We love fab stories by awesome young writers! We will always share the best stories sent into us. If your story is featured on here, that means your book will be published in our anthology of short stories! Featured stories usually change monthly so make sure you check in!
by Maahum Nazir
aged 17 from London
All I could think of were the deadlines, both near and distant. All I wanted to do was to drift into the world of dreams. All I desired was for the inkiness of my brain to be relieved. Yet, my brain was a washing machine- a violent whirl of chaos. The fear of falling into a pit of disappointment and despair was overwhelming. The pressure and the stress wrapped around me like a child’s blanket.
Only, that it suffocated me. Suffocated any desire to move, think, live.
I was sitting alone. There was no love; no home; it was an aura of agitation. It was raining, but I was glad. The pitter patter of the rain seemed to be trying to create a shield around me. Trying to protect me from my unfortunate fate; or at least the unfortunate fate I thought I was deemed.
The clouds were clustering together. It silently loomed over my bedroom window as it shadowed every bit of sunlight. The inkiness of my brain was showing its presence in front of my eyes. The thunder was cracking the air; it seemed as if the heavens would split apart. It was rolling like the ash of a volcano, morphing into a rolling, booming rumble. It was my saviour. It was the washing machine. So violent, uncontrollable, turbulent. Yet, it soothed, appeased, calmed my anxiety.
I desperately needed to calm down. I looked up into the night sky. It was like when star gazing, everything becomes so big, so glorious, so overwhelming and I became the microscopic being- the insignificant shivering wreck. My heart continued to race and all I wanted to do was to curl up into a ball. I wished I could sit inside that very washing machine, in the corner of the basement where all the stress, anxiety and weight would be lifted off my shoulders- spinning, tumbling and washing away all the inkiness of my brain, which fazed me restlessly.
In an attempt to clear my mind, I walked down into my basement. Yes, the basement, which is always thought to be dingy, mouldy places with low ceilings but not for me. It was the only source of comfort. It was as if I had subconsciously found myself just folding laundry. I loved to feel the warm cloth, the sense of order, the feeling of accomplishment. It allowed my creativity to run wild. Free to explore ideas and embrace new concepts.
There was no room for failure.
I glanced over to the washing machine. The once violent, uncontrollable, turbulent spinning had settled. The ripples of water were smooth as I pressed my nose against the door of the machine. The smoothness of the process and the lack of troubles reflecting my mental state. I knew it was deceptive though. A temporary satisfaction that put me into a false sense of security. I could not see behind the water. What torment, horror, anxiety awaited? It was a constant morphing of emotions. The rapid tumbling of the machine would instil the fear so that my guts were tortured yet the lack of movement of the machine lulled me into security- false security.
My attention was diverted to the pile of clothes that lay crumpled waiting to be folded. In fact, my eyes pierced into the crisp white blouse that lay on top of the stack full of crumpled clothes. The white blouse that I was destined to wear and had worn every time. White reflected when I was weightless of burdens, my mind filled with light. Only because there is nothing in it. Only because the inkiness of my brain does not even find me worthy. Only because I know that like a rabbit in headlights, fear of failure would continue to engulf my conscience.
I tenderly graze the sleeves and begin to fold, one arm at a time. The blouse softly dropped on to the folded pile, giving a sigh of content. The order of the process, the repetitive nature of the same skill found me in my comfort zone. The fresh washed laundry, pungent with the fragrance of lavender immersed me into ignorant bliss.
Once again, the machine in the corner of the room erupted into a pandemonium, violently throwing a mesh of grey and white clothes against each other and once again the pounding filled my head.
Featured stories still to come.
How The Stars Weep by Megan Kruger aged 15 from London
Time is Ticking by Johana Pusuluri ages 14 from Devon
The Storm in the Glass by Poppy David aged 14 from London
Black and White by Valerie Anireto aged 13 from Abuja, Nigeria
The Talent Show by Ana Cuseta aged 11 from Valencia, Spain
Sir Arthur Canoon Doyle and the fairies by Loveday Lock aged 11 from South Wales
The Burglary by Matthew Wong aged 11 from Hong Kong
Beatle-weetle by Niall Hamilton aged 6 from Doncaster
Small and Beautiful by Katie Bates aged 10 from Newton, USA
Temptation by Tommy Bustard aged 10 from Portballintrae, County Antrim, N Ireland
The Journey Across London by Jacinta Khadouri, aged 11 from London