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Mrs KitKat

Paolo hastily ran into Sir Francis Drake Primary, his curly hair swaying as the wind blowed against him. He could hear Mrs KitKat, the new science teacher, explaining how to coat chocolate over biscuits.

As Paolo slowly opened the old wooden door, it creaked so loud that everybody’s heads turned to face him.”Sorry I’m late Mrs KitKat.” Jordan could see that the teacher wasn’t smiling, nor was she frowning. “Jordan Smith, I would like to know why you are coming in at 12:30, but later. Since I asked everyone to name all the ingredients in kikats and they all said no, I have no choice but to force you to do it. “ Jordan was so shocked by this all the hairs on his head went up. “Uh, okay.” Then he started. From milk to cocoa butter, cocoa mass to whey powder and finally he reached the end three hours later. The sky was pitch black and it was 3:30. “School is over! Make sure to do your homework!” the teacher shouted.

Jordan ambled out the school, crying and moaning.”I’m never coming back to this place again!” He mumbled.

The test

“Does everybody understand the rules?” Asked Miss Zuzzanna. The class replied with a slow, moan version of ‘yes’. Their teacher was about to start the test timer, but a loud thud on the door distracted each person in the room. “Hey, Miss Zuzzanna!” A voice yelled, “could you let me in?” A sea of murmurs and and chatters flowed through the classroom. The teacher sighed and click-clacked over to the door. She unlocked it and Maria Sładowska ran in, explaining every reason she was late.

Maria threw her bag down, next to an empty desk and sat down. She glanced at the girl next to her, Lena Owsiańska. Lena was glaring at her test paper, clutching her pen. A few awkward moments later, the teacher got up and called: “you may start your test  as soon as the timer starts.”

When the timer had started, Maria scrambled through her bag for her pencil case. She quickly pulled it out, but it was open, so each and every piece of stationary dropped onto the floor. She gasped and fell onto the floor, to gather up her pencils. However, her pencil had rolled to the front of the class.

She couldn’t go there, she would get into trouble. Or worse.

The Unknown Figure By Hamza TJS

Amber shed more and more tears by the second. Her tears were equivalent to the rain, at first it was subtle, then it began to pelt heavily. She was sitting beside her local theatre on Turnfurlong Road. Every time she peered into the main room she recollected memories of her parents. But they were gone now, and so was the theatre, ever since the civil war it had been closed. More tears began to trickle down her face and onto the slippery pavement. At this point, she didn’t know the difference between her tears and the rain when they were dropping onto the ground.

She didn’t want to get any wetter from the rain, so she got up and decided to find another place to stay. But as soon as she did so, she instantaneously heard harsh footsteps coming from down the road.Fear stroked her spine and she began to shudder in fright. She was so horror-struck that she was unable to move. The mysterious figure began to reach closer and closer to Amber. Before she knew it, another noise came from behind her, and the mysterious figure had disappeared. But this time, the other ‘unknown individual’ was much closer to her. Amber paused. She felt something on her shoulder, something clinging onto her very tightly. She looked beside her and screamed in terror. The predator had found its prey…

The Bike

The bike, a paralysed lost soul waiting patiently for its owner to return.

Sinking in the depths of despair as the mud devours every last inch.

Worn and broken deflated tyres incapable of use anymore.

Flashlight eyes longing and seeking for the unknown once more.

Snapped rusty chains ungiving and undesiring left to rot and seize up.

Once a child’s prized possesion, now a forgotten relic.

Slipping away, hiding memories of  a little girl close to its heart.

Its handlebars reach out like hands.

Oh wow could it be The Grim reaper approaching in a gentle voice “Lets be lost souls together”.


The Leaf by Archie

The fragile leaf floated gently through the air.

It was poison from a scaly tree, needed for the witch’s spell.

Its veins dry and cracked from the lack of oxygen, crumble.

It hung like a week, old cobweb.

A skeleton leaf, shattered glass, lay before me.

And it crumbled into dust…

…and was gone!

The Spitfire

The stunning Spitfire swiftly whirring over the land

screaming silent curses after battle.


The guns spray the bullets,

the whispers of death.


The propellers, powerful like a

tunnel-boring machine under ground.


The prodigious wings keeping

the spitfire airborne.


The spitfire glides flawlessly

into the unknown.


The wild wings slicing the air.


The killer propeller blades chop

aggressively at the night sky.


The rusted exhaust pipes spits smoke,

polluting the clean air.


The swift, agile spitfire glides

like an owl in the moonlight.

The invisible, tremendous propeller

blades whirring swiftly through the air.


The minuscule rear wheel assisting takeoff

and landing a loyal friend.


The black exhaust pipes leaving

a trail of smoke wherever it goes.


The Bike by Class:Y5RHP/BD


The bike is a garden, surrounded by fungi and curvy, twisted plants.

Its handlebars are terrifying bull’s horns, now aged and powerless.

Like an abandoned leather jacket, the saddle has seen better days.

Tyres, now perished, flat and useless.

Its oxidised metal, wrinkled like an old person’s face.

The Pedals are battered machine parts, left over from a Victorian cotton mill.

The Old Bicycle

The bike, once new with silver handle bars glinting proudly in the sunlight

now stands



Wheels still and chain rusted.

Dreaming of adventures long expired.

Roads past and fields crossed.

Wheelies once attempted by brave generations of children long since grown.

Scary feelings of small children trying to ride without falling.

Falling like the golden autumn leaves.

Balanced yet unconscious as the years pass with

steady hands gripping tight.


‘The Jar’

The jar rests against it’s ancient ,rotten plank,

It’s lid ,worn out, acted like an old, wrinkly face.

Cracks rise up from the bottom, minute and annoying, features exposing its imperfection.

The glass wear stood strong in it’s carefully selected cylindrical shape.

Labels ,countless, were splattered across it’s surface.

The faint scent of pickles filled it’s insides with a strange warmth.

The cupboard awaits a dear friend to free the jar trapped inside.

The Elder Bike

The weary traveller rests,

in a dark and dusty shed.

The moss forms like a blanket,

hugging the frame tight like a teddy bear.


The wheels used to spin like racing cars,

but now poison ivy weaves

between the delicate spindles.

Their endless turning is now extinct.


The handlebars used to look brand new,

now they are rusty and grim

like Gloom Castle

the foul, fragile bars groan when you try to move.


The bell is rotten and wrinkled by time,

the joyful ding ding has vanished for good

Replaced by the sad dong dong

this is its dying song.  Bye Bye Mr Bell.