This is a student contribution to the Headteacher’s Blog by Ailís Phillips, 7WKH, with the theme of kindness. If you are a student at Churchill Academy & Sixth Form and you want to contribute to the Headteacher’s Blog, visit the Contributions page.
You probably think that war is terrible, but that it is something done by adults in far away countries and has nothing to do with children, like us.
Well I thought so too until I read a news article about child soldiers. You might think this was a one-off; just a particularly awful story. I investigated a little bit further and discovered it wasn’t as rare as I first thought.
By Gilbert G. Groud
Myths and statistics
The name ‘child soldiers’ is not exactly accurate as, though many do fight, some are used as messengers, porters, cooks, spies or for sexual purposes. There are many other myths surrounding ‘child soldiers’ such.
Myth: child soldiers are only used in Africa.
Reality: the UN estimated in 2016 that there were 20 conflict zones around the world that involved children
Myth: that all child soldiers are boys
Reality: 30-40% of child soldiers are girls
Myth: that children are all are forced to be child soldiers
Reality: although many are (especially by ISIS), some are lured by promises of education and/or money.
Not only is being a child soldier a terrible experience when it happens, but it will affect the children for the rest of their lives. Many will not be accepted back into their communities, particularly in cases where a girl has had a baby with a soldier.
What can you do?
Although there isn’t much we can do to help directly, we can raise money and fund-raise or donate money to charities campaigning to end the problem of using children as soldiers, and to support ex-child soldiers. Two great charities working in this area are Child Soldiers International and Warchild – as both help those affected.
I reached out to these charities by raising awareness of the problem, and now I invite you to do the same, to help other children who have never had the chance at life you had. Help them live the life that is being taken away from them and support others that do.
New on the Headteacher's Blog: Child Soldiers by Ailís Phillips This is a student contribution to the Headteacher’s Blog by Ailís Phillips, 7WKH, with the theme of
New on the Headteacher's Blog: Living a life with epilepsy, by Jemma Bisdee #studentcontribution
This is a student contribution to the Headteacher’s Blog by Jemma Bisdee, 11WCJC, with the theme of determination. If you are a student at Churchill Academy & Sixth Form and you want to contribute to the Headteacher’s Blog, visit the Contributions page.
When people hear the word “Epilepsy” they immediately think of seizures, medication but it is truly more than that. A life with epilepsy is not…
Written by Ashley Abalos, Anna Almeda, Sophia Barretto, Patti Fermin, Bea Fernandez-Cuervo, Raya Franco, Ria Rivera, Kat Selvaggio, Ilanna Tacad and Jacqui Tiongco
Art by Sophia Barretto and Jacqui Tiongco
Loud voices and hearty laughter broke through the silent night on the cobbled streets of Paris, France. Surrounding shops’ windows reflected the warm glow of the party down Rue Vieille du Temple. Glasses clink and toasts are made. In Au Petit Fer a Cheval, Henri Aubigny raised his glass.
“À votre santé! Thank you for all coming tonight, your presence is much appreciated.” Everyone in the small, cozy bar raised their beer glasses, cheering along with Henri.
“Get down, you drunken bastard!” said one of Henri’s friends. Henri chuckled and stepped down from the bar table.
“Ma chérie, when you’ve reached the top in this world, you do not know how to step down.” Henri beamed at his friend and offered her another drink. The mood in the party was infectious, loud bursts of laughter echoed and could be heard down the street. Henri looked at his guests, thankful.
Henri Aubigny was just recently promoted to be the overseer of a large cotton plantation in the South of France, particularly a large area of paysage de l’aveyron. This was the one chance Henri Aubigny needed to finally build the life he envisioned for his life: wealth and power, to see the respect in his colleagues’ eyes.
“Come here, Henri! Explain to Monsieur Gabriel what you plan to do to the cotton plantation,” said Monsieur Raphael. Henri’s brow was slicked with sweat, for it was Monsieur Gabriel who handed him the promotion.
He was a large, stout man, who had a thick mustache. He smelt of foreign cigars and cheap perfume and his bush of hair on his round head always seemed to be slicked back. He never seemed to smile, and dressed as if the richest in the town, for he was.
He grumbled and said, “Yes, Monsieur Henri, tell me, what do you plan to do?” Henri’s throat bobbed up and down, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Louis Moreau cuts in. “Monsieur Gabriel, I believe Henri should increase the number of slaves in the plantation to increase the rate of cotton production. They are lacking arms and legs there.”
Henri shot Louis a glare and bit back his anger. Louis Moreau has always been his rival, in any aspect of his life, whether it be work, friends or women. Henri despised the oily grin Louis always gave him, and never appreciated his attitude.
Henri plastered a bright smile and said, “Yes, that is exactly what I plan to do. Louis will be accompanying me to aid me in this great promotion you handed to me.”
Henri saw the flash of annoyance streaked on Louis’ face and took pleasure in it. He had to remind Louis who was being celebrated in the party right now. Monsieur Gabriel merely nodded, and moved on to his surrounding group of businessmen, forgetting Henri and Louis. Henri grabbed the arm of Louis, and tightly held it.
Louis hissed, “What’s the matter, Henri? Is the spotlight too much for you?”
Henri pushed away his arm, ‘You’re lucky that you’re my business partner. If you were not, you would be out of a job and dead already,” he retorted. Louis softly chuckled.
“Look, Monsieur Aubignyㅡ” Henri bristled at his tone. “ㅡI am happy for you. You deserve that position. The position of an insignificant overseer of a cotton plantation. But for now, forget all of that! Let loose, and party.”
Henri remained silent, but his mind was racing. He would show them, he would show Louis how important this job is. He will see Louis reveling at the mere ground that Henri steps upon. He grabs his beer glass and enters the kitchen to open a fresh new bottle of whiskey. Opening the cabinet, he is bumped and feels hot, searing pain. He whips around and sees a fragile, dainty woman shaking, her mouth open in shock.
“M-Monsieur! Désolé, désolé! I did not see you there. Are you all right?’
His eyes burn with anger at the woman, a negro, nothing but a slave in his eyes.
“You did not see me? Do you know who I am? Do you know how many of your kind’s worth does not compare to mine?”
The woman remained silent, shaking with fear. He grabbed her arm, and she whimpered in protest.
He weaved through the party, exiting the bar. He threw her outside the bar on to the cold pavement and said, “You are fired. Go look for another job.”
After the slave issue, all Henri wanted was to rest. He whistled for a carriage, which brought him to his dingy apartment along Rue de Bac. Tucked in the corner of the street, his apartment was a shade of the brown that made you tired once setting a sight on it. The door creaked as he opened it, and the smell of mildew entered his nose. Climbing up the wooden stairs and skipping the loose step, Henri opened 315 and trudged in. He burped, tasting the sour taste of alcohol. Without changing his clothes, Henri crashed onto his bed. Hard as a rock, his bed served as a painful reminder of how much he has less of. He was sick and tired of this life, frustrated about being stuck in the same place repeatedly. Before this promotion, nothing seemed to work for him. He would do his best at work, handling the slaves properly and returning in reports on time. No matter what he did, nothing seemed to get better. His eyelids were slowly closing, and the last thought on his mind was the thought that not in a million years, is he throwing away his shot at success. Henri Aubigny fell asleep on the rockhard bed and cold night for the last time.
The week after, Henri and Louis were finally at Aveyron. The heat from the sun bit at their backs, and heated their heads as well as their attitudes. Both had a bitter argument whilst traveling there, because Louis decided to brag about his daughter, Victoire. Henri could not take it anymore and snapped at him. They left the train in silence, grudgingly forgiving each other. Henri looked at the beautiful landscape before him and took in the sight. The rolling green hills seemed to contrast with the deep blue of the sky. The grass was finer here, the air was cleaner, it filled his lungs and cushioned down all his thoughts about the business. The trees were tipped with roasted leaves, which rustled like the harmony of nature. The smell of wild lilies perfumed the air, and for the first time in a long time, Henri was at peace.
“Stop being a woman and smelling the flowers, Aubigny. We need to meet with the chief of the tribe of slaves. Apparently, we need to lay down rules. Ha! Those stupid negroes. They think they can set down rules?” said Louis. Henri removed his gaze from the enchanting view and steadied his heart.
“If they want to meet with us, they can. But I won’t assure you that I will take it easy on them,” said Henri.
Louis snickered. “For once, there’s something we can agree on. Let’s get moving.” They both trod the vast hills down south, to the site. When they emerged past this particularly large hill, Henri’s breath was taken away once again. The site, in one word, was beautiful. The fields of white cotton spread everywhere like snow drizzled all over the earth. The cotton swayed in sync with the gentle breeze, dancing along with the whispers of Mother Nature. They created a pattern so mesmerizing that even Louis was speechless. Quaint wooden houses lined the edges of the cotton fields, where the slaves slept in. Louis, Henri and their crew arrived at the center, a large clearing where all the slaves were gathered. A towering, dark brown cabin stood in front of the clearing, seeming to draw the attention of everyone in the clearing. Louis and Henri stepped up to the porch of the cabin, surveying the crowd of blank, empty faces. Henri felt a surge of pride, his cheeks turning red at the sight of a great number of people at his command. There was one woman, who stood out. Not because of her appearance, for she was the same skin tone as everyone there. No, perhaps it was the way she cocked her head at him, looking vitriolic. Her eyes struck him, for they were not empty. They were full of something he could not get a hold on, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Louis cleared his throat, but Henri stepped in front of him. He was not going to let Louis steal his moment.
“As of now, you are under my administration. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not rest or have a break unless we allow you to. I am the overseer of this operation, and I do not want any issues. These people, the men to my left are your superiors. And I am their superior. If you have a problem, take it up with me. Is that clear?” Henri paused, to let the air of authority linger.
The slaves’ gazes were downcast, and they muttered under their breath words of agreement. But again, the woman in the center stared directly at him, and it sent goosebumps all over his body. Why was he feeling this way?
The following weeks were challenging, especially for Henri. He did not know any inkling of how to run a plantation. Every minute there would be an issue; the weed whackers were broken, there was no water, slaves stopped to rest or quota was not filled. Swallowing his frustration, Henri tried dealing with each of the problems professionally. His only remedy was writing letters to his mother, Arielle. His mother was the only driving force that kept him going. She did not raise him to let other people in this world push him around. He was raised to push back. She was never kind to him; she was more of a guide. She never spoiled him, and expected the most from him. Even if he was treated harshly, he unconditionally loved his mother. He picked up his favorite fountain pen given to him by his mother, and began to write:
“Dear Mama,
The cotton plantation is not doing so well. To be truthful, I miss the old streets of Paris. I miss the luxurious life I had there. The water for baths here is muddy, I can hardly move because I sleep in a cot. Louis is being a thorn in my side, shouting orders here and there as if he was the one handling the operation. But something gnaws at me, Mama. It seems as if Louis is the better overseer. The slaves are terrified of him, he commands with fear and respect. The slaves do not even look at me. What am I to do? I miss you. Please write soon.
Love, Henri”
One must think that Henri would be receiving a letter as heartwarming as the one he wrote. But instead, the following week, Henri received a harsh letter from his mother.
“Dear Henri Cheney Aubigny,
Do not be such a woman. I raised you to be better than this. Do not let Louis undermine your certainty, for I am quite certain in you. About the environment, you are lucky you have a place to sleep at night. Do not be a whining pig and complain, because the job you were given, the job you wanted requires you to live in places like this. Do you not want a lavish life? The people at the top of the society now did not go through life in a velveted cushioned carousel. If Louis is doing a better job than you, you are not trying hard enough. I am quite bothered by the fact that you are in the same place as those dirty scum. The sight of them sickens me, but I know you have a stronger will than I. Personally, Henri, I believe that as well respected that job is, you should not be exposed to those type of people. I expect more from you, Mon caneton.
Wishing you well, Arielle Aubigny”
Expecting nothing less, Henri stands up to tidy up his desk. But something caught his eye outside the window. A small fleeting figure, running towards the woods. A slave trying to escape? This cannot happen. But a dawning realization came over Henri. This was his chance to establish respect among the slaves. To put Louis in his place. If he publicly punished the slave, it would spread terror among the hearts of everyone. Grabbing his coat, he rushed out of the cabin. Fighting through the tall weeds of cotton, Henri struggled to find the figure. After a few minutes of trudging through the field, Henri approached the entrance of the woods.
No sound was heard as he gazed at the woman. The same woman in the crowd, who had such a confusing impact on him. But, instead of doing what he was supposed to do, Henri froze and watched. The woman, barely lit by the moonlight, laid a handful of wild lilies down beneath a tree. In a slab of bark, the name ‘Raziya’ was carved. Henri held his breath. The woman’s shoulders raised as she sang a song of sadness and mourning. Each word sung was not French, rather it was in African, but harsh and unforgiving. Her words were like the leaves, moving at a different pace. There would be lines with short pauses and rapid words sung. Other times her words would be slow and moving. It made Henri’s heart dance around in his chest. He saw the way her eyes were brimmed with tears, her voice old and mournful and was shot in the heart. She abruptly stood up, and Henri’s heartbeat quickened. He ran back to his cabin at full speed, never stopping until he was at his front door. He turned around to see her slim figure dart through the fields like a doe. He slowly walked in and took a deep breath. He pushed down his feelings for whoever this woman was, and reminded himself of what he was there to do. That was the moment when Henri Aubigny decided to punish the woman he fell in love with.
The slaves were quite confused when they were called to have a meeting in front of Henri’s cabin. But Henri stood on his porch, looking down at each of them. He scanned their faces until he found her.
“You, come up here and into my office. The rest of you, proceed to work. We have a quota to fulfill.”
Henri let the woman in and offered her a seat. She did not reply. Instead, she took in the office, slowly turning. Her brown eyebrows were furrowed, and again those eyes, those beautiful eyes captivated Henri.
He blinked and said, “Alright. If you’re not going to sit, then fine. But I want to know, why were you outside your quarters late at night? Did you plan to escape?”
If the woman felt shocked, she did not hide it. She took a deep breath and spoke. “I have a name. My name is Chiamaka. I was outside to honor my mother. She died two years ago, at the hands of your kind.”
Even if her words were harsh, Henri was pleased to hear her voice. It sounded like flowing honey, and she spoke with determination and clarity.
“What do you mean by my kind? Are you suggesting something?” he replied.
“I mean, that your kind is ruthless and brutal. My mother, Raziya died because of starvation. The men overseeing us were drunk, and they seemed to have forgotten to bring out the food for the slaves. Even a piece of bread would be all right. But instead, the men laughed in our faces and refused to give us anything for weeks. Children were dropping in the fields because they were seeing black spots. Our mothers and fathers grew weak every day. And what did your kind do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So, I am sorry, my fine Monsieur, for having offended you by simply remembering the only person in my life who loved me who I lost at your hands. For once, I’d like you to place in mind that we are humans too, and we share the same world as you.”
Henri saw the angry tears flowing out of her eyes, yet she remained straight-faced. He considered those eyes, and saw storms raging within them.
“Leave my office now.” He said quietly.
She turned on her heel, opened the door and closed it gently. For the first time in his life, Henri had mixed feelings about who he was.
For weeks, Henri did not eat. He did not get a wink of sleep and instead stayed locked up in his room, contemplating on what Chiamaka said. Everything he thought that was real, was all based on lies. His whole life is a lie. Men neglecting simple needs of a human being? Chiamaka’s words resonated in his head: ‘We are humans too’. One afternoon, Henri was sulking in his office. He refused to get up when someone was knocking at the door. But then, he heard loud noises and shouting outside his cabin. Startled, Henri went outside. What he saw disgusted him. Louis had a leather whip in his hand, poised to hit an elderly slave who dropped the bucket of cotton. As the whip went down, Chiamaka emerged and stood in front of the elderly man. Henri held his Louis’ arm, furious.
“What do you think you’re doing?” shouted Henri.
“Punishing this stupid old man. He dropped the cotton bucket.”
“No slave dies under my administration, Louis. Is that clear?”
Louis muttered under his breath. But Henri did not care. He pulled Chiamaka aside and looked if she had any injuries. She gave him a questioning look.
“Chiamaka, I am so sorry for everything my kind did to you. I hope we can make amends. I have been thinking about it, and I would like to apologize on behalf of the men who did not care to think about your mother. Slaves are not being treated right, and it makes me sick. Is there any way to possibly make up for what they did?”
“There will be nothing that you can do to make up for your kind’s sins. I appreciate the apology, but I am not accepting it.”
His heart sinking, Henri returns to his cabin. The next day, Henri didn’t stay in his cabin. He went out and worked with the slaves. He whacked the cotton plants, harvested the cotton, and carried the buckets of cotton all the way back to the site. Every single person there shook their heads as if to say, ‘This man will not last a day.’ But Henri Aubigny did not listen. He soon got used to the heat of the sun, enjoyed the landscape, and took time to play with the slave children. He thought that this was the only way to show and prove how sorry he was. He took care of the elderly slaves and took their places if they were tired. All the while, Louis watched with gritted teeth. He did not approve of Henri’s ways. Chiamaka became less antagonistic towards him and started to mentor him on how to work in the fields properly.
One night, Henri walked into his cabin, exhausted. He heard a small rap on his door and headed to open it. Chiamaka stood there, dressed fully in an African dress, beaming.
“Follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see, Henri.”
His heart pounding in his chest, Henri took Chiamaka’s hand for the first time. His fingertips felt sparks course through his veins and his thoughts were running wild. She brought him to the woods, where all the slaves surrounded by a bonfire.
“What’s this?” Henri asked.
“Lake of Stars is today. This is when we celebrate the special alignment of the stars, and legend says that this night is the night when lovers meet.”
They spent the night dancing and singing traditional African songs. Chiamaka then brings him to the cotton fields, alone.
“Henri, I saw how you really wanted to make up for everything your kind has done, even if you haven’t done anything wrong. I appreciate how you see us as equals. Thank you for that.”
“Chiamaka, I need to tell you something.” Henri knew what this would mean, but he did not care anymore. It was now or never. “I believe that I am falling in love with you.”
She whispered, “Henri, you know it can’t be. The circumstances are far too restricting.”
“We can make it work. Believe me, I have never felt this way for anybody. You are the first person to show me something real, and it scares me yet exhilarates me.”
Chiamaka pulled him into a tight embrace, sighing heavily. Her body was warm, like the hearth in the fire. Henri could stay here all day, but Chiamaka pulled away. Her eyes were bright and she was silent. But the silence between them carried words unspoken.
The following weeks Henri spent were pure bliss. Every day he would help the slaves among the fields and at night, he would sneak off with Chiamaka. They’d frequently send letters to each other at night. His letters would explain how she took his breath away, and drove him mad. Her letters contained African poems she made herself, expressing how much she loved him. One night, the moon particularly bright, Henri left his cabin. He waited outside Chiamaka’s cabin. She crept out slowly, grinning at him. Tonight, Henri would ask something very special. He took her hand, once again feeling those sparks and brought her to the clearing where her mother was buried. A cloth was set on the ground, with a candle and a basket filled with bread and wine. Chiamaka’s face grew warm.
“What is all this, Henri?” she asked.
Henri did not reply and instead gently let her sit down on the cloth. They ate the bread and drank the wine, conversing about how the stars seemed to shine so brightly. Finally, Henri took Chiamaka’s hands and stared into her warm brown eyes. He brought out his makeshift ring, made from parts of equipment he could gather. Instead of a diamond, a small cotton flower rested on the top of the ring. He drew a breath.
“Chiamaka, please. Make me the happiest man in the world. Will you marry me?”
Stunned in silence, Chiamaka answered gently.
“Henri, you know I love you. But what about your mother? Your crew? Everyone here? What will they think of you?”
Henri grabbed her arms and shook her frantically.
“Chiamaka, my beloved, do you not understand? You are the one I want to wake up next to, the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. I do not care what my mother thinks, what Louis thinks or what your tribe thinks. All I know is that I cannot live a day without you.”
Henri wrote a letter to his mother explaining why he cannot return home, but leaving out the details of who he was engaged to.
“Dear Mama,
I cannot return home to America for quite some time. Business here is booming, so I cannot leave once his operation reaches its peak. I’m becoming rich, mama. I have finally broken through and gained so much more than I expected. Recently I have been seeing someone who lives nearby, and I proposed to her. I will soon return, but I miss you terribly. Do not visit me.
Love, Henri”
Henri took a deep breath and gave his letter to the messenger. Now that his mother was dealt with, Henri was assured of the life he wanted to live. He gathered the slaves once again to the clearing, along with his crew and Louis. The moment Henri announced his marriage proposal, the slaves cheered for joy. Tears were shed, and they decided to hold a wedding. Louis Moreau, however, did not find this amusing. The wedding was held in front of the cabin, a simple one yet beautiful. Henri dressed up in his best suit, with one of his crew members at his side. Chiamaka walked down towards him in a wreath of cotton and one of the elders’ cultural dresses. The eldest slave headed the wedding. Henri and Chiamaka beamed at each other. Everyone witnessing the marriage knew and saw that the way they looked at each other was like nothing else. Henri could not believe that this was happening, and he smiled at the one person he was missing in his life, finally in his arms. As they pronounced their vows, Louis Moreau left to hatch a plan.
As the months passed by, everyone in the cotton plantation learned how to accept Henri and Chiamaka’s love. The slaves adored Henri and praised him for being such a fair master. He never raised his voice or lost his patience with them. Louis, however, seemed to have been locked in his room every day. Louis was writing to the one person Henri would dread to see. One blazing hot afternoon, Henri was tending to the cotton fields when he heard a shriek.
“Henri Cheney Aubigny! Come here right this instant!” said a shrill voice.
Henri turned to see his red-faced mother, sweating profusely in a tight maroon dress. She climbed over the large heel and tripped, landing on her face. She bantered on about how Louis mailed her that Henri married a slave, and she came there as soon as she could. Her glare was ice cold, expressing her disappointment.
“You have forever tainted our name, the Aubigny name. You are such a disappointment. After all I have done for you, sent you to the right places for education. I even provided you with good quality clothes so that you may fit in with the wealthy businessmen! And what do I get? Betrayal.”
Henri’s hands were shaking as he pulled Louis in his office.
“What were you thinking? Mailing my mother? Do you know how frustrated she is?” shouted Henri.
“You, Henri, were drooling over that dirty scum you call your wife! I just wanted your mother to know, perhaps she will bring you back to America.”
Henri raised his fist and struck Louis across his face. Louis stood up, massaging his jaw. But before Louis could return the punch, someone knocks at the door. Henri opens it to see a pale-faced messenger.
“Monsieur Moreau? We have urgent news for you. Your daughter, Victoire, she’s gone missing! Someone broke into your house in America, and took your baby. You need to return right away.”
Forgetting everything about their fight, Louis rushed out of the cabin and headed with the messenger, leaving dust in his wake. Arielle Aubigny stayed with Henri in his cabin constantly berating him for tainting their name, for choosing someone so dirty to fall in love with. Henri explained the way he felt about Chiamaka, and pleaded for his mother to understand. At the end of the night, Arielle pleaded him to return home with her in America. Henri could not accept the idea. Seeing his mother’s desperate face, he reluctantly agreed. But there was something Arielle did not know. Chiamaka Aubigny was pregnant with two babies, twins. Arielle agreed to wait so that Henri would be there once she gave birth.
Chiamaka’s screams were so loud that the robins in the trees flew away. Henri clutched Chiamaka’s hand, steadily encouraging her. When the babies were finally out of the womb, everyone was shocked. The twins were of different color. One had skin as white and creamy as snow with stone grey eyes, identical to Henri, the other was of a deep rich brown, with a nose straight and flat. He looked exactly just like Chiamaka. They named the twins Armand and Philippe. Arielle decides to only bring Armand, for he will blend in more with his skin. Henri slowly packs his bags and belongings. Chiamaka enters his office with a longing look in her eyes.
She handed him a letter and said, “Open this once you have returned home safely. Goodbye Henri.”
Heartbroken, Henri bade goodbye to Chiamaka. “Goodbye my dear, and I hope that in another life or time we would have found each other again. The months I have spent with you felt as if I was already in heaven.”
Taking Armand in her arms, Arielle brought her son and grandson to the train bringing them to the city port, headed directly for America. On the boat, Henri felt the salt water hit his face as he stared out into the dark waters of the sea. From thinking about money and wealth, he finally found someone who taught him that love is the most important thing in this world. Arriving in Louisiana, Henri could not even look at his mother.
The weeks in Louisiana were not good for Henri. He drowned his thoughts with the familiar taste of alcohol, constantly writing letters to his wife. Each letter he received from Chiamaka smelled like her, which made his heart pang with sadness. For the first few months of their separation, they exchanged letters with each other. But suddenly, they stopped coming.
“Henri. I need to talk to you. Your wife, Chiamaka has died. She was brutally attacked by one of the crew members,” said his mother to him late at night in his office
Henri did not know how pain felt until this moment. It felt as if someone had grabbed his heart, ripped it out of his chest and smashed it. He sunk further into a cycle, weeping every night, and even forgetting his son, Armand. Arielle took care of Armand, determined to not make the same mistakes she did with Henri.
This is the winning story of Grade 9’s Chapter Zero Literature Activity (Term 1) for the American short story Desiree’s Baby by Kate Chopin. The Grade 9 students were tasked to write a prequel to Kate Chopin’s fascinating short story, and a winner was chosen from the entire batch by Grade 9 Literature teacher, Mrs. Abygail P. Magbag. You may read Desiree’s Baby at this link: http://www.katechopin.org/pdfs/desirees-baby.pdf.
