detweiler competition Life & Death
2024
Art, Creative
Writing, Drama and Music
Foreword
I am delighted to share with you the incredible work created by the boys for this year’s Detweiler Competition.
The Detweiler Competition was introduced to Bedford School by Rob Campbell (Director of Art 1994-2013) in 1997 and named after the Canadian composer, author and patron of the arts Dr Alan Detweiler, who so generously provided the prizes until his death in 2012. Initially set up as an Art competition, it now involves the English, Drama and Music departments and so encourages the arts across the whole school and, as such, is a major event in the school arts calendar.
This year’s competition, with the theme ‘Life and Death’, was very well received by a large and captivated audience. It is one of my own creative highlights of the academic year and I would like to congratulate all boys who entered the competition. I hope you enjoy this year’s winners and highly commended prizes!
Antoinette Keylock Head of Creative Arts Faculty
ART
Judges: Katie Allen (illustrator) and Fiona Wilson (artist)
2D Winner
George Worthington (Upper Sixth Form)
art
3D Winner Rhys Harries (Upper Sixth Form)
Highly Commended
Alex Ying (Upper Sixth Form)
Highly Commended Kish Patel (Upper Sixth Form)
Highly Commended
Gabe Young (Upper Sixth Form)
Highly Commended
Henry Gillham (Fifth Form)
Highly Commended
Will Cave (Upper Sixth Form)
art
creative writing
Creative Writing Winner
Noe Simplicio (Fourth Form)
Gran - Sensitive Content Warning -
I remember that morning vividly, but not so fondly. It was two or three days after the end of the school year. The clouds were nowhere to be seen and the sun was striking everywhere like some sort of light storm, it was just the perfect day. And then the officers arrived. Mum ordered me up to my room. ‘She’ll be okay’ they said. ‘She’ll be back’ they said. They were wrong. I never saw my grandmother again. They said she died peacefully in her sleep, but I’m not stupid, I can read the news. It said she was hit by a motorbike while walking Harry, her dog. “Luckily” the guy that hit her survived.
Then the will. It came out a week or two after the incident. She left $400,000 for Mum and Dad and her cottage and Harry with it. For me, she left $150,000 and some plants. Gran and I loved planting seeds and gardening; it’s even the last thing we did together before she... passed. There were five things inside of the pack, each one of our favourite plants. A tomato, an apple pip, a rose, some cucumber seeds, and finally, our favourite, a hellebore. Gran thought I liked these because they were pretty, or maybe because they were tasty, but in all honesty, I liked them because of her.
The next day, I spent hours planting my gran’s plants. I could almost hear her gentle voice and her soft smile
and her glowing presence. The sun beamed down onto me, burning my skin, but I didn’t care; this was for Gran, this was for her. It was late now, and the cold of the night arrived and my t-shirt wasn’t enough to protect me from its icy touch. But, I cracked on. Eventually, when my parents realised I wasn’t at Tim’s, they brought me inside and sat me down. I will never forget this conversation.
“Everyone dies one day sweetie, we can be sad, but don’t spend your whole life dwelling on this...” said my mother, almost like she didn’t care.
“It does! I’m doing this for Gran!” I retaliated, trying to salvage my mother’s belief in my wonderful grandmother.
“Yes sweetheart, but you can’t spend days and days outside... She’s watching over us”
“You don’t get it! It’s just as if she wasn’t even your mum!” I screamed. I pointed at Mum accusingly but accidentally knocked down one of Gran’s vintage plant pots from the sixties!
“That’s it! Go to your room!” said Dad.
“I’m sorry! No! Please!” I wailed. But it was too late. “And no more going outside for a week!” added Dad.
The next day I snuck out into the garden. Once again, I could feel Gran’s magic hands, working away on the tomato with me, helping me water the roses, eating our cucumbers. I missed her so much. I looked at Harry briefly. I never appreciated how soft his snow-coloured fur was and how cute his little truffle-like nose was. Back to the plants, I thought to myself. Then I heard our backdoor open. Oh no, game over.
Dad was not as nice this time. He locked my window and my bedroom door and only opened the dog flap (which he had locked) to pass me a tray of food. I felt like a prisoner in a luxury cell. All I had was some paper and games, but I didn’t want to play Fortnite with Tim or draw pictures of Harry; no, I wanted to garden. A few days went by and my parents slowly gave me more freedom, but they locked all doors so that I couldn’t escape to Gran’s warm grasp and her beautiful plants. I longed to feel the earth under my nails and smell the sweet soil. I longed to watch bugs wandering along the flowerbed and listen to sparrows tweet beautiful melodies to each other.
One morning, from my bedroom window, I looked down upon my plants and I saw my tiny apple tree, rotten and withering away. The next morning I watched in horror as my tomatoes and cucumbers were destroyed. Weeds. I was hoping with all my might that this wouldn’t happen. One by one, my saplings and plants were destroyed, not just Gran’s. I wept and cried to my parents, but they didn’t want to hear it.
“They’re just plants.”
“It’s fine sweetie, we can replant them.”
Eventually they all died. I screamed and fought with my parents and, eventually, I had had enough. One night, I took a knife from the kitchen and pried open my window. I climbed down our conveniently-placed pear tree and then ran over to the garden. Using my miner’s helmet. I saw that there was hope. There was life. Gran was still with me. And, of course, the plant left could be none other than the hellebore. It smelled of Gran. It felt like Gran. To me, it was Gran. I desperately grabbed the plant and used the key under our poppy pot to open the back door. No noise. My parents were sound asleep. I took a pot and began to revitalise it. Compost: nothing. Cow dung: nothing. Watery soil: absolutely nothing. I began to lose hope. Suddenly, the hellebore twitched. It creaked and wailed. It sounded like a voice.
“Don’t worry my treasure. I’ll always be by your side, no matter what.”
“Gran?” I said, eyes as wide as an owl’s.
“I’ll always be by your side,” it said again.
“Gran, please. No. What!” I was so confused yet felt sad. “Gran! Gran!”
The hellebore slowly drooped and withered.
“Who are you talking to honey?” said Mum, yawning. I think I had woken her up.
“No one Mum, no one,” I said. I never chased Gran again. She was always with me.
Creative Writing
Runner Up
Lukas Collins (Fourth Form)
Life and Death
The soft grass lightened with the sky, trees kissed by cool, spring winds, to the earth a singular samara spins. The blazing, summer sun is no longer so shy, the seedling turns into a sapling, climbing high, a swallow flies swiftly above; a tiny voice sings. A wrestle to the ground, the gold leaf wins, the great old tree lets out a sigh.
Strong winds guide each samara down.
The tree laid bare, carrying crisp snow instead, it lays isolated, no other tree in sight, without any leaves to nurture, it lays down its crown. There’s nothing left to be done, the tree stands dead, but far away, a samara gains flight.
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
Sam Keating-Anderson (Fourth Form)Just Ignore - Sensitive Content Warning -
I had a thought, a good one too, that would solve all my problems.
It won’t work, yes it will, it won’t, it will.
He talks to me sometimes. I don’t like him, Why not, just ignore, why not! Just ignore, why not! Just ignore.
It’s Friday, My plan is set.
It won’t work, yes it will, no it won’t, it will, it won’t, it must, just ignore.
A beam, a rope and a chair.
It won’t work! It will, it won’t, it will, I won’t let it, I am doing it. Just ignore.
He tried to talk me out of it, he did,
I don’t think he should have.
But now I have more, better plans all written out.
That won’t work, but they will, but they won’t, but they will. Just ignore,
A toaster and a bath, A razor and a bath.
Two perfect plans.
That won’t work, but they will, they can’t they can, they won’t they will. Just ignore.
All set up. Plan one ready to go.
Bath run, toaster on.
Even though it won’t work, even though it will, it won’t, it will, it won’t it will. Just ignore.
I sit, I splash, I sink, ready to drop.
Then finally a fizz, then nothing. I told you, you did, I told you, you did, I told you, you did. Just ignore.
Next, the razor, no water run. The only flow will be of crimson.
But only if it works, which it will, which it won’t, it will, it won’t, it will. Just ignore.
I sit, I slide, I think.
And if it works what about the mess, not my problem, it will be your mum’s.
My mum, your mum, my mum, your mum.
I forgot, I didn’t, you didn’t, you did, you didn’t. Listen.
She would cry if you left, She would.
So would your dad, my dad, your dad,
So would your friends, so would my friends. Listen.
I don’t think I should do this, I don’t think you should do this.
I won’t, you won’t, I can’t, you can’t.
Razor down, out of bath, call mum, and listen.
creative writing
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
Anton Gryaznov (Fifth Form)
The 3 Miseries - Sensitive Content Warning -
A soldier stands upon the scorched earth. A dense fog envelops the landscape, encasing the holes and divots of past warfare, as if it was a blanket of white cloth. What disgust it brings the soldier; how could a sight like this be hidden from him all the years he spent blindly believing? He remembers the startled cries of the people he shot, but it never gave him any satisfaction. A coward with a gun, tucked away inside a little hole, not unlike the rest that surrounds him. What a pitiful sight, what revolting regression of a civilised man, back to a simple animal, and a coward at that… He looks up from his contemplation, to see the fog has cleared. The monochrome suddenly splits into the most terrifying of colours. The colours of a warzone left behind long ago. His legs tremble and threaten to give way as his mind crumbles before the sight of his own doing. He sees a thousand men before him, how they stumbled over their own fallen, and fell themselves not a metre away. How the looks of horror, of anguish and of fear froze over them for timeless years to come. Their bodies mangled in the barbed wire, headless corpses still occupying the machinery they operated. Piles upon piles of the dead, strewn over the landscape of a hell on Earth. He weeps at the sight and the stench; he thinks of a thousand mothers in their different homes, in their different towns and in their different occupations, coming home to find that their own son, that their only link to the unseen future is taken. He sees how they weep and wallow, how they curse their beloved’s killers… the realisation that it is him dawns. The man with his knees
in the hollow dirt, the dirt that no longer holds emotion. How the place has absorbed the very essence of hate and forced a realisation… it’s all his fault. The doings of two generals, who sit upon a throne and send down orders to incapable men. They run in lines across the field, and in lines they fall. One after another. Until a whole battalion is gone, and then the next. The guilt rests not upon their shoulders; they do not see what the soldier sees. He sees the aftermath, he sees mangled bodies, smells the stench of rotting corpses, the spent gunpowder. He sees the deadly painting that is war, and all the guilt falls upon him, only… How can he stand there, a weak and frail coward, traumatised beyond belief, when thousands lie below him, victims of a failing ideology? Who is he, to outlive a thousand capable young men… to outlive the people he himself killed?
What life is there, when death is kindest?
Trapped inside a cycle of waking and working, a woman no longer holds the freedom of speech and of independent thought. An inventor stripped of her wit and intelligence, forced to atone for the sins she did not do. She becomes a cog in a machine that cannot revolt against its own creator, the pull of iniquity and guilt, an accusation forced upon her, evil deeds she had no part in. Once, her naïve mind laboured for hours, days, months, all for the constant cause of manufacturing an invention that promised to save the world. Meticulous hands, intricate detail, the balanced equation, the perfect creation. One soul’s dream and
dedication, a vow she made in youth, to bring hope and salvation to the ill and affected, to war stricken countries, to continents that suffer famine and disease. She crafted a chemical substance: increase the crop yield for the hungry, increase the plants for medication. To cure the sick and dying… she once thought. A solution to world hunger, an agent to make a plant grow in seconds, a time machine hidden inside a complex strand of hydrocarbons, of chemical bonds and electrostatic attractions. A beautiful creation, to send a flower into bloom in seconds, to watch the petals fall in a transition from life… to death. And yet… she never witnessed that beauty. Her superiors, their greed and hunger, their selfishness and pride, took it from her. Suddenly, a weapon was born, a neurological agent that forced children to think as adults for mere seconds, to feel true fear and terror only for a moment, as their neurones aged and suddenly… their time was out. Über alles in der Welt, the highest power of the world, a nation rules by terror. Dreadful wars, countries forced to kneel under the feet of their aggressor, of generals intoxicated by greed and lost in insanity. The blame lies in the hands of those superiors, who saw not what their deeds would do, but of their own, senseless, self-absorbed profits. Yet, as the pigs dined on lavish dinners, as they watched countries crumble under the onslaught of their armies, they could not help but laugh, not seeing the very hell their actions created below. And in a lonely laboratory sits a solitary girl, confined in darkness and trapped inside a vortex of the voices of the damned. How ironic that she got her recognition, to have it twisted by the very men she trusted. Like a sole mockingbird inside a forest of blue jays, the very world turns its back to her as she weeps for the horrors she didn’t commit. Her sanity and wakefulness seep away like a lone hourglass; her eyes begin to see the light. Death comes for the wicked; the light takes all away from the darkness. And as she buries her head in her arms, questions cloud her mind; did I make the crops grow, did I cure the sick? A smile forms across her pale face for the first time in too long… Yes, perhaps she did. In another life.
What life is there when death is kindest?
He sees men plummet from the heights of skyscrapers. He sees them splatter on the streets in genuine regret and despair, earnest acts of suicide in the face of an unholy enemy. He sees men age and die in seconds, watching as the moment passes and they take their last breath. Hundreds flee the turmoil on the streets: children’s faces stained with tears, mother’s weeping for a husband who is long gone. Some pray for salvation; some stand stationary in solemn acceptance. He himself is one of them, standing aright and watching the oncoming death from the skies. The bomber watches impassively as people writhe and beg for mercy below but does not pull his finger from the button; an order is an order. Suddenly, life is not in the control of man, but in the control of who holds the trigger. Men below raise their heads in resignation, the smoke engulfs them and they choke. He sees memories develop that hold nothing, neuronic pathways that hold no knowledge. He stumbles to the ground; the mind in disorder, a centrifuge of emotions and memories. His most cherished moments wilt away as the drug takes effect. The last thing he sees… an image of a blue sky. He sees the blank page, the empty canvas and dreams of a life he’ll never have again. What life is there… when death. Is kindest?
This piece is a criticism of the atomic bomb and war, using the bioweapon as an analogy. The piece focuses heavily upon the struggles of Oppenheimer as he watches his invention be transformed into a disease that has no cure, a weapon in the hands of cowards who don’t see the devastation they cause. The guilt that follows the act of inventing something that you cannot control.
creative writing
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
Kitan Balogun (Fifth Form)
Calmly Amongst the Rubble
Calmly amongst the rubble, A moon-kissed child shed tears
As a mother gently sung Sweet songs upon his ears.
Her legs were seared with sharp white dust, her hair was ivory in the moon. Her and the babe would slowly fade Into the thick chemical monsoon.
Calmly amongst the rubble, A broken mirror shattered. In shards of glass, a story told Of families left in tatters.
Teddy bears and Lego bricks, Were scattered across the room.
The children’s bedroom, a perfect still Of a life before the gloom.
Calmly amongst the rubble, The priest dreams of holy water. He wished that there would be a flood To deliver him from the slaughter.
The moonlight stabbed through tiny pores, In a Church which was once beloved. The priest lay lifeless at the altar; Baptised in his blood.
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
Rhys Newman (Fourth Form)
Life and Death
Life and death are not two foes
But two sides of the same coin
They are the balance of the cosmos
The ebb and flow of the divine
Life is the breath of creation
The spark that ignites the flame
Death is the end of a station
The pause before a new name
Life and death are not to be feared
But to be embraced with grace
They are the gifts that we are given
To journey through time and space
Life is a precious gift
That we should cherish and celebrate
Death is a natural end
That we should accept without a debate
Life is a journey of learning
That we should explore and enjoy
Death is a passage of returning
That we should embrace and employ
Life is a spectrum of colours
That we should paint and display
Death is a canvas of wonders
That we should admire and survey
Life is a song of love
That we should sing and share
Death is a melody of peace
That we should listen to and prepare
creative writing
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
FinnAdams (Lower Sixth Form)
Stars
Risen from the dust, plucked from ancient ash, chipped off the ancient rocks. Before air was turned to song and before pigment turned to paint. Before tapestries were weaved into the world and bodies adorned with material colour.
Before metal and rock turned into weapons. Before metal and rock turned into jewelry. Before tongues would speak even those languages which would then fall silent and be condemned to extinction for eternity by the turning of time were first uttered from amateurish tongues.
Before the elements and the raw parts of the world were extracted and moulded by inquisitive hands. Before our age where mysteries can no longer be tolerated. Before the wild instincts and wills of a body which flashed like fire in primal brains were named, before hatred and anger had a reason. When the world was, but was not understood. When one knew only what one saw. Before all, before yesterday and before we were taught to measure our days. There was meat.
It came from unfortunate animals, though there was nothing unfortunate to the featherless bipeds which brought them down. They would wait, enbushed in reeds. Wait and try to silence their fetid and rapid breath, though it would be eons before they would ever know “good breath”. They would look down, follow tracks and broken twigs and dung. Crouching. When the heaving piles of furred meat we call an animal would stroll, with a dull and blank look on their faces. Legs perambulating, not striding. Eyes sitting in sockets, not staring. The people, they would run. Run hard. Feet smashing into rock, smashing and
grinding. The animal would react second. It would falter and slip, its eyes spinning as the people charged towards it, holding pointed twigs. The people held rocks, rocks that would be thrown or swung. Rocks that would crack so as to crack a skull. The shards of the skull used to kill other animals. This time, a mammoth. Its fur raised so high it can blot out the sun behind the grey slivers of its concave tusks. You feel the earth shake as it pounds each foot into the ground, beads of sweat dropping loose from frayed hair. The hair of the mammoth shook without thoughtthrong with bugs and debris it passively gathered up from its aimless Odyssey through life. The people wait, wait till the mammoth passes right in front of them. Four people, crouched as their knees began to burn and ache. As their backs began to ache and burn under the ascending sun as the day crescendoed to its blazing finale. The people arch their backs, bony now - they haven’t seen a mammoth for a while. Now that they see their hunger’s salvation, their yearnful, salivating mouths drive them. Their chase, their eternal chase, a salubrious habit but as vitalizing as it is exhausting. They run miles, endless miles that will stretch for as long as mammoths exist to stomp along the ground. Because they run till their bodies can’t keep pushing them on and their muscles pull, they need to eat more meat. They eat more meat, and they live longer. Bodies expand and balloon - so they need more meat to fuel them. As they eat more meat, they grow stronger - heavier rocks to smash skulls are raised above sweated heads. This means they can kill more, eat more. Lives extended along those
ever-growing miles of running spent pursuing meat. The meat was brought back to the other people; they stood huddled around the fly-covered meat, like flies drawn towards a hunk of meat. Hands would flurry, rip and tear. Gums would bleed as their teeth dug into stringy rubber meat. Just as the mammoth had been hunted with dense rocks, so too would the people fly fists at each other to take more meat. Once, either through a full stomach, or by the meat becoming truly unbearably sour and toxic. The carcass was left. It rotted. When a person died. Their carcass was left. It rotted to the tune of an occasional tear - the tears did mystify the people. No one understood why they felt a dark burning inside of them when it was simply inedible meat. They ran on, to hunt more.
It would have borne warning - the conclusion of their lifelong marathon. The day rocks would be left to bake in the sun, left to let moss settle when the rains came, left to grow to mountain, left to shrink to pebble. Unstained by blood. The day Sisyphus painted his boulder and let his shoulder rest. The time the mammoth was left to wander in peace and the people painted its form on cave walls with dust. One night, winds howled with a ferocity never seen on the infantile planet with a vicious speed. It dispelled the clouds which were sent beyond the horizon. Was its ripping noise a melody, or a maelstrom of absurdity as chaotic as the patterns of tossed leaves caught in its path? The clouds gone from the sky; the veil lifted. Night was draped over the world.
One, unknown, curious soul had stepped forth from a cave not many nights later. This one body stood and stared, staring up at the celestial salt. They stood and stared and felt a force rise in them; it filled them. They looked at the pink in between the stars, that which would have but will now never be dubbed a supernova - saw how it gracefully lay in void. Its hue enchanted this curious one. The moon, oh the moon, its light radiant and pure. It was the prism through which something, some perfect entity, some infinite spirit showed through. The moon dazzled
and projected that thing-which-makes-you-feel. How their hearts flew like comets. How that smile crept onto their face. How their body loaned its weight for fleeting moments to the heavens. For many the stars and moon were naught but a cheap excuse for a more useful sun. But for this soul, they shone with a passion that the eyeroasting sun could not burn with. They ran inside, inside the cave and told the others, told the others of the beauty that silently soared as a magnificent ocean dusty world. The others stared at first, then as time went on their stares turned to admiration, their stares turned to musings and their stares turned to love. Since that night, all stared at the stars. One night, the night a body found a soul. One person – Fajj - looked harder and closer than the rest. In his mind, as they adored the blazing spots, lines formed. Between each little dot a line, and the dots combined. Suddenly stood still in the sky was an august eagle. Fajj furrowed his brow; he gripped a gasp before it left his throat. His eye grew to the size of a gas giant. Was it written? Was it placed? Had a hand forged this? What was this eagle; it wasn’t like most eagles seen before; its beak was more nebulous and its wings had feathers of prismatic light. You could see it clearly if you walked past the pond and up to the top of the cliff. You would look between two obelistic rocks, and between those it took flight. When Fajj had seen this eagle, he spoke of it, calling with a voice designed to reach those heavens he had venerated -those stars he had divined. Thus spoke Fajj, with his knees feeling like the rippling reflection of knees seen in the pond. When he spoke, he sung. When he walked, he danced. His words were as beautiful and as perfect as anything, as majestic as everything. The few of the already very few who doubted acquiesced once they had seen, seen the scene in the sky betwixt the two rocks. All were infatuated with the eagle. Its wings and its flight, elevating itself to the sky. The sky which had become the heavens.
creative writing
So, in what time would feel like an instant, the stars had been divined. Day after day, the people would carry the prehistoric humdrum, hunting and gathering and screwing. Night was seen in a new light. They’d all come
together, by the two towering rocks and they’d sit, and they’d stare. Fajj would stare the hardest; in his elated eyes the stars would shine the brightest. Eventually they would shine so bright, they would glisten so differently for him that – he would swear on his life – they would speak to him. Their light would impart some secrets. All the others would sit on the rocks below the cliff face, craning their necks, straining their minds. Fajj was as luminous as any of the shining islands on the infinite sea of black. Pairs of crossed legs and puppy dog eyes which stared into the depths of the sky and never came back, eyes that bathed in the celestial pool above. The world shifted, spun on a new axis. Gazes spun with it.
A hunter by day, some early kind of theologian by night was the newly acquired condition of Fajj. So too were all the people; all the people philosophized in the serene silence of the night. Fully enchanted by the glistening lights.
Soon, they were equally enthralled by the winged words of Fajj. He did not hide the secrets of the stars; he shared them boldly and loudly. He told the people that the stars were full of secrets. That when every beam of light, every cloud of celestial stardust spread like a sheet of lace, they were forging the tale of everything. All were created, created like we tip sticks with sharpened rocks. How could they not be, so perfect and prismatic. So serene and so soft. What he could not yet explain, the mystery that remained, was of the eagle. By this point many other shapes had been discovered; a hunter bringing down a boar was the latest craze - thus the men hunted with a greater ferocity than ever. When they brought down a kill, they would raise it high on their shoulders, raise it to the stars. Men would crane their necks as they always did towards the cliffs where they left the useless bits of an animal carcass. These carcasses contained more than rotting bone and fetid fat. In milk white bone was the beauty that nursed them into a new light, as they leant the bones a new view.
When you walked for about the time it took for your knees to start hurting a little bit in the direction of one
certain tree, you would find vivid bits of grass, grass that had rounded colourful squares attached - they would eventually dub them flowers. They were grass and grass was grass. Now the stars shone though, minds were blooming like roses. A man, no name, walked; his knees began to ache, and he saw the dashes. The dashes he had so often trampled with a callous and careless foot. He fell, but he wanted to fall. He lay on the ground and brought his eyes near to a lily. Like they who had first revered the stars, their soul was turned inside out - no worries of a sabretooth tiger as they peered into the styles and stems of the flower bed. The wind, it made the same noise it always made. The same gust of nothing, now sounded of something, sounded of something sung. The eyes and ears joined hands and walked each other somewhere radiant in the mind of this man. So, he plucked, he held the flowers in his hands which curved with a slight and soft respect. He kept the flowers in a little spot - like a stone age shelf - in his cave. The others came and saw the art they used to tread on; they too began to pick and prune and pluck. They began to extract and extrapolate the pedals and the alluring smell. They began to do this, neglecting the hunt. Many picked sunflowers; he would adore how they stood with a cushion-like tenderness against the jagged brutality of cave rock. They collected bouquets upon bouquets of the beautiful sticks; they loved the way they wilted for it meant they could pick new ones. Fresh ones, ones that sung brighter. Stood louder. Ones that could be adored with a new eye. The people would pick them together. Wither and pick and pick and wither. Flat rocks in caves were soon adorned with miniature meadows, contained within a hollowed-out ape skull. You couldn’t eat them. Yet the people were nourished. Nourished though weakening; less hunting and more musing meant bodies began to form little hills of fat. They ran slower, jumped lower. Yet they felt edified and fulfilled. A poor people made well-moneyed by stars and buds. Still, they hunted, still they mated, still they fought, still they cried and smiled and laughed and died. Died and sank into the earth, engulfed by darkness. Now though, they brought into that darkness a lantern. One that luminated with a
soft glow at first, a meek little shimmer. Now though, the people shone their lanterns with a radiancy, enough to make the world of darkness one of light. The world of sweat made sweet. The world of pain, pristine. Even their voices became like honeysuckles. They realised that they could talk. But in a certain sort of way. It was loud and it was difficult. It made them feel the way they felt when they first looked up to the heavens. Singing, you know it as. They would sing of hunting, sing of screwing, sing of the stars and of flowers. One song, composed by Fajj. Sung by all.
While we live, come let us shine. Have no grief in your heart. Life is here just a short while. And time shall take its toll.
A rough translation, very rough. The feeling of the words, the way they plucked hearts and pricked ears, the way they pulled upon limbs and the way they softened souls have sunk with the bodies into the ancient Earth. Yet so too have they risen into the divine plane a soul clings to at night. In envy and reverence of its perfection.
For prior to song, people were bound to live on earth. Now they could holiday in heaven. At least for the time they sang the song. A song that was sung as one by all the people. They wanted to be stars, to shine like stars. No longer did they labour to sharpen spears - work to lift heavier rocks. Now they lived in adorned caves, painted with the dust of these flowers. Now they caressed their voices into something higher than air shot out of lungs. Now they had acquired a second body, one that resided above them.
No longer did they pursue animals with such ferocity, with such a plain and untamable hunger. Less hunting, less spear making, less rock throwing and less ferocity meant that, over time, bodies grew weaker. Lives shortened. Gene pools attenuated. Before, a body was left to rot. Left as the filth it used to be. The body which could not run. The body could not help the others. Now the people, driven by some transient presence of beauty, adorn the dead in
flowers and raise them high, under the obelisk where Fajj first spotted the matterless eagle and raised them to the stars. With meat a secondary concern, lives shortened. Hastened. Lifespans were made brief. Yet, Fajj opined, and the people did concur, what is a long life of meat in the face of a fleeting life of beauty? What is one drab and repeating day forced to exist perpetually, in the face of a transient flare of pleasure? What is a full belly, in the face of a full heart? Why extend that which exists, simply to exist? Who fires an arrow into a blank wall, rather than a marked target - with intention - with vision - with purpose? To die quicker, to have life snatched by the cold grip sooner, is to treasure that life. To extend life without revering it is to treat the finest luxury like the dullest commodity. To blow one’s nose on silk. To lengthen a life, for the sake of lengthening a life is an insult. So, the spears and stones fell silent, necks remained craned, flowers plucked, pigments spread on blank walls and songs sung, hung up in the air. Air that has had life breathed into it. So, the wheel of time turned, and so bodies erode and rot. Yet before breaths ceased with the chill dark death, they told of the stars and of the mammoths who were now killed in less volume, painted more often. Their thick mess of fur was said to be as soft as a cloud - though clouds had never been felt.
creative writing
Creative Writing
Shortlisted
Olly Wright (Lower Sixth Form)The Colour of Music: A Eulogy
What colour is Tuesday?
…I ask you that question and, I expect, you either stare at me vacantly or furrow your brow in puzzlement.
See, I’m one of the few people on this planet who perhaps shouldn’t react in that way, but I’ll admit that I was just as confused as you are when Tina Elisa Wells posed the same question to me on a London street, twenty Tuesdays ago. I had been fast asleep in the doorway of a disused building - which had become my bed - and she had sat down next to me, carrying what appeared to be her only possessions: a rucksack and a blanket. I remember shooting her an uncomfortably prolonged, quizzical stare - one that I had hoped would prompt her to elaborate - before it clicked. Tuesday is green.
She was familiar with my condition. How on earth she knew I would have the answer to her peculiar question beats me, as I wasn’t aware that those with synesthesia carried with them any stand-out physical characteristics.
Thinking about it, there always was an air of mystery and wisdom about her, and I suppose I put that down to being because she had been sent from above to rescue me from descending any further into the abyss of hopelessness. Well, that’s what I wanted to believe. And I’m pretty sure I still do.
On that Tuesday, we talked for a long while. Admittedly, much of that conversation was one-sided, as I explained, at length, every little mistake; every misunderstanding
that had brought me to this desperate situation. Tina was always a very good listener.
We then discussed the condition. She was fascinated by it. I explained how it was only in my late childhood that I really understood that seeing colours when one hears a sound wasn’t normal, and how I had always assumed that everyone else saw the world in exactly the same way. I told her how the misery that had later engulfed my life as I spent night after night on the streets caused the vibrant hues I saw in the world to fade into dull tones. What was once an array of the brightest shades of the boldest colours was reduced to almost black and white as I began to believe that the hope that my circumstances would one day improve was nothing more than a delusion; a fantasy I would revisit every time I needed one good reason to wake up the next day.
In fact, Tina had walked into my life at a time when I could not have been any closer to giving up on that fantasy altogether. She was facing the same struggles as I was. She had lost everything that I had… but it was clear that she had never lost hope.
When I had finished explaining, she told me to follow her, and led me to a free-to-use piano outside a train station on one of the nearby streets. Sitting down on the stool, she handed me a small sketchpad and a pack of cheap felt-tip pens which she had retrieved from her rucksack. She could see that I was somewhat bemused, but proceeded to turn to face the piano and launch into a melody, having not
said a single word.
It suddenly reminded me of my childhood. I’d sit in the living room as my sister carried out her daily violin practice, and it didn’t matter how simple or complicated the tune was - I would always be inspired by what I saw. The blend of colours that would fill my vision always seemed to make sense. It was like each of the notes were working together to form a beautiful tapestry before me, and I felt compelled to create artwork that captured its essence. Alas, my artistic abilities back then left a little to be desired, and so these seemingly meaningless bursts of colour I had scribbled onto my mother’s rather expensive watercolour paper would always be swept away, along with every other unrecognisable, half-finished doodle I would leave scattered about the house.
As passers-by began to stop to appreciate Tina’s melody, I set to work with the felt-tips. Granted, they were not the finest tools, but the end result was striking… to me, at least. The ink may have bled into the cheap paper in an undesirable fashion, but from my perspective, the arrangement of colours on the page told a story.
Of course, I’d imagined that what I had created would appear nonsensical and pointless to anyone other than myself. I wouldn’t blame somebody for thinking that.
Tina’s reaction, however, was not what I had expected, because it was as though that moment meant a great deal to her. I suppose it’s one thing to hear a song you have composed, but something else to see it.
She told me that she had written several musical pieces of her own, and so we occupied the piano for a considerable portion of the next few days, as she played all of her compositions and I created colourful illustrations based on what I saw. Members of the public would frequently leave money in a coffee cup and she would smile warmly at them as she skillfully continued to play her piece. The kind person would always smile back, but raise a confused eyebrow at my latest vibrant mess of scribbles as I was hard at work on the seat next to her.
It wasn’t long before the cup was filled to the brim with
an assortment of coins and folded bank notes, and I was surprised when Tina suggested that we save the money and use it to purchase more art supplies. I wasn’t convinced that it was a good idea, seeing as the money in that cup had been placed there entirely due to her musical talent, rather than my artistic ability. However, she insisted that it would be worth it, and soon after I was equipped with paints, brushes, canvases and an easel.
We visited the piano every day, and she played a variety of melodies - some of her own devising, and others more well-known - as I continued to paint my abstract pieces, in which a consistent style seemingly began to emerge. I found myself gaining more confidence in my work, and we started to receive appreciation from observers as a pair of artists - a double act, of sorts.
One day - another green Tuesday - our work caught the attention of a woman who owned a small gallery in the local area. She wanted to know our story. Tina explained how we had met, and how the two of us had been inspired to blend her love for music with my rare condition to create unique artwork with the limited tools we had access to. The woman found the concept intriguing, and said that she would be very happy to display a selection of our work in her next exhibition, if we were interested - an offer we were delighted to receive.
On an evening later that week, Tina and I found our work exhibited on the same wall as a number of extraordinary portrait, landscape and abstract artworks. It was an experience I can only describe as surreal, if a little daunting. I, personally, was not convinced that my paintings belonged in this line-up of such immense talent. However, she was happy, and so I was happy for her. There was a mixed response. Some visitors appreciated the pieces simply for the arrangement of brush strokes and how it made them feel, while others were curious and wanted to find out more about our inspiration and background.
creative writing
It was about ten minutes before closing time when a
smartly-dressed man approached us. He took a moment to admire the paintings before speaking. When he did, he asked - like many others had - what had inspired us to create them, and, once again, we recounted the full story. When we had finished, the man looked back at our work, and we stood there in silence as the other remaining visitors gradually filed out of the gallery. He finally spoke again, and told us that, firstly, he would be interested in buying the pieces for a large sum of money. He was moved by our story, and so then shared a little of his own. A wealthy art collector born and raised in north London, he would often attend small exhibitions such as this one, on the lookout for undiscovered talent and originality. He also helped many artists to increase the reach of their work, and this was one of those occasions, he said, where he saw a great deal of potential. He lived on an estate up north, and concluded his response by offering us a life-changing opportunity: to stay there and work with him until we had the means to find accommodation of our own.
Now, to say we were taken aback by this offer would be an understatement, and we accepted with gratitude beyond comprehension.
Just like that, my world had so quickly been transformed from one of misery into another filled with hope. In three weeks, my ‘home’ had been upgraded from one without a roof to a mansion with an astonishing array of paintings adorning its walls and ceilings.
Despite all of this, what mattered most of all was that we could both take comfort in the fact that neither of us had to face the world alone anymore.
That was, of course, until we learned of Tina’s illness. Only three weeks had passed since the kind man’s offer.
I knew it had been too good to be true… To think that such a tremendous blessing wouldn’t come with a catch of equal size.
Suddenly, I no longer cared about what I had gained and achieved. I only cared about what I was going to lose. It already felt like Tina and I had been lifelong friends, as
it seemed as though I knew her better than I had ever known anyone else. But, because I knew her so well, I was well aware of how she would take the news that her days were numbered. There were no tears - only a determination to make the most of the time she had left.
I never left her side at the hospital, and I decorated her room with several of our projects. I also brought a keyboard so that she could continue to play her music, and took with me the same felt-tips and sketchpad she had given me on the day we met. That way, we could do what we loved until the end.
To see someone who had previously radiated such an energetic and passionate approach to life slowly become weaker - to the point where her hands could not dance across the keys anything like the way in which they had used to - hurt me. Facing the fact that I was not going to get the chance to spend the rest of my life with her hurt me more. But I didn’t want to waste any of those precious seconds pondering over all of the things we were never going to have. That was the last thing she would have wanted. I only pondered over the memories she gave mememories that I was going to cherish forever. The inevitable blue Thursday finally arrived.
In her last moments, surrounded by our colourful creations, she was still smiling. This wasn’t just a farewell; it was a celebration of two lives transformed.
In the quiet of the hospital room, as Tina’s fingers rested on the keyboard for the final time, I reflected upon our short-lived journey. It wasn’t just about the colours I saw or the notes she played. It was about hope - the hope she rekindled in me when I had none.
Tina Wells, I thank you. You gave me a reason to live.
Drama
Drama Winner
George Garosi (Fourth Form)The Uncanny Visit
This scene takes place in a bank in Brooklyn, New York during the late 1920s. A twelve year old boy is waiting for his stressed mother, who is anticipating some bad news from the bank.
The boy is left sitting in centre stage, a second chair (in which his mother was on) next to him. This second chair is left empty. The boy sits waiting impatiently looking around the grand bank, staring intently at the decor. A man (who’s name we do not yet know) approaches 10 seconds into the performance and sits next to the boy.
Man: Boring here isn’t it?
Young boy looks down at the floor
Young boy: I’m sorry mister but my mom, who is speaking to the man at the front desk, said don’t talk to strangers.
Man laughs to himself/chuckles.
Man: I’m pretty strange, but let’s just say I am no stranger around here.
Man puts his hand out towards the young boy.
Man: Name’s Robert. Robert Jefferson
The young boy does not shake hands and just looks at him.
Man: Come on, put it there, kid
Young boy shakes his hand.
Young boy: Why are you here, mister?
Man: I’ve seen people lose so much, throughout my life. This is not the life I originally chose for myself.
Young boy: What do you mean?
Man: A long time ago, I was older, more competitive, more ambitious at least that’s why I came into this business. I took joy and most of all pleasure, basking in the wealth and riches of this company. Now I realise, I was oblivious, small minded and never realised what others were going through. Since then, I’m stuck here watching people suffer, paying the eternal price (the man stops talking). Anyway kid, that was long before your time and what are you doing in this place? It’s a nice day. Shouldn’t you be playing ball in the park or something?
Young boy: Oh, my mom, the bank wanted to see her. We’re in trouble again.
The man knowingly nods. The man pats the boy on the back as he gets up out of his seat.
Man: Anyway kid, it was nice meeting you. Look, it’s almost three o’clock. I have got some important business to attend to.
The man walks off stage and remains there for the rest of the scene. The boy looks to his right realising that the man left his bag. The boy jumps up in a panic looking around him for the man.
Young boy: Hey mister, mister! You left your bag!
The boy looks to downstage left and mutters to himself. The man stays offstage.
Young boy: But you were right here? You were right here?
The boy hears the old man from offstage. Man: I’m here all the time kid
The boy looks all around, puzzled and confused.
The young boy turns to the wall behind him where the clock strikes three.
Young boy: Oh man, three o’clock already! (pauses) Wait a minute, that’s the guy, that’s the guy, in that painting!”
The boy points at the painting behind him next to the clock and reads.
Young boy: Robert Jefferson, Chairman of Brooklyn Bank, born March 19th 1861, died November 7th 1913. 1913, 1913… But that was 10 years ago?
The young boy sits back down in confusion, picks up the bag and looks inside. The boy looks inside the bag surprised when he takes out something that the audience is left to imagine and speculate. The audience can infer from this point on that the man left him money due to the unfortunate circumstances the boy and his mother are in. He looks up excitedly, beaming with joy.
Performed by Hamish Timmins and Oliver Quince
drama
Drama Runner Up
Dominic Fairhead and Luke Charles (Fourth Form)The Motherly Light
Characters:
Austin - A young man in his mid-20s, struggling with a difficult task.
Eleanor - Austin’s dead mother, watching him from heaven.
The stage is dark as a spotlight shines on Austin, who is sitting at the desk, surrounded by papers and a look of anger on his face. Eleanor, the mother, is looking at him from a platform (heaven)
Eleanor: [Softly] Austin, my dear boy, you’re working so hard.
Austin looks up, as if sensing his mother’s presence, but sees nothing. He shakes his head, trying to focus on the task at hand.
Austin: [Sighs] Mum, I wish you were here. This is so difficult. I don’t know if I can do it.
Eleanor: [Smiling] You can, Austin. I know you can. You’ve always had the strength and determination to overcome anything and everything.
Austin becomes sad and has a bunch of emotions as he recalls moments shared with his mother. He takes a deep breath and continues working, his movements becoming more purposeful.
Austin: [Muttering] I miss you every day, Mom. I wish you
were here to guide me through this.
Eleanor: I’m here, Austin, right by your side. You may not see me, but I’m always with you, watching over you.
Austin nods, a sense of calm washing over him as he feels his mother’s comforting presence. He resumes his work with extreme focus.
Eleanor: You have been my light, Austin. And now, it’s my turn to be yours.
Austin: Thank you, Mum. I’ll make you proud. I promise.
Eleanor: I know you will son. You always do.
Suddenly
Austin looks up amazed and slightly concerned
Austin: Mum I.. I… [Austin stutters and rushes his speech] I can actually hear you. [Speaking very quickly] I thought it was all in my head but no… no I can really hear you.
Eleanor: yes its me; I may not be with you physically but I will always be with you in spirit
Austin glances up, filled with a sense of connection to his mother’s spirit. He smiles softly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
The scene fades to black, leaving the audience with a sense of the everlasting bond between a mother and her son.
Performed by Thomas Taylor and Seb DavisDrama Highly Commended
Jared Love (Remove Form)The Harbinger of Death
The old man awakes in the night clutching his chest to see a dark figure at the end of his bed.
Old man: (gasp) What’s happening to me, who are you?
Death: Evening, my friend. I think you know who I am and it is time for us to begin our journey onward. You have but a few moments left.
The old man realizes his end is near and that these are his last moments.
Old man: Oh, I see.
Death: The realisation catches everyone eventually.
Old man: I thought I had a few more years left in me yet. I’m barely 80.
Death: Nah mate, unfortunately not. If you have any last thoughts or questions before we make a move, now’s the time.
The old man recalls his most treasured memories. Childhood memories, the birth of his children, and meeting his wife.
Old man: Wait, one question.
Death: (sigh) Hurry up then, times nearly up.
Old man: We are going to heaven, not hell right?
Death: Ah, yes, I get this one a lot. I’m afraid you’ll have to find out yourself.
Old man: How do I find out myself?
Death: You are out of time mate. I have to be in New York for 3 to catch the brain surgeon who is finally about to kick the bucket.
Old man: Can’t you spare 2 minutes? I’ve been good all my life. It’s the least I deserve.
Death: I’m merely the messenger. Can you hurry up…
Old man: (Interrupting death) Please, just tell me something, anything!
Death: Alright…I’ll answer your very first question, you are having a heart attack due to all of those cigarettes you’ve smoked throughout your life and so now you are basically a sack of tar.
Old man: How has that caused me to have a heart attack, doesn’t the tar fill your lungs?
Death: Ugh, I don’t know do I? Now come along.
Performed by Jared Love and Matt Hackney
drama
music
Music Winner
Angus Timmins (Lower Sixth Form)
Hector and Andromache
I have faced the brief of life and death by looking at one of the great stories of myth, the Trojan war. I’m lucky enough to study the Iliad in Classics, which tells of the events leading up to and including the death of Hector, the prince of Troy. My piece is particularly inspired by the last meeting between Hector and his wife Andromache. In this episode, Andromache is begging her husband not to return to return to the battlefield, as she is certain that if he does so, he will lose his life to the greatest of the Greek warriors, Achilles. This is portrayed by the grand flowing theme in the early stages of the piece.
Hector, says he must go, as it his duty to the city of which he acts as the most senior general in the brutal conflict. Here the music begins to darken, and it slows down slightly. He foretells his own death, the climax of the piece, and the fall of his beloved city, but he still exclaims that he must return to the battle, and so the piece ends with him walking out to the battlefield with his brother Paris, effectively walking to his death.
Music Runner Up
Harry L’Estrange(Fifth Form)
Life and Death
In this piece for violin, oboe and piano, I have tried to explore the idea of ‘Life and Death’ in a number of ways. I have written this piece in sonata form, with each section representing a side of the theme. I have tried to make each section contrast to the next, to emphasise these two extremes.
I have approached ‘death’ from different angles. The inspiration for the style of this piece came predominantly from the romantic era, with a particular focus on composers such as Clara Schumann. When Schumann wrote her own piano trio in 1846, she suffered the loss of a child, so this composition was partly as a homage to her. Some ways I’ve tried to reflect this pain and suffering is through the use of dissonance, in particular, a reoccurring theme involving suspensions created by the melody and counter melody lines. In these areas, I have tried to make the harmony as impactful as I can through devices such as Neapolitan 6ths, and different augmented 6th chords, anticipating the Ic (tonic second inversion) chord into a cadential point. For me, I find this inevitability and prediction of the minor 1 chord really poignant.
I have tried to sound the other side of ‘life’ in different ways, but in particular, in the contrasting 2nd subject. In this section, I have created a lighter feel through different textures in particular. In the recapitulation, I tried to create a bigger sense of drama, intensifying the harmony and exploiting the instruments more greatly, in a bold, striking ending.
Music Third Place
Alby Chan (Fifth Form)Garden of the Earthly Delights
My brief for life and death is based on a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. It consists of three large triptychs: the left most illustrates the garden of eden, the middle illustrates the garden of the earthly delights itself, full of lively creatures such as naked humans and outlandish animals that to ratio, and then the right most panel shows Bosch’s take on hell, where there are low ranged instruments sitting around and violent scenes are drawn to add to the sinister nature of hell.
This painting fits very well into Life and Death, and using orchestral music to bring this painting to life would be a sensible choice. My piece of music is split into two main sections, or some might argue three. The first section encountered is the ‘life’ bit, where the tempo is lively and the music features loads of accidentals and chromaticism, and later on multiple melodies are introduced into the mix and each of them attempt to fight for the spotlight, characterising the population in the middle panel of the painting.
And the second section is a rather slow section. A solo flute moment is played, accompanied by the other woodwind instruments and the horn, and the use of tritones here creates a ghastly feeling. Later on, the strings play a three note ostinato a low register, creating rhythmic displacement with the duple time played in the wind section, illustrating the unsettling atmosphere of hell. Dissonance is used to reflect the chaos and violence in hell. This bit is followed by a homorhythmic section in the strings with the horn providing a triumphant tune, signifying the escalation of the battles and fights happening in hell, and the final build up to the D minor chord reflects the never-ending suffering the underworld.
Oscar
Jamie
Photo credits Gabriel Almeida Jooste Lawrencebedfordschool.org.uk