Go to top of page

Latest News

Creative writing talent shines bright

Students in the Year 9 English Innovation Group and the teachers at LPGS had the opportunity to submit original creative writing pieces to the First Story National Writing Competition on the theme of ‘Footprints’.

The student judging panel short-listed the three winners at school level to be sent off for national judgement. The pieces were looked over for longlisting by Penguin Random House and we are pleased to announce that Stella Moren-Rosado’s poem will be published in the First Story Anthology and she will move on to the final stage of the competition to be judged by multi-award-winning authors:

  • Mark Haddon (The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime)
  • Juno Dawson (All of the Above)
  • Salena Godden (Springfield Road, The Good Immigrant

Below are extracts from the school’s Year 9 winning submissions, along with some of the teachers’ efforts. 


7 Steps […]

I’m not with her, As she flies. Step 7.
Her eyes misted, To hide the ache in her soul… Her eyelashes cradled her tears, Until they could no longer bear the weight. But now angels surround her, To dry her weeping eyes…
Her memories will be sunshine on the world, The stars – the gleam of her eyes. Her name will be scrawled on the sky by hurricanes, And the winds – her dance.
Yet the rain, Will be my mourning, Of the 7 steps she took alone.


Drained, I slow down to a halt when the green footprints end. Where did they go next? Only then I realise that I’ve run to a beach. A deserted beach with no sign of life for miles. The hot grains of sand send electrifying sparks of heat through my feet, filling me with a warm sensation. Palm trees loom over me menacingly, whispering to each other,  protecting me from the vicious sun rays. The waves crashing over one another are like music to my ears. The salty sea smell sets my body at ease. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is heaven. Suddenly, I spot a boat out at sea, sailing further away from me. Exhilarated, I jog into the ocean and yell until my voice is hoarse. Nothing. Distressed, I run out further, the cool green sea chilling me to the bone. The water is dangerously up to my neck and my hope drops immediately. Fortunately, I see the boat turning around and coming for me. They must’ve seen me!  Suddenly, something sharp jabs my foot and I stumble forwards, underwater. The water fills every orifice in my face, choking me. Then…darkness. 



[…]   Sitting at an empty table, Azrael called for a waiter. No answer. She called again, anxiety once again creeping in as no one so much as glanced her way. Frustration pulled her to her feet as she screamed in a desperate attempt to be seen or heard, noticed at all. After once again failing to draw any attention, she walked out, hands shaking  violently, door slamming behind her. 
She broke into a run, sprinting until she reached her front door. She ran straight up the stairs, right through her door until she reached her mirror, icy eyes squeezed shut in terror at what she might see. Slowly she opened them… and saw nothing in the reflection. No silver hair, no  piercing blue eyes. She saw exactly what you might expect a ghost to see in the mirror. Nothing, not even footprints.


Mrs Neburagho-Bishop is in the process of writing her first novel after completing her Masters in Education and Creative Writing at Goldsmith University. In between raising her daughter and teaching the girls, she spends every spare minute on her urban fantasy/young adult novel about conspiracies, identity and love.   
In the mud, was a footprint.  Boot prints to be precise.  
It was once my middle started to pound that I realised I was holding my breath. I put a hand over my stomach in a feeble effort to still my heart. There were a whole bunch of them.  One person though.  They went past me then looped back to the pod and disappeared around the side.  Someone had come down in the pod.  Someone tiny.
I placed my own foot next to it.  Mine was more than twice the size.  
Blood rushed in my ear as I followed the trail.  Part of me wanted to call out.  Prints that small had to belong to a child.  But something – I don’t know what – made me hold back.


Miss Burch has been a performing poet for over a  decade now. She has published poetry for The Women’s Press and is currently writing her first novel set in North Italy and London. After a long break in Italy last year, she finally has all the inspiration she needs to put the finishing touches to her tale.

9.57am. Just one more step. Can see mum. Her hair used to be brown. She’s stopped dying it now. She does old gracefully. I hope I do the same. “Mum.” She turns. She’s crying. Eyes red. Mascara running down her face. Doesn’t look like she’s done her hair – strange that she’s wearing mascara. Doesn’t matter. “Where’s dad?” Need to get to him. She’s no good when she’s like this. Too emotional. Always emotional. “Where’s dad?”

 “I’m so sorry Lucy. You just missed him.”
9.58am. Just one more step.
9.58.36am. “He’s gone.”
 9.58.39am. Wondering how a minute can last for so long, only to disappear in an instant.


Mrs Creffield is our data Queen but little did we know that she is bursting with creativity. She enjoys writing and her greatest success so far was having a short poem published in the regular spot in a national newspaper.
A child's laugh, a child’s cry remains, though none can see, inscribed upon a mother’s heart for all eternity.
A lover's kiss, a bitter word, a fleeting moment's toil, to fan the love or stoke the hate that burns the midnight oil.
A cruel strike, or gentle hand, no word, but indent made, upon the land or life, or soul, hurt dealt or love relayed.
For each and all shall leave a mark,  tread carefully, and light. The trail is laid, there is no choice. The choice is wrong, or right


Page Images

Click to enlarge