English Department

Writer of the Month for January Is: Laila Rodenbeck, Year 7.

Year 7  have recently read 'The Daydreamer' by Ian McEwan. Once they had finished reading they were asked to produce an extra chapter for the book. They had to use the techniques and ideas in the book and, as far as possible imitate the style of writing. Laila produced a very clever and sophisticated chapter which she numbered five and a half; her page numbering was equally creative and playful. Ian McEwan himself would have been proud of this chapter!

An extract of Laila's work is currently on display. Please come and read this excellent piece of creative writing.

Chapter Five-and-a-half

Garbage Chute

 Grandma Fortune was the type of irritating old woman who enjoys pretending to be deaf and quite blind. Realistically she had the hearing of a bat and eyesight so sharp it could cut a cheesecake. Every so often she would complain and rant (most of the time in excruciating detail) about her 'rheumatism' or her 'arthritis' or her alleged 'kidney stones' just so she could watch  her  descendants  take  the trouble  to  unseat themselves  to search for  her assortments of  pills and  medical  concoctions;  which  were conveniently  hidden beneath  the  sofa or  the stairs  or  even  amongst  the cinders and ashes of the fireplace. She was a schemer - that much was true. On these many, many occasions she would live up to her reputation of being 'cunningly evil' (as Peter sometimes described her in his head) by the gleefully wicked grin that crept over her face while it glanced slyly at the poor sod who was sprawled on the floor, his head under the bookshelf - searching for the 'paracetegamol pills' that she had requested.

The Friday before last, Grandma had invited the Fortunes to stay at her humble Liverpool apartment.

'Do we have to go, Mum?' Peter whined. 'Liverpool is so far away and you know what she does...'

'Look Peter, your Granny Clarice is a lovely woman with many ailments; who can blame her for being lonely?' Mrs Fortune stated distractedly as she tried on a sequence of flowery hats in front of the mirror. 'Some women want money and some want family, what can I say? Now hurry upstairs and pack a bag; we haven't got all day you know!'

Peter stormed upstairs, stomping with added force with every stair.

As he packed his bag, he noticed something odd. His shirts were starting to struggle against him and complain.

'Don't make us go Peter, please!' A checkered-short-sleeved begged.

'Last time I went, she hid a whole bottle of cod liver oil in my pockets!' A collared yellow one whimpered.

'Don't make us go! Don't make us go!' They chanted in unison as they folded and unfolded themselves comically and wobbled precariously off the bed. Peter watched as his socks began to tumble and dance before his eyes.

'Red, yellow, blue,' they chorused, 'We shouldn't go and neither should you!' And they skipped and twirled off the pillow; landing squarely into his suitcase that lay open on his bed. At that moment Peter took charge. They were his clothes after all.

'Come here, you!' He called as he lunged at his shirts and wrestled them to the ground.

'Ha! I've got you and I'll never let you go...' He would've finished his sentence but just then the door swung open and Kate's astonished face popped 'round the edge.

'Peter?! What are you doing on the floor? We're leaving in ten minutes!" Kate whispered through her teeth. 'And by the way, you'll be lucky if I don't tell Mum about this...'

The saucy minx turned on her heel and strolled leisurely out of the room while Peter dusted himself off and speedily crammed his things into the bag; who oddly enough did not put up a fight.

At Grandma Fortune's apartment Peter and Kate felt an awkward, lingering silence around the dinner table; and like every silence speaks for itself, it seemed to whisper and spread a sensation that everyone at the table shared the same knowledge; the games that Grandma played with people's patience hadn't even begun -  that someone would be chosen and that someone would be...

'Katie Cat, be a dear and fetch my teeth.' Croaked Clarice Fortune with an evil, horrifyingly gummy grin.

Kate  stood  up  solemnly,  like  a  soldier  sacrificing his  life for  the benefit of those  he loves. The  guests  at  the  table  estimated  that  she would  return  in  an  hour  at  the  least.   They  knew  that  Clarice  was  a  champion  of  her  game  and  to  her they  were  like mere  pieces  on  her chess board or like balls of string to a cat. To play with her was to play with  fire,  and to stand  between  her  and her 'fun' was to stand  between a  crocodile and it's prey...Minutes passed, turning into hours and dinner stretched on. Grandma's defiant chin wobbled as she chewed the dry, bitter apple pie and the long white hairs that grew from it waved about hilariously. Her pursed mouth squirmed about her face grotesquely like it was trying to escape from its owner's face, as she worked her way through the pie. Panting and clutching her chest, Kate raced back to the table; the infamous false teeth in her hand.

'Here you are Granny. They were behind your freezer again.' Kate managed to say between her panting and gasping. Grandma Fortune's claw-like fingers snatched the teeth out of her outstretched hand and popped them into her trap-like mouth. She smacked her lips proudly.

'Who's the lucky person who gets a slice of pie?' She asked, almost too nicely.

Peter glanced suspiciously at the pie. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore that a maggot was strolling along the caramelised apple slices. Apparently everyone else had seen it as well. A murmur went around the table and everyone shook their heads, smiling sickly sweet smiles. Just as Peter thought he'd escaped and evaded the danger that was his grandmother, she whispered something to him across the table.

'Petie Pie, do go and take out the garbage, my old legs aren't what they used to be.'

Peter knew very well that Granny's legs were perfectly fine and that she could run a marathon if only she wasn't so lazy; but he didn't dare object.

Down the landing Peter wandered, the great black sack in his hand bulging. Snatches and snippets of conversation stole out of each and every apartment as the the garbage bag was dragged closer to its ultimate destination. Arguing, barking, whispering, giggling and belching would somehow seep in between the panels of the doors lining the twelfth floor. The odorous room came close until he'd trundled the garbage through the door. Peter held his breath, so as not to catch a whiff of the unholy smell, then slid the cold, moss green, metal door of the garbage chute open. He stared down the abyss. The never-ending darkness was strangely hypnotic and swam around inside his head like a blot of ink slowly conquering an ivory cloth. He was just easing the heavy sack into the chute when he noticed something strange. All of a sudden, a hand appeared - as if out of nowhere. Resting it's palm on the icy, steel edge of the chute, it beckoned him closer.

Peter couldn't resist. He lowered the bag gently to the ground and took hold of the strange hand.

The hand felt soft, yet it was cold to the touch; almost statuesque. Where would it take him? What was down there? Hundreds of questions encircled him. The hand tightened its grip until its knuckles whitened. The beat of his heart throbbed into a crescendo - a thundering clash and clang of his pulse; it roared and raged in his ears, its raw energy trying to subsume him as it sped through his body...

Suddenly, and most certainly without warning, the hand gave a violent jerk - tossing him into the murky black depths of the garbage chute.

'So this is what flying must feel like.' Peter wondered aloud. The stiff, icy hand pulled him ever downwards. Peter felt as if he was a bird soaring through a moonless night sky or a shark diving to the sea bed, while around him the ocean turned grew dark. But he wasn't. He was hurtling down a garbage chute. The air rushed fiercely against his face and body. He couldn't help feeling like this was a haven; solely for him. The fantastic tumbling, flying, soaring, swimming sensation ceased; until Peter was just falling.

He panicked. He wasn't really enjoying it anymore. Actually, that was an understatement. Peter was scared stiff. He tried desperately to tear his arm away from the firm clasp of the hand. He pulled again and again, but to no avail. The harder he tugged; the tighter the stubborn fist clenched. Peter was utterly helpless. 'I'll just have to wait 'till I reach the bottom of this pit.' Peter muttered to himself sourly. He tried latching his hands against the walls of the chute, but they'd vanished. Through the lapping waves of darkness, Peter fell and fell and fell and fell and fell and - THUD.

He slowly (and painfully) opened his eyes. The hand had disappeared. There he was, lying in a small prism of white light. A spotlight coming from who-knows-where threw a bright light on him. Squinting through the blinding light, he saw that all around his isolated circle was that oh-so-familiar darkness. Peter attempted to reach his cold fingers out of the spotlight - and realised that an eerie, invisible force was enclosing him within the small circle. He felt like something or someone was watching him; like he was a specimen under a microscope. A chilling sensation shot up his spine, he hugged his knees to his chest and rested his head between them. The situation was becoming exceedingly prison-like.

BAM! Peter blinked in confusion. What was this?! His prison of light or whatever it was, had vanished into thin air. He was sitting in a marvellous throne room. Almost instinctively; Peter straightened up - he was in the company of royalty after all. He spun in circles, as if he was aiming to rest his eyes on as many luxurious items as he could manage. He marvelled at the beautiful, rich, crimson carpet, the pearly white of the chandelier hanging high above his head and the deep purple of the curtains that washed over the walls, but most of all he was captivated by the rows of proud servants who lined the perimeter of the hall; their noses high and their hands bearing silver platters piled high with tasty treats. Peter searched the room for a monarch of some sort, but failed to spot any. Finally he caught sight of a comical little man, complete with thick eyebrows, a fiery beard and a temper to match. On his head was a glittering crown, set with bright jewels and sparkling gems. He was the king.

'I am King Deodorant III, the monarch of mess, the prince of pollution, the royal of rubbish,' bellowed the man sitting in the magnificent throne at the end of the room. 'I am the King, of Garbage. Who are you, and what are you doing in the Kingdom of Garbage without a passport?!'

Peter blinked. Something seemed off in the throne room. It took Peter a few seconds to latch on to it. At a second glance, the luxurious splendour that had been so breathtaking to Peter's untrained eye was garbage; literally. The red carpet was stitched out of rags, the silver platters that the servants had been carrying were fashioned from aluminum foil, the tasty treats on them were meat scraps and the once glorious throne was somehow created from old refrigerator packaging and christmas tinsel. Peter guessed that the King had taken his name from the pile of empty, putrid-smelling, roll-on deodorant bottles that lay in a pile near the corner of the room. The silliest thing was the crown itself. The crown that rested on the little man's head was a mixture of cello tape, buttons, stickers and glitter; all clumsily pushed together using large wads of blue-tak. It started with a tiny giggle escaping Peter's mouth, which then snowballed into a chuckle; which, inevitably, resulted in him laughing uncontrollably while lying on the carpet - tears forming in pools on his cheeks. His Royal Highness, The King of Garbage, was beginning to look increasingly angry. His face matched the bright crimson carpet at his feet.

'How dare you laugh in my presence!! You shall be punished severely for your insolence!' The Garbage King spat from beneath his delicate red 'stache. 'Guards, seize him!'

Peter stopped laughing and found, to his horror, that a small army of muscly guards, clad head-to-toe in aluminum foil armour, had appeared- and were charging towards him.

Without stopping to contemplate the situation, he ran. He'd won three medals and 4 gold trophies at school for running; so he was pretty quick. He picked up huge amounts of speed and soon he was sprinting so fast that the throne room had transformed into a big blur of colour. His heart raced and pounded and a deafening crescendo drummed in his ears. Suddenly, with a great whooshing sound, Peter was sucked out of the chaotic, colourful, swirl and was again flying through the sea of darkness. He tried spotting if he was flying up or down, but concluded that it didn't matter anyway. A wave of relief washed over him and he sighed. It was funny how normal it felt to be thrown into complete blackness. The darkness didn't scare him anymore -  nothing did. He smiled.

'Everything will be all right,' The thought echoed in his head over and over. 'All right, All right, Everything will be alr...'

*Click*. A light flashed on. Peter squinted and his eyes slowly adjusted to the bright shine. He was right back to where he'd started, next to the garbage chute; the plastic bin bag clutched tightly in his sweaty right hand. Standing in the doorway with her finger on the light-switch was the last person he wanted to see, Kate. A questioning expression was written all over her face.

'Peter! You haven't even thrown out the rubbish yet?!' Kate asked in a tone that let off the dismay and disgust in her voice. 'The electricity cut and we were looking for you for ages. Now that it's back on, START MOVING!'

Peter mumbled reluctantly and turned to push the garbage hesitantly down the chute. As Kate fumed out of the door, Peter paused and whispered down the tunnel before letting the bag tumble down.

'This is for you, Garbage King.'

Peter flicked the light-switch. The room was drowned in the sea of darkness once more.