the doorway, staring at him. He stumbled down the sodden cobblestone paving, yelling for help. He wept, knowing it was going to get him, though he was now on Jay Street. He made it to the end of the street and turned – there were people! It was now running at full pace toward him, gurgling with pleasure. He had had enough. Without warning he flung his fist around and dealt a direct hit to the head, causing
it to sprawl wildly to the floor. He heaved his arm back up and sped up – it was stunned, but was now steady on its feet and ready to strike again. He roared to the people and tried to run to them, but he winced – it was his leg. Eventually they met in the middle of the pavement. They asked him if he was all right and if he wanted an ambulance, but when he looked around, it was gone. He drifted off from the conversation. He was safe.
This illustration by Alex Mellis (Year 8) shows Cardinal Wolsey – once the Dean of Lincoln – crossed with a fish. The resulting surreal pun is typical of the humour at Wordsmiths.
King Cobra by Simon Adugna (Year 8)
There is something in me, Something dictatorial, something sinuous. I don’t know what, when or where, Neither how, who or why; What I do know, is that the me that I know has hissed away, Leaving behind a fragment of mentality, ever-ebbing, Enough to write this poem, And that the me I don’t hisses on.
When the orb fades away, The me-I-don’t wakes up,
The Busy Riverside by Alex Mellis (Year 8)
Rain by Jack Probert (Year 8) A beige-stained blue streaks across the sky as it clings to the dying light with shadowy, spectral, clawing fingers. A false star flutters through the otherwise silent void on wings of steel and wiring. Gluttonous clouds swallow up the diamond pinpricks of protruding gems, flitting and laughing as they twinkle. Another bird of metal soars steadily in the darkening sky. The heavens are still plagued with greedy, obtuse giants, lumbering through the frost-twinged night air. An early falling star hits the ground with a satisfied splash, into the bodies of its ancestors. The world waits with an awkward pause... Then down come its brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, crashing to the earth, staining the pavements just a shade darker, every crystal falling downwards in a vicious cascade, scouring the ground as their pace continuously quickens. Like bullets, they hit the soft ground underfoot. As swiftly as it began, the onslaught ends; a cease in fire has led the chorus to a diminuendo, and an eventual halt. Night has patched its tapestry of stillness.
A satin hide etched in my eyes, A serpentine eye in my soul; When I walk, I grow along the ground,
When I talk, I spit fear, When I eat, I devour, When I sleep, I watch
T he rain shot down like fallen stars, and a grey blanket covered the sky, Tower Bridge swarmed with umbrellas like ants over an apple. Everything was grey, dark and disconsolate. The pavements were peppered with rain, and every time a dry spot appeared, the rain would seek it out and spray it in an instant. Umbrellas shoved their way through the crowd, somehow managing to reach the stalls without being crushed by carriages or the occasional automobile. The smell was overpowering. There were pickpockets, too. Quick, stealthy, weaving in and out of crowds. They had come here to steal money, not to spend it. A pale, skinny hand would reach into a pocket, and withdraw with a wallet, a pocket watch, or just scrap. A gust of wind sent a wave of top hats flying, landing on umbrellas and the river. A ship’s horn cut through the atmosphere like a knife, joining forces with the constant drone of bargaining and shouting. Passers-by watched as a pickpocket struggled against policemen, threatening and cursing. Flocks of shoppers continued to browse, as the sun came out. A rainbow of banners and sheets fluttered in the cool breeze. A salty smell drifted from the fish stall, clashing with the bitter aroma of the fine wines. Flies swarmed over fruit on the ground, and shadows danced on the paving stones.
As I glide, I part the golden Mane of the apple; Like lightning, I taste the air, Like music, I listen to the ground, Like a hunter, I look for heat Blind to the harmonious warmth of the world; My skin rustles numbly the grass A sinister grin infects my eyes Gracefully potent, chillingly entrancing, As I rear up, my hood eclipses my prey As I hiss, I spit into its heart
My fangs flood with lethal toxins My jaws unlatch, my eyes ignite Like a firebolt, I snap forwards I plunge my fangs in flesh of my prey I wring the life out of it. The corpse lies in its hazel bed Withering, waning, ebbing The animal’s pale eyes clouds To stygian, onyx, obsidian. All is not squandered, As I bore into the animal’s soul I awake the corpse, inert as it may be Its eyes ablaze with the eidolon of the
Illustration by Junsang Park (Year 8)
KING COBRA.
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