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Writers Unlimited is an extra-curricular club at Brentford School for Girls, just one of many that enhance the learning experiences of the students. It began, as is often the way, by chance. A young writer seeking guidance, an older teacher wanting to foster new talent, and a burgeoning, published performance poet with a keen desire to escape the office for half an hour. Nearly a year on and this club continues to thrive after releasing its first collection of new writing in the summer term. Young novelists, short story writers and poets from years 9 through to 13 attend each week to work from prompts, develop their own narratives and share their work.

Below are some recent extracts, written by students from Writers Unlimited:

There’s something so calming about floating on the surface of a near empty swimming pool. When there’s no one around to splash along beside you, no children to squeal and cause mayhem, no athletic over-achievers swimming at the speed of sound.

No, only the simple tranquillity of the deep, the indescribable quietness in a darkened room as any panic or stress from the day simply melts away. As the water ripples over your body, you can almost nod off to the calmness of the motion.

The lazy beat of waves; in, out, in, out. Over and over.

I could lie here all day, all night. Breathing in and out. Bobbing away with the waves as my mind dripped out of my ears and floated alongside me, dispersing with the water, mixing with the pool.


(Romilly - Year 11)

She looks out of the window and sees her own face. It is similar to a reflection, shiny and polished and new- her perfect self, staring back at her imperfect self, the noise of the radio crackling along merrily in the background.

‘‘...and what if I told you, my dear listeners, that you could kill your imperfect self.”

Her perfect self stares back at her, mostly sinister, partially sweet, head tilted curiously like a cat. She seems tempted by the offer. The imperfect self on the right side of the window has never seen her perfect self before, but she knows deep down that she should not break eye contact- it is the kind of knowledge offered to you during sleepless nights by the trinkets and fingernails underneath your bed and the gentle gleam of dead stars.

The radio announcer continues. “Then your perfect self would be perfect. And as we all travel further and further towards our fiery demise in a volcanic inferno, all of our collective cells would sigh a collective sigh of collective relief that at least, in the miniscule of a lightyear that we call a life, we were perfect. Doesn’t that sound great, listeners?”


(Al - Year 10)

It was a gloomy day as the rain started pouring against my skin in harmony with the swinging trees that danced upon my arrival in town. I could instantly feel the eyes all around stab deep into my body, and yes I had prepared for this as I had many times; yet this time was different. A man across the road just below the dimly lit lamp stood there just waiting, not looking, not starring, not whispering, not even acknowledging my existence; it was… Nice. I had never witnessed a person that was so oblivious to what was in front of them, could it be someone who was blind? Someone who couldn’t hear the whispers? Why should I even care about him? He’s nothing to me and never will be, so why am I so.. Drowned in these thoughts of this man.

I should have walked away. I knew I had somewhere to be but I had every right to stay there, I was so blinded by this oblivious lad that I had barely noticed the eyes approaching closer; I had to go. I ran and kept on running till I ended up at my mother’s door. I knocked once, then twice, then three times. No answer.


(Megan - Year 10)