‘The Playground’, Aisha Rishi, age 14, Sir Henry Floyd Grammar School

I hold my breath as it twists its shadowed neck towards the remnants of the building I stand
on. I’ve been spotted. Time to run. I scramble across the rubble as the creature’s
blood-curdling laughter deafens my ears. As its limbs threaten to clutch what little is left of
me, my breath quickens, heart pounding, blood rushing to my ears. I capture a glimpse of
the deer-like creature as it draws close. Its mouth, salivating. It watches as I pathetically
crawl across the mounds of rubble, desperate, anguished and panic-stricken.

‘Stupid!’ I think to myself. ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! If only I hadn’t stopped. If only…’

Out of breath and starting to slow, I bury myself under layers of debris. I’m safe. For now.
The hallowed screams of laughter begin to dissipate, as I hear the music echoes throughout
the cage. My lungs collapse with relief as the gaunt extensions of the demon’s legs grow
smaller as it heads in the opposite direction.

Once the gate’s whirring of the arena grinds to a halt, the children that are left begin to climb
out from underneath their hiding spots. A knife twists my heart as I see the other children.
Exhaustion infecting their young bodies, deepened purple hues marking their pale, sickened
faces. The reality we live in. The Playground. A game. Exactly what is it for them. The
Rakshasa. Spirits that feed off of children, hunting them for their entertainment. I grind my
teeth in frustration.

‘How disgusting’ I sigh beneath my tired breath.

I begin to trudge towards the rusted gate, barely keeping myself from falling onto the debris
that saved my life just moments ago.

Finally in the pen, I collapse onto the floor, curling into a ball. Tears begin to cloud my vision,
the faces around me blurring. A weak, hoarse cry leaves my lungs. Why? What had we,
children done to deserve this?