The Russian Revolution (Y4)

By Virat Rane 

In 1914 there were two major European alliances: the triple Entente consisting the Russian, French, British empires and Italy and the Central Powers consisting of Austria Hungary, Germany and the Ottoman empires. This was a period of great unrest in Europe with all the big powers at each other’s necks.

During this period the Austro Hungarian archduke (heir to the throne) and his wife were assassinated while on a Serbian expedition, by Gavrilo Princip, a young member of a rebel group called the black hand. To avenge the death of the prince, the enraged King ordered an attack on Serbia. This set off a chain of events, with the dominant Russia, a Serbian ally, declaring war on Austria-Hungary. This led to the conflict quickly escalating and resulted in both the Central Powers and the Triple Entente entering the war to support their respective allies.

The growing war led to hardships for people around Europe. The Russians especially were unhappy as they were forced to join the army by the Tsar (king) and all of their resources like food and money were redirected into the war leaving the people to suffer… a lot! When people suffer it leads to uprisings!

This led to a rebellion which started small but slowly gathered force.

Germany wanted to take advantage of this rebellion and they knew just the guy…. his name was Vladimir Lenin… he was a Russian communist who was exiled to Switzerland. The Germans sent Lenin to Petrograd by train, after which he went to the Russian capital St. Petersburg. He was expected to start a revolution and start a revolution he did!

An opportunistic Lenin exploited the uprisings against the tsar and successfully took down the monarchy, establishing the USSR. Eventually the soviet union exited the war.

My First ever  Goal

Hector Fafra

I’m nine-years old. I come from Belgium. It is a very nice country with a pretty good football team. One of the best foods to eat are really good chocolate and waffles, I came here with my parents while the rest of my family sadly stayed in Belgium. Now I speak English and French.

I’ve played sports all my life. Some of my favourite sports for now are ice hockey and swimming, but my really loved sport is football.

That is why I now play for the Bay Olympic U9 A-team. My fabulously fantastic team’s name is “the Phoenix”. I did the try outs a few months ago, and to my surprise, I was in! My coach, Jacob, thinks I’m a really talented defender. Despite this, I would also like to score goals and celebrate with my team, like my favourite striker, one of the best Argentinean players, Paulo Dybala.

This is how my first goal happened…

It was a Saturday morning in July. As usual my coach placed me in defence.

We were versus the cheeseburgers. The start of the Game was silent.

The cheeseburgers wore a red and black jersey, they looked tougher and stronger.

At the 49th minute, I decided to come up for the corner. It felt like it was my time to shine. The sun was hot. Bowen kicked the corner, the defender hit the ball to me. I controlled it with my chest, so that it landed perfectly at my feet.  I launched my feet backwards, I shot, it set the net on fire: goal! I scored; my team jumped on me. It was full time and we won.

I felt like my favourite football player Paulo Dybala: a super star. My team was happy after the game, I was proud of myself.

The Decision 

by Stella Santos

Decades have passed since someone climbed out of the abyss. It’s been said that the outside world is safe now. The evil spirits no longer torture the people and drive them to hide in the abyss.

But the journey to the top is full of risk. There are challenges to encounter. Many have passed away trying to reach the top of the ancient volcano. Few people dare to try because of possibly dying of exhaustion or dangerous obstacles the evil spirits put in place so that no one would be able to get out.

The day came when a descendant of the last successful climber decided to lead her people to the top. Kina’s blonde hair, brown eyes, and tan skin make her look like her great grandfather Athens. Much like him, she trained well for the journey. And she has also prepared her people for this mission.

She divided them into groups made of Warriors who defend the weaker ones, Supporters who healed the wounded and the Defended who are the youngest and most vulnerable.

Kina packed her bag with supplies for the climb and checked that everyone else was ready. She prayed that they would be safe and that everyone would make it to the top. They hope for a better life out of the abyss and that the evil spirits never terrorise them again.

“My people, the evil spirits have been sealed away by God. It is time to leave the abyss. The obstacles ahead are many but we prepared for them. Take courage and follow my instructions for I am the descendant of the last successful climber. Move forward to change your lives!”

Then they started and never looked back.

A Farm Dog’s Morning (Y5-6)

by Natalie Keen

It’s 5:00 a.m. guys, hurry up and get out of the house. I can’t hear you…. Oh wait, there you are. I can hear you! All right, I’ll wait here on the mat for you to turn up.  Okay, you put your overalls on then I’ll wait at the garage door. Oh good, the bike’s starting…. it’s time to go!

Off down the race we go to find the cows, I’ll round them up, you stay at the gate. Walking to the shed now, I’ll just follow them quietly to make sure that they don’t turn around. Okay, you shut the main yard gate and I’ll stay here just in case….. this one’s giving me a funny look. Mooooo!

6:00 am now and I’ve got a bit bored and started eating some afterbirth. I like to bury snacks around the paddock here. I’ll take a quick swim in the trough and you tell me when you need me.  As soon as that backing gate starts going, I’m going to bite at the water and have a quick drink.

Now that milking is finished we’re off down the race. We’ll lock in the cows and make sure everybody is alright. Another quick swim in the trough for me and then off home.  I don’t know what you’re doing inside but I like to sit on the deck and watch you and just wait for you to come back out!

7.30am … .Oh good your back! Is it time to feed the calves? Don’t worry if you spill any milk, I’ll be sure to clean that up for you pronto! Ok, now down the farm we go to feed the calves.

Oh look, a duck! I’ll get the duck, there is a duck! I love duck!  Sorry I got distracted. I’m back now and we’re checking the dry cows…. are there any calves? I’ll eat the afterbirth.  Oh you have to pull one out, okay. I’ll sit here quietly and watch. What’s taking so long? It’s getting a bit boring ….I’m gonna find a rabbit!

Oh, you’re back inside again! Okay, I’ll sit on the deck here and stare at you the whole time. What’s that cup in your hand? Have you finished it? Can we go? Can we go now ? Is it milking time? I love milking time!

Secrets of the Mysterious Door

by Ethan Xichen Wo

A pleasant breeze rolled across the meadow. Far away, a gnome called Pickles was talking to another gnome. “I guess that nobody is ever going to open the door!” he told the other gnome. They were conversing about the mysterious door in the town that frightened everyone. Even talking about the door would send a shiver down every gnome’s spine. On that same fateful day, One gnome was born that would change everything.

Winky was an intelligent gnome. He was top in all his studies and this year he was around five years old-gnomes normally lived around twenty years. Nobody knew that he would be the one that will open the mysterious door. Winky was playing with his friends Dobby and Slouchy. They were playing on a field while a warm wind blew. Winky’s mind filled with thoughts. Every year Winky’s town would hold a contest on who could open the ancient and magical door. This was because however hard they tried, nobody could open the door. Some had moved the door an inch, but the worst couldn’t even get close to the door. They were pushed away by a unknown force around the door. Winky was thinking about how his parents would be mad at him if he couldn’t even touch the door. Suddenly, lightning crashed and thunder boomed. They all made a beeline for Winky’s house. They were drenched and the second they got inside, they ran to the fireplace where a warm, steady fire was blazing. “Geez, that was crazy!” said Slouchy, “Yeah, lucky your house is so close” exclaimed Dobby. Winky wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the destruction left by the storm. Winky could not bring himself to say it, he was afraid his friends would turn and laugh. Finally, he asked his friends, “Look at the destruction the storm left behind! Could it be possible that is could be c-c-cursed?” Luckily, his friends didn’t mock him, nor did they laugh. They just looked at him with scared eyes. “Maybe there could be a thing with magical powers angry that was trapped inside the door and was angry?”

Dobby guessed.

Where Things Appear

by Toby Hunter

“Mum, I can’t find my basketball!”

“It will appear.”

Our story begins with an eleven year old boy named Jamie who lives in a monotonous concrete city where nothing exhilarating ever occurred; so when he found out that he had a school trip to the local rubbish centre he was not too excited. He begged his parents to let him stay at home, but they wouldn’t listen.

Later that night Jamie was reading his favourite fantasy book called the Land of Stories when his mum came in through the door.

“Hey honey.” She said, “Why don’t you want to go?” But no answer came from the forlorn boy. Jamie’s mum turned to the door but just before she left she looked at him and said, “It’s more than just a dump, it’s where things appear…”

The day had finally come, Jamie was going to the rubbish centre. He had given up asking when all his parents would say is “It’s not just a dump.” And “It’s where things appear.”

Let’s go back about three days when Jamie had started noticing that things around his room were disappearing.

On Monday he couldn’t find his basketball, on Tuesday he lost his skateboard, Wednesday was his orange handball. He lost all sorts of other things too!

After a long day at school Jamie trudged up the stairs to his bedroom and plonked himself down on his bed, only to find that it was gone and fell straight onto the floor! PLONK! OWWW! He screamed.

The trip to the rubbish centre was unfathomably long and the most exciting thing he saw was a goat stuck up a tree. When they arrived class 12b met their tour guide called Jonathan who looked like a decomposing frog who never got a day off work! “What numbers can we recycle?” croaked Jonathan. “One, two and five.” came a robotic chorus from the children. While the tour guide was showing the kids the glass recycling centre, Jamie saw a giant pile of rubbish with his basketball and skateboard sitting on top, he was amazed. He called out to see if any one was there, but no reply came.

When he arrived at home Jamie’s mum asked him how his day at the dump was. But all he said was, “It’s not a dump, it’s where things appear.”

Secrets Of The Mysterious Door

by Ethan Xichen Wo

A pleasant breeze rolled across the meadow. Far away, a gnome called Pickles was talking to another gnome. “I guess that nobody is ever going to open the door!” he told the other gnome. They were conversing about the mysterious door in the town that frightened everyone.

Even talking about the door would send a shiver down every gnome’s spine.

On that same fateful day, one gnome was born that would change everything.

Winky was an intelligent gnome. He was top in all his studies and this year he was around five years old normally gnomes lived around twenty years. Nobody knew that he would be the one that will open that will open the mysterious door.

Winky was playing with his friends Dobby and Slouchy. They were playing on a field while a warm wind blew. Winky’s mind filled with thoughts. Every year Winky’s town would hold a contest on who could open the ancient and magical door. This was because however they tried, nobody could open the door. Some had moved the door an inch, but the worst couldn’t even get close to the door. They were pushed away by an unknown force around the door. Winky was thinking about how his parents would be made at him if he couldn’t even touch the door. Suddenly lightning crashed and thunder boomed. They all made a beeline for Winky’s house. They were drenched and the second they got inside, they ran to the fireplace where a warm, steady fire was blazing.

“Geez, that was crazy !” said Slouchy, “Yeah lucky your house is so close,” exclaimed Dobby. Winky wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the destruction left by the storm. Winky could not bring himself to say it, he was afraid his friends would turn and laugh. Finally, he asked his friends, “Look at the destruction the storm left behind! Could it be possible that this is c-c-cursed?”

Luckily, his friends didn’t mock him, nor did they laugh.

They just looked at him with scared eyes. Maybe there could be a thing with magical powers that was  trapped inside the door and was angry,” Dobby guessed.

Speechless

by Amelia Berridge

“Alright class, settle down, I have an announcement!” I heard my enthusiastic teacher shout. I swiftly sat at my desk. “The Rising Stars Speech Contest is taking place in 2 weeks and I would like to give anyone the opportunity to enter!” My heart stopped. Just the thought of public speaking sends shivers down my spine. “Please let me know by the end of lunch.” She continued. My best friend, Ella leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Perfect opportunity, you could finally face your fear!” “What are you crazy! No!” I snapped back. “Okay but how about you think about it until lunch.” Ella suggested. “Oh fine, but only because you’re my best friend.” I said, rolling my eyes.

For the next few classes I could hardly concentrate, butterflies were doing loops in my stomach. I was just so nervous even thinking about it. But deep down I knew Ella was right. If I didn’t face my fear now, when would I? “Okay I’m doing it.” I whispered to myself tentatively. The lunch bell rang, I darted towards my classroom where I found Ms McCoy sipping on her tea. “Mrs McCoy, can I please sign up to the speech contest?” I asked politely. “Sure, I’ll sign you up now!” She approved. The rest of the day I was feeling a mixture of elated and absolutely petrified.

That afternoon, when I got home from school, I sunk back into my soft duvet and started thinking, “Oh my god what have I done! I actually can’t do this, I can’t do this!” I covered my dry hands over my eyes and sighed, “I really need hand cream.”

After many stressful days and sleepless nights the day came – “Doom Day”. Needing a confidence boost, I got dressed in my favourite outfit. My parents drove me and sat in the front row, with Ella. I looked at the list, I was fourth-to-last, my head started spinning.The girl in front of me started her speech, I began to sweat and my hands started shaking.

I was so caught up in my nerves I didn’t hear a word she said. But the audience clapping knocked me back to reality. “Very nice Vanessa, next up is Harlow Smith.” The man said. A wave of confidence crashed over me. I took a deep breath and took my first step onto the stage, “I can do this.”

Procrastination (Y7-8)

by Fleur Dayman

Alice stared at the empty doc, the light from the chromebook filling the dim room. As 1am rolled closer, all Alice had was a jumble of notes, her head filled with different ideas. The doc mocking her with each passing minute. Alice slowly closed the chromebook, “I’ll do it tomorrow” she told herself.

The light creeping through the curtains woke Alice.

“Last day to finish the story” she thought, forcing herself to get up. Her Dad was ready for work while her Mum worked from home. I’m so behind she thought, why did I sign up for this, might as well be sick tomorrow. The words hung in the back of her mind as she placed the chromebook on the arm of the couch. She slumped further into the couch rubbing her eyes from the restless night she had. Alice had promised herself she would finish the story before the end of the holidays. Yet here she was on the last day, still grappling with the opening lines. Alice turned to the window staring outside searching for ideas when out of the corner of her eye she noticed a short grey haired figure fiddling with the neighbour’s gate. Did she need help? What’s she doing? She made her way off the couch and towards the side door, “creak’ the door opened letting a gust of wind into the house.

Alice walked towards where the lady was standing. “Hello” she exclaimed “Do you need help?” The old lady’s head turned swiftly to focus on Alice with a look of shock in her eyes. Her expression became calmer as she spoke ‘Oh, I’m just trying to figure out this lock. My son lives here and asked me to feed their cat while they are away. Could you lend me a hand by any chance?” she flashed a small smile as she waited for Alice to answer, “of course!” Alice replied, stepping out of her backyard to get closer to the gate. Alice reached her arm over the small gate and felt the lock. It was the same bolt lock Alice has for her gate, ‘clink’, she opened the gate for the old lady to pass through. “Oh thank you, I’m not very good with these kinds of things” the lady said. Alice shyly spoke a quick goodbye before she headed into the yard, giving her a small wave. Alice walked back into her house. 

She spotted her Mum sitting at the table. “Hey Mum, when did the next door neighbour get a cat?” she asked, now sitting across from her mother. “Sweetheart, they don’t have a cat,” her Mum replied, glancing up from her laptop with a puzzled expression. Later that evening, Alice’s unease grew as she recalled the old lady’s suspicious behaviour. She hesitated but decided to ask her Mum to dial the police, reporting her concerns about the neighbour’s gate incident. She then retreated to her room, her mind racing with possibilities for her unfinished story. As sirens echoed outside, Alice peered through her window, watching officers on the scene. Her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and intrigue as the old lady was apprehended.

Unable to sleep, Alice poured her emotions into her writing. She crafted a tale of a young writer unwittingly stumbling upon a neighbourhood crime while grappling with her own creative block. By dawn, as the police departed and calm returned to the neighbourhood, Alice had not only completed her story but also found purpose in her writing. Drawing inspiration from the unexpected events that unfolded before her.

George and Jerome

By Elyse Hale

The giraffe stood there, trembling… aware of the danger behind him. A lion crawled like a sneaky spider, prepared to pounce.

He firmly planted his feet, and….!

“Carlos! Haven’t seen you in ages, man!” The giraffe spun around to greet the lion.

“Yeah, the new enclosure is on the other side of the zoo!”

“You better go back to the other lions, I see your zookeeper coming this way. Nice seeing you!”

As Carlos lingered off, the giraffe hummed happily to himself.

The giraffe’s name was Jerome. Jerome was light-hearted, and always saw the good in things.

Jerome strutted over to the enclosure next to his.

“Georgie! You’ll never guess who I just caught up with!”

A groan traveled from a stone cave. A huge gorilla walked out on all fours.

“I heard the whole thing,” Georgie said with a grump.

“It’ll be a busy day today.”

“No. Please tell me it’s not-“

“Field trip day! I love field trip day!”

“Nothing ever goes well on field trip day.”

“Who knows? Maybe today you’ll have a change of heart!”

The grouchy gorilla slowly wandered back into his cave. He hated humans. So annoying, so loud, so needy. Especially little children.

Later that morning, the class arrived at the zoo. They sped through all the enclosures but one. Georgie’s. The zookeeper called out to him, “Georgie! Come out for the children!” The reluctant gorilla stayed put, peeking out between cracks in the rocks.

“Come on Georgie, the kids want to see you!” Jerome tried to encourage him.

“No. I’m staying put right-” He paused to watch a peculiar little girl running away from the class.

Georgie got up, but bumped his head on the ceiling!

Groan…

There was a bump on his head. Still, he ran out of his cave to look for the girl.

The zookeeper turned towards the crowd. “And here we have our only gorilla. A big one, isn’t he.” One of the students pointed behind him. He turned around to find an open door and no gorilla to be found!

“Look!” A teacher pointed to Georgie sprinting on all fours across the zoo.

“Wait! S-Stop! Georgie!” Jerome yelled frantically. He knew the lazy gorilla wouldn’t escape for nothing. Without thought, he kicked down his enclosure gate and galloped (as well as he could!) after him.

Georgie spotted the little girl in front of the lion enclosure. He had hoped she wasn’t there. The lions always had quite an appetite. “Stop!” He called out.

“Hi, gorilla.” She spoke softly. Her name was Isabella. She smiled but Georgie could still see the fear in her big brown eyes.

Isabella had bulky keys in her hand.

Georgie slowly walked up to her, but each step he took she got closer to the lion’s door.

She inserted the keys into the keyhole and turned the key slowly.

“Isabella, stop!” Georgie called, but had no luck communicating.

They stared at each other, neither one moving.

Suddenly, Isabella opened the door to the lion’s enclosure! Right behind the door stood Carlos the lion, looking very hungry.

“Carlos, no!” the gorilla told him.

“Why do you care, you hate children!” Carlos replied.

The lion firmly planted his feet, and…!

Jerome came from behind, and quickly slammed the door!

“Come on! We have to get back!”

Jerome looked at Georgie with a ‘know-it-all’ smug.

“What?” said Georgie.

“Maybe hearts CAN change.”

The grouchy gorilla rolled his eyes; secretly, deep down, he knew Jerome was right.

The Final Goodbye

by Eva McLean

Under the harsh glare of blinding artificial lights, she lay like a fragile shell in the hospital bed. This couldn’t be Gigi, could it?

My brain acknowledged that I was looking at the same person who knew everything about me and who would ask endless questions, but how could this be her?  This was only a shadow of the Gigi I knew, no sign of youth or the meaningful life she had led. Where was her spirit? The force that could fill a room as if it was an actual being. Or her laugh? I would never get to hear that laugh again, the one that I loved because it was contagious, one that brought a smile to my face as well.

I observed in silence as her bony, wrinkled hands raised to her chapped lips, brushing against their surface. It was clear to us that although she was in the final hours of her long 90 years, her mind was still telling her to fix her lippy. Gigi was famous for wearing lipstick, even at 90. She would not be impressed if she was aware of the fact that nobody had fixed her hair, as it now curtained her chin in thin, wispy strands. Oh dear, she would hate that plain blue gown that she had been put in. Looking gorgeous and dolled up was her top priority – what’s a life without fashionable clothing and glamorous makeup?

Her hands collapsed to her side, and I snapped back to reality. This life that was once full of exuberance and special memories was now coming to its inevitable end, no good things last forever. Every breath she took came in ragged, desperate gasps, as if when she opened her mouth, she was met with a face full of raging wind.  A gut-wrenching pain seemed to be nibbling at my beating heart, an evident reminder that this was my final goodbye. This was the last time I would see my Gigi, who had always been full of life, her personality so vibrant and one-of-a-kind. My eyes fell upon a sign perched above her head that read ‘get well soon’. Why would the doctors write that? The solemn atmosphere in the room alone told me she wasn’t getting better.

Mum signalled it was time to leave and I didn’t know what to do. Although I knew we were leaving, my mind could not comprehend that this was the very last time I would see Gigi, even if I knew she was already far away from here. I hoped that she was reuniting with her Kenny, my great grandad.

Each footstep down the hospital’s antiseptic scented hallway was a step further from Gigi as we went our separate ways. Stepping outside, the bitter, cold air biting at my face both overwhelmed and relieved me. My eyes drifted towards the sky, which was painted with breathtaking colours that blended together to make something that resembled a painting on a canvas. Gigi would never again see the sky like I was now, never watch the sun set behind the rolling hills. As much as it hurt, I knew Gigi wouldn’t want me to spend my time crying. No, she wouldn’t want me to make a fuss. She would want me to go and watch hundreds and hundreds of more colourful skies. So that’s exactly what I would do. I would do it for my Gigi.

The Blood-Curdling Forest

by Monu’ia Tonga

The blood-curdling forest, so very elegant during the daytime, but petrifying at night. No one ever dares to step foot onto the bitterly cold bark, for they do not know what kinds of creatures are lurking around, waiting to attack their prey.

Chloe, with her red cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, stared at the forest with curiosity. The trees, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, seemed almost to beckon her closer. She had heard the stories, whispers of shadows and curses, of creatures. They turned the night into a living nightmare. Yet here she was, driven by a need she barely understood.

A sharp wind cut through the trees, rustling their leaves and sending a shiver down Chloe’s spine. She had grown up in a village that bordered the forest, and while she had always respected the boundary, tonight was different. She was seeking her brother, Evan, who had ventured into the forest weeks ago and had not returned. With every passing day, hope had faded, but Chloe refused to believe the forest had claimed him without a fight.

Chloe took a deep breath, steeling herself as she stepped onto the cold bark of the forest floor. Each step seemed to echo with a hollow thud, and the darkness enveloped her like a living entity. Her heart pounded in her chest as the last traces of daylight faded, replaced by a gloom that seemed to breathe alongside her.

The forest’s silence was almost worse than the darkness. It was a thick, heavy silence that seemed to press against her ears, amplifying her every footfall and the rapid beat of her heart. Chloe strained her eyes, trying to pierce through the blackness. Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught her attention. She froze, holding her breath. The movement was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but Chloe’s instincts told her she was not alone.

A soft rustle came from behind a cluster of trees, followed by a faint, eerie whisper. Chloe’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of her dagger, its cold steel a small comfort in the vast unknown. She moved cautiously towards the sound, her every sense alert. The forest seemed to pulse around her, the ancient trees whispering secrets she could not understand. As she ventured deeper, she noticed strange markings on the trees—runes that seemed to glow faintly with an otherworldly light. Chloe knelt to examine them, her fingers tracing the symbols. They were unfamiliar, their meanings lost in time, but they radiated a sense of urgency and warning.

Suddenly, a figure merged from the shadows. Chloe’s breath caught in her throat as she saw a woman, cloaked in a gown that shimmered like moonlight. The woman’s eyes were pools of deep, dark sorrow.

“You seek what has been lost,” the woman’s voice was a soft murmur, filled with melancholy. “But beware, for the forest is a labyrinth of despair, and its heart holds secrets that are not meant to be uncovered.”

Chloe’s resolve hardened. “I will not leave without my brother. Tell me what I must do.”

The woman’s gaze softened with a hint of pity. “The path you seek lies beyond the Veil of Shadows. Follow the river of moonlight and trust in your heart, for it will guide you through the darkness.”

With those cryptic words, the woman vanished, leaving Chloe alone once more. Chloe straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. She had a direction now—a glimmer of hope in the endless night. As she moved towards the river of moonlight, she felt a renewed sense of determination. The forest was indeed a realm of nightmares, but she was driven by love and courage, and no darkness could extinguish that light.

American Childhood (Y9-10)

by Sarah Hyatt

I was born suckling war’s leftovers, cradled by the dead, and rocked by the bombs. When the ground shook, Baba would shoot up, sweat and dirt a uniform to us all, he would run to the rubble, pulling out the dead children, amputating others with rusted supplies.

At night, when we tossed and turned at the sound of gunshots, Ummi would whisper in my ear about a home in America. Clean, safe. A land where I could study whatever I wanted Of course, she never got to live her American dream. Few ever do.

My Baba and I left a week after my 18th birthday, smuggled out on a small raft carrying at least another 20 people. A mother had shoved her baby into my arms as she wailed. A young boy curled into my shoulder, and together we all crossed the icy sea.

I remember thinking of when, if this forsaken raft didn’t sink, my children would ask me about my childhood, and I will tell them about their uncle who lived until seven, their grandmother who passed only years later, about the days that felt like months.

It was a long journey, after the raft, we crossed Turkey, Spain, and eventually months later we reached the land of the free.

I am a refugee, is what I told people.

They never believed me.

Them, with their American childhoods.

It took me years to let go of my accent, though it was still there if you listened closely. Baba worked two jobs, and I worked part time while trying to get a degree at some community college.

Meanwhile, Baba hated America. hated how the only gifts he could send back home were the bombs he paid with his taxes. He never told me, of course, but late at night, through our thin walls, I heard him talk to God.  He would ask for a miracle, for years after we settle he begs, pleads, and then just as dawn streaks the night sky, paints it into blues and reds, and oranges, he leaves with his long scruffy beard, and old worn shoes he brought with him from Syria.

Syria was still in his blood. The war lived in him, and I could hear them whisper in his ears. They tell him that Syria hates him for betraying his own blood, his own country. For leaving the land where his wife’s blood bleeds, where his martyred son lies. He hates it in America, and he tells this to God too as he begs and begs for the burden he carries to lighten.

And then one day, his miracle came.

I met a guy, I told him. He loves me.

Baba smiled fondly.

In Syria, he used to talk about what my wedding would be like. He would sit next to me, teasing me as I giggled at the thought of marriage, and I would tell him that I just wanted a pretty dress.

He begged God that night, too, that my marriage is good, and happy, and that he lives long enough to meet his grandchildren, and he begs for a free Syria, and for a heaven with lemon trees.

Two weeks before my wedding, Baba came into my room for the first time since we first moved here when I was 18. I opened the fold of my blanket, and tried to make enough room for him, though he was hanging off half the bed. He looked happy, and just that realisation made the night better.

That night, he didn’t cry to God about our future.

The next day his funeral took place. The entire mosque was full, people who we never once spoke to cried for the man they never knew.

I knew that his heaven was a free Syria, with my younger brother running laps around him, forever seven, his wife’s head in his lap. I so desperately wanted to see this land with him, but I also craved a life before heaven, so I married a few days later. Signed the contract, and then we left the mosque immediately after. He moved my few possessions into his apartment, and life continued on as normal.

Years pass, and soon I become a mother. My children never learn Arabic fluently. Maybe a day will come and I will have to whisper in their ears what my Ummi did in mine, but this time about a land called Syria. I wonder if I will ever have to teach them about the woman I was. I wonder if I will teach them of their grandfather who they never knew, yet he always spoke of them. Of their uncles, who they’ve outgrown in life. Of their land, whom they will never know.

I am a Syrian refugee, I tell them.

But they  refuse to believe me.

Them, with their American childhoods.

I didn’t Mean to Kill him

by Poppy Reynolds

Friends, Tyler, Asher, April, and Sam, venture to a construction site to kill time.

The site is completely deserted due to a pause in the construction, allowing the group to fool around freely on the unoperated equipment and machinery left there. Tyler suggests that they should challenge each other, completing dares that get increasingly riskier to see who can finish the most.

As the dares become more dangerous, the four continue to pull off one after the other. Tyler’s turn comes around once again and he has the perfect dare in mind. “Asher, I dare you to climb to the top of that crane. It’ll make an awesome photo.”

Asher looks up at the tall crane as he levels it out in his mind. “I can do that, no problem,” he replies with a cocky expression. The two guys are totally confident, while the girls are more concerned with the idea. “Are you sure this one isn’t a little too risky?” April asks warily.

“Yeah, it’s pretty high up,” Sam adds.

“Relax. He’ll be fine,” Tyler reassures the girls before giving Asher a shove. “Go on!”

Asher makes his way over and up the base of the crane as Tyler gets his phone ready. April begins to twirl her thumbs as he continues to climb. She’s filled with worry, bottom to top, while Tyler is cackling with excitement. It seems like hours before he reaches the top of the crane, yet he still has to make it across the jib. He slowly crawls over until he’s far enough for a picture. Tyler takes a few photos and waves his hands in the air for Asher to see. Asher waves back, though the sway of his arms makes him lose his balance.

“He-he’s going to fall!” Sam screams.

Tyler’s gaze flicks over to Sam before swinging back up to Asher, his face blanching at the sight. Everything seems to slow down as he watches Asher fall off the crane. He stands frozen, his phone slipping from his numb fingers. It hits the dirt with a dull thunk.

A high pitched scream from April snaps him out of his ice cold trance. “Ash!”

This seems to ignite something inside Tyler and he dashes to the foot of the crane, April and Sam quickly following. Frantic yells come from the three as Asher plummets to the ground, his own yell barely audible.

“Do something!” Sam yelps.

“I-I can’t!” Tyler yells back, his face struck with sheer panic.

Asher hits the dirt ground with a sickening thud; the others stand there in utter shock. Tyler slowly stumbles towards his friend’s body, dropping to his knees. He swallows the lump in his throat as he reaches a hand out to touch Asher’s neck. He knows it’s hopeless, but he prays to whatever god is listening that he’ll find a beat. His hand falls limp to his side when he feels nothing beneath his fingers. Tears begin to prick at Tyler’s eyes as the girls already have free flowing waterfalls down their faces.

“What do we do?” Sam manages to say through the tears.

“There’s nothing we can do…” Tyler mutters, squeezing his eyes shut.

The rest of the day drags on, a repetitive loop of breaking the news to everyone who needs to know about the incident. Everything blurs together. After the funeral, to Tyler’s mind, Sam and April seem to come to terms with the fact Asher is gone. Tyler, however, can’t help but blame himself for his best friend’s death. He was the one who suggested the idea, he was the one who dared him to climb up, he was the one at fault.

Before the guilt can lead him down a darker path, Tyler realizes he still has other people in his life. And, Asher being the guy he was, would want him to move on, along with April and Sam. Not wanting to disappoint him, Tyler does what he knows is better for him, for Asher, and everyone else. Carrying his treasured memories of Asher with him, Tyler finds a place of peace. He is more sensible and compassionate, making sure to care for and tend to people, as if he is trying to represent Asher in himself.

Unforgiven

by Jorja Rowe

I heard my parents screaming at each other, bottles smashing, blood dripping on the hardwood floor. Nothing out of the ordinary, but this time it felt different. I took off my headphones to listen to the door slam and the car jolt to life, But I could still hear the dark red drops drip onto the floor. I waited for what felt like an eternity all while still hearing the sounds of slow death, I can’t remember walking to the kitchen but here I am, in the kitchen looking down on my pale blue lipped mother.

The day before the murder, my life was “normal”.  I wake up, walk to the rusty old 1990 sink, grab my citalopram pills, (they never make me less depressed) from the run down need-new-paint job wood cabinets, throw multiple pills to the back of my throat all while singing the tune of “sweet caroline” and wash them down ready for “a new happy day” at least that’s what the adverts say about these anyways.

Normally after my breakfast, which consists of medicine and mouthwash that I accidentally swallowed while I was humming, I ran onto the slowly moving paint-peeling worn down bus while everyone was looking at me, I sheepishly moved to the back of the bus trying to hide the heaving as I don’t run – at all.

I work a 6 am to an 8 am, many would call this illegal but I had to beg, practically on my knees and kiss so many asses to get my employer to up my hours so I can “pay for my sick sister’s cancer”. I don’t have a sister, but anything to make more, right?

Now I’ve abandoned the thought of having a family, reconnecting with people, getting a better job, but why would I when my life doesn’t mean anything to anyone? My family – gone! My friends – gone! My money – gone! Every cent I’d ever had, by default it was my fathers. How did he use said pounds? Well he sat in a scruffy velvet chair and rolled a 6 sided die, again, again, and again until we had nothing left but a belt that he loved to use on myself and beau, beau was my best friend even before everything went down the gutter, beau was a dog with wings, my protector until he took it too far.

After I turned 16 I knew it wasn’t worth living in that house anymore, I was sick of cleaning blood off every surface, getting beaten by bullies at school, then getting beaten by my dad, so I found a place that I couldn’t afford.

There’s not alot of proof of life in my personal shoebox, there’s no lights, the rats in the walls have eaten through any important wires, I don’t try to kill them anymore, they are just trying to eat through one of the only things I have left. I’d like to think the rats are my slaves and I’m their god, their superior!

I blame everything on my father, everything is his fault. I will taste vengeance.

I figured out where my father was, at his old time favourite casino. It brings back unwanted memories as I enter. Knowing I wouldn’t be recognised, I walked in with feigned confidence feeling my heart bounce with each step. It doesn’t matter though, Ii couldn’t care less what may happen to me. I located him at a game I always member him playing, I sighed, straightened my back and a deep voice came out of my throat before I could comprehend what I was saying words slipped.

“ hello sir, i couldn’t help but notice you’ve been here for a few hours, by law we are required to do testing on you to make sure you’re legally allowed to play.”

I knew he would believe me as he has fewer brain cells than the average bunny.

“One last game.” that’s the same exact thing he would say to me when he’d take my money.

“Now Sir, I won’t ask again” I say a bit more aggressively than I intend.

“Lead the way then, prick.” he muttered.

I had the gun in my left backside pocket, already loaded.

After I lead him to a deserted dark area around back, I knew no one would hear us from inside as they gamble their mortgages and scream “C’MON” over and over.

“I don’t know if you’ll remember me but my names Oscar, you may know that name as you named me.” i watched the blood drain, soon that same blood will be splattered.

“ why are you here, Jr” nick-names now, how cute.

“For this” then time stopped. I could see the fear in his aged, addict face, I could see the bullet pushing into his skull. Hilarious.

Where the Crowds Once Roared

by Manaia Scarrow 

The great stadiums stand silent and forgotten in a world where all sports are banned. Weeds wind through the cracks in the once bustling arenas, where fans cheered with joy. Once vibrant with excitement, these grounds are now ghostly echoes of the past. Children pass by, hardly noticing the crumbling walls that hold the secrets of the loud, thrilling games. It’s hard to believe that these places were once filled with the roars of crowds . . . 

Long ago the stadium filled with youth beaming with energy, now it was a graveyard for animals and insects. When best friends Regina Smith and Gretchen George wandered through the stadium they found out the hard way.

Regina and Gretchen were disobedient teenage girls. They both came from wealthy families. Regina’s mom, Georgina,  married Gretchen’s grandfather, Henry. When the girls found out they decided to move in with the new mixed family. They were like sisters now. It wasn’t often they disagreed on something but when they did it was intimidating.

One Friday the girls decided to go to the haunted stadium and throw a huge party. Regina invited Charles Marshall, a boy from her rowing club. Charles’ father was the wealthiest man in Scarsdale. Gretchen invited Tanner Rogers, his dad was Scarsdale’s hobo. Gretchen’s grandfather did not agree with the relationship but there was nothing he could do to stop it, Gretchen would just sneak around his back and that’s not what he wanted. So he just let them go ahead with it.

The girls found a man who bought them beer, which was Gretchen’s idea but Regina just went along with it. Regina was the one who got the idea to through it at the stadium. She thought it would be cool because it gave a spooky vibe, but little did she know this was the last party that she would ever go to or throw.

It started when they were hearing strange noises while they were setting up but they just went to the conclusion that it was a raccoon or possum. Then when they were in the middle of a song it stopped, and someone was shrieking. One by one everyone started crying, everyone was getting tremendously hurt. 

Lydia, one of Regina’s cousins, started screaming in the middle of the stadium yelling “ego te interficiam”  which means ” I will kill you” in Latin. Regina was confused because Lydia was the most basic American teenage girl you have ever met. She would never have learned Latin, and even if she did her pronunciation would be worse than a middle-aged white woman. But it was on point. That was when Lydia’s eyes glowed bright red. The girls tried to run but the doors were all closed.

Lydia’s body then evaporated into thin air which everyone started to breathe in. Everyone was attacked by a dog. The party turned into a gruesome killing spree. Any object that could be used to hurt someone was already taken. Everyone’s eyes were bright red. Every person who went to the party had turned into a vicious murderer within the snap of their fingers. . .

7 months after the party, Georgina and Henry found out they were pregnant with a baby girl. Once the baby, Amethyst, was 6 months old the family went to watch a rugby game in the stadium in which the tens of teenagers were killed by each other. The local council had chosen to restore the stadium in memory of the teenagers. The baby was a miracle baby because Georgina had used IVF for Regina, and Henry was far too old to conceive a baby. While they were at the rugby game Amethyst started crying and randomly the teenagers who had died that night were coming back to life. As soon as every single teenager had appeared Amethyst died. She had sacrificed her own life for her sister and niece.

Swords and Daggers (Y11-13)

Isabel Brennan

There had been no warning – no proclamation or signal to begin. The Huntmaster’s daggers gleamed as they approached her. Behind his mask, his eyes were dark soulless pits. The White Mask, or so they called him. Only now, with that ominous white mask bearing down on her, did Scarlet understand the associated terror.

In a blur of movement, the Huntmaster became a mesmerising swirl of pearly cloth – a force of nature, not a person. He slashed at her hands. Scarlet scrambled back, gripping her longsword tighter as she struggled to bat the blades away. She gathered herself to retaliate. A swing of her longsword and… The Huntmaster had vanished.

A trick of the light? Scarlet jittered from foot to foot, turning slowly to view the whole arena. She was vulnerable – a lone sapling planted in the open. No shelter. No warmth. She waited helplessly to be judged by the coming storm.

The sun bounced off metal to her left. It followed a jagged path to her eye. Squinting, Scarlet stumbled away, blocking what she could. Scarlet gasped – the pain… Lava invaded her veins where a dagger had sunk into her skin. Once the pain cleared, panic took its place as Scarlet realised how close she had come to dropping her longsword; how close she had come to losing. No. she won’t be defeated that quickly. She could survive four minutes without being disarmed.

Another glint of silver whistled in her direction. Scarlet ducked, but still got nicked in the shoulder. Maybe she could survive four minutes.

Disarming an opponent, sword on sword, was a simple matter, theoretically. There were only so many ways you could send a sword flying. But the moment daggers came into play… Scarlet couldn’t imagine how you would disarm a swordsman with a dagger; she didn’t know what to avoid. Of course, this was the Huntmaster – the White Mask himself. What could she avoid?

Scarlet dodged and weaved. She swiped at the Huntmaster, gaining a cut across her hand for her efforts. Blood trickled between her fingers. Her grip slippery, she struggled to grasp her hilt. Was that the Huntmaster’s plan?  He attacked again. This time, Scarlet barely held onto her longsword in her haste to avoid his blades.

She couldn’t do this. How much time had passed? Scarlet avoided blow after blow, but daggers were fickle. Her hands were coated in blood, worked to exhaustion, and her longsword was about to slip. She couldn’t do this. Scarlet warily watched the Huntmaster’s daggers.

So long as she kept her weapon on her, she was armed, right? Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Staring down the Huntmaster, Scarlet slowly slid her longsword into its scabbard. As the engravings disappeared into new leather, Scarlet prayed that her mother would forgive her.

Then she ran.

The crowd’s gasps could’ve shaken the entire castle off its foundations. Scarlet felt, rather than saw, the Huntmaster’s surprise. Good. Weaving between the pillars and support beams, Scarlet dashed across the arena. How much longer? The king’s displeasure was practically tangible as she ran past. The crowd seemed equally disgruntled. They’d come to see a formal ceremony, not a game of cat and mouse. She’d taken the cowardly route, but if it let her win…

Backscatter

by Olive Wadds

Everyone has to make money. Some people make it through retail, some people make it through cleaning. I make it through working for the government. I prefer to call it ‘maintaining law and order’, but no one else does. Maybe in the past, policing was different, and you could use moral justifications. You could be considered a good guy. Police used to be considered public servants. Democracy made sure of that. But not anymore. Democratic systems have long since crumbled. And I’m okay with that. I don’t care about the politics and ethics of it all; I do what I do for money. As long as I get paid, I’ll continue to do my job without question. That is my justification. I mean, if not me, someone else, right?

The overwhelming cacophony of chanting and police sirens clamoured through the drab grey sky. I guarded the front lines while protesters hollered and thrust up their crude signs. I suddenly felt a fist connect with my face. An aggressor had weaved through and attempted to start a conflict. Idiot. I snagged his wrist and pulled him from the crowd. My fellow officers helped me, grabbing him and beating him to the ground. I took a step back. Looking up, I caught an eye. My own eye. I was looking at myself in a mirror being held up by an older woman. I saw the look on my face. I looked more undone than I expected. Just like my coworkers beating the whimpering man on the ground, I was relishing in the pain of the lesser. I quickly looked away. The image of my own face was burned into my brain. A pang of guilt, in my stomach. I had never felt bad doing my job before. Why, now, did it matter? Was it a selfish thought? I finally saw myself as I was—a puppet, doing the government’s bidding like a desperate puppy. And now, now that it is so real, I feel regret. Now, that I cannot turn a blind eye to my own face, it matters. Now, that I see what I am, it matters.

The mass protest went on for three weeks. It was exhausting. It was March 2086, during the next few weeks of the protest, when two bills were voted and approved, and then a third. The revocation of the freedom of assembly, freedom of speech, and, most recently, the proposal to reinvoke capital punishment. This bill proposed that all police officers would have the green light to execute civilians for any violation of any law, without the decision of a jury. Of course, nobody believed it would be approved. Until it was.

I switched off the News and rested my chin on my hands, burying my face into my palms. Like Anna used to suggest, I timed my breathing in my head until the panic coiling in my stomach died down. It still lingered, but then again, it always did. Anna had been my panacea. She was more of me than I ever was. The memories of her were never welcome. They were like heat lamps in the cold, but when gone, left a cold even darker and crisper than before. It was easier to avoid what I couldn’t handle.

I showed up to the MPDC the next morning as usual. My captain gave a brief statement on the new laws. Silence befell the room and we all sat on the edge of our seats for him to confirm what we already knew.

We arrived in varied numbers and at varied intervals in vans. I was placed in the first van, much to my dismay. Six of us, dispersed along the street. I stepped back to allow a pedestrian to cross the road, sighing and giving the street a once-over. I heard a honking to my left and turned to see the same pedestrian, a man, standing in the middle of the road, blocking the cars from continuing. He began chanting. I started over to him, but I paused as I heard voices to my right join the chant. The civilians previously loitering and taking photographs were now forming a steadily growing gaggle. They appeared so suddenly that there was no way the six of us could take them on. Another officer stepped forward and grabbed the man.

“Hey!” He took out his gun and put it against the man’s head. I froze, he froze, and the protestors stilled. Silence. They began shouting at the officer. I looked into his eyes, and in them, I could see that same look I had seen in my own that day I looked in the mirror. The gun went off.

The stupor of the whole ordeal took me back to the day my Anna had been torn from my grip before I could even scream, leaving me to scavenge through the residue her love had left in a broken world.

Backup arrived. The man’s body lay on the ground. I stood amongst the upheaval, the background noise fading until I could only hear my heavy breathing. It was at this moment that the weight of the world finally bore down on my shoulders, and boy was it heavy. There would be no freedom for anyone. No civility for the civilised. No mercy for the disfavoured. Knowledge is danger, ignorance is bliss, blending in is security. It was also at that moment, that I decided I wasn’t going to blindly follow the flow of regression disguised as progression. The inevitable future status quo was beneficial to no one but the rich, white, powerful men who sat in their offices as though it were a dais. Our rights would be robbed–as was already happening–and our sagacity twisted. No, I wouldn’t fight to be trapped inside a cage, a cage that was already inside out, but rather, I would gnaw at the bars and bite at poking fingers. I would make Anna proud. I mean, if not me, who else?

Dream Girl

by Catherine Van der Gulik

My name is Ria, but people call me Dream Girl. Not in a nice way. You see, I can see things others can’t – always have and, for all I know, always will. My earliest memory was when I was sitting on the floor in our living room, six months old, and faeries were dancing around me. They came almost every day to play, and they were my dear friends. I don’t know if my parents realised what I could see when I was young, but they definitely have now. The world I can see is too distracting to ignore all the time.

My mother says I have an “overactive imagination”, and it’s really rare to be as “creative” as I am in a world dominated by technology. It’s not just imagination – there really is another world within our own that most can’t see because they’re not willing to. So now it’s mine. My invisible friends are always on my side simply because I can see them.

The most amazing thing about my enhanced sight, though, is all the truths that are revealed. Most people grow out of my condition by three years old, before they can understand what they see, but I’m so lucky to be able to see… everything. This world is full of amazing things – including angels.

Everyone has a guardian angel by their side every moment of every day. I can see them as roughly humanoid beings made of light, with the classic massive feathered wings, of course. Just yesterday, I was walking along the river, watching the merfolk migrate back to the sea, and there was a teenager standing on the train bridge, his angel going absolutely berserk. When he noticed me – the angel, that is, not the boy – he came over to me and whispered into my mind for me to please help get his charge off the bridge. I came and talked to the boy from the walkway fenced off from the rails, and his angel somehow showed me what had led to this situation.

It was a suicide attempt.

The boy’s face was pale but determined as he turned to face along the bridge. I heard the faint sound of a train approaching and begged the boy to come towards me. Even a step would save his life, but he shook his head firmly.

“Leave me alone!” he shouted, clenching his fists as lights came into view. “This is the only way!”

The bridge vibrated from the weight and speed of the train, and I decided in a split second. I threw myself over the railing and onto the tracks as brakes screeched and the engine shuddered.

There was no way it could stop in time.

I rushed at the boy and his angel moved to stand between him and impending death, wings spread, trying to buy us a few seconds. It wouldn’t work – none of the people and creatures my eyes are open to can touch anything.

The boy stared through his angel, transfixed like a deer, and I tackled him from the side. Bodies tangled, we hit the side rail and flipped over it, plunging down to the turbulent water and the chilly embrace of the merfolk.

My body seized up when we hit the river – despite it being the tail end of summer, the water was glacial. We sank, thrashing desperately, as merfolk gleefully swarmed and dragged us deeper. They were going to drown us; the age-old game manifesting itself. In tales, long-lived merfolk are shown to consider humans ridiculous for our short lifespan and how easily we succumb to their home element.

I scratched wildly at the webbed hands holding my shoulders to the stones, a few precious bubbles of silver air escaping to the surface. Our captors released us and I floated off the riverbed, groping for the boy. A few moments later, a cold but gentle mouth closed over my own, breathing life into my lungs. I was lifted upwards, holding onto that breath grimly, and finally broke the surface.

“The… boy,” I gasped after coughing up river water. “Where-“

I was laid on the shore and a mergirl sat at the edge of the water, watching me. “Others are bringing him.” She hesitated, seeming almost shy. “Is it true, then? You can See?”

“I can see all sorts of things, including you. And because I can see you, you can touch me. Is that right?”

She nodded with a wicked grin.

“So how can you interact with – and drown – people who can’t see you?”

The mergirl slipped back underwater for a few moments and I saw her chest expand with a deep breath, then the gills on either side of her neck fluttered and she resurfaced.

“There are dangerously strong currents in this river. Are we really to blame?” she answered slyly.

The boy I had saved was bundled onto the shore by a few merfolk, and the girl I had spoken with swam away to rejoin her people. I carefully rolled the boy onto his side as he expelled water then wiped his mouth shakily.

“You’re… Dream Girl,” he realised. I shrugged.

“My name is Ria, but that is what most people call me.”

A chill set into my bones from the freezing water and I began to shiver.

“I’m Daniel,” gasped the boy as he too began to tremble. “D-d’you live f-far a-aw-away?”

“N-not too far.” His angel smiled at me in gratitude, wings sweeping forward to blanket the boy. I felt a faint sense of warmth in my chest and inexplicably knew that my own angel – the only being I couldn’t see – was embracing me.

“Thank you,” Daniel whispered and began to walk away, shoulders hunched, angel at his heel.

I had a feeling that this wasn’t the last I’d see of him.

A Villain or Not

by Ekam Kaur Minhas

16/10/1793

There are no windows or cracks in these cement walls, not a glimpse of the outside world. The only thing keeping this cellar from being pitch black is this small, pocket-sized tea light, kept to my left. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I was rather restless, as there were sickening sounds of rats running about. I know the French resent me, and I don’t blame them. How naive I was! My people were suffering and were having to endure the most terrible things. I heard them. “She is cruel!” “Queen Marie Antoinette? More like Madame Deficit!” “It’s a relief she isn’t ruling anymore.”

I still remember when I first came here to France. At a mere 14 years old, my cheeks went scarlet with shame as all eyes were on me. “It will be interesting to see how long she lasts.”, they said. But I knew I was doing this for Austria. After all, Mother had said, “Friendship between Austria and France must be cemented by marriage”.

On 19th April 1770, I was wed to my husband, Louis XVI. The Dauphin, dressed in gold and diamond, took my hand as we entered the palace gates. The epitome of opulence it was! The central doors opened to fine diamond chandeliers, gold pillars, and wallpaper with alluring and intricate designs. I was elated when my generous husband gifted me a magnificently carved cabinet containing abundant jewellery and precious gemstones. But I believe the most attractive feature in a person is having a beautiful way with words. Louis was rather quiet and shy. He lacked in the way he spoke to me and was extremely tedious, dull, and insecure. Seeking a conversation with him was rather unpleasant, as he didn’t utter a single word, other than the most repetitive one of all, ‘Yes’.

My duties were scarce. I kept busy, watching French opera, showing off my gambling skills, experimenting with different braids and twists in my hair, and most of all, styling extravagant, luminous fashion. I even advised the servants to wear corsets and to tie ribbons in their hair. I left a mark on fashion, influencing elegance and style.

Some royal customs are callous! When one departs from this world, the day should be put aside for mourning and grieving, but Louis was simply thrown into duty after his grandfather’s passing. He may not have been one to express his feelings openly, however, I could not help but pity him. We were then crowned the King and Queen of France.

My first child, Marie-Therese, I loved from the bottom of my heart, but I knew the disappointment of the court, at the birth of a female child. What they were most hungry for, was for an heir to be brought to the throne. Soon came our beloved sons, and little Sophie. My children provided me with emotional solace in our troubled times.

The public began cooking up stories of my apparent arrogance and indulgent expenditures, even alleging me of conspiring with foreign enemy powers! “A heedless spender of public funds” and “A queen with an ambiguous attitude” were the headlines appearing in the papers of ‘83. Louis had told me how France was sliding into some sort of financial turmoil and that a revolution was brewing. People were very unhappy with their living conditions, I could sense much anger and hostility. It seemed France was indeed heading for bankruptcy. Yes, the price of food was high and the drought compounded things, but I was simply enjoying my rights as Queen! Those imbeciles scorning and ridiculing me, didn’t see young Archduchess Marie’s struggles when learning French etiquette!

The attacks became vicious thereafter. The afternoon of 14 July 1789, revolutionaries stormed and seized control of the Bastille, the medieval armoury, fortress, and political prison. It was the royal authority of Paris. We soon sent our daughter overseas for her safety.

That tragic October, a group of women marched to Versailles, deeply distressed with intent on acquiring food they thought was stored inside. The turmoil at Versailles and our unpredictable living situation caused a great deal of mental trauma. It was ghastly to have a mob of provoked citizens break into our residence. It was the first time I had experienced such raw fear. I do not think anyone in France really understood our despair, and I believe no one ever will. It is agonising to relive these horrifying memories.

In June 1791, we attempted to escape from The Tuileries Palace to Varennes. We dressed as locals to blend in with the crowd. I was finally feeling the taste of exhilaration, yet even that was taken away. We were then taken back to Paris when a man recognized Louis from the money note.  For the next couple of years, we lived I fear. One dreadful day, I was torn from the arms of my children and husband, being imprisoned in the Conciergerie.

In this world of ours, every individual is playing a role. As stated by Shakespeare in the Seven Ages of Man, all men and women are merely players. Have I fulfilled my role? From the second that I was born as Archduchess of Austria, fate decided that I was to become Queen of France. Fate decided that I was to reign during these harsh, bloody days. The monarchy was destined to fall.

During this financial turmoil, how I wish to be in the good graces of the French. I wish I could have been a source of empathy and go to sleep thinking that my people didn’t resent me. How I wish they found me worthy of a Queen. Maybe I was foolish, but not selfish! France deems me a villain, but I feel like a victim.

But today, I shall accept my execution by guillotine at the Place de la Concorde, without temporising.

Vorte sincere, Marie Antoinette.