A short story by Dorothy Parry

Hello Little Reader.

Once upon a time there was a kitten called Prince Tinderbox. He lived with his mother Queen Snowflake; she was as white as driven snow. His father was King Garfield; he was as blue as the summer sky. Tinderbox was bright red with stripes on him; he had the most gorgeous golden eyes that shone so bright.

Tinderbox had a playmate called Crystal; her home was next to his. Crystal was blue cream. She looked like the sky in the evening when is streaked with pink. She was soft and fluffy and her fur smelled of the lovely plants in the garden, a lovely flowery smell. Tinderbox and Crystal were allowed to play anywhere in the beautiful sunny garden; they could rub themselves on the nice smelling plants. But they were not allowed behind the sheds because behind the sheds lived the wicked spell casting Thor. In the past some naughty kittens had gone behind the sheds and never been seen again.

One day Crystal, because she was so inquisitive, went behind the sheds…and disappeared! Tinderbox called for her but she never answered. An ugly, grey smelly, mouse came out, from behind the sheds. Tinderbox was so upset because he could not find his beautiful friend Crystal, he decided he would trap, torment and kill the mouse. King Garfield said to his son,

‘You have no playmate now, why don’t you love and play with this mouse instead? Bring it in the house where it can sit with you beside the fire.’

‘No, No, No’ cried Tinderbox, ‘the mouse is not pretty like Crystal, it doesn’t smell like Crystal, it is not sitting in her place in front of the fire. Where is my beautiful Crystal?’

Tinderbox was feeling really sorry for himself; he shed a few tears for his beloved Crystal. He had heard of a cat named ‘Noodle’ a magic no 7 cat, who wore boots, a hat and had a wispy beard. He lived down the lane.

‘Noodle, Noodle, Noodle, please will you help me? My darling, Crystal, went under the shed and disappeared. This mouse came out instead of her’.

Noodle took one look at where the mouse had come from and he said,

‘I bet that evil Thor has put a magic spell on Crystal.’ Noodle held the mouse’s paw and told Tinderbox to look into the small grey eyes of the mouse, they were not gorgeous golden eyes like Crystal’s. Noodle uttered the magic words

‘Hocus, pocus, merry mocus, please focus on the eye.’ Then in a puff of magic smoke that appeared from nowhere, Tinderbox was now looking into the beautiful golden eyes of Crystal.

Tinderbox was so pleased he had listened to King Garfield, he really did want to kill the mouse. He thought it was ugly, gray, and smelly, nothing like his beloved Crystal. He thought its eyes were the colour of mud. Not gorgeous and golden like hers. If he had killed the mouse he would have lost Crystal forever. Tinderbox will be able to be with Crystal forever now, get married and raise lots of kittens. One of the most important things he must do is teach his kittens not to go behind the sheds, or they could be spellbound forever, and ever, and ever.

Old Age by Dorothy Parry

How old are you when you reach old age.

Are you sixty, seventy or eighty?

Are you sad when you reach old age?

No not I, I’m going to live life to the full.

Getting up at six and going to bed at eleven.

I fill my life with work and happiness.

When the end comes to Stafford House I will go.

My room full of books with my cat on the bed.

Do not pity me I am happy in my cocoon.

Please don’t burn my beautiful grey hair.

How sad will you be in old age?

Do you fear dying?

Will you imagine ghosts of people in the past?

Greeting, Fred instead of Michael.

Will you recognise your children?

Or think they are your grand children.

Your mother will be with you in the end.

God rest and don’t worry.

Are we living in 1984?

This is the final collection of podcasts for Ruth Scott-Chambers' English Language class on Wednesday afternoon.

Question of the day is... Can anyone tell us how many times a day, on average, are you likely to be filmed by a cctv camera?

Group 1 - Sam, Tracey, Louise, Angela and Felicia

Group 2 - Lisa, Andrea, Penny, Joanne and Claire

Group 3 - Trevor, Chris, Marie, Scott and Lucy

Group 4 - Urszula, Anna, Louise and Heather

Group 5 - Amy, Kelley, Cheryl

A War Poem by Donna Marie Wilkinson

April Fools’ Day

Printer rollers turning… satellite waves transmitting… communication cables buzzing.

A deployment of information on ‘The War Against Terrorism’.

A media frenetic in its action, but subdued in its tone:

More active than the movement of an army of ants,

Yet as a calm, dull grey, overhanging cloud.

The day of tricks reveals the claim to be true

And once again the toll rises – by one.

As the timekeeper announces almost a decade,

The cost becomes an expensive one

At two hundred and seventy-nine.

When will the ink run dry,

Or will it replenish itself for an eternity?

Click… click… click.

A continual and monotonal dualism:

A giver of time,

Like the death-watch beetle’s perfectly tuned song;

And a taker of time,

Like hailstones raining violently down on a sheet of metal.

A feminised military, or masculine females?

Either way, no discrimination in modern warfare

For the delicate sex is also commemorated.

An unknown public experiences heightened feelings and emotions

As twenty-first century technology and reality

Supply lifelikenesses of our heroes and heroines.

A reunion of separation:

Wooton Basset, where the shells are honoured by humankind

And the heavens, where the souls are glorified by angels.

Respect and support for the tools, yet abhorrence for the act.

An unrealistic, unpopular and unremitting war:

Lacking the understanding, the support and the sense to say ‘enough is enough’.

A tug of war between an undeniable master

And an unbeatable enemy –

Two-legged demons, devilish paths and damnable masses of energy –

A tug of war where the rope is entwined with many strands of servants who are loyal to their country.

No April fools among our brave,

But gallant soldiers on a fools’ errand.

Another Inspriational Poem by James

Access!!!

Such a long time, vain banging on the door,
Hands are now left bleeding and raw,
Trapped in this box for too many years,
Knowing no more than heartbreak and tears.

All I had to do was look for the keys,
Instead I have always been resigned to my knees,
Hitherto, I have listened to fools,
But now I have access to all the right tools.

I open the door, to be blinded by light,
No longer will my life seem forever night,

Now to the new city, I follow the stream,
Now in this boat I can follow my dream,
Now I will never be a face in the crowd,
Now my voice will be clear and loud!

By James Payling

A Poem by Lewis Dalton

A LOSS OF WILL TO RECLAIM

butter lambs steal the sleep of ideas
that were, but never are original
and the use of soldiers without a war
labour softly at conscious and caring

apparent aliens are the thieves of
time and undiscovered discovery
nomadic drunks are essential in their
quaint purity of self proclamation

hermits wish for butter lambs to become
enigmatic, after fleece is shorn and
petals are popped; blown to a dry, western wind
wise to know faith is better placed in god

Gassed (John Singer Sargent) and The Dream (Edouard Detaille)

Click on the images to enlarge them.

Dystopia?

These are the group discussions for Ruth Scott-Chambers', Tuesday afternoon students.


Group 1 - Sarah, Marie, Faith, Gemma, Emma
Group 2 - Tom, Yasmin, Sean and Lewis
Group 3 - Chris, Sayed and Raqeeb
Group 4 - Warren, Nicola, Lyndsey and Jodie

Poetry of James Payling

Loan-ly

Up and down and all around,
Green and bright and obvious,
Spinning, spinning, constantly churning
Need to borrow some ears

Hold my head, hold my stomach,
Pain spreads like a disease,
Where do I go, what do I do,
Isolation, need a loan,

I see no silhouettes in the trees,
Dark, damp forest of green,
Kind, impartial stranger, show your face,
You need to hear my inner disgrace!


By James Payling


-----------------------------


The Cycle of Slaughter.

In a split second we lose five more,
Taken away in copious gore,
Under their wing they gave him his aim,
Abusing their trust he could never be tame,
How many more young men will they send?
Stop the slaughter, buck the trend!

At home a poppy at the cenotaph,
A lowered flag on a rain soaked staff,
On the eleventh the old veterans meet,
Remembering the friends that fell at their feet,
These wise men have seen it all before,
And they more than us see no point in war,

Many evils rose and fell,
To make our future safe and well,
These soldiers keep seeing the same mistake,
With sacrifice and victory comes promises fake,
This time terrorism plays the daemon,
Find and destroy they must not carry on,

From trench-foot into no man's land,
A mine delivers them to death angels hand,
From blitz and wardens to our proud home guard,
They kept us safe and worked so very hard,
To what end was this sacrifice made,
We still risk our young men as memories fade,

From the shadows they will never be found,
They see nothing but caves then hear a gunshot sound,
Suddenly another young hero returns,
And another poor family for a lost member yearns,
How many more young men will they send?
Stop the slaughter, buck the trend!


By James Payling


...........................................................


The unspoken affliction.

Losing my life to unjustified worry,
Broken trust in a paranoid flurry,
My constant struggle pushing people away,
Those closest and dearest being led astray,
If I could just improve the state of my head,
Put all these feelings firmly to bed.

This is the affliction of which I dare not speak,
The things I think and feel make me increasingly weak,
People will say grow up it’s all just fiction,
This is the grip of the unspoken affliction.

The one I should have been there for after all we had been through,
I love you and will always miss you and my friendship was always true,
You developed a condition with which I could empathise,
But in the end I missed your cry and it led to your demise,
She said move on I didn’t think you were that fond,
but growing up with you was an honour and left a lasting bond.

A failure with life, career and money,
Friends and family no longer find it funny,
Do not give up on me I will yet make you proud,
There will be a day I can shout my achievements loud,
I’ve been letting you down for too long it seems,
I will yet fulfil all of my dreams.

She chose a bad day to kick me into touch,
Losing a job that morning didn’t leave me with much,
No lady, no job and nowhere to go,
I barely kept face, whilst inside full of woe,
Family to save me and try to pick me up,
Will I forever stare into a half empty cup.

This is the affliction of which I dare not speak,
The things I think and feel make me increasingly weak,
People will say grow up it’s all just fiction,
This is the grip of the unspoken affliction.


By James Payling

Is Britain in the 21st century a truly dystopian society?

Below are the group discussions for English Language (Tuesday morning 9.30am - Ruth Scott-Chambers). Feel free to contribute by adding your posts or simply listen to the discussions in order to assist with your assessment and evaluations.

**Please note only groups who consented have had their material posted online.**

Group1 - **Not available

Group2 - Gail, Victoria, Vongai Sara and Sharon

Group3 - Akam Ali, Masoud, Nancy, Rhoda and Jamie

Group4 - James and Beth

Group5 - Helen, Donna and Shelley

Doncaster College Access Course Blog

This blog is for extra-curricular work, that you would like published, while studying at Doncaster College on the Access Course. To submit articles, poetry or prose that you have written please e-mail your work to ruth.scott-chambers@don.ac.uk