This Anthology Is a Collection of Winning Entries and Runners-Up In

This anthology is a collection of winning entries and runners-up in the inaugural writing competition for children and young adults organised by the Friends of Rock Road Library in late 2016.

The theme of the competition was ‘Location as Inspiration’, inviting entries in the form of short stories, poems and plays about a place in Cambridge or the city itself.

The competition was divided into two categories: 7 – 11 year olds and 12 – 16 year olds. The judges were local authors Adéle Geras and Julian Sedgwick.

Contents 7 – 11 Year Old Category ...... 8 12 – 16 Year Old Category ...... 9 The Day Trip ...... 10 The Book with the Hidden Code ...... 13 The Fitzwilliam Museum ...... 16 Visit Fitzwilliam ...... 17 Maniac ...... 19 Bird’s Eye View ...... 21 The Round Church ...... 24 Cat on the Hat! ...... 25 The Corpus Clock ...... 27 The Night at King’s College Chapel ...... 29 Rain and Sun ...... 32 Four Seasons ...... 36 The Traveller ...... 40 The Mill Road Winter Fair ...... 45 An Echo Of Life ...... 47 The Scarf Man ...... 49 Cambridge: What do you think of when you hear that word? ...... 56 Angels and Imaginary Friends ...... 58 Cambridge ...... 63 Vinery Park ...... 65

When Leigh asked me whether I'd like to judge a competition of children's writing, I was very happy to do it. I love going in for competitions, and part of the pleasure is that there are always a few happy weeks when you can dream about being a winner - right up to the announcement of who has actually won!

But winning isn't what it's about. It's about trying your hardest to write something that you are pleased with and which says what you wanted it to say. It's about being the best that you can be for yourself. One thing that all competition entrants need to realise is this: judges are only people and people have different tastes. Another person might have chosen other stories, other winners.

The brief was to write about Cambridge. I moved to Cambridge in 2010 and I love it here, so it was a particular pleasure to share other people's love of their home town. What impressed me, apart from the high standard of handwriting I came across, was the way the young writers used so many techniques to tell their stories. I was struck by the liveliness and originality of the entries I read and I saw that what every judge always says is actually true! It was hard to choose winners and runners-up and I'm hoping that everyone who finds themselves in the anthology is very proud of their efforts. It's also clear, by the way, that these writers are also readers, and I wish them luck with their reading as well as their writing because reading is the way you learn everything. Enjoy reading and writing and good luck in the next competition.

Adèle Geras, Judge 7 – 11 year old category

To enter a writing competition - or any competition - is to take a chance with something that is often dear to your heart. I remember, years ago, entering my first poetry competition with a poem I felt was not only singularly good (rare for me!), but also deeply heartfelt and personal. It wasn’t short-listed. And the rejection stayed with me for months. I still keep that experience in mind every time I come to judge other people’s work!

But over the years I’ve learnt that it’s better to take a chance on your writing, and share it, rather than keep it to yourself. And all the entries in this competition were right to share...

Having lived in or around Cambridge for more than 30 years, it was a delight to be asked to judge the Rock Road Library ‘Location as Inspiration’ writing competition. Like Adèle, I was really impressed by the variety of style, technique and theme that arrived on my desk: short, but punchy poems; long and fantastical narratives; quirky and interesting characters and crisp, raw reality. In every single submission there was something that grabbed me - and that’s all we can hope for as writers, to write from the heart and hope that the thing that made us laugh or cry, or feel terror or elation, has reached the reader. Congratulations to everybody who took part!

Julian Sedgwick, Judge 12 – 16 year old category

If I’m honest I felt a little nervous launching the ‘Inspiration as Location’ writing competition. Would any young writers take up the gauntlet? Isn’t everyone under the age of twenty glued to a screen? Do budding writers want to tell stories rather than invent internet games? And what if everybody wanted to write about zombies and vampires?

I’m very pleased that all those fears were groundless. We received more than 200 entries to the competition, all written with an energy and gusto that demonstrates creativity and storytelling are still very much alive.

Entrants responded to the theme in many imaginative ways – whether it was describing Market Square from the point of view of a plum on a stall, or viewing life as a ghost floating around the Cambridge churchyards. Whether the writers were using a place or feature to reflect on a moment or thought, or telling a crime story using the buildings as setting, each entry genuinely offered something original and thought- provoking.

Thank you to all those who entered – winners or not. We enjoyed reading every single entry and appreciate the amount of time and energy given to your story or poem. Thank you to the parents and schools who supported their children/pupils/students in this exercise. Some teachers used it as an opportunity to combine the teaching of English and Geography so when a new course appears on the curriculum – Englography – you’ll know where it started! Thank you to the wonderful judges for their careful consideration of entries. I’m so glad they enjoyed it as much as I did. Thank you Rock Road Library for supporting this project. And, finally, thank you Cambridge for being such an inspiring place to live.

And there was not a single zombie or vampire. Honest.

Leigh Chambers, 2016 Writer-in-Residence, Rock Road Library.

7 – 11 Year Old Category

WINNERS Thomas Bullen (Cambourne Village College) - The Corpus Clock Oliver Lee (Cambourne Village College) - The Round Church Grace Poole (Fulbourn Primary School) - Maniac David Stickland (Morley Memorial Primary School) - The Day Trip Alexandra Tullett (Cambourne Village College) - The Night at King’s College Chapel

RUNNERS-UP Elif Cektir (Stephen Perse Foundation Junior School) - Visit Fitzwilliam Rebecca Clay (Cambourne Village College) - Cat on the Hat! Amelia Dale (Stephen Perse Foundation Junior School) - The Book with the Hidden Code Lauren Hills (Cambourne Village College) - Bird’s Eye View Henry Mak (Stephen Perse Foundation Junior School) - The Fitzwilliam Museum

12 – 16 Year Old Category

WINNERS Bhavna Cahoolessur (Netherhall Secondary School) - Four Seasons Leonia Depledge (Netherhall Secondary School) - The Traveller Sophie Green (Netherhall Secondary School) - Cambridge Hana Yokoyama-King (Netherhall Secondary School) - The Scarf Man Marie Vallier (Netherhall Secondary School) – Vinery Park

RUNNERS-UP Reece Anne Alcantara (Netherhall Secondary School) - Angels and Imaginary Friends Sienna Brodie-Gold (Netherhall Secondary School) - Rain and Sun Natty Huckle (Cambourne Village College) - Cambridge: What do you think of when you hear that word? Neelam Solanki (Netherhall Secondary School) - The Mill Road Winter Fair Melissa Went (Netherhall Secondary School) - An Echo of Life

The Day Trip by David Stickland

Ethan Wright looked out of the window of his tiny student’s room in St John’s College, at the piles of floating debris drifting about where once there had been houses and parks. He felt sad that he had never got to see Cambridge when it was a proper city, with proper roads and guided busways and a railway that linked it to all the other cities. It was many years since global warming had left the whole of Cambridge underwater, but not the colleges. The colleges were filled with clever and inventive engineers, like he was training to be, who had come up with the perfect way to save them all - by placing them on stilts. Now the centre of Cambridge was nothing but a collection of beautiful, ornate buildings on giant marble pillars connected by sturdy wooden bridges and walkways. In between were the greeny-blue waters of the city centre on which a hundred different types of boat bashed and crashed their way around. A half-sunken bridge crossed what used to be the River Cam but was now just part of the Wicken Sea. Off to one side was the huge Parker’s Barge where people still played ball games until their balls bounced over the side into the water, where they had to be rescued before they floated out to sea. It was the first day of May. This meant the Cambridge Fayre was starting and Ethan had planned to go out to Wandlebury Island to spend the afternoon strolling round the stalls selling delicious food, fabrics of every imaginable colour, and hundreds and hundreds of old things salvaged from all the houses which were now underwater. But first he popped down to Market Square, where the brightly painted shop boats were all tied up together in a large cluster, so he could buy some tasty food for his picnic. In the market there were trinket stores, collectible shops, clothes shops, general stores and a lot of stalls selling food. He found some fresh salmon-eels, a little golden loaf of bread and even an apple from the Grantchester water orchard. When he was ready he put his small toolbox, which he always carried around with him, into one of the college punts, climbed in, and

set off for the distant island. He rowed his way past the few apartment buildings and office blocks that still poked up above the water. In the clear water below him, he could see divers exploring and salvaging, searching for anything interesting or valuable still left inside. Wandlebury Island was full of people. Thousands of people. Acrobats and jugglers and musicians and face-painters passed on all sides. A man with a giant eagle was doing tricks and another, on stilts, was dressed up as a tree. Stall-holders sold popcorn and fish burgers and squid-on-a-stick. There was a play area for the children with some small trees to climb and some water bumper carts down by the beach. But it was the stalls selling salvage that Ethan was interested in. He wandered up and down the aisles looking at the water-stained books, odd bits of furniture and useless electrical appliances like old toasters and kettles and wireless modems. He was looking for a present to buy himself to celebrate the Fayre and he wanted it to be something really special. But none of the books were interesting enough, and none of the electrical goods were useful enough. Then he saw a stall selling the perfect thing. A plant. A leafy, red-and-green coleus. He looked at the plant longingly and was sad that it was too expensive for him. There were lots of plants on the stall, but most of them were too small, or too big, or too ugly. But the coleus was just right. It was the perfect colour, it was the perfect size and Ethan knew exactly where he would have put it. ‘You have some wonderful plants,’ Ethan said to the man on the stall. ‘Where did you get them?’ ‘We grow them here,’ the man replied, ‘in the Botanic Gardens. When the old Botanic Gardens drowned we saved thousands of seeds and replanted everything here on Wandlebury Island. We sell the plants to make money so we can buy the things we need to keep them safe and help them grow. We have a special machine that makes them grow super-fast, but it’s broken and we need to buy a new one.’ ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Ethan asked. ‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘I’m not an engineer.’ ‘I am,’ Ethan said. ‘Maybe I can fix it for you.’

‘Well if you could, that would be fantastically amazingly brilliant.’ The man led Ethan through a wondrous collection of plants, including red bamboo, some cherry blossoms, and a blackcurrant tree with autumn colours that Ethan thought was particularly nice. Then Ethan saw a big metal box full of wires and pulleys and gears. He examined it and saw that part of it had overheated and started to melt. He took out his tools and began to fix the machine. He found a box of spare parts and he used them to make an internal fan for the machine, so it would stay cool and not overheat any more. ‘That’s fantastically amazingly brilliant,’ the man said when Ethan had finished. ‘Now our plants can grow like they used to. I need to pay you for the work. We haven’t got very much money, but I know just the thing to give you instead…’ Later that afternoon Ethan rowed all the way back to St John’s College. He went up to his room and ate cold squid-on-a-stick. As he watched the sunset through the window and admired the beautiful coleus that the man at the plant stall had given him that was now placed on his windowsill, he wondered what life had been like before the flood.

The Book with the Hidden Code by Amelia Dale

On the glistening morning of 1st December 1932, Agatha Peabody, the Librarian at King’s College, Cambridge, placed the notice that everyone eagerly awaited. The Christmas Ball was announced. Agatha strolled back to her desk, happily relaxed into her chair and looked up at the impressive shelf of books, a set of handsome specimens, perfectly arranged behind the shining glass door and bound in leather with gold lettering on the spine. They were Agatha’s favourite books, the rare ones which she cherished, and the most valuable. They were a fine selection of first editions, written by famous authors, collected and owned by King’s College. Her eyes wandered along the prized shelf as she smiled contentedly, until she suddenly notice the small, ominous gap. Agatha narrowed her focus on the gap, panicking. She started to shake, as she realised a book was missing. Agatha jumped up, unlocked the glass door, pulled the books out, went through every book on the shelf and confirmed the unthinkable suspicion that the first edition of Hamlet by William Shakespeare had been stolen! She ran to the telephone on her desk and called the police. Agatha became very agitated, pacing around, scanning shelves and looking everywhere. She was still rushing around when the detectives burst in through the door. William Philpott, Ramsey Cartwright and Margaux Makepeace marched in holding notepads and with magnifying glasses at the ready. Inspector Philpott was first to speak. He asked Agatha to give a precise account of what had happened and list all visitors to the library since she last saw the book. Cartwright, a student detective, rapidly took notes, while Makepeace checked all door locks. It did not appear that anyone had broken in. The mystery person must have known where the keys were kept and, as Agatha spent every hour of the day in the library, it was likely that the book was stolen during the night.

The detectives used their magnifying glasses to look for evidence, took fingerprints from the crime scene and decided to monitor the people coming in and out of the library. Maybe someone would secretly sneak the book back in and, if that happened, they would catch that person. As the afternoon light faded, the detectives left and told Agatha to lock the door and go home. She pretended to agree but, as soon as they were gone, she took her coat off and settled down for the night. She could not possibly leave the library under these circumstances. She felt like being a detective herself and secretly thought that she could do a far better job than Philpott, Cartwright and Makepeace who, after all, did not care nearly as deeply as she did. She was attached to the treasured books and could not rest until the mystery was solved. As the moonlight shone through the window, Agatha wriggled and stirred in her chair. The silence was broken by the sound of leaves outside blowing in the wintry night. She sensed someone outside. Agatha tiptoed to the window, approaching it from the side so she could not be seen. She peeped out and saw them. The famous group called The Night Climbers who were known for climbing the ancient buildings of Cambridge, but only at night. There they were, in front of her, never seen by anyone before, but now scaling up the magnificent King’s College Chapel. She was stunned, but then thought about whether they were involved in taking the book. Agatha watched from the safety of the locked library. To her amazement they climbed to the top of one of the spires and back down, with no mistake. They then started approaching the library building. Agatha started thinking hard, her eyes darting around, thoughts whizzing through her head. She suddenly had an idea and took a much less valuable book and placed it carefully behind the glass door of the shelf where the first editions were held. She was certain they would be back for more. All she had to do now was call Inspector Philpott, ask him to cycle to the library, let him in quietly, and wait. Inspector Philpott arrived and sat in wait. The Night Climbers, as Agatha predicted, had a key to the library. They let themselves in,

moved towards the shelf where the highly valuable books were stored and, to her amazement, Cartwright was one of them. How could this be? Cartwright came to try and solve the crime and instead he was in the middle of it! As she discreetly moved towards the book shelf where she had placed the trap, the Night Climbers had seen Philpott and suddenly there was a blood-curdling scream. Philpott lay on the library carpet drowned in his own blood. Agatha ran from the library, down the corridor, stopping briefly to pick up a notebook which had been dropped, and escaped, overcome by the horrors of what she had just witnessed. The sun rose the next morning and Agatha turned to the notebook, wondering if this had any significance. She flipped through the pages, realising it was Cartwright’s notebook. At the back, it said ‘Find code on back of first edition Hamlet to lead to information on escape routes for night climbers. You must achieve three night climbs and successful escapes to be a Master Night Climber.’ Agatha gasped. She had just solved the mystery herself! The Night Climbers wanted the book to find a code. She pieced together the sequence of events. Cartwright was a fake detective posing as support to Philpott but secretly obtaining vital information about the library in order to help his group of night climbers. As Christmas approached, the night of the Ball arrived. People gathered in beautiful gowns and suits. As they danced late into the night, Agatha smiled at knowing her mystery was solved. But did Cartwright return to replace Hamlet or to take another prized book containing another code for the next mysterious night climb?

The Fitzwilliam Museum by Henry Mak

Filled with global artefacts Inside its 34 galleries Treasures abound, like Rameses’ II sarcophagus lid Zip through its halls and corridors to uncover Wonders of the past It celebrates its bicentenary this year Literary manuscripts in the colour exhibition crown the festivities Lots of elegantly decorated pots and jugs I particularly like the statuette of Hercules Fighting Cerberus Approximately 350 weapons are stored in the armoury Melee weapons, the most common, bring ghostly din to the quiet hall

Visit Fitzwilliam by Elif Cektir

If you were to go to Cambridge one day, I’d advise you to go to Trumpington Street. There, you will find the Fitzbillies Tea Rooms. Once you’ve seen it, there is no point walking on, is there? Especially if you are hungry! Walk in and you will find a young lady smiling at you. She’ll lead you to your table. After being flabbergasted at how much you can eat, slowly get out of the warm and honeycomb-scented café. It will be the slicing chill of the autumn wind that wakes you up from your sweet dream. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll see the grey tabby cat sitting on the teashop stairs to keep warm. Now for the real thing. Why are you stopping? No, walk on. You will know where to stop if you’re going to the Fitzwilliam Museum because it’s easily the most grand and attractive building on Trumpington Street. Step into the Fitzwilliam Museum, and ask the gentleman where the landscapes are. He will grin widely, point a clumsy finger and tell you to take a sharp left, blunt right, up the stairs, along the corridor, and they are right in front of you ma’am, he’ll announce, and lift his purple hat just enough for you to see his bald head. Once you enter the room, look at the picture closest to you. Look at it. Observe every little bit of it, and before you know it, you’ll find yourself in the landscape. Don’t be afraid to close your eyes. You’ll hear trees’ leaves whisper secrets that nobody has ever solved, to each other. Open them. You’re standing in front of a little hill. There is a fine wooden fence in front of you and behind it fields of new mown hay. Hundreds of kilometres away, the mountains meet the sky. They yell greetings to each other for this is how the wind passes by. The clouds however are chubby ghosts. The light spring breeze will chill you out (though it does start tickling after a while) and if

you’re lucky enough to go on the right day, you’ll get to smell the magnificent trace of nature after rain. You might even hear the dazzling chords of holly berries if you go near Christmas or the birds chirp legendary melodies if you go at summer. Whatever you do, if you were to come to Cambridge one day, come to the Fitzwilliam Museum sometime during your visit.

Maniac by Grace Poole

I was running down the street, desperate to get away. There were bodies everywhere. I stopped next to some dustbins to catch my breath when a dark shadow loomed over me. The monster extended its many arms to strike and … ARGH! I woke up sweating, and looked around. No monster. No bodies. I sighed. These nightmares just kept coming. I got out of bed and went downstairs. My dad was already there. ‘Where’s mum?’ I asked. ‘She got called in,’ he said. I know this sounds crazy, but my mum is a detective. She gets called in a lot. While I was walking down the street to Heffers (I love reading) I noticed some odd things going on. I’m sure that the statue of Henry the Eighth had just one head. No, no, no. I must be imagining things. I kept seeing strange people too. They wore dark glasses, stiff coats and were bulgy at the sides. They didn’t seem to speak English either. I forgot about Heffers and ran home. I phoned mum and reported my sights. She promised she’d be on the case. Each day more strange things began to happen. My nightmares kept coming too. My mum said nightmares are common in mystery cases. Next day I was going for a walk when I was nearly knocked into the road by a high-speed lorry. ‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘You! Come back here!’ but it was no use. The driver was one of those stiff-coated bulgy people with the really dark shades. I was really puzzled. That night as I was writing my diary, I turned on the radio and heard the words ‘… and our Prime Minister hasn’t been seen in public for a while,’ before the news presenter drifted onto other things.

I made up my mind to solve this mystery. I put on black jeans, a black jacket and a black cap. Then I crumpled onto the floor, fast asleep. I work up with a start after a gut-jumping nightmare. I was jogging down the street when that high-speed lorry came hurtling along again, only this time with a terrific banging coming from inside. I followed it down the road until it turned into an alley. There, it stopped and a door opened. I backed into the shadows and got out my mobile phone. I dialed 999 and asked for the police. They answered ‘on our way’. My dad also works for the police so they know me well. The alien (which is what I called the stiff coated bulgy people in glasses) checked nobody was around and opened the back of the van. Inside were two lumps – one big, one small – and five aliens all holding guns. They heaved the two lumps out and I realised they were people. ‘Murderers! Maniacs!’ I roared. They spun round. I ducked but not quite fast enough. One fired at me but suddenly the bullet was deflected by one of those cool bullet deflectors (I’ve always wanted one!) and the police had arrived. They outnumbered the aliens twenty to six so the battle should have been easier but the aliens put up a fight though the police won eventually. The people were taken to be tested and the aliens were imprisoned. The whole country rejoiced because the aliens had troubled elsewhere and now everyone is happy, except for the aliens. And guess what? The people were actually the Prime Minister, Theresa May, and the celebrity child Hollie Allen. They had been drugged but were now okay. Hollie was a bit forlorn after being drugged but Theresa May promised us a large reward. I wonder what that will be. And the aliens were just a gang of criminals. I hope I have another adventure soon but, for now, I need to get to Heffers – I totally forgot to go!

Bird’s Eye View by Lauren Hills

Early morning Sun slowly rising. A lonely cleaner wanders around Keys in hand. I look closer. There is a picture of a girl on there, And I can just make out she has plaits. Maybe it’s a photo of the cleaner’s children. Maybe it’s her children’s children. I wonder what her husband is like. I wonder if she has one at all.

Soon, The first grey shutter Covered in graffiti Starts to clutter upwards. Then another, One after the other. The first people start to flow in.

Tourists, After a full hotel breakfast Slowly drift about town Their eyes set upwards.

Smart businessmen, Meandering past the tourists Walking briskly, Although reluctant to get to work.

Mothers,

Dragging their children Across the pavement To school. Some pushing wailing buggies, Others walking with obedient toddlers.

I spot the street cleaner, Still gathering up the plastic bottles And wrappers That people so carelessly discard And leave for him to clear up. I like him. He’s nice. He threw me some food yesterday. It was only from the bin, but I’m not fussy. Especially when I’m so hungry.

I hobbled over to the nearest bench. There was someone else there too. I don’t bother looking at their face. They have food. But they quickly disappear. Everyone avoids the bench I’m on, like a bad smell. Maybe I do smell.

As I start to get off the bench, I am surrounded by people. They are pointing at me, Making disgusted faces. (And that’s just the adults!) A tall man In a suit and tie Kicks me out of the way.

‘Blasted pigeons,’ he muttered Under his breath.

Yes. I am a pigeon. What else did you think I was?

The Round Church by Oliver Lee

Morning Mossy stone and wet floor, Coned roof and wood door, Green grass and crisp breeze, Beautiful flowers and colourful trees, Birds tweeting and priests talking, Morning dew and people walking.

Night Crickets sounding and moon light Dry roof and tranquil night Leaves rustling and rabbits reeling Birds tweeting and priests kneeling.

Cat on the Hat! by Rebecca Clay

Hello, my name is Snowy Farr. I am a white cat and, day by day, I sit on a hat which is placed on four enlarged and weirdly modelled jelly beans. But the best part of all is the mice, who run (without moving) around my black and white hat. The sound of chatter and admiration embraces the air. The buzz-filled crowds scamper for all the goods. Children playing too far from their mothers and me. Me standing. Me just standing; a still statue. ‘King of the Market’ they call me. I watch and watch as people enjoy their shopping days. In the winter, as I endure the bitter cold, I look around and see the lights sparkle in the night sky. My ears melt as I hear the joyful spirit spread all around, and my eyes exchange looks with the smiling faces taking an evening stroll. However, my favourite time of the year, is when the doors are open and the summer breeze brushes through my fur. The sun shines and shines as shoppers wander through my domain and stop to look at the striking and unusual view that they behold. Unfortunately, humans aren’t like me. They can see something wrong with

everything. Something they don’t like. After all, nothing is perfect, but the humans make that very clear. When it’s the beautiful winter, they complain of the cold, but in the warm summer, they complain about the heat. Humans are such complainers! I suppose they can’t help it. It’s in their blood. So good day to you all. And goodbye. Do come visit me.

The Corpus Clock by Thomas Bullen

The Corpus Clock, It ticks and it tocks, You’ll never find a clock Like the Corpus Clock.

The Corpus Clock, The Corpus Clock No, you’ll never find a clock Like the Corpus Clock.

But have you ever heard Of the ghost of the Corpus Clock?

Legend tells that a Komodo dragon Once visited Cambridge, And saw the clock, And then it happened …

It crawled inside, And what a surprise! The gears churned it Stone dead.

It staggered forward, And closed his eyes And took a rest On his permanent bed.

So next time you visit

The Corpus Clock You never know, he could be a rock Resting on the Corpus Clock.

The Corpus Clock It ticks and it tocks You’ll never find a clock Like the Corpus Clock

The Corpus Clock, The Corpus Clock No, you’ll never find a clock Like the Corpus Clock.

The Night at King’s College Chapel by Alexandra Tullett

It was coming up to the end of practice and I was so exhausted I didn’t think of the consequences that lay ahead of me. I crept down from the seats and curled up on one of the pews. Somehow I’d fallen asleep. No one came. The chapel grew icy cold at night; my hands froze like solid icicles. I awoke with a start. It was the old wooden door, slowly opening. I peered around with one eye and saw a man coming into the darkness of the chapel. I curled up into a ball. He spoke to me with a soft tone, calming me. ‘Be not afraid. I am the light.’ He wore a long white robe, with the most amazing golden cloak, fastened with a jewel-clasp around his chest. But, strangely enough, he was barefooted and I thought how cold his feet must have been. His face was pale and he had a beard. He looked lonely and as if he was looking for something. In his left hand he was holding a lantern, which shone so brightly I could see him glancing at a figure on one of the stained glass windows. What was it? I needed to see more clearly so I slowly stood up, my legs shaking. All of a sudden he turned to look at me and smiled. I needed to get out and I needed to get out now, so I ran as fast as I could. Not looking back. I kept running, faster and faster, until all I could see was the faint outline of the chapel. Out of breath, I sat on the kerb. I was freezing but that wasn’t the only thing I noticed. Different thoughts were swirling around my head. Who was he? What was he doing there? What was he looking at? Why was he dressed like that? After a while I stood up and started to slowly walk to my shared school dormitory. I live with Georgia and Holly. I wondered what they would be doing as they thought I was coming home after choir. The streets were empty, but filled with quiet echoes.

I walked for five minutes before reaching my room. As I got closer to the door, I realised I’d left my coat in the chapel. I panicked as my keys were in one of the pockets. I thought Georgia and Holly would still be awake so I pushed the door open. I walked up to my bed but collapsed with exhaustion and fell asleep. The following morning we were all eating breakfast at the dining table when Georgia started talking about choir the previous night. I whispered to myself ‘don’t mention it’, and to my surprise no one said anything. It’s like they both didn’t even notice I was gone that night.

That morning was quieter than usual. It was mostly because I was confused. I thought I’d seen this man before. I then remembered about my coat. I got my jumper on, my boots and scarf and plodded downstairs to the school shed. I found my old green rusty bike and set off to the chapel. As I was cycling, all I could think about was the lonely stare on the man’s face last night. It was worrying. What if he needed to talk to me? What if I missed a vital bit of information? He must work there because how else would someone have the key to the door? He must still be around. Maybe he was the night caretaker? I finally arrived after what felt like a decade. The usual porter was on the door ushering everyone who came in. I started to explain to him what had happened, how I got locked in, how I’d fallen asleep and left my coat and I described the man I saw. The porter looked puzzled. ‘We don’t have anyone who works here like that and the chapel is all locked up at night.’ ‘That’s him!’ In the corner of my eye I saw a painting of the same man at a wooden door, holding the same lantern and barefoot. ‘But that’s a painting of Jesus. You can’t have seen Jesus!’ the porter spluttered. But I did. I know for sure I wasn’t dreaming. I dashed inside, grabbed my coat, but laying on top was a wooden cross. This was getting way too real. I ran as fast as I could, not thinking there was King’s Parade outside or that BBC vans were coming to film us for Christmas Eve. I ran straight into the road and … I got run over. I’m now an angel, watching everyone below and now I know who this man was. Telling me a message. My job now is to keep everyone safe. Maybe if I had thought a bit harder. Life is precious. We should all treasure it.

Rain and Sun by Sienna Brodie-Gold

I swing my legs, dangling them over the edge on the bright blue bus seat, having just beaten my sister to the window spot. She sits frowning with her arms crossed. I just giggle. The bus moves slowly round the roundabout, as if time itself was slowing all around me, and I stretch up, peering over, out of the window, at the vivid scenery. Jesus Green Swimming Pool. The empty Staples parking lot. Old medieval pubs, still standing tall, lined up next to the River Cam. Old tall houses lined up in an orderly row, all tall and elegant, with shiny black metal fences with spiky edges. As the bus stops at a traffic light, a red squirrel blinks up at me in intrigue. I smile back happily as it munches its way through a nut. My grandpa turns and says to me, ‘Sienna, it’s time to press the button.’ I smile, reaching out eagerly, stretching from my seat only to hear the familiar binging noise and see my sister wearing a smug smile, cheekily grinning. ‘Beat you!’ She exclaims, smirking, and I frown as I am led off the bus. I step outside and a sly grin creeps on to my face. I am led away into what seems like a vast and wild world, like I am the size of a pea in a pile of mattresses, or the size of a fairy in the Sleeping Beauty castle. I walk through the busy market, my mouth slightly open and with a shocked stare as I see the steady flow of rush hour. People doing early Christmas shopping, eating strange foods, and the large queue of impatient customers, looking at their watches, waiting to get back to their work before being told off by their bosses, but not before they fuel up on their daily lunchtime caffeine dose. My hand is squeezed tightly as I’m guided through the market, staring up in awe at the stalls, each one a different variant of the same coloured stripy roofs, each stall different to the rest, selling groceries, fruits, cheeses, juice, jewellery.

My eyes light up as my gaze falls upon the stand, the particular stand that always seems to invigorate my mood. The sweet stand, with rainbow-coloured sweets, from fudge to chocolate, and gummy bears to bubble gum. Something twinkles in my eyes, as I inhale the sugary smell, letting the aroma of the cables take over my thoughts. The cables, all lined up in a row, with hundreds of flavours – sour watermelon, marshmallow, bubble gum, strawberry, raspberry, lime, tutti frutti. I can never choose which flavour. After what feels like hours of begging, I finally manage to persuade my grandpa to buy me one, the only snag being my sister gets one too. I’m dragged off again, led up to St Mary’s Great Church. The antique-framed doorway, painted the same sickly brown to match the surrounding walls. The stairs seem to go on forever, spiralling up to where my view doesn’t reach. As I walk past, the bells ring deafeningly, leaving an echo in my ears. After several ‘Are we there yets’ we are finally at the top. I peer over the edge as my teeth chatter and I pull a dull face as I feel a drop of rain fall on the very centre of my head. I shiver. ‘Let’s go back inside,’ my grandpa says and I follow, holding my sister’s hand obediently as she curls her wrists in her jacket, making scuffling noises with her pink wellies. As we stand at the bottom of the stairs, on the aisles, I hear the loud pitter-pattering of raindrops colliding with the roof, making it nearly impossible to hear what we are saying. My grandpa pulls out the same grey umbrella from his Cambridge University bag. It’s curious that every time we go out he has a different shade of the same bag. Today is a bright yellow. Last time was grey. The time before a scarlet red. We step outside and huddle under the umbrella as my grandpa squeezes my frozen hand with his. The warm feeling sends jolts through my body, and my sister clutches onto mine, trying to steal my excess warmth.

We quickly walk through the streets and turn down the familiar alley, my very favourite. As we walk past, I peer into the restaurant which always appears to be empty, apart from one or two people. I always wonder about that. Light flickers in my eyes as they fall on the familiar Heffers sign and I skip into the shop, knowing that I will be allowed one book. I smile widely as my eyes scan the shelves looking for my favourite – Roald Dahl.

Flicking through my favourite books, making sure to read every blurb twice, I finally pick my favourite – Matilda. The thrill never goes with Roald Dahl. It pumps through my bloodstream. We check out the book and I turn to my sister. ‘What did you get?’ She holds up The Gruffalo. I let out a giggle. ‘Come on!’ my grandpa says and we walk down the street, one of my favourites. Yo Sushi. Pylones. Clarks. Into the Grand Arcade. My sister ogles over the Build-A-Bear Workshop. We take the lift to the Central Library.

I pick out my favourite Jacqueline Wilson and smirk smugly as I eat my chocolate cake afterwards. I wipe the crumbs from my mouth and scrub my hands on my pink button up coat. We step outside and I feel the cold breeze on my legs, though my sister appears fine. I don’t understand how she can wear an A-skirt and top with a thin jacket and not be cold. It bugs me. I huddle against her and we walk to the bus stop, just managing to catch a bus. I run to the top and sit at the front eagerly, swinging my legs to and fro, just as it starts to bucket down. I jump from my seat when a branch brushes the bus. Grey clouds coat the sky in a thick storm. And I wonder how it could possibly have been over 20 degrees earlier. I love Cambridge. Always will. But the one thing I will never understand is how you can get roasted alive then drenched in rain and still have fun. Because it is fun. I love Cambridge. I love my home.

Four Seasons by Bhavna Cahoolessur

The weak, green leaf hung from the tough, high branch. The leaf stood out in the sea of brown, red, orange and yellow on the ground. The last leaf. The last leaf to turn colourful for this beautiful fall season and the last leaf to hang from the tall tree. Autumn was always the best season to take a walk through Cherry Hinton Park. Not only was the weather warm with a light breeze, but the crunching sound of leaves under peoples’ shoes and the squirrels running around before hibernation made the park welcoming and calm. All leaves had mutated their surface to beautiful autumnal shades and all trees had lost their leaves, becoming naked and ready for winter. All but one little, bright and alive green leaf. The leaf seemed to be holding tightly to the branch, not wanting to join the others that lay on the ground comfortably. It seemed to be holding ever so tightly to one of the highest branches on Muffin the Tree. Nonetheless as a strong wind blew past, it made the leaf wobble and wiggle and it gave up and fell to join the others on the ground. Only it did not. As the leaf descended, it suddenly stopped. It had landed on something … more like someone. The girl knew something was on her head, as she laughed with her friends. She quickly reached her hand up and over her head. Her small, thin fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the leaf and she pinched a corner of it. She examined the leaf carefully for a few minutes, spacing away from the present. The conversation going on in front of her felt like it was miles away and the loud, clear voices were now nothing more than a whisper. A cough from one of her friends snapped her back to reality and she dropped the leaf to the ground. The only odd fish in the sea of brown, red and yellow fishes. The only green leaf at the bottom of Muffin the Tree.

The snow gently lay on the naked branches of trees and short grass. Children running around covered from head to toe with gloves and coats and heavy clothing to keep the little body heat they had, in. Weird shaped snowballs flew everywhere, making the big plains of snow-covered grass a massive snow battlefield. Kids screaming, dodging, pushing each other around and running everywhere. The same group of friends made their way over to Muffin, trying not to slip and fall over. Muffin was covered in white melting snow and the teenagers thought better than climbing on it. The sky was not enticing as only fluffy, grey sheep covered the colossal field above. The group of friends decided to join the traditional fight of boys and girls and snow. Their booming voices and laughs echoed around the park. The kids dropped their bags at the foot of the tree so they could run and dodge better. They were soon sprawled on the floor, breathless with all the fun they were having. The girl got up and started rolling a small ball of snow around until it was no longer small but at waist height. The others got up and helped her create a second ball, half the size of the first one. On the count of three they lifted the smaller ball and placed it perfectly in the middle of the bigger one. They all went searching for bits and pieces and managed to make a face for their friend, Snowman. They all lay back down and decided to create snow angels. They moved their arms around their bodies and heads. They all sat talking and, while some were busy running around and chasing each other, others could barely move their limbs for laziness. The condensed air appearing in front of their mouths blurred their words and laughs and they knew nothing could have made that winter evening any better.

Nature started growing back as all the snow melted and winter left. The weather got warmer and the animals came back from their hibernation. The flowers started blooming, making the park colourful and pleasant. Bees and wasps started buzzing around looking for flowers and the grass grew back, becoming taller.

The holidays were over and school started again. Cherry Hinton Park was becoming busier. The trees were growing their leaves back and, slowly but surely, they all came. All apart from one leaf. It was the same leaf that was green during the autumn and now, late to grow. The leaf was the smallest on Muffin. The days passed and the leaf didn’t grow past the size of a baby’s hand. And while all the other leaves were bright and green, this leaf was emerald with a streak of ruby running across the surface. It could be seen from far away. One cloudless day the group went over to Muffin. Their book-filled bags were scattered on the floor and they leant their bikes on the trunk. One of their phones blasted some catchy pop tune and they all hummed or sang along to the melody. Even though they were one of the smallest groups in the park, they were surely the loudest. They all smiled and giggled at the lame jokes they cracked and just enjoyed themselves as if they were in their own little world. They all climbed on the intricate and twisted branches. Some chose the higher branches where you could see the sky clearly. Others stuck to the lower ones and admired nature by paying attention to the finer details. Either way, they all found their assigned spaces and made themselves comfortable. Muffin became like their second home.

The last day of school. This meant no more homework, no more classes, no more strict teachers and annoying classmates for a whole month. Everyone cheered and sighed from happiness when the last bell rang. The group met by Muffin one last time before the

summer holidays. Everyone had their own plans and they were all going to other countries or parts of the UK. They met at Muffin to say a final goodbye until the next school year started. It wasn’t a ‘sad goodbye’ hug but more of a ‘I won’t see you for a while’ hug. The streaked leaf hung from the high branch. The smallest leaf on Muffin and possibly the smallest leaf in Cherry Hinton Park. It looked magnificent under the filtered light. Whoosh whoosh whoosh Shake shake shake Fall fall fall The radiant leaf fell on the girl’s head interrupting the group hug. Once again she grasped it before it fell to earth. They all admired it. The girl held the fragile leaf cautiously and crouched down until she sat on the grass. She put the leaf next to Muffin’s root and dug a thin, little hole, not caring about how muddy her hands were and that everyone was staring at her. She explained that the leaf would always be remembered along with all the memories they had created during the year around Muffin. She said the year was one of the best she’d ever had, filled with the people she loved and she would never forget them. She placed the leaf in the hole and covered it with earth. Then darkness took over …

The Traveller by Leonia Depledge

A brown, patched-up suitcase, Held by a limp, trembling hand, A face set, scared but determined, Setting foot in an unknown land.

He steps off the train into noise, Many people with a mission ahead, None have time for a refugee boy, With no friends, no food and no bed.

As he steps out into the open, A cold, sharp wind rushes to greet him, It wreathes around his young, tired face, Only his scarf keeps the heat in.

He looks around for anyone he knows. Did his family escape alongside? But no, he’s alone in this terrifying world, Nowhere to go, to run or to hide.

Along the pavement he goes, His steps unsteady and unsure, Cambridge, to him, is a paradise, After being trapped in months of war.

Elongated shards of fractured light, Beam across the hard, cold ground, Cyclists swarm past, so many of them, Dominating the famous town.

As he walks to the end of Station Road,

He sees a statue bathed in sun, A majestic soldier, looking back, For friends that might never come.

The bronze figure’s gaze seems to rest on him, For only a moment, maybe more, Yet it gives him courage, welcomes him, His wounds don’t feel quite so sore.

As he carries on down the street, Bright red buses pass left and right, Double deckers, shiny and new, A world apart from his usual sight.

The colourful shops and cafes, Boast a variety of things, Clothes, food, ornaments, Phones or even diamond rings.

The Grand Arcade – what riches Are placed within its walls! Back home, stuff like this was stolen, By those that to him were cruel.

After trekking through street after street, He reaches the famous River Cam, He sees families getting into long, wooden boats, And making their way downstream.

Something about the pole-driven boats, Reminds him of when he was small,

Ah yes he used to play in something like this, In the evenings after school.

As he approaches the riverside slowly, He sees something that makes him stop, An upturned, discarded boat, Lying in weeds and starting to rot.

He looks about suspiciously, To check that no one is around, Then he pushes hard against the boat, Till it’s lying face up on the ground.

Then he pushes it into the river, And wobbling, jumps inside, He grabs the long, wooden pole, Manoeuvring his boat behind bushes to hide.

He secretly watches other boats sail past, Noticing how they move, He observes carefully until he’s sure, That he could do it too.

Then he emerges into the water, Clutching the pole and standing up, He imitates the moves other punters make, Thrusting the pole down into the muck.

The boat begins to move along, But the pole, stuck, stays behind, Desperate the boy tries to pull it free, Leaning back with all his might.

Suddenly, he stumbles,

Falling into the water, limb after limb, In a moment of terror he remembers, That he never learned to swim …

He scrambles at the punt, Recalling the little English he knows. ‘Help!’ he cries, desperately. ‘Help!’ Spurting water out through his nose.

A family passing by, Hear his cries and stop, In a moment of decision, the dad jumps in, A coward is one thing he’s not.

He swims over to the refugee boy, Grabbing him around the waist, Then he turns over onto his back, ‘Make haste!’ his wife calls. ‘Make haste!’

Soon he reaches the shore, The man’s wife pulls him onto the bank, In gratitude he hugs them, To think he nearly sank!

‘Are you okay? Where is your family? You shouldn’t be alone,’ the man says. The boy looks at him, and with a trembling voice, He whispers, ‘family … dead.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ the wife steps forward. Taking him into her arms, ‘We’ll look after you for the minute, With us, you’ll come to no harm.’

‘Where did you come from?’ the man enquires, Staring at the suitcase in the punt, ‘Syria,’ the boy explains, ‘Refugee alone, must run.’

‘We’ll take you to a reception centre, They’ll find you a home, care for you.’ One of the daughters looks up at him, ‘And we’ll visit you often too.’

The boy doesn’t quite understand, But he realises the intent. He nods, processing the words, He’s happy and content.

‘Thank you,’ the boy smiles, His widest grin shows what he cannot say, ‘I’ve found a new family. I’m so grateful to you, Now I know that I’ll be okay.’

The Mill Road Winter Fair by Neelam Solanki

Put your coat and gloves on, And hold my hand tight. Then we can open the door And step into the light.

The snow-dusted trees – No more busy bees, The frosted-up cars All wearing wigs of white.

Small pink welly-boots walking down the pavement, Running so fast to get to the fair. Wearing them is an eager little girl, Snowflakes getting tangled up in her brown knotted hair.

She leaps onto the road, Embracing the happy life; Children delightfully squealing, A husband laughing with his wife.

Mill Road Once quiet and bare, Is adorned in lights and sparkles; A real festive flare.

A tsunami of people Rolling down the street. Bursting through and tackling the bridge Or slowing down to take a seat.

The smells and flavours.

The sweets and spices. Ribbon-wrapped bonbons And bowls of different rices.

Sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and clove, People huddling around a fire lighted stove.

So many different foods … Indian or Thai? French tarts and Spanish churros … Which will you try?

Take a sip of that hot chocolate And feel the warmth blossom in you; All into your gut, And all the way down to the toes in your shoe.

Listen to the music; That rhythmic beat of the drums, People dancing so wildly, Singing at the top of their lungs.

Now look at your watch! It’s already four! It’s time to leave! The shops are closing their doors!

I know you want to stay. I know it’s not fair. Just remember this day, When you went to the Mill Road Winter Fair.

An Echo Of Life by Melissa Went

A single flower lays in my hand, So small and round, A bud of yellow pollen enveloped in a sea of petals, Each one dazzling in its own individual way, The stalk, a lime green, struggling to support itself, It sits there, Motionless, Hopeless, Lifeless, A mere carcass of its former self, Just a shadow, Just a memory.

Isn’t it strange, how something so precious, So defenceless, Can all be gone in just one heartbeat? A single tug from the ground, A tear of the stalk, Like a child to paper, And gone. All gone.

I remember the song of birds, A sweet, peaceful chirp in the early morning, They nested in the trees, Trees so bushy and bursting with life, The scamper of squirrels, The gentle leap of a frog, Now just a fragment of my imagination. Now just an echo.

The flower falls from my hand, Plummets to the hard concrete ground of Cambridge. What was once a home to luscious trees and beauty, Bustling with wildlife and grace, Has been replaced with something cheaper, Something more efficient. Gigantic trees slowly changing into towers of corporate horror, Bikes to cars and planes, Slowly devouring the time we spend on this earth. No room left for nature No room for that perfect little flower.

The Scarf Man by Hana Yokoyama-King

To enter the cemetery I must swift gently around a pile of brown frosted leaves, the innumerable flashing fragments shine into the brilliant wintry evening, for today there is no weather, no wind, no cloud, just sub-zero temperatures. Even the leaf stems lie white and sharp. These short days, these long nights, the dampness that creeps into my weary bones and made them ache for summer again. My breath rises in visible puffs. There is a freezing chill in the air that brings crispness to the leaves, bejewelled with frost, that crunch underfoot. And here I am, clutching a tattered scarf in my gloved hand. The cemetery looks like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas is still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artist’s hand to return. The evening light struggles through the branches that hang low with the weight of snow. The blustery, chilling sub-zero wind bites at the little skin I dare to expose to it. My teeth chattering, I listen to the silence that hangs so thickly in the frigid air, as his head slowly turns. His familiar daunting face, eyes large. I feel a tug at my stomach as I creep slowly closer, my hands shaking as they move up for him to examine what is trailing onto the crispy silk white ground. ‘I …. I think you’re missing something …’

So this was it. It was a damp Saturday – crowds, tourists happily bustling along the streets of Cambridge. The crowd has a life of its own, the vibrant clothes shine in the morning light and people move like enchanting shoals of fish. There is a chatter between sellers and buyers at Market Hill. Old friends catching up, new friends made. People clutched onto their coats for dear life, overcome with the typical English weather. In the bitter January cold I usually felt the warmth of all those bodies pressed into me. People flowed like rivers, never stopping for obstacles, but swirled around them. I could smell the

perfumes, body odour and over-applied cologne. It’s busy, for sure, but the hustle and bustle brings a life to this town. I took my place in a soft, comfy chair at The Copper Kettle that overlooks the famous King’s College. The usual gentle murmur of voices could be heard above the harsh stomach-churning sound of the coffee machine as it struggled to produce the hot, steaming liquid beloved by customers. The sound of small talk filled the air. And that’s when I saw him, wrapped in an old tattered scarf, frayed at the edges. It was a warm green and brown that reflected autumnal colours even though it was a misty cold winter. Everything else about him was dark and miserable as though the only colour to him was his scarf. Who could ever be miserable at a time like this? I frowned at the arrogant thoughts that drifted through me as I sipped my warm hot chocolate, melting my insides with warmth. Maybe he had just had a bad day? Maybe he lost some paper that was due soon? Curiosity ripped through me and I felt determined to make him happy on this brilliant wintry day. I peeped around. My eyes darted to the small stool that he sat on only a few seconds ago. But he was gone. Leaving his scarf, abandoned. My gloved hand yanked the scarf as I made my way onto the icy street. Weeks ago the mud froze solid, as hard as any rock. Now it lay covered in a blanket of pristine white and I struggled to make my way through it. I wrapped up in a long, thick coat and still the cold air penetrated right to my skin. My eyes adjusted to the hordes of people that walked up and down the street, heads bobbing up and down. The thought of ever finding that brown-haired boy drifted out of me. How was it possible, in this crowd of anxious shoppers, busy workers and joyful tourists? I made my way onto Trumpington Street and the Fitzwilliam Museum. I thought to myself what fun it would be just to peep inside for a few minutes. I made my way up the huge stairs and through the doors. It had endless rooms of exquisite detailed mouldings in gold, and varnished wood parquet flooring. I gaped in awe at the pretty china and numerous statues, and made my way up another collection of stairs. I

spotted him. All black and miserable, but this time I saw his whole face. It had no life, no sparkle. No colour tainted his cheeks, no trace of a smile. As his colourless eyes slowly met mine, they were filled with hard, cold anger. He left the museum in a rush, as I was left in shock. It was still morning as I sat outside the museum, eating the remains of my breakfast. What am I even going to do with this scarf now? Leave it? Donate it? Who would even look twice at an old tattered scarf like this? It was obvious. He left it there for a reason, and me being an idiot, I picked it up and rushed after him just out of curiosity. It wasn’t for his well-being, it was all for mine. Guilt started to twist inside of me. Why … why was I even here? And then suddenly my guilt faded away and was replaced with panic. I was meant to be meeting my friends to go to that new restaurant near a river, the one they always went on about during classes. I gathered my things in a mad dash and glanced quickly at the clock: 11.30. I felt a surge of adrenalin. The steady thump of footsteps echoed in my ears and I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead, causing my hair to stick. It was so nearly in sight, so nearly. When I reached the next turn I allowed myself a quick glance backwards. Phew. Nothing dropped. I quickly made the turn, and in a mere two seconds I felt another body collide with mine. In shock, I lunged my bag at the stranger who fell down onto the hard, cold concrete, my large bag draped over her. Her. ‘Omg, Suz,’ I cringed, as I stood dumbfounded on the street right next to our meeting point. My best friend slowly made her way up from the floor. ‘Well, you made it just in time,’ grinned Suzanne, her dimple showing, as we both laughed with stupidity. Suzanne and I arrived at the ‘Crepe Affaire’ a few minutes late. Levine, Maya and Caddy were already there, saving us a booth, talking animatedly. Levine was gesturing with her hands and they were all laughing. ‘Hello!’ Suzanne sang out, throwing herself into the booth. ‘Hey!’ Levine said, grinning at us. ‘Quite a show you put on there, Rose.’ Her eyebrows raised.

My cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous here?’ gasped Maya. ‘And the menu, it’s filled with so many different varieties,’ smiled Caddy, glancing at the cute menu that stood across the booth. Caddy went on to describe full-on the endless possibilities of this café, and I soon found myself laughing at her descriptions. ‘So … when are we actually ordering any food?’ I laughed as I found all my worries slowly disappeared. ‘Oh … here they come,’ Levine exclaimed, pointing to a figure slowly moving towards us. Brown hair, colourless eyes. My stomach did a back-flip and I found my heart was pounding a strange, tense rhythm in my chest and my hands were clammy. ‘What do you wish to order?’ his dull voice echoed. ‘Two strawberries and creams please,’ perked Levine and Caddy. ‘Oh, make that three please,’ added Suzanne. ‘Banana and chocolate one for me, please,’ smiled Maya. Silence came after that. ‘ROSE JOHNSON, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?’ shouted a voice. I looked up to find five pairs of eager, curious eyes gaze into me.

‘Oh … um, could I have the cinnamon crepe please …?’ I whispered. I heard the sound of a pen tapping and clicking and then slowly the footsteps faded away. And he was gone. ‘Bit miserable wasn’t he?’ Caddy whispered to us. ‘Kind of made you feel sad ‘bout yourself.’ My friends all slowly shook their heads, as my mouth opened but nothing came out. As our food arrived, and the conversation lulled, the now bright wintry sky slowly turning into the afternoon, I decided to go for it. ‘I saw him in a café shop. He seemed down and miserable, and about done with life,’ I said, as my friends all looked up in shock from their food. ‘So … he left his scarf and I thought it’d be a nice idea to find him and cheer him up while giving him his scarf back. And … when I did find him, he looked at me with so much hatred … ugh, I just don’t know what I’m going to do with this scarf now.’ ‘Throw it away like the trash he is! You only wanted to do a nice thing’, shrugged Maya. ‘Can’t beat yourself up about it.’ ‘Maybe you should go talk to him, if you’re that worried about it?’ whispered Levine, patting me on the back. ‘Oh! There he goes …’ said Caddy, pointing furiously at the window. And I could see his figure bobbing up and down. ‘Go find him, Rose, and give him that scarf back,’ Caddy said. My stomach dropped and, for a moment, I thought I might be sick, but I pushed that thought away. It was so windy. My hair flew right into my face the second I walked outside, and I could see Caddy push her fingers up, to give me a ‘good luck’ sign through the window. I tried to claw my hair around my ears, looking for that dark figure, and that’s when I realised he was on the other side of the street, walking in a mad dash. He saw me. I crossed over the road with the usual crowds, trying to think of the best thing to say. Should I open with an apology? Admit that I’d done it for my own benefit without realising what the outcome would be? What if he was the confrontational kind? What would I do? He isn’t that far from me but … but, how long have I been walking now. It

seemed like a short time with all those questions burning inside me. And then I see him, I see him make his way upto a cemetery, his eyes filled with the same dullness. So here I am, bitterly cold and humid – such an enchanting combination. Every surface, every blade of grass and twig is growing long ice crystals ten or more millimetres in length. I gaze into him. I see the low fog that clings. I feel it – winter’s breath on my skin. ‘What do you want?’ he asks. The wind rips the words from between us, taking the intonation of his voice with it. I had no idea whether his question had been confrontational or genuine. ‘I wanted to return your scarf,’ I frown. ‘I didn’t mean to do no harm. I just … I just thought it would be a nice thing to do …’ ‘That’s your scarf,’ he smiles. I give him a confused look. ‘Wait … what?’ My hands are shaking. ‘It’s your scarf …’ ‘Look at it again …’ he blinks. And I see it. My name. Rose Lily Johnson, carefully written on the tab. ‘I don’t get it … how … does this even?’ Tears start rolling down my face uncontrollably. Why? Why am I crying? The dark figure moves towards me.

‘I’m your fears, Rose. You thought the scarf was mine because your whole life you’ve been scared, scared to control it. You could never control it because I keep running away. Fear, fear keeps running away. You could never control your fears and now you’ve finally found me.’ I shake my head uncontrollably. ‘If you keep running away, you’ll only find yourself at a dead end. You can’t let fear take you over. You have the chance to stop fear from carving into you. Can’t you see it?’ Yes, I’ve always been fearful, and it always take me over – panic and confusion. You want to control it, but you never can. It’s always running away from you, impossible to reach, impossible to catch. I just wanted to return his scarf, but I’ve only found myself digging into the unknown. I can’t let the fear I’ve always carried take me over. Slowly, but gently, my hands stroke the scarf, understanding why it’s all tattered and miserable. It’s been wanting to be controlled. I now understand why I got that sudden urge to talk to him, to make him happy, to make me control my fears. I now understand why he ran away, because fear, fear always runs away. I wrap the scarf around my cold neck. Twice I wrap it around, twice to secure it, twice to control it. The ghostly figure which had appeared in front of me only a few seconds ago disappears and I smile to myself as I stroll down the cemetery towards the entrance. Night has fallen fast. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink but all the colour has faded leaving only a matt black canvas with no stars to be looked upon. But it’s okay. I’m not scared. After all, I can finally control my fears.

Cambridge. What do you think of when you hear that word? by Natty Huckle

Cambridge. What do you think of when you hear that word? Children might think of new toys. Teenagers might think of shopping. Students might think of university. New parents might think of childcare essentials. House owners might think of decoration. Photographers might think of beauty. And businessmen might think of money. I don’t think of any of them when I hear the word ‘Cambridge’. I think of the cold. The cold that strikes as early as autumn. I think of the icy wind that whips around my ankles and slaps my cheek with a harsh smirk. I think of the people who walk past every day, laden with numerous shopping bags, who can afford to wear warm garments that banish the cold and dismiss the icy breath that descended from the darkened clouds. I am a homeless person. That’s what I’m normally referred to as. It’s the harsher names that hurt the most. The ones that slip from people’s mouths and penetrate my insides like ice, colder than any I have ever felt before: tramp, vagabond, vagrant, beggar, dosser, hobo, waste of space.

People walk past and pretend I don’t exist. It’s like they choose not to see me. It’s that or a bitter, cruel stare. Sometimes, if people are kind enough, they leave a few pennies on my blanket and hurry off without a word. Occasionally, generous individuals go into a nearby convenience store and buy me a tepid coffee and a sandwich. No one leaves more than that though. The best thing I ever found or received was a ten pound note that was drenched in grime and down a drain. It’s as if people don’t trust me. They think I will most likely waste it on drugs or alcohol. But I would never do that. I wish they could see the real me. I sit outside the entrance to a cosmetic store situated in a part of town teeming with tourists. From there, I can see part of King’s College. In the summer, the lush trees near the college show off their beauty and they become the most lavish of greens. A deep, rich green that defines summer. However, in the winter it looks like a completely different place. The branches of the trees reach out to me like gnarled fingers in a tangled web of confusion. Frost clings to the trees and sinister sensations envelop me. Despite the evil surrounding that sometimes overwhelm me, my dream is to go to King’s College one day.

Angels and Imaginary Friends by Reece Anne Alcantara

‘Zende, come over here.’ I take reluctant steps towards the voice – the voice with so much power and integrity, so much intelligence and honour. I know I’m in trouble. I messed up countless times today, leading the humans below into wrongdoings, destroying their lives, overusing my power, my power to guide humans. My body shrinks down as I take my final steps towards my guardian, head bowed. ‘I heard you’ve been messing around with humans today, Zende. And you know how seriously we take these things but since this is your first time, we will let you off.’ My head lights up in excitement. ‘However you need to redeem yourself. And fortunately I have a task that I need you to fulfil.’ I beam up at him, ready to hear whatever it is I need to do. ‘See that boy down there?’ I gaze beneath the clouds and see a lone boy walking, kicking stones. Dark hands shoved into frayed pockets. Grey eyes filled with sadness and despair. Face sullen, with no certainty of life. ‘He lives in Cambridge.’ Immediately I know what to do. I fall straight through the clouds, down into earth, right into Cambridge, right next to the lonely boy.

Agni had a horrible life going. Never spoke to anyone or anything. His head always low, no sense of direction. Historic buildings surrounded him, yet he never had any place to call home. School was a safe place, yes – in fact anywhere in his hometown was a safe place. Open parks with plenty to do, yet he always found himself kicking pavements. Today was no different either.

Agni never knew why he was sad. He just … was. His parents loved him dearly but unfortunately he couldn’t return the favour. No sign of emotion anywhere. He was a lonely boy. ‘Hello!’ Agni stumbled backwards. He looked up, ready to shout but his voice got trapped in his throat. A boy stood in front of him, only he wasn’t an ordinary boy. He was around the same age as Agni but his hair was as white as crystal snow with icy eyes that pierced through his complexion. Sure, his looks were slightly out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t his looks that had stopped Agni in his tracks. This boy had wings. Dark, black wings that stretched out a metre from each side of his body. Darker than the night sky, darker than the dullest shade of black. They were breath-taking. And the boy was glowing. Dressed head to toe in pure white. Skin pale as a sheet of paper. Agni looked him up and down, stunned. ‘My name’s Zende,’ he smiled and offered an outstretched hand. ‘What’s yours?’ Agni couldn’t speak. No matter how hard he tried. This boy had wings! Actual wings! ‘Where did you get those?’ Agni asked. Zende cocked his head to the side as if examining his wings before looking Agni straight in the eye, deadpan. ‘I stole them.’ ‘Stop that!’ Agni pushed the winged boy, not hard enough to hurt him. ‘I’m Agni … if you were wondering.’ ‘I was.’ Zende had no trouble keeping a serious face though inside he was roaring with laughter. It was so easy teasing the boy. ‘It’s a nice place you live in.’ ‘H-have you been around? I-if you haven’t, I could possibly show you?’ Zende hesitated. He knew he had to do this mission as quickly as possible. Normally angels like him would’ve got the job done at the

speed of lightening but Zende wanted to get to know Agni. A dangerous idea. But what real harm could come of it? ‘Well, hurry up slowcoach! We don’t have all day to stand here!’ Agni led the way, showing Zende around Cambridge. The two went everywhere. Crossing bridges, running around parks and playgrounds, exploring museums and exhibitions, splashing in shallow ponds and rivers. Agni talked about the history of Cambridge, telling Zende what tree was the best to climb, the best hiding spots for hide and seek. Zende loved exploring Cambridge, seeing all the different cultures and alleyways, the churches and tourists – hundreds of people just as interested in Cambridge as him. They had spent the whole day together and bonded so easily. It was the first time Agni felt compassion in his heart, for he had made a new friend. A person who finally understood him. His life had a lot more meaning and hope because of Zende. His friend. On the other hand, Zende was freaking out. He didn’t know if he could complete his mission on time, if he could do what he’d been asked to do. Zende was having fun. Too much fun. He’d never had a friend before. Everyone else above always looked down on him. They always thought he was a good-for-nothing, a troublemaker. And yet here he was with Agni, laughing without being judged. His friend. ‘We should do this all over again tomorrow!’ Zende exclaimed, climbing up an old oak tree, trying to keep up with Agni who was miles ahead of him. Agni frowned. ‘I wish I could. I have school tomorrow.’ He sat down on a large branch. ‘Then I’ll just have to come to you. You can show me what your school is like, and what you do. And then afterwards you can show me places that we haven’t been yet or we can go exploring.’ Agni’s eyes lit up like a lightbulb. The two boys started laughing, already excited for the next day ahead. Just then, a piercing voice struck through their fun.

It was Breckon, Breckon who teased Agni every day, who made his life even more miserable. Agni stiffened when he heard him. ‘Who are you talking to, Agni? Yourself again? Agni felt his blood boil. On any other day he would have ignored Breckon, but today was different. ‘What did you say?’ Agni jumped down from the tree and walked towards Breckon. ‘Talking to your imaginary friends again, are we Agni?’ Breckon sneered. ‘Does it look like I’m talking to nobody?’ There was a deathly silence as the realisation dawned on Agni. The bullies started hooting with laughter, laughing with all their might. Zende wasn’t with him anymore. He wasn’t there to show Breckon he was real. Zende could have stood up to him. Zende had wings, for goodness sake! He could have scared Breckon away, shown him that he wasn’t the strongest. Zende hid away from Agni. How could he tell his new friend that nobody else could see him? He didn’t have the heart. Zende was launched back up to the sky without any warning and no control of his wings. His heart started to beat rapidly. He knew what was coming. He’d stalled too long and now he would be punished. He would be sent away from Agni.

‘Zende!’ A voice boomed. I knew what was going to happen. They were going to punish me in the worst way possible. I shrunk down in my frame as much as I could, trying my hardest not to make any eye contact. He looked down on me with glazed eyes. I could see the fury behind them. ‘I gave you all day to do one simple task, and you can’t even do that!’ I shriveled back.

‘I’ll give you one last chance, Zende, but this task must be done by tonight otherwise I won’t be so soft again. You could lose many advantages and opportunities, Zende, you understand?’ I nodded. I must carry out this mission. But I’ll lose a friend.

The stars loomed over Agni’s head as he settled down for the night. Eyes brimming with tears, he glanced out of the window, wishing and hoping that, by a miracle, Zende would appear. Agni closed his eyes and let the darkness seep through, drifting off into another world. A world without despair or loneliness. Zende hated this. He hated this task. He’d explored so much of Cambridge and he wanted to see more. But he couldn’t. He flew into the room, aware that Agni was in a deep sleep. A pang of guilt split his heart. He couldn’t do it. Not when he was asleep and defenceless. It was unfair. Zende’s hand reached out to Agni. ‘Wake up.’ Groggily, Agni rose, eyes widening by the second as he saw Zende before him. But why did Zende look so sad? ‘Zende?’ Zende’s eyes spilt over with held-back tears. ‘I’m so sorry, Agni,’ his arms wrapped around the small frame. ‘I have to kill you.’

Cambridge by Sophie Green

In Cambridge times In Cambridge night In Cambridge spring In Cambridge light As birds arrive So swift in flight Swoop over Cam To our delight

As spring gives way To summer’s hue The flash of oars The freshers crew The cry of cox For Cambridge blue The wake of learning For the privileged few

The days grow short As summer dies The cool of dawn The rain-washed skies The light shines gold Still melts our eyes The bridge of Cam The bridge of sighs

The cycles turn As winter whirls The woolly tights Of Cambridge girls

The term of time Once more unfurls Like Christmas lights Like strings of pearls

Cambridge blue Now white with snow Illustrious stars Like footlights glow

Vinery Park by Marie Vallier

I sit there, lost, looking ahead, Wondering about the life that I had led. Sitting upon a tree with the breeze blowing gently across my face, I smiled and retraced … Retraced my life that I had lived.

The park was full of memories, Sometimes I wondered how it would be to stay frozen as a figurine, Seeing people pass by, And watching children grow and say goodbye. It could be for better or for worse, But the park would stay with the trees collecting the memories and observe.

The children would grow up and come back one day, They would smile and let all the memories fly back this way, Remembering the sorrow, the love and the happiness. Or maybe even the frustration, hope and angriness. But they would smile with their heart pounding, remembering their childhood.

Slowly, leaves fall around me, Red, yellow and green they could be. The oak tree in the middle of the park, Was the place where I would watch even in the dark, The joy of children making me remember all the happy memories, That I had hidden behind the responsibilities. There you would find me at any time of day, Hidden behind the leaves I would stay.

The place, where I stay, is surrounded by nature,

And deep down into the park you find wilderness and amazing creatures, With birds that fly high and soar through the sky, And trees that are always a challenge to climb with only the best able to overcome them. Throughout all the seasons there are new things to explore and smile about.

My memories were coming back slowly. The first time I went to St Philip’s Primary School, And how I looked so miniscule. The wanting to go to the park everyday To laugh and to play. I remembered making new friends, And the secrets I would give away, or arguments that came to an end. I would grow, a few years would pass, And I would leave my class, To go to Netherhall Secondary School.

When growing, you gain more freedom but along with it there are responsibilities, Responsibilities that check you but have amazing memories. The first year is hard to adapt to but soon I made friends, Friends that I will never forget and keep through the whole of my lifetime. I find my freedom through music and it helps me drift away in my own little world, It would help me surmount the impossible homework that are set, by thinking of my dream world.

Here I am, a few years later, in Year 9, stressing out with the GCSE, Working hard and having fun with my friends here at Vinery I haven’t shown them my place

Where I can see the whole park hidden away from everyone else, my own space It is my secret garden where my childhood will remain.

Vinery Park is the place to go when I have nowhere else to go Vinery is my place to dream, to cry, or to share Vinery Park situated down my street is the place to go.

With the breeze against my face, I climb down, taking it all in, and retrace, Retrace the life that I had led And promised the park that I would never forget

Never forget this place in Cambridge named Vinery Park.

Image credits

Cover image is a partial reproduction of ‘View of Cambridge from the West (right-hand half)’ by David Loggan, published 1690.

Image of Fitzwilliam Museum (p. 15) is a derivative of Fitzwilliam Museum interior by Zhurakovskyi under CC0 1.0.

Image of Fitzwilliam Museum (p. 17) is a derivative of Fitzwilliam Museum by Andrew Dunn under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Image of The Round Church is a derivative of The Round Church by N. Chadwick under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Image of Snowy Farr commemorative sculpture is a derivative of Snowy Farr Sculpture by Geoff Jones under CC BY-SA 3.0.

Image of The Corpus Clock is a derivative of The Corpus Clock, Cambridge by Jim Linwood under CC BY 2.0.

Image of King’s College Chapel is a derivative of Kings College Chapel, Cambridge under CC BY-SA 2.5.

Image of Heffers is a derivative of Heffers - Trinity Street by Sebastian Ballard under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Image of the War Memorial ‘The Homecoming’ on Hills Road, Cambridge is a derivative of War Memorial, Cambridge by Steve Day under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Image of cemetery in Cambridge is a derivative of Cambridge City Cemetery, Newmarket Road by Keith Edkins under CC BY-SA 2.0.