Midwinter Forest, by Finlay from Class 9 

All the land was covered in the icy, white veil of winter. Deep in the forest not a creature stirred, and the only sound was the occasional hushed thump of snow, falling in muffled heaps from the overladen boughs. In these depths of winter, the trees, already wind-bent and twisted beneath the great load of time, were cast in a strangely distorted and slightly sinister manner by the heavy snowfall.  Amongst these craggy elders the shadows loomed, long and menacing and the silence that hung between them was heavy and forbidding, reflective of the forlorn forest. The trees could feel it pressing down upon them; they longed for the ceaseless scurrying of their springtime companions. 

Despite the loneliness of the trees, not all of life slept. High in a holly tree, a fine shower of ice crystals sparkled towards the ground, knocked awry by a small bird, plucking boldly at the red berries. Lightly hopping along the delicate branches, its head bobbing comically, it made its way to the crown of the tree. As it sat there, a beady eye surveyed the surrounding trees from a head cocked gently to one side, as though contemplating its actions. Then, displaying its crimson breast, the little bird began to sing.  

It warbled its dainty heart out and, as the beauty of the long, drawn-out notes rippled through the landscape, the trees sighed in a delighted chorus and already the shadows began to draw away. It was a brief spark of joy, a beacon of hope in the dark depths of winter, shining outwards and embracing all the creatures of the forest as they slept.

Each one felt a small burst of delight grow in their hearts and contentedly settled lower into their winter havens to wait out the bitter, piercing cold with a little flame of warmth and joy within them. 

---

Christmastime War, by Elin from Class 9

All quiet on the Western front. 
The air is thick with malicious entreaties,
And the scent of gunpowder coils its way into the noses of the men crouched and shivering within the snaking trenches. 
Fear’s horrible figure looms, dagger in her fair hand, 
Above the battlefield. 
The sun rises, 
While the men's hearts lay stone cold and still in their chests. 
This is a Christmastime war. 
It holds no hope in frost-bitten fingers. It is quiet and brutal.  

Five young men sit by a tree. It is a desolate fir with barbed wire on its branches, no tinsel nor baubles. They toast each other quietly with shaking hands, sip at cups of warming whiskey. 
Down these muddied German trenches, others do the same. 
Young, yet no longer innocent as lambs, they shiver by propped up trees, close their eyes and imagine themselves home. 
Their guns lay by their sides. Placed within reach, the weapons catch the soldiers’ eyes. The young boys are so used to the familiar buck and recoil of the gun that the sensation has become less of a gut-punch and more the absence of one - the impact so used it has become worn and horribly normal. 
Though they try, they find they cannot push away the thought of their enemies, huddled like frightened rabbits in the trenches that have become their warrens. Or perhaps the enemy no longer lay in their warrens - perhaps even now the whites of their eyes will be inching over the edge of this lonely trench.
The boys toast Christmas Eve and the prospect of the New Year. They do not mention that they may never see 1915 dawn. They keep their voices quiet. They are frightened to the marrow. They do not acknowledge it. They do not dare. 
Far from the Front, Kaiser Wilhelm laughs jovially, crystal glass of finest malt whiskey raised in the direction of his companions. Before him stands a Christmas tree, stately in its green girth and extravagant in both height and decoration. A fire blazes in a grandiose hearth, warming the gathered to the marrow. No one mentions the abandoned boys, the lost boys hiding in the trenches and cowering by Death’s black skirts. 
This is a Christmastime war. 
It is built on the fear of old men and fought with the broken souls of the poisoned youth. 

No one knows who begins to sing. Each think it is perhaps the one beside them, but it never is. Whoever’s voice rings clear over the trenches ignites an unfamiliar warmth within the soldiers’ hearts. Like the bells of Christmas, the Voice is high, pealing, sounding the words of an old, tired carol. 

“Stille nacht, heilige nacht..” 

A soldier exclaims that the angels must be thronging unseen in the skies above. 

“They sing us to our graves,” he cries. The army find they do not dread the death-bringing dawn so much anymore. The Voice lulls their fear. 

Up and down the bloody trenches, soldiers begin to sing. Quietly, gruffly at first, but with growing power, until they feel as though the sky must surely quake from the strength of their collective voices. 

Where Fear’s figure loomed, Hope stands now. 

Across No-Man’s Land, the opposing army halt in place and widen their eyes as the Voice reaches them. 

“Silent night, holy night..” 

They find themselves singing without giving their voices permission. 

Above the battlefield,  the warring peoples’ voices tangle and dance in the light of the long-dead stars. 

This is a Christmastime war. 
It holds fragments of peace and beauty in its bloody mantle, like the threads of starlight Mother Mary collected to weave her child a robe. 

Careful. One hesitant foot before the other, two men creep out of the trenches. They come from opposite sides. They each hold a handkerchief in raised hands. Perhaps the scraps of cloth were once white as freshly fallen snow but have been used to quell the rivers of blood that have been bled and are stained crimson. The colour of a poppy’s silken petal. 
No shots are fired. The weapons lay forgotten, finally both out of sight and mind. 

Over the edge of the trench. Hands slip and quest for purchase on slick mud. Then the soldiers are in the open.
For miles, all that can be seen is mist wreathing around barbed wire, the hideous, slumped figures of corpses littered further ahead. Abandoned to be ripped apart by beasts, like Polyneices of Thebes. None have an Antigone to bury them, however. They have been discarded, common carrion to be devoured, offal for the wild beasts. 
Unknowingly mirroring the others’ movements, the two pick their lonely way through the dead. They do not look down - every face painted with Death’s dreamless slumber might be a friend’s. 
Their minds are blank, fresh sheets of moonlight - pale paper. 
They know not what their goal is, only that it is important ; pre - ordained. 
Through the mists, the figures each see the other like a spectre, a hazy, half - formed being from a world unknown. 
They halt, fear’s cold fist closing over their hearts momentarily, before the singing rings once again in their ears, and they notice a soft, stumbling sound. Footsteps, falling over barbed wire.  They each turn to back towards their trenches and are greeted with a mighty sight. Emerging hesitantly from the fog, soldiers throng behind them. 
Their mouths don’t move, but the singing continues. 
The two soldiers turn back to each other, nod in cautious respect. They are only a few feet apart. they stand in position, considering. Then, like puppets on strings, they hold out their hands and shake hands. 
The singing rises to a crescendo, and now the heavens do quake and quail with the quiet heaviness of relieving peace. 

Peace that will not last forever but feels in the moment like it might. 

This is a Christmastime war. 

In it, Hope does exist, if you know where to find it.