370

Christmas was fast approaching and Oliver was filled with excitement. Much of this excitement was caused by Oliver's father telling him to get ready for the best gift he would ever receive.

The final few days before Christmas seemed to last forever, each one multiplying Oliver's excitement by the power of ten or maybe even twenty.

Christmas finally arrived on the 25th of December just as the calendar companies had predicted. Oliver rushed downstairs to find his father waiting with a small box in his hand. The box was unwrapped; perhaps from laziness, or maybe from a conscious effort to save a tiny fraction of the rain forest. Oliver was just glad that his receiving of the gift wouldn't be delayed by needless tearing of coloured paper.

Oliver took the box in his hands, inhaled deeply and then opened it. Light bounced off the silver metal within. It was a harmonica. Oliver immediately walked out into the garden, picking up a pen on the way. He got down on his knees and began to dig with his bare hands. Once a sizeable hole was created, Oliver used the pen to write the word "Treasure" on the harmonica's box. He then threw the box into the hole and filled it with earth.

Later that night, Oliver lay in bed thinking about the distant future when someone would uncover his buried box with the word treasure on it; he thought about how disappointed that person would be when they opened it and, in that moment, Oliver didn't feel quite so alone.

95

In my comprehensive school the best pupils got given special pens. I was never one for hard work, so I didn't receive a pen in any of the weekly presentations. I longed for a pen for five years, knowing that it would take mental strength and courage to gain one, two attributes that I do not have.
In year 10, my politics teacher happened to be the headmaster aka The Pen Giver. An idea came to me; if I ask him for a pen, he will give me one. I asked. He refused. For two years I asked for a pen. Every Thursday at twenty past eleven, my requests were always met with "you have to earn the pen". At times I felt like doing my homework and doing well in class, which would probably have earned me a pen, but my laziness always prevailed.

My final year of comprehensive school drew ever closer. Still I was penless. My final politics lesson arrived, Thursday at twenty past eleven. "Please sir, can I have a pen? Theres not enough time to earn one". Yet again, I met a firm "No".
My final day came, I went through the compulsory shirt graffiti, photo taking and book signing. Still I had no pen. The end of day bell rang in my ears, I was to leave this place and never return, I was penless and depressed. I left the science room, bag on shoulder, tie on head. As I strolled up to front gates, I could see a familiar figure standing at the entrance. It was the headmaster. We exchanged our goodbyes and thank yous in a courteous manner. Once the words had run out, he held out his hand and I shook it. He turned and left, never to be seen again, because he moved to Italy soon after. I looked down at my hand, and there was the pen.

Is there a moral to this tale? Does it mean that you don't have to work hard at anything in life? Did I have the courage and mental strength to earn the pen all along and the headmaster saw this is my two years of begging? Was the pen just a metaphor? Did I even go to school that day?

Alan, Dunfermline.

5

I had wanted it so much. I’d worked so hard for it. When I finally did it I broke down in tears. My troubles were over; I’d be rich, famous and more powerful than any fairly well known celebrity. I’d finally made the pen move using only my mind. I was a god. Then it dawned on me, I’d wanted it so much, I needed so badly to move that pen with my mind that I’d used my hand.

David, Colchester.