Thursday, 27 May 2010

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.

Thursday, 29 April 2010

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.


Wednesday, 28 April 2010

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.