Guardian Angel - a story by Abigail Croft, Y10

Guardian Angel by Abigail Croft

I like to copy her movements. I pretend to grab the phone, carefully dial a number I’ve memorised and talk quietly, but my words are different. Her mousey brown hair falls down her flushed cheeks as she talks on the phone. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but she talks with them every evening. Her deep blue eyes reflect her sadness, like pools of crystal water, sitting still, deep in a cave never explored.

The girl, she can’t see me, but I can see her. I’ve watched her for a while. It’s strange but I like to pretend to be her, and pretend I have the same life as her.
Her room is cosy. Posters of all sorts of things scatter the weathered walls; blankets and old stuffed toys tossed in a corner long forgotten; piles and piles of unfinished work cover her desk and her glowing bed lamp illuminates the room in an orange glow. But she is dejected, desolate and depressed. I want to help but I can’t. I can’t do anything. I can’t wipe the tears that fall down her face every night, or stand up for her when a nasty comment is made, or even just hug her when she sits, staring blankly into me or nothing, because I am nothing.
A loud bang disrupts the peace. The girl tenses with worry - or fear - I can’t tell. Swiftly, she taps her light, plunging the room into darkness, as she wraps herself tightly in the blanket. She finally whispers into the phone before switching it off. The room is enveloped in a dimness of shadows; the posters on the wall suddenly become distorted, until their faces each twist into monsters, and the weak light illuminating outside seems to switch to gloominess. The cave is crumbling, and as it does the girl cries tears of despair. 

Another bang.
The door opens. The posters move to what they were, and the streetlight outside turns back to the white blinding glow it was before. A woman appears at the door, passes through me towards the now still girl. She picks her up, tightly holding the child. 

Surprisingly, she turns to me, her eyes pure and sympathetic.
“I’m sorry dear, but we have to go now,” she murmurs, her soothing eyes returning to the child. I feel like I recognise her.
“Miss, I...” I manage to slip out.
I blink. The window is open. The room’s curtains dance to the frigid wind as it brushes into the room. The woman is not here anymore, but the child still is. Her little body is unmoving; fixed forever. As a tear falls down my face, memories start to come back: why I’m here, following her, protecting her. But I failed her to protect her in that little moment. That little crack led to the collapse.

I fade just as fast as her life did. 

Entries for the Young Writers' Poetry Competition 'This is Me'

Students in Creative Writing Club wrote some poems for this competition.

The Girl with the Stutter

This is me and I have a stutter

But I’m proud and I don’t let it stop me.

I’m different and smart and kind and I’m strong

But I can’t always say what I mean.

 

Listen, I’m not stupid - I’m going to change the world

And be an inspiration for every little girl.

 

Just realise I’m not scared, it’s just a condition -

If you looked closer you’d see that I’m full of ambition.

 

I’m trying to say what I mean, nothing’s stopping me

Except you, your ignorance and all your interrupting.

 

And there’s more to stuttering than you would ever know

Sometimes I’m stuttering and making no sound at all.

 

No no no! I’m so angry and tired of this!

I’ll say it again, why are you all so ignorant?

 

I’ve spoken to crowds; I love to act - yes! -

‘Cause I use a technique called costal breathing!

 

It’s just so exhausting, if only you knew

How many people are struggling too.

You just can’t imagine, how hard it is to speak,

Every word is a mountain, I’m climbing the peak.

 

So, when you hear me stutter, just please leave me be.

I’ll say it in time,

And I promise you’ll hear me.

 

By Amelia McMillan Y10

Tell Her I Said Hi

Picture me 

Aged three 

Sat in a circle 

With people I don’t know.

My teacher asks, 

Hands clasped, 

Who are you? 

I don’t know. 

 

Years later, 

I write this on paper, 

And continue to question, 

Who am I? 

 

Am I the breath I take? 

Am I the mark I make? 

Footsteps left, 

Pressed into the sand. 

 

Did the dinosaurs ponder 

Humanity’s' wonder, 

Bones and fossils, 

We haven’t forgotten? 

 

Or did the poets think, 

Pen, paper and ink, 

That their work would live on? 

That we would remember? 

 

Perhaps I am 

The doors I slam 

The screams, the shouts, 

The arguments. 

 

Am I my friends 

Or the dead ends 

Or the maze itself? 

The exit. 

 

I hope I am the trail 

I leave behind without fail. 

The traces of myself 

Everywhere I’ve been. 

 

I pray I am the smiles, 

The only thing worthwhile, 

And the laughter I cause. 

Who am I? 

 

That girl will never know the answer, 

But if you ever happen past her, 

Tell her who she is. 

Tell her I said hi. 

 

NIAMH WHELAN Y9