A Journey Down
Memory Lane
By Oliver Martin, Third Form
It was a warm, peaceful morning and the taxi
meandered with a low hum through the country
lanes. His face was pressed against the window
as he stared wistfully at the hedgerow that seeped
sunlight. He was smartly dressed in a grey suit
which creased as he sat up to look at the sign which
ironically read 'Memory Lane.' He smiled a wry smile
and rested his cheek back against the window.
As they pulled up to the large estate, he gathered his
things and took in a long, deep breath. He opened the
door and walked up the drive.
"Good Luck" waved the taxi
driver, "Today - it will be good,
I think," he added in his thick
Italian accent. The man nodded
at him and continued down the
gravel driveway. He past many
people, all of a senior age, who
were wandering, fulfilling their
life of leisure. Each of these
people has a story he thought
to himself…
His hands were beading with
sweat and his nerves began to
consume him as he proceeded
towards the bench and sat
down next to an older woman,
embracing the view of the lake.
"May I sit here?" he asked,
already knowing the answer.
"Yes, of course! I would love
some company; it seems I've
bored the life out of the other
people here," she smiled,
"What brings you here?"
"The Lake," he replied.
"Beautiful isn't it? See, I know
quite a funny story about a lake - when I was a
young'un me and my friends took a boat out on a lake
and got stuck out there! Oh, we had to stay the night
there… but it was such a long time ago, I can hardly
remember the details…"
He smiled softly, "Can I tell you a story?"
Of course he knew the answer would be "yes, I love
stories!" so he began the story. It started with a
young girl who loved to write. She would write and
read stories all the time to her younger, impaired
brother. At school she wasn't the most popular but
she was always happy. She would chat with anyone
and everyone. Some girls made fun of her because
she wrote stories about fantasy places but it didn't
faze her: she knew where she was going with her life.
When she moved to America she finally caught a break
with an established animation
studio called Disney in 1935.
Here she began to publish some
of her work. After a few years
in America, she fell in love
with an animation artist named
John, but the war whisked him
off to Europe. She feared for
him as he was not of the brutish
warrior type. She returned
to England to look after her
brother whose condition had
grown worse. She read stories
to him - until he passed away
one night halfway through his
'story time.'
The woman on the bench
became teary-eyed; the man
turned and asked her:
"Should I continue?" She
nodded quickly and silently,
too emotional to speak.
John returned miraculously
unharmed from the war.
They got married and had
two children, Anthony and
Vanessa. With the money made
by her final story, dedicated to
Academic
A Poem for
Mary
Hush my darling child
And watch the night grow shorter
For the sleeping babe you hold
Will one day walk on water.
That tiny little fist
That holds your finger tight
Will give a man forgiveness
And give a blind man sight.
Your babe wrapped in cloth
And laid by a lamb
Behind his staring, startled eyes
Is the great 'I am.'
So love him as your own
And see his journey through
for although you delivered him
He will soon deliver you.
Charly Beak, Third Form
English
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