The Gaels always get dealt a great hand.Ā
Logan Johnson put up 37 points against local rivals Santa Clara. The Gaels fell short 66-64 in the end, but for LJ this game was monumental! Many top moments of the season. @smcgaels

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The Gaels always get dealt a great hand.Ā
Logan Johnson put up 37 points against local rivals Santa Clara. The Gaels fell short 66-64 in the end, but for LJ this game was monumental! Many top moments of the season. @smcgaels

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Simon, by Logan Johnson
Opening scene
A bare wooden table set with four places. One is empty. One elder woman and one elder man. A man in his twenties sits across from the elder couple. His face sunk into his hands. Food uneaten lay on plates in between his arms.Ā
Mother
Simon, you have to talk to usĀ
Father
Please, listen to your mother
Simon
(Muttering)It was my fault
mother
Thatās not true! Sometimes things happen and we canāt explain them. You have to tell us what happened.
Father
I know itās difficult but if you wonāt see a therapist, you have to talk to someone. Might as well be us.Ā
Simon
She died dad, itās not like I can fix her.Ā
mother
I know. I canāt possibly believe how hard this is for you but you have to talk to us.Ā
Simon
She was driving. I was in the passenger seat. George was in the back, behind her. I didnāt see the truck coming. Itās all my fault.Ā
Mother
Itās not, my love. (She puts her arm out to comfort him)
Simon
I canāt live without her.Ā
They sit in silence. The father clears his throat and goes to stand
father
Shall I make some tea?
mother
(She looks at him scoldingly)Ā
Father
(Sits back down in silence)
Silence
Simon
(Quietly) I would love a drink, thanks Dad. Mum, Iām sorry to have dragged you into this -Ā
Mother
Excuse me? What are you talking about, your wife and best friend just died. You have every right to grieve, I want to make sure you do it safely and properly. I want to support you like any mother. Donāt distance yourself from us
Simon
Iām going to get some air
Mother
Be safe
simon
(Gets up to leave) I really appreciate you, I do. Itās just hard.
Simon gets up and walks out of the room. Leaving it in silence.
mother
(Gets faster) Steve, what are we going to do? Heās going to have a breakdown and spiral out of control and lose himself. Heāll start drinking and then become me when I was younger and then weāll abandon him and it will all end up with us in care dribbling into metal bowls. Ā
She starts crying, placing her head in her hands.Ā
Father
It will all be okay. Youāre a wonderful mother, youāre so much better than yours. I promise. I love you.
Stasis, by Logan Johnson
I waited for the sun to set. Its harsh burning rays slowly melting behind the towering buildings. I walked down the cobbled dark streets, blending into the murky shadows. The dark cloaking me in as I hunted. I was ready.Ā
She was beautiful, not conventionally, but to me she was everything I had ever dreamed of. Her auburn hair flowing around her shoulders as she walked ten paces ahead. I pushed forward, silent, perfect. The narrow roads made it easier to keep track of her movement, I knew the route blindfolded. A left at madison, two hundred paces, then a right on Aldridge, thirty-seven paces then another right. I saw her take the right turn down onto Baring, I waited a moment before following her. I knew I had twenty-three seconds before she got to her door. Number thirty-one. Iād imagined this moment for as long as Iād known her. I imagined her face as she saw me, a flash of recognition before I showed her mine. I looked around me, empty, as expected. I snuck round, hiding before a box I had placed the day previous. Peering over I saw her, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. She was almost there. I kept my head down, picking up the pace. As she entered the empty lot of thirty-one I followed. Trapping my hand in the door as she let it swing shut I pushed it open. Silently entering. Sheās in the front room to my left. I know this as I know many things, routine and rehearsal, Iāve been here before. Once, sheād invited me. I push the door open, keeping low I reach for the knife on my belt. I feel itās presence, itās burning desire, matching my own. I approach the sofa sheās sitting in before straightening myself up before drawing a line from ear to ear with my knife. Blood spurts from the wound. I run round to see her dying expression. Her hair sitting above her shoulders, sheās so beautiful. Grabbing her throat she falls to the floor. A look of shock on her face, there frozen in early onset rigor mortis. I slip out the same way that I came. The night eating me up for afters.Ā
ā¦
I sit, in my cell. Waiting. Iām the two-thirty-seven hearing; case 1317. I know inside me that my sentence will be tough. A thousand years maybe, anything but life. Ten minutes later and Iām sitting, watching a man wearing a wig decide my punishment. He sits there, looking at me like Iām the physical representation of Lucifer himself. He calls my name I correct him, my chosen name Belial, long for Belle, is kind of fitting here so I call it out, to make my position known. The devil. I see his face, contorted into something I had seen many times. When people see me, the real me. He reads out my case ādetailsā before the audiences decide my face. Guilty or not hasnāt been used in about fifty years, itās all about the punishment these days. How long will I be in stasis for? The screens light up, flashing numbers between fifty and life. I pray to my fake idols that I will not get life. The judge looks up at me, his smile stretching ear to ear. He raises the tablet. In white bold numbers, 15,000. It takes me some full silent seconds to realise what Iām seeing. He reads aloud my number before I am taken away. I think deeply of all the things that Iāll miss. My lover, Cate, my best friend Marvin. I think of their faces before I canāt think anymore.Ā
ā¦
Iām in an all white jumpsuit, my number 1317 plastered on the back in crude black numbers. I look down, remembering all the details of my body before I go under. The doctors lead me into the room. I see rows and rows of beds, thousands of people, surrounded by bullet proof glass on this floating fortress. They lead my to my bed. Orange sheets lay above a thick, expensive looking mattress. They undo one of my handcuff, tying the other end to a hook next to the bed. They lower me onto the bed. I lay there as they cover my eyes with a mask, pressing two cold plasters onto the sides of my head. I know for them it will only be a moment, I will only age thirty minutes in the time Iām there for. As I slip into the darkness I feel my control fleeting away. All I can think of is my sentence. āMiss Belle Glardice you are sentenced to 15,000 years in stasis.ā They say that it simulates death, the never ending nothingness of death. As it surrounds me, I feel my control leaving, Iām in for the long haul.Ā
ā¦
Thirty minutes later I wake. My mind broken. Empty. 15,000 years of nothing can do a lot to a person.
Logan, by Emily
Loganās favourite form of writing is script, which is convenientĀ seeing as he wants to do film at university.Ā Probably also something to do with his preferred watching over reading. Loganās writing started at the young tender age of 7, due to boredom and to preach forĀ injustice. When asked to describe himself in 4 words i was given ānever-ever-organised-enoughā.
About his person, by Logan Johnson
A crumpled pile of headphones
An old pen, dry
A 20p and 1p coin.  A £10 note
A rubber wristband, new
A necklace with a key, on the brink of collapse
A recipe for a phone
A marvel wallet, second owner. Inherited
A lighter, with a secret hatch
A pile of notes, handwritten, for scrap
Another pair of headphones, broken
A pile of papers, some written, some not
4 silver earrings, 1 wooden
1 pair of thick framed glasses
A pair fold Dr Martins, laces, broken
An oyster card, photo scratched away
11 buttons, varying degree of ware.Ā

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Biography of Emily, by Logan
Emily sat opposite me. Within 5 precious minutes I would learn about her. About her life, which she describes as a mess. She says that if her biography was written sheās want it done by the Freemans. Martin and Morgan working together to tell her story. The future that she would dream of would be to not have to do anything at all. Cats over dogs, take from that as you please. Her favourites, I have learnt, have fluctuated over time from Enchanted to Jungle book to Finding Dory. Itās clear to see that she likes to connect with her childhood. Emily also enjoys the works of Cat Clarke and Ruby Francisco. Her favourite however, is the ending.
With one explosive line, making you question everything.Ā
I come from, by Logan Johnson
I come from an old yellow rug
from dust stained memories of a time ago
from please and thank you
from not putting my elbows on the table
but doing it anyway
I come from ānee norā ambulancesĀ
and porchways
I come from always and never
from on a scale of 1-5 how is your mood
I come from mental health
and suicide
from mugs through windows andĀ
false smiles
I come from a false exteriorĀ
from lying to the world about my identity
I come from putting a boy in a skirt to fit in
I come from Love, Care, Hope
I come from mistakes corrected over
time
I come from a post-stamp gardenĀ
Victorian housing, London.