We are excited to share with you this latest edition of The Edit, the creative writing magazine here at Habs.
This term, our theme has been perspectives. We have explored how stories shift and deepen when viewed through different lenses: whether stepping inside a painting, reshaping the voice of a poem, or reimagining the world behind a song lyric. Our writers have experimented by crafting pieces that challenge, surprise, and invite us to see familiar things from unexpected angles.
We are also delighted to include the winners of this year’s Novel Writing Competition. This annual challenge invites students to write the opening chapters of a young adult novel. Our judge this year was novelist and alumna, Radhika Sanghani (OH), who was really impressed by the standard of the entries. The next Novel Writing Competition launches in July - look out for an email about it!
We hope you enjoy reading The Edit.
Saumya
Anand, 12 JZC/JVM
Lucas Argent, L6 C3
Ajai Athithan, L6 S3
Maya Shah, 12 DHH/CR
After ‘Not My Best Side’, U. A.
Fanthorpe
I admit, it’s not my best work; You see, there’s been less demand For epic paintings now a computer can code you one in five seconds flat I was out of practice, that’s it, And Uber doesn’t operate out here. And that dragon – he burned up my brushes. It’s a good thing global warming’ll take care of Him soon. It was petty of me to edit out a couple of feet, but this equipment is pricey! Don’t get me started on that nasty, Red-pilled knight. I’ve heard he’s big In the manosphere, but he looked awfully Small up on that mangy horse.
I don’t blame her highness for looking so Disdainful. Everyone knows all this has been Out of style for ages, and there was barely anyone Watching her livestream Now I think about it, This may be my last job I’m so over this
Delilah Smith, 10 A
St George and the Dragon, Uccello (1470)
Running from a stranger,
Escaping your fate,
Rearranging yourself,
Just to fit in,
Why is it staring?
You don’t recognise the reflection, An imposter stands in your place, Your smile is strained, What have you become?
What have you become?
Your smile is strained, An imposter stands in your place, You don’t recognise the reflection, Why is it staring?
Just to fit in,
Rearranging yourself,
Escaping your fate,
Running from a stranger.
Amelie Blake, 10 Ansuz
The Opening
The theatre is dark
The Final Act
A single spotlight burns at centre stage
William Shakespeare stands alone, reviewing his pages He senses something - a tremor in the air, as though the curtain has risen without his command. The house doors slam shut.
He turns.
They are here.
His creations
The First Act – The Note
Katherina steps from the shadows Fire lives in her eyes She does not tremble She walks straight to the stage and pins a paper to the wooden pillar beside him
“Take a final bow, Shakespeare.”
He reads it.
His mouth curves faintly. “Kate-”
“Do not call me that,” she snaps “You call it taming I call it theft You took my voice and dressed it as obedience”
She circles him
“You silence me in marriage Tonight, I silence you”
She does not carry a blade. Her weapon is humiliation - public condemnation. She intends to destroy his authority in his own domain. She steps back.
The stage shifts.
The Second Act – The Crown
A scraping sound
Lady Macbeth emerges, clutching a fractured crown Gold is bent and broken in her grip
“You crowned me,” she whispers her voice shaking with anger “Then you stripped me You made ambition my curse.”
Her breathing grows erratic.
“You wrote me into madness.”
She lunges The jagged edge of the crown drives into his side Shakespeare gasps Blood spills
She pulls back, staring at her shaking hands She wipes the blood from her hands
“You brought this upon yourself” she whispers a tremor in her voice, Kate looking on in horror He is wounded.
But he is not dead.
The Third Act – The Lovers
Romeo rushes forward, clutching a vial Juliet grabs his arm
“Not yet,” she whispers
“He denied us life,” Romeo hisses “He let us taste love only to snatch it away”
He uncorks the vial, intending to force it between Shakespeare’s lips. But Shakespeare swats it aside. The liquid splashes uselessly across the boards. Juliet pulls Romeo back to where the others are standing.
Their attempt fails.
The Fourth Act – The Storm
King Lear storms forward past the group who already tried their luck
“You stripped me of kingdom and daughters!” he roars “You left me howling at the sky!”
He raises his staff and strikes Shakespeare across the head. The blow sends him to his knees, his head pounding.
Still alive.
Still breathing.
The Fifth Act – The Fool
Nick Bottom staggers to the head of the mob, eager to join to get his own revenge, grabs a dagger Lear dives out of the way
“I’ll not be the jest forever!” he cries, running.
He thrusts - but the blade bends.
A stage prop.
An audience might laugh
No one does
Then Bottom sends a powerful kick, fuelled by rage, into Shakespeare’s chest, knocking the air out his lungs
Shakespeare struggles upright then to his feet. Blood stains his shirt. He looks at them not with fear - but curiosity.
“Is this my final act?” he murmurs.
A slow clap echoes
The Sixth Act - The Master
Richard III steps into the light He has not yet touched the playwright He does not need to
He walks behind Lady Macbeth Whispers to Kate Nods at Lear Encourages without commanding. He has spoken to each of them before tonight.
Told each their suffering was deliberate.
Told each they were wronged.
Told each revenge is justice
He never lifted a blade
He only lit the fuse
The Final Move – The Prince
All eyes turn as Hamlet steps forward. He holds a rapier. Its tip glistens darkly. Poison. Shakespeare sees it and almost smiles.
“Still thinking?” Shakespeare asks.
Hamlet’s jaw tightens
“You gave me a murdered father A corrupted mother A kingdom of rot Endless thought Endless delay”
He circles slowly
“You wrote my suffering and called it depth.”
Richard’s voice drifts softly behind him.
“Act.”
For once, Hamlet does not hesitate. He thrusts. The blade pierces cleanly beneath the ribsavoiding the crown wound, striking true. Poison enters the bloodstream.
Shakespeare gasps. The strength drains from his limbs. He collapses centre stage, but it doesn’t stop there. No, that would too easy. Richard ensured the poison used was painful Shakespeare writhes on the ground, guttural screams of agony tear through the air, eyes bulging. It was like something for one of his plays, the irony. Then as suddenly as it started it stops.
Silence echoed.
The Realisation
Lady Macbeth drops the crown staring in horror. Kate glowers at the note, as if it has the secret to revive him. Romeo clutches the empty vial, shaking. Lear trembles, unable to draw his eyes for the corpse. Hamlet drops the sword, the clatter loud in the silence
Richard steps forward. Smiling.
“You see?” he says gently. “You were always capable.”
They turn toward him slowly, desperately lost in macabre thoughts.
“Why?”
“We will never speak of this again.”
“You orchestrated all of it?”
But one voice cuts through calm. “You killed him without getting any blood on your hands Well done, you got what you wanted.”
Richard claps slowly. “And Shakespeare portrayed you as a fool, Bottom, you are rather clever aren’t you? Shakespeare wronged me more than any of you he made me the villain, made my face a laughingstock, I wanted revenge, so I got it without doing anything and allowed you to think it was your choice.”
They all stared at Richard, the man who manipulated them.
The creations had killed their creator.
And so, when the body was found they all said nothing; and all, but Richard who wore a cloak of glee, carried a weight of guilt, remorse and sorrow
The true murderer never found hiding behind his pawns
“And that is the end”, whispers the nameless narrator
Shah, 7 Millar
A Lady’s Will
I did behold a lady in my copse, approaching my abode where roses bloom But roses bow before her radiant locks. By merely her grace, night withdraws its gloom. She turned to touch a single beam of light, And stepped onto the path, her gaze found mine, “Good sir,” said she, “the village green, is’t in sight?”
I drew too near, as if her beauty were mine, Then sharply said she, “I am no knight’s own lance, to serve his every whim. My spirit yields Not to another’s aim.” My arrogance
She crushed, my love she scorned, left me lost in fields.
From her I learnt what most so oft forget, That love is freely giv’n, not beauty’s debt.
Liberty Oldroyd-Elliot, 10 Aleph
Guilty
A gavel is struck heavily against its sound block, Its hollow clamour ringing in the air with a tone of finality. The onlookers are shocked into silence
The world holding its breath, As the verdict is sorrowfully delivered…
Handcuffs are reigning in my nerves, Tied to each wrist the metal bites into my flesh, I strain my ears to hear my fate, Leaning forward in the dock in trepidation.
Guilty
I look up not in fear but with resignation, Trying to meet the eyes of the merciless onlookers, But the crowd has erupted in elated shouts. My gaze locks with the victim’s mother, But she quickly averts her eyes, Silent tears flowing.
They all turn to me with scrutiny as I am yanked to my feet. I shuffle my feet closer and closer to my bleak future, Tripping over the chains clinging to my ankles, I keep my head bowed in shame, Starting to wonder whether it was all worth it
He was found guilty
My hands are shaking as I look back to the dock, Meeting the eyes of the guilty Tears pricking at my eyes, I quickly avert my gaze, Letting the verdict send waves of relief through me
My heart still aches as I stand to watch him be lead away I can only see the back of his head but his anguish is evident: His shoulders are drooped and posture slouched, He drags his feet to slow his descent but his end is inevitable I watch his last steps before he disappears through a doorway, But when he descends the uneven steps to enter the gloom of the cells below, I finally accept that I have won. And yet…
The Art of Losing You
You never called it love, just between us, is that even what it was?
The idea you had of me, wide-eyed and free, who was she?
The sparks fell and time did too, clinging to the string of my sinking balloon
There’s nothing left I can do; I might be okay but I don’t think I’ll ever be over you
So, I’ll sit amongst the ruins of a life built on love
I’ll put flowers by the buried promises you keep from above
I’ll patch up the heart that you broke clean in two
And I’ll forget about the life, that I lived and loved with you
Saskia Eneberi, 7 Harold
The Revolver
The place where my heart would be in my metal body is pounding with the deep melancholy, a result of the events that occurred just hours ago – back when I was unaware of the dangers that were locked inside of me. So as I begin this tale, keep in mind that I never wanted this; I never asked for this But some things are out of our control.
The atmosphere was different that day I remember not being quite certain of what to deduce from it. My mistress grabbed me with no hesitation and for a 70-year-old lady she had spectacular reflexes – especially at the prospect of soon becoming the murderer of her husband But, of course, I was unaware of this at the time
She entered the study hiding me behind her back, apparently reluctant to demonstrate my brilliance. Her voice echoed through the study, sweet and honeyed but with a cold undertone: “Hello, darling”
Then she quickly whipped me around and pointed me at her elderly husband.
A slow figment of understanding was betrayed in his eyes A click resonated within me, followed by a series of bangs, before Mr Harris lay on the floor limp and lifeless, his head lolled to the side, blood seeping out of it. The rest to me was a rushed blur of desperation as Miss Harris hurriedly stuffed me in the couch
Now, I stand here in the clutches of the detective with one thing I wish I could say: I’m the murderer! Don’t waste your time searching for the culprit, because it’s me it was my bullets that killed him.
I’m the murderer Maya Keane, 7 Powell
Ordinary, According To Them
To them the world was ordinary, Predictable.
Practical. Plain
But I was small enough to spot the wonder hidden inside
To them it was ruined plans and damp sleeves, time to open our umbrellas. To me, it was the sky speaking in silver threads, each drop stitching the clouds to the frayed edge of the street
To them, it was somewhere to sit, just wood and metal
To me, it was a ship anchored in a sea of grass. The wind as my compass pointing towards land.
To them, it was nothing more than a chore, a mountain of cotton to be folded
To me, it was a snowy peak to conquer, a summit that awaited my flag.
Somewhere between growing taller and learning the word practical, the wonder learned to hide
But sometimes, when the rain arrives without warning or a bench shifts under weight, something in me still pauses. Just to notice, how easily the wonder waits for someone small enough to see it again
Natalie Hirschfield, 9 A
Juliet’s Defence
Father believes I betrayed him, because I disobeyed him and my mother by not marrying Paris, who was chosen for me I may not be like all of the other women in society and may not be like all of the other fourteen-year olds. But I am me. I can’t be compared.
When you arrived at the decision, Father, you forced me to marry with such pressure But I reflect your morals. You said if I didn’t marry Paris you’d treat me as if I was dirt. You should respect my decision. Yesterday you said “Wear the white dress” and so on.
Please Whatever this is
I love Romeo, Father! He is the one I have married, which means I will not commit bigamy, and that is final. Why don’t you want your own daughter to be happy? Father, if you try to make the decision for me, then you’ve got to accept that you won’t always make the right one. I have not betrayed you. Instead I have been brave.
You cannot scold me for that
Sienna Bell, 7 Millar
Novel Writing Competition 2025-6
First Place Left in the Dark
by Lexie Conway, 10 Ansuz
1.Lucas
‘Hello? Hello? Anyone there? Guess I’ll just start talking. I’m speaking to the person who started it all I mean, there must’ve been someone who started it Or, maybe not started it exactly, but kept it going You kept it going Someone had to You can’t just leave the lights off and then flick them back on ten years later like nothing happened You didn’t know, did you? Didn’t know what would happen. To everyone, to us. People died right at the start. Some from shock, some killed by the ones who went on a mad rampage to find food. We didn’t hear from people who tried to find the light. If they lived, they would’ve come back. Wouldn’t they ? Anyway, more people died They had to – ten years is a long time A lot from starving, some just killed themselves but most died because they were dirty, ill, hungry and sad. Changed.’
‘Who are you talking to Lucas?’ a quiet voice asks from the slit of light escaping through the door
‘No one Elle, just gimme two seconds, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Sorry Actually, no I’m not going to apologise I’m going to carry on Hear that girl? An orphan Her mother, our mother, died when the lights came back on I know, strange, because we were being freed. But she did. One of your helicopters. I’m…I… I can’t be her parent. I-I can’t.’ I pause because I’m choking now. ‘That was two years ago now. But no one ever apologised. It was a chain of shipping people off to new homes, like a life starter pack You-you’re disgusting, awful creatures you LITTLE SLIMY BEINGS-’
‘Lucas! Calm down, what are you doing?’ Elle bursts through the door She’s a beautiful little girl – fair hair always in a signature side braid, slightly tanned skin and a tall, lean figure. But the best thing about her is her eyes. Bright green, just like her mother’s. Our mother’s
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, rushing over to her She’s more sensitive nowadays, I should’ve known better than to start shouting in front of her. She’s so fragile.
‘Don’t worry Lukie,’ she smiles, sitting right up next to me, cross-legged, gesturing at my battered computer ‘But it doesn’t have to be hard anymore, right?’
‘Right.’ I say, trying to keep her calm and maybe even convince myself that that is the truth. Why should I still be obsessing over the past?
Elle starts to speak, still fixated on my computer ‘Uncle Rich said it time for dinner by the way When you’re ready’ She gets up Ah, good old Richard Elle is the only one who calls him Uncle. I guess she had to put him up as a parental figure. To be honest, I’m just glad she didn’t look at me for that role.
I follow her to the small dining room In fact, every room of this house is small I begged them to let us stay in our three-storey house nestled in the burning ruins of the dark countryside It wasn’t liveable, I know that But that house has a lot of memories The way I see it, it’s the last I have of Mam. Except maybe Elle’s eyes.
‘Lucas? You coming mate?’ Uncle Rich calls He’s a very manly man Deep voice, muscles, clean shaven, that kind of style He’s not even our uncle, really Mum’s cousin’s halfbrother
‘Coming,’ I say, entering the dining room and taking a seat at the table. I can’t get the video I just took out of my head. I’ve taken lots more like it, just trying to make whoever watching it feel horrible
‘Good food?’ Uncle Rich asks. I have only just noticed my food. Plain, unseasoned chicken and buttery rice. Elle kicks me under the table and we both nod, and I take a big spoonful of rice. I’ve hardly been eating anything and I’m getting skinnier by the day. Rich says I need to eat, but it’s a big change going from skinned rabbits you caught yourself to microwaved, store-bought meals
Those videos… ‘Uncle Rich, how do you send stuff to the government?’ I blurt out. Oh no –that was way too unexpected. I try and cover myself up. ‘Like, if some kid did a “persuasive report” on drains and all that.’
Uncle Rich looks surprised He swallows his food ‘Um, well I’m sure that there’s an email address they could send it to. Maybe people with connections? Why mate?’ Elle is raising an eyebrow at me.
‘Literally just wondering’ I laugh it off, and shovel in another mouthful Maybe it convinced Uncle Rich for now, but Elle has only just started to wonder how I’m “just fine” after being left in the dark for ten years I slide my fork into the bowl and stand up ‘I’m going to bed. Big day tomorrow.’ The “big day” is starting a new school. Not even a new school – just school. I was four when the lights went off.
Uncle Rich looks stunned – it is only eight o’clock ‘ okay mate, but make sure you sit up for a good while Don’t want that dinner coming back up’ He laughs Elle is still looking at me very worriedly. I nod, and head down to my room in the basement.
I turn off the lights so the only glow is from my dimmed computer screen. I like the dark.
Second place Small Graces
by Trisha Das, 9 Alpha
Chapter One – The Moores
I want you to imagine a large English country house, a few miles from London. The messy gravel driveway leads up to a rosy, maroon door adorned with bells and mistletoe wreaths Bare wild vines creep up the glass windows of upper floors and the carriages standing in the front of such a house are grand and impressive, but are covered in a thin coat of dust, rarely used nowadays.
In the winter, the skies fill with large, greyish clouds that pelt rain down on the town below Incessant taps from raindrops are heard throughout the house as the windows groan with pressure The corridors are deserted as the tenants stay isolated in their respective rooms, with only cold meats, hard breads and cheeses enticing their growling insides to creak down the stairs. The mood is heavy with loneliness, boredom and weariness.
Every so often a knock will sound on the door Most visitors leave within minutes, feeling slighted after being coldly ignored by the inhabitants of the house But a rare few people, accustomed to the long wait, are patient enough to keep knocking until an exasperated huff is heard. The crimson door will then be swung open to reveal a gaunt, hollow-eyed face filled with grief
Before we continue this narrative, let me tell you about those whose lives we soon will study in close detail. The family in question has five members, with the surname of Moore. Alexander Moore is a 46-year-old man with slowly greying hair and a wrinkled forehead. He is a quiet man with a calming sense of power and stability around him. A pair of slender glasses frame his cold grey eyes and rest on his sharp nose He is known to have a large business acumen but has never been one for fatherly affection James Moore is a bright boy of sixteen with tousled dark hair Tall with olive skin and intense brown eyes, James is the most mature of the children, a gentle, soft spoken yet assertive young man.
Declan Moore has brown hair and coffee-coloured eyes He is fifteen, strong and enjoys a variety of sports His humorous quips and boyish charm ensure he is loved by all he meets Maylis Moore is twins with Declan and is mostly known as May (or fondly known as Lissy). With loose brown curls and warm chocolate-chip-coloured eyes, May is pretty in a very proper English way. She is agreeable and amiable, with a love for painting and writing. Nathaniel Moore, an indolent boy of fourteen is the youngest of the family. He is arrogant and selfish but despite not showing it much, he cares deeply for his siblings His sarcastic comments and brazen attitude are generally attributed to his youth, but the justification is becoming less and less reasonable as time passes. He takes immense pride in his light brown (almost blond) locks and beautiful hazel eyes.
The Moore family has suffered a great loss As the world was approaching the chilly month of October, Mrs Lavender Moore fell victim to a deadly illness and passed away within days Her sudden death left the neighbourhood reeling with shock The Moore family has now nearly completely withdrawn themselves from society, grieving alone and in peace.
