FICTION
Joint creative Writing Workshop
Providing an opportunity for boys in Years 12 and 13 to develop their creative writing in partnership with pupils from the Charter School, the Joint Creative Writing Workshop meets twice a term. The writing workshops are led by Miss Akrill, Dr Cocks and by Mr Teckman from the Charter School’s English Department; an off-timetable day in the Summer Term allows for further development of pupils’ writing. Techniques and themes that have been explored this year include prose-poetry, unusual narrative perspectives in prose fiction and opening lines
GbengaChesterton (Year 13) Simon W hen she next looked over to Simon from her chair to the right of the fireplace, he was still. They had decided to spend some time together, talking, as they always would, in the twin armchairs in front of the fire, before he went to sleep. On such a cold night, conversation in the cosy grin of the fireplace had seemed, if not totally necessary, at the very least apt. Simon always loved such moments (as did she), and, despite his youth, his mature temperament, always so subtle in his joys, never failed to leave her with a slight feeling of awe. As she looked to him now she placed the book she had been reading down on her lap and checked to see if he had finished his tea. He had barely touched it, despite having requested it in his favourite mug, but she could not be annoyed by this, especially not now. It was late evening and all was dark outside; the world was crawling, steadily, towards the coiled silence of night. Simon, too, was perfectly silent and she smiled a little as she thought of him becoming too tired, as he always did, to continue talking (they had been discussing what a shame it was about the bees – Simon was always fond of them, perhaps because their content industriousness had struck a chord with his own assured world view; if one should create, why not create something sweet?) and that, as ever, he had insisted that she not stare at him as he nodded
off, as she was so wont to do, and should instead read her book (he could always tell when she stared, and it made him uncomfortable; he rarely went so far as to ask her to stop, usually just shifting around until he had buried his head sufficiently to block her gaze). This time, she had actually managed to comply, staring at the same page in her book, the same sequences of ink, not actually reading, until she was sure that he had drifted away. Now she looked at him, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and she could almost weep for love of her son, her precious, awesome Simon. Instead she held the tears back with a slightly choked sigh and proceeded with a restrained smile. She laid the book aside and stood up, stretching slightly to restore her legs, melted by the fire and a few hours’ disuse at the mercy of Simon’s measured and articulate conversation, his grey eyes flickering as he stared into the flames. She leaned over to brush the hair from a cheek so- slightly flushed with a touch of rose, so that she could kiss it, with such care as if he was porcelain, and stayed with her face only an inch from his for a second (or a minute, or two), her eyes closed, overcome by the immediate delight of his scent. Now, as she always did, as she always had, she gathered him in her arms, his frame so light and slender, skin still pulsing with the heat of the fire, his head over her shoulder. She walked to the stairs, serene, her footfalls no louder than the caress of a shadow, and even as she climbed through the darkness, the bleakness that was at once so familiar and so
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