Tuesday, 17 April 2012
The library is silent, or that's what they'd hope,
but the people caged up here, they just couldn't cope,
without the hushed exclamations, oh, how rebellious they are,
ignoring the steel angered glares from afar.
There's a girl in the corner, she's reading a book,
but her eyes are glazed over, she just doesn't look,
at the words there before her, tumbling out of the page,
she doesn't seem to get it: it must be her age.
There are thousands of fantasies here for people to enjoy,
to escape the mundane feelings of a normal girl or boy,
even for adults, it's an escape from their lives,
a deadend job, a tradgety, or maybe just their wives.
The library that stands here, can swallow people up,
immurse them for days, as they wouldn't think to look,
at such a thing as a clock while a battle rages on,
it flashes across their face, but in a moment it's gone.
There are countless adventures, just waiting to be had,
to make you laugh, shake you up or even make you sad,
but when life gets you down, you can return there with ease,
to forget your obligations, and be who you pelase.
but the people caged up here, they just couldn't cope,
without the hushed exclamations, oh, how rebellious they are,
ignoring the steel angered glares from afar.
There's a girl in the corner, she's reading a book,
but her eyes are glazed over, she just doesn't look,
at the words there before her, tumbling out of the page,
she doesn't seem to get it: it must be her age.
There are thousands of fantasies here for people to enjoy,
to escape the mundane feelings of a normal girl or boy,
even for adults, it's an escape from their lives,
a deadend job, a tradgety, or maybe just their wives.
The library that stands here, can swallow people up,
immurse them for days, as they wouldn't think to look,
at such a thing as a clock while a battle rages on,
it flashes across their face, but in a moment it's gone.
There are countless adventures, just waiting to be had,
to make you laugh, shake you up or even make you sad,
but when life gets you down, you can return there with ease,
to forget your obligations, and be who you pelase.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Mr Crest had owned one of the shabbiest, most scruffy-looking static caravans that had ever sat in the little world of Ocean Gates Caravan Park. He was a tall man, with jet black hair and a crooked nose. He had had the battered little shell for years, and was now known to have taken a permanent residence there. There had once been a time when he had visited the little place every weekend with his wife. They had been a happy couple. She had always worn the prettiest dresses, and her large eyes were glittering blue orbs.
However, one weekend he appeared, and his wife was nowhere to be seen. That was the day that Mr Crest’s face had become sullen, and his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. Weeks and weeks after that, nobody saw his wife, and people began to assume she had passed away.
He led a quiet life after that. Apart from some occasions in which he had played music awfully loudly, and he had had to be told to keep the noise down; he kept to himself, and didn’t leave his caravan other than to have his breakfast at the Ocean Gates café, or to post a letter. I thought he had been quite a nice man; not at all capable of what he had been recently accused.
It was only yesterday that I had witnessed the scene of the body being carried from Mr Crest’s battered old caravan. It was Mr Lizard. The old, pot-bellied, red-haired, red-face little man who owned Ocean Gates.
Mr Lizard had never married, and with no children, he was completely alone. Who was now the rightful owner of Ocean Gates Caravan Park, you may ask? The police had set some private detectives to find someone who could take his place. If not, they would have to sell the land.
I had been going to my parent’s caravan every weekend since I was a young boy. The place offered me an escape from the horrors of reality, and instead gave me a sunny atmosphere, fresh, salty air and a wonderful view of the sea. But although Ocean Gates had always been my blissful retreat, the death of Mr Lizard had awoken something in me.
His body had been found lying in the centre of the sitting-room of Mr Crest’s static caravan. Surrounded by the dull, brown moth-eaten sofa which surrounded the walls; and the petite wooden dining table with its three matching chairs. A puncture wound went right through his heart, and a large slash down his left cheek. Mr Crest had apparently been standing over him, holding a tiny silver kitchen knife. It was said that Crest had been playing his music rather loudly again, and old Mr Lizard had only gone over there to kindly tell him to lower the volume.
He had been arrested of course, for murder. But he hadn’t done it. I was certain. My clue, my only clue to prove this, was that the knife gash on the side of Mr Lizards face was on the left. Only a left-handed person could have done it. Mr Crest was right-handed. Mr Crest hadn’t killed Mr Lizard. And I was going to prove it.
And so there I stood, in the empty living room of Mr Crest’s old caravan. The dried blood stains still on the grey carpet, everything else still intact. I had obtained the keys from Mr Lizard’s old office (no one ever went in there anymore) and let myself in.
I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, but I had hardly been in there for ten minutes when I found it.
A shrill, screeching howl filled my ears. It came from the room which I knew to be Mr Crest’s bedroom. I ran inside, not even thinking. Nothing. Just an empty room. Mattress, wardrobe and all. But then it occurred a second time, and I realised that the interior of the caravan didn’t match the exterior. It was far too small inside for it to fit the outside. And then I pieced together the mysterious wail and the too-small interior and pushed open the wardrobe door.
Inside, sat Mrs Crest. Her skin was yellow, her dark hair matted and thick with dirt. She wore nothing more than a bed sheet and as soon as she spotted me began to screech again. Mr Crest had been keeping his wife locked up in here all this time. Had it been she who had killed Mr Lizard? Had she escaped from her tiny prison and slaughtered him? Had Mr Crest taken the blame for her madness? What had made her become so mentally disturbed?
Just when I thought I had found the answer to Lizard’s death, something extraordinary happened. A young boy, around the age of six, jumped out from behind the door holding a knife. She had a son. The mad woman had a son. But from his rosy-red cheeks, and his bright red hair, I knew instantly that Mr Crest wasn’t the father.
And so, from that little boy’s harsh, protecting glare; his mother’s mad eyes; the secret room. I knew. Of course it hadn’t been Mrs Crest, I always knew she had been right-handed from when she would write stories in the café.
Mrs Crest had had an affair. This had resulted in a pregnancy, which Mr Crest had already known was not something he had caused. He had become angry, terribly angry, and hurt, threatened and sent his wife mad because she had hurt him so much. He then had no other choice to lock her in a secret room. And the wailing? That was the purpose of the loud music.
Now the child had grown up with his mentally insane mother, and he and Mr Crest had done everything they could to keep her hidden. This also meant keeping the existence of the boy concealed.
Mr Lizard had come into Mr Crest’s caravan to find a mad woman, escaped from her room. Who had killed him? The boy, of course. The only one who cared about his mother that much; the only one who would be willing to kill to stop her being sent to a madhouse.
Why had Mr Crest taken the blame? After all the time he had spent with the child, though he wasn’t his own, he had grown to love him. He couldn’t see anything bad happen to him.
And who inherited the Ocean Gates? The little boy, with Lizard’s red hair, and his mother’s blue eyes.
R
However, one weekend he appeared, and his wife was nowhere to be seen. That was the day that Mr Crest’s face had become sullen, and his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. Weeks and weeks after that, nobody saw his wife, and people began to assume she had passed away.
He led a quiet life after that. Apart from some occasions in which he had played music awfully loudly, and he had had to be told to keep the noise down; he kept to himself, and didn’t leave his caravan other than to have his breakfast at the Ocean Gates café, or to post a letter. I thought he had been quite a nice man; not at all capable of what he had been recently accused.
It was only yesterday that I had witnessed the scene of the body being carried from Mr Crest’s battered old caravan. It was Mr Lizard. The old, pot-bellied, red-haired, red-face little man who owned Ocean Gates.
Mr Lizard had never married, and with no children, he was completely alone. Who was now the rightful owner of Ocean Gates Caravan Park, you may ask? The police had set some private detectives to find someone who could take his place. If not, they would have to sell the land.
I had been going to my parent’s caravan every weekend since I was a young boy. The place offered me an escape from the horrors of reality, and instead gave me a sunny atmosphere, fresh, salty air and a wonderful view of the sea. But although Ocean Gates had always been my blissful retreat, the death of Mr Lizard had awoken something in me.
His body had been found lying in the centre of the sitting-room of Mr Crest’s static caravan. Surrounded by the dull, brown moth-eaten sofa which surrounded the walls; and the petite wooden dining table with its three matching chairs. A puncture wound went right through his heart, and a large slash down his left cheek. Mr Crest had apparently been standing over him, holding a tiny silver kitchen knife. It was said that Crest had been playing his music rather loudly again, and old Mr Lizard had only gone over there to kindly tell him to lower the volume.
He had been arrested of course, for murder. But he hadn’t done it. I was certain. My clue, my only clue to prove this, was that the knife gash on the side of Mr Lizards face was on the left. Only a left-handed person could have done it. Mr Crest was right-handed. Mr Crest hadn’t killed Mr Lizard. And I was going to prove it.
And so there I stood, in the empty living room of Mr Crest’s old caravan. The dried blood stains still on the grey carpet, everything else still intact. I had obtained the keys from Mr Lizard’s old office (no one ever went in there anymore) and let myself in.
I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, but I had hardly been in there for ten minutes when I found it.
A shrill, screeching howl filled my ears. It came from the room which I knew to be Mr Crest’s bedroom. I ran inside, not even thinking. Nothing. Just an empty room. Mattress, wardrobe and all. But then it occurred a second time, and I realised that the interior of the caravan didn’t match the exterior. It was far too small inside for it to fit the outside. And then I pieced together the mysterious wail and the too-small interior and pushed open the wardrobe door.
Inside, sat Mrs Crest. Her skin was yellow, her dark hair matted and thick with dirt. She wore nothing more than a bed sheet and as soon as she spotted me began to screech again. Mr Crest had been keeping his wife locked up in here all this time. Had it been she who had killed Mr Lizard? Had she escaped from her tiny prison and slaughtered him? Had Mr Crest taken the blame for her madness? What had made her become so mentally disturbed?
Just when I thought I had found the answer to Lizard’s death, something extraordinary happened. A young boy, around the age of six, jumped out from behind the door holding a knife. She had a son. The mad woman had a son. But from his rosy-red cheeks, and his bright red hair, I knew instantly that Mr Crest wasn’t the father.
And so, from that little boy’s harsh, protecting glare; his mother’s mad eyes; the secret room. I knew. Of course it hadn’t been Mrs Crest, I always knew she had been right-handed from when she would write stories in the café.
Mrs Crest had had an affair. This had resulted in a pregnancy, which Mr Crest had already known was not something he had caused. He had become angry, terribly angry, and hurt, threatened and sent his wife mad because she had hurt him so much. He then had no other choice to lock her in a secret room. And the wailing? That was the purpose of the loud music.
Now the child had grown up with his mentally insane mother, and he and Mr Crest had done everything they could to keep her hidden. This also meant keeping the existence of the boy concealed.
Mr Lizard had come into Mr Crest’s caravan to find a mad woman, escaped from her room. Who had killed him? The boy, of course. The only one who cared about his mother that much; the only one who would be willing to kill to stop her being sent to a madhouse.
Why had Mr Crest taken the blame? After all the time he had spent with the child, though he wasn’t his own, he had grown to love him. He couldn’t see anything bad happen to him.
And who inherited the Ocean Gates? The little boy, with Lizard’s red hair, and his mother’s blue eyes.
R
Monday, 2 April 2012
Once upon a time there was a bearded scarf person called Egbert Jalamar. He lived in a blue room which he thought was nice, thank you very much. One day, a strange woman arrived at the room: her short brown hair was tied back in a yellow and black scarf. WHAT A SURPRISE! Thought Edgar, readjusting his beard, which had started to drop off. He never got visitors.
Egbert thought her scarf was rather spiffing, and asked her where she got such an item. 'Hogwarts!' She said. 'My school!' Egbert thought that was an odd name for a school, what things did they learn about there? He thought. Did they study warts on hogs? It sounded very different to the school Egbert had gone to, where all they had learned about was how to kill and tap dance at the same time.
He didn't feel very inclined to tap dance at that moment, nor did he feel threatened by the strange looking girl, so had no desire to kill her. Instead he gestured forwards with his crooked fingers, waving her inside. "Would you like some tea, my dear?" He asked kindly. "Or perhaps something a little stronger?"
"Firewhiskey?" she asked hopefully.
Egbert pulled a face. What on earth, he wondered, was she talking about?
'No, dear,' he said 'you can't set fire to whisky, that causes a big hot thing to come out of it which we sane people like to call fire.' The girl looked him up and down, Egbert thought, rather like a predator. 'Where are you from?' she asked.
Egbert puffed out his chest. 'I? I am from somewhere great! Somewhere far too wonderful for people like you to know about.'
'But wher-'
'I WAS BORN IN A WORLD FILLED WITH ALL SORTS OF CREATURES AND MACHINES.' 'Wher-'
'WE HAD MAGIC AND POWER AND TRANSPORTATION DEVICES MADE OUT OF THE HARDEST METAL.' 'Yes, bu-'
'I WAS BORN INTO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SPOT THAT HAS EVER BEEN KNOWN IN THE GALAXY!' 'OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, WHERE?'
There was a pause, as Egbert looked suspiciously from side to side, before coming close to the girl's ear. 'Asda car park.' He whispered.
The girl almost choked on the tea she had poured. Spluttering, she said "Asda car park?"
The man puffed out his chest as he nodded, obviously proud of his heritage.
"As in, the supermarket? Where they sell bread and cheese and... stuff. THAT Asda?"
Egbert looked agast, his senses were beginning to tell him he had been wrong about this girl. The idea of her death was becoming more and more desirable. Infact, he could almost feel his hand reaching unconsciously for the pocket of his armoured jacket where he kept his sword.
The girl stepped backwards, hand darting to a weapon of her own.
Just then, a small boy with jet black hair, bright green eyes and glasses sellotaped in the middle jumped between the two of them just at the right moment. 'DON'T YOU DARE!' Egbert and the girl looked at each other, confused. 'Who are you?' They asked in unison. 'I AM HARR- err Neville Longbottom.'
'Hello Harrerneville, it's nice to meet you.' said Egbert, holding out his hand.
Harrerneville took the pro-offererd hand suspicously. And looked back at the girl, "you don't know me yet" he proclaimed, sighing deeply. "But with this time turner i will guide you home and ignite your bones and I will try... to fix you."
The girl glared at him.
"I don't need your help, actually!" She huffed, folding her arms across her chest.
Egbert stood with his hand still outstretched, completely baffled.
Harrerneville shook his head once, before gripping hold of the girls arm. "Sorry," he sighed.
And then, like spinning on air, they were gone.
Egbert was alone.
He smiled.
THE END
BY BECCA AND JAYNE.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Hello, this is Daisy,
As I will not be here today, in the lesson, due to Drama rehearsals all day (panic!) I thought I'd leave a link to my blogger account -
http://daisiesoftheinternet.blogspot.co.uk/
I hope it proves helpful in trying to get our poetry/writing out there.
Toodles,
Daisy :)
As I will not be here today, in the lesson, due to Drama rehearsals all day (panic!) I thought I'd leave a link to my blogger account -
http://daisiesoftheinternet.blogspot.co.uk/
I hope it proves helpful in trying to get our poetry/writing out there.
Toodles,
Daisy :)
Friday, 23 March 2012
When I dream
I feel so free
And I turn this feeling
Into poetry.
And when the darkness
Reaches my heart
I turn this madness
Into art.
And when my fear
Demolishes all feelings
I lift my chin
And a song I’ll sing.
And when my thoughts
Become all gory
I pick up my pen
And write a story.
-R
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Mum and Dad were on a holiday, a "weekend away" that's what Uncle Oliver said. Uncle Oliver was downstairs, pacing in the hall way, in his grey jacket. Aunt Judy tells gim to wash it every week, but it still smells of old cigar smoke."Judy, Hannah!" he's claling upstairs, he sounds like he's smiling,
"Oh, that man," Aunt Judy mumbles as she's pasting red lipstick on in the mirror, "Coming darling!" she then calls.
I'm sat on the bed, in my white and red spoty dress. Uncle Oliver is taking us out, I'm excited but Aunt Judy's panicing, totering around the room in tights, stilettos and make-up,
"I just don't know what to wear!" she exclaims, she was wearing a black dress with lace sleves before, but apparantly it was wrong.
"You could wear your jeans," I said, she stared at me and laughed, I don't know why, "Can I downstairs?" I then ask, she tuts as she pulls a red silk skirt out of her wardrobe,
"Oh no!" she beams, "It can be us up here, girls together!" Aunt Judy only has boys, so I think that's why she's making a fuss of dressing up. I nod and sit silently as she tries on her fifth outfit of the evening. We still managed to make the reservation.
"Oh, that man," Aunt Judy mumbles as she's pasting red lipstick on in the mirror, "Coming darling!" she then calls.
I'm sat on the bed, in my white and red spoty dress. Uncle Oliver is taking us out, I'm excited but Aunt Judy's panicing, totering around the room in tights, stilettos and make-up,
"I just don't know what to wear!" she exclaims, she was wearing a black dress with lace sleves before, but apparantly it was wrong.
"You could wear your jeans," I said, she stared at me and laughed, I don't know why, "Can I downstairs?" I then ask, she tuts as she pulls a red silk skirt out of her wardrobe,
"Oh no!" she beams, "It can be us up here, girls together!" Aunt Judy only has boys, so I think that's why she's making a fuss of dressing up. I nod and sit silently as she tries on her fifth outfit of the evening. We still managed to make the reservation.
The spine is cracked and the pages torn,
Everything about this book is worn.
The print is faded to a grey,
Though the words, with me, they stay.
I turn a page then several more,
I read until my eyes are sore.
And when I finish, I smile and sigh,
Without a book, I want to cry.
And so, I walk on down a street,
Straight to a friend I long to meet.
I open the door and hear a "DING!"
I see full shelves, I want to sing.
Row upon rows of unread books,
Here, I get no weird looks.
I trace my finger along each spine,
"One day, you books, you will be mine."
I find a title, a blurb, a cover,
A whole new world that I'll discover.
I pick a few, a sturdy pile,
And to the counter I walk and smile.
I buy my books, a reasonable fare,
I breathe in the papery air.
And then, I leave back up the street,
The plastic bag has friends to meet.
In this outside world, I get strange looks,
No matter, for I have my books.
Everything about this book is worn.
The print is faded to a grey,
Though the words, with me, they stay.
I turn a page then several more,
I read until my eyes are sore.
And when I finish, I smile and sigh,
Without a book, I want to cry.
And so, I walk on down a street,
Straight to a friend I long to meet.
I open the door and hear a "DING!"
I see full shelves, I want to sing.
Row upon rows of unread books,
Here, I get no weird looks.
I trace my finger along each spine,
"One day, you books, you will be mine."
I find a title, a blurb, a cover,
A whole new world that I'll discover.
I pick a few, a sturdy pile,
And to the counter I walk and smile.
I buy my books, a reasonable fare,
I breathe in the papery air.
And then, I leave back up the street,
The plastic bag has friends to meet.
In this outside world, I get strange looks,
No matter, for I have my books.
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