Ellistown Primary School, "The Sum of Our Parts"

 

About The Sum of Our Parts
The Sum of Our Parts is a new anthology of Creative Writing by Year 6 students at Ellistown Primary School in Coalville. It is published by Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing. Congratulations to all the students involved! The anthology is edited by Constantine, University of Leicester MA Creative Writing graduate. 

You can read more about the anthology here. Below, you can read the foreword by the headteacher of the school, and two of the stories from the anthology.

From The Sum of Our Parts

Foreword
by Simone Fellows (Headteacher)

Once again, it has been a pleasure to work with Coalville Community Publishing, to give our year 6s this fantastic opportunity - a chance for our young people to receive feedback from an author/publisher in Constantine and to see work that they are proud of in print. It is especially exciting for the children, knowing that a copy of their anthology will be held at the National Library alongside the works of some of their favourite authors!

Having a real-world audience and knowing that their work would be published creates a real buzz in class, inspiring even our most reluctant writers to aim high. Some of our children sent multiple drafts and received feedback two or three times in pursuit of a finished piece they can be proud of. This created a real discourse between writer and editor and enabling the children to develop their resilience and set high expectations for themselves.
 
As ever, a heartfelt thank you to Coalville C.A.N. and Coalville Community Publishing for this opportunity. Special thanks to Constantine, for your patience and support in bringing this together over many months. It is a pleasure to work with you on this important project and your openness about being neurodiverse gives our children permission to embrace their own individuality and to find a voice they may not have known they had. Every time we create an anthology together, you help Ellistown Primary School children see their own potential.

The Beach of Hell

by Myles H

Decades have passed since D-Day. I fought in many battles after that. I even fought in Vietnam.

But D-Day? That was a hell of its own.

Normandy: Dead bodies everywhere, bullets ricocheting … Up above Germans stood behind turrets firing at anything that moved.

The objective: There was a wall which offered some cover, getting there was the job.

I waited for the boat door to collapse open. A soon as it did a soldier in front collapsed to the floor: between his eyes was a gaping hole where a bullet had shot through. I dived forward to shake of the fear. As I stormed through the water a bullet screeched past the man in front and rebounded off something before slashing through my foot. A throbbing pain shot through my body.

"Medic!" I screamed over and over again before something grabbed me and dragged me behind the wall. There a medic stood holding my foot before strapping a belt around my ankle.

"It needs amputating!" he shouted in my face. I had no idea what that meant.

I know now. I know what amputation means. When I wake in the night it still takes me a moment to remember that I only have one foot.

Her

By Layla T

Walking through the heart of the field, as the sun dipped behind the clouds, I carried my backpack trying not to look too interested. Football practice was ending, but one player was still out there-running drills after everyone had long packed up.

Her. The girl who played football like it was part of her heartbeat.

She sprinted, slowed, set the ball and shot. The sound echoed through the field-sharp and perfect. I stood there for a moment, watching her determination, the way her ponytail swung with each stride, she didn't seem to care that the sky was turning gold.

She glanced up and noticed me. I froze.

She jogged over, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“Hey," she said with a breathless smile, "you need the field?”

I shook my head. "No ... um ... I mean I'm just walking home."

She laughed softly, not in a teasing way, but like she found your awkwardness kinda cute.

 "I'm Layla," she said tapping her boots on the grass.

"I'm Johnathan," I replied with a smile, "You're really good." And I meant it; I thought she has great potential.

“Thanks," her eyes lit up with pride, the kind only passion can give. "I love the game.”

I hesitated then added, "I can tell! ...The way you play - it's like you were born with a ball at your feet."

She was shocked, "That's the nicest compliment ever ... I mean everyone normally says I am just a girl."

“I see a lot of potential here ... in you ..." I replied. "So, sign this form, and come this Friday.”

Her face lit up like Christmas morning. "OMG... NO WAY!" she cried.

"Yes way," I said smiling.

"Thank you so much .... I .... I will be there," she said happily.

 

Cathi Rae, "Writing Elegies for Dead Men I Didn't Meet"

Congratulations to UoL MA and PhD graduate, Cathi Rae, whose new poetry collection has been just been published!

Cathi Rae is a poet, spoken word artist, teacher of creative writing and anti-ageist activist. She has performed throughout the UK and has been described as a "spoken word icon" by Joelle Taylor. Cathi has an MA in Creative Writing and a practice led / creative PhD - both awarded at the University of Leicester. Her new collection is Writing Elegies for Dead Men I Didn't Meet (Coalville CAN Community Publishing, 2026). 

About Writing Elegies for Dead Men I Didn't Meet, by Cathi Rae
Nick Everett writes: "This collection explores the painful but important subject of male suicide in a series of eloquent and sensitive poems, each informed by a true story. Drawing only on information publicly available on social media, these are poems of respectful distance as well as of imaginative sympathy; and they bear moving testimony not only to the distinctive of each commemorated individual but also to the tragically powerful social forces that lead men to suffer in silence rather than share their feelings."  

25% of proceeds from the book will be donated to @andysmanclub - a UK based grassroots charity supporting men's mental health. You can read more about Cathi's work on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From Writing Elegies for Dead Men I Didn't Meet

Tiger Feet

There’s a photo of you   a snapshot    snap-shot

in a kitchen full of the clutter of life with children

a jumble of laundry 

leaning into the door of the washing machine

an endless cycle of

clean and worn and dirty

and is this how you came to feel

worn out    and    dirty

but       there’s this picture

taken for no special reason

except that someone said    smile

and so you did

can of beer 

comfortable in your fist     familiar

I can tell

and you should be wearing Riggers     

or Docks   or even battered baseball boots

smeared with plaster stains and paint

work wear     work-worn    

instead     you’re wearing tiger slippers

you’re wearing tiger feet 

daily everyday wear

seen better days

your suicide almost unnoticed

no social media Greek chorus grief

seven people noticed that you were gone

worn out    and dirty

endless cycle     ceased

and I wonder 

what happened to your tiger feet.

Club 18 to 35

Planning a road trip with a mate    so off his head on pills 

he’s already seeing double before you’ve even left the car park

tyres with tread so thin that only belief 

keeps traction on the road

and a brake light that flickers

On

Off

On 

Off

don’t think about it

pump up the volume

bang out a rhythm on your steering wheel

this is still safer than being a boy aged 18 to 35

or on an off-the-books 

and under the radar building site

you stand on scaffolding

railing at the skies

sans hard hat of course

because you’re hard enough

“Come on God - do you want some?”

this is still safer than being a boy aged 18 to 35

  

be a squaddie

in an army    any army

in a desert    far from home

where the red dust road goes on forever

dropped into a landscape you can’t read 

not fluent in foreign

scarcely fluent in your mother tongue 

this is still safer than being a boy aged 18 to 35

be a superhero 

on a media friendly tower

acrid smell of sweat and fear

homemade banner     Rights for absent fathers

the S scrunched up too small

looked so much easier when you planned it on the web

this is still safer than being a boy aged 18 to 35

 

blamed for every act of violence

held responsible    even when you weren’t

finally formulated this efficient use 

of guns and ropes and pills

rubber tubing snaking from exhausts to driver’s seat

this tidying up of all loose ends

 

finally in touch with your feelings

too late

 

when a room’s on fire 

sometimes a leap into nothing

feels the safest thing.

Constantine, "Tales of the Charnwood"

Congratulations to University of Leicester MA Creative Writing graduate Constantine on the publication of his new book of short stories!

Constantine is an autistic author and father. He achieved a first-class B.A. at Middlesex University in 2017 and completed his Master's Degree at the University of Leicester in 2022. Between the two degrees he wrote four episodes of the Children's T.V. show Pablo and has written and published the picture book Tiya and the Minotaur and The Cats of Charnwood Forest and its sequel Jötunheim. He runs the not-for-profit publishers Coalville Community Publishers CIC, which concentrates on the central Midlands, and Midlands generally. 

About Tales of the Charnwood, by Constantine
Tales of the Charnwood is eight bedtime stories about life on the Charnwood as recounted by a Vixen to her cubs. The book is set in the universe of The Cats of Charnwood Forest. 

You can read more about Tales of the Charnwood on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read a complete short story from the collection. 

From Tales of the Charnwood

Chapter Four: Badgers. 

The following evening, Vixen sat at the mouth of the den watching her cubs play for a few safe pre-dawn hours. She noticed that some of her darling children were teasing the smallest cub.  Every family has someone who is the smallest, just as someone must be the biggest. Being a fox of the Charnwood, Vixen knew right from wrong and made plans to teach her cubs the difference. 

She had a good store of stories at her command and soon remembered one that would suffice. 

The story of the Friendly Badger. 

Once her cubs had come back inside and had finished suckling, she began. 

"Now, dear ones, I will tell you a story of a Badger. Some Badgers are okay in their own way, some have even been known to share a den with a fox and even be on talking terms; however, these are few and far between. 

"Generally speaking, Badgers are grumpy and aggressive and quite scary, even when they’re on friendly terms, except for one. This is the story of the Friendly Badger." 

*** 

A long time ago in the quiet of the forest, a litter of Badgers was born.  As with every family, there was a biggest and a smallest; but while the smallest had a small body, he had the biggest heart. 

He wasn’t so good at the rough-and-tumble games his siblings liked to play. He much preferred to sniff flowers, watch the stars, or talk to any creatures he happened to meet. 

His own brothers and sisters were the first to tease him for his size and poor skill in wrestling contests. So, bit by bit, he started to avoid his siblings. Feeling lonely, he tried to make friends with the other night-time forest dwellers.    

One night, he met a fox going about its business.   

"Hello," said the Friendly Badger, "how are you?"   

"Are you talking to me?" said the fox. 

"Yes," said the Friendly Badger, "I’m hoping we can be friends."   

The fox laughed at him. 

"You can’t be a real Badger. Real Badgers aren’t friendly. You must be a rat with white stripes."  

And from that night on every time the fox saw him, he would delight in saying something cruel.   

On another night, the Badger came across a bat darting from tree to tree eating tiny insects.   

"Hello," said the Friendly Badger, "how are you?"   

"Are you talking to me?" said the bat.   

"Yes," said the Friendly Badger, "I’m hoping we can be friends."   

"Is this some sort of joke?" laughed the bat. "You’re more like a stripy bunny rabbit."   

And from that day on, whenever the bat saw the Friendly Badger, he would laugh at him and make up new insults.  

The Friendly Badger started to feel that maybe nobody would like him. Then, one evening, sitting on his own watching the stars, he heard a snuffling in the bushes. A moment later, a head appeared under the lower leaves; it was a young hedgehog.   

"Hello," said the hedgehog, "what sort of creature are you?"  

"I’m a badger," said the Friendly Badger. "Would you like to be friends?"  

"Oh yes," said the hedgehog. "Do you like hide-and-seek?" 

"Yes," said the Friendly Badger, "it’s one of my favourite games, but I’ve never had anyone to play with."   

In no time at all, the pair were playing merrily and agreed to meet up the following night.    

The next evening, when the Friendly Badger arrived at the meeting place, he was surrounded by a crowd of adult Hedgehogs, their spines quivering with anger. They shouted at him and chased him away, warning that they would hurt him if he came near their children again.   

Every creature the Friendly Badger met hurt and rejected him. He didn’t understand why. He meant no harm to anyone, and yet everyone hurt him. 

That autumn, he dug a new home (which for Badgers is called a sett) just for himself and went to sleep dreaming about all the horrible things people had said to him.   

Now, when animals like Badgers hibernate, they often grow, and when he emerged in the spring, he had gone from being the smallest to one of the biggest Badgers the Charnwood had ever seen.   

He was no longer the "Friendly Badger."   

In the long winter, dreaming of all the horrid things those other creatures had said and done to him, his heart had frozen and would never thaw again. He sought out everyone who used to tease and bully him, and, one by one ... he ate them.   

But even then, when those who had teased him were gone, and no creature dared come near, the horrible names stayed with him. He spent the rest of his days lonely, sad, and angry.   

***   

"You see, children," said the Vixen, pausing just long enough to make her cubs uncomfortable. "When you bully someone, everybody loses." 

Constantine, "Alien Boy"

Congratulations to University of Leicester Creative Writing MA graduate Constantine, who has published a new novel, Alien Boy! 

Constantine achieved a first in his B.A. Creative writing degree in 2017 and achieved equal success when he finished his Master's degree in 2021. He has written four episodes of the CBeebies show Pablo and has written a number of books, the most well-known being The Cats of Charnwood Forest.

About Alien Boy, by Constantine

Alien Boy is the first in several very short volumes designed for reluctant readers. The chapters are short, there is some description, plenty of dialogue and it is written from a first-person point of view. The style of writing fits the age of the character and reminds me of the "What We Did in the Holidays" reports I used to be asked to write at school in the late 80s. The story follows Alen, an 11-year-old orphan with ASD who discovers he is far more important than he could possibly believe.

You can read more about Alien Boy on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read a sample from the novel. 

From Alien Boy

After dinner I rushed to my room, closed the door, and took out my watch. I looked at it long and hard. It had come back on, and once again random numbers were showing on the screen.

I put it down and immediately the numbers stopped … you can guess what happened next can’t you? That’s right, I picked it up and the numbers started again but stopped when I put it down.

My mind went back to my talk with Gordon. The watch had flashed when I passed it to him, but was it flashing while he held it? I don’t think it did. Could the watch only work when being touched by me?

This was amazing, I strapped it to my wrist, and it came to life, numbers scrolling across the screen, always in groups of two. After a while, the watch beeped and then the numbers started again. Was there a pattern? I waited till it beeped again and this time I wrote them down. This is what it looked like:

09 06 00 26 15 21 00 23 01 14 20 00 20 15 00 11 14 15 23 00 23 08 15 00 26 15 21 00 01 18 05 27 00 20 08 05 00 17 21 05 19 20 09 15 14 00 20 15 00 01 19 11 00 09 15 00 23 08 15 00 01 13 00 09 

The 09 was flashing, so I underlined it. I thought that it must be important, but what did it mean? What did any of it mean? I looked at the numbers long and hard. And the 00’s stood out. If 0 is nothing, then 00 is also nothing. So, I wrote it again leaving a space where the 00’s were. Now it looked like this.

09 06    26 15 21      23 01 14 20    20 15    11 14 15 23    23 08 15    26 15 21    01 18 05 27    20 08 05    17 21 05 19 20 09 15 14    20 15    01 19 11    09 15    23 08 15    01 13    09

Now I was getting somewhere. The numbers were starting to look like words. Could it really be so simple?

I looked for a 01 and saw there was one near the end next to a 13. Now if 01 was "A" then 13 would be "M" which would make "AM." It seemed to work and so I tried all the other numbers. The 27 caused me some problems, because as you know there are only 26 letters; but then I figured that if 00 could be a space, 27 could be a full stop. Within minutes I had deciphered the message:

"If you want to know who you are the question to ask is 'who am I?'"

What did that mean? I thought about it, but it didn’t make sense. Then I remembered that the "I" was flashing. That was a clue. Who am I? I’m Alen Boiy. Was it the "I" in my surname? What if I took it out? I’m Alen Boy? That didn’t make much more sense. Okay what if I took the "I" and put it somewhere else? Alen I Boy? I Alen Boy? Then it hit me: you probably worked it out ages ago. The "I" went in the middle of my first name.

I whispered the answer out loud because it seemed too mad to stay in my head.

"I’m not Alen Boiy," I whispered. "I’m Alien Boy."

My watch made a beep and a new message scrolled across the screen. In a few minutes I had it deciphered.

"Well done," it said. "We will be in touch."

Constantine, "And things begin to change ... and other stories"

Congratulations to University of Leicester MA Creative Writing graduate Constantine, who's just published his book of short stories, And things begin to change ... and other stories!

Constantine is an autistic author and father. He achieved a first-class B.A. At Middlesex University in 2017 and completed his Master’s Degree at the University of Leicester in 2022. Between the two degrees he wrote four episodes of the Children’s T.V. show Pablo, and has written and published the picture book Tiya and the Minotaur and the novels The Cats of Charnwood Forest and its sequel Jötunheim. 

About And things begin to change ... and other stories

This collection of short stories has been donated to Coalville C.A.N., a community project in North West Leicestershire which hopes to encourage and support local authors through ‘Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing.’ All proceeds from the book go towards that project. Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing is now accepting submissions from all Leicestershire-based authors. You can see more details about their work here. 

You can see more details about And things begin to change ... and other stories here. Below, you can read a complete story from the book. 

From And things begin to change ... and other stories, by Constantine

Policeman Pete

Peter headed home. His colleagues were in the locker room getting changed, but not Peter. Peter liked travelling home in his uniform. It made him feel safe, and powerful, though admittedly not quite as powerful as when he walked around St Pancras station with his Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle. Of course, being off duty he removed his cap and made sure his identity numbers were well hidden. The Assault rifle and Sidearm were left at the station along with his Taser and CS Gas. Nevertheless, there was no disguising what he was and the feeling of power aroused him.

Tonight, the tube was packed, and even so, he commanded a respectful space around him. The passengers, like cattle in an abattoir crowded away to avoid his gaze. A woman caught his attention; she was halfway down the carriage and squashed in. He made his way towards her knowing nobody would question his movements and as he passed, he squeezed up beside her, his lips almost touching her ear, The scent of her perfume was in his nostrils and he knew she had felt him. She would put this gentlest of violations down to her own imagination or accident, but he knew she had felt him pass.

He got off and walked slowly home. Tucked away in his pocket was the missing ingredient.

*

The kids avoided making eye contact as he passed. Nobody called out to him, no ‘Good evening officer,’ from the locals. It was a ‘sign of the times,’ he told himself, though inside he knew it had started the day Mary had left.

He reached his home, a one-bed flat on the ground floor of a terraced house in Leyton. Despite the lateness of the year the inside of the flat was markedly colder than the outside. Peter barely noticed. He glanced briefly at the usual plethora of bills and credit card applications which sat on the mat and then headed into the kitchen. He poured himself a small scotch and sighed deeply. Then he took the bottle and opened a small door in the main corridor. Here one could access the gas and electricity meters but also a small set of steps went down to a cramped and dank cellar. The walls were lagged and soundproofed but still, the smell of damp chalk came through.

There under a single lightbulb stood a mannequin. Its clothes were demure, its hair refined and respectful. Its face painted, like that of a woman weeping. From his uniform pocket, Peter retrieved a brown paper packet and from this, he removed a pair of stockings. He spent a few minutes lovingly and carefully fitting them and then from his inside pocket removed his ex-wife’s wedding ring and slipped it onto the mannequin’s finger. He stood back and admired his handy work. Then, after taking a few more gulps of whisky, he took out his truncheon and let out a barely human cry of rage.

Outside the rain fell heavily in Peter's backyard. It fell on the overgrown lawn, the uncared-for flowerbeds, and the pile of smashed and disfigured fibreglass figures.