Warning: contains dangerous amounts of

Imagination!

by The Pencil Pusherscompiled by Becky Cherriman

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CONTENTS

Introduction Becky Cherriman

Untitled Helena Below My Inspiration Sacha Ellis-Jones Grumpy Naomi Burns Why is Talent Crushed? Sam Fletcher It Wasn’t Me William Borrows Watching the News Rachel Burns

Ebola Shmael Siddiqi Swine Flu Rachel Burns Slightly Dampen William Borrows

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Untitled Helena Below Saving the Future Sam Fletcher

If the World is a Sphere why don’t Australians Fall Off the Bottom? Sam Fletcher Why do Trees Grow Upwards? Naomi Burns Not so Happily Ever After Sacha Ellis-Jones

Afterword Michelle Scally Clarke

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Introduction

When I first met this group, I was struck by how mild-mannered, polite and quiet they were. But, after biscuits and balloon games, conversation began and a bond started to form that was to strengthen throughout the project.

Then I asked them to write.

It was a guided writing exercise during which they were asked to respond to prompts given by me such as, ‘Imagine you have been transported to another place. What can you see and hear and smell? Describe your surroundings. ’

There was no stopping them. I watched the fervent whirlwind of pens which – almost literally – blew me over and sat back, amazed, while they read their pieces. They could all write; more than that, they each displayed a hunger and talent for writing that I have seldom seen in a group of young people.

With me the writers learned more about how to craft stories. With Michelle they discovered the art of writing and performing poetry. Throughout the course, they critiqued each others’ work with skill and sensitivity and honed their writing through the process of editing.

In this anthology, you will see how well they have grasped the tools of writing - of metaphor and metre: of plot and character. You will see their aptitude for humour and their

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courage to tackle life’s more difficult subjects, and you will see dangerous amounts of imagination!

Look out for these writers’ names in bookshops and on Amazon because I expect it won’t be too long before their writing can be found there in abundance.

BECKY CHERRIMAN (WRITER, FACILITATOR AND PERFORMER)

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No Man is an Island

No man is an island but my beaches are there, the outside swell of the world determines their delicate fate. My island is neither the biggest nor the smallest, it just is.

The tumbling and rumbling of the black-hearted waves can disturb and panic each cell of sand. Spreading it far and wide, snatching it away from my island. But when the sun shines and the turquoise gem is calm, my sand returns back home to my beach.

My island has the boldest loudest monkeys, and the silent yet thoughtful fish, which ride along the current, ride out the ups and the downs.

My island has the brightest most vibrant flowers which ever could be found. They bloom almost every day beaming with pride, but the roots underneath, keeping them grounded are sometimes ripped out and harvested from my soft and harmonious base.

My island has birds that sing the greatest and most fulfilling songs, yet if a stranger searches to find them, they will flutter away as quick as the wind.

And speaking of wind, the greatest wind shook my island. The rain drowned the monkeys, marooned the fish, swept away the blossoms and scared off the birds.

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The everlasting day was forced into grey, bound together with booming thunder and blinding lightning.

The storm that shook took everything from my island apart from two little caterpillars that hung on to the light with all their might.

These caterpillars grew and grew till they transformed into the wisest and most beautiful creatures. They rebuilt my island as quick as the beast that took it and now my island is bigger and better than ever, no storms, no night-time, just blossoms and song with each creation standing tall remembering the great storm and how my island overpowered it.

My island is neither the biggest nor the smallest, it just is, but now I know I prefer it that way. Now my island knows its name, Helena Rose, but no man is an island.

HELENA BELOW

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Here Michelle describes the process that inspired No Man is an Island and the poem by Sacha below:

Like Becky, I was also inspired and motivated by this group’s integrity, humour and talent; in our first and seeding workshop in performance poetry we explored the concept of ‘I am’ with discussion, and sharing, and drama, and breath exercises. I introduced myself and my art forms through performance and story-telling. Then there was an exchange of my story for your story. I gave the young people an introduction to creative writing and performance poetry and provided them with a chance to begin their own composition in a supportive setting. The pieces produced are visual, sensitive, humorous and fresh and this is on the page! When performed, each poet gave light to the unique individual inside!

My Inspiration

I could think of a million things to be my inspiration, That could be my own fantastic creation, That could be my own personal occupation, So that I could have my own private workstation, I would have a world of patience, I wouldn’t have to gulp my medication to have fun on my 10 week vacation, But wait...my problem is blatant... I don’t have no inspiration! Marilyn Monroe did have perfect hips

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But she didn’t make up her own beauty tips And Elvis is all very good, but look how he ended up. JFK – certainly, some would say he’s an inspiration, But too old-fashioned for my generation. Then there’s Marie Curie (ch’yeah if you’re 130) But wait – Wingardium Leviosa - watch how you go sir - JK Rowling – great! Yeah...maybe... But imagine saying that to your mate! Keira Knightley, Johnny Depp, Jodie Foster, Rupert Grint, Lindsay Lohan, Robert Pattinson – don’t forget Emma Watson. The list could go on some...Cheryl Cole, John and Edward, Florence and the Machine...who else? ‘My inspiration is Katie Price!’ I’m sure your mum would think that’s nice - But then... If you said, ‘My inspiration is Edgar Allen Poe!’ I’d think you as exciting as my big toe.

SACHA ELLIS-JONES

Sacha (16) has a love of drama and is a natural performer. She enjoys reading classic literature and singing tunelessly in the shower. A key theme in her writing is the fine line that lies between fantasy and reality. Find her performing more poetry in future.

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The following poems were produced during Michelle’s ‘My Soapbox’ exercise. Michelle says, ‘this writing activity recognises that not everything in life or in the world is to our liking, and that our voices matter in changing or challenging situations we are not happy with in an effective way, that allows for speaking and hearing.’

Why is Talent Crushed?

They try, succeed in their endeavours, Geeks they’re called, swots they’re called, Because they try. Natural talent, gifted, clever, Nerds they’re called, swots they’re called, Because they do well. Whether through jealousy Or if it’s a joke, It hurts them all the same, Why is talent crushed, instead of being praised? Those that fail pick on those that succeed. Those that succeed are left out, that’s not fair! Nerds they’re called, swots they’re called. They do exams, they get top marks! They are left out; they’re excluded, and hurt Doing well isn’t bad, why are they picked on? They call them nerds, swots, geeks, Simply because they succeed!

SAM FLETCHER

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Grumpy

Hmmmm. Well I’m not sure what to say but I’ve got a headache today. So I’m not really in the mood to write

something cheerful.

Ummmm. Oh I know.

At night I always want to stay up and never want go to bed but then in the morning I am always really tired and my head feels like lead and you know what that means...

I’m grumpy.

Grumpy, grumpy snap!

It seems like the whole world has turned against me and everyone is just there to annoy me.

The slightest thing seems like a huge drama and I make a big fuss over nothing then everyone thinks that I’m no fun.

That makes me even more grumpy.

It’s just a big circle of grumpiness really.

Grumpy, grumpy snap!

Headaches sometimes make me grumpy but then when I’m grumpy no-one really cares.

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Ten minutes later my friend might have a headache and then everyone fusses over her.

It’s not fair.

What about me? I’ve got one too you know.

No-one cares about me and of course that makes me grumpy.

Grumpy, grumpy snap!

I snap at all my friends, which makes them not like me, but this paper cannot dislike me

so I can say what I want (or write).

Finally I can sleeeeeeeeeep.

Next morning. Fresh start. Happy again! Well until I snap again so this is just one big circle.

My life. Fun! (Not).

NAOMI BURNS

Naomi (13) from Burley-in-Wharfedale could prove to be one of the Bronte sisters of the 21st Century. She was first inspired to write by her sister Rachel and works up stories in her bedroom where it is quiet and peaceful.

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It Wasn’t Me

What really gets on my nerves Is when I’m taken back after class Or into the hall with a group of people And I’m blamed for something I didn’t do For instance: Little Johnny Marker Stole Adam’s parka And I had to stay back after school Big James Tat Called Miss Bib a prat And I had to stay back after school It’s just not cool And Tiny Jack Ball Threw paint on the wall And even though he is quite small The paint splat was quite tall And my parents got a call And now I’m grounded So Johnny, Jack and James When they’re asking for names About who threw mud in games It is you I will blame And you’ll have to stay back after school

WILLIAM BORROWS

Rachel follows up the ‘I am’ theme with a piece exploring who we are as individuals, as a group, as a community, as a country, as a world.

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Watching the News

When people sit down to watch the News, it usually goes something like this...

Hello, and welcome to the News. Oh, not this boring show. Our top stories tonight... Here we go. A city in Asia has been destroyed by earthquake. I wonder what’s for tea. Dozens injured in bomb blast. My friend’s mad at me. Melting ice caps cause sea level to rise. Should I paint my nails pink or blue? Soldiers killed in Afghanistan. I’ve got so much homework to do. Major accident on motorway. Does my hair look alright? Man arrested for murder. What should I wear tomorrow night? And now for the local news. What’s on the other side?

RACHEL BURNS

Shmael (15) lives in Blubberhouses and attends Leeds Grammar School but finds hanging out with young people from diverse backgrounds keeps him grounded. He sees writing as a way of putting across important messages and would like to write more

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poetry in future. Here he explores what might happen if Ebolavirus was to mutate into a widespread disease, fatal to humans.

Ebola

Year 1 The news is terrifying. We thought we had it hard with swine flu. Not now. We want swine flu rather than this new danger more than we want our next breath, a point that may be proven later. Ebola. It’s coming. Ten people have already been diagnosed with this fatal disease that kills you as excruciatingly as possible. First the boils (a nightmare in school), then the itching bleeding skin. Then your eyes start bleeding. Your organs liquefy and the remnants of your lungs are coughed up through your mouth. As a final farewell you have a fit, splattering your loved ones who have come to spend your last moments with you with highly contagious blood. Death is inevitable. They say it will take 3 years for Ebola to kill 90% of the world’s population. 5.4 billion Dead in the time it takes a newborn baby to start forming sentences. As I said, swine flu please come back. Year 2 The nation is under quarantine. Everyone stays inside their houses. No one comes out. Like a prison. The government are pushing through a last desperate attempt to stop the virus. However, half of parliament has already succumbed to the disease, even Gordon Brown, and everyone knows that Ebola is airborne so it is a futile resistance.

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Year 3

Walking through the dense unkempt forest with a .22 air rifle slung limply over my shoulder. This rifle has done things no human could have. I have changed a lot over the last year. I am hardened, nothing disturbs me now. Nothing deters me. Watching your mother die before your own eyes does that to you. I have one last hope in this world. It is all that compels me to keep my sanity and not use my rifle for personal use. A sanctuary has been set up near Dover. If I get there it is very likely that they would turn me away for being too contaminated, but I have to try.

I hear screaming and the sound of small light feet running towards me. I see him shortly after. He is a boy of about eight. I crouch onto one knee for stability, take aim down the sights and fire. A clean shot. Although I was only using Busby pellets, the shot sailed straight through his head like the real thing. The pain of Ebola would mean that he wouldn’t have noticed it and his suffering ends swiftly. A year ago, this act would have brought me to mental breakdown. However, it was necessary. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest, Darwinian animal instincts are being proven to exist. I couldn’t risk him infecting me and look at the bright side; he doesn’t have to feel the pain of coughing up his lungs. I continue, thoughts of the boy lying in a pool of his own blood with a 22mm diameter hole in his head replaced by thoughts of how to get my next meal and survive.

SHMAEL SIDDIQI

Here Rachel (our other Bronte sister) takes inspiration from Shmael’s story.

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Swine Flu!!!!!

Who would have thought that a week ago everything was perfectly normal? That all I had to worry about was homework? Who could have guessed what would happen in such a short space of time? It affected every single person, so I suppose I’m just one of many. But this is how I saw it. This is my story of how the world changed in a week.

It started on Monday. Back then everything was normal. I got up at 7 o’clock as usual, got dressed, had breakfast, same as always, my head full of the English coursework I hadn’t done. I took my cereal and wandered into the living room with it, where my mum had left the News on as usual. I hardly took any notice of the headlines: Gordon Brown in expenses scandal, flooding down south, risk of disease in Mexico. You could always rely on the News to deliver the most boring stories, without fail. I grabbed the remote and changed channels.

Looking back, perhaps I should have paid more attention to it.

That day started off as ordinary as any other. I had the usual fight over the bathroom sink with Evie, who thinks that she can always get her own way just because she’s older, and the usual argument over whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher with Max, who thinks that he can always get out of chores just because he’s younger. At that time I couldn’t stand my sister and brother. I thought that nothing could change that.

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We went our separate ways once we got on the bus half an hour later: Evie at the front with her mates, me at the back, and Max upstairs. We stayed out of each other’s way at school; it was so embarrassing having my siblings at the same school as me.

I flopped down on the seat next to my best friend Katie. The first thing she asked was: ‘Have you done your English?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Have you?’

At this, she produced from her bag a plastic folder containing about eight neatly typed sheets. Typical. The one time I didn’t do my original writing coursework, my best friend had to go and practically write a novel.

‘Haven’t you done any of it? Mrs. Green will kill you,’ she said, tucking her folder back into her bag. God, she could be annoying at times.

The big excitement at school was that Mr. White had grown a beard. At our school, that was about as dramatic as things usually got. I can’t really remember much of what happened that day – it was just the same old routine.

Although I did get into trouble over my English coursework. I knew I wasn’t going to get away with it; Mrs Green doesn’t miss a thing. She even went through the register and called people out one by one to check that they’d done it. Which I hadn’t. She wasn’t happy, needless to say. I now had to get it all completely finished by the next English lesson, which was on Thursday. That gave me three days! Three days to

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do an entire piece of original writing. Impossible. I went home despairing over my fate.

However, when I thought about it, three days was quite a long time really. Ages, in fact. So, as I told myself, I was perfectly justified by going on the Wii for most of the evening.

Predictably, Mum came in with the usual rant about me spending too much time on the Wii.

‘Haven’t you got homework to do?’ she asked.

‘Er… no,’ I lied.

‘Well, anyway, turn that thing off now, I want to watch the News,’ she said, settling herself down on the sofa. What is it with grownups and the News? You’d think it was earth-shatteringly important the way that my mum watched it all the time. It wasn’t as if they ever reported anything worth listening to anyway.

‘And our top story tonight,’ began the newsreader, as I made my way out of the living room. ‘There has been a huge increase in the number of cases of swine flu in Mexico today. Reports state that already over ten thousand people have contracted the disease, which has brought the country to a standstill. The majority of residents have been told to stay in their homes to avoid further spreading of the disease, which experts have warned is extremely contagious. Our correspondent…’

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Blah blah blah, I thought, wandering into the hall. Then-

‘Swine flu?’ I asked, sticking my head back around the door. “What’s that?”

‘Some sort of flu, I think,’ mumbled Mum vaguely, clearly engrossed in the programme. I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but what kind of flu? Swine… doesn’t that mean pig? Are they saying that ten thousand people in Mexico have all got pig flu?”

‘Mmm,’ was the reply. Mum clearly wasn’t going to be much help.

‘Hey, that’s like bird flu,’ I suddenly realised. ‘I remember that. Wasn’t everyone thinking that we were all going to die because of bird flu? And everyone got well scared about it. And then nobody did die, did they?’

So I went to bed reasonably content, apart from the worry of my English homework, which I still hadn’t done, and the day ended just the same as any other would do. It seems a million years ago that I was lying there in bed without a care in the world. But that’s how it was at the time. I wasn’t stressed. I didn’t think swine flu was anything to worry about.

RACHEL BURNS

Rachel (15) from Burley-in-Wharefedale has enjoyed writing creatively since she could first read and has been collecting a folder of stories ever since. Sometimes she is disappointed with

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the books she reads so relishes any opportunity to create her own worlds in her fiction.

William (13) became interested in creative writing thanks to a good teacher at primary school. For him writing provides a way of capturing feelings in words. He would like to write a funny novel, probably in his study where he is surrounded by inspiring things such as a fine potted plant. Will began his story during a guided writing exercise in which participants were taken on a journey into the future. Over the next few weeks, he wrote reams more and completed the story. Here is the first chapter, entitled The Strangest Day in the Whole of Human Future.

Slightly Dampen

I knew I shouldn’t have flushed that dodgy toilet. No-one’s gone in there for about 180 years but I really had to go. So now I was in the year 1,800,298. I knew it was the year 1,800,298 because there was some sort of strange box projecting a holographic sign that said WELCOME TO THE YEAR 1,800,298. It made me think that perhaps 19th century water closets usually fell here. If so, I hoped that I wouldn’t get knocked cold by another time travelling loo. I seemed to be in a quarry, the night sky all around me, entombing me. A small blue hedgehog crawled over my foot. James would’ve freaked out but I’ve just travelled to the year 1,800,298 via public convenience, so nothing’s that amazing. The toilet sank, but apart from that I couldn’t smell anything. Although this was happening all I could think about was where I can wash my hands.

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Suddenly, a large blue hedgehog, like the one I’d seen before but much bigger, came up out of a hole and loomed in front of me. It screamed at me. It was wrinkly and incredibly spiky. As if thorns were growing out of him, ready to impale me. Then it started walking towards me and said, ‘Welcome, I hope you enjoyed the ride.’

After standing for a while in utter disbelief, I managed to stutter, ‘B-b-but you’re a hedgehog, hedgehogs can’t talk.’

The hedgehog’s face contorted in anger. ‘Oh right, you think that do you, racist? We hedgedogs have rights you know and all you can say is that I should keep my mouth shut. For a start I get given this rubbish job as a travelling toilet attendant, paid just about next to nothing and I have to live in a hole with nothing but a kettle and a tin of beans. And then there’s the fact that you think we can’t cross the road…’ It probably said more but by now I’d fainted.

I woke up a few hours later; I knew this because the annoying sign projected YOU’VE BEEN UNCONCIOUS FOR 4.578 HOURS. Smart Alec. Basically saying its better than you. But I decided not to have an argument with a box.

The hedgehog stood in front of me, like some sort of sponge used to scrub dead elephants off the kitchen table, ‘Oh, it’s you, finally,’ It said, obviously a bit cheesed off, ‘racist,’ it coughed.

Looking around, I saw dilapidated stone and curling wallpaper and realised that I was in a house. It was quite plain; there was no furniture apart from a sofa, which I was

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lying on. There was no light apart from the light coming from the sign.

Suddenly, something murmured, “Hold him down.” His voice was quiet but seemed to fill the room.

‘Yes, master,’ the hedgehog (or hedgedog as he called himself) answered and strapped me to the sofa.

‘Thank you, Rover,’ the man in the shadows said, ‘now we can begin the dissection.’

All I could think of saying was, ‘Rover! Your name’s Rover. What a stupid name.’ Fear can get to you sometimes.

‘Quiet, racist!’ shouted Rover (I can’t help smirking, who calls a hedgehog, or hedgedog Rover), ‘you’re not making this any easier for yourself.’

‘Easy for myself, I’m not making my own dissection easy for myself. Well sorry, what would you like me to do? Here have a cup of tea and perhaps some chips as you cut open my liver.’

‘SHUT UP!’ The man in the shadows shouted, the little amount of light there was glinted off a cleaver that he held in his hand.

‘The human is English, Sir,’ said Rover (Ha!) in a matter-of-fact tone, his spikes moving slightly.

‘I can tell that, listen to the accent, I’ve heard the audio tapes from the ancient library,’ the shadow spoke, obviously quite angry.

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‘Yes, that,’ Rover (I’m sorry but that’s just ridiculous) paused, ‘but the main reason I know is that he has enough sarcasm to fill a bath.’

‘Ha-ha, very funny,’ I said, then realised I had just proved his point. ‘By the way,’ I turned towards the figure in the shadows, ‘When you’ve cut me open, do you have enough futuristic technology to put me back together again and I’ll still be alive?’

THERE IS A 99.07% CHANCE THAT YOU WILL DIE. BASED ON THE DISSECTOR’S STATURE AND MUSCLES, THE 0.03% IS ALSO THE CHANCE THAT HE WILL MISS. The sign ‘wrote.’

‘Thanks for that, you smug sign,’ I said, fear rising in my voice.

L, The sign wrote, HOWEVER, I CANNOT SEE THE DISSECTOR PROPERLY.

‘Oh, and another thing,’ I said, I was started to shiver, ‘why do you want to dissect me?’

‘We have run out of humans, we can’t find any more and we want to know what they look like inside.’

‘You’ve run out,’ I said, and then remembered that my dad said that when facing a life threatening situation it’s good to be helpful. ‘Have you, erm… checked underneath the sofa? I find quite a lot under there.’

‘You really are an idiot,’ Rover said.

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‘You really know how to make someone feel good when they’re about to die, don’t you?’

‘At least I’m not a rac…’

‘QUIET!’ the shadowy man said, ‘both of you, now, we must begin.’ He stepped out of the shadows. That was something I will never forget.

He was a clown. No joke, a proper, white faced clown with a flower on his orange suit. This day gets stranger and stranger.

‘CLOWN! You’re a clown. What’s going on now, I’ve lost track of events.’ I said.

‘QUIET!’ the clown shouted or I’ll make you sniff my flower.’

‘Oh well this just gets better and better, doesn’t it? One more thing. How can’t there be any more humans if you’re here?’

‘I’m robotic. I was made to entertain human children but I realised it was stupid and decided to take over the world with others,’ it said.

‘Of course you did! How did I not know that? In this world anything goes. Isn’t that right, Rover the talking blue hedgedog?’

‘You may joke, young human, but soon you will be dead.’ He stepped towards me cleaver in hand.

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‘Wait, wait,’ I muttered, ‘I-I-I’ve got a toilet and I’m not afraid to use it.’

‘Good one but I’m not particularly scared.’ The clown stepped forward, knife in the air, stepping closer and closer near me… Suddenly, there was a flash of blue and Rover stepped in front of me. ‘STOP!’ he shouted, ‘I’m from the Hedgedog Attack Ministry, or HAM and I’m here to stop your plans.’

The clown looked surprised. I was surprised. Rover looked a bit surprised himself.

‘Who are you really, then?’ the clown said, trying to regain what little dignity a clown can have.

‘The name’s Rover and erm… that’s it. License to peeve.’

‘And here I was thinking you were going to be heroic,’ I said.

‘Shut up, I’m trying to save you,’ Rover said. He punched the clown in the face, picked up the cube projector which was stuck on :o and picked me up. He then rushed out of the house. ‘What’s going on?’ I said, scared of hitting Rover’s spikes.

‘I’ve been appointed to find out what I can about the clowns and that one, their leader called Bobo. I was then to wait for a toilet and travel back and stop either the earth invasion of the clowns, their settlement as an embassy or their creation.’ He panted, running towards the toilet.

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And then I did something I was terrified of doing. I reviewed the situation.

Humankind had been destroyed and I was helping to save the universe from evil robotic clowns with a talking hedgehog in a society called HAM with a license to peeve and a smug box that projects holographic words while travelling through space-time in a toilet.

I needed a nap.

WILLIAM BORROWS

Untitled

A ripping sensation shot and burned its way through my arms and down my legs as the cogs in my brain started to tick again. The warm blood flooded my starved cells with oxygen, with life. I was left alone, so alone. I was sat there all alone in my ‘home sweet home’. Sweet as fudge it was. Yes that’s how I’d imagined it to be when I assigned myself this mission. The mission that I knew would take me away from my whole life, my whole family, everything. I gave it all up, and for what? My home sweet home was a cocoon of sharp metal that dug into my naked body each and every way I turned. I awoke, gasping like a newborn entering into a scary new and wondrous world.

I know I had chosen this fate for myself but I never once gave a thought about what I would do once I awoke from my deep induced slumber. My army survival training

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handbook sprang to mind as my fumbling unsteady breath formed icy clouds of fog as it escaped my mouth. The book danced in and out of my thoughts, tormenting me and leading me round and round in circles until one quote made itself entirely visible to me, ‘ In case of an avalanche, one should dribble slightly as to gain knowledge to which way is up and which way is down. Subsequent to the dribbling, one should start punching their way up to the surface. If one cannot prise their body out of the avalanche, just leave whatever you can get above the snow so it is easier for a rescuer to find you.’

Sparks jumped about, burning into me as an eerie creaking ricocheted off the metal boundaries of my cocoon and an ear- piercing alarm brought me back to my senses. I was lying, God knows where, God knows when, in a prickly nest of spiked metal, with sticky dribble ebbing down my chin. Fantastic. Just great. Oh well, better give something a try, I thought as even something was better than wallowing here drowned in self-pity. And so I started to punch my way out, punched as hard as I could, summoning each and every drop I could find in my aching muscles. The ripping wires also ripped at my pale and malnourished skin. The touch felt familiar to me, and the red blood looked so appealing. I licked my gashed fingers trying to harness the brilliant red; however the taste was not so brilliant. It was like everything around me, like metal, like the smell that surrounded me in my petite metal home.

A blinding sunlight smouldered my lost embers of eyes, wait, no, it couldn’t be sunlight. It was someone else’s eyes. Only, yes, their pupils weren’t as dense as the velvety midnight sky, common in most life forms in the Universe, but they rippled gently yet magnificently like two beacons of amber sun. Could it be what I’d been looking for, what I’d risked everything for, what I needed? YES!! I cannot yet

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describe the feeling that sped up my heart, which turned my despair into hope that rescued me from that dark pit of numbness that I had so foolishly let myself fall into. I had found life at last! I had spent an eternity of searching and waiting, I had witnessed all the heart-stopping false hope and fakes. Yet, I had finally found it! Who’d have thought that it would be me, not some la-did-ah-up-themself grey-haired scientist, just me!

‘Ssrriek kah jum ali huy kumi’. I was held, fixated at this beautiful creature, yet paralysed in my own fear. It was composed of giant and planet-like cells of the most vibrant colours imaginable. When it had finished rasping at me I had finally located my voice, it was a little dusty but it was still there. “N..n...n...no. Sir.or...Madam...I...I...so sorry..I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m number 231005 of the NASA Corporation of the Earth Army rehabilitation unit, from the Space station located off the gravitational field of Mars, built by native Earthlings. I mean you no harm”. My bloody hand shook as I lifted it out in front of me, strained to keep it there, showing a sign of respect. The being hesitated, unsure of the current situation, and remained very cautious. I waited for what seemed like another eternity, not even letting a breath escape me, before the being slowly showed its gangly slimy yellow fingers and wound them around my arm.

‘No harm,’ it repeated.

And that was it, I’d found what I’ve risked everything for. Id retrieved a DNA blueprint of another life form. Only now I was intrigued. Should I return back to my lifetime, to my home, to my family and bank my discovery? Find fame and fortune, or stay and learn more about all that I’ve always wondered so passionately about?

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HELENA BELOW

Helena (16) from Ilkley is looking forward to an action-packed summer, learning to surf the waves and to sail a tall ship. She says that when she holds a pen, stories just seem to flow out of it. Helena’s ideal place to write would be a Malaysian beach and she welcomes all contributions to the cause! Life is GREAT, she says.

Saving the Future

Chapter 1

This story begins with a small cardboard box. On opening it I realised that this was a gateway to the future. How? I know it was a gateway to the future because it was, quite literally, blindingly obvious. The words ‘Gateway to the future’ were emblazoned on it in blinding white light. I stared for a bit, then, without realising, began to be consumed by the box, and appeared in another world...

I could see the world. I vaguely recognised it. With immense shock I realised it was my own home. But it was so different. My room was empty, and there was a faint metallic smell. I was acutely aware of a quiet grumbling

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noise in the background. A factory, perhaps? Then I did something I will never forget, I looked out of the window.

There I looked out onto a fairly empty town. The everyday scene I had become used to was gone. No cars. No people. No road.

I spotted a man wandering along. I thought I might know him. Faded blond hair, empty pale blue eyes and the faint memory of a lost grin around his mouth. He was my brother! I called out to him but he carried on walking, in a zombie-like trance. I was scared. So scared.

I rushed outside to greet him, ask him what was going on. But the sarcastic, annoying boy that had been my brother was gone, replaced with a hollow, broken shell of a man.

‘Work. Must work. Work. Must work...’ he began to chant. I called to him.

‘Joe! Are you ok? Where am I? What’s going on?’ There was no reply. Not even a faint reaction. His hand reached out. As I looked into it I saw he had given me a letter. It said:

It is November 4th 2014.This is the last day I remain sane. The world has changed. Fossil fuels have run out and a monster dictator has been elected. He tempted us with fossil fuels. He promised that if every man worked for just one day, he would give them back to us. Gradually, men started going to do their day of work. But, after a day, they turned into madmen, obsessed with the job. No-one ever returned. And now they’re coming for those of us intelligent enough to stay away. If you get this letter, and you’re still sane, get out now, however you can.

Joe.

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I knew that the gateway was still open. I could just go back, forget anything had ever happened. However, somehow I knew that it was my job to save the future from this terrible fate I was witnessing, whether I wanted to or not.

Chapter 2

As I contemplated what I might do next, the ground suddenly started shuddering uncontrollably. There was a bright white flash of light and, out of nowhere, a boy in war-time clothing appeared. Next to him, a gas mask box was lit up by the words ‘Gateway to the future’. The ground began to shake even more violently and there were more white flashes. More people began to appear, all with gateways to the future, shaped like boxes. They were male or female, young or old and, amazingly, all from different time-periods. However, they all had one thing in common; they were all here to save the future.

I stared in awe at the five characters that stood before me. They stared back, equally bewildered. There was a Roman soldier, a Victorian woman, a Tudor girl, an Egyptian man, and the wartime boy. The Roman began to speak, in Latin, but somehow I understood every word.

‘What is going on? Who are you? I have places to be, battles to fight, why am I here? Why me?’

We were all thinking the same thing. Reluctantly, since I was the most modern and understood the situation the most, I took the lead.

‘I am from the year 2010. This, behind me, is my house in 2014.’

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I read them the letter, struggling to explain what had happened. The group stood, all in silence, all thinking, formulating plans. The wartime boy spoke:

‘We must be here for a reason. We need to go back to the point where the world went wrong and we need to fix it, at all costs.’

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than it started to happen. Each of us began to be consumed once more into our boxes, and into another time.

I was met with a relatively familiar scene. At first I assumed I was back to the present, until I spotted a nearby newspaper stall. In small black letters at the top of the page was the date: Friday 13th August 2012.

I grabbed a copy of the Mail, searching for a reason as to why we were here. The first few pages were completely full with stories about the Olympics, of course! It was the biggest event of the year. Although I was tempted to see how Team GB was doing in the medal tables I carried on searching. After all, my historical friends were relying on me. It hit me how ridiculous they must have looked to passers-by.

This story suddenly caught my attention:

General election! Zolvod predicted to win.

After requesting an early election, Prime minister devastated as mysterious new politician is predicted to win, promising more fossil fuels.

At first I was puzzled. I’d never even heard of this man, and yet he would be running the country in two years time. The various figures of living history around me had finished acclimatising and had begun to focus on the job at hand,

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saving the world. Then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me, it hit all of us. Zolvod was set to become an evil tyrant. It was our job to stop him.

SAM FLETCHER

Becky asked participants to think up ‘why’ questions about life and the universe and to create stories that answer them. Whereas Sam’s last piece was a story about a fictional future explorer, this piece tells the tale of a discovery that might have been made by a familiar one from our past.

If the world is a sphere, why don’t Australians fall off the bottom?

It was hundreds of years ago, and Captain Cooke was on a voyage to discover new lands. But he found that, as he travelled further and further around the globe, things that weren’t tied down began to fall into the sky, including him. Of course, to him it looked as if they were flying. He was puzzled and asked one of his sailors to come up with a solution. The sailor tried all manner of sticky materials on

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the ship until, eventually, he found that if he applied a small amount of treacle to the shoes of the crew and the underside of anything not tied down, they could move about freely without falling into the sky. However, they still had the sensation of blood constantly rushing to their heads, but they just had to put up with that.

When they arrived they found that the Aboriginals had being using treacle to overcome this problem for ages. In fact, everyone north of the equator had, in one way or another found a sticky substance that would act like the treacle, although treacle worked the best. Years passed with anyone north of the equator having to apply treacle to almost everything, until around 140 years after Cooke’s voyage, an inventor invented microscopic sticky pads that could be applied to things to stop them falling into the sky. Today, Australians have evolved to overcome that upside-down feeling and, to this day, apply microscopic sticky pads to anything not tied down.

SAM FLETCHER

Sam (13) lives in Sutton-in-Craven with his family and a pet tortoise. His passion for writing was first ignited when he read the Chronicles of Narnia. Sam likes it when people appreciate his work and aspires to be a published author of spy novels when he is older.

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Here Naomi applies her love of gymnastics to her writing, bending her ideas into fantastic and surprising shapes.

Why do Trees Grow Upwards?

Once upon a time, in the magical land of Haydonia, many small families of fairies lived in a network of tiny tunnels, just big enough for the fairies to stand up in. In the one family there was the mother fairy, Rosemary; Tatyana who was 7 (49 in fairy years); Samuel who was 5 (35 in elf years); Ella who was 3 (21 in fairy years) and their elf father, Edward, who looked after them all. They lived a very happy life but there was just one problem - the fairies didn’t like the tunnels they had to live in. But it was their only choice for whenever they came out of their tunnel they had to fly straight away so that the ground monsters (now more

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commonly known as cats) couldn’t get them. But the children could not fly so they had never seen the light of day, only the inside of the dark, muddy tunnels.

‘But mother, I want to be able to fly like you. Up, up, up I’ll go, right up to the sky!’ Tatyana said dreamily.

‘Me too mother, me too! I’ll fly right alongside Tatyana. Nothing will stop me. I’ll fly until my wings flop off!’ Samuel cried.

‘Where are your wings?’ asked Ella uncertainly.

‘He doesn’t have any wings really, Ella. He has ears instead that act like a compass and pull him in whatever direction he wants,’ explained Tatyana.

‘Ooooooo! Can I fly too mother. I’ll be the quickest. Zoom, zoom, zoom,’ said Ella, racing around the room whilst spreading her wings out.

‘Well I’ll try children to think of some way that you can fly,’ promised their mother.

One day Rosemary was out on her daily flight when she settled on a root near one of the streams that led in to the Haydon river. She looked across the flat land until her eyes could peer no more. She wished that her children could fly but beginners need height and the tallest thing that she could see were the ground monsters and even if they flew onto their backs without getting eaten it still wouldn’t give them the height they needed. She could carry the children on her back but it would be too far to reach anything tall enough.

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Fairies could do magic but only because they had the biggest brains in all the land so they could hatch complicated plans that no other creature known could do. Because of this they were deeply respected and any living thing would do what they asked partly out of respect but also because they were scared that if they didn’t that the fairies would use their power against them. Any fairy could perform magic but only if they had a plot.

Rosemary thought and thought until her brain could think no more. She was walking along the root, absentmindedly keeping an eye out for the monsters when two small fairies, which Rosemary knew only from sight, ran past her pushing each other around.

‘Oh just grow-up!’ she snapped, exasperated. Suddenly the root that she was sitting on started to lift her right off the ground. The two children were getting further and further away as she rose higher in to the sky. Bam! As suddenly as it had started it stopped and fell back to the ground.

Of course - the roots! One main root would stretch at least 5 metres across the land and had many smaller branches coming off them. If they grew towards the sky they would be the tallest things around. Although the roots followed what the fairy said, it could not grow unless Rosemary had a specific plan of measurement.

‘Grow upwards ninety degrees so that you are pointing towards the sky,’ she commanded. As soon as she said it, the root grew upwards. It was the tallest thing that she had ever seen in her life. It towered over her as the bare

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branches began to grow strange green things out of the ends.

Rosemary called her family out of the burrows and flew them up in to the root.

‘Wow! It’s so high up,’ said Samuel, walking along one of the branches.

‘Be careful Harvey. Don’t fall,’ warned Rosemary.

‘It’s scary,’ whimpered Ella.

‘Don’t be scared Ella. I’ll build you a nest so that you can’t fall down,’ said Edward already setting to work.

‘So what are they called now mother. I mean roots are on the ground so what are these?’ asked Tatyana.

Well let’s see. T for Tatyana, R for Rosemary, E for Edward, E for Ella and S for Samuel. So that spells... let’s see... oh trees. That’s it! We are sitting in a tree!’

So that’s how trees became upright. All the flat trees which they called roots were turned in to tall trees which were safe from the round monsters and ideal for flying lessons which Rosemary held every morning for the many small fairies and elves that had come to live in the grand old tree.

NAOMI BURNS

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What better way to end than with a fairytale for the 21st Century? Not so Happily Ever After

Once upon a time, in a land not so far from here a beautiful Princess awoke to find her Prince Charming, kneeling at her bedside. Upon her awakening, the Prince said to the Princess that he loved her more than he had ever loved anything and without further ado, he asked her to marry him.

The Princess, who had in fact been under an enchanted sleep, looked at the man beside her, and knowing that he was the Prince of her dreams, of course, said yes. At once the Prince swept up his fiancé and took her, gallantly upon his noble steed, into the setting sun. Thirty-three children were consequently conceived and together they lived happily ever...

Unfortunately, I find myself unable to complete this sentence; for those of us with moral consciences and respect for the younger generations we know that these ‘happily ever afters’ are unrealistic, and quite frankly unachievable. ‘Prince Charming, noble steed, enchanted sleep’.

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<<PAHH!>> Who am I kidding? I want diamonds, I want my own Prince Charming, and I want my own pair of glass slippers.

Instead I get a bunch of laughs at my expense and told to stop living the dream – I’m not a Princess.

I’ve lived my whole life admiring Snow White’s beautiful complexion, Cinderella’s gorgeous ball-gowns and it takes me until now to realise that my whole life, every minute has been a lie.

Cinderella is much more likely to meet her Prince on Facebook and Snow White will have been tangoed. Little Red Riding Hood is much more likely to bump into a group of chavs than a Big Bad Wolf on her way to meet Granny, and Rapunzel’s flowing lock are probably the result of some £10.00 peroxide blonde extensions from Xtras.

Take Beauty and the Beast: the whole point is the Beauty falls for Beast as a result of his personality, but the ending reveals Beast to be a charismatic, handsome man who is to inherit 379acres worth of land, and who is most likely to have starred in Heat magazine after committing adultery with various WAG’s and have a multimillion pound villa off the coast of Majorca ... thus defeating the object.

Shouldn’t we be looking at what’s on the inside, rather than judging people on their appearance, on the superficial things? So here’s my point, simplistic though it is ... I want to know – why, to be a heroine, do you have to be beautiful?

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Once upon a time, in a land not so far from here, an ugly hag awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the window. Groaning, she rolled over, and whilst putting her slippers on, realized she had yet another bunion forming on her left foot, adding to the numerous corns and verrucas already building up. Shuffling into the kitchen, she … I don’t know about you but this doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

SACHA ELLIS-JONES

Afterword – in this poem Michelle shares her experience of working with The Pencil Pushers.

My story for yours Call and response Nothing more As they pitch Deep inside And we see the light Of being Come through Once more silenced By their primal Clear truth And what springs Like clear light Is the collective Bonding That seeds this day

I was so humbled By their courage at hand To see colours and vision

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Poetic irony Tumble from their minds To be the first to witness new Writers’ Insight, As words spoken and written came alive I loved the energy of the group The dynamic lets each have their room And I enjoyed the self-motivation And earnest and honest Dedication, to their pieces at hand In addition to detail Within sentence, line Concept or prose I loved the way the group Listened to each other Quietly gave confidence And all grew stronger I loved the sharing and evaluation In its simplicity and clarity I believe the objective was met And new friendships made Memories like these Seed the dreams we undertake So to finally summarize Thank you for the chance To witness the new writers Rise, shine and give out Light.

MICHELLE SCALLY CLARKE (FACILITATOR, WRITER AND PERFORMANCE POET)

Front cover image by Sam Fletcher

Cover design by dg3

Photographs by David Collins

Ilkley Literature Festival 2010

The Ilkley Literature Festival Ltd. Registered In England and Wales Company No: 1061343 Ilkley Literature Festival is a registered charity Charity No: 501801