Small but Perfect Chapter Notes | Year 7 English IGCSE (Cambridge) PDF Download

Flash Fiction: One in Twenty-Three

The flash fiction story "One in Twenty-Three" by Helen Rye is a poignant narrative centered on a refugee, a person forced to flee their homeland to seek safety elsewhere. The story captures the beauty and tragedy of the protagonist’s life, weaving a tale of loss, survival, and resilience in just a few words, as is characteristic of flash fiction. It conveys a powerful message about the human cost of conflict and displacement.

The narrator begins by describing their homeland, a place of breathtaking beauty. In spring, cherry blossoms cloaked the foot of the mountain, creating a vibrant display. In autumn, the figs—varieties like Anzuki, Halabi, Bouksati, and Oubied—were a gift to the world, their sweet, sun-warmed flesh embodying the land’s richness. These figs, the narrator notes, were their country’s first contribution to humanity, their names poetic and their taste unforgettable.

However, the idyllic memory of the homeland is shattered by war. During a harsh winter, when the power failed, the family was forced to burn their precious fig trees to keep their child from freezing. The narrator’s husband wept as he gathered branches from their orchard, a painful act of survival, though he spared one tree. This lone tree bore its final ripe fruit as its leaves fell, a symbol of hope amidst despair. Tragically, that same day, rebels took the husband away, leaving the narrator and their son alone.

Seeking safety, the narrator took their son to their sister in the city, but the violence followed. Bombs devastated the city, destroying the library, marketplace, internet café, hospital, and even those fleeing the hospital. The narrator’s world shrank to the confines of a twelve-meter boat, a fragile vessel carrying them across treacherous waters. The narrator named their son Ocean, a name inspired by a once-loved sea, now a place of peril where ten thousand others have perished, their lives sinking like fallen leaves.

The story concludes with a striking metaphor: the fig is not a fruit but a flower turned inward, hiding its beauty and goodness within. Its vibrant colors, which could have been bright petals, are wrapped in darkness, much like the narrator’s own beauty and resilience, concealed by the hardships they endure. This image encapsulates the refugee’s inner strength, unseen by the world but profoundly present.

Miniature Art: The Tiny World of Willard Wigan

The magazine article by Benjamin Secher introduces Willard Wigan, a British artist whose work redefines the boundaries of sculpture. Known as a “micro-miniaturist,” Wigan creates art so small it is nearly invisible to the naked eye. His creations, spanning over forty years, could all fit inside a single matchbox, yet they reveal astonishing detail when magnified 500 times under a microscope.

Wigan’s portfolio includes extraordinary pieces. One sculpture features King Henry VIII and his six wives standing together within the eye of a needle. Another depicts a startled cat, with wide eyes and an arched back, clinging to an eyelash from Wigan’s ex-girlfriend—a piece he humorously hopes she never reclaims. His latest work is a meticulously crafted replica of the Lloyd’s building in London, balanced on the tip of a needle. Wigan himself is amazed by his creations, often wondering how he achieves such feats, attributing his skill to years of practice since childhood.

Wigan’s obsession with the microscopic began during a difficult childhood marked by undiagnosed dyslexia. At school, his learning difficulties led to humiliation; his teacher used his work to mock him, stripping away his confidence. To escape this misery, Wigan often skipped school, hiding in a shed where he observed ants. There, he began crafting tiny houses for them from wood splinters, then added miniature furniture, chairs, tables, shoes, and hats. This act of creating tiny worlds was his way of compensating for feeling “small” himself, proving that small things could be significant.

Perfect Pastimes: Micro-Artist Willard Wigan

Another magazine article, titled “Micro-Artist Willard Wigan: ‘I go through misery to make my pieces,’” delves deeper into Wigan’s life and craft. Now 61, Wigan is a celebrated artist, but his journey was fraught with challenges. Growing up in Birmingham in the 1960s with undiagnosed dyslexia and mild autism, his school days were miserable. Yet, his mother’s encouragement and his vivid imagination fueled his creation of microscopic art, visible only under powerful microscopes.

In an interview, Wigan recounts discovering his talent at age five, when his dog destroyed an ants’ nest. His imagination transformed the ants into characters needing homes, prompting him to build a tiny palace for their queen and houses for a party. His mother and friends praised this work, words that inspired him to dedicate his art to her. Wigan describes the process of creating his sculptures as extraordinarily difficult, likening it to threading a pin through a bubble without bursting it. The work is grueling, and he finds pleasure only when a piece is complete and impacts viewers. To manage fatigue, he works on multiple pieces simultaneously.

Wigan’s tools are as unique as his art. He crafts microscopic tweezers from eyelashes and flattens needles into tiny hooks. He crushes paint to achieve the fine detail needed and trains himself to remain still for hours, a testament to his precision and patience. His sculptures, which can sit in the eye of a needle or on the head of a pin, challenge perceptions, making viewers think big thoughts about the potential of the minuscule.