Lower Fifth English classes who are studying Shelley's Frankenstein penned creative ghost stories set in Lake Geneva. We short-listed each classes' most poignant responses and winners were selected. We are delighted to print the two winning entries and congratulate all finalists who will also receive Headmaster's awards for their creative flair.
Highly recommended: Frida Cardale, Hemah Shah and Eloise Yetton
3rd prize: jointly awarded to Alice Joiyner and Freddie Brasher
2nd prize: Adam Garner-Greene
1st prize: Issie Stephenson-Cronk
Well done to all contributors, there was some lovely narrative pieces and we enjoyed judging them.
Deirdre Cattermole and the English Team
Whirlwinds and Cascades by Issie Stephenson-Cronk
Humidity and mist floats around my nostrils and makes my skin moist and numb. Water lurks around the banks lapping ever so slightly and mist fog dances on the surface. The sound of nothing but wind weaving in and out of sorrowful carcasses of wood and shrubbery. Fragile frosty leaves crunch in pain as my foot puts on pressure. A whirlwind of whispers cascades my head and my world starts spinning. Confusion and mystery, sadness and anger all different emotions make me heave and fall to the pit of, lifeless animals and weeds. White noise is filling the earth’s atmosphere and the sky is being covered with a black cape of sadness.
My vision flutters and then focuses and my limbs are stiff. Stumbling onto my feet, in an imbalanced manner I squint to see the exact same things I saw before; before my fall.
While my heart was still struggling to maintain a regular heart beat and my muscles were learning how to operate; off they sent me to the dumping ground of unwanted beings, all because the illustrator of my identity couldn’t cope with commitment. My father is an anonymous figure and I don’t want to know about him either. Five sad years into my existence I’m finally glanced at with a snigger and a “well if she’s the only one left.” However getting out of that dumping pit overruled the fact I was an unwanted add-on to someone’s life. They are called… foster families; but it wasn’t what you would expect.
Birthdays, Christmas, and Easter were all big deals when their family came over but other than those days, my life consisted of cleaning, sleeping and living in the cellar with no window just a sorrowful light bulb hanging from the cobweb decorated ceiling only giving out enough light tell which way you were facing. It was my birthday and when their family arrived for the occasion I was made to have a shower and dress nicely I was taken out the cellar and made to look like this family were the best thing that ever happened to me
Years on I’m here today in the middle of nowhere not knowing who I am or what my purpose is. As the whole forest seems to be crunching and creaking in pain and despair. A lifeless wooden shack stands small and lonely with no potential to be anything but a dark misery with an eerie atmosphere. With no inclination to go inside, of course I do and the smell hits my nose and knocks me back like a bolder colliding with a rodent. The odor is so strong a skunk would not survive the extremities.
The door slams shut by what I thought was a gust of wind; the whispers cascade my body this time and the room is being taken over by the black cape of sadness once more and I fall again and again and again.
The Mystery House by Adam Garner-Greene