The Giraffe

The giraffe stands tall, her head held high, her elegant neck looming over me. Her eyes are kind, dark and full of thoughts. They stare as if they are looking at me and only me. Her ears are pricked up and alert as she gravely trots across the coarse savannah grass. She’s beautiful and she knows it.

By Sarah Gibson

A Fairy Raid. Inspiration- Sir Noel Patron.

A single star shines in the night-time sky, giving light to my heart. I cannot go back. I shall not. Unloved, uncared for, that will be my life no longer. A noise. A sound in the bush. I push past the green vines that reach out with their cold hearts to ensnare me. And suddenly I’m free of the forest. The fairy folk turn to stare. I have intruded n their party. A wild-man, a servant of the queen grabs me by the waist and raises his hand to release a burst of magic, to kill me.

“no.” a simple command , and yet an order. The queen turns. “she wishes to be here. She wants to be one of us!” and laughs. The whole community laughs together” stop.” And the silence reigns. “ Well  my dear. Come.”

my dreams are true now. I will be one of the laughing ones. The village will pay.

The fairy queen takes me by the shoulders and we glide across the grass to a ring of standing stones. The flowers have never smelt so sweet; their blossoming scent penetrates the way I think that heady orchestra of spring. And yet it is almost midsummer. I stop in puzzlement. But the moment is gone. A clap and the initiation has begun.

But something is wrong. Sprites scream, an ugly sound that hurts my ears. And then I hear it. The sharp “snick-snick” of a sword blade ending a life.

Someone shouts my name and I hate it. So common, a harsh note in a melody. So I scream and in an instant he is by my side. A knight. The first brave knight to ever try and save me. And I don’t want to be saved. I stare into his face and I see the heroism behind his eyes. I see the shock as he sees that I am not held captive. And I see a soul, slipping away as I plunge a fairy dagger into his “noble” heart he falls. The initiation is complete.

“I don’t want to be saved,” I explain to his corpse, stroking his matted ginger hair. “for I will be an immortal with the power of the faeries.” And it’s true. I am an immortal. Sure, I have changed my name. Sure, I may have a whole new life. But I am an immortal, even now as I stare at this painting, this tribute that hangs on the wall. I know it. And you can see it so plainly on the face of my knight, so does he.

By Christine Stark

Inspiration- Lesley Banks “The 39^th week coming”

There she was, standing by the windowsill staring at the dying flame of a candle. Why she was staring at it I don’t know. It was the middle of the day and the window was open but I didn’t dare ask. In her 39^th week of pregnancy, she was a landmine waiting to go off. Considering that the father had run away and problems were starting to arise with the baby being 3 weeks late, I don’t blame her. But still, I tiptoed around her trying silently to tidy the mess around the flat without disturbing her. Some of the plates chinked against each other- I froze, she continued to stare blindly at the candle as if seeing through it. The grass in the pot plant swayed in the wind as a particularly strong breeze blew in. the candle flickered out sending a large plume of smoke into the air. I stared at her wondering how she would react. Nothing moved. Then slowly a tear trickled down her right cheek and I went to console my sister.

By Gareth Davey

What is it about objects of our own making that, when they touch the ground, we disassociate ourselves from them completely? The result of our trials and tribulations in an attempt to progress, once abandoned to the unkempt grass and greenery, is admonished with such distaste that surely it couldn’t have been us who created it. I hold this thing in my hand and try to imagine what it was like before being bought or exchanged: something that we can rely on, something that means something to us. Now when I point it out, in amongst the blades on the fields it is met with contempt. It has taken on a new form of life and in that life it has become what we regard with most disgust. Suddenly it is not required, it is merely a nuisance littering our land. I look at it and I wonder when will I become that object? When will I  take on that life of being unnecessary and unwanted?

By Oliver Kearns 6C3

Thistledown where have you been?

What mystic wonders have you seen?

Your purpose is to spread your seed,

You drift as far as you may need,

You shiver, sigh and off you blow,

High into the blue you go,

Drifting free o’er town and nation,

‘Till you reach your destination,

And so I now must let you leave,

To ride the winds, to spread your seed,

As you drift, I wave goodbye,

How I wish I too could fly.

By Fergus

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Mrs S. Aldous and Mrs K. O'Donnell on 01360 441630