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The Toymaker’s ShopBy Hari Year 9On the edge of town, hidden behind crooked trees and swirling mist, stood a strange little shop.Its sign read The Toymaker’s Workshop, and every child knew the rumours: the toys were alive.It was Christmas Eve, and a curious boy named Danny couldn’t resist. He crept up to the door,the dim light from inside flickering like a candle. He’d heard that the toymaker made the mostincredible toys, and he wanted to see for himself.The door creaked open as if it had been expecting him. Inside, the shop was packed with shelvesof handcrafted toys. Soldiers saluted, dolls curtsied, and tiny trains chugged along their tracks.Danny stared in amazement.“Welcome, young man,” came a deep, kind voice. Danny turned to see the toymaker, a tall figurewith a white beard and eyes that gleamed like polished marbles. “Are you here to find the perfectgift?”“I,I just wanted to look,” Danny said.“Well, look closely,” the toymaker said with a sly smile. He gestured to a display of snow globes.“These are special. Each one holds a magical moment.”Danny picked up a globe showing a little boy playing in the snow at Christmas . As he shook it,the snow swirled, and the scene inside moved. The boy built a snowman, his laughter echoingfaintly from inside the glass.“It’s amazing!” Danny exclaimed. “How does it work?”The toymaker’s smile widened. “Would you like to make your own?”Before Danny could answer, the toys around him began to stir. Soldiers marched in formation,teddy bears waved, and the dolls turned their painted faces towards him.

“Join us,” they whispered, their voices high and sweet.Danny felt a chill. “I think I should go,” he said, setting the globe down carefully.“Nonsense,” the toymaker said, his kind tone sharpening. “You belong here now.”The toys surged forward, their tiny hands reaching. Danny ran for the door, the toymaker’slaughter chasing him. He burst into the cold night air and didn’t stop running until he was home.The next morning, Danny found a snow globe on his windowsill. Inside, a boy who looked justlike him ran through the snow, forever trapped in a tiny winter world.*****

Elf IncomeBy Joe Year 7 Walking through his elf operated workshop, Santa looked side to side: hundreds uponhundreds of tiny craftsmen filled his vision: a paradise of tall ears, long, curly shoes, incrediblyflamboyant clothing and jingling bells: each man completing seemingly infinite amounts of toysevery second. He strolled on past, satisfied, as the jolly hustle and bustle of the room continued.Then seconds after exiting, his surroundings faded away and sounds and smells seemed to ceaseexisting. For a minute or so there continued to be nothing; nothing at all. Then suddenly, a brightlight hit St Nich and he bolted upright. Finding himself under the covers of his bed, he realisedthe reality of his situation: there were no loyal elves working the stations of his workshop, nolittle men loudly operating the machines of their craft, the place that was once a pristine exampleof efficiency and incredible work was now a empty desolate space, with half finished presentsand torn wrapping paper now the only things to view, the result of a strike the elves had put on.Santa wandered listlessly through the corridor and twisting, frozen passageways of his home, theNorth Pole. He clearly had to find a replacement for the elves, but no worthy candidates seemedto come to mind. Years upon years ago, when Santa had first been recruiting workers to make the very toyshe would ship around the world on Christmas Eve Night, he had come across the elves: they wereperfect, exactly what he was looking for: intelligent, (which couldn’t be said of to many mythicalcreatures to be honest), jolly, kind and efficient workers: their was surely no one better for therole. But over the years, that inherent kindness and loyalty had slipped away, slowly beingreplaced by an insatiable greed. Santa had promised when he first met the elves, that he wouldprovide everything they needed; including food and accommodation… but not much more.Slowly, ever so slowly, resentment against this very fact built up among the elves: until the strikeand rebellion began. St Nich knew that he would never bring the elves back to his side after that,so he let them go. Now, with no reasonable prospect of organising Christmas alone, he knew he required somenew recruits; so he thought about a few candidates: Goblins, Dwarves & Polar Flipfeet (a speciesof rabbit like humanoids that lived on the poles) were the only creature close by he could think of.Santa mentally assessed the potential recruits: Goblins weren’t very skilled craftsmen andprobably wouldn’t agree anyway as they were about as greedy as the elves (with their new found

fury). Dwarves were workers and designers easily rivaling the elves, he knew. But they werehappy with there lot and generally not very welcoming to outsiders. Flipfeet on the other hand, were constantly looking for new places to live and foraging forfood, both needs Santa could attend to. As for their dexterous abilities; Santa was not so sure, butthey were his last hope of a successful Christmas, So he set off. St Nich fairly flew across the tundra and iceland of his homeland in his reindeer poweredsleigh (or maybe he did fly: his sleigh is magic after all) “Well,” he remarked drily, “At least Rudolph and the team will never give up on me.” After a few hours of travel, the sleigh slid into the domain of the Flipfeet. Thenegotiations were far, far easier than Santa had anticipated: he found a group of seniors amongthe flipfeet society and told them his troubles; he barely had time to finish getting his thoughtsout, when the rabbit-like men rushed up to him, begging for the homes and supplies he would sowillingly give. From what they told him, Santa discerned the Flipfeet were going through aparticularly hard period; an offer like this could surely not be refused. So they skidded around: spreading the joyful news and loading the people of their tribe intothe back of Santa’s sleigh: it was tight fit, but these people were used to discomfort. After theyhad finished their rounds of the burrows and snowy hills where the Flipfeet lived, Santa breatheda heavy sigh of relief: Christmas could now go on…*****

A Tale of Snow and HaggisBy Deniz and Gideon Year 8Chapter ONE: once upon a haggisDeep in the dark times of 1605Once upon a haggis, I lived in a shack. This was due to an unfortunate event with a snowstorm inthe Scottish Highlands in July. It was kinda stupid, but now I’m stuck in a surprisingly sturdyshack with a bag fulla’ haggis. Now how did this happen you might ask? Well imma tell youbecause I’m drunk currently.I was born in Glasgow. Alongside my birth mattress was a bowl of haggis. I took this as mydestiny. To become a haggis man. For the next twenty years I ate only haggis. It has a lovely oatyflavour like a sausage but made out o’ oats. I made a pilgrimage to john o’ groats for morehaggis. I couldn’t get enough haggis. All my other friends from Glasgow thought I was mad but Inever gave in. I used to find haggis nice, with the sweet and spicy herbs, coated with haggis. Infact, it was scrumptious.Anyway, I decided to climb ben nevis eatin’ only haggis. From the moment it was brought intomy mind I realised it was my destiny. And then on, I learnt how to cook the dish, and ate 10kilograms of it and never had enough. My friends disowned me, I grew haggis obsessed. I satupon ben nevis eating haggis.But one day… disaster struck.Chapter TWO: The Snowstorm

A snowstorm struck me good on that mountain. I looked for shelter, and found a shack to theright o’ me. It served it’ duty as the haggis den. It was w’re i would make a lifetime, full o’haggis. I cre’ted me working space, to coo’ haggis. But as i sat there, under a pound o’ snow,in a shack snackin’ on haggis, I realised it was almost Christmas. I realised i ‘ad left me familybehind for a load o’ haggis. So i punched me way outa the snow, fuelled by haggis (i do likehaggis). Ii wanted to go ‘ome. So i used a board as the Haggismobile and sledged down that weemountain we call Ben Nevis. I arrived in the village, in a red coat an’ ‘at, an’ carrying a sack fullahaggis.Chapter THREE: Father HAGGISYou w’nt to know where Father Christmas originated from - HAGGIS. This haggissy beingserve’ me haggis when I w’nt, it, and so I named ‘t Father Haggis. I decided to dedicate my life toa greater cause than just growing fat, in a shack, eating haggis. I used my natural affinity withhaggis to become Father Haggis. My deeds spread like wildfire over the country, over all o’Europe. And i decided to spread haggis to everyone. Everyone should be able to love haggis like ido. So i spend the first bit o’ the year making haggis, and on Haggis Day (25th December), i givepeople kilos of haggis. Whether they like it or not, i gie them a bucketload o haggis. And so, ispread joy acroos the world. ~An deireadh~*****

The Big, Deadly AppleBy Grady Year 9New York city, a dense urban jungle,haven of beggars and billionaires alike, an iconic symbol ofthe American way of life yet at the same time a cultural mixing pot consisting of immigrants fromevery corner of the Earth. Each seeking to make a name for themself and pursue destiny andsuccess in the Big Apple. To the Outside world, the metropolis is marked by a cornucopia oficonic landmarks, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State, the Brooklyn bridge and Central Park,seemingly limitless shopping, and a diverse scene of international dishes, engulfed by scents ofrich spices . Ominous and majestic,some would describe the City that Never sleeps as the centrethis earth revolves around, an environment so central in global affairs, where every people andnation is represented , it is a true depiction of our worldwide society, where religion, race andculture are not beaten by the whips of prejudice. It is this very concrete expanse of opportunityand the promise of riches that sets the stage for our story, a wild, frenzied murder hunt throughthe labyrinths of New York city, America.1. Fairytale New York,a not so Christmas Wonderland:Goolish-spectral-eerie and yet fantastical, it is a swathing shroud of uninterrupted whiteness thatgives the city a supernatural aura, an opaque expanse of dense snow, engulfing the concretejungle in a chalky coating. The ominous silhouette of the Rockefeller Christmas tree loomsmalevolently over those beneath who gape at its colossal awe, flanked on either side by silkysnow covered angels, now morphing more into the form of the grim reaper, their once gilded,proud trumpets now resembling a sinister rifle, tainted in a sheen of lust for suffering, yet they aremerely servants of a greater power.Illuminated by the darting light of a carpet of candles, thestatue of liberty imposes its dominance over the city, a sculpture of ever moving shadows due theflickering glow of the flames that sets the protruding fortress of liberty Island ablaze, mimickingthe radical worship of a cult , with Ms Liberty herself as the saint.

Rupturing the murky, industrial air, the enormity of Brooklyn Bridge poses formidable as a gateway into the afterlife, acting as a temple for the Symbol of Liberty, a haven for a menacinghive of writhing creatures, lurking in catacombs beneath the sprawling urban civilization.Clayton Colombo, city mayor of the Big Apple since late 2020, cursed his way through alabyrinth of flaring headlights of iconic New York city yellow taxis, consumed by a plaguing airof uneasiness and anxiety.*****

A Winter at WarBy Morgan & Tom Year 8Winter is a strange thing.. Winter will always come around, every year, every time, everyChristmas without fail. Winter does not care if you just won the lottery, nor if you just lost afamily member, nor does it care even if…. … you're at war. This is my story, my story of a warin winter. My story of how I had lost family members, my name is Richard Daynes.Deep in the snowy slopes of the Belgian forests, I lay waiting. Crawling against the bitter snow, Ilooked up and watched small puffs of steam escape my mouth. I could feel the sharp, icy weatherthrough my uniform, numbing my bruised shins as they scraped the floor. To my right lay myfriend Private Michael Tooms, seeing his cheeks blush red with the cold, I decided to stop hereand rest for reconnaissance. He had been deployed two weeks ago and had a pregnant wife athome. I promised him days ago that I would get him back, I would get him to see his new baby.I slipped a strap of my backpack off my shoulder and began to unzip the frosty clip that bound theleather together. As I buried my hand inside, I dug my amongst the tins of rations, bullets andpapers. Eventually I reached what I was looking for, a muffled scrape escaped the bag as my sorenails hooked onto the box. Pulling it out, I revealed a soggy box of cardboard and as I presented itto him, he stared at it blankly. “Ya want it or not?” I asked. He replied by extending his feeblearm and as he began to inspect it I added, “Consider it an early Christmas present.” A small grinreached his face. It was the happiest I had seen him since deployment. As he opened it, the gringrew, and as he peered inside I could tell he recognised it.Suddenly, there was a deafening boom nearby. Then, we heard several rounds of gunfire. We hadno weapons, we were only scouts to see where the Axis were. We only had one option. Run. Asfast as we could we ran for our lives, fearing the worst. I looked across at Michael. He lookedworried. He was probably thinking about how he would never see his baby again. I was nowmore determined than ever to get him back. For his wife. For his baby. And most importantly, forhim.

We saw a tree. It was one of those trees that had low enough branches to climb. We looked ateach other. We knew this was our only hope. We climbed the tree. Slowly but surely, We madeour way to the top. We heard shouts of pain and soldiers rushing into battle. But we were glad wewere safe.Catching our breath we slumped into a painful mess and rested amongst the thick layer ofbranches and shrubbery that surrounded our place of refuge. I looked back on how just one or twohours ago, we had been resting with each other, smiling as we celebrated the baby Michael had tocome back to. It reminded me that maybe it isn't a bad thing that winter always comes. Maybe thefact that it always arrives is a useful reminder to us that there is always hope. You just need tofind it. With that thought I smiled at my friend and with a sense of relief said, “MerryChristmas!” *****

Not What We Were Expecting?!By Joe Year 7 ‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, no one was stirring, not even amouse (except for me: duh). I was lying in bed, a mass of sheet and blankets and duvets heapedup upon my prone body, so I could almost not see out. Although not visible to me, I knew mylittle sister: Lily, was fast asleep on the other side of the room; similarly buried in her extensivecovers. Overly excited for the day ahead, I was finding it hard to sleep: this was not unusual forme though, year after year I would take many an hour to fall asleep on Christmas Eve night whichwas rather annoying as I always hoped to lose my exceedingly over-indulged consciousnessquickly to get the night over with in minimal time. Sadly though, I was not blessed with myparents and siblings inherent ability to fall still as the deceased, as soon as they hit their pillows. Then suddenly, as I was finally about to slip away into dreams: a noise pervaded mysenses. It was small noise indeed, but a noise nonetheless: like the rusting of paper, or the softwhistle of a gentle breeze: it was only just perceptible over the common noises of the night. Then,not seconds after, I heard another sound: this one more obvious. It was the lingering groan of anold wooden floorboard that was not even in good enough shape to comfortably support the weightof a light step placed carefully upon it. I crept downstairs warily, It probably would have been sensible to wake my parents, butI had a feeling I shouldn’t: so I carried on walking. Then I heard a noise again, but the soft tapcame from behind me. I slowly looked around, to see my sister totering dangerously close to thetop of the stairs: rubbing her eyes, clearly not yet one-hundred percent awake, “Lily!” I whispered fiercely, “What are you doing awake?” “I heard you get up,” she replied groggily, “I was wondering what you were doing.” “I heard a noise downstairs and came to see what it was.” There was another lingering creak at the bottom of the stairs, and my head whippedround sharply to see a peculiar man in the most conspicuous of positions, he was hunched over,on tip-toes and he had one hand out in front of him to keep his balance; the other over his rightshoulder: clasping a bulging hessian sack. He was a rather short man, even without the hunch and

not very impressive to behold, he had roughly cut, long hair and a beard of similar style, as wellas grungy, tattered clothing of dull tones. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” I blasted at him angrily whilst my sisterpeered owlishly over my shoulder: still not fully back in the world of the living. “Well, umm, you see, I I I I’m Nich… St Nich,”Thi statement seemed to get through to my sister, and shake her out of her waking slumber, “Your Santa?!” she queried, incredulous. She had always held Santa in the highestregard and seeing the man that stood before her was not exactly comforting: she whimpered for asecond or two, before bursting into tears. My mother and father then came rushing onto thelanding and we comforted Lily. “Well,” I thought wryly to myself, “Never meet your heroes.”*****