In this post, tutor Keith reflects on confidence, communication and the “right to be heard” , before introducing Roland’s extraordinary short story: a funny, haunting, deeply moving piece that shows just how much can emerge when a student is given time, trust and the tools to express themselves.
Creative writing can be so much more than an English exercise. For many neurodivergent young people, and those with SEND, putting words on a page can become a safe way to practise being seen and heard, to try out identity, to take creative risks, and to build self-belief.
At Bright Heart, we’re always moved by what happens when a student is given time, trust, and the right support to express themselves. In this post, tutor Keith shares a short reflection on confidence and communication, before introducing a remarkable piece of writing from Roland (15 yrs). Roland’s story is imaginative, funny, and deeply affecting, exactly the kind of work that reminds us how powerful student voice can be. This follows on from creative writing we shared from two other students in August last year.
A gentle note for readers: Roland’s writing includes some emotionally intense themes. But it’s also full of character, warmth, and originality. We hope you’ll read Keith’s preamble, then settle in for Roland’s story and the world he invites you into.
One of the most prevalent underlying issues faced by youngsters with almost any SEND diagnosis is lack of self-belief/self-esteem. This can manifest itself in many ways, from self-harm, silence, timidity, lack of engagement, running through the gamut to brash or even violent overcompensation. A lot of time must therefore be taken looking for, creating and bolstering these emotions, and one of the best ways of doing so is to inculcate the understanding in your student that they have the right to be, the right to be seen, and the right to be heard. A very effective means of bringing this about is enabling them to realise how they can express themselves through various mediums of communication and, of these, writing can sometimes be the most powerful.
If you are a regular reader of our blog, you will have seen two different and enjoyable short stories a little while ago written by two of our talented students, Charlie and Mark, who gave us terrifying zombies on the one hand and sharp, Agatha Christie-like detecting on the other. I am keen to continue offering snapshots into my student’s worlds through their writing and have here another wonderful example of just what they can do. This particular offering comes from Roland who is a sparky young 15-year-old student of mine. He has stuck steadfastly to his learning and after much struggle has been able to produce what I consider to be one of the most moving pieces of writing I have seen in quite a while. In the first part of his story, the SEN that he deals with on a daily basis are clearly transcribed onto the page as he writes, and the depth of feeling in the second part has rarely been expressed as beautifully, in my opinion. Read on. From the title to the last line, you’re in for a treat.
I pinch myself… Silence.
Before we go any further, let me give you the back story and a recap of last night. So, I’m eating my dinner, I get up from the table, mouth half full of my dad’s favorite pasta recipe and sauce stains on what used to be my dad’s favorite T shirt that now belongs to me. I go to the fridge and stick my hand in to grab a half-finished can of Mountain Dew. Before I can even finish the last dregs, I notice that something is off but can’t quite tell what exactly it is. Let me put it this way. Imagine an adult giving a toddler George a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle, but the twist is he manages to fit 999 pieces perfectly and somehow struggles to understand how the last piece must fit to be a complete puzzle, and puts a half bitten, slobbery zombie hero in its place. Is that off or what? The open fridge door suddenly looks like a screen, and I begin to watch a movie in which I see my friend Jacob slowly becoming evil after being bullied as he tries to get revenge. I don’t want this to happen and next thing you know, the fridge talks to me and tells me that there is a way to stop this from happening and then proceeds to tell me how.
My name is George. I am 15. Current Status: DECEMBER THE 15TH 2025. Ten days to Christmas. I look around, remembering this room 6 years ago. I know I am dreaming. Or do I?
I call to my mate Jacob, who’s suddenly appeared in front of me, and ask him how he is. He responds in his slow, mechanical way, almost like he’s a zombie fresh from a horror story! Bwahahaha, I laugh to myself, partly because it’s weird, partly because… zombies, man.
Oh, and for those reading this, just a heads-up: I am totally not obsessed with zombies.
Just kidding, I’m crazy obsessed with them! Hahaha, yeah, it’s obvious. But we’ll get to that another time.
Back to the story…
“I’m good, mate. How are you?” he replies, and meanwhile I’ve forgotten what I even asked him in the first place. Hahaha, how do you forget something you asked five seconds ago?
I mean, if you think about it, it’s not that hard to guess what I said… or is it? As you can see, I’m not that bright. But you know what they say! Bwahahaha, I snort-laugh at my own joke.
Why are you speaking like you’re a zombie and a little bit troubled up there in the head?” I add a light chuckle and place a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. He just stares at me. Hahaha… oh boy.
Before he can answer, the world shifts, and suddenly I’m sent back to the very first time I met him.
To the beginning.
Point zero, man. Hahaha, yeah, this is getting weird.
I’ve just been thrown back to the first time I met Jacob and, for those of you who don’t know, I am, for now, 7 years and 4 months old. Time goes by so quickly whether you’re having fun or not. I’m in “big boy school,” first year, and of course the bully is around. This isn’t important at this point, though. I must get to the exact meeting point and not mess things up this time.
And look, I wasn’t exactly a genius at seven. And you know what they say if the kid’s a bit dim, that’s on the parents. Sorry, Mum and Dad, but the evidence is stacking up. Hahaha… okay, maybe slightly more than evidence.
Chapter Two — The First Meeting… Hopefully
I look around the playground, trying to find the “exact meeting point.” Not that anyone told me where it is, that would be too easy.
Of course, the bully is already prowling. He’s like a mini tornado, stepping on shoelaces and looking for trouble. I swallow hard. Bwahahaha… yeah, real smooth, George. Real smooth.
And there he is, a small boy sitting on the edge of the playground, twirling a stick like it’s a magic wand. Could that be Jacob? My heart does that weird flip thing. I remember him… sort of. He’s smaller than I imagined, with hair sticking up in all directions. A mini tornado himself.
“Uh… hi,” I squeak. My voice comes out higher than I planned. Hahaha… yeah, nailed it, George.
He looks up at me. And then… he smiles. Or is it a grimace? Hard to tell. I decide it’s a smile.
“Hi,” he says, calm, like he’s been expecting me.
Wait. Expecting me? Hahaha… no way. Maybe he’s a psychic. Or maybe… zombies are real. I whisper that last part. Bwahahaha, yeah, real mature.
Before I can even ask him if he likes zombies — a crucial first question, obviously — the bully charges past, trips over literally nothing, and sends a backpack flying. Owww! It smacks me in the shin. “Hahaha, ouch… you little—” I stop. Can’t swear. Not at seven. Gotta keep it PG.
Little Jacob just laughs. HAHAHA… okay, he actually giggles. And somehow that makes it less scary to me. I laugh too, though it comes out more like a wheeze.
“So… you like sticks?” I blurt out. Why did I ask that? Who even asks that? He looks confused, then shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says. Okay… small talk level one complete.
Only 8 years × 365 days/year = 2,920 days to go.
I totally didn’t look that up! Anyway, get back to the praising part!!!
So… 2,920 days until I’m 15. See, I’m not that dumb, am I?
Just kidding I only remember this because… DRUMMER ALERT! DRUMMER ALERT!
Yes, the stereotypical drummer personality: messy hair, headphones on, constantly tapping sticks on everything, always late but somehow magically arriving at the right time. Classic drummer stereotype, right? But this is your chance! Whoever isn’t participating in this story of mine yet, now’s your moment! Do you play the drums?
If you haven’t joined as a character yet, you should take the role of the drummer, best known as:
“Terrence, AKA World Snooker/Chess Cheater of All Time!” but that’s for the future.
Hahaha… I know, I know. This story is already amazing, but seriously, it gets even better when you throw in a character like Terrence. Just saying… I’m kind of a genius, right? And don’t worry, he’s actually my tutor. He’s chill. Super chill. He even rides a motorbike! 
Okay, picture this: I’m about to talk to Jacob when Terrence rolls up on his motorbike like it’s literally the most normal thing in the world. Hair everywhere, shades on, the whole “I might cheat at chess but also teach you how to actually win” energy. And I’m just like… wow.
He leans over and goes, super chill, “Yo… snooker isn’t just about aiming. It’s about thinking five moves ahead… and maybe bending reality a little.” And then he laughs this huge, ridiculous laugh that makes literally everyone stare at us like we just announced we’re taking over the world.
Everyone that is, except for the bully who glances at me and then fixes his eyes on Jacob. I don’t think he likes being laughed at. Here I remember, 1st time around I went for a ride with Terence instead of continuing my conversation with Jacob, but this time, following the wise words of my fully customized 2008 fridges owner’s manual (a wise fridge once said “with great power comes great responsibility”) I decide to change the future and stay with Jacob.
Chapter 3 The Moment
This moment will be remembered wrong.
Not because it doesn’t matter, but because no one wanted it to.
To the bully, it will blur into a thousand other moments. A laugh. A shove. A bored decision made without thinking.
To Jacob, it will become everything.
The playground is bright. Too bright. The kind of brightness that makes shadows sharper. The bully spots the quiet kid sitting alone holding a stick like it’s something worth keeping.
The quiet kid laughs
That’s the mistake
The shove is quick, ordinary, forgettable
The stick rolls away.
Jacob reaches for it then stops.
Slowly, he pulls his hand back into his sleeve.
He doesn’t look up again.
The bully leaves.
The world keeps going.
It takes years for the damage to catch up.
George remembers this now.
Not the sound of the stick hitting the ground,
but the way Jacob didn’t chase it
That’s what breaks him.
The fridge hums.
Or a machine does.
George can’t tell anymore.
I thought I had more time, he whispers. “I thought I could fix it later.”
In the memory, he sits down beside Jacob.
In real life, his chest struggles, then stills.
The memory doesn’t change.
But for the first time, Jacob isn’t alone.
And for George that is both comfort and the punishment
because love arrived only after it could no longer save anyone.
Final Chapter – The Present
The smell comes back first.
Not the beeping. Not the voices.
The smell.
Warm pasta. Tomato. Garlic. Too much salt just like Dad always makes it. The kind of smell that fills a room and clings to your clothes, so you still smell it later, when you’re alone.
George smiles.
I remember this, he whispers.
He’s fifteen again. Or seven. Or both. And of course, still zombie obsessed. Who cares when it started, or why. Time doesn’t line up right anymore.
He’s standing in the kitchen. Dad’s old T-shirt hanging loose on him. Pasta on the table. The fridge light glowing like an open doorway.
Or maybe it isn’t a fridge.
Maybe it’s a hospital light.
The smell fades.
That’s when he understands.
The memories weren’t dreams.
They weren’t rewrites.
They were visits.
Some doctors say the brain doesn’t shut down immediately when the heart stops. For several minutes, usually around five, brain activity can continue before irreversible damage sets in. No one knows exactly what happens in that time.
But George knows what his brain chooses.
Every time his mind slipped, it went back to the moments that mattered most. Not the loud ones. The small ones. The ones where a single choice could have meant someone wasn’t alone.
Jacob.
The stick.
The laugh that stopped too early.
“I stayed this time,” George says softly. “I sat with him.”
In the memory, Jacob doesn’t look up but he doesn’t move away either.
In the present, George’s fingers don’t move at all.
Someone is holding his hand. He can’t feel it anymore.
The machines keep breathing for him.
The smell of pasta is gone now, but the feeling remains that warm, aching sense of being home, even when you’re about to leave it.
George thinks of Jacob.
Not the version that went wrong.
The small one.
The quiet one.
The one who laughed.
“I didn’t save you,” George whispers. “But you weren’t alone.”
The light hums.
The memory stays.
And when everything finally goes quiet, the last thing George carries with him isn’t fear.
It’s love arriving late, but real, and heavy enough to hurt.
If you’re looking for English support (language, literature and creative writing), Bright Heart is here to help. Our Educational Consultants are dedicated to understanding your child’s needs and connecting them with a tutor who can unlock their full potential. Reach out today to discover how we can help your child flourish.
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