Year 7, 8 - Cordelia Laurent, 12, London

There he sits at his desk. He isn't looking at his paper, just taps his pencil against the table. He isn't trying. He doesn't need to try, when he knows I wouldn't, couldn't fail him. I am beginning to wonder if I am just being used to help him through school. Am I just wrapped around his finger, or am I really living his teenage fantasy?

I wonder what he thinks of me. It was dangerous and risky. He is forbidden fruit, yet I cannot resist. He isn't looking at his paper. He is looking at me. Giving me little flirty glances that I should ignore. But his look makes me feel so transparent. Every time I try to pull away from his stare, and concentrate on something like marking papers, I can sense his eyes burning through me. The lead of the pencil in my hand keeps on snapping. I know it is my fault for pushing so hard on it. But I cannot focus on these papers with his eyes still gazing at me.

I want to write A on every paper and leave it, and return his insistent flirty messages. But I shouldn't. How could I? That would be encouraging the taboo relationship, which would be illegal. At last the bell rings. I must run home and break from his stare, before it catches up on me.

As I leave the classroom, the pupils look at me and don't take my eyes off me until I'm out. The moment they're out of sight, I hear them snigger. I can't stand the humiliation. But I don't find it surprising that he told all his friends, because it wouldn't affect him if we were caught. He'd be the poor schoolboy victim who was seduced by his sick teacher.

At last I'm out of the building. And soon I'll be through the gate, and all my problems will be left for tomorrow.

Oh great, I left my bag in the classroom. I'll run back and get it, and hope none of his friends sees me. As I get nearer to the classroom, and step through the doorway, I'm pushed back and unable to go through. He stands there, leaning against the wall. “Here's your bag,” he says. As he does he flashes me a cheeky smile. I snatch the bag off him, and he shakes his head and giggles at me, making me feel stupid. As I walk away, he holds my arm and turns me towards him. I try to pull away, but he doesn't let go. In a desperate attempt to hide from temptation, I yell “DETENTION!” and push his hand off my arm. He laughs again at the embarrassing display.

As I walk off, the papers fall and trail like confetti from my bag, but I keep walking. I hear him call my name, but I run to the sound of his voice echoing through my mind.

Years 9, 10, 11: Ciara Haughey, 13, Berkshire

First day at school

I woke up that morning with a feeling of dread. My new clothes were laid out over the back of my chair; a crisp white shirt, jacket, trousers and a tie. I lay in bed, dozing, until a voice shouted up the stairs,

“Breakfast is ready! John? Come for breakfast!”

“I'm just coming!” I shouted back. I fell out of bed and began to put my clothes on. I had to be quick; I couldn't be late on the first day at my new school. I made a hurried attempt to flatten my hair. It was sticking up all over the place, but I didn't have time for a shower. I picked up all my books and shoved them into my bag, then went down for breakfast.

Ten minutes later, I was on my way to Shinfield Primary School. It was a cold morning and the leaves on the trees were edged with frost. Some of the shops along the high street had started to put up Christmas decorations in their windows, and the workmen on a building site were playing Christmas carols on their radio. I hummed along to try and ease my feeling of nervousness.

It had been snowing during the night, but the snow along the edge of the road was melting. Now it was grey sludge that leaked through my shoes and turned my feet into blocks of ice. I quickened my pace, and soon reached the school.

I walked briskly through the gates, trying to appear unaware of the fact that nearly everyone in the courtyard, staff and teachers alike, had turned to stare at me. I tried to look relaxed and confident, although it was the complete opposite of what I felt inside. I really wanted everyone to like me. I didn't want it to be like before, with everyone making fun of me and calling me names behind my back.

“It's going to be different here,” I kept telling myself as I went through the front door. It looked like a good school. They had a smart uniform and everything seemed neat and tidy. The walls were adorned with photographs of the pupils working in lessons, and on fun trips out. My new shoes squeaked on the clean floor as I tried to find the reception.

There was a lady sitting behind the desk, so I asked her for directions, explaining that I was new here. She smiled at me, saying, “I assume you'll want to find the headmaster's office? It's just through that door.”

She pointed to a door on the far side of the hall with a small gold plate on it. It read “HEADMASTER”.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The office was a nice, spacious room with modern furniture. It had a big window with a view of the school sports fields. Just then, the telephone on the desk started to ring loudly. I picked it up.

Year 12, 13: Anthony Adeane, 16, London

Cooper Street

He turns the corner on to Cooper Street. Blocks of smart flats rise up on both sides and leafless trees line the pavement. Men and women on their way to work hurry past him, the cold causing steam to billow out of their mouths as they walk, leaving a trail of smoke behind them. The newly installed paving stones haven't accumulated London's layer of chewing gum and grime yet and his beaten trainers look out of place as he tries to avoid the cracks like always. In one of the semi-circular alcoves outside an apartment building there is a marking in the ground. He goes over to it, distracted from his aimless wandering. It's a footprint in recently laid cement, not from a shoe but from a foot with slender toes.

A slender footprint fattens and fades as the rain beats the soggy sand. He follows the quickly disappearing trail down to the sea. The grey sea merges into the grey sky and she lets out a scream as she jumps up and backwards into the first wave: “Come on in, the water's lovely!” she shouts at him. Grimly smiling, he sets off at a run to catch up with her, splashing her playfully as the icy water chills his lower body. Their two towels, weighed down by their bags, are the only landmarks on the beach. “Let's go a bit farther out, the ground is so rocky here,” she urges. He nods in agreement. He sets off through the water, his whole body submerged, turning his head for air before propelling himself forward a few strokes more.

A lorry thunders past, breaking him from his reverie. He gulps thickly at the memory, and tries to think of something else but he knows that it's too late. His mind strays.

How did he get this far out? Daylight is fading. She's shouting but he doesn't know what. “Clare? Where are you? Are you OK? Clare?” he cries but his only reply is the rushing water all around him. He sees her. A head bobbing about 20 yards away. He shouldn't have been swimming so fast. He tries swimming back towards the beach, back towards Clare. The current propels him back but he powers on. For every five pumps of his arms and legs he gains another yard. Waves roll over. The rain pummels the sea. Her arm rises up as a pulse of water covers her head. He pushes on, panic for her fluttering his heart. Her arm sinks down slowly beneath the water.

Gently he traces the footprint with his index finger. He pretends to tie his shoelace.

Runners-up

Kitty Turley. Years 7-8

No 21, Phoenix Street, The Newsagents

Man from No 28: The Times and a large packet cheese.

He comes in at the same time every day. I set my watch by him. As soon as he pays he rips open the packet with his teeth and takes an enormous bite.

“You like cheese, my friend?”

“I buy it in secret, my wife doesn't like me eating it.”

“Your secret is safe with me; wives are always worrying about our hearts. You ever send away for that dictionary for getting the crossword right?”

He laughs. “No, I never get round to it.”

I watch him bend his tall frame to get out of the door. He unlocks his bike from the railings, smooths down his suit and wobbles off down the street.

Man from No 7: The Sun, a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of Lucozade.

His clothes are stiff with plaster, his boots splattered with white paint. He looks like he's walked through a blizzard. His face is grim and determined. We never talk. Whenever he spots a dog tied up outside he crouches down and croons to it in the singsong voice of a small child.

Local secondary kids: Crisps, coke, popsicles, mouth-numbing sour sweets in violent shades of red or green. Sugar, sugar, sugar.

It's not as if it makes them any sweeter. Sometimes the ones I've known since they were lisping toddlers, forced by their mums to offer reluctant pleases and thank yous, will grant me a fleeting smile of acknowledgment.

But the others are too busy growing up. I know which ones steal from me, but why make trouble? So two at a time I let them come, like the man who led the animals into an ark.

Woman from No 32: Vogue, Coke Zero, peppermints. Always has the exact change.

In my country this girl would be surrounded by aunties trying to fatten her up. She looks as though she might just slip from this world and into the next. I wonder what makes her so sad. My wife says I am a silly old fool and haven't I ever heard of Posh Spice and supermodels? Don't I ever read any of the magazines we sell? I do, but only the ones about cars or fishing.

Old lady from No 15: sherbets, chocolate bourbons and teacakes.

She smiles shyly and fumbles in her purse to count out the change. Her fingers are shiny and swollen. “Queen coming for tea, Ms Parks?”

“No, no, just a prince.” It could be true; she tells me she was Winston Churchill's secretary during the war. As she leaves I notice that she's wearing slippers.

It's dark outside now and raining. It's always raining here. People complain but I think it's beautiful. You can depend on it.

Imogen Nelson, Years 9, 10, 11

Parting

I was quite young when he passed away. I was young and he was old. Age is such a strange thing. I never feel any older from one year to the next, yet, of course, I do age. I thought he must know everything, and when I was with him I thought I knew everything too.

I knew he was ill and had been for some time, but no one had ever bothered to talk to me about it. I was too young and they were preoccupied anyway. When at last he did die, I didn't cry, I couldn't - but I was angry with everyone.

Loss is a subject which is mentioned daily, but when you lose someone close to you, you never stop missing them and at times their absence can be particularly strong.

At first when my parents introduced the subject of his death I refused to talk, but months later my schoolteacher read the class a story. It was about the death of a friend and ways in which to remember a person. I thought about it a lot and although I was still quite young, the idea that I would never see him again didn't seem so terrifying as it had before.

I made a list of all the things we did together and all the things he taught me. I felt better thinking of all the skills I had gained and his absence became less painful.

I remembered the first time he took me ice-skating. How amazed I was watching him glide effortlessly into the middle of the rink. How I slipped and slithered along the edge, grasping on to both his hand and the rail. How he made me smile when I fell and couldn't get up again.

I remembered an impossibly hot summer when I was about 4. Once again I saw him jumping out of his chair to teach me how to skip with a rope. I pictured him the same summer, chasing me round the garden with a hose and laughing at my squeals. Despite his age he was always incredibly agile, and I think he enjoyed having me as an excuse to play his favourite childhood games.

I remembered the smell of yeast and the sticky texture of my first loaf of bread as we kneaded the dough and the pride I felt when I handed it round sliced and buttered to my family.

By the time I had finished, my list was pages long, filled with all the gifts he had given me whilst he was alive. I knew then that although I would never stop missing him, there were so many ways to remember him and I will always thank him for the things he taught me.

Jessica Briggs. Years 12, 13

A Passion

Ironic, really; a passion.

Don't you think?

Eyes blurred, letters march sombrely in my iris;

they seem to know something

but smile secretly and purse their lips in humour.

In a rush, I know.

And my fingers dance along the keyboard,

before abandoning it and feverishly spinning a pencil

in a skewed, indecipherable tap dance.

What's my passion? This, of course.

The slip of prose

through my mouth, my tongue, my lips,

that almost twist in symphony to the language in my mind.

The words feel round and yielding, but I know,

I know, that if I open my mouth to speak my thoughts will slow,

stick to the roof of my mouth and my teeth, rotting and putrid.

I'm not timid, I'm flamboyant and loud, but oh,

to be able to speak without the tangle of mind and maw,

tripping and sliding like gears that don't fit,

like raw egg through my fingers.

One teacher despaired that I appeared to have no concept of a sentence;

another read my work to the class.

GCSEs, and we read Heaney, Clarke, Agard.

And I learn. I don't need rhyme, I don't need rhythm.

All I need, is passion.

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