn't cry when you were laid to rest:the sky stayed that sunny blue, and thewaves were peaceful.
That means you're still out there then,love. Because if the ocean loved youlike I had, there would have been ahurricane.
So you're still out there. You have to be.There's simply no other explanation.
It's just like you, and I'm going to keepbelieving anything that'll one day bringyou back home to me.
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5
Hating YourselfEdu Parilla
Ever get the disturbing feeling?
The disturbing feeling that maybe – justmaybe – you weren't meant to be? Thatyou are just a mistake? For her, it is just adaily thought.
She knows she is lucky to have a home, abed, warm meals in the winter, coolrooms in the summer and an education,but it seems as though nobody wants her.Her parents never stop complaining aboutthe school fees and how much she coststhem when the bills come in. Her friends(or… well, they weren't real friends werethey, if she did not know what having afriend was?), they would all cold-shoulderher when they joined up with their otherclassmates.
Anything was better than her.
No boy stole glances at her across theroom, let alone talked to her.
It was just a merry-go-round of incessant
whispering behind hands: a parade ofmurmurs and poorly-disguised loathing.Death glares and awkward silences roselike black smoke whenever she tried totake part in a conversation. Nobody caredto hear her opinion, and she seemed toobreakable, as if a small breeze could blowher away, and so timid that sometimeseven teachers forgot her presence.
She sits down, but does not cry. She hidesher head in her hands, but does not cry.She pulls at her hair, but does not cry. Shethinks about all the nasty things peoplesay about her when she over-hears theirtittle-tattle conversations, but she stilldoes not cry.
Well, maybe just one tear; a small, shinybead which swells in the corner of her eyebefore spilling over the lid and runningslowly down her cheek. But nobodynotices her. Everyone else is having fun.
Ever get that disturbing feeling? That youare worthless? Desperation echoes inyour mind.
Zoe Zan n RivesGCSE work
óZoe Zan n RivesGCSE work
ó
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Only An Upward Step - Edu Parrilla
I stop.
There's a small drawing in this book. It shows a fewbooks stacked like stairs stooping just over the edgeof nothingness.
I smile a bitter, poisonous smile as I realise that it isprobably an apt metaphor for my life.
In the nursery, there is always another girl born.Once she learns to talk, she learns to flirt and sing.Once she learns to walk, she is taught to dance,and twirl lightly. I can still hear my unclereprimanding my grandmother over my poorknowledge of the musical arts.
All for just one reason: to get into the King's bed.
That is the constant fight at court: all the familieswrestling for dominance, all with an eye on thethrone, and hoping to put their girl in the arms ofHis Majesty. It is all for the riches, the titles, theoffices and honours to add to the name of thefamily. And maybe, if you are lucky, you are allowedto skip your classes because you are a child. PraiseGod if it be a boy, so you can have a royal bastard inthe family who can claim the throne.
The Queen is old, but she shall never retire. She isdetermined to have the King at her feet until shedies. I loved the Queen, and when I served as hermaid-in-waiting and she chose me as a favourite, Inever imagined I would have to betray her in theworst way possible.
The King would send for me almost every day, and Ibore him two children, strong and healthy,undoubtedly his. But he is a King. A King whoseinterest can wane as quickly as it comes.
When I observe the court now, I think us all fools.We twirl like clockwork cogs, the King's pleasureour priority. Every activity must be enhanced(tennis, jousting, boat races…) and made so thatour spoiled ruler gets whatever he sulks for andwhenever he wants it.
Uncle had me with the King, until his interest died.My first heartbreak, when I realised that thisgolden, lovely husband was just a fat, spoilt, man-child. Nobody looks at me with pride anymore. Iam just last year's mistress, nothing else. I mustendure the smirks, the whispers and the scandals,whether I like it or not.
I was just a step. An upwards step to further thefamily. There is probably a cousin of mine rightnow being pressured hard to catch the King's eyeand to play the same game of chess I too wasforced to play. The problem in chess is that thepower does not reside in the pieces, but in theinvisible forces which move them.
The King is a beast and it's our job to tame him.
I am just an upwards step, and I feel soinsignificant that any second now God might justpress me down with his thumb and erase me fromthis world.
I have been Queen, and yet I am nothing to myfamily. Since the moment I was born, I was alwaysjust a step up for them. And as they climbedtowards the light they never looked back, so I wasleft to watch the silhouette of their robes billowingout behind.
I was a step. All but a Queen, but just a step up.
Just another step.
Sofya AbramchukAS work
Sofya AbramchukAS work
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Sofia Webber
I feel like I've been out here forever, alone in
these woods. It's hard to keep track of time
these days, but my second month here is coming
to an end. The days are becoming colder,
shorter, and the air is crisp with the aura of an
impending winter. My faith is plummeting, along
with the temperatures, as I realize that I'm not
as strong as I thought I was. I am beginning to
dread the coming of each day. It's been hard to
fend for myself in these perilous woods. Some
days there is not enough game to make one fire-
cooked meal.
It all started with the day of the auction, my
sixteenth birthday. I was about to be sold to my
'soul mate', who I barely knew, and I dreaded it
more than anything. I came to the realization
that I would rather leave my pathetic excuse for
a family behind rather than give myself up to a
stranger so easily. And being the stubborn
teenager I was, and still am, I decided to run
away. In my fanciest clothes, I slipped from the
crowds and ran straight home to grab what I
needed: my pocket knife, my favourite hiking
boots, matches and thankfully, my warmest
jacket. Not much, but I could live with it. After
that, I set out into the wilderness.
The first days weren't easy, especially the food
aspect, but I was lucky to have recognized some
familiar blueberries and blackberries and I
blessed the Gods for my luck because if it hadn't
been early autumn I wouldn't have been so
fortunate.
Since then, I've survived by repeating the same
daily routine: wake up, hunt, eat, explore, eat
more and sleep. It's easier said than done. For
me, unlike the people living in my city, life is
anything but luxurious. I'm always looking out
for threats, enemies. But I can't say that I miss
my old life: the city I grew up in was once a
paradise but now its future is doomed. I was one
of the first to realize, which is one of the reasons
I ran away. How could they not see the looming
uprising? People like me do not like having their
freedom taken away. The men who ruled the
country were blinded by their money, just like
everyone else. But little did they know that the
objectified women were planning a revolution. I
heard about all of this from my mother and I
realized I needed to escape.
The snap of a fallen branch hurls me back into
reality and I hurriedly take cover behind a large
tree trunk. There are more snaps and my
heartbeat races in my chest. I peer around the
corner and my eyes widen: there stands a girl
who looks about nineteen years old. She has
long, dark hair and masked features, but the
biggest difference between us is our clothes.
She wears a sheer, expensive gown emblazoned
with gold and the way it drapes over her body
makes her seem almost unreal, like she’s a
figment of my imagination.
I blink repeatedly, squinting against the bright
golden glimmer of her dress, and I look into her
eyes. But they are absent. Dull. And somehow it
looks as though she's trying to capture the
moment, as if she can take photographs with
those large, vacant, grey orbs.
I wonder what she sees, and I am suddenly
conscious of my hair matted with grime, my
filthy clothes and the deep bags under my eyes.
I feel so bland, so dull and so neutral compared
to this privileged girl, a lot like me yet so
completely different. I feel an unanticipated
pang of jealousy, why can't I look like that? But
then, as I look at her posture, slouched with
defeat, I realize that the look in her eyes is
indeed one of envy. She wants to be like me.
Suddenly she lets out a high pitched squeal and
scurries away, and I realize that she must have
seen through my frightful appearance and
recognized the independence, the bravery, and
the strength in my eyes.
And with that, all my doubts evaporated. If
someone so acquainted with wealth and
fortune can see something they crave within
me, then I must be special. So maybe I can
survive this.
From that day on, I never doubted myself again.
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Alicia Civera
The pain in her eyes told the story of
nineteen years of suffering. The lost
teenager inside a woman's body with only
one aim: survival. A hidden child
desperate for life, fighting to live from one
meal to the next, desperate for sufficient
energy to hunt, to eat and to escape the
dangers all around her.
But under the grime of adulthood, still
lives the innocent small girl who hid
behind a tree in the lonely darkness of her
first night in the woods, afraid of the
shadows and the howls of unseen
animals. The orphan girl learned to
appreciate little details and how to hate
the world because no-one cares: caring is
just an illusion created by our
subconscious mind to hide us from our
deepest fears. Having the sense that
death is waiting for you at every turn, or
that vicious creatures are waiting to
pounce from behind every tree, keeps you
alert and wary.
She had become a child of the forest and
she had learned to survive on an hour of
sleep during the day, and an hour at night.
Her hands had not touched the hands of
another human being for more than
eleven years, but they had become
accustomed to killing and to being soaked
in the hot blood of her latest kill. And she
knew the feeling of her own blood
pouring out from her wounded flesh,
gushing out onto the ground, watched by
a beast which saw her as its next meal.
Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. There
was only one rule: survive.
Coralita ArnoldAS work
Coralita ArnoldAS work
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Pablo Rodilla
It always rained.
In those days ominous dark clouds
painted the sky with their pale, slate-grey
tones, and the world would cleanse itself
with the dark patterns of rain, lifeless
clouds roaring through the sky with
mighty thunder, turning the blackest of
blacks to hide the land below in a myriad
droplets of rain.
Before me stood a mighty cathedral, a
temple of gothic providence, a perfect
mixture of the ideal of divine guidance
and the cruel yet simple reality in which
man lives. The cheerful, detailed
sculptures of angels who seemed to
announce a new epoch of happiness, as
their faces were crafted with grace and
the warmest of smiles, suddenly gave way
to figures representing hardship and
victory through blood, sweat and tears:
the sacrifices a man and woman must
make to prosper.
But the most astonishing thing was the
precision and realism of some of the
sculptures, of men whose hardened faces
looked upon the future and saw nothing
but darkness. However, their faces did not
show despair, but the determination to
venture forth into the abyss to find the
light in a new dawn which they would
build with their own hands.
The cathedral itself was an immense
building, gargantuan in size and seemingly
endless, but that wasn't what bothered
me: it was the
, whose face was hidden beneath
petite frame of a young
woman who was crouched over a small
puddle at the entrance of the cathedral,
just in front of the white, polished marble
stairs
thick, black hair which was so long that it
reached all the way down her arms and
caressed the backs of her hands.
I knew who she was. And I knew that the
smile she once wore had been removed
and replaced by something terrible;
something so dark and malevolent that I
could not bring myself to look through the
immobile barrier of her hair.
She extended her arm, a small comb in
her right hand, black and broken, while
clutching her left hand to her chest
“This is all your fault,” she said, pointing
an accusing finger at me.
Her voice was sharp like a razor and it
slashed through the roaring rain and the
menacing lightning, and buried itself deep
into my soul; into the deepest corners of
my mind.
“If you had simply walked away in the first
place, if you had simply forgiven her, you
would not be here. And I would not be
tormenting you if you had just been able
to understand what that little girl could
do. What she was. Who she was. But now
it doesn't matter: your world lies in ruins,
your mind is shattered and your body is
battered and mauled, on the brink of the
abyss, on the brink of death.”
I stared silently into her eyes, listening to
every poisoned word.
“You can end this,” she continued. “All this
pain, all this suffering and agony, it could
all simply end, the same way you ended
her poor, innocent life. Murderer…”
It was then that I saw the chasm behind
me, a bottomless pit which offered an
escape: eternal oblivion.
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“No!” I exclaimed defiantly.
The little girl staggered back, surprised.
“This is how you work,” I roared. “You
bury yourself deep in the hearts of men
and women, you push them to do things
that they would never do of their own
accord, and you force them to blame
themselves for things which are not their
fault. I know you better than you think,
Despair. You search people's souls, trying
to break them so you may feast upon
their pain. But I am not to blame for her
death. You are. It was your fault. You
broke her!”
Confronted, her scheme laid bare, the
darkness surrounding her faded and
Despair ran, fleeing in sheer terror at the
prospect of Hope.
Alejandro Lis Del Cerro
GCSE work
10
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11
Alicia Civera
Lots of things can change in a year, like a woman's
life, which was changed over the course of a day
and was never the same.
She wasn't really an old woman, but of course, she
didn't have as much of her life in front of her as
she did before. She was fifty, half a century of
memories. Twenty two years ago that day she had
seen her wedding day, but she'd neglected to have
children, which was why she was alone now.
Her husband was rarely around. He often came
home drunk late at night, and there had been
plenty of occasions when she’d had to make
excuses for why he wasn't at work the next day.
She suspected that he spent his time with his
friends from the bar, but she could never be sure
because he refused to talk about it. But despite
the fact that they could hardly pay the mortgage
and they didn't have any close family they could
rely on, she never questioned him: she still loved
him and she never saw fault in anything he did.
Then one day her husband died. She spent her
days crying, mourning his loss, and a year later,
after she thought she had shed all the tears she
had within her, the police turned up at her door,
informing her that while they had been
investigating a murder, they had discovered that
her husband hadn't died of natural causes, but
that he too had been murdered.
She wondered if she might be next on the killer’s
list. But who would want to kill an old woman?
As old memories began to resurface, she
remembered the handsome young man she had
first met, and she remembered sitting on a bench
in the old park together, hand in hand with her
head on his shoulder. It was THEIR bench.
Little by little, as the investigation went on, the
woman began to realise that her husband wasn't
as perfect as she had first thought, and she
discovered there was evidence to suggest he had
even been cheating on her with other women.
She still went to the park, and with each passing
day the significance of the bench slipped from
her mind. But everywhere she looked she was
reminded of him.
Eventually she sold the house and moved to
another city in a desperate attempt to shake his
ghost from her life. The people in the new city
were friendly, but she didn't want anything to do
with them: they wanted to help her but she
wouldn't listen. And when the police finally
revealed the name of her husband's killer, she
became so angry that she forgot who she was.
She hunted the assassin for weeks and when she
finally tracked him down, she dragged him out
into the street and shot him between the eyes at
point blank range in broad daylight.
The woman was sentenced to thirty years in jail
for the cold-blooded murder, and she spent the
rest of her life in the madhouse. And it was there
she realised she had never been truly happy until
her husband had died. She took one last breath
and died smiling, alone.
Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work
Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work
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The New Girl
Vicente Rambla
She sat waiting on a small blue chair, her big
red back pack leaning against the chair leg.
Everything seemed strange to her. Nothing was
as before. Everything had changed. But for
good or for bad? She didn't know. She just sat
there, waiting for something to happen.
Five minutes later an old woman with white
hair entered the room.
“Welcome to your new school,” she said. “My
name is Mrs Smith and I am your head
teacher.”
The girl stood up and smiled.
“Where should I go?” she asked.
“Room 10,” answered the teacher.
The girl walked through the doorway and down
the corridor, checking the numbers on each
classroom door as she went, but she couldn't
find Room 10, so she headed downstairs and
found herself in a long corridor.
She continued to search and a man appeared.
“Excuse me sir, can you help me find Room 10,
please?”
Without a word, he pointed down the corridor.
The room was full of other children, all the
same age as her, so the girl found an empty
seat and sat down.
“Hi, my name is Sally,” said the girl sitting next
to her.
“Hi Sally. I'm Abbey,” replied the new girl with a
smile.
A woman came into the room and asked
everyone to sit down.
“Abbey, would you introduce yourself, please?”
A new life had started for a new Caxton College
student.
Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work
12
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Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work
Nieves Felipo LlopisAS work
13
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Arturo Aleixandre Lavara
“He is alive!” shouted Philip at the top of his
voice.
“Are you sure?”
“I swear to God he's still alive, Annie. I swear it.
He fought like a hero and he was injured, but
he's alive. One of the neighbour's slaves told
me. He was with him, fighting for us, fighting for
the south.”
A broad smile spread across Annie's young face
and Philip felt some relief as he continued
talking, because he knew that those words
helped Annie escape reality, her reality, the
tough reality that the south was being overrun,
that they were going to lose all that they had,
and all that they truly loved.
Philip's praise for Annie's brother felt good to
him. His words were soothing, in contrast to the
harshness of reality. They were something to
hang on to and they were very persuasive: Philip
made a good amount of money with his words,
selling garbage at inflated prices to rich people.
“He was alone with his squad, and he disposed
of twenty soldiers in seconds,” he continued.
Annie combed her hair as she listened. It was
dirty and tangled because working the night
shift at the hospital wasn't easy and it didn't
allow her much time to take care of her
appearance. She was heavily underpaid but she
needed the work to survive: in the end that's all
that mattered.
Annie winced as she made an attempt to comb
out the knots, but it was no use: too many days
without taking a shower, too much time
working and praying for her brother's life and
for her father's safe delivery to heaven. Her
father had been very important to her. No one
knew where his body lay and she assumed it had
probably been incinerated by the Yankees, but it
left a void within her: while other fathers were
being reunited with their families, hers was lost
forever.
Annie tried to forget, but it was difficult and it
took several weeks before she was able to get
any rest. Even then she was plagued by
insomnia, causing the bags under her eyes to
grow bigger and darker by the day.
Philip was aware of what Annie was going
through. He was her cousin and he cared about
her, so the desire to continue lying to her, to
keep telling her things to distract her when
everything seemed to be conspiring against her,
was very strong. He knew it was wrong of
course, but he locked the feeling away: her
smile made it right somehow. However, the
more he suppressed his guilt, the more difficult
it was for him to keep the secret hidden, until
one day he couldn't contain himself any longer
and the truth just spilled out.
“I'm… I'm… so sorry, Annie. I, I didn't mean to
hurt you, but I can't hide it any more…,”
Annie paled.
“Your brother is dead.”
Annie sank to the floor and let out a painful
howl of despair. With one hand she clawed at
her hair in desperation, and with her other she
snapped the comb in two. Philip stepped
forwards to console her, but she pushed him
away angrily.
“This…” she sobbed, hurling the broken pieces
at him, “this was the last thing my brother gave
me before going to war. It was precious to me
because it reminded me of him and because it
gave me hope. And you gave me hope too,
Philip. You told me he was alive. But you lied.
“My brother may be dead, but he is not as dead
as you are to me now...”
A cold silence filled the room.
14
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The City Of Werewolves
Jorge Sala
A bullet grazed my ear, another one hit
a random oak and the last one landed in
the chest of a swallow. My blonde hair
was frozen and the strands were stuck
to each other, covered by a shiny layer
of frost which helped me camouflage
myself in the wilderness. The woods
were silent, apart from the footsteps of
the predator, which were getting closer
and closer.
The fog that surrounded the forest
blinded me. It was already dawn, but
the moon still shone brightly, while the
layer of snow covering the ground
sparkled, reflecting the pale glow like a
mirror, and a gentle breeze stroked my
body. A wolf howled in the distance.
Suddenly the hunter appeared from
behind a tree, brandishing a gun.
“Move and I'll kill you!”
Startled, I started running desperately,
not knowing what to do or where to
hide, but just as I thought I was getting
away, I tripped over a tree root buried
in the snow and fell. In the distance I
could hear screaming and the angry
cries of the swallows, mourning the loss
of their brother, and when the hunter
appeared, I could see his face was a
mass of wounds from their ferocious
attack
“Swallows know how to take revenge.
That's the only thing we have in
common.”
“What do you want with me?” I
stammered nervously.
“You are a werewolf…” he said darkly,
drawing his gun. “Time to say
goodbye.”
Suddenly the world fell silent. No bird
calls, no wind in the trees, not even the
sound of my own breath. And then, as if
from nowhere, the wolves appeared;
slowly at first, one by one, then
gradually their numbers increased,
filling the void between the hunter and
me until I could no longer see him.
Time froze for a moment, but then,
without warning, the pack suddenly
attacked him, and he was gone. There
one moment, gone the next.
Fearing for my own safety, I backed
away carefully, but despite my fears, the
wolves didn't attack me as I expected
they would. Instead a dark tornado
surrounded the savage beasts, a burst
of light tore the brown oak leaves from
the trees, and a whirl of frost and fog
began to revolve around them,
gradually, one by one, turning the
wolves into men.
“Vi… Victoria?” said the leader in a
serious tone, “I've been looking for you
since I was a child. I need to talk to you
about your wolf abilities.”
“My what?” I replied. “I'm not who you
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think I am. I don't have wolf
abilities.”
“You don't know who you
are, Victoria,” he explained
calmly. “Your mother was
human, but your father was a
werewolf, and now that you
have out-grown your human
cage, it is time you discovered
who you really are inside. You
don't belong in the human
world anymore.
“That's why werewolf
hunters are chasing you: they
want to extract the magic
elixir that hides inside your
heart.”
We walked together as he
spoke, the moonlight guiding
us through the colourful
poppies and lush pines.
“Do you see that mill by the
river?” he asked, pointing to a
large white building in the
distance. “That will be your
new home.”
“So you're telling me I'm a
werewolf…” I said with a
smile. “Do vampires exist too?
And demons? Fairies? Elves?”
“Of course,” he replied. “All the
creatures that appear in fairytales or
books are true, but they live in many
different places. For example, vampires
usually hide in dark, damp alleyways in
cities around the globe, mainly in New
York. And fairies and wizards coexist in
the streets of London.”
We continued walking, until we reached
the mill.
“Welcome to the city of werewolves...”
Caterina Valenzuela FizedeanuGCSE work
16
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something was going to
change. Maybe for the
better or maybe for the
worse – I couldn't tell – but
I just had that feeling.
The day started ordinarily
enough, and just like any
other day, I walked to the
office, made myself a
coffee, and sat down at the
computer to check my
email. Most of it was spam
as usual, but there was one
from my boss, sent round
the entire office, which
said that there was a new
model joining the
magazine. There was a
photograph attached.
I opened it and stared at
the screen bleary-eyed,
reaching for my coffee. He
was handsome. Tall,
blonde, green eyes…
He looked kind of familiar...
Suddenly it clicked. It was him! I nearly
choked on my coffee.
Then, almost as if he had read my mind,
there he was, walking past my desk, and
to my horror, a nervous laugh welled up
inside me and I started giggling
uncontrollably. I was so embarrassed. It
was like a nightmare.
Thankfully, that was the moment Amber
chose to appear, just in the nick of time,
and noticing that something was wrong
with me, she introduced herself to him
while I calmed down. When she had gone
and I had regained control of myself, I
stood up and walked over to where he
was sitting.
“Hi! Do you remember me?”
Diary of a Crazy Girl
Bea Felipo
Dear diary, I am not writing this for
pleasure, but because my psychologist has
told me to. It’s an assignment. He says
that retelling my horrific story, even just
writing it down, could help me handle it
better in the future.
I decided to write it because saying it out
loud is still too hard for me at the
moment.
It's hard to know where to start…
It was a year ago last week and I was
celebrating my 21st birthday with some
friends at a club. It had been a long time
since we had all been out together
because, after high school had ended, we
grew further apart as jobs and university
and new social lives got in the way. But
that night we danced and drank and
laughed, and it was good to finally have
everyone back together again.
It must have been around midnight that
this guy came to talk to us. He was quite
tall, blondish, with green eyes and very
handsome, but just when we thought he
was going to leave to dance with his
friends, he suddenly took my hand and
dragged me to the dance floor, and we
danced together for almost an hour.
When I re-joined my friends, they were all
asking about him of course, but he was
the type of guy you dance with once and
then never expect to see again. At least
that's what I thought.
It had been a great birthday, but we went
home at three because I had to go to
work the next morning: at that time, I was
working as an assistant at a magazine. My
sister Amber worked there too. She's five
years older than me, but everyone says
she looks younger. Anyway, when I woke
up the next morning, I had a feeling that
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“Um, sorry I don't, should I?” he
answered.
“Oh, right, well… last night I went out for
my birthday,” I stuttered nervously, feeling
like an idiot, “and I was with my friends
and we went to this club… it was late…
and there was a group of guys… lots of
loud music… you and me?”
He started at me blankly.
“We danced for like an hour,” I continued,
flustered, “and I hadn't seen my friends
since we left high school so they were all
asking about you. Oh my god, this is so
embarrassing and I think I'm talking too
much so I'm going to stop now. Yes, I'm
definitely talking too much… time to stop.
Why can't I stop?”
“Oh yes! I remember you now!” he said,
to my relief. I was beginning to think I had
imagined it all.
“My name is Justin, do you work here?”
And just like that, we were having a
normal conversation: no more
awkwardness and no more spoiling things
by talking too much.
So what went wrong? Well, a week later
Justin and I were dating. And week after
that he moved in. He seemed to have no
faults: not only was he incredibly
handsome, but in his free time he even
taught children at the local orphanage to
read and write. And as if that wasn't
enough, he adored puppies and was the
perfect boyfriend too: every morning he
woke me up with a hot cup of coffee, he
planned romantic dinners together, and
every weekend he would bring me a
bouquet of the most beautiful flowers I
had ever seen.
The next eight months were pure bliss.
Yasmin MitchellGCSE work
Yasmin MitchellGCSE work
18
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I could not have been happier and
everything seemed perfect…
Until one day a friend of mine told me
that she had seen him with another girl. I
didn't believe her of course. Justin
wouldn't do that. Not MY Justin. So I
thought she was just jealous and that she
wanted to split us up. But the doubt
lingered in my mind, so I decided to ask
him directly.
The problem was, it was true, and when I
confronted him, he didn't even try to deny
it.
“Who is she?” I screamed.
“You don't want to know…”
But he told me anyway. And that was his
biggest mistake.
I am not normally an angry person. I am
calm, I keep my cool and I don't let my
emotions get the better of me. But I do
tend to bottle things up and sometimes
my negative feelings fester and grow deep
inside until I can't control them any more.
So after I kicked Justin out, I followed him
and he went to my sister's apartment. You
see, Amber was the one he had been two-
timing me with. I took the spare canister
of gasoline from the trunk of my car, let
myself in silently, and doused the
apartment. My memory is hazy after that,
but they charged me with double
homicide.
Since then I haven't cried. I haven’t been
able to. My psychologist says I don't want
to cry because I'm afraid of losing control
again. Maybe he's right. But then again,
maybe not... maybe it's really my hate for
Justin and for my sister which keeps me
from crying.
All I know is that, trapped here behind
these bars, the only thing which makes
me smile now is knowing how they died.
I Need You
Ana Araj
Once again I can't sleep. I am
drowning in my own tears. I remember
moments we spent together before
you left, the innocent glances which
grew into love, the smiles which
became hugs, and I remember how I
imagined an eternity of kisses that
now I know I will never taste.
Why did you leave me here so alone,
surrounded by so many memories?
Everywhere I look there are traces of
you: a simple book reminds me of all
the afternoons we spent “studying”
together, and the ghost of you lingers
in every classroom and every corridor.
I can't even sleep without waking in
the middle of the night, restless and
suffocating. You are everywhere and
nowhere at the same time.
No-one told me love would hurt so
much. Walking through school, I see
you everywhere, with your blue eyes
and your soft, chestnut hair, and I
remember how I used to love running
my fingers through your hair and
gently playing with your wispy beard in
the mornings.
Sometimes I feel you're still here,
watching me. I hear your voice, telling
me you love me, and sometimes I feel
you're so close I can even smell you…
but what good does it do me?
I need you here with me. I need your
hugs, your smiles, your beautiful eyes,
your words, your kisses… I need you.
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ink!INC.
ink!INC.
Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine
Caxton College Student Art& Creative Writing Magazine