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Editorial

Images

Taken from Wikimedia Commons:Copyright of images permitted under terms specified.

2015 Verve Team: Elizabeth Kok, Adriana Lee, Daniel Holloway, Anna Tarasenko, Savannah Guy, Felix Radmall, Christy Lau

Text Selection: The Verve Team

Cover Design: Elizabeth Kok

Editing and Layout: Anne Durnford

With thanks to the English Department for running creative writing competitions in Years 7,8 and 9.

Words don’t come when ITry to find them. They come whenI’m very busy.

Bottled memories,Silent thoughts we leave unsaid.So I let them go.

We were delightedThat you think differently.Thank you for writing!

Waves of words now crash,Amalgamating cultures,Scattering new thoughts.

Reflections in Haiku from the Verve Team

1

Longing for Water

I want to be on the galleon again,Tenderly gazing at lagoons again,To feel the lapping of the tide,To remember the rocking body glide.

I want to be on the long ship again,Brutally conquering lands again,To reminisce about power and pride,To look back on my confident stride.

I want to be on the rowboat again,Rhythmically tearing water again,To think of primal, simple mornings,To prompt me of my humble dawnings.

I want to be on the seas again,Appreciating nature’s vast wonder again,Nostalgically admiring tranquil bays,Or the tempestuous torrents to the last of my days.

Zoe Tockman Year 7

The Lower School

2

Who was April Rhodes?

Into the hustle and bustle of the cobblestone courtyard of a little-known Chicago town, steps the unquestionably attractive April Rhodes. She struts slowly and assuredly from the crumbling, age-worn courthouse, her ox-

blood stilettos tap-tapping against the dew-coated pavement.

Like moths to a flame, a wave of reporters surround her, tightly gripped microphones thrusting into her flawlessly made-up face. Her platinum blonde bob swings as April bewilderedly turns her head this way, then that. Question after question bombards her, her delicate frame enveloped by the herd.

“How many days ‘til sentencing, Miss Rhodes?”

“Did you change plea April?”

Retaining her composure in spite of the baying throng, she simply replies, as if emotionless, in her slow, Texan drawl;

“I have no comment to make at this time.”

Swiftly quickening her pace, she wraps her striking fur coat tighter around her slender figure in an effort to protect herself from the glare, her name ringing in her ears as the reporters cry after her. Her hurried walk gradually turns into a panicked run, as the gathering crowd gets the better of her. The horde fall back gradually, the stouter gentlemen unwilling to tire themselves. They’ll get her tomorrow, they tell themselves.

The Lower School

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One remains. A solitary shadow. Tall, wiry build and swooping jet-black coat, his hair visibly greasy. April grimaces at the bead of sticky sweat rolling down his forehead. She stumbles, tripping over the edge of a broken cobble stone, observing that this supposed reporter is not holding a microphone or a camera. In fright, she removes her impossibly high, yet stylish, heels. Gripping them tightly in the now slightly sweaty palm of her left hand, she swerves down a gloomy alleyway. April gradually slows. Coming to a standstill she glances behind her, out of breath. Even bent over with hands on her knees, she still manages to look glamorous. She regains her breath in one last rasp and pauses, thoughtfully biting her lip.

She turns. A gun points at her. Time stands still.

The sleek, gleaming bullet propels itself, released from the triggered gun. Before she can comprehend it, its harsh sting penetrates deep into her chest. She collapses. Her frail frame hits the floor, and a metallic scream pierces the air.

Questions jar her brain, the agony of the open wound leaving her unable to think. Her haunted eyes gently shut. The many questions from the reporters fade into blackness as only one real question remains.

Whether guilty or not guilty – ‘Who was April Rhodes’?

Emily Mahoney Winner of the Year 8 Verve Competition

The Lower School

4

An extract from ‘When Time Froze’

Time. It’s a fragile thing.

One minute it’s here, the next…

It happened a while ago now. I was eating pizza and the T.V. was on (some random soap I think, I can’t remember its name). Mum was upstairs planning our trip to Ireland, Dad was in the kitchen getting some food; and then everything stopped.

It’s my birthday today. I’m not expecting any presents, just like the last few hundred years. I’m not expecting a big party either, just the same few chairs and my sofa. Maybe the T.V. will join in this time too? Or not.

Perhaps the greatest torture of my imprisonment is the pizza. A slice of pepperoni was halfway in, halfway out of my mouth when time froze, and there it remains. I’ve tried everything, but my body is frozen. The only thing in me still functioning is my brain - not much use when you’re frozen in time though.

I stare through motionless eyes at the T.V. How sad, it seems to say, that it is the sole guest to this sombre birthday party. The frozen image on the pixelated glass taunts me, a reminder of what my life could have been like; a carefree girl, gossiping with her friends. Living her normal life.

Emma O’BrienYear 8

The Lower School

5The Lower School

Time Flies

So this is it now. Every time I press the button, there is no going back. I feel I have spent my whole life running. Running away from the present - running away from reality.

At first I was overjoyed with my fascinating invention. With my machine, I could make a month pass in a day, travel ten years in the space of a week. As excitement coursed through my veins, my urge to travel forward became irresistible as I searched for perfection.

The years came quickly, but ran from my grasp, like a fly escaping from its predator’s trap. Anxiety began to consume me. I was a hawk, hovering over the timeline of my life, ready to swoop down into humanity at any possible time. But I could see myself getting old, as my opportunities in life were eliminated, one by one.

I had seen it all – the world had changed. The world’s economy and population grew, as new technologies enveloped the human race. The world was inspired by knowledge, art and music. I was in awe, but this was not enough for me. I had simply been a spectator of an interesting show. I was alone.

So now I have come to the end of my life. I have seen a diverse race of people and been to so many places, but I haven’t really lived at all. I have just spent my whole life running and speeding through time. And now the inevitable end is here. Where has all the time gone? What did I achieve? What happens after I die? How I wish I could go back and change it all.

Sachi GwalaniYear 7

6

The Eagle

(Inspired by William Blake’s The Tyger)

Eagle! Eagle! Soaring high In the never ending sky,What fine being great or smallCould create a creature unlike all?

Above what land, far or wide,Did you soar and did you glide?Swooping down with talons ready,A majestic bird with wings so steady.

By whose hand did this become?What dreadful deeds have we done,To earn the devils of the skiesWith vicious claws and beady eyes?

What machine could make such things?With silken heads and feathered wingsBut razor beaks and deadly claws,A tool which defies all laws.

When he beheld this wondrous sightAnd saw the creature take to flight,He’d created something so unique,A beast so dangerous yet so sleek.

Eagle! Eagle! Soaring highIn the never ending sky,What fine being great or smallDare create a creature unlike all?

Matthew Jackson Year 8

The Lower School

7The Lower School

8

The Lower School

9999 Hours

I sit and stare vacantly at my watch. My special watch with the countdown on it, ticking away the minutes until I turn sixteen. Just 99 hours left. Then I will leave the CWC - Children’s Work Centre - and go to live in a city.

As soon as children are born, they are taken from their families and put into a Council institution. They never see their parents again. This way, they say, no long-lasting bonds of affection form - bonds that could be dangerous for you, that waste your time when you could be working.

All of us work, from six to sixteen.

Most people cannot wait to leave the freezing dormitories, the horrible food, the endless whirring of the metal machines that invades even my sleep. But how do they know that living in a city will be better than living here?

Just 99 hours left. Then I will be turning to face the uncertainties of a future as brittle as glass.

“You there! What do you think you’re doing?”

Hearing the slap of heavy boots on the stone floor, I turn my head listlessly in the direction of the approaching Councillor.

“Get up. Now!”

There is a dangerous edge to his voice which makes me suddenly afraid. Scrambling to my feet, I quickly vanish into a crowd of other workers, knowing he will not pursue me. Even if he wanted

9The Lower School

99to, it would be of no use, as we all wear the same indistinguishable grey, starched uniform, regulation haircut and miserable expression.

The next few days pass in a dream.

60 hours.

12 hours.

1 hour.

At lunchtime, all those of us turning sixteen this month are called to the main hall. Many of us chatter, whisper, giggle excitedly. Yes, I too am excited, but also nervous, frightened and very unsure. A strange urge to laugh bubbles up in me.

A Senior Councillor who I have never seen before enters and explains there is a new procedure. We have to undergo a health check. There has been an outbreak of deadly disease and they want to know that we are all free of it before we enter society.

I frown. A health check? When not one of us has ever been outside? Has had no chance to become contaminated? Something is wrong here.

Suddenly, I feel unimaginable terror over-riding my senses. I know if I go into the hospital room, I will never leave. I wish now I could have those 99 hours back…

Celia Merson Year 7

10

Spotlights

I can’t remember the last time all the focus was on me. It was usually on Mum and Dad, that it was ‘all his fault’ or ‘wrong for her to leave’. It was like I was on stage with everyone else, but the spotlight was on me. It wasn’t on the pretty girls, who had received ten thousand Valentine’s cards, or the popular boys who were doing something ‘hilarious’ but were really just making fools out of themselves. No, the spotlight was on me.

It was funny. I laughed, but it ended up in a horrendous, choking, spluttering cough – it wasn’t the greatest reason to be the focus of attention. Lying in a hospital ward, a washed-out blue robe covering me, tubes coming out of what seemed like every entrance to my body. They called it the ‘C word’. I never understood that, they could just call it what is was: cancer. I wasn’t a little kid anymore.

Uh, oh. I heard the clomping shoes of my nurse heading down the corridor. Her brisk steps coming forever closer meant it was medicine time. Mum had heard it as well, “Sit up love, ready for your medicine”. Reluctantly, I pulled myself up into a seated position. Dad held my hand. I let him. He was wearing the bracelet I had made for him, back when he was still with Mum. I searched for Mum’s hand and found it. I squeezed it tight and she squeezed back. I loved moments like this; when it was just Mum, Dad and me. There weren’t many of those moments anymore.

The moment was broken as my nurse barged her way into my ward. She came in with a deadly looking syringe and tablets the size of gobstoppers. I squeezed my parents’ hands tighter; I didn’t like taking medicine, it made me feel sick, it made me weak. That was the thing I hated the most. It made me weak. But I wasn’t weak! I was strong. I was fighting cancer! Why did the medicine have to make me weak?

I looked up at my parents; so much love and fear in their eyes. Dad looked down, Mum smiled back at me, but her face conveyed great sadness. I had said it before, but this time I really believed it. I was going to survive, and I was going to beat cancer. It had taken so many but it wasn’t going to take me.

Ella McCarthyWinner of the Year 7 Verve Competition

The Lower School

11The Lower School

The King of the Night

Eyes so big, so wide and bright,A brooding king of darkest night.Many moons and mornings’ dew,Perched up high with royal view.

In the silent wood, an eerie call,Warns his subjects big and small.He leaves his throne at the top of a tree,He soars above his kingdom’s beauty.

Ready to pitch, able to roll,Wings outstretched in total control,A silent mouse sits on the forest floor,The king looks down, talons ready for war.

Eyes so big, so wide and bright,A brooding king of darkest night.You might have guessed, I’m wisdom’s fowl.Have you guessed? I am the owl!

Benjamin PinchukYear 8

12

An extract from ‘The Tube Train’

The train hurtled closer, a fist of metal, air and noise, the wedding cake of lights just visible around the corner.

On Andy’s right was a portly Indian man, whose sausage-like fingers tapped repeatedly against his unshaven chin, as he muttered to himself. He

turned and smiled at Andy, who immediately looked away. Behind him, were a man in a city suit and a blonde-haired boy of about seventeen. The man’s right hand fiddled with his immaculate hair, while his left clutched a leather-bound book. The boy’s hands hung limply by his side. They both stared blankly ahead.

At that moment the train thundered out the tunnel. The boy shuffled between Andy and the city banker, and the Indian man inched closer

to his left. Then the boy moved directly behind Andy, arms still limp. The boy’s hands shot suddenly outwards, and Andy flew over the space in the middle of the track. Which immediately filled with train.

The driver glimpsed a blur and heard a crack before he could brake. A couple of seconds of slow, spinning silence. Next came the screaming, the wailing, and the crying. People turned, united in shock, too late to help.

Blood dripped onto an empty crisp packet that lay between the rails.

Amidst all the confusion, a smartly-dressed man, a portly Indian man, and a blonde-haired boy of about seventeen left, calm, unhurried, professional.

Oscar Brown Year 8

The Lower School

13

Guilt

The woman’s body was gripped with fear,Down her face cascaded tears.

A scream still plastered on her lips,A ghostly glow her body emits.

A crimson halo around her head,Decaying leaves her final bed.

Stood in the dark, a sinister figure,Gun in hand, finger on trigger.

The tangled web of guilt was a mess,He knew it was time to go and confess.

Strong bands of iron around his wrists,In anger and shame he curled up his fists.

Tasha Kelly Year 8

Reflections

I can see a galaxyIn a midnight pond,And the world on the dark side of the moon.I can see the light in twinkling eyesAnd the universe in a looking glass.I can see the truthAnd yet,I am afraid.

Tasha Dambacher Year 7

The Lower School

14

The Middle School On the Bookshelf

The Brontës are at it again: just because Milton lost paradise (how careless!). It all began when Chaucer went to Canterbury. It was rather suspicious; even Miss Alice remarked it was getting more and more curious. He was gone for such a long time, the hobbit got itchy feet and decided to go on a journey too. That led to no end of trouble with those rings, which started Jane Austen’s whole obsession with marriage.

Dickens is moaning that Shakespeare takes up too much space; Dickens always wants more, and it’s really much ado about nothing. However, I must say something to T.S. Eliot about the cats: they are really disturbing poor Steinbeck’s mice. The sisters have calmed down now; Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum are entertaining them with some nonsense about a jabberwocky. I haven’t seen one of them in years, and they are ever so rare these days. Long John Silver last sighted Moby Dick on his way to Treasure Island – and while we are on islands what happened to Golding’s boys? Perhaps they are living in a secret garden somewhere in Oz, catching Peter Rabbit for dinner and mockingbirds for lunch.

An ancient mariner passed by somewhere in the distance, in a beautiful pea green boat. With the wind in the willows, where the wild things are, they sail silently by. A bridge to Terabithia crosses the narrow straits, and across it danced lost boys led by Peter Pan. Through the forest runs Robin Hood with his band of merry men, chased by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Amongst the daffodils, below a lonely cloud, stalked a tiger, burning bright.

Beyond the bookshelf and their chattering contents, loiters a figure, outlined in pencil. Tumbling about in a flock of words and a herd of punctuation sits the author, watching, listening and writing.

Florence CoumbeWinner of the Year 9 Verve Competition

15

Mind Blank

I cant think of anything to rightor remember how to right simple words.No i think right is spelt as write.Its all so confusing i just cant get it write.

And how about the word ov.Ov course it all just has to be so confusing.I still cant remember is it ov or of?Its all because ov the word ov.

One word I hope to never forget is wiv.I use the word wiv a lot but I’m not sure.I think it could be with not wiv.No, I’m sure its wiv not with so I’ll stick wiv wiv.

Wiv these words ov my choice I no now they are riten correct.

Thomas JorgensenYear 9

The Middle School

16

Neverland

The cool crisp winter wind stroked against the water of the lagoon and tempted it into soft undulating waves. The calm yet reliable rhythm lapped against Hendrik’s tatty, scuffed leather boots. As he looked off into the distance he watched the snow dusted mountains dance about the thin wispy spider webs of the sky to the music of a slow elegant waltz. In his hands he felt the smooth

solid handle of his baton as he glanced up into the sky. The great glob of honey was just sinking over the horizon and white was beginning to pinprick the faceless sky. “You’re looking at Neverland,” his Papa would say. “Remember! Second star to the right and straight on till morning.”

He always used to say that and always at the same time, when they were sitting out in the garden on his old rickety garden chair. Hendrik would snuggle up close to him and feel the warmth swirl like tendrils around them both and smell that comforting loving smell only his Papa has. He would feel his starchy, itchy shirt and his smooth silk tie rise up and down in time to his breath. And Papa would read, almost always Peter Pan. But Hendrik never got bored of it.

No, because when Papa read Peter Pan, his words and his voice would sooth Hendrik, better than any caring hands could do. They would ease his pains, clear his thoughts and send him sound to sleep.

His ‘New Papa’ couldn’t do that. No, his ‘New Papa’ could only sit there and talk to Mama all day. No matter what Hendrik did, his ‘New Papa’ always sat there, talking or reading, but never to him. Mama did that as well, always talking and reading around the fireplace and never a glance towards Hendrik. Like two crows they just cawed and cackled at each other. That’s why he ran. That’s why he was here.

Matthew Emmerson Year 10

The Middle School

17

Neon City

Neon city, wondrous glow,In darkest night your true colours show,Shamelessly do you suffuseA midnight canvas with electric hues. Neon city, towers tall,Dim shadows on my form do fall,Traded leaves for glass and steel,What treasures will this fortress yield? Neon city, with sweat and tears,The tunnel ends and light appears,Your affluence was not a lie,A dream emerges – still alive. Neon city, wondrous glow,In darkest night your true colours show,A beacon of hope and majesty,Wealth and success for all to see.

Neon city, begone; away -False grace deceives, leads us astray,Shimmering temples within do hideAnother dream that’s left to die. Neon city, wondrous glow,In darkest night your true colours show,You bathe the sky with wealth – it’s true,But only for a promised few.

Daniel WuYear 11

The Middle School

18

A Leap of Faith

The pain is excruciating; not as much though as when I was wedged in the torture hole of an electric sharpener. If only she could be like the girl who wrote with me yesterday. She was so much gentler. I guess no one thinks about the pencil. I really do not see why humans write so much. It is pointless and boring and painful. Well, at least from my perspective.

From what I can tell, the girl is nearing the bottom of her paper. I dearly wish that she does not find the need to continue onto a fresh sheet. After all, she has already written two pages. My wishes are granted; the girl lays me down on the cold surface of her desk and walks across the room, the paper still in her hands. Then an idea strikes me. Such an incredibly simple plan that I’m quite amazed that I hadn’t thought of it long ago. I can escape! All I have to do is roll a few inches and I’ll be off the desk. This is my chance, an unequalled opportunity!

I think I have enough audacity to do this. It is now or never, do or die. I take a deep breath and push all my weight towards the edge of the desk. Time for a leap of faith. Before I know it, I’m off the edge of the desk and hurtling towards the carpeted floor. The impact hurts badly but it’s nothing new. Humans have a tendency to drop their pencils a lot. Once over the shock of the fall, I continue to roll to my destination: the door that leads to the outside world. The journey from my starting point to the door is excruciatingly long. I keep thinking that I’m going to get snatched up and put back to work. My nerves are on edge but I’m out the door without incident.

The outside world is free of human life. The only objects occupying the space are a lizard and a missing earring. I envisage a life beyond the desk and even just thinking about it makes me excited. I hear a door open and I freeze. The footsteps are getting closer to me. The nearer they get the more frightened I become. Now there’s a shadow looming over me. There’s a shoe closing in on top of the long, thin shaft that makes up my body. There is nothing to be done. I brace myself.

Snap.

Sophie Perry Year 9

The Middle School

19The Middle School

A World without Mirrors

Imagine the world that we live in today,With no reflection in any way.Imagine not seeing the outside of you,And the words of others were all we knew.

Think of how your appearance rules,How mirrors turn people into fools.Think of the opportunities that have passed you by,Because of what you saw with an eye.

Consider the time that the mirror wastes,Another vain girl admiring her face.Mirror, mirror on the wall,You must be laughing at us all.

Molly DeagleYear 9

20

The Middle School

An extract from ‘A Man of Habit’

The corridor, which he found himself wandering down, smelt of wood and rain, and as he reached the last door on the left, he knew he had come to the right place. He had watched her for years, every night, and to him, she was his property. She belonged to him. And whoever this man was, whatever his intentions were, Edgar had already made up his mind about his own. His blood gathered in his hollow cheeks and he drew a sharp intake of breath at the unbearable thought of losing her to him. His nails raked into his damp palms and carved out the skin from his own hands. He knew what he had to do.

Slowly, he opened the door and saw before him, a figure of a man lying motionless on a bed. He had found him. Edgar retrieved the knife from his coat pocket and gripped it tightly in his left hand. A sliver of light danced off the side of the blade and onto the ceiling. Edgar swallowed the lump at the back of his fragile throat, and raised the blade. He closed his eyes and pictured the orchestra poised and ready to explode into a riot of blissful notes and keys. He held his breath, and like a conductor, brought his instrument swinging down, and the opera began.

With every blow of the blade, he counted in time to the music in his head. After the thirty-first plunge, the body ceased to move. He drew the knife slowly out of his victim’s chest, and tossed it on the floor. His hands found the bedside table, and felt around for a candle. Next to it, a box of matches lay half empty. He dragged the coloured end of the matchstick roughly against the sandpaper, and a flame appeared. Grasping the candleholder, Edgar turned around to face what he had done.

The body was mangled, broken and leaking red everywhere. He slowly drew back the cherry red linen sheets. And when he saw what he had done, his heart contracted in his chest, and he felt the room around him starting to spin. The face of his victim was intact, untouched, and pale. It was a pallor that he recognized immediately - a pallor so intense, that the moon could have been jealous.

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She was always pale, but this time, pale with a sickness that promised death. A crimson liquid spilled from the neck of this white dove, staining and matting its pure feathers. And Edgar, who simply stood over the corpse of his beloved, wept and knew what he had done. But with even more conviction, he knew what he had yet to do. He kicked aside the blood-spattered cloth, and retrieved his knife. With one brisk movement, he made an incision below his jaw, fell down next to her limp body, and closed his eyes.

Herin HanYear 11(Inspired by the study of the Gothic)

The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli

22

Asyndeton

There lies on the table a small glass,Half-empty, sherry gently rippling in its clutches.Its aroma haunts me around the room, slowly creeping beside me,It steals its way into my nostrils.Its presence unnerves me, I try to avert my eyes;I struggle.Forcefully, I pull myself away, I stare out the glass window,There it is.The old tree-house, a relic from a forgotten time.It sits there,Slowly swaying,Side to side.I long for it to be relevantAgain,For companions to share it with,Alas.I heard on the news that a Russian oligarch is tryingTo become immortal.What a fool.Does he not realise thatWe are all doomed?

Patrick Nickols Year 10

The Middle School

,,,,,,,,,,,,,

23

The Final Journey

The sky above the port is the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel. It has been deserted for fifty years now. But I am still waiting. She will eventually come. The light next to me flickers and the rotten wood of the pier groans beneath my feet.

I can hear them now, faint at first, but getting louder. The people swarm like bees, a constant humming around me. I can sense the buzz of excitement and emotion echoing around me. The men are destined for a foreign land, many never to return. There are goodbyes, accompanied by tears, from family and friends as the brave young men leave to serve their King and country. I can hear their feet marching, strictly in time. No final waves. They are gone. The ship’s horn blares, shattering the calm of the surrounding ocean. As the ship disappears into the fog, darkness comes upon me again.

The smell of mould and the sting of rain bring me back to reality. I look out to sea. Just as calm as it was all those years ago. The rhythmic pounding of the waves keeps me steady. I look down at my hands clutching the railing. My knuckles are white with fear. The fog hovers just above the surface pressing in on all sides. The ship is coming. I can hear it now gliding through the water.

Death. She smells like smoke circling my nostrils. She sounds like a child’s high pitched scream. She looks like a dark wispy shadow. I have searched for her for so long. To find my brothers, my friends. Now I will go to join them. But not with the pride that they had. With regret. With guilt. With vengeance. The ship pulls gracefully into the port and I step on to it for my last ever journey. She has found me.

Anne-Marie RatnageYear 9

The Middle School

Inspired by the opening line of William Gibson’s Neuromancer‘The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel.’

24

Secrets

SecretsAre hard to bear,Lay heavy on your heart,They are impossible to share,Let go.

Joshua Dingomal Year 10

Light

Light spills,Shattering black,Sweeps silent shadows fromCrumbled corners, releasing theSpectrum.

Matilda Denbow Year 10

Greed

The firsttaste of wealth leavespeople enclosed in aworld of jealousy, as moneyis key.

Elizabeth Tong Year 10

No Escape

Three thingsThat no one canEscape from: death andTaxes but the hardest one for some Is change.

Pollyanna RimellYear 10

The Middle School

25The Middle School

Life is not Fair

Canals overlapping like a crossword.Fleeing ripples lick the bank.A dog whimpers as its ownerStrolls into the distance.A boy sobs as his toy balloonIs poached by a waft of wind,Just as she was from me.

Cancer crucified perfection. One thing I would tell her, simply,She was the best thing In all of the lives she touched,With her unfortunate, sinless soul.

Louisa WebbYear 10

Photography in Words

I wonder howThat sharp rock edge was captured so.The clouds in the shape of well - nothing - much.The waves like crinkles in cling-film: irritating.The just not visible stones in the sea.The last light of a day – or the first of a morning,It’s hard to tell.

Orlagh Meyer Year 10

26

The Middle School

Preface to a Tyrant

Was I always a monster? Yes - that’s the word they like to use - those petty historians and the rest of their self-congratulatory ilk. I’m a monster. A tyrant. A fiend.

Fools, all of them.

That kind of one-eyed clarity comes at the cost of perspective, they forget this monster was once a child and was terrified of his own petty nightmares.

I have been known as many things throughout my lifetime. One such name is The Commander and perhaps my favourite. Maybe because it is elegant in its simplicity and somewhat unpretentious. But I think it is because it came from my own men. It proves that they’ve utterly forgotten where I came from.

No, I had a name once, and a family to remind me of it daily. I had the usual run of little hopes, childish fancies and only slightly more realistic aspirations. I had a lot more than a pathway soaked with blood. I can assure you that I never intended to be a tyrant.

As to the whispers and rumours that seem to collect around the infamous, what can I say? Yes, I have killed, tortured and blackmailed my way into this office and continue to do so to remain here. So now children can cross the road without being shot; so no babies have to learn to sleep through a shelling. And yes, probably the most gruesome parts of what you heard are true - the more gruesome details of my exploits that you edit out when speaking in the presence of children. Is that enough to make me a monster?

Perhaps it is.

27The Middle School

But I like to think my motives were much the same as yours would have been. How many of you have had that dream – the one where your most hated enemy is on his knees, illuminated in the small circle of light. And you are there, shadowing him, leaning forwards, the intimate weight of a knife in your hand…

How many of you are lying to yourselves right now? That’s the difference, you see: I never lied.

At first I worried that I was telling this story out of a need for forgiveness, but on reflection I realised it was a much more human motive. Spite. History wants to footnote me, classify me as evil, and carry on. But I’m afraid that I’m not very easy to pin down. Let them keep their trite analyses. I want those simple moralists shown up for the fools they are. I want them ridiculed for far longer than I am feared.

So yes, I am a monster, but only in the truest sense. I have no clear classification. But I can sketch out the path for you, and shade in the detail.

I can show you how to get from wherever you are now to where I am today.

Come. Indulge me.

Who knows – you might enjoy the journey a little more than you should.

Nathaniel Robinson Winner of the Years 10 and 11 Verve Competition

28

New Year

December 31st, 2014.The sky is murky and the air feels dense and damp.I walk along streets dotted with bright neon lights and showy boutiques And banners saying,‘Happy New Year’. I haven’t been here since late September. Everything seems unchanged. I gravitate towards the comforting smell of noodles and steamed rice.

Hello, The old lady says. A tight smile. Long time no see.She ignores the scars on my face and I do not bring them up.

Congee? I say brightly, as I always have.

It’s in front of me again -No accompanying words this time.The television recaps this year’s big events and my face appears Amongst a sea of yellow shirts, battered by heat, wet from forced tears,Scarred by policemen’s batons.

She eyes the screen, averts her gaze And leaves me aloneTo breathe in the smells of heaven.

I pick up my chopsticks and mix in some spring onion.

I skip the pepper.

The leader says it’s been a great year.On two flagpoles behind him,The bauhinia flies below the five yellow stars,Engraved. Entrenched.

The Upper School

‘We will fight for freedom despite the wind and the rain’ from Glorious Days by Beyond

29

Almost midnight,I approach the city centre. Familiar faces surface,Faces that lived within steps of me,Faces with shared memories of tents and packaged food.

Some give out yellow flyersTo office workers that shove them away,To elders that mutter insults, To mothers that pull their children closer.

They cross the road to the other side And cars run between us.

Undeterred, we get out yellow balloonsTightly entwined between fingers.

Silence. A soft breeze hits, expectant.

We wait.

The clock strikes. Collectively, our grasps loosen,The ribbons uncoil and snake through our fingers,Shyly, slowly, silently, They float up into the sea of blinding yellowAnd

Disappear.

January 1st, 2015.Happy New Year.

Adriana Lee Lower Sixth

The Upper School

30

Shadows

Shadows dancing in the corner. Darting, ducking, and dodging out of sight. They go unnoticed, tiny beings with no importance, living in the crevices of the mind. When they first emerge, they are weak, frail, without power or control. But they are persistent. They will not falter. They will not leave, only hide. Hiding until they are forgotten about. It’s how they survive.

Time passes, the ominous ticking of the hands on the clock in sync with the dancing shadows. They’re bigger now, they grow with every ticktock. Dancing. Ticktock. Creeping. Ticktock. Running. Ticktock. Screaming. A split-second. That’s all it takes for the shadows to pounce. They crawl from their crevices and invade the mind, their dark tendrils wrapping around the fleeting images we call thoughts. Tenderly caught, and crushed in an instant, the fragments clatter to the depths, lost to eternity.

The inside corrupts the outside, the mind plagues the body. The dark bags under the eyes are the tendrils reaching out, the bloodshot whites are holding back red tears. The skeletal frame is held up only by the shadows, who have long since spread throughout the body. They no longer need to hide, they are the disease, spreading through the body, gnawing away at the brittle bones and tired muscles. The cage that is the body will weaken, and yet the people nearby will only spectate, oblivious to the illness or unwilling to aid.

And so the shadows will thrive. With them the wave of emotions will flood the soul. Not anger, nor sadness, but despair, an overwhelming numbness branching out along the nerves until every movement feels like hefting a lead weight a thousand miles. Pleasure becomes pointless, laughter fades into a distant memory, but in the mind a shrill scream will resonate with chilling echoes around the walls of the skull, shaking the bars of the cage. But there is no sound. No light. Only darkness. And the darkness wears a smile.

Daniel HollowayLower Sixth

The Upper School

31

Based on The Death of Marat by Jacques-Louis David and Charlotte Corday by Paul-Jacques-Aimé Baudry

Jean-Paul Marat was a radical journalist and politician during the French Revolution. He led a political purge of the Gironde, another revolutionary group with milder political views. On 13 July 1793, Charlotte Corday, a Gironde sympathiser, fatally stabbed Marat in his bathtub.This moment was captured by David, in a style reminiscent of a Christian martyr. Baudry reinterpreted the scene depicting Corday as the true heroine.

David’s Marat,Face basked in glowing light,Caught in his last breath he writesFor the good of the people,Marat, a martyr.

Or is Baudry’s Corday the heroine?Avenging king and people,Wave after wave of people -Shot or sent to the devil bladeIn the name of the macabre crusadeMarat called Revolution.

Which of the two is the beautiful lie?

Christy Lau Lower Sixth

The Upper School

32

The Upper School

Queen Anne’s Lace

Parallel lines inked in 0.1mm penSeem to extend towards infinity.The sketches lack no detail nor do theyWant for more in their neat completionOf the perfectly aligned windows inFree hand.

Your studio is organised,Not a pen out of place nor aBook out of alphabetical order.Your apartment is made of adjacent linesWith your coffee table exactly half a metreAway from the couch and each mug coasterEvenly spaced from each other.

‘Everything has its place and There is a place for everything’,Are the exact words you live by.Not a moment passes that you don’tQuestion if someone has tampered with Your neatly organised desk or yourPerfectly positioned files.

The flowers from the bouquet areLaid on your table as you Brutally cut each stem to the Perfect length so each is Perfectly aligned and Colour coordinatedAnd parallel.

33The Upper School

The complexity of your thoughts overwhelms The silence of your mouth,As you hold the ring betweenYour fingers and inspect it To make sure it is perfectly circular.You get down on one knee,The only time you tolerate the dirt, As you hold out a box with thePerfectly circular ring and Ask for my hand in marriage.I say ‘yes’ and you hold me tightAs we arrange the Queen Anne’s Lace together.

And you tell me, that out of all things, I’m the most perfect.

Mei Lian HoeUpper Sixth

34

The Upper School Last Call

A girl standing at a bus stop looks up from her phone, a sudden shout snapping her to attention. She scans the crowd of passersby, searching for a sign; a glimpse of dark hair, a blue and white hoodie; any sign at all that her friend has returned from the dead.

Instead she sees a woman running into the arms of a tall, blond man. Turning away, her eyes sink back to the glowing white screen of her phone, as she tries to block out the sound of their happy reunion. Five blue virtual speech bubbles pop up on her screen, one after the other, as she struggles to establish a connection of her own.

Ten minutes pass. Her bus still hasn’t arrived. Neither has a reply. The girl’s eyebrows furrow. It isn’t like him to be away from his phone for any longer than a few minutes; she knows him too well.

Her bus finally pulls up, bringing with it a slight gust of wind. The smell of the city hits her as it normally does. Exhaust fumes. A hint of piss. Cigarettes. She unconsciously looks around again as she recognises the scent of burnt tobacco, but there is nobody.

She nearly misses it when she sits down. A flash of blue and white outside her window catches her eye, and she instinctively turns to follow it. And there he is.

The lack of a reward after searching for so long has conditioned her to live for the sinking feeling of disappointment at the end of each involuntary scan of a crowd; each reflex pursuit of a similarly-dressed person. Success therefore does not bring with it joy, but shock and suspicion.

She scrutinises every inch of him. The baggy blue and white hoodie is the tatty one she knows and loves. The dark hair is the same, albeit longer. The hand moves to the cigarette dangling precariously on his lower lip with the same languidness that had frustrated her before. The mouth parts with the same nonchalance, breathing out a slow stream of smoke that obscures part of the familiar face. But she has seen enough. She knows.

Three months is a long time. But she knows she hasn’t been completely forgotten. His very presence dispels that notion. She also knows that this will be his final courtesy to her, even though there are so many questions left unanswered. And she knows, by the time the bus hisses and jerks to life, that he will not stay.

She turns away, so she does not see the figure; this ghost from her past, melt back into the unrelenting rush hour crowd.

When she faces the interior of the bus again, she has tears in her eyes.

Elizabeth KokLower Sixth

35The Upper School

Grace

Let your life paint you.Maybe you will be a Monet or a Picasso?The canvas will have bold thick brush strokes of acrylicAnd delicate ones of watercolour.

As your eyes dance over the painting from afar, You will see the beauty you never saw in yourself.As you get closer and your fingers hover over each detail, You will see that you are a culmination Of the rough and the intricate designs, You are more than any mistake you have ever made.

You may have your past dragging By your ankles as you walk, But you have the immediacy of your present And the blessing of your future.

Alexa Chukwumah Upper Sixth

36

The Upper School

Exam Technique

In a well lit room somewhere in Manchester, Behind signposts, bridges and train tracks, Amidst factories and slaughterhouses, There is a small man, with a big forehead That marks exam papers.He comes in at 8 and leaves at 3. The papers arrive in stacks of hundreds. He sits down each day, His posture correct, Takes out a Japanese rollerball pen with a special grip And begins sword fighting with the exam papers.From 8 to 9, the man - let’s call him Paul - Feels merciful with his sword. He makes elegant cuts and well-considered swings, The sword wading through words and futures like a ghost.After lunch - a BLT sandwich with a medium coffee - Paul starts again. Although after lunch, he doesn’t feel all too merciful. His guts are a little too heavy, He’s too impatient, 20, 30, 40 papers marked, How many left? What’s this squiggle here - wrong - A metaphor out of place is a mark not given. And - oh my lord - a lowercase ‘i’ is a case of lower classism, No marks here. Now agitated and sweating, He adjusts his glasses on hearing a fly.And without losing focus and armed with a paper,He carefully approaches - and slamsDown the Higher Level English paper,Flattening the flyInto the candidate number of the paper. 203458 or 203468?

37The Upper School

‘Oh no!’ thinks Paul, Desperately trying to clean up the mess, When suddenly the fly’s guts disappear. They sink into the paper, The pages start curling And turn a sickening black colour As a pair of transparent, celluloid wings rise From the front page of the exam paper And begin to move and twist around PaulAs he screams in agonyAnd writhes in pain While candidate number 203458’s English paper Violently flaps its wings just a few feet above.

Sasha DuleraynLower Sixth

38

VERVEThink differently.