In Our Villain Era: Year 9 Creative Writing

In Term 1 English, Year 9 English engaged in a creative writing unit: In Our Villain Era. 

What makes a great villain character? Students learned about the purpose of antagonists in literature, and how some characters end up being, well, villains! From this, students created their own villain character, and then for their summative assessment, wrote their villain's origin story showing their readers how and why their character turned to a life of crime. For the first time, students could experiment with using memory, and other non-linear structures in their creative writing. 

Please enjoy some of our talented Year 9 students' villain origin stories! 

Kind regards

Ms Emma Ledlin | Middle Leader English

eledlin@cns.catholic.edu.au

Ligera Engano - Controlled to Controlling

Written by Grace Folino-Gallo

“Ok everyone, time to say goodbye to your parents and sit on the carpet,” Ligera smiled at the children as they raced to the brightly coloured rug. “Good morning Miss Engano,” little voices yelled. She glanced around the bright room looking for the last child in the group and her eyes rested on the shadows outside the door. “Sarah just go,” the mother said harshly, “you’re a big girl now you need to go to kindy without me.” She quickly hit the little girl causing her to cry out. Ligera reached for the amulet around her neck as an onslaught of memories assaulted her mind. She escorted the child inside, giving her a swift hug, before promptly fainting.

She was eleven again, curled in her cold bed staring at the crumbling ceiling. Clang, clang, clang! That was the waking bell which would be accompanied any second by - “Get up you worthless brats!”-Cranus, the cruel, stone hearted, master of the orphanage. Children trudged out to the dinner hall hurried along by the stick in Cranus’ grip. Later on, as the children made boots, stitching in monotonous synchrony, a new figure entered the hall. “Well then, everything seems in order here,”the inspector cast his eyes around the room glossing over the sickly pallor in each child’s face and the bruises along their scrawny arms. “Why of course sir, I would hate for even one child to be neglected, ”Cranus grovelled. Ligera cursed the government inspectors who came every month and still refused to see their suffering. One day she would find a way out of this hell hole and get back at the neglectful authorities.

That night as Ligera lay watching the moon creep across the dark sky, a strange woman appearedbeside her bed and spoke in an eerie whisper. “Quickly, child. Come with me, I am the sorceress Jadis. I will take you far away from these people and give you the power you have always desired. Decide now.” Ligera didn’t hesitate. Anywhere could be better than here, she thought as she stepped out of the window into the arms of her future and flew into the night with Jadis.

“This amulet will give you the power to control what people experience in their mind. You could force them to relive their worst moments or you could help people out of the darkness into the light.” Jadis passed Ligera the circular pendant; a single, glowing drop of pure magic in the centre of the intricate carvings of the copper. Ligera fastened the cool chain around her throat and instantly felt the power of the amulet strengthen her body. Weeks passed in a haze of joyous liberty for Ligera. She spent everyday with Jadis, learning to control the amulet’s power. Soon, she evolved from struggling to read Jadis’ thoughts, to coercing her into finishing their lessons early to explore surrounding woodland. Those were the happiest weeks of Ligera’s life, until the stormy night when Jadis flew through the door with a sickly, crying child in her arms.

Jadis and Ligera desperately struggled to save the girl. Ligera recognised her from the orphanage. Letty was the youngest in the group of children, only five years old. Recently she had suffered from bouts of sickness that were left untreated by Cranus. Letty coughed furiously in Ligera’s arms, as Jadis tried to pour healing concoctions into her mouth. Suddenly, the racking cough was silenced, the shaking body stilled, and Letty’s pained eyes ceased to see. No thought Ligera, she couldn’t be gone. The happy little bird who was always smiling, despite the horrors of the orphanage, couldn’t have stopped singing. If only that sick, twisted vulture had taken care of one little girl… How can people with power let this happen? These people would never see justice unless someone did something drastic. After lifting the limp body of the little bird onto the bench, Ligera stepped out into the swirling squall, towards the prison she thought she’d never see again. She dragged a gagged Cranus into the desolate cave she had found on her excursions in the woods. The storm raged around the cave, the wind howling through the cracks. “You killed her! You are going to pay!” Ligera’s scream echoed in the silence.

“What could you possibly do? You’re just as powerless as every other kid -” Cranus’ sneer was cut off by a flood of terrifying hallucinations. He began screaming at thin air. Ligera loomed over Cranus’ body, unmoving in the dirt. This power, this feeling of vengeance, this was what Ligera wanted. For all the people who had abused the kids at the orphanage to feel the same pain and terror.

Ligera’s blood tingled with adrenaline as she bent to pick a newspaper up off the mat. Glancing at the headline, she was shocked to see a picture of herself from years ago at the orphanage. Interviews with investigators called her a psychopathic witch. As night fell Ligera walked purposefully toward the city. By sunrise, she reached a small suburb and saw a kindergarten looking for a teacher. Punishing child abusers was an ongoing task, but for now this was her chance to protect kids from the horrors she had experienced. As she pondered her future, Ligera grasped her amulet. This was the day her future began.

Black Velvet

Written by Anonymous

Elyra – 9 years old

“You stupid kid, what’s wrong with you?” My dad screams, hurling a glass jar at the wall behind me.

I duck, hastily wiping away the tears rolling down my face as I scurry under the dining table. Hugging my knees, I cross my fingers that it will be over soon. Once his anger is out, he’ll leave again. I’ll be safe and alone.

“You pathetic excuse of a daughter, why would you do that? I wish you were never born!” His final words echo through the empty house and the door slams, signalling that he’s gone. I allow myself a few minutes of silence before I crawl out from under the table, met with the sight of shattered glass and splintered wood.

The fragmented remains of a mirror show the distorted reflection of a pale girl, black ribbon dangling from the loose strands of hair, blood dripping from a cut through her eyebrow. I stare for a second before dragging the back of my hand over the cut, smearing it over my cheek in a weak attempt to clean myself. The back door is still swinging from the force of the slam.

I’ll show you, Dad. One day, I’ll show you that you will wish I was never born.

Elyra – 13 years old

“Poor little Elyra, all alone. Did mummy forget she had a daughter?”

I’m sitting on the curb out front of school, staring at the cars driving past. Loving fathers greeting their children, smiling. Caring mothers asking how their days where. Something hits me on the back, and I turn around to see Isabella Cruz laughing with her friends. They’re pretty, popular and everything I hate.

“Oi! You never answered my question!” Isabella says grinning.

“Shut up,” I mumble, turning back to the road, absently tugging my long braid over my shoulder, fidgeting with the black velvet ribbon adorning the end. The group behind me continues to laugh, and I can practically hear theunspoken insults dripping from their conversation, the burn of their eyes on my back making me shift uncomfortably.

I sigh and push myself off the curb. She’s forgotten me. Again. Dragging my bag off the hot concrete, I’m about to sling it over my shoulder when there’s a burn on the back of my knees as they give out, crumpling underneath me. Isabella’s manic laughs pierce the air as she and her cronies flit past, crossing the street to where a black sports car is waiting.

“Sorry Elyra, just thought it might be more comfortable on the ground whilst you wait, seeing as you’ll be here all night.

”Tears smart in the corners of my eyes as they speed away.

One day. One day they’ll all pay.

Elyra – 17 years old

Tall, mirrored buildings towering over me reflect the early morning sunlight into my eyes, causing me to tug the hood over my head.

I woke abruptly, another nightmare plaguing my sleep with memories of dark silhouettes determined to hurt me and the echoing slam of doors. I had to escape the claustrophobia that haunts my conscience, reminders of a petrified little girl hiding from the world.

I’m halfway down the busy street when a shiver runs down my spine. A door has crashed shut, and loud voices emerge from a quaint café on the corner. A young boy is crying, howling as he is dragged by the arm behind a fuming man.

“What is wrong with you, you idiot!” The man bellows, words almost blurred by the boys desperate cries.

“I’m sorry!” he bawls, his voice reaching a crescendo as his father continues berating him. Something stirs in me, and, before I even realise, I’m across the street, snatching the boys hand from his father’s grasp, hauling him away.

The boy stares up at me with wide, shimmering brown eyes, bottom lip trembling. I give him a sympathetic once over before turning to the man, who’s been yelling expletives at my back.

“You can’t just-”

“I don’t care. You can’t treat a child like that!” Without thinking, I launch myself towards him. I hear the satisfying and sickening crunch of a broken nose, blood dripping from his face.  For a moment I expect to feel something, to feel guilty. But there’s no remorse. No emotions. Just relief.

Remembering the boy, I turn and see a face contorted in horror, eyes flicking from his slightly stirring dad to me, small flecks of blood painting my hands.

“He- he can’t hurt me?” He asks, still staring.

I smile a little, shaking my head. As I take his hand and lead him towards a phone booth, a shadowy figure emerges from amongst the crowd.

“Hey. Did that feel good?” the stranger asks, grinning under his hood. My eyes dart from the stranger to the crowds, and I quickly nod. The man smirks.

“Do you want a job? 

”Twisting my hair around my finger, I realise that my ribbon has dropped off the end. Swallowing hard, I nod. “Sure.”

Elyra – 19 years old

There’s a gun dangling effortlessly from my fingertips, cold metal chilling my bones. “Lucas Hastings,” I say in a drawling monotone. “Would you like me to recall how many people I’ve killed for you? Hurt for you?”

Lucas’ eyes widen, a stark contrast to the mischievous glint they held when he was just a hooded stranger.

“Elyra, please -” he says, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair. I give a short, sarcastic bark of laughter.

“No. Lucas, I trusted you, and you know what you did with that? You abused it. You used me, Lucas. You saw me and made me your perfect puppet. A murder weapon for you to pull the strings of.” My voice cracks lightly as anunexpected rush of emotions floods my body. With my trust, Lucas decided it was best to screw me over.

“Am I correct in saying that if your perfect plan had worked, I could very easily be sitting in a jail cell right now for crimes you committed?” Lucas kicks desperately, but he won’t escape.

“You didn’t make me who I am, Lucas. But you did make me do things that were never mine to do. So, I’m notcounting any of those kills as mine. That’s on your shoulders.”

I slowly aim the gun at him.

“But, tonight will be my first, with no strings attached to you.” Lucas starts flailing against the binds, trying to move the chair away from me. I laugh sadistically.

“Please, Elyra, no-”

I smirk, dropping a familiar black velvet ribbon at his feet.

“That’s Black Velvet to you, Hastings.”

I pull the trigger.

Acid Tears

Written by Cara Hall-Matthews

My hand shakes violently by my side as my determination falters under the weight of my anxiety. No matter what form my desperate efforts take in controlling this insolent class, they remain stubborn on their nefarious path. Their attention solely focuses on themselves, ignoring completely the chemicals laid out before them. In response to my dismay, they rise thei rirritating voices to become a chorus of hateful gossip, thickening the air with distaste.

I can’t do this.

"I-I..." my voice brakes in another feeble attempt to combat their chatter as I press my retreating body against the cool surface of the whiteboard. My breath escapes me in panicked gasps as the judgemental eyes of my students mockingly assess my distressed state.  Defenceless, I grab the nearest bottle of acid off my desk and hold it tight against my chest, as I sink to the floor. Their sneering remarks leave my body frozen pathetically to floor of my science lab, as my mind races. 

Suddenly, I am eight, curled up beneath my desk as I’m kicked and ridiculed, my peers screeching my name, Mariah, like I’m a prize for their cruel games. I am ten, a laughing stock, as I stand awkwardly in front of my science demonstration that never worked. Even through my successes at age 14, their taunting giggles punctured holes into my fragile confidence. Children are heartless; they have no mercy, and I truly thought that I could change them to become the admired, innocent cherubs they are stereotyped to be.

My fury overrules my restricting timidity as I lurch to my feet, mindlessly opening the bottle of nitric acid grasped weapon-like in my hands. In one effortless sweep, the chemical becomes an acid rain that falls on the ungrateful beasts, tarnishing their skin with golden blemishes. Simply witnessing their desperate agony heals me like a drug, with their shrieks fulfilling me with overwhelming delight. At last, they feel my pain. Entranced by my creation, I watch the already scarring blisters of bulging yellow pus taint the skin of my students. They look so fragile, so vulnerable…

A frenzied knock pounds at the door, capturing my attention along with my breath. I had seconds before I was taken away… before the children were pitied, and I was punished.

No.

I took my chance, gathering every last bottle of concentrated acid into my bag and snatching the most obnoxiously loud of the children – Zac – by the hair, making my way defiantly towards the door. With a thunderous crack, I burst through the exit, throwing my colleague backwards and immediately dousing him in acid. A wave of pride sings through my veins. I never liked him much anyway.

“Let... me…GO!” Zac gasps, twisting threateningly from my concrete grip. Irritated, I swing him over my shoulder, taking no concern in whether it hurt him or not, and I bolt.

I have never been defined as particularly athletic, with my stretched-outframe always managing to spend more time on ground than on my feet.

Regardless, the swift 1.5km sprint to the security of the emptied church seems like a fairly Olympic-grade achievement to me. I dump the whimpering brat off my shoulders to tie him to one of the pews, before bolting the church doors shut with a grinding creak. Ignoring Zac’s despairing sobs, I search the room, satisfied when I find no cameras or hint of recent visitors.

For a moment, my head rests against a wall, as I brace myself for a surge of my unstable emotions to break free from their restraints.

Yet, after minutes, my mind remains contented in its newfound mental silence. I allow myself to delve further into the complex web of my emotionless thoughts, morphing and twisting ideas to form a plan of my own creation. The cameras… the witnesses…I had to go back.

But then who would spread the paranoia, and the all-consuming fear? I would just be a criminal, forever known as a teacher who betrayed her school, as a teacher who killed. Where’s the fun in that?

Driven by a sudden impulse, I untie the restraints around Zac’s wrists, motioning stiffly towards the door. After a moment of dubious hesitation, he stands, stumbling in frantic haste out the door. I can hear his exigent cries echo into the distance as he rushed further away, undoubtably heading towards the protection of the police station a mere block away. 

Acid in hand, I myself began to sprint, re-tracing the path I had taken just an hour before, increasing my speed as sirens began to wail.

Such imbecilic policemen, believing me to be lesser to the meagre neighbourhood criminals they catch sparingly each day. Yet I am no criminal, I am no easy arrest, I am superior…I am a villain.