Willard Montgomery Friar was the product of habit and fear of change. In his seventeen years of life he had never endeavoured to taste cauliflower, yell out a curse, or step on a crack in the sidewalk. Every morning he rose when the sun did, and jogged the same path in the nearby park. He ate a similar breakfast, reeled off the same greeting to his parents, and travelled to school in the same fashion – walking.

If variety was the spice of life, Willard was yet to expand his palate beyond plain oats.

Of no surprise to anyone, Willard maintained pole position on top of all his classes. He was also the fastest long distance runner on his track team. His curiosity of life was satiated by the many books he piled into his daily routine, filled with facts about the human body and space and everything in between, to maintain nearly infallible grades.

That was, of course, until October twenty-third.

Summer merely hung off the stars, warming the atmosphere that Willard trekked through. After having completed his typical Thursday gym session, Willard was walking with purpose to the bus stop that would deposit him to his front door. He already had his bus pass in his hand, a trembling upper lip as he rehearsed that same greeting to the bus driver he used every week.

The small town of Madeline had been hit by financial hardship over recent times. He watched as the smog was lifted from the factories as many went out of business. Many of Willard’s peers at school had started disappearing. His family would be fine, his father worked in the bank and his mother a lawyer – he felt safe in his position. He’d never even contemplated the anxiety of being without a schedule, a time, some sort of acknowledgement from the universe that everything was going to be okay.

Willard was nearing the end of his walk, as he bounced down Lemon Street. Lemon Street was infamous to inhabitants of Madeline as a hamartia of modern real estate. Every person who seemed to live in any of the houses dotted along the street were destined for ruin. Willard never saw statistical evidence to support this claim, so he never believed it, but he still came to wonder why those many houses never seemed to get a happy ending.

With the bus stop in sight, Willard knew that his bus was three minutes and twenty-four seconds away. He could almost taste the puff of exhaust excreted by the tired metal, a repugnant odour that oddly reminded him of home.

That’s when he saw the girl.

It was for the fleetest of moments. However, Willard Montgomery Friar was never wrong. He looked up at the old parsonage across the street from his bus stop as a pair of eyes bored back into him. Willard felt the breath in his mouth become acidic, watching the girl watching him. Fear overrode the confusion that washed atop of him, and Willard stared at his feet and hoped the girl would go away. She would not.

Was he crazy? Had someone been brave enough to purchase the property? That’s odd, there’s no cars… no furniture. No signs of life. Was Willard losing his mind?

It wasn’t long until the bus plodded down the road, and Willard happily threw himself into the first seat he spied. He let his anxiety bubble back into nothing as he enjoyed the trip home. His thoughts of the girl simply ceased – like she never existed.

However, that hardly remained the case going forward.

For the next three weeks, he’d see the familiar girl in the window and feel his heart tighten. He grew the weirdest and most illogical of attachments for the stranger, and as time elapsed he genuinely grew to care for her. Even though he had not the slightest clue of who she really was, he hoped she was doing okay. It became apparent to Willard over a conversation with his parents that homelessness had exponentially increased over the past ten months in Madeline. He figured that the girl was squatting. Willard couldn’t help but wonder if the bad omen from the house would apply to the girl – do the homeless get cursed just as the people who legitimately live in the homes?

The new paternal instinct that awakened over the weeks caused Willard to do something he had never ventured to do before – break routine. One Thursday morning, when grabbing his assorted items of food for the day, he amounted far more than his usual quota. His mother was astonished. Willard took almost thrice more than he usually did, piling fruits and fresh bread into his khaki satchel, and left the home without a word. He wasn’t sure who was more mortified after the ordeal – his mother, or Willard himself.

Willard did not go to the gym that night. Instead, he got off the bus and stared at the beautiful, old manor home across the street that homed the girl without a home. He took a big breath. Willard was not slight in size; however, he’d never felt more fear in his life than when he did crossing over the asphalt – it felt like lava underfoot.

A black wrought iron gate was platooned in Willard’s path. It shamed him to think that he couldn’t decide whether to open it or not. He had already veered off his own script so tumultuously today that his heart threatened that he’d never get back on the right path again. With trembling hands, Willard latched onto the gate and let it swing open. He waited for the feeling of anarchy to wash across him, for the thunderbolt to throw him back into the proper social order. He waited for something, anything to happen. Nothing did. Instead, there was only a boy standing in front of an opened gate.

With a subdued hesitance, Willard navigated through the garden path of the house and followed it to the front door, listening to the crunch of unkempt flora underfoot. Willard wondered what the protocol here was. Should he knock? Was it polite to knock? Pondering the societal norms surrounding squatters, Willard let the sun slip further through his grasp. In the end, he opted to let the door hang ajar as he snuck in, treading lightly.

The interior was glazed in a screen of dust. Twigs and leaves claimed their corners through the expansive and formerly opulent manor. The sleek surface of marble vibrated with every step, and Willard did what he could do to minimise the noise pollution. He felt very uncomfortable – not even for breaking the law, but for stalking away into someone’s home… someone’s former home.

Willard could feel by the tug in his heart that the girl was sat in the room above him. He couldn’t hear her, he couldn’t see her, he had no logical explanation to explain how he knew she was there. But she was there, there was no doubt in Willard’s mind.

Ascending the staircase with minimal breath, Willard reached the top and found the air calcifying in his lungs. Fear had paralysed him. His foolish plan, one he couldn’t explain nor account for, left him with a mouth agape and a need to clutch the wall for some sort of stability. However, the wall wasn’t there, and his body had been overcome by an antagonist autopilot. Willard stepped into the room where he knew the girl waited.

The floor boards creaked as his presence was known. His eyes fluttered around the room in an apprehensive scurry before his eyes laid upon the girl wrapped in cloth. The grandeur of the windows broadcasted a scenic view of the sleepy town, privy to the movements of the town as a whole. Some windows were open; some were not.

Willard’s eyes were taken from his control as his full attention fell upon that familiar set of eyes that had haunted him for weeks. Those eyes were wrapped in frail and haunting pigment, taut features, and unnatural flushes of red. Her raven hair clung to the side of her face as she cocooned herself in layers and layers of blankets. She didn’t seem to blink.

Words burbled in anticipation on Willard’s tongue, but none made the journey. Willard had little experience of poverty and being poor, of knowing a hardship beyond missing something he has scheduled. But to see this girl, a girl who looked similar in age but decades older in experience, beckoned Willard’s ribcage to amount all the strength he could – he was going to need it.

The girl couldn’t speak either, and for a little while, both Willard and the girl simmered in an uncomfortable silence. Her eyes sparked with recognition, but still no words came to her. Willard didn’t know what to do. That’s when he saw the black-haired girl recede from her cloak and find something hidden amongst the mess of her living. Empty cans, different articles of clothing, he even saw a novel. But the last thing he expected was for the girl to gently unfurl from her blankets, leaving her standing equally before him.

Before he sunk through the floor and back to the front door, Willard moved his eyes from the intoxicatingly corrosive sight before him and reached into his satchel, pulling out the small bag he’d prepared at home. Willard’s breath hitched, as he left a small plastic bag full of various fruits and breads. He considered for a moment what he was to do now – his mission was accomplished. He’d broken these rules for the girl… so, what now?

Willard came to realise his courage had reached its end, and thus he started moving back towards the door.

“You’re bus boy, aren’t you?”

Willard’s feet cemented to the ground. The girl had returned to the floor, the small bag perched in her lap. Her dainty, stone like fingers encroached upon one of the breads, nibbling at it mindlessly. She looked seriously up to Willard.

“Bread probably isn’t the best long term food…” the girl netted her lip with her teeth, her eyebrows slanting in unison, “but thanks. Thank you.”

Willard found it in himself to offer the girl a reciprocal smile, abolishing his obligation to her and this awkward conversation. His nerves pulsed within his body, begging for movement. Willard was in no position to deny the electrical impulses that dictated pretty much everything he did – it was like his body’s autonomy had more say than his own will.

For the life of him, Willard couldn’t classify the feeling that swept underneath him. Each step further from the girl, it was like twine entangled around his throat tightened. He had intended to turn around and introduce himself, like the true gentleman he was, but he was distracted by the haunting feeling that scrapped his scalp.

“Sorry! Sorry… I…” The girl stuttered and stammered, as Willard turned to see a paper airplane on the ground, after a brief interlude through his hair. Fine handiwork, Willard had to admit. But what caught his attention was the giant ‘A’ scribbled in red crayon.

Picking up the model, Willard felt the corners of his lips lift. Seeing as speaking wasn’t going to be his choice reaction for the day, he raised his eyebrow in question.

“I wanted to give you something… because you gave me a lot of stuff,” the girl began, her hands quaking to life in an almost erratic dance to communicate what her words said. “The ‘A’ stands for anarchy, it’s just… yeah. Boredom and sleep deprivation probably, but it flies and I just thought, well, I don’t have much to give but it only felt right to give you something and….”

It came as no surprise that Willard realised he had judged the homeless girl too harshly. She mumbled and muttered on almost as much as he tripped over his tongue. The enigmatic girl in the window had a lot more in common with him than Willard ever could have fathomed.

“I’m Willard.” He choked out, each syllable splintering in his mouth.

The girl grinned.

“Hello, Willard… I’m Aimee.”

It was like watching a new sun unfurl over the dawn’s horizon. Willard felt his heart lighten as the girl he’d spent all that time wondering about came clearly. It all made sense now. From what he thought before, the homeless girl on Lemon Street became something else entirely.

She became Aimee.


Flight- By Laura Bath Yr 12


Optimism is a thing with flightless wings,

Just begging to find the skies,

A winter chill cannot freeze the desire,

Although the ice makes people doubt,


The sun is up and gone again,

Those wings still beat with rhythm,

The chill is rampant, vicious, cruel,

Webbed feet anchor to the ground,


Perched on inclines made of ice,

A flight was about to begin,

But instead of going up beyond,

The water ripples below,


With a thump, a splash, a calamity,

The wings slice through the cold,

A heart races the tide it’s under,

Not all skies are above.

Masked walls by Harmonie Grace- Yr7


The walls bounce from joy, to sadness, to confusion, to anger and then back to plain thoughts. What is concaved by all beauty is what comes from sadness, every footstep taken towards the beauty is what in which shall leave the destruction of a mind, set at home. All the missing pieces collide and what is left, well that is the beam that is taken upon by the eyes. The walls of course remain the same, yet the beauty that lies upon the walls, well that will grow with the eyes that seek it out. The beauty that stands on the walls is truly a disguise; it masks the pain that is held beneath its beauty. All day, all night, the walls build up their masks while indeed tearing themselves apart. Each piece added to the wall blackens the canvas more and more. The walls hold what we all fear, they tell a story that no one would choose to hear. Our deepest oppressed thoughts, the walls show them to us. The walls are a side of us in which we would rather hide. The walls are dismissed, as they hold no importance except to make the beauty as beautiful as it is, they are merely dead space when compared to the beauty. Yet what we don’t know is that the beauty is nothing without the wall as the wall is what holds all of the personal layers that are needed for the beauty to be beautiful. And as we walk through the rooms in which the walls are masked by beauty, we shall learn how without the walls beauty is nothing. And even though we already know this, we still mask the walls with beauty as we believe that the walls are boring when really, they tell more stories than any parts of the beauty as the walls are a blank canvas which is where the beauty first begins, the walls leave more to our minds and the walls make us choose where we have to path our minds on our trail of thoughts, and that is why the beauty that lies upon the walls are perceived as beautiful because we are too afraid to look deeper.

The Cave by Jade McKentish Yr 9

A rusty, middle of nowhere house fell eerily silent. A mother became stricken. The strings that once moved freely were now constrained.
Fatherless children, uneducated, cared for her. They ran no more outside the solid brick walls. The house began to rot, as did the mother, as did the children. Simplicity in the lifestyle turned them into modern day cavemen. Storytelling with clay and mud on the flaking kitchen walls. Know better, they did not.

The messy hands caused the house to fall into an unstructured disaster.
The mother, with her dainty tissues and cups of tea read Dickens in a far away place, unaware of the future she had left with her children.
The house was no longer a house. It was a cave, where the children were trapped.
Intelligence was slipping away.
Humanity was slipping away.
The paintings fell upon every wall, each one getting more desperate, more rushed.
The children were dying. Their pleas could not be concealed anymore.
“Help me” scrawled itself across the cracked wooden floorboards in long streaks of crimson. Sanity unravelled in that cave. The crumbling walls shook with vigour as screams were ejected from the writhing children.
The eldest boy frequently saw hefty men galumphing around the site, shutting doors, keeping the children in.
The others could not see the men.
The eldest girl would constantly throw herself at the walls, screaming verses of mercy, but to no avail was she rescued from the hole in which she was trapped.
The youngest boy was afraid of the dark. Dark was that house, those souls.
Matches became the saviour, for the warmth that radiated from them was the only warmth in the cave. Occasionally, the flames would wriggle free and lick the walls.
The eldest boy became very angry when the flames got loose.
New bruises arose on the skin of the others, the dirt and grime covered in layers of blood and tear.
Eventually, the abuse stopped. The matches were all gone.
The supplies grew smaller and smaller, the sound of growling stomachs lingering in the air at the end of every day.
The children began to deteriorate rapidly. The middle children held the young as their little bodies slipped into an everlasting slumber. The elders would march around the perimeters, checking if anything had left itself for them to feast on.
No sane being went near that cave.
Enraged, the elders became. All morals and respect had dissolved when the lives of the young were taken.
Ferocious fights would constantly break the deathly silence that coated the cave. Punches were thrown, legs were swung. Skin became tattered again, hair flew out into the trees.
The fights were breaking point for the middle children.
Screeches of suicide rung throughout the house from the children, one by one.
The withering grey carpet became stained red. From the continuous tears, mildew crawled into the floorboards and up the remaining cracking walls, into the remaining cracking children.

The boy no longer saw men, but his dear mother.
Mesmerised, he became with her. Every time she came into his sight, the morbidity vanished and there was just her. Nothing was wrong when mother was around.
Only when several more ants than usual had scuttled their way in was it when he noticed the eerie silence, the rotting stench.
The eldest girl was the only one that got a full ceremony.
Petite daisies were collected and placed all around her, all over her.
Eventually, she was a mountain of flowers, so delicate, so beautiful.
She was both of those things without being covered up. Taking away the flowers, her true beauty was exposed and nothing was keeping her hidden.
However, death had already possessed her, the beauty pointless and depressing, for it could never be revived.
The boy ran.
He ran from his haunting mother, screeching at him from every angle.
He ran from his decaying loved ones, pleading for mercy as he stumbled past each of their lifeless forms.
The cave, in which he had been trapped for so long, disappeared from sight.
The cave kept that them hidden from beauty, from life.
The tragedies would forever remain, forever haunt the collapsing heap.
Sprinting through the underbrush, a man.
A monster.
Running with rage and ferocity flaring in his eyes.
The boy saw the metal machine he clutched tight.
There was nothing left of the boy.
Bullets sliced into his heart, his arms, his legs. Tearing him apart, breaking his physical form completely.
No legacy, no proof of existence.
His fragile state was not remembered, nor did it remain.
Maybe the cave was a better place after all.

Society’s Creation by anonymous

Society’s Creation

Trapped in a dark and grim forest,

Of society’s creation,

At every turn an opinion,

At every exit a new challenge.


When the world is set in black and white,

Where is the room for grey?

When my point of view and headspace,

Becomes the living embodiment of a jungle,

Where is my escape?


Opinions can be hurtful and demean my every thought,

Society is in charge of 7,432,663,275 people’s future,

Yet we are walking blind in the dark,

Opinions are being crushed before fully developed.


Every branch contains spikes,

Every thought becomes painful,

Others can’t see my pain,

With my brain over thinking every word.


Trying to conform,

Trying to please others becomes the most painful task,


The term individuality,

Is being stripped,

As we all try to conform to society’s standards

People are being lost


Why does my opinion give you the right to judge me?




The List by Sarah Borgelt Yr 10

Fingers danced against his crusty jeans creating a rhythmic beat. Pulling out a lighter, the cool soft metal tamed his nerves. Automatically he flicked it on, sparks ignited like a spray of fireworks. They hypnotized his dull eyes. The scruff sound of friction between materials broke the fires hypnotic trance, quickly moving to the side of the isle as a cryptic figure walked passed him causing the fire to extinguish. Wiping his sweat that collected amongst his feathery thick eyebrows with the sleeves of his ebony jumper, he tried to remember what he was doing in the local grocery store. Setting the grocery basket that just seemed to appear in his spare hand, on the white tiled floor. He pulled out his phone from his back pocket knowing he’d wrote down something down. Unlocking his phone, a list was already opened.

The Art Gallery- A Collection of Poems by Rerose Roro Yr 9

Poem 1
The foreground comes after the importance of humans
And yet, the defining is made up by the background
Defining us, humans
Humans who will cease to exist
And yet, the foreground remains while our beings will soon decay The foreground unmoving with stories to tell
More than we do.

Poem 2
Reclining Nude
Danila Vassileff
Abstract beings walk this earth,
Perhaps the most abstract of all,
Was the one that wasn’t supposed to. Uncomfortable standards demanding to be met Uncomfortable position for an entitled gaze Here she is
Comfortable, and for no one

Poem 3
Still Life
Harley C. Griffiths
It was not a banished Angel, falling from the sky
It wasn’t a story of being cast away
So that the sins committed in heaven,
Must then multiply on earth
It wasn’t doomed to end in the bird hitting the dust Disintegrating to a death it didn’t deserve


By a self proclaimed, or human made entity
The bird, a pure thing,
Felt its wings beating against a construct of what was moral And in attempt to un clip its wings
It hadn’t felt freer, looking down, ready for the wrath of God It fell to its death, not as a sin, but in legacy of its rebellion Unrepentant

Metaphor poem: based on Emily Dickinson

Genocide is a thing that has a mane
Those with manes are not for their hairs to be erect in stature
Graze the mane and you have touched death
The mane is a sled appointed crown
Crowns and killings made of a graveyard of a plethora of tombs contained, but not lodged in your throat
You are never content with the tombs you’ve built
The crown is a title, hiding the remaining blood in the complexities of your teeth
Crimes that will never be paid for, even with the evidence of blood dripping from the corners of your smiling mouth
So that the lions with crowns upon their heads weird about manes always prevailing
With not a single grimace of the bones, still stuck in your throat

Perfection by Angelina Barret Correia Yr 7


Trying so hard to be flawless. When people look they do not stare, they do not see the hard work put into this thing of inspiration, that strives to be perfect. But if you look closer, more in depth in the colour, you see the flaws it holds. A line not too straight, lines too close together, colours on other colours. It’s a mess, so dirty but no one can see how imperfect it really is. Only the general eyes see its boring boldness. Some may say it should not belong here, a place of respect. They don’t see the work and how hard they try to make a perfect art piece for you to lay your eyes upon.

Long plain strokes of yellows and purple. A grid of simplicity, boring some might say. The depth of this art has so much more to say than what it displays. Trying hard to be something flawless.

A visit to the Art gallery by Oliver Kelly-Jones Yr9

May I help you, sir?”

What was that sound? It was like a car driving over gravel-ridden roads flooded with starving pigeons meeting the shrieks of a prepubescent boy shoving nails up his ass! It was actually deafening: if she wasn’t a smoker, well, he was Oprah Winfrey just disguised as a 24-year-old mixed-race boy.

He looked up.

The woman was a shriveled prune. Her hair was bleached blonde, which really didn’t compliment her complexion: the absolutely, stunningly gorgeous tone of beef jerky drowning in midsummer sun. Her shirt was leopard print with a V-neck deeper than the Mariana Trench, her leather thong visible through her sheer leggings. To top it all off, neon green stilettos that she obviously dipped in glitter herself, and she probably would claim to have bought the shoes like that but it looked homemade and cheap, which was, if the way she presented herself said anything, her in parenthesis.

Her makeup was half clown, half child-finding-their-mum’s-lipstick-collection-and-having-a-field-day. And to top it all off, from this one twenty-five second encounter Jamie had come to the conclusion that this woman had the personality of a rock. Yeah, that’s right, a rock- and not even a remotely interesting rock, either, just a boring rock, probably that one rock everyone trips on when going on a hike. And then the same sequence of events: falls, an outburst of profanity, throws rock away. But then what happens? Somebody else trips on the same rock despite it being in a new location. That was this woman’s purpose in life: to be a nuisance to everybody going on a hike, or in this case, admiring the local art.

Oliver Jones 9L

White Nothing by Morgan Wood Yr 9

White Nothing.



So simple yet so beautiful. Its calm, tranquil and makes me feel… well, nothing.

Perhaps the shade itself is nothing, or everything.

When I imagine ‘’nothing’’ I imagine a giant white galaxy that goes forever.

No stars, no definition, just nothing.

When I imagine ‘’everything’’ it’s the same. As if all the atoms in the whole of space combined and everything was white. Just like nothing. If I’m stressed I like to stare at white in an effort to make me feel white. Everything and nothing. That’s white;