Scribe: The Habs Literary Journal, Autumn 2010

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THE HABS LITERARY JOURNALAUTUMN 2010

S c r i b e

| A u t u m n 2 0 1 0


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During my tenure as Editor of Scribewhat has been most uncanny is the commonality between the piecessubmitted. Look out for the sun; for lanes, for long aernoons and whispered tales of Winter in thisedition for a lienation, for nervousness, fortension.

e tension is, as Orwell noted, probably the converse of the feeling one had in the times beforecentral heating when Spring arrived. He claimed that the main reason that Spring was so celebrated, whyChaucer spoke of Zephirus blowing and Aprils shoures soote, was because everybody was so elated that Winter had nally ended. e coats went back into the closets, the lights lasted longer and brighter, andmost importantly, the harvest came, oen saving young children days away from death by starvation.

So it is unsurprising that this AutumnsScribe, while still funny and light as it has always been,is also a tense edition, tense about going into the darkness of Winter. Missen writes inWinter of thepetrifying cold. e icy wind whips across the pristine tundra in PaulsWhere No Man Treadsand in

KariasStyx , his protagonist admits that he is unwelcome here as he meets his frosty reception. Even themoments of relaxation are lost in memory as in BernsteinsTodayor the youthful exhilaration of the boysin Lewis e Journey.

e natural response seems to have been to get a sense of remove, to do what Literature so oendoes and escape from time and place. In Shahs Bleak, with the endless mining work of a grandfatherand in Sheths I Will Never Forget , where the eyes of war veterans glimmer from the dark cobwebs of memories passed down through generations, one theme stands out: timelessness, the eternalising of truthsand norms, the commonality of human experience.is is what binds the edition together.

In e Straw Man and the Whale, I consider two big thinkers who have a huge sense of remove,removing themselves from time and place. It is this that we love most about Literature and it is this thatcharacterises our writers in this termsScribe, the sense of remove that characterises future novelists andbig thinkers, the future Orwells and Rushdies.

We are tense in general with talk of cuts in the arts budget, cuts everywhere. Talk of Iran andIsrael, talk of Kashmir in India, talk of Conan and Leno, talk of tension everywhere, and here we arealways very tense. On the rugby pitch or in the exam hall, on a running track or in a classroom - yet veryrarely do we talk about it. Rarely is it mentioned that we are fraught with anxiety and it is rarer still that we are given the bigger picture, a sense of timelessness.

In MooresWatchmena character called e Comedian, a brutal man, laughs at tragedies in lifeand says that its all a joke. As this burly man runs around leaving a trail of destruction in the Vietnamsand Koreas, he laughs at his mistakes because it is his release. It is like imagining a high wire trapeze artiststriding condently and then falling o . In the moment before he collapses, before one is aware of theimplications, a smile breaks out as the tension is released. Relief. No longer does the high wire artist haveto do his job, no longer does the student have to pass his exams or win the sports match in that moment,suspended in laughter, time vanishes and happiness is immortal. We laugh and then we dream.

Ameya Tripathi, Editor

e Editorial

Ameya Tripathi U6H2Editor

Tom Ough U6C2Publishing O cer

Oliver Goldstein U6C2Deputy Editor Features

David Joels U6R2Deputy EditorShort Stories

Marco Marcello U6R2Deputy Editor Poetry

Arnie Birss U6C1Copy Editor Poetry

David Lawrence U6H1Copy EditorShort Stories

Nikhil Subbiah U6S2Copy Editor Features

Jordan Bernstein 8R Junior Editor

Andrew Djaba 10S1 Junior Editor

Joseph Salem 11S2Artist

Shaneil Shah L6J2Artist

Zak Kay L6R1Advertising O cer

Mr T-S. LiSupervising Editor

Scribe2010 Editorial Team

Email submissions for the Spring 2011 edition of Scribe to [email protected]

Scribe| Autumn 2010 49Scribe| Autumn 2010


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Akshay-Kishan Karia

e Night of the New MoonNobody is frightened. Nobody is depressed. Nobody is awake.

ere was the eccentric entrepreneur, the busy businessman, the poetic playwright, the seductive sales- woman, the unfamiliar usher, the solemn shopkeeper and the cra y criminal. Rest. Now, it seems thereis nothing. e people are in bed, as are the products of the various shops, no longer busy trying to pose in a way that makes them presentable and attractive, in their time of rest. Everyone and everything is asleep.Even the reels of red tape, the computers, the cash-registers, the rakes and the uncooked foods revel inthe glorious time of slumber. e city is sleeping. e city is dead! uick! Call for help! It is nowhere tobe found. Is this not reason to be afraid?Nobody answers.

Beware. Silence screams at its highest volume, echoing throughout the city, like the schoolmas-ter, desperunaware that they will rarely come true. Night is truly just a blissful day, the day everyoneactually enjoys, and an escape from the torture of the next morning.

Will Missen,Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Siddharth Sheth,Silent Witness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Jordan Bernstein , Poem of Poems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3Anonymous, Keeping Up Appearances. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4Daniel Paul,Where No Man Tread s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rohit Bhatia, Room 101. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6Ben Peacock, A Parting of Ways e A ermath. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10Ragavan Guneshalingham, Leap. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Jordan Bernstein,Today. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14Corey Lewis, e Journey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Siddharth Sheth, I Will Never Forget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17Daniel Paul, Liberation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 William ong, Forbidden Heroics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 James Conophy, e Railway Experience. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Jordan Bernstein, My Autumn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23Daniel Gold, Allies Baseball Mitt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Akshay Kishan Karia, An alternative continuation to Odour of Chrysantheumums . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5Shaneil Shah, Bleak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26Harry Jukes, A sequel to Of Mice and Men . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26Ameya Tripathi, e Straw-Man and e Whale. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27Nakul Khanna, e Weeping Willow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34Siddharth Sheth,Sarcasm. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 William Yarwood, Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Jonathan Adams, A Common O ence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

Ameya Tripathi,Summer in Paris. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Jacob Harris, e Key. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40Andrew Djaba, e Social Network reviewed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Akshay Kishan Karia,Styx . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Joe Salem, A Chemical Anthology. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45Anand Gudka, In Hagues Fields. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46Ameya Tripathi, e Buttery Mosque. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Contents

Co er designed by Joseph Salem, with grateful thanks to Garry Byrne and Faber and Fab

Scribe| Autumn 2010 1


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Scribe| Autumn 20102

As I venture outside for therst time in days, Ind myself in awe of all that is around me. Snowakescling to gnarly tree branches, the sun peers from behind wispy clouds, and the birds chirp their exquisitemorning song. e sounds and sights of winter are uponme. I remember when the sun bore down on my sweatybrow at the height of noon, reclining on loungers toabsorb the shimmering glow. I remember leaves cascading around me and trees swaying in the breeze. I remember petrifying cold and an ambient and empty winter. But

also, this winter is one of joy and magnicence; one of blessings and happiness and one of surprising new life.So when you are walking down your road cursing ourfrostbitten climate, do not taint your mind with thisthought; embrace winter, for all it has to o er.

Winter

Will Missen8R

I watched from a corner, rooted to the spotI saw the man creep up on her and I knew something was afootI saw him reach with his hateful hands and tried to cry look outBut the cry stuck; in my gnarled and twisted throatI saw her cheeks bulge and eyes pop but did nothing from where I stood.For what could I do? - I am just a treeAnd Now they will cut me down... and my secret will die with meSo now, a murderer sleeps safe at nightAll because of a cowardly tree...

Silent Witness

Siddharth Sheth8M


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To glance upon an empty page,To feel the Autumn breeze.To pick up pen and start to write,Of the brown leaves in the trees.

A poem is a wonderful thing,A link between two worlds.One being of pure literacy,

e other where imagination unfolds.

So when I write a poem,And this is only me.I put a piece of me into it,For everyone to see.

Reading a poems di erent,For inference is the key.For as that well known saying says,

e best things in life are free.

And when I see a simple ode,To sorrow or to joy,I think how the poet communicates, With each girl and boy.

You can try to decipher acrostics,To toy around with a haiku.

But the only thing you need to knowIs what it means to you.

When you try to write in verse,Use this as a guide.Not for its literary wit,But for its view of both sides.

For the poet is a wonderful thing,A link, some may think.

A person who communicates, With two worlds through his ink.

Poem of Poems

Jordan Bernstein8R Winner of the 20 Poetry Prize


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Wearing masks has become a clichd metaphor, but only because its such a good one. Wearing a mask symbolises the way in which modern culture has evolved into a community where onechooses to hide their innermost feelings from one another.

Granted, we dont choose to keep all our emotions locked in the safe of our minds, yet there arealways a few that remain hidden.

Why?Maybe we feel embarrassed. Maybe we feel shame.Perhaps its just the idea that we all deserve the basic human right of privacy.

Which is true, of course, to a certain extent. But thats not what Im trying to discuss here.eissue Im trying to target here is a lot more personal.

I wear a mask; but have nothing to hide.My plastic face is not a veil suppressing a geyser of locked thoughts that remain protected from

the outside world. It is a veil that covers nothing. ats the whole point.

I wear my mask tot in, to be accepted, to play along with the everyday falsications that are present in this social structure. is mask is my disguise for an emptiness. Underneath it I feel nothing.

I have a total lack of all sensitivity, sensuality, imagination and emotion.I just dont really care.About anything.My existence is merely a formality to

please those who would prefer that I am aliverather than not. Im not saying that I want to die.Im saying that if I was about to, I would remainindi erent about the situation.

I have no emotion. is is why I wear my mask. I disguise

myself so as to blend into the same shade of greythat everybody lives. And now, as I once moreclose the curtain and return to my faade, I thank you for reading. Not because I have any feelingsof gratitude, but in order to appear polite to theoutside world.

Keeping Up Appearances

Anonymous


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An icy wind whipped across the pristine tundra,Transporting fragments of ice within its unrelenting grasp.Snow urries spiralled over the ground,Brushing the earth with a tender touch.A whistling sound permeated from the depths.

e landscape was soon enveloped in a sparkling maelstrom of fragile beauty,tiny shards swept through the plethora of white.

It was then the sun rose to its zenith.

e crystals fell to the ground like the tears of the sky;Soon to melt away in a display that would tear at any aestheticians heart.

Still, as the Land knows,Malevolent Winter does not relent.

Where No Man Treads

Daniel PaulL6H2


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Connor Anderson is a normal boy or, should I say, was a normal boy? Like every other child, he wasinnocent, nave and pure. He was incredibly bright, curious and had high aspirations regarding theacquisition of knowledge. Unlike his friends who found the school day long and tedious, he enjoyedevery moment. He took pleasure in discovering algebra and photosynthesis and this even extended to himdeveloping dexterity in French.is boy was denitely going to rise like a shining star in the deep, dark,daunting galaxy - if it had not been for a set of incidents all occurring within a very short space of time.

e events that happened one day due to his inquisitive nature cost him his childhood. Likemany children, he walked to school and walked back home, feeling stimulated from the daily intake of

knowledge. On this day, however, even though he walked along Chestnut Grove habitually, the building that he stared at every day interested him more than usual. It stood there. It was unique. It was a grandmansion that was so striking, so solid and so overpowering that it made you feel insignicant. EverydayConnors curiosity caused him to stand behind the old rusty gate and observe the grotesqueness of thehouse. At rst he was more concerned with the structure and what type of brick was used to build thehouse, but as time progressed, he grew more concerned with what lay beneath the house. Even though it was so ugly, the house was hauntingly seductive. Everyday at school he heard disquieting rumours thatghosts and goblins lived in the house. Others said that zombies inhabited it, while a di erent group of people suggested that beneath the house lay rabid dogs that stole your soul.

Have you heard? ere is a great monster who lives in the house, and apparently he is the most evicreature alive, a boy with shaggy hair had said to Connor as he imparted the latest gossip.

ats rubbish, laughed Connor,there are no such things as monsters and ghouls whatever you people think. He dismissed all the absurd rumours as his intellect was too great.

Oh yeah? replied the boy with shaggy hair,then if youre so clever and cocky, I dare you to go intothe house a er school.

Connors head waslled with despair at that moment. He knew that a dare was an importantcustom to follow but he also knew the great danger that the house presented.

Dont be mad,Connor replied,Im not going to risk my life for a stupid dare. I double dare you, the boy challenged, in a low, ghastly tone.

Connor could not believe his ears. He knew that a double dare was an unwritten sacred traditionor code that had to be accepted, otherwise one would have to live with being calledchicken.Umm I... no hesitated Connor.What, are you scared? Chicken! laughed the boy with a great evil satisfaction.Connor stood there. He knew that if he said no, his life at Buxlow Prep School would be over. He

would be regarded as a fearful little baby, but if he said yes, he knew he was facing ultimate doom. Connortook a deep breath and closed his eyes. He contemplated the situation for a while and then opened his eyesand replied fearlessly and with great relief,Ill do it.

A er a couple of days, Connor decided he could not put it o any longer. Rain was drizzling down as he gathered the courage to enter the house.e fact that Connor was about to undertake this feat

of bravery caused a commotion within his school. Children of di erent ages and sizes rushed like a swarmof bees chasing its honey to watch Connor do what nobody else dared to do.e excitement was so great

Room 101

Rohit BhatiaL6H2


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that even a teacher was present to watch the disturbing moment. e mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of the boy, with only fear keeping his feet planted to the ground. He was sure he could hear moaning and creaking noises from the house.e grass was damp from the evening fog,and the group of older boys behindhim taunted the little boy.Youll never go in there. Youre too chicken.

Connor approached thefront steps with his breath growing quicker and shorter. e bottom

step groaned as he applied pressure with his foot. He let out a long sigh as he was relieved that the oldstructure had not swallowed himup once contact was made. Hetook another step, then another,and another, until nally, he wasat the door. e door was slightlydi erent from the rest of the house.It loomed over him like a giant.

He knew that it was now or never.He could either continue living his formulaic lifestyle or he couldexperience excitement and prove toeveryone that he was the bravest boy in his school.

A shiver swept through his body as he placed his hand on the doorknob. He grabbed hold of thbrass sphere only to feel it wobble under his grip. Carefully and slowly, he turned the knob and pusheopen the door, all the while preparing himself to jump back slightly to avoid any monsters or ghost planning to jump on him when the door swung open but there was nothing.is trepidation was acontradiction of his earlier beliefs. A chorus of whispers and gasps echoed from behind as Connor enterthe house.

A rush of cold, chilling air came towards Connor as the door touched the other side of the walle musty smell of a house that had long been abandonedlled his nose. It was dim and uninviting,

dank and decrepit. It felt as if it were not held together with nails and mortar but with the anguish anddespair of lost souls. Dark shadows were lurking in the still air, along with a faint smell of death hangiin the chilling darkness of the night. Whispers of long-dead children echoed together with the sound ofootsteps that seemed to come from nowhere. He heard or thought he heard the sogentle crying of ababy.

Connor was intelligent enough to realise that this house was no ordinary house it was a housthat was possessed by a malevolent soul. As he wandered about, theoorboards sighed like an old man wheezing. e curtains shook like they were laughing.ere was something else that was eerie about this


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house that made Connor so uncomfortable in it. He listened carefully: there it was again the sogentlecry of a baby it sounded like a plea for help. Connor followed the babys cry across the house. Eventuallyit led him up the stairs. He cringed at each creak on the old warped stairs, but it did not deter him in hisdetermination to make it to the cry of the child. Halfway up, a shadowickered at the corner of his vision.He froze, and as he stood there, caught a woody scent lingering in the air. A shiver curled through thehairs on the back of his neck, then cascaded down his backbone. It was all he could do not to hurl himself back down the stairs, towards the front door.e voice grew louder and led Connor to a room. He stoodthere looking at the colossal door. His pulse was hammering, the sound of his heartbeat was roaring in hisears. His face was ashen.e door was a dusty old grand one. He took the handkerchief out of his pocketand wiped the door clean to see what was behind it. As he wiped the dust o the great mahogany door,

there was something written in bold capital letters. His limbs went weak. His skin felt like it was trying to glide to the back of his body. On the door, it said,ROOM 101 . He knew that behind this room thegreatest terror on earth awaited him.is was the place to where the gentle cry of the baby took him. Bynow Connor was too scared to say or feel anything. His body was so drained, but he did not have enoughenergy to just leave the house.ere was something about this house. It possessed you.e temptationgrew too strong. He reached out for the rusted door knob. As he opened the door, a great chill went downhis spine. His neck went sti . He took a deep breath, closed his eyes in prayer and he opened the door It was a childs room, with a grand bed encrusted in gold and silver. It clearly was not a modern bedroom.

e oor in the room was covered in a rich, dark blue carpet.e walls were pea green witha border of white along the top and bottom. Staleness hit you like a wall, though the sobreeze from

the open window dissipated it. A burnt odour permeated the grand room. What was so scary about it?Maybe it was the oversized WAGON cot that Connor feared could carry a child away to a far away land,especially with that eerie squirrel pulling on its reins. Perhaps it was the thought of the wall made of alphabetised bricks that could topple down to reveal a gaping hole that made the place so frightening.emost distinct feature of the room was an elaborately dressed rocking horse made of pure maple wood. Itseyes followed and stared at you wherever you went.ere was something uncanny about the rest of thehorse. As Connor le the room, he heard it again. is time the cry was louder and with more despair. It was saying his name. He couldnt bear it.e force was too great: he had to enter the room again.

e moment he entered the bedroom he felt it: warm, moist air brushing his ear like a stalkersbreath. Connor stepped into the room, his throat tightening at the thick dustoating in the air. Sunlightslipped through the cracked window shutters that covered the empty window frames, illuminating achilds wooden rocking horse sitting on a tattered rug.e toys wooden seat was worn smooth, coated indirt, and cobwebs matted the corded mane and tail.

e air shimmered and a young boyickered into view. Connor gasped, watching the boys pale hands grasp at the mane, pulling himself into the seat. Slowly the horse began to rock, much to the jubilation of its ghostly rider. As he rocked the ghostly boy said, Tonight you will die.

Connor looked in amazement and burst into tears. His despair was too great,Why me? Why do I have to die? Im just a child.

Oh come on Connor, replied the child.You know my name how? I know everyones name.


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Please, I beg of you I dont want to die I dont deserve it, I am just a child! howled Connor, butdeep inside he knew the inevitable was coming. So? replied the child.When I died I was eight years old. I didnt deserve to die either, now its yturn.

Connor stepped backwards. A weakoorboard gave way beneath him and he fell into the dark,rat-infested cellar of the mansion. As his head hit the ground, Connor lost consciousness.

Had Connor lived in the same times as the boy on the rocking horse, he might have died from hiinjuries. As it was, the child that had been Connor was treated with all the modern advances of surgerthat were unknown to medical science when the house was built and the boy on the horse had lived. seemed, though, that the Connor of before the accident had died. His injuries to the side of his head

were so dreadful that, aer the accident, Connor lost his interest in his studies. He found it dicult toconcentrate and, of course, his high marks and the promise of a bright future were lost for ever.

If only


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A continuation of a short story begun in Scribe: Spring 2010

When he remembered his surroundings, George realised that he needed to go to the bathroom.elanding outside his room was black and eerie. George crept along it, wondering where the bathroommight be and trying to make as little sound as possible on the protesting oorboards. It was only whenhe reached the end of the corridor that he realised that there was someone else nearby, someone who wasmaking no e ort at all to containtheir noise. e ancient and impressive grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the Gatelys clutteredbut comfortable living room had just chimed midnight but, for Mr Gately, time had stood motionlesssince the moment his son had stormed from the house.

Mr Gately was sitting on the sofa, his head resting in his hands, staring with bloodshot eyes at theslowly dying re in the grate without really seeing it.

He had allowed his son ve minutes to calm down outside before deciding that it was time to callhim in, only to nd that, when he opened the front door, the front drive was deserted. He had stood inthe doorway long enough to call out a couple of idle threats before resigning himself to searching the darkgarden.

By the time Mrs Gately had poked her head out of the front door tond out what was happening,Mr Gatelys burning anger had been replaced by a genuine feeling of panic and worry. George had notbeen found.

Mrs Gately had hurried back into the house as fast as her short legs could carry her, picked up the phone and dialled the police before her husband had moved a muscle. Very slowly, he moved from theground that was now covered in a thinlm of snow and walked through the front gate to search in thelane beyond. He was not going to let the police be dragged into this, no matter what his wife thought.

As far as he was concerned, George would return and soon. Aer all, he had lewithout any possessions and how many countless times had he threatened to run away without doing so? Mr Gately was sure that, if he had simply returned to the house and gone to bed, he would have woken tond his sonsafely home. Despite this, he could not quite shrug o the feeling that something was wrong unusually

wrong that is, as a lot seemed to go wrong between him and George these days. George knew full wellthat venturing out alone at night here was foolish, so the fact that he seemed to have vanished was mostdisturbing, despite Mr Gatelys increasingly feeble attempts to comfort himself.

What did Mr Gately expect? His son to emerge from behind a clump of leaves, roaring withlaughter at the success of a practical joke? No, searching in the bushes was not going to help. If George had wanted to remain hidden, it would have been easy for him to do so. He would return when he wanted toand for now, at least, there was nothing that Mr Gately could do. ese thoughts swirled through Mr Gatelys mind like torrents of water as he remained slumpedon the sofa, waiting for the now inevitable arrival of the police. Why hadnt he been a better father?Had he done something wrong? He resented his sons lackadaisical attitude to life, but he loved him

immeasurably, so why did all the problems seem to be happening to him? Ironically, Mr Gately thought,his son, wherever he was, was most probably thinking exactly the same thing.

A Parting of Ways e A ermath

Ben PeacockL6R1


13/50


e silent time seemed to drag. Aer perhaps an hour, there was a smart rap on the door, whichMrs Gately answered at once. On the doorstep stood a tall Police Constable of around 62. He hamainly grey hair that had turned white in places and he looked as though he was of retirement age. Hlooked distinctly disgruntled at being called at such an hour for what he clearly thought was a trivial anunimportant case, and he had no intention of making pretences.

Good evening, madam, he saidbrusquely.Bitter night. Ive heard therell benear a foot of snow by morning and it hasnt been an easy journey. He paused, wondering if Mrs Gately would say something. When she

remained silent, clearly taking in his unkemptappearance, he went on.So, um, whats this all about then? Heard something about a boy gone missing? Yes, youd better come in. Mrs Gatelyopened the door wide to allow the man to pass her, causing a chill wind to blow brie ythrough the room before she snapped itquickly shut.

By the way madam, shouldve

introduced mself PC Johnson, the man said,holding out a bony hand. Mrs Gately tookit brie y before leading him through to theliving room, where her husband remainedin an apathetic trance, now staring up at thechandelier above his head. Without hesitation,she launched into the whole and rather short story. Well, I suppose its best if I search for the boy; he cant have gone far, said PC Johnson when shehad nished.51, thin face, een years old you say? She nodded.Well I doubt therell be anyone out and about to mistake him with. Ill have him back within the hour madam; dont worry.

With that, he nodded curtly at Mr and Mrs Gately before turning and making his way from thehouse. e sound of a car could be heard pulling out of the front drive.


14/50


e breaths arrived in short, sharp bursts, each desperate gasp for oxygen stabbing out into the cold nightair, the condensation from each breath forming temporarily in an uneasily still atmosphere.ere wassomething tangible, some sort of fear, a sense of anxiety which resonated through the air accompanied bythe so claps of the young boys feet as they landed one aer the other on the ground. As he ran towardssome desperate form of freedom, fear crept back into his mind.e pale moonlight glistened as it caughthis smoothly shaven head, illuminating the look of despair painted against his gaunt face, all the whiledarting to and from across the barren wasteland, lighting the path ahead for the frantic child.

Each step he took, his naked feet sank into the warm sand, just for an instant before his foot shot

up again. He used to enjoy this sensation so much, yet now, it meant that he was going far too slowly. Asharp pain violently erupted in his chest; his heart screamed as the lack of oxygen became apparent to him.He heard a distant rumbling of synchronised marching. It was at a high pace, there was no doubt about it:it was them. His training allowed him to calculate theirdistance from him; they were about 250 metres away,approximately due east, but the way the sound echoedaround the dunes, it was clear that they were rapidlyspeeding up on him. He couldnt let them catch himagain, this was the third time he had tried to escape; if they found him now, they would just execute him andleave it at that. He sped up, his feet beating the groundfaster and faster; he had lost everything since they hadforced him to join them. Everything: his possessions,his family, his friends, all gone, because of them.eyhad taken his entire life away and forced him toght,citing some supposed hidden talent that he had. Well,a er years of exhaustive training, being worked to thebone, it turned out he didnt have this talent.

e problem was he had seen too much, this

institution that had held him captive, they were ruthless.If you werent one of them, then you were the enemy. It was as simple as that. He had been forced to work as aslave aer that. What kind of life was that? He had to get out, but that was easier said than done. Betweenhim and freedom stood two hundred armed guards and several acres of desertlled with deadly creatures,and to compound his situation, he had no idea where the nearest town was, he had only a pair of shortsand he hadnt had a substantial meal in the last three years.ings were looking bad.

His vision ashed white again; another one of his headaches started up again.ey had comeand gone pretty frequently while he had been training. He believed it was the choking, su ocating atmosphere of the institution which had caused them, but seeing as there was no doctor, there was no way

for him to know.

Leap

Ragavan GuneshalinghamL6C1


15/50


A shout broke the uneasy silence in the air; the boy took a quick look behind him and had hisfears conrmed; despite their heavy military issue equipment and weapons, they were as quick as lightninand were catching up to him. He turned his head back around and sped up once more. He then saw itsome hope of salvation. Ahead of him, just beyond the a ectionately titled Death Dune, there was an oldbridge. Maybe he had just been too tired, or maybe it was the large man that had been screaming at hito work every time he had been out here, but he had never seen it before. It ran over a deep break in thEarth, probably caused by an earthquake or something of that nature. It was a chance at escape, probabthe only chance he had. He ran towards it, all the while increasing his pace. Approaching it, he saw ththe bridge didnt connect all the way through; his one chance had vanished into nothingness. He hadno other choice, he would have to try and jump it. Reaching the ledge, he leapt for the other side. H

gave everything that his tiring legs had; as he was in the air, the events around him seemed to slow dowand then he realised he wasnt going to make it. He fell down, further and further into the crack and hecontinued to fall until the darkness took hold of him. He reached out, trying to grab some sort of ledgebut all his shattered body could o er was a weak motion towards one of the sides. He continued to fall,deeper and deeper into the Earth, and then, there was just nothingness. At least now, he had ended it onhis own terms, and he wasnally at peace.


16/50


As the wind blew across the familyeld on that pleasant August day, my heart rejoiced. Today would bea good day. I ran down the hill at pace, anxious for my day in all of its glory to begin and for me to feelthe rush of adrenalin as it happened. My suit trousers fell loose on more than one occasion.is did notannoy me as it normally did. Rather, it seemed all so insignicant in comparison to what would happen.Even on the occasion that I slipped, I regained my composure easily and did not becomeustered. I justkept on running down that hill.

I saw people along the way down the hill aer it seemed like I had been running for hours -perhapsI had. No one smiled at me, yet there, in that place, that seemed regular, almost mundane. I kept my legs

pumping; I was almost out of breath. O in the distance I could hear cheering, although it was not thefaint hearted sound you hear at football matches and the like.is was real cheering.

e hill smelt peaceful too, like a lunch at Grandmas. A sweet melody of scents waed up fromnowhere, manifesting and assassinating my nose in a most delightful way. It was all I could do not toliterally stop and smell the roses.

It seemed as though I had been running for ages, yet strangely I was not near the bottom of thehill. My trek downwards perhaps represented my childhood. You would think that by this time I wouldbe so close to its completion, yet to me, it seemed so far from its culmination.

I jumped in the airfor joy once or twice and Icould see the bottom; mymother and father waiting in the middle of the crowdfor me to become a man. Imoderately increased my pace to a near sprint, caring not of the air blowing ercelyagainst my face and messing up my hair, though I was not

sure my mother would havefelt the same way. e sun crept out from its slumber underneath the clouds and illuminated the way forthe rest of my journey. It was not too far.

I looked up in the sky - not a cloud. Perfect for what would be a great day that would beremembered for years to come. I was almost at the bottom, and could see the smiling face of each andevery member of the crowd. My foot hit the bottom of the hill and I fell and tumbled onto theoor,though I did not quite make it to the sograss before I woke up with a start. I was lying on theoor of mybedroom in a cold sweat. I looked up to my right and saw the array of Happy Bar Mitzvah cards that linedmy desk. Today would be a good day.

Today

Jordan Bernstein8R


17/50


e two boys raced along the dusty road as therst rays of morning sun spread over the dustyeld.ey were so full of youthful exhilaration that when they fell to the ground, tripped over by their untie

shoelaces or snaking tree roots, they sat up, unabashed and carried along running, laughing all the wae cloud of dust the boys kicked up was so thick that the end of the road was no longer visible to them

just an unused track that seemed to go on forever.e two young boys, barely old enough to be let outby themselves, lived in separate houses at the beginning of the road.ey stayed with their mothers, whohad been friends since they themselves were the age of the boys and both had been cruelly leby theirhusbands at the prime of their life.e two boys had never known their fathers, yet they had never had a

desire to meet them. Like their mothers, they were alone.e bright midday sun above their heads beat down on the boys bodies, its rays penetrating

the thin white t-shirts that adorned their shoulders.e scorpions and rattlesnakes rested in the shade,observing the two boys running past with beady, unblinking eyes. As they came to a house on the siof the road, they approached the window, curious to know what wonders were held inside. While theyspied on an old man resting on his threadbare armchair, they mischievously rapped on the window wittheir knuckles and dropped to the ground, out of sight, amidstts of giggles. e old man, tormented byailments that a ected both his mind and body, slowly approached the glass and shot out a hand to steadyhimself. Yet his tired eyes, shrouded by cataracts, failed him and he did not see the two young boys, evthough their feet were clearly visible. He let out a weary sigh, tinged with sadness, and began the peril journey back to his armchair. He glanced at the photograph on the mantelpiece, depicting a much younge version of the man with a pretty girl clutching his arm. He was not looking at the camera; rather he wstaring at the girl, with an adoring and gentle look on his face.eir love would have been evident toanyone who observed the picture, yet no-one came to visit the decrepit, old man.is momentary lapsein concentration proved the downfall of the man. His legs buckled underneath him and he crashed tothe oor, with audible cracks of weak bonesbreaking. As blood leaked out of the gash inhis head, his eyes travelled upwards for one lastlook at the picture of happier times, and the

urn beside it.Unaware of the tragedy they hadcaused, the two young boys released themselvesfrom their hiding spot under the window andran back towards the road without a backwardsglance. eir high spirits undiminished, theycontinued to wander up the road, curiously peering over windowsills as they went.istime, however, they were notlled with thesame exuberant joy that gave them the need

to childishly play about on the road. Instead,they were walking at a leisurely pace, as if

e Journey

Corey LewisL6M1


18/50


they had all the time in the world. It was as if they had suddenly matured.ey walked over hills, andthrough valleys, still sticking to the road, until the beginning of their journey was just a memory. However,their peaceful wandering was interrupted by a sorrowful whimpering coming from the land behind thebrown fence. When they investigated, they discovered a forgotten dog which had been trapped under thebranches of a tree which had fallen over.ey rushed to help him, using all their strength to push the treeclear, allowing the dog the chance he needed to escape.e dog immediately jumped up, wagging its tail,seemingly unperturbed. e boys, incredibly pleased with themselves, and with a new-found sense of honour, saunteredback to the path with their new companion.e two boys carried on their journey, seemingly strongerand taller. uietly chatting, they wandered along the track, stopping every so oen to pat their dog. esun was no longer above their heads: instead it was almost ready to set, and a cool, refreshing breeze wascoming in. ey carried on walking until they heard a commotion coming from one of the smaller pathsthat snaked o from the main one. A young woman was helplessly trying to fend o a snarling, wild

dog which had been driven crazy with hunger and was now viciously trying to bite at the womans neck.Insatiable hunger glinted in its eyes; a beast who was never satised. Terror had overtaken the woman andshe was incomprehensibly screaming for help, as the beast was scratching at her arms, leaving red, opengashes. One of the boys immediately darted forward, overcome by a distinct sense of bravery. He tackledthe dog, and they crashed to the ground, the dog frenziedly snapping its powerful jaws at the boy, justinches away from his face. He wrapped his legs around the dogs body and desperately tried to clamp thedogs jaw shut. e other boy hastily scampered forward to help his friends and produced a pocket knifefrom the pouch that he wore around his ankle. While his friend held the dog still, he masterfully shovedthe knife into the wild dogs neck, silencing it. Finally, the dog was released by the boys, and it lay there,on its side, with glazed eyes that, only a few moments before, had been alight with rage. As they turned

to face the woman whose life they had just saved, sheew at them and embraced them in a hug so strong they thought they would never be freed. a - thank you, she mumbled through tears.If you didnt come along when you did... I would I would have been... Speech failed her and she broke down in sobbing once more.Its alright, said one of theboys, with a reassuring smile.We just did what anyone would have done.

As the woman and the boys parted ways, she looked back and waved, full of emotion at the actsof kindness and bravery just demonstrated by two strangers.e boys slowly made their way back to the path, still reeling from their painful encounter with the dog. As they reached the main road once more,they realised that the dog they had saved had long since lethem. As the boys searched and called for theirlost dog in the nal light of the day, one slipped, tripping over a tree root.is time, however, he didntbound up again with joy and enthusiasm; instead he had to be helped up by his old friend as he screwedup his face to try and block out the pain.

Painstakingly slowly, they shued along the remainder of the path. Finally, it came to an end,devoid of footprints or any indication that anyone had ever walked there. As the boys looked at each other,they realised that they had aged, and had become withered old men.e times when they had playedalong the dusty road were now just memories. As the suns last few rays were disappearing behind the hillsthey looked back on their journey and they knew it had come to an end.


19/50


I will never forgete tortured, twisted faces

Of those too slow to grab a gas maskSlowly dying, screaming as they wentFor a date with the DevilIn the ery pits of hell

I will never forget

e wide-open, unseeing eyesStaring upwards as the rats arriveSwarmed by maggots, crows and others

at was the fate for patriotic soldiers

I will never forgete smiling faces

Signing up for King and countryOnly to return in agonyOr not at all

I will never forgete way they advertised it

Fighting in the trenchesSave your country, join the army And get a one way ticket to hell

I will never forgetMr Darwins rule

e harshest rule of naturee reason I am writing thisSurvival of the Fittest

I Will Never Forget

Siddharth Sheth8M


20/50


e never ending nights on lookout tortured my mind.e monotonous watching, staring out over NoMans Land was a living hell. In a perverse kind of way I wanted to see a German soldier. Id blast him tosmithereens without a second thought! Me, Peter, the lad who back home wouldnt even kill a spider butgently cup it in my bare hands and set it free. What kind of monster had I become? Yet gnawing at myconscience relentlessly was the raw fear of missing the onset of an attack and being responsible for the lossof men in my platoon. e thought weighed heavily on my shoulders.

Night a er night I spent in the damp dug out: cramped, cold, belly aching with hunger.eoppressive silence was periodically broken by the sound of groaning and the vain whispers of those

attempting to soothe the insane mutterings of those whose septic wounds caused them to retreat to a world of delirium. Periodically a splutter of gunre would rumble in the distance.e dank, murky miststhat shrouded the desolate wasteland penetrated my very core. What Id only give to be back home by thecrackling farmhousere

Trembling, I bit my lip hard until blood trickled and the pain numbed my feelings, banishing allthoughts of home that were too painful to remember and too painful to forget. Clouds up above in the pitch black heavens parted momentarily and a silver moon looked pitifully down on the world below.Mangled bodies and twisted limbs bathed in pale moonlight lay still where they had fallen, surrounded by poppies that danced in the breeze.e G-d who created the heavens and earth no longer existed. He haddeserted his creation, of this I was sure. What creator could idly allow the horrors of this war to occur?

Minutes seemed like hours. Alone with the shadow of death forever looming, my only companion was an inquisitive rat. His beady eyes met my stare and we both took stock of each other. Night aer nighthed visit. It was the rat whorst alerted me to the event I will remember for ever. One ordinary night on watch he suddenly poked his twitching whiskers east towards the enemy and scarpered. Scarcely trusting my instincts, I saw shadowygures heading my way.Simultaneously, gunre lled the air. is was it! I gavethe signal and over we bundled, blindly returning re,boots stumbling across the clumpy soil, our path brie yilluminated by orange bursts of mortarre. My heart

pounding, I plundered forward through the barbed wire,temporarily oblivious to its savage snares.e stench of death pervaded my nostrils. en our eyes met. Face toface with the enemy I froze, my hand trembling on myri e trigger, my counterpart likewise. He was so young,no older than my little brother; he had not yet lived.Kill or be killed! thundered a voice inside my head but Icould not. Retreating, I staggered back into the desertedtrench.

Once more I sit trembling in the same familiar

trenches. Despite every e ort, no gains into enemy

Liberation

Daniel PaulL6H2 Winner of the 10 Prose Prize


21/50


William ong L6S1

Forbidden HeroicsGranddad dived to avoid the bolt of lightning that nonetheless licked his calf, causing a jolt of pain, ainvoluntary jerk of his leg and a humiliating yelp.e dive concluded with Granddads shoulder painfullyshattering a second-storey window. He found himself, somewhat inconveniently, falling to the pavemenOver here, they seemed to call it the sidewalk, although he didnt think he would care what it was calif splattered across its surface.

He snapped open his right hand and felt the magic surge through his body, smoothly coalescinginto air. e air looped under his body and facilitated his gentle descent. Granddad realised halfwaythrough his articially slowed fall that the lightning bolt had caused him to wet himself and he winced inacute embarrassment. As he landed gently on his back, Granddad felt the scorching heat radiating o theconcrete slabs baked by the Californian sun.

ere was a little girl standing there who had seen the whole thing. Her melted ice cream haddropped from its cone and, as it melted, it snaked its way down the concrete towards him.e cone itself was hanging as loosely as her jaw. Whilst loosing a verbose curse at any deity that might be responsfor a perfectly respectable man having to jump out of a window, he saw the little girl far too late answore again. He opened his hand once more, but this time let the magicow through as darkness which

engulfed his body hid him from view. Beatrice-Caroline Harris, you dolt! exclaimed Cheerful from a panel which had just sprung intobeing in a corner of Granddads translucent contact lens interface.

If anybody calls me by that name again, I will ip so help me and its not even like hes acommanding o cer! Hes just a sergeant like the rest of us! muttered BC angrily, also appearing inGranddads eld of view.

BC, your communications panel is still on, pointed out Granddad.We can all hear you. Oh, said BC sheepishly.Forget I said that then My word, breathed Cheerful in exasperation.She is such an idiotic cow, And Cheerful, I think were in trouble, said Granddad. ere was only meant to be one target.

eres only ever one target. Somethings gone... wrong.

territory were claimed. Not one inch. My commanding ocer regards me with disgust. Branded a coward,stripped of my rank, I await my fate: thering squad tomorrow at dawn. e shame for my family hauntsme, but in my heart I remember the young eyes of my enemy. To kill for any cause can not be right. Mlifes journey is to be cut short, but the road I have travelled this past year has been long and arduouYesterday, my short venture into No Mans Land was not futile. I emerged a man. My eternal sleep will one of peace.


22/50


Yeah, agreed Cheerful.But, we need to stay calm, take them in one by one. Were not going to be able to deal with them alive without Captain. Better ring him up, eh?

Captain Danny Sander had faced down insane mages, squadrons of soldiers armed to the teethand even his Physics teachers wrath on several occasions, but nothing he had encountered thus far terriedhim as much as the modest north London terraced house before him now. He hadown here a er having changed his mind thousands of times, and, even as he raised his knuckles to knock on the door, he washaving regrets.

His ex-girlfriend, Charlie, opened the door.e shocked face he hadnt seen for the past three years was far more stunning than he remembered it and the slap across his lecheek was far more painfulthan he had expected, considering how he had spent most of those three years in a military training camp. e next few seconds lasted an eternity and the Captain could almost feel the clichs, thick andheavy in the air, as he raised a hand to his face and whimpered:

athurt Good, answered Charlie with palpable venom.Two years? Two years, and I havent heard a thing! Two years, you and my parents both disappear, and you have the nerve to come back here in your (Charlie paused for a second before realising that Captain was not wearing anything particularly noteworthy)Cheap clothes?

Captain was about to correct her about the two years actually being three before he realised thattime worked di erently on Earth and that if he thought about it any longer he would be putting himself at risk of a brain haemorrhage.

It was then that he realised the other thing Charlie had mentioned.What? he asked incredulously.Your parents disappeared?

Yeah, she said, xing Captain with a glare that could have sliced a ham hock clean in half.Vanished o the face of the earth, just like you It was then, at the least convenient time possible, that a notication bearing Granddads face

appeared in the top le-right corner of the standard-issue translucent interface embedded in his contactlens.

Um, Captain, were in a little trouble, Granddad said through Captains minuscule, invisibleearpiece.I know its your day o and everything, but could we possibly have a hand? Its just that theremore than one

Captain had to make an e ort to avoid his jaw dropping in shock. As it was, his contorted facialexpression betrayed what Charlie took to mean bowel problems.

Whats wrong with you? Do you need started Charlie, but she was broken o by a strong windthat had suddenly risen despite the clear blue sky.e door narrowly missed her nose as it slammed in herface.


23/50


e steam locomotive lurched sideways round the bend, teetering alarmingly, beforenally crashing backdown upon the worn tracks, and the sound of the engine was cut o as a distressed voice cried out inalarm. Looking round for the owner of the voice, he found his fellow passengers within the compartmeturning sharply towards him, and it subsequently dawned upon him that it had been he who had shoutedHis face glowing as red as the coals in the engine furnace, the young businessman muttered a quick apoloto anyone who cared to listen, before hastening to turn his face back to the newspaper he was reading.

at is how the young man, who went by the name of Nicholas Richardson, had perceived it tobe, anyway; from the viewpoint of most seated in the carriage, there had been nothing more than a slig

wobble. Although Nicholas did not know, his colourful imagination, previously carefully managed, habeen ignited by a tabloid newspaper very similar to the one he was absorbed in at the time. It was not unhe had entered the carriage that his mind had started to play tricks upon him, heightening his fear untithe dangers seemed paramount.

With his nerves frayed and about to snap, the poor gentleman decided to allow himself somesmall measure of comfort. He discreetly managed to unscrew the cap of hisask, and was just about to sipfrom the golden liquor, when an old man in the opposite corner of the compartment twitched his nose.

Hmm? the thin, pale mouth murmured, its grim, tight line cracking for what seemed like therst time in years.

With what seemed like all theauthority of fate, the old mans twobright blue eyes graduallyicked open,his large nose sning rapidly.Hmm... the old man murmured again when hehad stopped sni ng, this time withmore of a suspicious tone. His eyesnarrowed, and his gazeitted to eachmember of the compartment with painful deliberation, beforenally

coming to rest upon the petried young man who could do nothing at allas those beady eyes brought their full potential to bear upon him.

e noise and discomforts of railway travel were all but forgotten in those moments as Nicholafellow passengers viewed with interest the scene unfolding before them. It was indeed partly due to thchance of a respite from the stiing conformity of a strangers presence that they watched with such avidspeculation; however, it was also due to their own, incorrect curiosity.

I know that smell, came the voice, hesitating as if to carefully select its words,yes, I de nitely know that smell. Seemingly only at that moment becoming aware that he and Nicholas were the focus of

the entire compartments attention, the lips broke apart once more, and he seemed about to speak, when

e Railway Experience

James Conophy8J Winner of the 20 Prose Prize


24/50


a young girl at his side cut him o .Shame on you, grandfather!, she scolded him.My apologies to you, sir, she said with a strong

accent, bobbing her head to Nicholas as she did so,he hardly knows what hes talking about these days, and he cant string a proper sentence together. e sole other occupant of the compartment, a lone womanopposite Nicholas, raised an eyebrow, as if thinking that if none could understand the mans speech, heshould clearly not be in the care of a granddaughter.

What happened next could be seen as either a blessing or a curse by those of di erent mindsets, butin the years to come, Nicholas could never quite decide. In any case, it saved the old mans granddaughterfrom a sharp rebuke, as the train suddenly screeched to a halt; not having noticed the approaching station,Nicholas was totally unprepared. He lurched forwards drunkenly, and thrust out a hand to stop himself, which happened to place itself directly upon the woman who had just spoken.

To his further chagrin, he was still holding hisask, which he had been so desperately attempting to conceal; a strong ow of alcohol poured down the womans front, pooling around her in such a way as

to be quite misleading. Ignoring the womans horried gasps, the cackles of I told you!e demon drink!from the old man, and the soothing words of his granddaughter, he hastened to make his apologies. I... I say... I am truly, terribly sorry, do you know? I... I shall... at is to say, I will pay for anydamages you have incurred. It was a complete accident, I was not attempting to... He trailed o as the womanarose from her seat with aery look in her eye that matched perfectly her red hair; for the second timethat journey, Nicholas quailed under a fearsome gaze.en, with the utmost dignity, the woman raisedher chin, drew back her hand, and slapped the poor man round for the face. Also for the second time thatday, Nicholas cheeks glowed as red as the coals in the engine furnace. e chaos was silenced as the even the old man stopped cackling to stare at the astonishing sight;Nicholas whimpered audibly, enough to plant a smug expression upon the womans face, anyway. Without

another word, Nicholas hastily backed out of the compartment, before hurrying down the corridor andclumsily hopping o the train as it started again to move.e poor man slumped in a bench upon the platform and muttered something barely audible,Must be Scottish, before proceeding to drink the last of his brandy and waiting for the next train.


25/50


In Autumn, the very weather that is typical of England will undoubtedly be experienced.e rain, theclouds, the wind and the falling leaves; all of these things seem to be in abundance during therst termof school. It is more important in the Autumn months more than any part of the year to be reading.

is is because it is the type of weather which you would not want to venture outside in.e Summeris enticing as it is hot, a rarity in England. Winter, on the other hand, draws youout for its fun in the snow and familyholidays. But Autumn, I am sad to say,

has no forte, unless you consider its trulymajestic ability to allow you to curl up ona dreary aernoon with a good book inhand. ink of this article as a database of those lovely books for which autumn is agreat time to read.

In what is a stressful time formany, what with UCAS applications andtopic test upon topic test, it is a good idea perhaps to return to those more childish and basic books that held us rapt in those playful primary schoo years. ese are precisely the reasons why I recommend as an autumn read theHorrid Henryseries. ese were books that I myself abandoned at the end of Year 5, but recently saw them, a piece of well-craedexcellence, crowding my shelf. It is not just for their simplicity that I have selected these books; it is their splendour; for their youthful playfulness that acts as a guide to how to act badly.is series is a mustfor those who still bicker with siblings or cherish the thought of just a pound coin, and of course, thos who cannot be asked to eat their vegetables.ese books, perfectly craed by the truly gied FrancescaSimon, tell tales of just what one can get up to during a day and I would ask you all to pick up a copy.

I understand that the thought of the last recommendation may not have been everybodys cupof tea. But fear not, for more advanced readers could pick upe Client by John Grisham. is was the

rst of Grishams novels that I picked up and I felt that I truly did not want to put it down. While manybelieve that each of John Grishams novels pale in comparison to his centre piece,e Firm, I prefer to view each of the legal thrillers in their own light, and I tell you now that I am not sorry. As a traumatis youngster faces the American Justice System head-on, readers feel captivated by an original tale that tao following a criminal lawyers suicide. Will a shady client be convicted? Will the body of a missi political o cial be recovered? All is to play for in this wonder of a novel that has a new take on Americlaw through the eyes of a child. How does it link to Autumn? Im glad you asked.e plot only happensbecause of two boys out smoking in a forest. In autumn, the weather is not warm enough to entice you oto smoke. e boys would have saved themselves a lot of grief had the weather been colder.

A book that is truly ideal for Autumn reading is the Bible. But to recommend that would make

me sound like a preacher and would probably take me longer than this Journal allows, so instead I w

My Autumn

Jordan Bernstein8R


26/50


tell you about another novel that can be easily enjoyed in Autumn. I am of course referring to the wonderthat is e Righteous Men, by Sam Bourne. is book links religious fact with fascinating ction in a mostdelightful way. e Righteous Mentells the story of a man up against all odds when his wife is kidnapped.

e lead characternds his way to new friends and foes with some unexpected surprises along the waythat will catch any reader o guard, even aer having read this article. is novel is slightly harder, thoughnot impossible, tond a link to Autumn with. ough a er reading the book it is quite simple: this bookis all about adventures - both physical ones, like inWere Going on a Bear Hunt , and personal ones like themoral struggles that George Osborne undoubtedlynds himself in when he tries to get to sleep at night.Autumn is an opportune time to have such adventures and journeys as you need to think outside of thebox when you dont want to venture outside and are bored of reading.

It seems that in Autumn we all focus on the dreary weather, lack of fun and the tediousness of theseason. Others tend to look far ahead to family celebrations in Christmas or Chanukah. But I urge youthis Autumn to pick up a book and get reading. So think not of the negatives of autumnal months, butfocus on the novels, literature and school Literary Journals that are indeed, the essence of Autumn.

Daniel Gold11J1

Allies Baseball Mitt Inspired by J.D. Salingerse Catcher in the Rye

Allies baseball mitt was such a wonderful mitt: a chestnutbrown leather exterior withrm stitching. e leather wasinundated with green scribbles of poems; my late brotherhad numerous talents, but handwriting was not one of those. e beautiful mitt was so impeccably kept. Well, it

had quite a few rough, worn out patches, especially by thengers but except for the rough parts, it was still in goodcondition. e mitts entrance was fur lined, perfect for thehand to slide in, although he had a lehanders mitt, so itdidnt t on my catching hand properly. e mitt still smelt of Allie as though he was standing next tome, the musky warm smell that he had; oh I wish he were still here.e baseball mitt was signed by Ted Williams of the Red Sox, undoubtedly the greatest player of the 1950s, a phenomenal all rounder. It costa fortune to get the mitt, though, with such a rare and desirable autograph, my parents forked out a greatsum of money to buy it for him. e poems written all over thengers of the mitt still bring a tear to my eye, as they representedmy brother so well. I can only make out phrases due to the dreadful handwriting but regardless of that,the poems, such as Da odils, are exactly what I would have expected my brother to choose. He chose


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Akshay Kishan KariaL6R1

An alternative continuation of therst two pages of D.H. Lawrences Odour of ChrysanthemumsIt stood outside contemplating its next move, whilst the miners faces all turned towards the mother anson, almost in unison. A portly man thrust open the door of the front carriage and stepped out into theshapeless mud, decorated with ripped hibiscus petals. He paced slowly and pompously towards the thicarriage, from which he dug out a young boy, no older thaneen, and placed him in the mud alongsidehim. He stepped back towards his own carriage, occasionally kicking the dirt out of his way.

e train roared, like a lion celebrating the successful pursuit of a young antelope, and belchesteam out from its top. As it drove away, everyone and everything watched it go.e fowls reared theirheads once again tentatively as the whistle of the train quietened to a small, yet still piercing, murmur, n whispering goodbye but see you soon, in a menacingly cold fashion.e mother and son approachedthe young boy with caution, having observed him from a distance. He coughed hoarsely and waunrecognisable as he was covered in a layer of black dust thicker than a blanket. He still wore his helmalthough it seemed this was just because of his lethargy in removing it. He had not moved since the trahad dropped him o and he stood expressionless. As a miner, he would have been no good.

jovial, invigorating, yet also meaningful and serious poems. Poems that, in my eyes, represented him; fserious, active, kind, caring, and sensitive; all the things which make a great person he had, not to mentihis intellect. He really was a great guy; who else would write poetry on his mitt, which paraphrases whole personality, with such meaningful poems? Only Allie would do that is mitt was not just any mitt; this mitt has so many memories that are attached to it. I will neveforget when, on Allies birthday when he got the mitt as a birthday present, we went down to the battincages to try out the mitt and a new bat that he also got. We had such fun taking it in turns to bat the balinto each others hands using the mitt. It is just little things like this that are such wonderful memorieand provoke such strong emotions when you know you will never be able to repeat the action. Allie ev played in the little league qualifying rounds using the mitt. I remember watching him with awe at h

ability; he was fantastic. When Allie was in hospital with leukaemia, I remember gently tossing the bato each other; each day his throw got weaker and weaker, until a week before he died.at was one of thesaddest things I have ever had the displeasure of observing. I had to watch my own brother throw the bto me, weaker and weaker each time, until I had to come nearer so the ball would not fall on theoor. AllI have le of him is that mitt. at great mitt. He was a great kid, always laughing and playing with thatmitt until he died. Oh, he loved that mitt.


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Suddenly the engine loomed over the house and came to a stop opposite the gate.e grandfather steppeddown from the drivers cabin in which he had spent the day. Number 4 sat impatiently, hissing as hercargo was instantly divulged by the four young men standing just in the archways to the right of the gate.All wore coarse waistcoats and trousers too long for their legs to bear. By now the locomotive had ceasedhissing, opting to emanate residual warmth instead, gradually fading as the evening set in.e load hadbeen turned up.

e grandfather progressed over the ridge, his austere face smeared with black coal, and eyes of dejected grey searching for home through the darkness. His heavy shoes felt no di erent, neither on the weathered stones leading up to the cottage, nor on the frayed mat just outside, nor on the orderly, tiled

oor within the cottage. eir cottage was a modest a air; the furniture was fashioned aggressively, with aheavy hand and an axe. e grooves leby the hacking were uniform, and the stools and table constructedto perform a use.

John ran up to his grandfather, only to be discouraged by his mothers hand pressing against hisshoulder. e grandfather would be up early the next morning to run the lines and had to eat.

Early morning came, and the bleak landscape whirred into action, the cogs had begun to turn.Again the miners were turned out from their cottages, they converged along their identical stone paths in which water had accumulated during the night, and in which the infrequent dawn light glowed a bloodred. A single misplaced step would lead them into hell. Convening just before the gate, faces set all thesame, they passed through. One by one they nodded imperceptibly towards the grandfather, already in hiscabin, and boarded. e train set o , at rst clanking and incongruous, then swiand powerful againstthe early morning haze. e miners were being taken home.

Bleak

Shaneil ShahL6J2

Harry Jukes9R1

A sequel toOf Mice and MenCurley slowly returned to the bunk house. His long face matched the slow pace of his feet trudging through the brush. A woodpecker began to peck into a tree above Curley, where he planned to build hisnest. His beak hammered into the tree relentlessly, but the tree only creaked and groaned. Suddenly, the woodpecker squawked andew o , for the once strong and mighty tree suddenly gave way and collapsedin a heap. e cause of this was soon realised as a bear stumbled through the brush, until its eyes focusedon the still outline of a petried Curley. e four-legged behemoth felt the knives of fear as he recalled thesame gure from a hunting party, during which two bear cubs were killed. Fear turned to anger, which roseup from his stomach into his lungs until he could contain it no longer and let out a ghastly roar throughoutthe forest. With a startled shriek, Curley took o into the brush, with the bear in hot pursuit.

Heart pounding and legs thumping, Curley was not a born runner, and this showed when, within


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Ameya TripathiU6H2

e Straw-Man and e WhaleIt was and still is in present discourse a monumentalclaim to assert that the venerable Salman Rushdie hasmisread a text. Had I been around in 1984 to readGranta11 as it came out I would probably have been laughedo to such a degree following the paradigm-shiing Midnights Childrenthat furthering the argument Iam about to make would be impossible. I have not yetread Midnights Children, but have read Haroun andthe Sea of Stories. It is spellbinding and I think that myimpressions of Rushdie will only improve with each one of the books that I read.

Yet heres my problem. e claim is this: Rushdie, chastising Orwell for advocating quietism asa form of politics rather than as a form of literature, has either unintentionally or deliberately misrea Inside the Whale. I should make clear that I am an ardent reader of Orwell, and defend him oen. I amaware of the numerous political factions that have attempted to assume his literary legacy as their owa type of unedifying frenzy which Orwell writes about with so much disgust when he considers in hreview,Charles Dickens, how that writers legacy was also unfairly and inaccurately assumed by many tobe their own.

In Orwells essay, he describes a sort of condition he believes writers like Henry Miller in h

Tropic of Cancer are appealing to:

ten seconds, the bear pounced on him, and pinned him to theoor. Suddenly, a large bang oscillatedthroughout the clearing. e bear, puzzled, jumped o his prey, and was just about to return to his dinner, when like a guardian angel, Slim appeared with a shotgun. He levelled the weapon at the bear and pullthe trigger. e hammer of the shotgun snapped down, sparking the gunpowder which forced the lead pellets out of the barrel at tremendous speed.e cold revolving metal slugs embedded themselves in thebears chest, and the red and sticky life dripped at a steady pace from the cavity. Curley, still in shock, on the ground, exhausted. Slim reloaded the shotgun and paced slowly towards Curley. Your Dad surgonna give me hell, maybe even kill me, but all I care is that theres one less bastard in the world. Len was my friend, and this is for him. Goodbye, you god damn man.

Curley opened his eyes for a second, as Slim pulled the trigger.is time, the only thing to be

heard and seen, was the sound of the gunpowder igniting, and the mued thump as it hit Curley in thechest. His eyes bulged for a nanosecond, and then his soul evaporated into hell. Slim calmly broke thshotgun in two, and then returned to the ranch, as if nothing had happened.


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Here he is touching upon what is probably a very widespread fantasy. It is perhaps worth noticing that everyone, at least every English-speaking person, in ariably speaks of Jonah and the whale. Of course the creaturethat swallowed Jonah was a sh, and was so described in the Bible (Jonahi. 17), but children naturally confuse it with a whale, and this agment of baby-talk is habitually carried into later life a sign, perhaps, of the hold that the Jonah myth has upon our imaginations. For the fact isthat being inside a whale is a very comfortable, cosy, homelike thought.

e historical Jonah, if he can be so called, was glad enough to escape,but in imagination, in day-dream, countless people have enied him. It

is, of course, quite obvious why.e whales belly is simply a womb big enough for an adult. ere you are, in the dark, cushioned space that exactly ts you, with yards of blubber between yourself and reality, ableto keep up an attitude of the completest indi erence, no matter what happens. A storm that would sink all the battleships in the world would hardly reach you as an echo. Even the whales own moements would probably be imperceptible to you. He might be wallowing among the surface waves or shooting down into the blackness of the middle seas (amile deep, according to Herman Mel ille), but you would never noticethe di erence. Short of being dead, it is the nal, unsurpassable stage of irresponsibility.

In short, it is the biblical idea of Jonah sitting inside a whales stomach, a womb big enough foran adult, where he feels cocooned away from the massive events he cannot control and lives in a sedateand relieving form of amoral, apolitical passivity. Orwells essay is about whether this is a defensibleattitude to take, a defensible thing to do in literature. Orwells whale, however, is a transparent one. Youcan see everything going on around you. It is not irresponsibility out of ignorance; it is irresponsibilityin light of it.

In the year 1984, Rushdie wrote an essay calledOutside e WhaleforGranta. It is worth your

time and makes many valuable points, but does so by taking ane writer, suggesting he believes theopposite of what he does, in order to make those points. I could not, like Jonah, sit inside the whale and watch this - well, slander - continue unchallenged.

Rushdie rst attempts to demonstrate a hypocrisy of Orwells:

Around here things begin to get a little bizarre. Orwell quite fairly points out that to say I accept to life in the thirties is to say that you accept concentration camps, rubber truncheons, Hitler, Stalin,bombs, aeroplanes, tinned food, machine guns, putsches, purges, slogans, Bedaux belts, gas masks, submarines, spies, proocateurs, press censorship, secret prisons, aspirins, Hollywood lms and political


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murders. (No, I dont know what a Bedaux belt is, either.) But in thevery next paragraph he tells us that precisely because, in one sense, heis passive to experience, Miller is able to get nearer to the ordinary manthan is possible to more purposive writers. For the ordinary man is also passive. Characterizing the ordinary man as a victim, he then claimsthat only the Miller type of victim-books, non-political... non-ethical...non-literary... non-contemporary, can speak with the peoplesoice. Soto accept concentration camps and Bedaux belts turns out to be prettyworthwhile, a er all.

e style of what Rushdie says at the end of the quoted extract is plainly one attempting todemonstrate a hypocrisy (see the So and aer all). But no such hypocrisy exists if we actually read howOrwell describes the ordinary man:

Within a narrow circle (home life, and perhaps the trade union or local politics) he feels himself master of his fate, but against major events he is as helpless as against the elements.

At no point does Orwell say that Against major events he should be helpless against theelements. e reason this is important is because Rushdie later goes on to say that by advocatingquietism in a moral or political (those two words will be interchangeable throughout) sense, one itacitly supporting the establishment and thus is in concordance with the proposition Against majorevents he should be helpless against the elements, the type of proposition I assume you, like me, w

nd disagreeable.But this is never what Orwell said and plainly not the intended meaning. Miller, inTropic

of Cancer , was exploring the state of the ordinary man. He was not advocating it as a moral position When writers write about the state of a airs, they are not advocating a moral position - otherwiseevery factual reporter could be accused of being a slanderous moraliser. When Cameron says that eISI is supporting the Taliban as he recently did, he is not saying e ISI ought to be supporting the

Taliban. When Orwell says e ordinary man is a victim, he is not saying e ordinary man ought tobe a victim. Orwell asks if Sit on your bum is a defensible position himself in moral terms and doubtful that he would ever argue it was as Rushdie contends he does.

So what virtue could there possibly be out of writing about what is, rather than what oughtto be?

What possible virtue is there in a book with this ostensibly indefensible moral position whichRushdie suitably attacks?

Well, Orwell has told us, which Rushdie has chosen to skip over:

I should have felt, like Mr Forster, that by simply standing aloof and keeping touch with pre-war emotions, Eliot was carrying on the human


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heritage. What a relief it would have been at such a time, to read about the hesitations of a middle-aged high-brow with a bald spot! Sodi erent om bayonet drill! A er the bombs and the food-queues and the recruiting posters, a humanoice! What a relief!

So this sort of quietism that Orwell is advocating is not an actual moral position. At no pointis he saying that one ought to be quiet in the face of these events that one cannot change.e reasonMillersTropic of Cancer has merit, according to him, is because it is a beautiful account of what is, not what ought to be. And here it is said best by himself exactly why this quietism is justied in aliterary, aesthetic sense rather than as moral practice (presumably a passage Rushdie would want to quote, but

he chose not to...): At this date it hardly even needs a war to bring home to us the

disintegration of our society and the increasing helplessness of all decent people. It is for this reason that I think that the passive, non-cooperative attitude implied in Henry Millers work is justi ed. Whether or not it is an expression of what people ought to feel, it probably comes somewhereclose to what they do feel. Once again it is the humanoice among the bomb-explosions, a iendly Americanoice, innocent of public spiritedness. No sermons, merely the subjective truth. And along thoselines, apparently, it is still possible for a good noel to be written. Not necessarily an edifying noel, but a noel worth reading and likely to beremembered a er it is read.

Note that instead Rushdie elects to quote this passage, which you might imagine out of thecontext I have just provided reects rather poorly on Orwell:

Progress and reaction, Orwell concludes, have both turned out to be swindles. Seemingly there is nothing le but quietism robbing reality

of its terrors by simply submitting to it. Get inside the whale or rather, admit you are inside the whale ( for you are, of course). Give yourself over to the world-process... simply accept it, endure it, record it.

Every artist is not a moralist. Orwell understood this fully, and here we can see that Rushdieattempts to annex Orwells claim that quietism is the best form of literature in the sense that it isrelieving and empathetic towards the ordinary man, to an entirely separate claim, which is that we should be quiet in a political sense, something Orwell isnot saying - and it would be most out of character of Orwell to say such a thing. No sermons, merely the subjective truth. Subjective truthis a bit of an awkward and logically impossible phrase, but the point is that instead of a moralistic or political sermon, a subjective account of experience was what was most likely to produce great literature


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at that present time. Rushdie also omits the next sentence in the paragraph which he is quoting:

at seems to be the formula that any sensitive noelist is now likely to adopt.

Pick up on the word sensitive.is is sensitive as in world-aware, understanding. Note that

the adjective is not righteous or justied or moral. Again, Rushdies criticisms operate under the premise that for Orwell, the content of good literature must be politically justied when this is absurd.It is this misapprehension, this straw-man, that characterises Rushdies refutations of assertions Orwedid not actually make in therst place. It is crucially here where I claim Rushdie has misread Inside e

Whaleand done so to suit his own (valuable) devices at the expense of a heroic writers legacy.It would appear that politically committed art can actually prove more durable than messagefrom the stomach of ash, Rushdie writes. Orwells outlook on the world was overly pessimistic. He hadTB, was living oen alone in cold ats, and consistently lived in a sort of profound despair, as Rushdie points out, again correctly. We could say that the reasonTropic of Cancer was popular, however, wasthat it is in some sense a political book, both in its overt use of pornography to provoke and the sensof victimhood. Or we could say, as Orwell does, that the very reason it was popular was because it wamoral and apolitical and spoke to how people did feel or rather more clearly put, how people werrather than how people ought to be.

Rushdie then does a slightly mean thing in that he says Orwell is contradicting himself bycomparison to an essay he wrote six years later - Politics and the English Language, where Orwell saysthat there is no such thing as keeping out of politics. InWhy I Write, Orwell also says that the opinionthat art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political position. Rushdie criticises himsaying that Orwell advocating that the writer should go inside the whale constructs a mechanism by which one can keep out of politics when this is impossible.

But again, Rushdies criticism is misguided. He says a philosophy built on an intellectual defemust always be rebuilt at a later point - here using philosophy in a moral sense, but one stresses agathat at no point did Orwell advocate quietism as a way of living or as a way of politics, just as a way writing a good novel from a sensitive, rather than righteous or justied novelist. Moreover, Orwell does

not really say that one can keep out of politics. For Miller, the whale is transparent - you see everythithat is going on in the political world, but you are helpless to change it.e reason Orwell argues weshould go inside the whale, is, as quoted above, for a bit of relief from the bayonet-drill and as he sawthe destruction of liberalism which entailed the destruction of the writer. In some aspects he was wronin his forecast of how bad it would be for the writer during and aer the war, but it should be notedOrwell is arguing writers like Miller are not valuable in a distinct political or moral sense but rather inliterary or aesthetic one with their comic relief and puerile language. It was for him the only way a gonovel could be written.

Passivity always serves the interests of the status quo, Rushdie says.is is true and a point well-made but su ers the same problem - passivity is not something Orwell argues for as a way of livinonly as a way of writing well. Even Winston Smith, Rushdies example of a protagonist in despair, do


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not behave passively until the end and the message from Nineteen Eighty-Four

Scribe: The Habs Literary Journal, Autumn 2010

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Transcript of Scribe: The Habs Literary Journal, Autumn 2010