write on! magazine special edition

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1Write On! MagazineSpecial Edition

Write On!

Magazine

Special Edition Autumn 2014

Sonora Hills Carys Owen

Alexandra Berry Zara Green

Kaleia Hills Gareth Roberts

Nyandavoh Foday Magnus Dixon

Featuring writing produced at Writing West Midlands’ Young Writers’ Summer School 2014 by:

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Write On! Magazine: Special Edition

Write On! Magazine is a publication of Writing West Midlands. We support creative writers and creative writing across the region. More information about us can be found on our website: www.writingwestmidlands.org This special edition features writing from some of the young people who took part in our Write On! Young Writers’ Summer School in August 2014. It is also available to read online at www.writeonmagazine.org. Editor: Joanne Penn Copyright of all pieces featured in this magazine remains with the contributors. Writing West Midlands - Company Registration Number: 6264124. We are a Charity - Registered Charity Number: 1147710.

Welcome to Write On! Magazine

The exciting thing about writing is that you never know where you are going to end up. You make plans, of course. You imagine that you can predict or anticipate. But when the writing itself takes over, all your plans go out of the window.

This year’s Young Writers’ Summer School was a glorious experiment in not knowing where we were going. Of course, at the outset, when we gathered in Writers’ Room at Warwick University -- thirty writers, give or take a few — we had careful plans of what we were going to do over the next few days. But once we got up and running, we found ourselves overwhelmed by the miraculousoutpouring of creative endeavour on the part of the participants of the Summer School. So we abandoned our plans and let things unfold according to their own strange logic. It was exhilarating.It was fascinating. And it was a little bit terrifying.

These were writers with quirky talents and quick wits, writers unafraid to play with words and ideas to create things both new and strange. It was an honour to work with them. And by the end of the week, I was overwhelmed by what is possible, if you put a bunch of talented young people together, give them pens and paper, make sure that they are well fed, and give them time and space to follow their own noses.

The poems, stories and snippets gathered here are just a sample of these writers’ work. Read them and remember their names. I very much suspect you’ll not have heard the last of them. Will Buckingham, Writer and Summer School Leader

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ContentsCastletown Beach

Carys Owen P. 4

The Test Sonora Hills

P. 5 - 6

The Dragon Alexandra Berry

P. 7

Education Needed Nyandavoh Foday

P. 8

Coventry Magnus Dixon

P. 9

Pressure and Perfection Zara Green

P. 10 - 12

Forgotten Kaleia Hills

P. 13

Song of the Body Gareth Roberts

P. 14

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Castletown BeachCarys Owen

The beach was still: not a soul to be seen in either direction. It was beautiful. The only noise that broke the silence was the sea lapping gently against the rocks and the occasional seagull’s call. The rock pools were full of sleepy sea-life who hid away under the bright green carpet of seaweed which covered much of the rock with its slippery strands. The rocks on the beach were dotted with small fossils of miniscule creatures from thousands of years before.

The place where the sea met the land was not a place of full, crashing, angry waves: it was a place which lulled you to sleep in the night with its soft, comforting tones. As the tide went further out, more and more of the beach revealed itself, showing large areas of smooth rock with more bursts of colourful seaweed lying about everywhere. On the horizon, the silhouette of a lighthouse stood tall and proud, ready to protect passing ships when, later in the day, the sun was once again replaced with moon and darkness fell on Castletown Beach.

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The TestSonora Hills

I watched him breathe.

His pupils were dilated and his cheeks flushed. His hands were gripping the table so hard that his knuckles were white. His lips were parted and his teeth shone in the half dawn.

His eyes were fixed on the candle between us.

His concentration was evident in every line of his form, his very being-- fragile and weakened-- grasping onto the idea of life.

The candle was the only thing that kept him sane. The only thing that kept his mind from falling apart, like a skyscraper in a hurricane or a boat at sea with the waves crashing against the groaning hull.

With each mental assault his pupils widened and his cheeks grew redder until sweat dripped freely down his face.

His shoulders began to quiver. I could feel the fear, the self-doubt, vibrating in the air around us.

In that instant I knew that he could take no more. The fact surprised me. He had seemed such a promising boy-- so ready for the test before him. But it’s always the promising ones that take the test before they’re ready.

I have never taken the test. Yet I have experienced it more times than I can count. Each of my pupils gets to a different place. The strength of their minds always surprises me. The weakness of mine scares me.

It is at this point that a question always comes to me: Am I the only one who is too scared to take the test? If that is true, then I have been justly punished for it-- I have to watch as each promising young soul fails.

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His fingers slid off the table as he flinched. The candle flame flickered and nearly went out. He had reached the end of his mental capacity.

I wanted to yell to him -- to tell him that he was so close to succeeding, but I couldn’t.

I had to watch in silence as the next surge of doubt hit him.

It was all over in a moment. His eyes flicked up from the candle to meet mine, a silent plea evident in them.

Then he was gone.

He had failed.


The DragonAlexandra Berry

Red scales the colour of rubies glistened in the fire light as the large creature more slowly around the damp dark cave. Its huge shadow flickered in the fire light as it sighed tempestuously.

Outside the cave the rain lashed down, and the wind wailed just out of reach in the pitch black night. The dragon’s tail swished as it listened closely to every sound as in the distance he could hear hurried footsteps approaching. One set were heavy like boulders smashing down on the rocky path while the other were light too light making their steps barely audible. The two pairs of footsteps moved nearer and nearer to where the dragon hid. Lifting his head up like a dog the dragon’s gaze moved slowly around to the cave entrance. The footsteps hesitated at the cave mouth as the cloaked figures glanced at each other before entering the lair. The figures’ shadows danced on the cave walls, conducted by the orange flames which the dragon had created in the centre of the cavernous room, earlier that day.

The dragon looked down at the wind swept, rain soaked travellers and stated rather condescendingly, “So you have arrived.”

The shivering figures glared up at the dragon but said nothing.

“Well I must say it is very nice to have guests, even if they are only temporary.”

The dragon flicked his green eyes between the cloaked humans whilst smiling a large cruel smile with sharp pointed teeth. It leapt without warning at the figures causing them to fall back against the sharp jagged wall.

As they fell their hoods slipped revealing their faces to the dragon, who recognised them instantly.


Education NeededNyandavoh FodayWhen a classroom talks,It’s like a babbling brook,And the indifference for the teacher’s effortsSounds bubbly, but slowly threatens to drown me -Because when I hear our disregard for educationI see the children of another nation,I see the 12 year old girlWho can’t be a doctor,Because her father and mother have already sold her off to another,So her future was taken from her.She weaves a net of dreamsBut there are too many holds to catch someone’s eyeShe doesn’t understand whyHer birthplace leaves her faced With the rough embrace of an older man she’s never metHer family can’t eat, yetAnd this exchange of girl for lifeIs a gift wrapped in paper of dead endsHer parents remind themselvesThat an unhappy daughter is better than a dead one.So they sign the contract,Draw the dotted line through their little girl’s dreamsWith an unavoidable certaintyThat left no breath in their lungs.So when I see that little girl,When I think of her familyAnd the people that surround me Are blatantly ignoring their educationAnd I see that other nationI feel a build-up of frustration-Then I let it go,I face the frontI sighI learnThey won’t.


CoventryMagnus Dixon

Chessboards of sparkling steel and glass vibrate in the thunders’ off-beat. The sky is iron and its beat is sparse, as rain drums down on steel pan streets—

Their chequered slabs fizzing with people; accents elope into spilling red brick sound. In Far Gosford Street and shadows of the steeple there are mosaics of notes and the music is loud.

Teal copper is shattered by the rain and resurrected by three fountains plumes. The skyline is graced by wind-stricken cranes— conducting the city’s ghost town tune.

In two tone basements songs slowly rise. Polished brass and steel strings echo in pylons and electric skies. And people dance in the song the city sings.


Pressure and PerfectionZara Green

Amy has dull grey eyes and boring blonde hair. She has horrible thighs which rub together at the top, her hips are too wide, her chest too flat and her stomach too fat. Her nose is large and sticks up slightly, as if resembling a pig, her shoulders are broad and could belong to a weight-lifting, steroid-consuming man. She is ugly. At least that’s what she tells herself; what she thinks when she sees her ugly reflection.

Every morning, Amy wakes up at half-six and she leaves the house after eight o’clock. She never eats breakfast or has a shower; they take up too much time.

Amy prefers to spend her mornings this way: first she wakes up and brushes her teeth, then lets her beauty regime begin. Amy spends nearly two hours every day on her hair and makeup, because she is not perfect, she never will be, but she has to be. She hides her imperfections, but her flaws flash across her eyes. A girl is an artist; allowing her skin to be her canvas, she paints her vivid fantasy. Mistakes as sharp as a blade.

Downstairs, the TV is on and news reports are buzzing through the house. Violence, violence, war, war. Issues too big for Amy’s little head. The violence she received was the violence she caused on herself. To end a war before your eyes or to end the war in your mind? Which would be more glorious? Amy seeks glory and universal love. She isn’t happy with the knowledge that she is loved alone. However, love is just love and is unmeasurable. The love one person has for another is just as precious as the love on may receive from thousands. In the end, violence is just violence from abuse to war; the loss of lives does not measure the tragedy, but the brokenness of an individual’s body, soul and mind.

Amy finds school dull. Every day she goes to the same buildings, sees the same bunch of teachers and is stuck with the same friends. Oh Amy’s friends, a heartless group of conceited girls always seeking a love they won’t receive.

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They sit under the same tree, by the fountain, the same place they sat on their first day of high school. They say it’s where “the cool kids sit”. They were some of the first friends Amy made, and the last.

They sit, talk, moan, complain, scrutinize, compare, cry, conceal, diet, exercise, scrutinize, cry, cut, starve, purge. Then they glare into a mirror, distorted by socially constructed ideas of beauty. Each friend believes they are alone in their nightmare, when they are all suffering.

All these girl want to be cared about and have people care and worry about their problems. Amy doesn’t support her friends when they need it most and her friends do not support her in her time of tragedy. The girls were shattered porcelain, attempting to build themselves into a desired form, abandoning the wounded soul and letting pretty little lies warp their minds. All afraid of the ugly truth.

At 4 o’clock the school bell rings, begging for a ceasefire, but the girls go home and the inexorable self-destruction continues.

Loneliness is Amy’s devil disguised as an angel. When she walks the front door of her house she goes through the gateway and enters her beautiful hell. In love with its darkness but scared of the freedom it offers, that is what loneliness feels like. Amy is drowning in it, but Amy chose loneliness.

Amy has a go at the homework, but her mind is too distracted, like always. So she decides to go for a run. She gets changed with her eyes closed for it’s the only way, if Amy manages to do this without a single tear rolling down her face, she considers this a win. Surely an act of cowardice cannot be counted as a victory. A true victory for Amy would be for her to look straight at her mirror and to be able to think I am beautiful. But if Amy did do this would it be a “better” victory if she could still think that even if she broke down all the walls she hid behind. For a sad person is made of glass, a shallow person is made of paper and a happy person is just themselves.

Now it is dinner, Amy’s mother loves to cook for her family. Amy’s younger sister Olivia is eight years old, she loves tasting new flavours of exotic foods. Amy’s father doesn’t usually eat dinner with them as he works late so tonight

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was a special occasion. For this special occasion Olivia and Amy’s Mom had cooked a traditional roast, they were both very proud of it especially young Olivia.

Her father loved the meal and so did the rest of Amy’s family. Everybody was helping themselves to second servings trying to savour the succulent taste. Amy told her family she loved the meal, they were pleased, for once their daughter ate a full plate of food. Amy excused herself from the table as her father said his final words to his daughter for the night:

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replied.

Then she went to the bathroom and threw up because she is not perfect, never will be, but she has to be.


ForgottenKaleia Hills

I stay awake and wait for you like a dog outside your door on the mat— waiting to be let in, like a cat scratching at the door. But I am not a dog or a cat; I am your abandoned, little girl.

My deep blue eyes look through the keyhole. I have rung the doorbell five times.

My soggy teddy bear slumps in my red wagon as I watch the lights go out in the living room. I am a bold five-year-old. My nanny taught me not to cry, even if things got to the worst.

It was drizzling. My jumper, one-size too big, hangs down over my left shoulder. My kite lay on the ground next to me. My animals were going to get ruined.

I picked up my kite and pulled my wagon to my parents’ bedroom window. It was closed. I could still see them, awake. It made me angry. I wanted to break the window, but I didn’t. I stood there and watched.

I pulled my wagon back through the gravel. I left my kite by the window. I left it there in case my parents looked out the window, they would know I was out there. Then they would come and take me inside.

I rang the bell one last time. No one noticed except for Emmi, the cat. She scratched at the door to be let out. I walked away with a pang in my stomach. How could they forget? I was too big to be forgotten. My mother could forget her keys, but she couldn’t forget her only daughter.

I rubbed my eyes. I was tired. I pulled my wagon under a tree. I chucked my doll and clown out onto the wet grass. I left my dogs and my big teddy in. I snuggled up with them.

It would be hard to go to sleep in the rain, but I was going to try.


Song of the BodyGareth Roberts

The blood sings beneath my skin.Burning hot as fire, it pulsesThrough my veins in red ribbons.The song it sings is of my body,Of heat and of breath, of life And of lust, of thinking and of Speaking. And by the sound of itsSinging, I know that I still live.


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