Year 10 English students were recently given two lessons to write a 500-word story or description, inspired by either ‘Thirteen’ or ‘A century later’, two poems from the AQA GCSE anthology Worlds and Lives. This is a collection that aims to represent diverse voices and experiences. ‘A century later’ is about girls’ education, and ‘Thirteen’ is about a boy being stopped by the police.

Here are three of the best pieces, as selected by Mrs New, Head of English.

Camilla T writes about the life, thoughts and feelings of a girl in Afghanistan (where girls older than 11 are currently not allowed to go to school):

Yesterday I turned ten. Double digits, a whole decade. Ten years old is a landmark. A badge of honour. Never did I think about turning eleven. Nobody idolises eleven. Eleven is an afterthought.

Last night, I lay my head on my pillow with the satisfaction that I was finally a year older, more mature, closer to womanhood.

I know I'm still a child. Last year I was a child and next year I'll be closer to adulthood, but I’ll still have a lot of my youth ahead of me. Is there much of a difference between a ten year old and an eleven year old? I don’t think so.

I was told that as I get older, I will gain more responsibility. More pressure, more expectations, more, more, more.

What I will not gain next year is school.

When I was eight, nine, I used to play sick to avoid my lessons. I’d spend too much time sitting in the bathrooms, and walked back to the classroom extra slowly to extend my breaks. Looking back on this, I wish I hadn’t. If someone had told me then, what I know now, I would have acted differently.

This is the last year. My last year sitting in those classrooms, reading, writing, learning. The thought of that kills me. I assumed I had more time. Everyone did.

If I find myself feeling ill, I suppress it. If I have to use the restroom in class, I take as little time as possible. I never thought I'd find myself doing this, but now I have to. I can't risk losing any precious knowledge, every second counts.

Why is there a limit on what I'm allowed to know when I want to know everything there is to learn? You never realise how precious something is until it’s taken away.

The purpose of an education is to create an educated population, one that can contribute to the advancement of their country, and doesn’t that mean that more people in school means more educated and skilled workers to help their country? Doesn’t that include women and girls?

I am told no. A girl’s place is not in school. A girl's place is at home. They follow Muhammad, they say. They are doing this for our own good, they promise. The Taliban say that we ask the wrong questions and instead should listen. Be humble. Be modest.

The prophet Muhammed said two thousand years ago that a woman should not leave the house. I’ve never met Muhammed. I want proof.

I was taught to be proud of my religion. I was taught that the first universities were made under islamic rule. I was taught that Muhammed loved all, but then why would he want this for me? Why am I not allowed to learn?

Why does the Taliban hate me? Why do they oppress me, my mother, sister, classmates? What is so dangerous about going to school and having the same rights as a man?

I don’t think it is about religion. I’ve figured it out. Educated people ask questions. The danger in giving a woman knowledge is the fact that she will ask the right ones.

Mimi H imagines the speaker of ‘Thirteen’ six years on from the events of the poem:

You’ll be four minutes away from stepping on the stage, the next generation of little stars looking at you with eager, innocent eyes. Their cheeks still plump with youth, eyes not yet weary of the world, of you.

You’ll look at yourself in the mirror of the visitor’s bathroom, fixing your mandated uniform vest and taking a deep breath. The clean glass will fog up and the image of you distorts into something younger, more vulnerable. Suddenly you’ll feel ten years old again, leaving your maths lesson to use the toilet.

The hallways are all too familiar to you, the walls decorated with show-and-tell items, and the soft smell of PVA glue tingles your nostrils. You’ll pass your old classroom, your teacher is gone, long retired and happy with what she’s done. You’ll wonder if you’ll get that privilege, retiring happy, knowing you made your impact.

You still have time, you’ll realise, to make your impact. You’ll start today, by stepping on the stage and speaking your knowledge, your experiences. It’ll almost make you laugh, the irony of it all, how time files. The overwhelming knowledge of your own mortality will dawn on you, crushing you like a rock, stopping the laughter short in your throat.

The head teacher will usher you over. Her hair is greyed and her eyes decorated with wrinkles, showing how much she loves to smile, she used to smile at you and all your hard work. You grew up with her, looking up to her, figuratively and literally. You’ll find yourself smiling, towering over her, your new role holding power and commanding respect. She’ll pat you on the shoulder with a familiar, warm hand, smiling like she used to. ‘I’m proud of you.’ She’ll say with misty eyes.

You’ll step onto the stage, the hall still smells of the blue gym mats the PE teachers used and everything almost makes you weak with nostalgia. A round of applause deafens you, little hands being slapped together before they all fall silent, each child sat uniformly in rows. You clear your throat, ready to show yourself, your vulnerability, your love to each child sat in the hall.

They seem to move in unison, each head turning as they watch you walk across stage, bated breath making the air feel heavy. This is what it feels like, your responsibility crushing you. But you’ll know, deep down, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Like your long gone childhood teacher, like your head teacher, like your parents, each so proud. This feeling, the feeling of being able to inspire, the feeling of being able to make change, it’ll drive you to go forward, to get out of bed every morning.

Each child, each teacher looks at you expectantly, but your words feel like they’re strangling you, trying to claw their way back down inside you.

You’ll see a child. They’re sitting at the back, looking at you, enthralled by your every movement. They remind you painfully of yourself, of you sitting at this same talk, listening to an officer talking about your future. You’ll clear your throat and begin speaking:

‘You are all little stars.’

Issy N retells the story of ‘Thirteen’ from the point of view of the teacher:

I’ve always loved stars.

Constellations, galaxies, a universe beyond our imagination and comprehension. Everything about it fascinates me. The way they can dictate your personality, that there is a classification system for such an impossibly complex and detailed thing as the human brain, is fascinating.
My parents once told me that we are all made up of a sprinkle of stardust, the way biscuits are dusted with icing sugar, dotted with the chocolate chips of personality and genetic makeup. So, in some small way, we are all related to the stars and constellations above. Created by the Gods themselves, their twinkling lights fading along with our promise.

I choose to see my students as stars. Beautifully complicated, unique individuals, each in their own right. They are all shining supernovas, with so much potential.

My children, though not of blood, but spirit, are each dotted with aspects and thoughts from their own backgrounds and environments. Each influenced differently, given their own viewpoints and perspectives from their respective families and upbringings.

I love meeting their parents. Being able to see the very people that created these shining constellations, laced their skin and minds with the thread of themselves, their cultures and communities. Hand crafted, with their own imperfections, which somehow make them more bespoke than if they were perfect.

It makes them real.

It aids me, the knowledge that each of these minds is still ripe and malleable. That they are all, like constellations, difficult to understand or interpret.

They, too, are trying to find their voice.

It was when, one day, I was told of a boy whose supernova had dimmed, whose star had died, did I realise that not all stars were born to shine. That their light, like ours, was only temporary. It could be dimmed at a moment’s notice, that shining light stripped from our souls like a name-tag ripped from a sweater. Our identity is stolen from the warmth of innocence we were born into.

It’s astrology that I love the most, however. The way people can be born into different fates according to the very things we are made up of.

And while these systems give us some variation of order in a universe designed to baffle us, they have a way of defining us. Slotting us into these airtight personality boxes we don’t necessarily align with, but force ourselves into.

Stars, over the years I’ve realised, are bigger and brighter versions of us humans. We, like them, have a life cycle. We’re born bright and burning, passionate and full of potential. But slowly, day by day and year by year, that light fades. Until we’re nothing more than a dim glow. Lost potential. And just like us, stars form communities. They band together to create planetary systems and constellations. Like humans, they need community. Groups to be a part of, to define them.

But the oddest thing about stars is that, strangely, its colour indicates its brightness.

A star’s potential is limited by its colour.