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scribe | Spring 2015

The Haberdashers’ Aske’s Boys’ School Literary Journal

ANDOBEYSER

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The Haberdashers’ Aske’s Boys’ School

Literary Journal

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Spring 2015 Edition

Scribe | Spring 2015 3

ContentsEditorial - Jordan Bernstein, Editor ....................................................................................................................................6Cityscape - Zechariah Mohammed (10M2) ....................................................................................................................................10The River’s Odyssey - Joseph Wolffe (7S1) .........................................................................................................................................11Suffering - Tamilore Awosile (9H2) ..................................................................................................................................................12Lily - Archuna Ananthamohan (11M1) .........................................................................................................................................13On The Brink of Extinction - Seiya Tanase (7S2) ............................................................................................................................15World War Three - Viraj Shah (9M2) ..............................................................................................................................................16Empty - Henry Colbert (10M1) .......................................................................................................................................................17I Remember the Time - Avi Clements (8R) ......................................................................................................................................18Ghost - Isaac Zamet (11R1) ..............................................................................................................................................................19Wounds of Mutilation - Archuna Ananthamohan (11M1) ...........................................................................................................21In My Dreams Sometimes - Isaac Zamet (11R1) ............................................................................................................................23Time Passing - Hugo Max (8H)........................................................................................................................................................24Cloisters - Adam Harris (10H2) ......................................................................................................................................................25The Plunge - Charlie Petken (8H) ....................................................................................................................................................26But You Never Did - Armaan Abootalebi (9R1) .............................................................................................................................27The Pen is Mightier than the Sword: The Story of Satire and Free Expression - Jordan Bernstein (L6R1) and Adiyant Lamba (L6J1) .........................................................................................................................................................28The Weekend Activist - Siavash Minoukadeh (10R1) .......................................................................................................32Dear Diary - Joshua Gottlieb (10R1) ................................................................................................................................33A Day in the Mind of Scooby Doo - Alex Cohen (10H2) ..................................................................................................34Peace in War - Richard Matheson (11C1) ........................................................................................................................35Huxley and Freedom - Joey Gardner-White (10C2) ........................................................................................................36Cage - Vivek Gudi (9H2) ..................................................................................................................................................37Review of American Sniper - Noah Max (11H2) .............................................................................................................39Chaos Of Life: An Ode to Turner - Hugo Max (8H) ........................................................................................................40An Interview with Oliver Dowden - Jacob Whitehead (L6J1) .........................................................................................41Dead or Alive - Oliver Lister (7H2) ..................................................................................................................................44Terra Firma - Sameer Aiyar Majeed (9M2) .....................................................................................................................45At The Genesis Of All Existence - Adiyant Lamba (L6J1) ...............................................................................................48Undercover - Sacha Holt (7M1)........................................................................................................................................49And I Haven’t Had a Crumpet Either - Ishan Gandhi (9M2) ........................................................................................50Voicemail - Noah Max (11H2) ........................................................................................................................................51Seaweed Disco - Noah Max (11H2) .................................................................................................................................52Interlude - Matt Rosenfeld (10C2) ...................................................................................................................................53She Said No - Archuna Ananthamohan (11M1) .............................................................................................................54Storm - Noah Max (11H2) ...............................................................................................................................................55Four Minutes, Thirty Seconds - Oliver Mosheim (7R1) ....................................................................................................56Falling Fear - Gabriel Michaels (10M2) ...........................................................................................................................60A Close Encounter - Daniel McCabe (10H2) ...................................................................................................................61Two Sentence Story - Luke Silverman (L6S2) ..................................................................................................................62The Coma of Eternity - Alex Dangoor (7C1) ....................................................................................................................63HABS Boys’ and Girls’ Schools LBA Novel Writing Competition 2014 ...........................................................................65Novel Writing Competition Winner: Event Horizon by Emre Aygin ..............................................................................67


Scribe Prizes, Spring 2015

SEnior PrizEwinnEr: THE SCriBBlErIsaac Zamet

Ghost

SEnior runnEr-uPArchuna Ananthamohan

Lily

Junior PrizEwinnEr: THE SCriBBlETVivek Gudi

Cage

Junior runnEr-uPOliver Mosheim

Four Minutes, Thirty Seconds


Editor: Jordan Bernstein

Supervising Editor: Mr. A.E. o’Sullivan

Deputy Editor: Adiyant lamba

Copy Editor (Short Stories): luke Silverman

Copy Editor (Features): Jacob whitehead

Copy Editor (Poetry): richard Matheson

Editorial Assistant (Senior): noah Max

Editorial Assistants ( Junior): Joshua Gottlieb, Joshua Baumring-Gledhill, Guy Dabby-Joory

Art: nikhil ladwa, Karan Vadagma, Elon Julius

Editorial Team


This is the tenth and final edition of Scribe which i have been involved with, my second as Editor. i do not say this to engender sympathy as i come to the end of my tenure, nor to solidify a legacy which, with any luck, will hang over those who succeed me. i say this because it is only by detailing the amount of time that i have spent working on Scribe that i realise what it has done for me, if not what i have done for it. Scribe has the specific remit of giving a voice to students throughout the school who wish to write creatively, yet it would be a mistake to believe that this journal represents nothing more. when the first Editor i worked with, Ameya Tripathi, secured funding for Scribe to be professionally printed, he recognised that this would allow for the accession of literature and creative writing to their rightful place in the school. The hard part remained obtaining the right talent to fill this space. The standing of the journal would mean nothing without the continued support and submissions of students.

As always, these contributions are of an exceptionally high standard, raising important questions in the most eloquent way. Joey Gardner-White’s Huxley and Freedom critiques current events in a way that is almost dystopian, and ends on a note that makes us wonder whether we subscribe to the values of society and whether we are failing in some way if we do. inaction as an evil is also toyed with in in Isaac Zamet’s poem In My Dreams Sometimes, where the speaker is haunted by an undefined mistake, yet appears to long for reminders of it as the poem draws to a close. So, are both of these works presenting all of life’s decisions as lose-lose situations, saying that we will always fail?

we are reminded, of course, that not all decisions are as simple as that to write or not to write for Scribe. As Vivek Gudi explains in Cage, the entirety of human experience might simply be an attempt to suppress the beast within. Yet is this too harsh a reading of human nature? As Richard Matheson notes in Peace in War, life and the choices therein are rarely so binary as for us to see exactly what will and will not cause our ‘beast’ to be released, and subjective morality may really be in the mind of the beholder. As Alex Cohen notes in A Day in the Mind of Scooby Doo:

“We were once those meddling kids. Not anymore.”

of course, all hope is not totally lost, as we need not accept the constraints of society. in the piece which Adiyant Lamba and i co-author, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword: The Story of Satire and Free Expression, we give an account of the ways in which people have throughout time and regardless of circumstance or resources available, used a variety of media to critique their societies. An example of this is in Joshua Gottlieb’s Dear Diary, where through the eyes of innocence we explore a society with its faults that, despite the best of intentions, can occasionally go too far. in trying to better ourselves, we must not forget our overall aims.

The Editorial


And so we turn to our Six-word Stories, a competition (based on the Twitter page) which had the aim of showing that when it comes to writing a story, cogency of expression or a broad vocabulary are secondary to imagination and artistic merit. Be they the puns of Cameron Baker or the political acuity of Sameer Aiyar-Majeed, the selection brings something quite unique to this issue, leaving us wanting more.

Putting together an issue of Scribe is, i imagine, like composing a piece of music. At the beginning of each term, we know there will be a copy of Scribe: it sits, a dejected and dusty piano at the back of the school’s collective subconscious. The editorial team is selected, and they provide the simple chords that form a distinct and recognisable baseline. As submissions are sent in, a new component is added to the piece of music: an epic poem might provide a melody, a fascinating feature a guitar solo, a simple short story acting as the humble tambourine. And slowly as we edit and refine the pieces sent in, this dusty piano becomes an epicentre of school life. As i take a step back from Scribe, whilst i leave it in capable hands which will ensure the publication goes from strength to strength, for me the music will never be quite so loud.

Yet out of sadness, we can extract hope. out of silence, we can extract music. And, we take solace in the fact that out of HABS, we can always extract Scribe.

And so, it is, as always, with enormous thanks to my editorial team that i commend to you the Spring 2015 edition of Scribe. Here’s to the future!

Jordan Bernstein, Editor


Alex Cohen 10H2Queen shot six times. Valuable photographs..

richard Mindell 10r1Then Mr Bell called Mr watson

noah Max 11H2‘Dad, Dad… i think i’m straight.’

Sameer Aiyar-Majeed 9M2“live hard, die young.” lived hard…

Yasir Soleja l6r1 trust the government everything is fine

Six word Stories


Daniel Harris l6H2Politician wanted. Class necessary. Morality optional.

Guy Dabby-Joory 9H2Six words too much............................. point proven.

noah Austin l6J2i'm trapped! Help me! Before they

Cameron Baker l6C1"ordered the duck, but no bill”

Six word Stories continued


Dark trees flank the roads.no shadows to be seen here.we carry on though.The world covered in darknessand we are the only light.

The morning brightens.Abandoned cars everywhere.no one to be seen.we are the only lightin an abandoned city.

raging fires burn. nothing to guide us now.The inferno burns deep.Seen trudging through the flames,we are the eternal light.

Crumbling buildings.Vine-covered walls. no signs of hope.Abandoned buildings and streets.The epidemic plagues us.

Bodies everywhere.Horrific smells fill the streets.rats run rampant.we race through the cityscape,rushing along the roads.

we hear crying now.A little girl runs to us,tear stains dried on her cheeks.A limping man comes now,screaming out to us for help.

we load our gunsGetting ready to shootThe girl behind us.He screams and runs at us.open fire.

The guns fall silent.The man stops, stares at us,Fear in his eyes.we back away,trudging through the cityscape.

Cityscape

zechariah Mohammed (10M2)


Just a trickle.But i’m moving and flowing through the marsh,The beginning of an arduous trek.i start to move through this bog,The valley encloses me,And the trickling turns to a gushing,As i spill into the rolling hills.

As the valley flattens,Fields with golden crops surround me.i burst through,nothing can stop me,Cascading, rampaging,An indestructible torrent,Spurting through, through, through...And then i’m falling,Shooting over the edge,And i crash and i smash into the rocks,Fizzing, bubbling, gurgling.

And now i’m winding and twisting and spinning,An entwined network of muddled meanders.But the end is in sight,The tide is pulling me,Beckoning me with its salty fingers.

Freedom.

The river’s odyssey

Joseph wolffe (7S1)


The sound of a suffering soul,The rushing red blood,A starving child with nothing to eat.My heart aches, as i watch powerless.Shivering sounds of the new voice drone onSome people question the higher authority, Some people say, let fate take its course'But i say, 'let God do His work'.

The brutal barbarism of the murder of innocent children.The terrorist taking of tens of hundreds of innocents.The human hand misused to cause painTo punish and prove his point to his own brother.we live together but not as one.Some people wonder, 'why can't he stop it?'Some people ask, 'is he actually good?'But people don't stop and listen, Maybe his megaphone isn't loud enough.

whilst people may unite, And claim they are Charlie,The fight still plods on.People strive for a happy and harmonious world,Blindly they try to change our ways, But still inflict suffering upon others.Maybe their way is not the way,Maybe there is one better.Maybe the way to end the pain,is the way of someone other.

once we all have turned from evil, From repaying hate with hate,And instead show love,The suffering may cease, And the white dove fly in the whistling wind.‘But why?’, we ask. ‘Does the sea still rage,The wind whirl and the earth shake?’To the humble human mind,These may seem,As part of a scheme, to make us scream.To a higher being, ‘the plans are of good, not of evil,To give you a future and a hope’.

Suffering

Tamilore Awosile (9H2)


nothing has changed. The kaleidoscopic spectacle of garish neon is still overwhelming. The blinding party strobes are still dizzying. The hellish screams of prepubescent girls enduring the Catherine wheel still pierces through the sepulchral air. And, in the near distance, her laughter still lingers across the field. Her cherubim giggles are muffled by the thunderous, carnival atmosphere, yet lily’s virtuous laughter can still be heard. Just listen carefully...

i miss her.

nothing has changed. The attractions remain intact. And now, for the first time in many months, ‘The Spirit of Pinner’ has re-opened to her adoring public. For far too long, we have waited, with such morose anxiety. it has drawn so much fever, so much hype.Swarms of locals have rushed to see it, so compelled to attend, believing it to be their moral obligation. Villages nearby have pilgrimaged too to observe the sacred sights, offering gifts as a symbol of respect.

These universally admired attractions strike a chord with so many people, from so many demographics. Two by two, we have visited: goths and punks, grandfathers and grandmothers, boys and girls. A parish vicar, a shrewd rabbi and a pious imam have also visited the attraction. This commercial success is not only a hit with the locals but the whole nation has been drawn to it too.

She was only fourteen.

The tabloid press, pathogenic parasites, is thrilled by the entire affair. They have followed it right from the start, never failing to churn out yet another sensationalist headline. oh no, the bastards have never failed to dramatise.

“The girl who loved too much” – the headlines read.

The fairground administration has asked me to open the attraction with a speech of commemoration.

Violet fuchsia. lily would have loved it. A bouquet of pungent fuchsias rest by the Merry-Go-round. A poignant sight. i weep; i can still remember. My girlfriend’s laughter can still be heard - it was like yesterday when she and i held hands. we were like untamed lionesses, soaring through the plains. it was like yesterday when i tasted her ambrosial lips, sweeter than candy floss. it was like last night when we had our first kiss.

lily

Archuna Ananthamohan (11M1)

continued ...

SEnior PrizEwinnEr, Spring 2015: runner-up


The new attraction is more than a bouquet of flowers. it rests in memory of the bravest girl i’ll ever know. lily was the kind of girl who was not afraid to tell the world that she loved me. She was defiant to the end. Her defiance inspired all those girls who hide their true feelings in fear of society’s damning indictments. Yet it was this relentless ferocity that also caused her death.

if only i had looked back, that night. if only i had looked back and see them take her from me, it may never have happened. She might never have surrendered her flesh to those thugs.

nothing has changed. we’re still flayed, beaten and worst of all, shamed, to within an inch of our lives.

nothing has changed. we still continue to ignore the bigotry. we still continue to lament the tragedy. when will the hatred end? when will i see the day when lily and i can freely declare our affection towards each other? will society ever welcome the fact that we both share love, in spite of sharing gender?

nothing has changed.

lily continued



i’m sure that you have heard the sweet song of a robin echoing in your ears, or the high-pitched cry of a ring-necked parakeet. You might have seen a tiger slinking amongst acres of long grass or a swan fiercely protecting her young. nature has thousands of surprises for everyone. nature should be loved and treasured. Yet sadly, hundreds of species are becoming endangered. why? Because we humans are mercilessly killing these creatures for food, clothing, even as a sport – for fun.

Have you ever eaten tuna? Currently, tuna is the most consumed fish in the world and the iuCn (international union for Conservation of nature) has classed the Atlantic Bluefin Tuna as endangered as a result of overfishing. if we had not eaten so much tuna, then this would not have happened. our greed led us to this and therefore, fishing tuna may be banned. likewise in Japan, the Japanese Eel is an extremely popular type of fish and is considered a delicacy. The iuCn has also added the Japanese Eel to its red list as an endangered species. The key to this problem is very simple. if we eat these kinds of food in moderation, then we will still be able to enjoy these fish without wiping them out.

Secondly, certain species are being destroyed because their fur is in high demand due to their use in making mats, scarves, bags or shoes. The members of the otter family have been hunted because of demand for their pelts. Similarly, spotted cats, such as jaguars, tigers, leopards and cheetahs have also been hunted and are endangered. Snakes are becoming endangered since their skin is used for shoes and bags. Fur coats, shoes or mats made from beautiful creatures’ fur are totally unnecessary. Yes, they may look good on the catwalk, but they are certainly not worth it. After all, you can get good clothing which are not made by using animal pelts.

lastly, what about hunting as a sport? This is the cruellest of them all. Hunting, another unnecessary sport, is perhaps even worse than the examples listed above. The Polar Bear is hunted for sport and the iuCn has now listed it as Vulnerable. Currently, only Alaskan and Canadian natives, such as Aleuts and inuits are allowed to hunt Polar Bears. nonetheless, all Canadian natives are not permitted to take the skins or head out of Canada and into the uSA. These are all the bad aspects of hunting, but what do they all have to do with you? i believe that our generation is the key to a new world, a world in which everyone lives happily with nature, respecting and thrives with it. Perhaps, as generation turns to generation, the world will gradually come to its senses.

on The Brink of Extinction

Seiya Tanase (7S2)


why? why... it is such a powerful word. it allows us to reason things out attentively and it gives us the ability to find out the justification for the way that specific things are or have happened. The official definition of the word is “for what reason or purpose". Just a thought – don’t get angry.

So, bearing this in mind, can you, honestly, tell me why the world that we call our ’home' is in such disarray? why and how did we let our world reach the state that it's in? what is the reason or purpose behind all the repugnant events that we read, hear and see in the news? They teach us to be ’competent’ and ’acceptable’ members of society, and they train us to be functional citizens, ones that work hard and are dignified and retain good manners throughout. They tell us that we are the so-called ’leaders of tomorrow’ and that we will go off to establish the world of the future, but there are still a minimal set of role models, older than ourselves, that we can look up to for guidance and inspiration. why?

i still remember the oversized poster that was hung up on the side wall of my nursery classroom. it was a rich garment of some golden colour and at the top, the words, "golden rules" had been scrawled in a bold black font. Below it, a quintet of bullet-pointed points were blatantly visible, stating, "we are kind towards others, we are respectful, we do not hurt others, we do not cheat and lie and we do not discriminate". not one individual in the nursery understood what the last word meant and i remember the time when everyone was asking each other what it meant. A host of childhood memories are just flooding back to me, now. Yet, look at the example that has been set by our elders in the world - i can think of such a multitude of different occasions where every minute part of each of the above rules was completely obliterated. Terrorist attacks, war, racism and sexism, child abuse, domestic violence, rape. That is what we are being exposed to on a daily basis and that is what infuriates me so much. A bunch of lies, rubbish and hypocrisy. we learn from our examples and we learn from what we see, we are already instituting the violence of today into the future by seeing these sort of things. You are influencing the youth that will be your so-called leaders of tomorrow. why, may i ask?

i cannot put it to words. why is humanity like this? why are we like this? Shouldn't we be here for all of us, to share each other's pain instead of inflicting pain upon each other? why do we need to drop bombs over one another, why do we need to behead others to strike out alerts that our view is the sole correct one, why do we need to kidnap innocent schoolchildren for no apparent reason, why do we need to shoot each other, why? why? why don't you practice what you preach and live in harmony with one another in a peaceful way? if only we lived in a world where people had the freedom to voice their opinions and their opinions could be received without violence. if only we lived in a world where there was love. This is humanity at its current state. it is selfish, untruthful and, quite frankly, atrocious. why are we doing this to ourselves? is it really worth it? we should be attempting to love and not hate. we do not need to bully one another for the way we dress, the way we are or the actions that we carry out. nor for the people we ourselves love – whatever gender or race they happen to be. There is no “reason or purpose” behind what we are doing that is satisfactory. we see negative imagery everywhere and it just doesn't make any sense whatsoever. As a race, we are under-developing. So i beg of you to make the change in the world and claw together as one united race but if we don’t and continue the way we are, do not act so surprised when we launch world war Three. The modern day apocalypse…in fact the events leading up to it may have been set in motion.

world war Three

Viraj Shah (9M2)


My thoughtsDelicate as glassMy pastA blurMy futureShattered apart Everything i have ever knownEverything i ever willViolated past the point of no returni weepSilentlyAlone My feelings are gonei am left bareStaring in the mirror

The figure looking backisn’t me i am empty.

Empty

Henry Colbert (10M1)


we march into the parkArmour-cladCoarse jumpersMittenswooly helmets we mount our sledrace down the slopeChurn up the snowScream battle crieslaughingDrunk on crisp cold air we reach the foot of the slopeGaze backwe’ve stained the white carpetwith a trail of grease Suddenlywe spot tracksEnemies perhaps?we followTo a clearingA lone soldier and his obedient steedBuilding a castle of ice

we join himHours passrelentless, determined hoursuntil our palace is complete we march into our castleour armour speckled whiteAll covered in the snow

our snow.

i remember the Time

Avi Clements (8r)


Care would be an overstatement, trepidation an understatement. Certainly not Solomon’s usual indifference.

Between the dying leaves, and the crying trees he walked.it was there, that he came across the ghost; he knew he would.

Bound by a broken pair of handcuffs, it breathed without breath.

it took him a few seconds to muster the strength.The question tasted bitter in his mouth.

“Do you remember, smiles or laughter? or the grieving and crying and the pain thereafter? Mountains of white, and rays of gold? Eyes so bright, and hearts so bold…”

The ghost turned to respond,opened his mouth,waved a cuffed left hand…

Hate dribbled from his tongue,it pooled amongst the leaves below.

ignorance and sarcasm dripped from his lips.

Solomon turned and spat,with a venom of every colour,with the defiance of all man,

“i’d rather be on earth than in heaven.”

The ghost did not know.The ghost would not move.And with a vengeance that could be only mine,“it takes a lifetime to die”He cried, fervent but defeated.

Ghost

isaac zamet (11r1)

continued ...

SEnior PrizEwinnEr, Spring 2015


i hear his voice in silences,Though that is not enough.That is not enough.

Solomon was walking home,And on the side of the road,The fat vicar sat and criedit takes a lifetime to die.He explained:

“we’re too alone, to be alone, in the blackness that surrounds,we’re too alone, to be alone, in the blackness that surrounds”

“And though reality might disagree, God is here with me,And though reality might disagree, God is here with me.”

it takes a lifetime to die.

Ghost continued

isaac zamet (11r1)


i could see it in her eyes.

However much those ocular pits of darkness tried to distract me otherwise, i could feel a soul in them, screaming to be unleashed.

“Miss Habteab, is there anything you wish to confide in me?”

until now, interviewing a teenage girl was like any other banal activity required by my trade. By thirty-five, the flashy thrills of journalism which lured so many naïve Arts graduates towards inevitable doom had subsided. Journalism had left me unconcerned about sleaze and corruption, devoid of empathy.

And yet right now it was different.

My preferred style had been informal thus far. Huddled in the corner of a small Parisian café, leila and i had developed an oriental ritual of sipping our insipid cups of Fairtrade coffee before disclosing another interesting aspect of our lives.

one could not but admire leila’s courage. it was her resounding bravery alone that had guided her from war-torn Somalia to the dinghy streets of whitechapel. She was a high-flyer at school, and the Council, with their nauseatingly ‘natural’ opportunism, did not hesitate to make her the poster-girl for ‘multiculturalism’.

“Miss Habteab?”

Ever since i set eyes on leila i could feel something mysterious. Always draped in pastel-blue, from headscarf to toe. Yet her eyes, those deep eyes, stood out.

wounds of Mutilation


continued ...


wounds of Mutilation continued


Her faint eyebrows were beginning to quiver. Her solemn lips were trembling.

Yet a whole hour of conversation went by and i scribbled down her predictable responses. How mediocre! i decided to ask her a question not in my script. i asked her a question that could get me the sack. But what is journalism without spontaneity?

“Miss Habteab, do you feel this dogma of multiculturalism has, at any point, held you back?”

i watched her tremble.

“i felt like i was a prisoner in my own home,” she muttered. “You do not know what it was like!”

i was perplexed.

“Mr night, your people have ignored my pleas for help. You do not know what it was like.” She stiffened in retaliation, but her emotions were continuing to leak.

“leila, what do you mean?”

“what do i mean?” she hissed. “what do i mean? i tried to escape practices so barbaric. i tried to protect my body, but, but…three words. Just three words.”

She surged in anguish and hurried away. Tears furiously streamed down her face. Her frantic eyes had told me enough – it was the same old story. in the name of ‘cultural cohesion’, the Council had connived in torture.

leila bore the wounds of mutilation yet not once did we protest.


She’ll come to me in my dreams sometimes.Distorting the infinitely perfect –The infinitely real –Gossamer heart of my illusion.

As i hold my own headunder the dreamThe blanket of night Creeps in further.She’ll make me pay for my crimesAgainst her willShadowless and still.

She stares into the spaceThat my mind leaves behindAs it departswithin the passingof a second.

And now she is gone,And in her wakeCome torrents of regretFantasies of fulfilment.

i recede into the blackness.Apathy waits with open arms.

in My Dreams Sometimes

isaac zamet (11r1)


In memory of Montielle, 2013-15

white fluttersThrough frozen air.i standEntranced by sorrowSo many emotionsBite and scratchAt my soul Memories stolen byThe invisible fingers of time.She follows mewherever i walkA presenceThat will never leave Moments never last.They slip from your grasp,leave you coldAnd lonely.But the truth remainsin your heart forever.

For wherever you travelThe lost will be therewatching from above.The past survivesThe good timesuntil the very last momentswhen i kissed her goodbye So here i standAlone,Enclosed inA cocoon of sadness.

one day it will passAnd the clockwill tick again.i will look onwardsBut will never forgetwhat came before.

Those times we had.

i will remember her.

Time Passing

Hugo Max (8H)


Cloisters, it seems like a lifetime ago.The memories stream forthlike the tears i used to shed,But they are blurred, it's only been 40 odd,Go closer maybe,And reminisce of youth

Closer, The closer i go, the picture…it's getting better. i see the mass of toy cars.Scattered like crops on a field,i recognise the whiff of mother’s homemade soup.oh, how i miss it!

i hear that noise, the key revolving in the lock.wait. Stop. run.Father, Father, Father.i embrace him so tightly.

Mother calls us to dinner. we sit at the table togetherwe talk and chat about the day, so cheerful.The food is delightful: homemade love.i long for it.

How i envy myself so much. i felt so happy back then.it hurts, it hurts – why did i look back?i wish i could share that happiness now.Maybe it's not meant to be. Maybe i'm meant tobe lonely, maybe i'm meant to be free.

Adam Harris (10H2)

Cloisters


ExcitementExhilarationEuphoriaAdrenaline surges through my veinslike wildfireAs i takeThe plunge.

Snow flutters pastlike white firefliesDancing in the breeze.

ShockuneaseFeari am woken from the dreamFireflies too fast to comprehendi lose commandof my descentTumbling into the mist.

The Plunge

Charlie Petken (8H)


remember when i broke your watch?i thought you’d shout at meBut you never did. remember when i deleted your contacts?i thought you’d loathe meBut you never did. remember when i crashed your car?i thought you’d detest meBut you never did. So many thingsi want to tell you.i thought you’d come backBut you never did.

But You never Did

Armaan Abootalebi (9r1)


in the years before north Korea took it upon itself to rewrite world history and redefine words, satire was used to refer to the use of humour to expose the stupidity or flaws of others, particularly within the context of modern politics. Since this particular brand of joviality first became a voice for those lower down the ladders of social hierarchy and governance, satire has been embraced throughout western liberal democracies. As most British historians will know from Punch magazine, right from the Victorian era, the light-hearted critique of modern society has made literature and art the natural outlet for both the disgruntled layman or the comical journalist. nowadays, we see that not much has changed, with Private Eye and The Spectator charged with leading the cause of British satire, and Charlie Hebdo, a publication particularly at the forefront of our thoughts on the subject, perhaps providing us with a way to judge exactly how far satire could or should go. And yet to really understand what satire is and why it has the effects that it has, we must look at the co-dependent relationship between satire and society.

it might be hard to believe, given the financial state of the Greek government, evidenced by its ability to maintain a cool temperament when dealing with the European union, but in the memory of antiquity the political establishment of Ancient Athens was not to everyone’s liking (though we could hardly expect less from a society which largely marginalised an entire gender). in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata we see a real critical appraisal of patriarchal social norms, albeit one written by a man. in the words of the main character, Lysistrata, when trying to convince her male counterparts that war was not always the preferable option to diplomacy:

“If I am a woman, don’t hold it against me, if I introduce some ideas that are better than the present situation. I have a share in the national wealth - I contribute men.”

Though the cause of feminism was evidently still at the point where a woman’s worth to society was judged by her ability to breed soldiers, we do see clearly in this form of satire that it was, and probably still is borne of a burning desire to see a world that is not drastically, yet still markedly different from that which we inhabit. it would only be possible for the new Statesman to have a front page cartoon of the leading conservatives with the headline ‘Eton Mess’ if they in some way had an issue with the status quo and wanted to see a change in those that have the top positions in the country.

So we have seen that satire can be published, in the first instance, as a response to an accepted social norm. However, less laugh-out-loud funny, is the role of the satirist responding with a dry wit to a particular event or society. For here, we know for a fact that things should not be the way they are. when George orwell took up his pen to write what i consider to be his most well-judged and accessible

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword: The Story of Satire and Free Expression

Jordan Bernstein (l6r1) and Adiyant lamba (l6J1)

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satire, Animal Farm, it was because he knew what had gone on and what was still going on inside Soviet russia. He wrote because he had the freedom to, and because he felt a duty to expose what was going on behind the iron Curtain. what makes this satire so poignant, however, is the credibility that comes with it as we see the steady progression from the overthrow of the farmer to the accession of napoleon to dictatorial tyranny.

Satire, it quickly becomes clear as we are confronted with more and more of it, is only doing its job if it cannot be glanced over without a second thought. Satire is one of the many instances in literature where we cannot take what we see at face value, and must know that there is more underneath the veneer of civility. when the pseudonymous, scurrrilous political writer Tom-Tell-Troathe skirted around directly criticising James i in 1623 the intention was clear: the people were not content. As we have become more forward in our willingness to critique the political establishment openly, so too have we demanded more and more from our satire – on one shelf in the same week we can have The new Statesman and The Spectator, two witty publications with allegiance only to a duty to say things how they are. we have different flavours of satire, we have a profession largely built up around it, and we have a public willing to pay for it.

interesting too, is the separation of powers surrounding satire. For whilst states were traditionally willing to allow satire, albeit in a dilute and only borderline-controversial way, all western states now see it as a mark of prestige if they are being made fun of, the sting of insult soothed by the knowledge that opposition forces will equally be taunted.But with the challenging ideas that come out of satire, or even news with simple biases, arises an interesting dilemma of whether that soothed things. For the 2012 presidential election in the united States of America, The Daily Show, never intended to be a serious news outlet, ramped up their news coverage to feature on-the-spot reports, marking a new frontier for the pervasiveness of print and media satire in our world. But did anyone elect these journalists or writers? why is it better that they change our opinions than the politicians?

Perhaps it isn’t the journalists or the politicians who are solely responsible for challenging ideas, and bringing satire forward into the modern world. And despite the persuasive power of dry wit and sarcasm, this may not be the only way to win over a population who are ever-hungry and eternally eager for novel and unusual material. The pen is undoubtedly a powerful tool; but perhaps it is even more powerful when combined with the imagination of visual artistry, and the emotive nature of sound.

Film is a fairly new medium through which stories are told, being just about one hundred and fifty years old in what can be called a recognisable cinematic format. nevertheless, in those years it has proven to

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be a medium through which an incredibly wide range of emotions, thoughts and philosophies have been exhibited – whether it is the incredible immersive effect of the worlds created in Star Wars or Lord of The Rings, or the purity of emotion in Schindler’s List or Amadeus, movies can provide a fantastic escape from, commentary on and inspection of reality. As the late roger Ebert remarked, “we live in a box of space and time. Movies are windows in its walls.”

And this is perhaps why film is such a powerful form of communicating a message, popularising a worldview or challenging an idea. The sophistication of expression achieved in film can connect with a particular demographic and influence them in a way that perhaps a book cannot, allowing directors and filmmakers to experiment with the format and achieve such power of influence. 2014 as a year was a celebration of experimentation in film. From Boyhood quietly depicting the significance and humanity within minor moments of life, to Interstellar attempting to relate complex scientific ideas to basic human emotion, it was a year that filmmakers attempted to diversify and push the boundaries of the medium. This level of experimentation is why cinema has been a source of propaganda, satire and freedom of expression over the years, and why the recent Academy Awards presented a stage for many political issues to be raised. whilst there are many films that present new and important ideas, there are but a handful over the course of its relatively recent history which i feel really exhibit the idea of daring to be different, which embodies the motivation of a satirist.

That being said, comedy today can still be acceptably crass. it is also often overly repulsive and vulgar, and at other times less so but painfully dull. Having to sit through just an hour of The Other Woman (2014 Cameron Diaz film) last year was a difficult experience, yet comedy has been the vehicle for some of the great political commentaries of the past century. it is when comedy becomes satire that many daring ideas can be expressed; satire can disguise and smuggle politically charged views into mainstream focus. it also has the license to exploit certain issues whilst avoiding creating hordes of angry crowds. when it comes to any genre, Hollywood tends to work in trends and themes- satires have often been focused around the utterly ridiculous nature of supreme leaders and dictators. The very first of its kind being Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator, films such as last year’s The Interview and Sacha Baron Cohen’s The Dictator continue to be refreshing examples, reminding us that film has remained a positive source of freedom of political expression. whilst many people appreciate wartime satires such as Duck Soup, one of my personal favourites involves a topic much closer to home. it is in the humour of lindsay Andersen’s 1968 film If… that we find a commentary on the negative influence of authority. Set in a private school, it is oddly satisfying to watch a strict scholarly environment disintegrate into gunfights and shootouts as the boys wish to rebel against the undeniably sinister authority of the headmaster and



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the system. like any storytelling medium, film has always been a source of spreading a political agenda; some would consider it a shame that the purity of art is often contaminated by the shallowness of politics, but perhaps it can be seen as relating art to current affairs. Film has often been used in heavy political propaganda, which has been the most prominent form of influencing people used in the media - notable examples including nazi films such as Hippler’s The Eternal Jew. But these films fail to capture the heart and mind of its audience. it is rather those political films that can depict their message within the wider aim of plot, character and emotion that truly stand the test of time. V for Vendetta is such a film; boldly combining fantastic characters and memorable dialogue with a real political agenda. Set in 2020, it explores the exciting idea of anti-establishment, complete with exploding houses of parliament to the soundtrack of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. This is a film that can raise interesting ideas whilst still being entertaining enough to communicate its agenda to its audience.

Many fans of literature are also fond of film; it appeals to the same sense of imagination, emotion and intellect but by using moving pictures with sound rather than written text. one thing is common to all films made by great directors; Akira Kurosawa, Steven Spielberg, Hayao Miyazaki, Peter Jackson - their films make you feel, whatever that feeling may be. often i encounter literary enthusiasts who look down upon the art of film because it is ‘populist’, failing to recognise that some of their favourite works of literature were ‘popular’ in their time. indeed these types, who consider their medium far superior at conveying the wit and skill of literature, should recognise that as satirists, it’s their duty to make satire as effective as possible, whether that’s through books, poems or even (heaven forbid!) pictorial art.

instead, both devices are incredibly influential communicators of meaning, and consequently both have been used for this purpose over history - from satire in literature and journalism, to challenging and daring films, the pen has certainly been a mighty tool over history.




Today’s Saturday. He’s out on the streets in stonewashed jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with some slogan or another. in his left hand, a hastily-made placard; in his right hand, a camera held high above the crowd recording everything – for Facebook, of course. The crowd is moving again, and ahead of him a woman is shouting through a megaphone. He joins in the chants. He has blended in well, though signs of his true life can be seen, if you look very carefully. The latest smartphone sticking out of his pocket, the antique watch (a family heirloom) on his wrist. He tries (and fails) to be one of the people.

A few more hours pass. The crowd reached whitehall. The speakers spoke. The demonstrators demonstrated. As the sun is sinking away, the balaclava-clad anarchists emerge holding spray paint and smoke bombs. He sees that the day is done and heads back home. As he is walking out of Chiswick Park underground station, he reflects proudly on the day’s events. “i fought the bankers, those capitalist scum, abusing our democracy, manipulating our politicians, taking our money and using it to feed their insatiable

greed. Today, i stood up for human rights, for the oppressed, for the poor, for a better society.” what pride he feels!

now it is Sunday. He is on Twitter, catching up on the events of the day. American oil leaks. iraqi air strikes. Cuban diplomats. what a state the world is in! His father walks into the room and the browser is promptly closed. The father is a senior executive at a Pr firm and is using his bonus to take the family on holiday. Dubai for a week. All-inclusive. He does not complain. why would he?

Monday. He is in school. work experience interviews. He is applying for a placement at a bank. He has a lot to offer. He is capable; unrivalled reasoning skills, great mathematical ability. Then he says what they really want to hear. He believes the bank is helping the economy and he wants to be a part of it. He says the bank is helping the poor become rich. Saturday is forgotten – after all, as his father says, he should stop “all that silly stuff ”.

The weekend Activist

Siavash Minoukadeh (10r1)


i had a really strange day at school today. it all started in my French lesson during the morning. we were practising talking about ourselves in French when a man walked in and afterwards we were no longer allowed to say “je suis”. My teacher explained it was due to the recent terrorist attacks in France and having to have respect for the victims but it just seemed a bit silly to me.

The next odd thing happened in Art before lunch. we had been finishing off our paintings of famous sport stars when the man came in and my painting of Mo Farah (which i had spent hours on) was thrown into the bin! The reason this time was because apparently they thought it might offend some people because they might think it offended a long-dead man with a similar name.

That wasn’t the only annoying thing today. Before P.E we were lining up in the corridor when an older boy walking past accidentally stepped on my foot. As it really hurt i instinctively said “Jesus Christ!” it isn’t a swear word and Jesus died thousands of years ago like Muhammad so i couldn’t think why it would be a problem. Apparently, though, i had been blaspheming. later, i searched “blasphemy” on the internet and i found lots of interesting stuff. i did quite a lot of research on it in fact. in countries like Saudi Arabia and iran, blasphemy is a crime and carries the death sentence yet both countries condemned the killers of the Charlie Hebdo attacks. it seems to me that both countries were lying in condemning the attackers. As well as that, i looked up the recent Paris terrorist attacks and the writers of Charlie Hebdo were the ones who started the whole ‘je suis’ thing in the first place and definitely seemed like the type of people who

wouldn’t want me to not say something even if it disrespected some people.

i saw another really weird thing just before i started writing my diary entry. on the news it said that David Cameron and Prince Charles were visiting Saudi Arabia to pay tribute to some dead monarch. Even Barack obama was going. The weird thing is that basically all the leaders going have condemned human rights abuses in Saudi Arabia – but yet still decided to go.

Having raised all these questions to my mother i was told not to worry about grown-ups’ issues.

Maybe what the recent terrorist attacks in France have taught us is that we should stand up to wrong, whatever the consequences. Whether this wrong is in Paris, Moscow, New York or our very own Rotherham, innocent people are suffering because of our failure to react. As a nation we are becoming isolationist in nature, sluggish to help others shutting down those who try to expose the ignorance so prevalent in our world. Instead of lambasting every politician, we ourselves should be trying to make a difference however we can. We should not sit idly by as evil careers off in front of us but rather stand up and do something about it. Instead, I just find myself writing angry, politically-based, incoherent tropes instead of doing something myself.

“i’d prefer to die on my feet than to live on my knees”.Stéphane “Charb” Charbonnier

Dear Diary

Joshua Gottlieb (10r1)


The Mystery Machine rolled around the corner like a panting dog. The lime-green, turquoise and bright orange palette blended into the black landscape.

“where did all this fog appear from?” Daphne exclaimed. Velma kindly provided a scientific explanation for the appearance of the fog, although i spotted her roll her eyes at Daphne’s dimwittedness. i can see that she looks down on her. She placed a Scooby snack into her mouth. The Mystery Machine was now lost amongst a veil of grey mist. its headlights pierced through like a pale hand breaking up through silvery cobwebs. The van clambered over a small depression in the road. This awoke Shaggy.

“it’s time. Scoob. i’m making the ultimate super Shaggy sandwich!” He was talking to me, Scoobert, or Scooby as that moron Shaggy calls me. i turned around to discover a “double triple decker” sandwich in Shaggy’s skeletal hands. i watched as the snack, consisting of sardine and marshmallow, garnished with fudge, disappeared into Shaggy. As he talked, the remains of the meal were flung onto my chocolate brown fur. Disgusting. He was talking to me about the best sandwich he ever had. i nodded my head and hoped he would leave me alone. His insistent talking lowers my iQ every second i’m subjected to it.

Finally the misery ended, by what i would describe as a miracle, in the form of the Mystery Machine running out of fuel. it gave a last cough before it fell asleep on the road. i envied it. Fred started shouting. He had a short temper which accompanied a constant scowl on his face. Fred burst out the van swearing and started to kick the door. Eventually even Daphne joined the torrent of rage, but by directing her insults at Fred. Velma sat in the front seat with her face buried in her palms and another Scooby snack in her teeth; her insecurity materialized into tears which flowed down her face.

The tempest ended painfully when Shaggy asked why they were fighting. He doesn’tunderstand much these days. idiot. Fred was a horrible man. i witnessed his downfall. i remember when i was a fresh-faced teen he wanted to solve mysteries. He had had optimism in his eyes. we all did. But as with time, we grew apart, but could never admit it. Fred turned to alcohol to find the answer to his problems, all he found was depression and misery, refined into two shots of whiskey, with the ice in his glass melting the same way his aspirations did. Daphne turned to the shops. She masked her misery with designer clothes.She longed for the old times. Velma found it hard to cope. She didn’t hide behind a fashionable façade or atrocious alcoholism. She would eat. As her consciousness grew, so did her appetite. Shaggy didn’t see the world disintegrate in front of him. His childlike innocence cushioned him from the hatred. we were once those meddling kids. not anymore.

now we’re just like anyone. Alcoholics, depressives and idiots.

A Day in the Mind of Scooby Doo

Alex Cohen (10H2)


in violent times, you shouldn’t have to sell your soul. At least that’s what my grandma told me to quell the stormy fears raging in my heart. That is, until she was gunned down last week for refusing to conform. now, i don’t know what to believe.

My own home is now a battlefield. My parents, the extremist militants, fire steel words which ricochet off the walls and wound innocent bystanders. My mother holds my father responsible for Mamsi’s death. She feels he, as the man, should have stopped her from rebelling. But my dad admired her. Apparently, she stood for “important values”: Freedom; Equality; Peace. i understand what these words mean but they won’t bring Mamsi back. So they don’t matter at all.

life seems to continue on as “normal” with people continuing their “ordinary” lives. The brown walls, formerly ornately decorated lie bare, reflecting the hollow façade that is my life. Ten years on from my grandmother’s death, i still ponder the true meaning of those words and whether they were really worth dying for.

Each day when i walk to school, i get jeered at and mocked and even pushed around. Girls shouldn’t be going to school. Still, every day i carry on walking, and pray to my grandmother for strength. Today is no different. There’s a slightly bigger crowd blocking my way, so what? i just carry on walking.

“little girl, where do you think you’re going? School is no place for little girls like you.”

i ignore the voice that dripped with condescension and keep on walking. A firm hand grips my shoulder tightly. Too tightly. i feel something poke into the back of my head. laughter erupts from the crowd as my mum and dad stand by paralysed by the fear of rebelling. i turn around quickly and see a group of men armed with guns and their leader bent down at eye-level.

“let me say this again really slowly for you so you understand this time. little girls aren’t allowed to go to school.”

i have a choice. Take the safe option and return home and never go to school again and let them win. The other option means standing up for who i am, standing up for everyone around me. i finally understand the meaning of those values. i make my choice. i spit in his face. Freedom. The crowd goes silent. Equality. He raises his gun. Peace.

Peace in war

richard Matheson (11C1)


“After all, the price for freedom is eternal vigilance” (Aldous Huxley, 1958)

Have you ever wondered who is actually listening to your every word?

who is scrolling through your “private messages”?

well, the uK government has used the recent rise of radical fundamentalism as a pretext to increase the powers given to GCHQ, its listening agency. 84 years ago, Aldous Huxley wrote his dystopian novel “Brave new world” inspiring some of the most disturbing literature of the 20th century. Margaret Atwood and George orwell were both influenced by Huxley’s work, and created their own totalitarian states in which every word is censored and listened to. what seemed fantastical and only confined to a fictional world could now be becoming reality. Many are concerned that in our free and supposedly lightly censored state, the world of horror that Huxley created could be just around the corner.

Perhaps what Huxley was saying in his interview in 1958 was that freedom as we know it comes at a price. A balance must be made between levels of state censorship (to protect its citizens) and respect for a person’s privacy. To protect our “freedom” where we can live without fear in a society, which respects our human rights, Huxley believed that we must be prepared to lose certain elements of our freedom. Freedom could be seen as a kind of catch-22: where in order to preserve freedom we have to lose it. But perhaps it has gone too far; now in every aspect of our lives, there is a measure in place for the protection of our freedom and our safety. recently, freedom and the need for it has come at a cost. The shooting at the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo was seen as an attack on free speech. Freedom carries consequences, and perhaps Huxley was suggesting that we need to prepare ourselves to deal with these.. There is a fine line between maintaining a level of vigilance to ensure attacks don’t happen, and respecting the privacy of a citizen and their speech.

Perhaps the eternal vigilance that Huxley was thinking of is all individually looking out for danger, rather than the state monitoring every communication and action of every single citizen. At least that way, we would keep the freedom that the government claims to want to protect.

Huxley and Freedom

Joey Gardner-white (10C2)


what is it to be free? is it a right that each of us possesses, allowing all human beings to express their emotions towards something such as the viability of a God, or the corruption of a government? is it the ability to make free choice in any circumstance given? is it the power to write and speak as one wants? Most people will answer ‘yes’ to all of those questions. now tell me. is freedom the right to grab a handgun from your cupboard, load a clip and walk into a school? or to rob money from a local bank? Most people would answer no to these questions. why is that? isn’t channelling your anger through a series of gunshots simply an exercise of free will? i believe that we, as humans, are not free. Freedom is a false sense of security handed to us by men whose job it is to exploit and lie. A delusion that tricks our minds into believing that our country is civilized and secure. Freedom, in itself, is a lie.

Just imagine a cage. A cage with strong metal bars and a locked door. inside that cage is you; but not exactly. This person (or should i say, creature) is not you. while its general complexion is yours, its teeth are stained yellow. its hands are crusted and torn, with calluses lining the knuckles. The hair is crawling with lice and dirt has gathered underneath the toenails. it squats, leaning forward against the door of the cage. A deranged look lines the creature’s face, exposing its teeth. Through its chapped lips it howls and cries in a monotone, longing for its own freedom. Yet it is still you. The same person who goes to school in the morning and returns home in the evening.

Yet the creature is not tangible. it exists within the cage in the deepest corner of your mind. The one place where your thoughts never visit, where they dare not visit. You must keep the cage closed in order for the creature to never escape; the very idea of letting it out scares you. it is simply too powerful. For this creature is not some fairytale ogre, intent on taking a little boy’s bike for not eating his dinner. it is everything you could be. it contains every emotion you hide, every aspiration you have. All these feelings we feel, like jealousy and greed, are contained solely within this creature. Your true aspirations of being something more than what society conforms us to are contained within this creature. Everything you hide due to a sense of embarrassment or fear of breaking the law are within this one creature. it is your true self, not the façade you put on every day. True freedom requires us to set ourselves free.

All it takes is a little push.

Cage

Vivek Gudi (9H2)

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Junior PrizEwinnEr, Spring 2015


Just creep into that corner of your mind, and let that creature out. Every dream you have and feeling you disguise can be released, exposing a world of possibilities for you. if people just made that little push and broke free of the restraints society imposes, wouldn’t the world be so much better? The very notion of fulfilling everything you truly desire is exciting, is it not? People would be happy, carrying on with life without a care in the world, all free from law and regulations. of course, there would be casualties and possibly many people would lose their lives, but isn’t it worth it to bring about a huge advancement of humanity?

Society can aspire to do greater things, changing the world and leave a greater legacy. All because people let that creature out and embrace their true personas. People will call it psychopathic. They will say it will bring about the crumble of civilization. They will call me insane.

it will be described as ‘madness’ and not ‘freedom,’ but at the end of the day, what’s the difference?

Cage continued

Vivek Gudi (9H2)


American Sniper is hit-and-miss, but well worth a shot...

its strongest suit is the beefed-up Bradley Cooper, subtle and intelligent as ever despite his new physique. His performance as the soul-searching sharp-shooting Chris Kyle brings depth to the action, emotion to the rattle of machine-guns, a sense of desolation to the gore.

what drew me to this film was its controversy. is it all true? is it a fair representation of history? if not, who's to blame? Having devoured the film on its own merits, i would like to pose a different question... who cares?!

it got me thinking about complaints concerning biopics and the 'true story' genre, notably in terms of Foxcatcher and The Imitation Game. The fact that events are depicted in film at all means the source material has been altered to nurture its dramatic potential. if that involves radically changing said material then fine; drama is very different from life. it seems to be a very contemporary thing - somebody is better at creating art than you are, so criticise whatever you can about them. nobody criticised Spielberg when Schindler’s List was made, but i’m certain that film didn’t give us the whole truth either. in the words of composer Jean Sibelius: ‘no statue has ever been put up to a critic’.

if it is fact you seek, go watch documentaries. And if a film claiming to be true and not delivering on that promise bothers you, grow up - it's never been much more than a marketing ploy. what matters is story.

Arguing over the authenticity or potential propaganda content of American Sniper is worthless. At the end of the day, it’s a testament to a brave man who set a historical record and probably saved more lives than he took. why should a film made in his memory portray him in a negative light? instead of nitpicking, which should really be my job as a reviewer, i should ponder the moral quandaries Sniper presents - what does it mean to kill? what comes first - devotion to family or to country? Do we treat veterans in an acceptable manner? Can you know someone's darkest secrets and still love them? it was when i thought in this way that American Sniper took on new life.

review of American Sniper

noah Max (11H2)


‘The work of a child’, they would sayBut the master never ceased toScratch the universeinto a frame.As he spat, carved,Grunted, saw theChasm of timeunfold before him,He captured thatMoment of wondrous chaos. The brush flicks,Violent streaks ofumber and ochre.An image awakensBrought to lifeVeiled inChinese whitelightly washed withCadmium yellow. A bridge appearsupon a stream.Tiny strokesConjure a boatGently bobbing.

Peace is shatteredA piston pumperBursts onto the stageits faceA mesh of reds and bluesAnd oily black. The brush is placed downThe piece examined,The Master with his Creation.The chaos of lifeDelivered through the eyesof a visionarywho opened a universeof Truth.

Chaos of life: An ode to Turner

Hugo Max (8H)


on the face of it, Hertsmere, a leafy commuter constituency north of london, would seem like the perfect place for an ambitious MP to whet his political appetite. There are few pressing social issues, with Hertsmere being ranked as one of the least deprived constituencies in the uK, and the seat has always returned a safe Conservative majority- currently around 18,000. in short, this would seem like the perfect place for the Conservatives to parachute in a rising star of the party, someone bound to make a big impact in westminster, who can afford to prioritise national issues over local matters. The highly-rated oliver Dowden, the eventual PPC, perhaps fitted this bill, as David Cameron’s former Deputy Chief of Staff, and a domestic policy expert. There were also rumours that Boris Johnson could be a candidate for the seat, with Hertsmere being close to london, unproblematic and a sterling base for Boris to launch an audacious leadership coup from. But when Johnson was selected for the seat of uxbridge and South ruislip, an opportunity for Dowden arose…

oliver Dowden is extremely keen to point out that ignoring his constituency in favour of national airtime isn’t his intention, saying ‘the first thing you have to do is represent local issues,’ and i for one believe him. The sceptical youth of today may argue that all we see is a façade, belying the true intentions of politicians, but Dowden’s refreshing authenticity convinced me this wasn’t the case. To the mind of many of us, life as an aide for the PM would be infinitely more interesting than the local politics Dowden has subjected himself to. However, there is a special differentiator about Dowden, in that he was born and raised in the constituency, and so sets great store in representing it, concluding that “advisors advise and ministers decide” thereby confessing a fulfilment in being the voice of the people. His motivation is clear and justifiable to all; his local constituency had become available for the first time in 23 years, and the experience he’d gained in national politics is exceedingly useful in local politics.

i put it to him that a big issue for the Conservative Party, which has been apparent for numerous generations, is the alienation of the youth. A recent YouGov poll, of 17-24 year olds, has put labour 19 points ahead of the Tories, which is a vast inflation of the national average. This offers two possible explanations, either that the youth are inherently drawn to the left-wing, or that there has been a failure to support and ignite the youth. Dowden emphatically rules out the latter, saying that their record on policies such as Education proved that one thing the Conservatives had not done was fail the youth (despite the fact that Michael Gove, described as ‘politically toxic’ by many, is being regularly attacked by teachers and pupils alike). instead, he concedes that the youth of today may be inherently left-wing, delving back into party history by quoting Churchill: “if you're not a liberal at twenty you have no heart, if you're not a conservative at forty you have no brain.”

By admitting this, does it suggest that the ideology of the Conservatives isn’t as aesthetically pleasing as that of labour, or to a lesser extent the extremes of uKiP and the Greens? He justifies the disparity by remarking that ‘as we get older we value more a strong economy, low interest rates and lower taxes, which get you thinking of more conservative things.’ whilst such an answer is indicative of the fact that

An interview with oliver Dowden

Jacob whitehead (l6J1)

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the Tories are a party for the aged, or socially mature, as they’d probably prefer to be called (hence why being a member of the Young Conservatives makes you a social pariah to some raging socialists), it still doesn’t explain why the youth are left-wing. To his credit, Dowden is seeking to address this, by naming Education as one of his three key priorities alongside the sanctity of the Green Belt and Transport. To summarise, allegedly the youth don’t take into account our long-term future when deciding what party to pick. But can this apply to all? on the face of it, this seems to be a sweeping generalisation of the political system, which both ignores the peaks and troughs of public opinion and the reasoning and forethought of young people.

when we move onto domestic policy, it becomes clear that Dowden perceives the Conservatives’ unpopularity as being down to an information gap; the Tories’ biggest challenge is to alert the public to how good a job they’ve actually done over the last five years. This attitude is particularly prevalent when we move onto the topic of immigration, a specialty of Dowden’s. He claims the reason why voters have latched onto uKiP is that the Conservatives haven't shown how well they’ve actually done, in that the job is ‘only half-finished’, with non-Eu migrants down, but Eu migrants up. in hindsight, i still feel this fails to address two points, the first of which being that ukip’s qualms are about Eu migrants specifically, hence why they wish to leave the Eu. Secondly, a much simpler explanation for why voters are defecting is that they’re unhappy with current policies, not merely under-exposed to them.

Two other priorities for Dowden are the aforementioned Green Belt and transport. i inquire whether the state of the Govia-run Thameslink line, which Dowden has been thus far tirelessly campaigning to improve, reflects a need to renationalise the railways. This is a move which would be backed by the public, with 66% saying they’d support government intervention in a recent YouGov poll. Dowden acknowledges that railways are ‘a more mixed issue’ than telephones or airlines, which he considers successes of privatisation. The central issue is that there are now ‘more people travelling on our railways than at any point since the 1930s and this will inevitably lead to problems. He says this administration has taken steps to address this, with trains more punctual than ever, but claims the job is ‘half-finished’, again implying that the voters need to be alerted to the improvements that have been made.

when confronted with housing statistics for Hertsmere, particularly that the council had only delivered 27% of the housing that had been promised by 2010, Dowden points out the pitfalls of more homes. His concern is that Green Belt land would become ruined by newly-constructed housing estates, and the villages in Hertfordshire would form a large, characterless conurbation. we clash over whether london should grow upwards or outwards, effectively a battle between stretched inner-city resources and the sanctity of the local environment. Dowden is very adept at pointing out how development is being encouraged in the right places, former brownfield sites, such as at the abandoned Harperbury Hospital, which will give assurances to the local community that affordable housing in Hertsmere should improve.

An interview with oliver Dowden continued


continued ...


regardless of our ideological differences on national issues, local constituents can rest assured that oliver Dowden will continue the work of James Clappison, the local MP since 1992. Their similarities are striking; both are firm supporters of ‘Friends of israel’. Both are former lawyers, although there may be some friendly competition due to the Cambridge-oxford rivalry. This is in no way a bad thing, Clappison having gained a deserved reputation as an excellent constituency MP, whilst Dowden’s motivation is to do right by his constituency.

But don’t let this make you think Dowden will stay quiet on the national stage. He’s been asked to contest this safe seat for a reason, and i wouldn’t be surprised if relatively soon we see this highly rated PPC in and around the front-benches, particularly if his former boss, David Cameron remains in charge after the election, a topic he refused to be drawn into, saying he was a ‘participant, not a commentator.’

i feel Dowden emanates a certain pride, both for the honour of representing his local community, and the work he feels the Conservatives have done over the last five years. i feel there is a failure to identify policy problems, instead blaming the miseducation of the electorate, but i believe that this pervades through the whole party. Throughout this election campaign so far there have been few enough exciting policies to get behind, only half-hearted declarations that labour can’t be trusted; this attitude is a detriment to the Tories as a whole rather than Dowden personally. regardless of political opinion, his insight on the domestic issues he specialises in, such as transport and immigration, are a valuable glimpse into the mind of an archetypal Conservative, educating us about the Tories intentions for the contesting of this election and their plans beyond.

This piece originally appeared at ukwhippersnapper.blogspot.co.uk, the online magazine for politically - minded teenagers. Jacob writes a weekly column.

An interview with oliver Dowden continued



He woke up and remembered dying. How was he still alive?How could he possibly still be alive?it wasn’t possible.The man had killed him. His arteries had burst and he had bled to death.He opened his eyes to find a mirage of colours portrayed by the moon across the glistening lake. where was he? He looked around and found a magnificent villa placed behind him. A man walked up to him, his hair extremely well groomed and wearing a blinding white suit.

“God?” he cried.

“not God, you stupid boy. not yet.”

Dead or Alive

oliver lister (7H2)


“And rama, filled with courage and good, killed the evil demon ravana...” My father told us the story every night, and we knew it off by heart. His mellow voice reverberated round the shack and the flickering oil lamp cast a comforting glow. The four of us sat on the ground listening intently. i thought about the message of the story. we should be good to everyone, no matter who they are, or what their position in society. There is so much evil in the world, i thought. i will be like rama, filled with courage and good, and i will vanquish this evil. or perhaps i can be a great king, who rules with wisdom and justice over our land and everyone will be good and no one will suffer. i then began to think about what it would be like to become a king and i began to drift to sleep, my mind caught in a torrent.

i woke to the soft golden light of dawn filtering in through the gaps in the corrugated iron roof and walls of bare earth. i savoured this rare moment of silence.

“Get up, lazy!”

My brother playfully punched me and i groaned as a passing train blew cool air into the shack. He gave me half of a chapatti and i chewed it slowly. i was lucky today.

“Please can we see the new movie at the cinema today?” i asked. “it has Shahrukh Khan acting in it.”

“of course, i will see what i can do,” my mother replied.

“Can you buy some jalebis for us? we’ve run out.” my brother chipped in.

“Yes. i’ll tell your father to get some for us on the way back from his chai shop.” My mother would say this with a gulp and this time she looked away.

we went through this charade every morning and all of us knew there was no movie, no jalebis and no chai shop where my dad worked in. we barely knew what a cinema was. we were law-abiding slum dwellers, trying hard not to stray from the straight and narrow path, and i was sure that one day, we would live great lives, because the king rewards those who are good. My ambition was to be part of the king’s justice forces, driving evil out, and growing the seeds of good all over the kingdom. it was the epitome of righteousness. i could just imagine myself dressed in fine robes smiling as previously poor villagers held my hand and thanked me for making the world a better place. i would be known as rama, for conquering the realm of corruption and poverty and then God himself would knock on my door…

i sighed and picked up the plastic bag at my feet.

Terra Firma

Sameer Aiyar Majeed (9M2)

continued ...


At first it was just rumours. Then it was whispers. The jhopadapatti was alive with a buzz and flourish of activity.

“is he really coming?”

“Yes, of course!”

“why?”

“i don’t know, but i think we might get some money or some blankets!”

i was intrigued. who was this mysterious being? Hiding in the corners of conversation and in the minds of everyone. was i the only one who didn’t know?

Back at home, my family were already making preparations, cleaning up the pitiful structure that was our hut - making the roof (a sheet of corrugated iron) as stable as they could and cleaning up the droppings of our goat – long dead from starvation. we swept up every corner of the floor, disturbing flies feasting on a rotten parata in the process. realising our blankets were beyond cleaning, we hastily tidied them away. we even filled up the matka again with fresh water (and this involved a very long walk to the communal well). when my parents produced a couple of battered pillows i immediately knew something or someone of great honour and prestige was coming because pillows were reserved for special occasions. My brother was laughing, his face overflowing with merriment. My other siblings ran about, their eyes wide with excitement. They burst into sudden gusts of nervous laughter and spontaneous bursts of dancing.

“Haven’t you heard? The minister is coming to personally visit the jhopadapatti – our slum…personally!”

i stood there staring, my head a bubbling cauldron of emotions – self-consciousness, happiness, honour, pride… i couldn’t say anything; i was paralysed in this moment of glory. what would he think of me? would he reward me and thank me for being such a good boy? would he understand our situation and give us money? would he…

Terra Firma continued


continued ...


i shook my hair, so that all manner of things fell out and i could comb it (with the only comb in the family) so that it looked less like seaweed. My mind was elsewhere though. A minister! Even the elders couldn’t remember the last time when we weren’t shunned from the rest of society and someone of consequence paid us a visit.

There we were, all lined up, backs straight, a treasured cap resting askew on my head with some symbols representing “welcome” on it. There we were, with the children waving their thin arms and smiling. There we were, the elders huddled together, their smiles pushing their way up through valleys of wrinkles. There we were, the bonds of community and jollity strong between us.

The sun was setting. Pink clouds scurried across the sky and the sun – a ball of pure passion and fire, sunk slowly into the horizon.

Then, the minister’s golden chariot drew up, and the metal of the cranes, JCBs and diggers behind him caught the light and shimmered.

no blankets for us tonight.

Terra Firma continued



Then, in a strange and sudden event, everything came into being.

But before that, all that existed was a void in which absolutely nothing was contained. There was no form; nor existence, and even the darkness had not come to be. i can only imagine myself being an observer of that state, standing at the tip of the vast, gaping mouth of nothingness. i can imagine looking around, my sight unfiltered by shape or object, and being able to see infinitely into the distance and yet no matter how hard i looked, there was absolutely nothing at all.

But it was in one single moment and also from one single thing that all we know became real. it started from a small speck; so hot that it could incinerate your flesh from a distance and so dense that it could fall through your hand as if it weren’t there. one often imagines that, like releasing a wind-up clock, everything unravelled in beautiful symmetry; like a great symphony beginning with a single note and developing into the harmonious tones of a full orchestra. rather, it was simply a cacophony. Chaotic. Things flying apart at immeasurable speeds, smashing into one another and shattering into a trillion pieces. Barely was there shape or object, just a cloud of contorting matter. Almost as if the world was an infant with no mother, crying endlessly for almost an eternity.

But it was not quite that long, for eventually the primordial clouds began to cool and coalesce. it seemed like there was a maturity slowly settling over the world, and the child began to stop its eternal wailing, settling down to work. like great architects, forces began to put together clumps of coagulating fluff. And from this stuff came shape, from shape design, and from design detail. Fiery balls of burning gas, whirlpools of matter sucked in to a central eye; it was all just one elaborate painting, progressing onwards at an incredible rate, detail accumulating in every slight contour and ridge of this cosmological canvas.

Then, in one insignificant corner of the grand design, something special happened. Another small piece of matter began to function in a way no other thing had done before; it could regulate itself, perhaps even signal its presence. in that small, overlooked corner, a great revolution had begun.

At The Genesis of All Existence

Adiyant lamba (l6J1)


it shot off the leaf. The butterfly, a fascinating creature, a curious creature, and the reason why i was here. i hid behind green leafy bushes, climbing not so gracefully into an old oak tree, just to capture the vibrant miniature beasts soaring like regal eagles. They glided elegantly, stylishly, lightly, from glistening leaf to scented flower. i moved slowly, obscured in the shrubbery. it could see me. its massive beady eyes staring at me like an owl fixed on its prey. Did my smell give my cover away? i could see the water droplets from the morning dew sitting on my garden. i saw a caterpillar; a dazzling costume of crimson, orange and yellow. So delicate yet each marking so deliberate. why was it here? it looked like a space ship that had just landed, the leaf moving frantically to support its weight. The baffling beast beckoned me, luring me with its outstanding beauty. i could hear the early morning birds tweeting happily in the trees, like whistles being blown by babies, each unique and different. How long could i stay undercover to be accepted into this magical world? The morning scent brushed passed my nose as i crept through a tiny hole in the fungus-infested gate. The butterfly’s wings fluttered above my head. As i pulled myself up, i found myself in a

forest of colours: emeralds, rubies and golds all sparkling like diamonds in the light of dawn. it was exciting, exhilarating and electrifying. i proceeded on, watching every step i took so as not to disturb the beautiful flight of the butterfly. Hiding in the corner, obscured by long jade-green trees and shrubbery was the butterfly, resting quietly on an old rotting box, knowing what was inside. it was next to an old beaten greenhouse that seemed to spark the creature’s attention, covered in a carpet of dark-green moss barely held together. i had to open the chest, the butterfly beckoned me to. nettles stung my hand repeatedly as i prized the chest open. My heart beat wildly. The chest was full of old decrepit toys. i grasped a toy car and held it to the early morning sun, the butterfly landing gracefully on the rusty wheel. i could hear the sound of door hinges and the moan of an old man. i had outstayed my welcome.

undercover

Sacha Holt (7M1)


The summer holidays, i was all set for two long months locked in my room with a family-size pack of Doritos and my Playstation. That was, until my Dad decided to demolish all hope of a relaxed summer.

"we're going to los Angeles. Tomorrow," he announced.

After excited questioning from everyone but me, he revealed he had won some sort of raffle at work, and that we were to pack immediately. This posed somewhat of a threat to my existence, as it would require me to leave behind the FiFA ultimate Team i had worked so hard to compile, and with it a year’s hard work. i couldn’t imagine that i would be able to survive.

i soon discovered that los Angeles wasn't for me. i hated the synthetic girls who waddled down Hollywood Boulevard in their high heels; i hated the accent that made everyone sound like a half-asleep drug addict; i hated the celebrity-obsessed drones, whose greatest worry was what Kim Kardashian would name her next baby. if Einstein had been from los Angeles, no one would've taken his Theory of relativity seriously.

My biggest problem with the place was the food. on the first night, we went to a very high-end restaurant, populated mostly by Mercedes-driving, golf-playing, middle-aged businessmen. it was, to be blunt, a fairly disastrous culinary experience. The real puzzle was the way sweet and savoury were indiscriminately mixed together. My lamb came with raspberries, whilst my sister's ravioli arrived bearing sliced pears. not only this, but the portions were large enough that one dish could feed two relatively large families for a week. was i to wonder at the stereotyped categorisations of Americans?

i soon made some friends at the hotel, who were initially nice enough, although my British accent soon proved my social demise. The things you hear about Americans loving the accent? lies. All of it. i couldn't walk two feet without some giggling thirteen-year-old asking me if i had tea and crumpets for every meal, or whether i fancied a game of croquet after lunch. let me be clear - i have never, nor will ever play a game of croquet. And i haven't had a crumpet either. Yet here i was, surrounded by Yanks who thought my middle name was Cornelius, and that i wore a tailcoat and bow tie to school.

Maybe i'm being a bit harsh. The States have given us a lot of things (South Park, to name just one). And while they may seem a bit obtuse at first, the people can also be a laugh. So i guess i shouldn't hate them for all the things their country has brought to us.

well, except for Miley Cyrus. i'm afraid i may never be able to forgive them for that.

And i Haven’t Had a Crumpet Either

ishan Gandhi (9M2)


My fingers nurse theMoulded fibreglass.i await the buzzthat will give me hopeConfirm that perhapsShe still cares just a Bit.

weeks. Then a whole month.The sweat is long sinceDry on my forehead.i cannot bear this.

i know the numberBy memory now.i punch in digitsSlam it to my earHeart thumping in head.

And then its beating Suddenly ceases.A synthetic voiceTells me it’s overAnd that if i wishto appear desperatei should stay on theline after the tone.

Voicemail

noah Max (11H2)


They bopTo the beatof the waves.They swayTo the soundof the sea.They jump,They grind,They wave their hands.They wiggle their fingers.oblong bellies inflatingAs they dancelike maniacs.

How heavenlyit must beTo beSo free.no bounds.no limitsTo creativity.

Except gravity’s pull,The tide’s tug,nature’s schemes,Forces indestructibleinfuriatingly intangible.is libertyAs shallowAs this here water?

Seaweed Disco

noah Max (11H2)


interlaced in-between inauspicious inclinations, in-between incivility – inhumane indecencies, incoherent indifference - in indulgent incomprehensibility, integral in inconceivability, insufficient interest invokes interruption. interjection! inside, intruders (intrusive in instinct, invalidation innately instilled) intercept, investigative – instability…instantaneous. insupportable inertia incoming, installing insurmountable insecurity, introducing interrogative insincerities. inane, inanimate individuals, inverted instantly.insubstantial in incredulity.incredulity in insubstantial, instantly inverted individuals, inanimate. inane. insincerities introducing insurmountable insecurity, installing incoming inertia, insupportable instantaneous instability. instilled innately, invalidation instinctively, in intrusive intruders. inside, interjection. interruption invokes interest. insufficient inconceivability in integral incomprehensibility, indulgent in indifference, incoherent in indecencies. inhumane incivility, in-between inclinations, inauspicious in-between, interlaced. interlude.

Hmmm.

interlude

Matt rosenfeld (10C2)


Any second now, there’ll be a bang on the door. Any second now, Mum will mutter my name in horror. Any second now, i shall walk down these stairs in shame.

i breathe as though it’s my last. Consoling myself in the comfort of my room, i recline on the duvet. This world of mine is melting away. This wondrous array of family photos taken at Disneyland Paris will soon be discarded. This room, so gaudily adorned with football paraphernalia will be locked and forgotten; for i shall cease to exist when they intrude.

The mantelpiece will never be complete with photos of future achievements. There will never be a portrait of my graduation. There will never be another happy family scene.

what have i done?

“George–” it’s my mum’s voice. Her innocent tone tells me that she is still oblivious to the horror of my crime. “George, you’re missing out on Made in Chelsea!”

The cackle of the television seeps into the room. i can hear my Dad’s gentle laughter. So soothing, so carefree. i shall never hear it again - not here, anyway.

what have i done?

now i can but only survey my room. All those picturesque images of the Faultons, a family so revered in the community – they have begun to dissolve.

My heart is pounding. My lips are trembling.

i watch the huge towering poster of Jonny wilkinson treacle and melt. i watch the effacement of my soul. i watch my world dissipate into some surrealist nightmare. Yet one photo remains intact. of all, the photos, why this? i cannot confront its radiance, for my heart would never stop aching if i did.

She looked so innocent in that picture. Sophie. The demons that i had unleashed that night–

There is a knock on the door. The future is beginning to unfold. i hear them speak.

“George?” my mother beckons, wailing in terror. i pause. Everything is still. The television downstairs has stopped bleating. My brother’s piano has stopped singing. The cacophonous tunes of domestic life have finally come to a halt.

This suburban fairy-tale has come to an end. Thoughtless temptation has condemned me to a life without value. Eternal damnation must be endured lest i forget that one, haunted night.

what have i done?

She Said no



The stratosphere turns to stone as i watchSwirling masses of gravel conglomerateinto a canopy of monochromelike the underbelly go a wave.Transparent curtains flutter across the horizon.Trees quake in fearwhile the wind weeps,Praying for the Sun to come back.

Downpour thickens into blitzrain obliterating all signs of dryMerciless in their slaughterBarricading children indoorsPummeling the soil into paste.

The drum roll on the window panesPulls to a close.i sigh, hug myselfTake a few deep breaths.Then a boom erupts from the heavensAnd shatters the sky into fragments.

Storm

noah Max (11H2)


His eyes, a piercing blue, stared uneasily out the window. Four minutes, thirty seconds to go. Each moment felt like an eternity. Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead, forming a small puddle on the floor; the gag secured tightly to his mouth prevented him from yelling for help. He struggled to release himself, but his hands were bound firmly to the seat. He thrashed and tugged at the ropes, but they wouldn’t yield.

Four minutes, nineteen seconds.

He could feel his heart beat growing quicker and stronger; it seemed as if it were trying to rip a hole in his chest. it was hard not to focus on the horrors that awaited him. How could it have got to this?

Four minutes, thirty seconds: The age gap between identical twin brothers Elliot and Connor nightingale.

it’s funny how you can look at two people and although they look the same, they are so distinctly different that you would never know they were related. They were different from the very beginning; all that could ever be heard was the sound of Elliot crying in his crib, whereas Connor was subdued and peaceful. As they grew up, Elliot spent every waking hour playing football in the garden with his friends, whilst Connor spent most of his time sitting by the window, watching curiously as they played. Children never took to him like they did to Elliot; he was never as outgoing or funny. There were no obvious issues between the twins, they didn’t argue - in fact they seemed close, they looked out for each other. Deep down there was resentment however. Connor could not get over his jealousy of his brother. Their parents saw this as sibling rivalry and thought nothing of it; they never anticipated how much it could escalate.

As he swerved round a sharp bend, he looked back at the man sitting in the third row, the only other person on the bus. He no longer saw any resemblance in the man’s face to his own - all he saw was the bruised, bloody face of someone who had caused him nothing but pain and self-doubt. Soon it would all be over. He was doing what he considered the only way of stopping the pain. no more Connor or Elliot nightingale and all the agonising pain and suffering would end.

Three minutes, forty seconds.

He turned back to the road with tears forming in his eyes. He was beginning to shake with worry and anticipation. He had no route planned in his mind; all he knew was that he needed to drive. Somewhere. anywhere. Driving the bus gave him the power and superiority over his older brother, which he had always longed for. How could he even be considered as the ‘older brother’? He was only older by

Four Minutes, Thirty Seconds

oliver Mosheim (7r1)

continued ...

Junior PrizEwinnEr, Spring 2015: runner-up


four minutes, thirty seconds. He pictured the small bomb attached to the bottom of the bus. He had assembled the components separately, bought anonymously from unknown internet vendors. All the pieces of his plan were coming together. not long to go now.

Their problems had been overlooked, pushed under the rug and left to be forgotten, until Christmas day the previous year. As Connor sipped his eggnog and dug into his piece of Christmas pudding, he looked around the table. what others may have seen as something to be grateful for, he saw as disappointing. opposite was his brother Elliot who was sitting next to his beautiful wife and their little girl, rosie. nothing would satisfy Connor more than to have a daughter of his own as innocent and loveable as rosie. Connor regarded his life as an embarrassment, aged twenty-four and still living at home. He had ambition, but no knowledge or self-confidence to follow through with anything. His brother, a successful City trader since he was sixteen, had offered him guidance and wisdom at numerous times over the years. Connor saw these incidents as mere jabs at him, a way of making him feel bad about himself and to remind him of his brother’s wonderful success. it seemed to him that no achievement of his would ever be as great as his brother’s. Elliot would always trump him. in his eyes even his own parents pitied him, which was obvious from the extra scoop of ice cream on his plate. it screamed out to him, ‘Your parents know you will never achieve Elliot’s success, so here is a sop, a consolation prize.’ Even worse, they assumed he would not be intelligent enough or sufficiently self-aware to realise. Connor glared at Elliot, no longer out of mere envy, but now with pure resentment, fast becoming hatred.

Elliot clenched his teeth together, trying to tear apart the gag knotted tightly around his mouth. His mind was swarming with more emotions than he ever considered possible. Fear. Confusion. regret. The heat of the bus was hindering his vision and making him feel drowsy. nothing seemed clear to him other than the fact that the man driving the bus was no longer the little brother he once knew. Something had changed his little brother: despite being unusual, would never be capable of this in his right mind.

Three minutes, twenty-five.

Elliot continued to gnaw at the rope between his lips and could feel his blood beginning to trickle down his chin. He pictured rosie, his little princess. He had to see her again. This wasn’t the end.

He wasn’t aware of the repercussions at the time; he did not know that he would become hooked. All he understood was that he felt miserable and he needed something to take his mind off things. At first the impact was minor: it gave him the confidence he had always envied in his brother; yet he still felt himself, his old bitter self. But as time went on that became all he could think about. without the drugs he became lonely, aggravated and fixated. He was always desperate for them, always wanting more.

Four Minutes, Thirty Seconds continued


continued ...


never content. Those poisonous capsules were deadlier than a bullet. A bullet is fast and only harms the person it hits. whereas these pills were slow, but took their time at sucking the life out of Connor and they enjoyed every moment of it. it was not just him that they harmed, the pain was infectious. He lashed out at people, anyone he came into contact with. His family began to fear for their own lives as well as his. How could it have got to this?

Elliot’s memory was still hazy; all he remembered from the past few hours was Connor turning up at his house and wrenching open the front door. Connor threatened to take rosie if he didn’t cooperate. She was so scared. So fragile. The next thing Elliot could recall was being shoved into the bus, forcefully being tied to a chair and smacked around the face a couple of times. He was aware of the bomb attached to the bottom of the bus and he knew it would go off in a few moments time if he didn’t do something about it. Though he had no idea how Connor had got his hands on a bomb. or a bus, if he was being pedantic. He knew if he could just talk to Connor, reason with him, he could get through to him. As he chewed through the last remaining pieces of rope he began to splutter blood onto the floor.

Two minutes, fifty-eight.

The bus swerved to the right, knocking him against the window. ‘Connor! Mate, look at me. Stop the bus. it isn’t too late to change things, you’re not thinking straight.’

As Elliot shrieked this, Connor skidded the bus to a halt and turned round to face his older brother. The tears rolling down his pale cheeks were not filled with envy or anger; they were droplets of pain and confusion. He walked towards his brother and sat down beside him.

Two minutes, thirty-four.

‘why, why is this happening? i feel trapped. Every...everything is wrong. why is it happening? why, why does it always happen to me?’ he muttered, stumbling over some words.

Elliot looked into his brother’s eyes, and beyond the dilated pupils he could see a little boy, confused and lonely looking out of the window and watching a group of boys play football in the garden. For the first time he understood why his brother was so distressed.

‘Connor. i know it hasn’t been easy for you. i understand. But we can’t just give up. when things get hard we can’t just stop. we have to be strong and fight it. we have to be there for each other, as brothers. we have to be strong together. So why don’t we get off this bus, Connor?’ Elliot said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice so as not to trigger an irreparable reaction in his brother.



continued ...


in that moment, Connor’s resentment towards his brother was replaced by a brotherly love. His only objective now was to protect Elliot. He did not care for his own well-being, only that of his brother. Despite the cause of all his misery being addressed, he did not see the possibility of a future without pain and suffering.

one minute, twenty-six.

Conscious of their awaiting fate on the underside of the bus, he hurriedly began to loosen his brother’s hands from the rope. This seemed an impossible task to a man not in his right mind. As he struggled over the tight knots his temper rose and he punched the seat in frustration.

Fifty-nine seconds.

He became more and more agitated as they would not give. Elliot remembered the penknife in his front pocket and gestured for his brother to use it. Connor cut the ropes as quickly as possible. His brother had never seen such ambition in his eyes.

Thirty-eight seconds.

ignoring the stench of Elliot’s blood as it began to congeal on his face, Connor finally severed the rope and released Elliot from the chair. The two brothers dashed to the front of the bus and Elliot rushed through the open door without looking back. Connor did not follow him out.

Twenty-five seconds.

Connor pressed the button to shut the door. The two brothers may have been united by their love, but they had now been divided physically.

Twelve seconds.

As Elliot reached the pavement on the other side of the road, realising his brother was not next to him, he looked back to the bus urgently. His final sighting of his brother Connor was his eyes, a piercing blue, staring fearfully at him with his hand on the window. He uttered no words, but there were signs of a faint smile on his face.

in an instant a cloud of red, hot fire and acrid, black smoke detonated from the bus. The sound was loud enough to disturb a skeleton in its coffin. Elliot stood there, watching, struggling to find a reason to take in another breath of air. The tears rolling down his pale cheeks were not filled with anger; they were droplets of pain and confusion.




Dropped by the angels of death,Tossed by the Valkyries of the battlefield,Bombs drop, missiles fly;with the angry scream of the diving black package,Men are reduced to nothing. Bear smithereens. The warning of imminent death – awrithing, blurred screech as it plummets,with the purpose of hate on its mind. Mothers sprawled on the ground pray desperately,Clutching their children in shaking handsBut no longer believing in whom they once prayed to. The cries of children echo through the dying streets –Buildings collapse onto the stragglers,Silently they are coaxed from life by Death’s song.is the song destructive or merciful? only they know.

Falling Fear

Gabriel Michaels (10M2)


when i last returned home, i sat upon the rickety, old steps leading up to my house. The slope of the re-paved street is still the same. A tree trunk, full of disease, was the only blemish in the smoothed cement: an old root had broken free through the surface, to breath like a whale in water. A gentle breeze made the leaves rustle, they whispered to each other. Across the road there was a streetlight and moths would circle it, addicted to its glow. i recalled where i was a day ago, travelling through wind-swept villages, roads barely visible under layers of sand. i opened the door which creaked and disturbed a layer of dust covering the furniture. i assumed the previous owner never bothered to clean a final time before leaving. i set down my bag, a leather satchel with a worn shoulder strap. i turned to close the door; as it swung shut the wind caught it and the door slammed against its frame. The noise shocked me. Then i froze. i could hear someone, something moving. i swiveled around. My heart was erupting from my chest. i scanned the room but there was nothing. it tapped against the wooden floor as it moved. Then i saw it, a wolf. My fight or flight response went into overdrive. i could feel my blood being forced through my veins. i inched towards the door, reaching for the handle. My eyes never left the wolf, its fur was matted. it was thin, ribs showing. i tripped on my bag, knocking it over, books slid out. it was not loud but it felt like a gunshot.

A Close Encounter

Daniel McCabe (10H2)


i was having a wonderful dream when i was awakened by the sound of hammering. By then i couldn’t hear the noise of earth enveloping the coffin over my own screams.

Two Sentence Story

luke Silverman (l6S2)


Callum weakly rubbed his eyes, which were nearly fixed fully shut. He had to blink nearly a dozen times before he could see properly. He watched the lines of light move from side to side across his lap, as the breeze from the window caused the blinds to sway.

He extended his right arm and felt the slight tug of a forgotten iV. He reached again, more carefully now, to the bedside table, clumsily knocking down an old vase of dead, crunchy flowers. His phone was more than an arm’s reach. it wasn’t until his third attempt Callum was able to swing his left leg out of the bed, onto the cold hospital floor, followed by his right. He tried to stand. Too weak. He gripped the bed railing to hold himself up, but his back suddenly felt tight. He shuffled towards the bedside table to retrieve his phone. The battery was dead, and a thin layer of dust covered the screen.

“The power must have gone out,” he thought to himself, as the only source of light was the gleaming sun. not a single light on. not one. He called for help, his voice croaky. He needed some water. Pure, refreshingly cold water filled his mind. At that moment a sip of water meant almost as much to Callum, as son would mean to his father. After hearing no reply, Callum took himself to the bathroom, but when he turned on the tap there wasn’t the refreshing water he expected, but a dark, dirty liquid. He cupped his hands and took a sip. it felt horribly warm in his mouth. As he turned he took a quick glance into the mirror. He stopped. Dead. His old, beautiful, thick golden hair was now long, greasy and grey, and his chin was covered in hard stubble as sharp as pins. How long had he been asleep? How long had he been in a coma?

He walked into the reception of the hospital. not a movement. not a sound. The silence was deafening. He put his head against the rusty exit door, eyes streaming hot tears down his cheek, like rain dripping down a street lamp. “Just get out,” he told himself, perhaps thinking that the hospital was a twilight zone, and that everything would be better once he was outside. He opened the door, tenser than he’d ever been before, and the blazing sun struck him across the face blinding him all over. A slow walk very quickly turned into a sprint, as his nerves grew with every step taken.

He stopped, astonished. As his heart rate slowed he realised no one was here. Silence again except for the quiet breeze which had never sounded so loud. Here in the centre of london; silence. Callum’s jaw suddenly fell at such pace it nearly brought his whole body down. He had just noticed Big Ben. or what once was Big Ben, now a pile of rusting cogs and burnt bricks. An eternity of shops down the streets which were once never shut, now never open. Thousands of people used to walk down these streets all at once. now, only stood Callum. Alone.

The Coma of Eternity

Alex Dangoor (7C1)

continued ...


Callum noticed a newspaper flickering in the wind. it was half-ripped, and looked like it had been dipped in coffee. He picked it up and read. ‘Thursday 25th April 2015’. How long ago was that? was it today? All these thoughts filled Callum’s mind, as more tears began to flow in his living hell, and his nervousness hit breaking point. He read on.

uK To BE EVACuATED To MArS AFTEr AToMiC BoMB THrEATS

what had he just read? There it was in big capital letters. Callum blinked once, twice, three times, but the headline didn’t change.

He sat realising what happened, taking it in. Each second felt like a year; every minute a decade. Callum had no track of time. He had no thoughts, either. His mind went from overload to blank. if this was real, he was stranded. There was no one to save him from starvation. no one. How long could he survive alone? He might have been out of his coma, but his real-life confinement wasn’t going to end.

it was going to last an eternity.

The Coma of Eternity continued

Alex Dangoor (7C1)


luigi Bonomi, of Bloomsbury literary Agency lBA, presented writers both from the Girls’ and Boys’ Schools with certificates to mark their successes in this year’s novel-writing Competition. The competition requires each entrant to submit a 10-page section of writing which could form the opening of a full-length novel. A literary evening in the Aske Hall saw entrants reading shortened excerpts from their writing to assembled parents, teachers, friends and supporters.

BoysFirST PrizE: Event Horizon by Emre Aygin

SEConD PrizE: House of God by Michael NioTHirD PrizE: Yingzi Luyou by Yohaan Gokhale

GirlsFirST PrizE: Hunger by Sam Nead

SEConD PrizE: The Block by Maria-Emilia DmitrievTHirD PrizE: Dreams Come True by Karina Shah

Mr. Bonomi has offered the two First Prize winners a special opportunity to receive further guidance and advice as they continue their novels. will these talented writers be looking to communicate with literary Agents themselves in due course as they look to score their first publishing success?

in his presentation speech, which was full fascinating and valuable advice for all the young writers, Mr. Bonomi reminded the audience of the vital importance of pace when writing fiction. in addition to this, the winning entries stood out by their distinctiveness, the credibility of the dialogue and the ease with which they fitted into their chosen genre. He reminded the writers that if a literary agent is not struck by the first page of a submission, he or she will not read the second or the third; a huge amount rides on the very opening sentences.

The assembled crowd on the night had a chance to vote for one final award: the AuDiEnCE PrizE. This was awarded to Joshua Baumring-Gledhill for his witty and engaging reading of a portion of his novel Three Words.

There were 7 winners overall, but all the writers should feel enormously proud of themselves for their superb achievements in completing submissions to such a very high level. our sincere thanks go to Mr. Bonomi for so generously supporting this event, which is now in its very successful 6th Year.

HABS Boys’ and Girls’ Schools lBA novel writing Competition 2014


Event Horizon by Emre Aygin

Three Words by Joshua Baumring-Gledhill

Conflict by Aniket Chakravorty

My Name is Matthias by Guy Dabby-Joory

The Block by Maria-Emilia Dmitriev

Cream Cakes and Oranges by Carolina Earl

Yingzi Luyou by Yohaan Gokhale

Complete Control by Adam Gozdanker

Somewhere by Alexandra Hart

One in a Million Stars by Abbas Kermalli

A Boy Held Up By String by Hugo Max

Hunger by Sam Nead

House of God by Michael Nio

Dream or Reality by Kashmini Shah

On the Move by Shrey Srivastara

Dreams Come True by Karina Shah

list of Submissions



Novel Writing Competition Winner: Event Horizon by Emre Aygin

ProloGuE

“we should turn back,” Cara urged as the radar beam swept through the ruined hall. “it’s not safe.”

“Do ruins frighten you?” Commander Finth asked with a hint of a smile, barely visible to most people.

Cara did not rise to the bait, she knew Finth. He was an arrogant man, used to being in charge of most people. “i’ve seen what they do, Finth. You shouldn’t be messing with these kinds of people.”

“we came here to find ‘em and we’re not leaving ‘till we do.” Finth turned, shining the beam in Cara’s face.

“They’re dead,” Cara muttered as she shielded her eyes. “we’re in Darthinian Territory, and you know what those barbarians are like. The Terran Empire has no jurisdiction here.”

“Are they dead?” Finth pushed aside a stack of broken planks and grey bricks, boldly making his way into another dark corridor. “what proof do you have?”

“Kam saw them,” Cara murmured as she looked behind her and reluctantly followed Finth into the darkness. “And if he says they’re dead, that’s enough proof for me.”

Kam had known that they would drag him into the conflict sooner or later. He had wished it was later rather than sooner. “i don’t know what i saw. i just want to go back to the ship.”

“well, we aren’t leaving ‘till we find ‘em, dead or alive.” Finth replied.

Kam could see the tightness around Cara’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in her eyes as she hugged her cloak tighter around her. Cara had been working for the Terran Empire Exploration Academy for all her life and she didn’t like being ridiculed by a new Commander, even if his authority was higher than hers. Yet it was more than that. under the wounded pride, Kam could sense something else in his colleague. You could feel it; a nervous tension that came close to fear.


continued ...


Kam shared her unease. He had only been working at the Exploration Academy for two years now, so he knew what was involved when it came to exploration. Dark ruins hardly held any more terrors than he was used to. Tonight was different. There was an edge to the darkness that made his hairs stand on end. They had been away from the ship for five days now, tracking of a group of Darthinian raiders who had stolen machinery from the Empire. Each day had been worse than the day before. Today was the worst of all. A cold breeze was blowing through the ruins, making the flags and shredded cloth wave in the wind as if they were alive. All day, Kam had felt as though something was watching him. Something cold and implacable that seethed with hatred. Cara had felt it too.

“it’s just through there.” Kam shuddered, pointing towards the debris covered doorway.

Finth groaned and so did the ruins as he pushed aside the last bit of debris and opened the doors to the main hall. it was dark, too dark. He stepped forward and swept a beam through the darkness.

“it’s clear.” Finth reported. “no immediate life signs in the area.”

Kam shivered, “There’s something wrong here.”

The moon rose over the domed glass ceiling illuminating the hall. Kam’s heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the ground, the icy pulpit, the piles of ash from a fire, the rocky debris. The moon faded as quickly as it had come, obscuring the room with darkness. A glimpse was enough. Everything was as it had been before, except one thing.

They were gone. All the raiders were gone.

“where are they?” Kam muttered, confused.

“i could ask you the same thing.” Finth demanded, turning to face Kam.

The doors to the hall slammed shut, spotlights blazed throughout the hall illuminating and blinding the explorers.

“who are you?” Finth stepped forwards. “Show yourselves.”

From the darkness came a mechanical whirring, as if a machine was warming up. one by one the spotlights turned and faced Finth, freezing him in place. He stood, blinded, as each of the spotlights increased in brightness, causing him to fall to his knees. He shrieked; his expression turning to one of

Event Horizon by Emre Aygin continued


continued ...


horror as the mechanical whirring became deafening. He extended his hand in front of him and watched as it dissolved, inch by inch turning to dust. He turned to Kam and Cara, his eyes wild, pleading. His screams died as his face slipped from his skull, like chocolate melting. Soon, that too turned to dust and was carried away on the cold breeze. Cara stepped back, tripping over the rocks. She grabbed Kam’s shoulder and pulled.

“we need to get back to the ship!” She cried out over the sound of the mechanical grinding. Kam spun around, the feeling of dread building up into sheer terror. He glanced down at the ashes he had previously thought were from a camp fire. They were the raiders.

Blood rushed through Kam’s body, adrenalin building up, urging him to run. Still Cara pulled at him. it was no use. Kam looked up into the lights that had now moved towards him. He was frozen; paralysed. He screamed in pain as every single atom of his existence was divided and pulled apart by the lights.

“i’m so, so sorry.” Cara stepped away from Kam as his body convulsed, slowly disappearing.

“no!” A shrouded voice shouted from the shadows, “Don’t let her get away! There must not be any witnesses.”

She stepped back just as a bright beam of energy shot out from the darkness, it struck Cara square in the chest and she disappeared in a flash of light.

Kam’s vision failed as the last of his body turned to dust. He embraced the darkness, and it was icy cold.

Event Horizon by Emre Aygin continued



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