Love by the Shore
By Annaliese Crocker
The sun rose on another discarded night, its shine splitting the horizon and sharpening the peaks of each wave that sought to thread the rocks at the old woman’s feet. The chilling wind whipped up her hair, catching her watery eyes in stinging licks, and after one last look at the cruel sea, she turned to traipse the worn path back to the house where she had lived since birth.
She was steps from the shore when a voice sounded behind her. A voice tattooed in her memory but not heard for many years. The old woman froze, frightened to turn around and look should it be the cruellest figment of her imagination yet. She trembled with a tumble of emotion, her eyes filling with salt heavy tears, but then he spoke once more.
“Maeve, you’re not dreaming, turn and see me.”
The old woman refused.
“You’ve left it too long, I’m not what I was!” She cried, “I will not let you see my ruined face!”
“I don’t care about the crevices life sketches on skin, they are earnt and to be cherished. Now turn, Maeve, and face me. I’ve waited too long to see your smile and eyes that shine like sea sapphires.”
“Too long? sixty-two years you’ve been gone, I’m an old woman, my face you won’t recognise as the same girl who frolicked in the sea spray.”
“I beg of you, Maeve, turn and face me!”
The old woman’s shoulders sagged but she did as he asked and turned to face the sea.
It was he, standing in the waves, not a day older than the last time she’d seen him. His hair still black like larval flounder, and his eyes a mesmerising mix of colour, like abalone shells.
“You’ve not changed, Maeve, you are the same.” He smiled, extending his hand towards her.
The old woman walked as if caught in a dream, back down to the shore, to her sea love. The waves were warm as they kissed up against her skin and she took his hand in hers, knowing that she would wait on the shore no more.
Toasted
By Esa Moore Age:20
I find the world to be beige. Not neutral, as some may suggest, for there are far too many handmade discrepancies to count.
No. The world is beige.
It is warm flax, bent together by aching fingers, intertwined, like two desperate lovers melding their skin together after nights alone. It is honey, sweet and soft, sticking to the rooves of mouths. It is oak tables, freshly varnished. Coffee rings and shortbread biscuits, the dough kneaded with care and jazz in the background. It is bread, freshly baking, not yet risen. The smell fills the room like the kindest infection. It is seashells not yet ground into sand, speckled, hear the ocean from thousands of miles away. It is sand between your toes, grumbling, brushed onto the carpet. Remember your holiday, remember that weekend you loved, sigh at the memories. It is my mother’s chamomile tea, a taste I dislike but a smell I cry at, too familiar to forget fully. An impulse remains in the mind, unnameable but raw. It is
parchment and canvas, waiting to be coloured over. Colour over it, name the pencils you use.
The world is beige, rightly so,but that does not mean it is beige forever. Stake your claim like a flag in the mountain, colour in study notes and Post-It squiggles, wear flowers in your hair and throw pistachios in morning yoghurt, buy red and blue wool to learn and give up knitting, paint bookmarks for friends and write your name in calligraphy.
The world is beige like a toasted cat in the sun. It blinks slowly, teasingly. It says ‘I love you, world’. A meow escapes it and a thousand people respond with kisses.
Departure
By Thomas Wilby
Eagerly Bruno and Lucy Conte sat in the departures lounge at the airport, waiting for their flight to Valletta in Malta. Hot air swirled around them as, inconveniently, the air conditioning was broken that day and sweat had begun to soak into Bruno’s suit, whereas Lucy felt the droplets forming atop her forehead. However, none of that really mattered to them, they were just simply too excited. Months and years of saving pennies, forgoing the fancy food they craved in exchange for the store brand products and finally having the kids leave home had made this trip possible. Lucy was giddy with excitement; her brunette hair bounced as she struggled to sit still in her seat, this would be her first chance at seeing what life outside of Italy was like, and she couldn’t wait to experience it. Bruno, in all honesty, was just happy to get some time off, his boss at the factory had forced him to work overtime the past couple of weeks, which only worsened the pain in his back. Nonetheless, he wore a bright smile as he looked at Lucy and leaned over to give her a small peck on her wrinkled cheeks. “You are the truly the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” Bruno said. Lucy’s cheeks turned to a rosy red as she giggled, looking into his dreamy brown eyes.“Well I am not sure about that, but I sure do feel like the luckiest,” She replied, which made Bruno begin to chuckle.“The 60 years we’ve had together have truly been the best of my life,” Bruno said, placing his slightly sweaty hand upon hers. Lucy grinned at him and held his hand tightly, wanting to never let go. Hand in hand, the couple sat laughing with one another, ready for their next adventure.
Unfortunately, what Bruno and Lucy did not know was that they would never get their once in a lifetime holiday. Truthfully, they would barely even leave Italy before the plane they had boarded would encounter a swarm of pigeons, which would cause one of the engines to fail, before tragically, the plane would fall from the sky and crash into the ocean, with not a single soul on board surviving. When the wreckage was pulled from the ocean and examined, the crew found the couple still in their seats, their faces were cheek to cheek and their arms were wrapped around one another. Hand in hand, they faced their fate as they had always done, together
For the man at the kebab shop who had a dream about me.
By Aidan Layton
You're in gridlock on Seven Sisters Road, and the stars are gathered over. And there I am, helpless animal, weaving through traffic in nothing but my pants, churned up in exhaust fumes, in the rising reflections of car windows. A premonition - you don't remember. If dreams are like test memories, what happens when the dreamer moves on, but the dream continues for the dreamed of? What happens when we fail to heed our own warnings? I put on your voicewhen I tell it, to be funny. No one ever laughs. Dreams have their own humour, less malleable to exaggeration. Maybe we pass them on to distance ourselves from the scrutiny of their images. Maybe when you realised it was me and you called out: "Get in! get in brother!" but I couldn't hear you, and you stayed in your car, was the moment you failed. Maybe we both failed to see each other. Maybe we are wrong to see ourselves. We pretend to know these feelings just to move on through our lives.
Hello lover. Talk to me.
By Esa Moore Age:20
You move so far, so fast, as if the past were a beast intent on snapping your bones.
Why? Why do you rush so fast from my arms?
Am I not home enough? I fear that one night,
when the wind threatens our home and songs of nightmares warble our throats,
I shall wake up and not be able to find you.
There are no breadcrumb paths to follow, only instinct
and the small hope that I know you well enough. But that is subjective,
a vague chance of familiarity that you tend not to acknowledge.
Please, acknowledge me. Dig your feet in,
drag your heels through the mud to keep yourself from running.
The wind through your wings is not your friend. It cannot understand you.
It excites, caresses, but without emotion. Without care. I know the curve of your skull,
I know the patch behind your neck to soothe with kisses, I know how
to care for another. I am no monster, only your flittering, endless companion.
Look back and tell me that my loyalty is not stitched into my very being. Do not run so fast, I beg.
Make the chase part of our game. Zig-zag, bend, swoop,
let me catch up and grace your tail for just a moment,
count the fibres between my fingers,
and maybe think about staying.
Consider it. No need to come a decision now.
But promise me you’ll think of me and wish for a moment that you could stop running.
Can you see it?
By Lois Fox
“There’s something wrong with the trees.” My father had said and the abruptness of his words had been enough to bring me to a stop.
“What do you mean?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder, gripping my backpack straps a little tighter at the sight of his pale face.
Pa didn’t reply, instead keeping his eyes trained on the horizon, his body quivering with anxiousness. The weather had been pleasant, perfect for a hike, but suddenly the clouds in the sky felt suffocating, as though someone were trying to smother me with a pillow. Taut tension began slithering up my spine.
“Can you see it?” Pa demanded, his face no longer holding any of its usual warmth, the laughter lines that marked his forehead now deep lines of worry.
I followed his gaze and squinted towards the trees littering the hills in the distance. At first their branches were swaying gently in the breeze that rippled through the valley. But the longer I looked, the more it became apparent that they weren’t swaying, but in fact… roiling, in the same way that a snake might move.
I barely had time to hear my own words as they were dragged away from my mouth in the rough wind that had whipped up around us. “Why are they moving like that?”
“CAN YOU SEE IT?” Things were very, very wrong. Pa never shouted at me. Never.
“Yes.” I barked, then swallowed around the dry lump that had started forming at the back of my throat. “I’m scared to look away in case it disappears.”
“Your camera. Jean, get your camera out!”
I swung my backpack off my shoulder, stuffing my hand inside and grappling around until my fingers brushed against the smooth canvas of my camera bag. I kept my eyes on the trees the entire time. I didn’t want to – the sight made me feel sick – but some primal instinct told me that if I looked away, it would be gone forever.
My skin crawling, I brought the camera up to my face.
I took the photo – FLASH.
And then everything stopped.
The breeze ceased, the trees stopped seething, and the air fell silent. Whatever had been there, hiding inside the trees had disappeared.
It took me days to look at the photo after I’d had the reel developed. I was terrified of what I might see and what it would mean. But the photo was normal Nothing out of the ordinary.
I’ve studied that photo relentlessly over the years, tracing it with fingertips stained with tobacco and smears of alcohol. When I look at it, I feel like I need to squint, as though I need to look closer, through a veil that’s covering something that I can’t quite see.
Can YOU see it?
Its Calm Here
By Hank W.H.
“The waters nice today”
A simple thought, yet it was one expected from a person taking images of the beach.
Ahead of you was a slim frame. They couldn’t be any older than 22. A long life ahead of them, yet here they were, staring to the water, edging closer as if contemplating. You’ll of course ignore them at first, the beach being public meant having company wasn’t irregular. But typically, there had to be some kind of bother to this.
Of course, they are standing right where the camera is set up. All morning you slaved away to ensure the shot would be JUST right to capture that perfect angle. Now, it was ruined by the silhouette of an anonymous figure. You’ll contemplate moving the camera, darting your eyes to search for an angle similar to the one you envisioned. While doing so, the figure will keep sparking your interest instead. Not who they are, but how their form merges with the backdrop of solace. The way the water crafts the scene around them. How the figure coincidentally positioned themselves for the perfectly framed image.
The beach is beautiful at this time of day, not too bright, yet bright enough for the lens to focus. You no longer see the figure as an obstruction, rather an addition. One simple click and this moment became an image, filed away in seas of ink and memories. Taking this provided some mental clarity to you, the peaceful aroma of such a day now memorialised through imagery.
A feeling of pride washes over you; a photo of such beauty deserves your praise. However, it reminds you again of that silhouette. An identity kept under the wraps of a turned back. It sparks curiosity, so much that you begin to properly look at them, squinting to pick up any recognisable details. And suddenly, rather than seeing just a figure, you’ll see a person. Not just a part of the scenery, but a real person with thoughts, opinions, a family. But it’s not just that you are able to notice, because now you can see their misery, their troubles, their lack of worth. In that moment, your thoughts of bliss are interrupted by their cluttered mindset of regrets.
Being able to actually see them is terrifying. Their body language telling an entire story of distractions and disappointments. The echoes of gluttony feed at their starved frame, guilt devouring them into the shell you now see Infront of you.
By the time you’ve finally notice their struggle, actually seen their pain for what it is, it’ll be too late, they’ll already be submerged. The warmness of the spring afternoon washed from them to greet the icy temperatures of the unforgiving current. With a final return of the waves, the figure will be gone.
Seeing them go under, your only wish would be that you were a little more observant.
Weight of Winter
By Freya Kirrage Age:13
Cold is like a blanket to many and few. To plants it encases them and to humans ( me and you ) it lets us live and escape our houses ; take photos like these of the frozen branches. This camera can see children running around... It can see the snow stopped in time ( no longer able to reach the ground ) . This camera only has limited time left (before the cold) , forces it to take its last breaths. Yet like humans ... (me and you) this camera without the cold cannot truly take the photos it has been made to do. So my story of this iced tale is not only the story of this branch encased in snow ... but of the camera behind the crystalised tree and how its life slowly became known even as its time stuttered to a frozen polaroid scene.
Almost Caught
By Dory Cooney Age:9
The Black Water It was a frosty morning a small boy named Bob was staring across the big beautiful montians out from his bedroom window all he ever wanted was to explore the wonderful nature outside of his house far away however his parents told him to stay inside were it was safe because at 6pm the black mesterious monsters crept out of the water! but one day it would be different he decided to sneak outside at exacally 6pm! Because he did not know that they crept out at 6pm he remembered it to be 9pm! So at 6pm just before dinner he slowly wondered out of the door and ran to the montains he felt so happy but he relized it was starting to get dark soon he could not see the way back to his house! Suddenly he heard a weird loud squeaky sound he was getting very scared he felt some weird fealing on his leg and when he slowly looked down ‘’ahhhhhhhhhhhh!’’ He screamed in shock ‘’help’’ he screamed. A small little black duck was pulling him towards a pond! Just before he got pulled fully into the lake the parents came as quickly as possible they pulled their beloved son out of the pond they ran quickly to their house and gave their son some clean clothes bob could tell that their parents were very worried they had a nice family hug and now bob knows not to go outside at 6pm and his parents became less stricked and let their son play outside with his friends more.