BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS number 3

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

University Road, Bristol, BS8 1SR

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Bristol Grammar School, University Road, Bristol, BS8 1SR

Tel: +44 (0)117 933 9648

email: betweenfourjunctions@bgs.bristol.sch.uk

Editor: David Briggs

Art Editor: Jane Troup

Design and Production: David Briggs and Ruth Bennett

Cover artwork: Lukas Szpojnarowicz

© remains with the individual authors herein published November 2020

All rights reserved

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS is published twice yearly in association with the Creative Writing Department at Bristol Grammar School. We accept submissions by email attachment for poetry, prose fiction/ non-fiction, script, and visual arts from everyone in the BGS community: pupils, students, staff, support staff, parents, governors, OBs. Views expressed in BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS are not necessarily those of Bristol Grammar School; those of individual contributors are not necessarily those of the editors. While careful consideration of readers’ sensibilities has been a part of the editorial process, there are as many sensibilities as there are readers, and it is not entirely possible to avoid the inclusion of material that some readers may find challenging. We hope you share our view that the arts provide a suitable space in which to meet and negotiate challenging language and ideas.

Writers’ Examination Board

The image on the front cover shows a detail from a painting by Lukas Szpojnarowicz

EDITORIAL

Well, it’s been an eventful issue. The poems, stories, artworks, essays and scripts collected here were submitted in the spring and summer of 2020, many of them before the March lockdown. This, then, by way of a confession: what with one thing and another it’s taken me a while to produce this edition of the magazine. I hope you’ll agree that it’s worth the wait.

One of the uncanny features of art is its ability to speak across historical periods, to retain its relevance for individuals living very different lives in very different contexts from the one inhabited by the individual responsible for producing the artwork in the first place. What we take as twentieth-first century readers of Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, or George Eliot, for example, is likely to be very different from that taken by the contemporary readership for those writers, and even from the intentions of the authors themselves. But what does it matter? The construction of meaning is a personal matter for the reader. For the viewer. Once an artwork has made its way out into the world, the artist can’t go around as its chaperone. It must find its own way into the lives and memories of those it encounters. And if this is true of texts written on the other side of the industrial revolution, or of the great plague of 1665, then it’s also likely to be true of texts produced just the other side of Easter, in a pre-Covidian age.

Perhaps you’ll find that this potential for trans-historical exegesis resides more potently in the poetry with which this issue of the magazine begins? Or in the diverse range of visual art? But the big themes are reassuringly present elsewhere in the magazine too: gossip, narcissism, friendship, sibling rivalry, family strife, the individual and society, music. Enduring concerns of great stories, erudite essays, clearly-visualised screenplays. Anyway, that’s all out there in the following pages for you as readers to discover.

So, there have been some changes - not the least of which being the move to an entirely digital format and the attendant scrapping of the cover price. But many things remain just as they were. I hope you find some comfort in this.

David Briggs

EDD HOFFMAN

We Rested by the Hedgerows

We rested by the hedgerows, bathed in acid winter light, breathing clouds of memories. We spoke of Holocaust and Holocene.

Drinking light in through the hawthorn you said: “Still, we have breathed the same air, we have drunk the same rain for a thousand years and more.

We are not yet so far gone as to forget: it was we who grew the hedgerows that are borders for ourselves and a thousand more.”

I took a dimmer view, seeking only what was not. Still the grass beneath us grows as we rest by the hedgerows.

HOLLY EWING

Loose Ends

You were a collection of beautiful broken pieces.

Trapped in a lost body. Expected to stay the same day by day, yet when the world changes why don’t you? Pastel pink highlighters draw your outline but colour cannot cover black.

She opened a door you’d locked. Twice.

Because you wanted someone to walk in and hang custard-yellow curtains or mint-green blinds on the rusted hooks. Take a trip to IKEA, why don’t you?

You’d got used to the silence. Your silence.

Grey clouded glass towered over and people saw you as they would from the sky. A ride in a pink balloon or peering down a golden skyline.

She bought you Jenga in a cream-white box and told you that your broken pieces were like the blocks.

You would laugh until you cried and your stomachs ached.

She was blue and you light grey. Sitting on high plastic stools with purple folders and the perpetual smell of Bunsen burners now locked in grey cupboards. She would pass you questions on white folded card and tell you that she would never need to know this in the future.

You turn the radio on and change the curtains. She was always leading. So you lead too. Stories in yellow and dusky pink. She packed boxes of greys and blacks.

She tied your loose ends.

IMOGEN HALES

Conversations

What is nature to you?

Is it freedom?

But where does freedom come from? Is it felt within?

Or is learnt from what nature shows us?

Fresh air pulls itself between trees, through fields, wraps itself over hills. Perspective sucked in around my eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Mind clears, emptying, tumbling like a stream over ageing thoughts until only a simple focus on the panorama remains. Sight is no longer barred by cars, walls, opinions, and animals move, and wind flicks leaves and taps rhythms on water, and nothing seems to matter anymore. The smile on my face mirroring the one I feel.

Lack of mobile connection awakens a reconnection between brain and soul, a connection that forms when expectation is momentarily cut away. No more push, pull, judgment.

It’s immeasurable, yet you can hold it in a breath. Immoveable, yet movement is its essence. Infinite, yet a memory can be held in the coolness of a stone.

ABI COWEN

Ink Poisoning

In this rented meat I am empty delirium. I stand in a world of dissocia, the gap between atoms, a gulf of intergalactic space. You draw flowers on my skin and we joke about ink poisoning; you say I will die, so I tell you to draw the whole forest. If I want flowers on my shell, who are you to care?

If nothingness is physically impossible, I am a masterpiece for physicists to marvel at. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I say to them.

But I am the only one who chuckles at my joke. “You cannot escape evil without a rope,” I say to the psychologist in front of me.

On

our way

home from the vacuumed office we skip along the yellow lines, our mouths propped open like coat hangers. And when we look up to face the gods, glaring into acid rain, eyes burning and melting into our skulls,

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

the vitreous lava pouring through our eye sockets, letting our tears blend in, we laugh.

EVA YEMENAKIS Indian

Summer

Here are no stone weeping angels spreading their wings, just an autumn afternoon carrying the promise of winter and a stillness made of trees.

Here is no wailing and gnashing of teeth, just some unobtrusive benches leaning back against the walls wearing their oblong plaques diffidently.

Here is no flaunting of wealth and fame, just some names and dates; sometimes a phrase, ‘A colleague, friend and lover of life.’

Here are no stories carefully shaped and told, just some fragments that offer a glimpse of lives remembered and perhaps well-lived.

And in the near distance the traffic moves –just the city’s voice telling another story that speaks to the stillness of the trees.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

ALISON DENNY Salt

It flavours food, melts ice … “Cleans wounds,” Sara remarked, as we escorted her across a silent city centre. There was a canister of table salt, blue and white – a cheap one –upright on the pavement where we passed by.

“My mother used to rub it on her face to heal a cut, when I was a kid.” She’d tucked her script for Subitol inside her bra; the rain was soaking and she had no coat.

It would not have occurred to me that salt meant disinfection. It is a parallel world, life on the streets, where fag-ends are currency and those who have a script, or welfare pay, need bodyguards to keep the crows at bay.

ALEXIA SEXTOU

The Museum of Comedy & Tragedy

They took us to a museum.

Here are the jars of uncontrolled laughter, they said. Proceed with caution, they said. Do not touch the handle of that door, they said, the room is off limits. The dusty label read ‘dressing room’, had two balloons blotted on either side with red paint. They said, ‘The minds of Aristophanes and Euripides echo in these halls. Hear their lonely cries ringing in your ears.’

For hours they spoke, showed us the bottled tears and melting masks.

No smoking, no eating, no leaning, no more … ‘Please stay in your double files,’ they said. ‘Keep walking, do not stop, please follow the guided lines on either side of the path.’

They said to us, ‘From this point onwards photographs are not permitted.’ Asked us to turn off any mobile devices.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

They opened a door – three foot tall it was –and led us into a patch of darkness, like stepping into the point where the world ends. I thought I might fall right in once I took my first step, when the door behind us closed shut to those who used to think life is a tragedy. ‘It is indeed,’ they said, ‘the greatest comedy of all.’

It swallowed us whole, one by one.

ROSA THORNE

flameproof sand and waxy smiles set a sound a candle is burning, and you, gleeful predators, carve the hardened wax from its resting plate, lift it, and raise it again, over flowering orange heat, watch as it quivers, loses every last bit of shape, and you smile as you count the drops in the next few breaths you lose your nerve, you fling away twisted wax remains do you care if it goes out?

the four of you are gathered in a sleepy warmth mutters, drinks, modern chic flaked-paint doors

ice and mint leaves

suffocating velvet lampshades only the balcony reveals the lifeless half-life outside

mushy cardboard paste runs into wet concrete, sad car horns with another round of olives for the table, one side of fries, you stand and you walk

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

mirror-bound you care only for your lipstick t o t t e r i n g back, you focus on your prize, and aim, just over there the four-seater with the bonsai tree you do not notice the skylight

water on black glass, the lonely door you can barely see

JACK WILLIAMS

Queen Sq. Riots, 1831

Our circus circumambulates King Billy. Most fashionable, brave king – a man of war; Survivor of flames and foreign treachery! And when the city’s sons cried freedom’s roar, Magnanimous Billy obliged their ills, till he was draped in – quel faux pas! – les tricolors. Dragoons avenged the royal mien, with lead. And all a footnote. Some four-score dead.

CARA ADDLEMAN

A Love Poem

You told me to write a love poem. So I smiled and told you I’m not much of a love poet, that I don’t like the way that emotion sounds when I try to show it. I told you I’d rather not.

I’d rather end sentences with the weight of a full stop than a line break or some empty words that don’t quite hit the semantic spot. I told you I needed a plot.

Needed the space and security that circles the weight of that dot and the box the margin makes for my emotions.

But for you I have tried to write a love poem.

This is a poem of love for the technicalities of writing a love poem, and this is a sonnet, a seduction, a celebration of the throat-caught, word-choking, love-hoping writer’s block.

This is a lament

for the paper-cut funny bone of love’s ticking clock, and this is the sound my brain makes when it tries to speak of what it cannot.

I hope you like it. I hope you see the remnants of technicalities. I hope you think of me.

I do not wish to spite mere indulgence but you told me to write as though conducting a fight, a rejoice of on-drip love-sick plight, something Shakespearean-bear like. Something that is, not something quite.

You told me to write and this is my proof that I have tried.

But I have never viewed love through the gilded haze and violent elegance of other’s people’s eyes. I have always wondered why those others seemed so surprised that love was not rose-tinted.

I have viewed love through the soft and viscous hum of second tries, the space left after goodbyes, and the gentle grey of an argument about something that has now been forgotten, something never important enough to have become that which it comprised.

I have viewed love through shared cups of tea and yellow walls,

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

the quiet blink of sleep-filled eyes, and the inelegant violence of laughs that turn to coughs and splutters and sighs. I have viewed love through only my own eyes –and now through this poem.

NADIN SADEK

Where There’s Oil This Time

Once upon a time in a mega city saturated with amygdalic skyscrapers exfoliating the branches life offered, where dopamine levels mattered, and serotonin receptors had sewage blockages, you were pulling socks from the drawers of the people who you don’t love anymore.

I was faithless because I hadn’t bought you, and I hadn’t sold me, but the people were dying to see us happy.

We were warned not to bring personal issues into the workplace, and yet you ordered your building plans to tower further, against the engineering consultancy’s advice, and on bearings too perplexing for any builders drinking black tea with honey.

No princesses lived in this kingdom, nor dragons,

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

for they were sought for their magic and slaughtered on sight. Mundane realism ensued and as ruler you were enslaved, imprisoned by your own rules.

You and your desolate shop-widow reflection would walk side by side, as your parole officer and you lay in the midst of your room’s grey carpet, soaking in the tufts, home to dust mites, making peace with them, calling them family.

And as the earth returned to calmly dress itself in white, you realised you wanted your fairytale to have a happy ever after, and so stopped laying down the brickwork before it could cement itself, or at least tried to.

You caught a glimpse

Of all the people going out that night in an instance of the folklore genre in children’s literature, perceived both by the teller and the hearer.

One day you trained and rode a dragon.

Except that was a tale of one hundred years, which is difficult to trace, because only some forms survive,

and so far nothing’s happened in threes or sevens in this poem. But wishes are always granted.

Long ago there was no princess, but within each brick there lay a house for a queen, in each and every building, and soon enough the floor plans were altered.

You created a love for yourself and constructed your empire without military conquests, but by expanding and sharing land instead, humble in the knowledge it could have ended differently.

For you are the king.

RAF PARKER

The Waste Removal Team

Was it a drunken mistake? A slip over the edge from above the red line? A regretful decision influenced unfairly by the sinking inflictions of the mind? Does it even matter, to me, to anyone?

Just one. A solitary singularity of a death.

Alone.

The break of dawn the break of bone. The only mark he left on the world, a crimson stain on the concrete.

Flowers.

“Our thoughts are with you. Rest In Peace.”

The Waste Removal Team.

ISLA COMER

Macbeth at a Football Match

Scotland versus England, blues versus reds. The ref throws a coin, it flips and lands on heads.

So Captain Duncan was to start when the referee’s whistle blew: Scotland start and lose the ball before the first minute’s through.

Macbeth grunts, looks around and then he starts to run, but a hand stops him and a body says: “Look here, Son, I’d be glad to see Duncan go and you become the captain. Then we might stand a chance at finally getting the win.”

“What do you mean? Duncan’s right there. They’re giving him a cheer. Well, I guess if it was for the team my conscience would be clear?”

But the man was gone; subbed off, Macbeth supposed. He thought about it, and soon a devilish plan arose.

When the whistle blew for a corner, they were all looking the other way. He crept up behind Duncan’s leg, and then committed foul play.

“Aargh!” Duncan exclaimed, and heaved onto his back.

By now Macbeth was far away, laughing like a maniac.

Duncan was stretchered off and Macbeth appointed to lead. But his conscience wasn’t clear, it was still troubled by the deed.

As if by magic the strange man’s body appeared once again.

“No one will know,” assured the man, “the captaincy you’ll retain. Unless the English goalie, Bernie Wood, scores against our team!”

And with that the man disappeared just like a child’s daydream.

Macbeth looked around in confusion, and then with absolute depression. The English goalie had scored from a bad pass’s interception. Macbeth took the ball early, and kicked it like a missile.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

It went in but not before the ref had blown his whistle. Half time was signalled, and Macbeth was left to moan. Meanwhile a ball boy watched a video on his phone. He showed the clip to everyone and, to Scotland’s horror, it showed Macbeth destroying the leg of their top goal scorer. The Scottish looked for a fight and the English saw the ref ahead. The referee turned to Macbeth with a card that was blood red.

JOOLES WHITEHEAD

Dorothy

1802 – a dim cottage, candlelight, a woman by a window. Rain. Daffodils were our bond. Now I’m extra, surplus now she has moved in ... she ... Mother of Christ. Winter light, cold and hostile. The ring on my finger – for one night he was mine. Circular nightmares sweated around me, ringed, fenced in as sheep in a fold, sheep hefted to the hill, hefted to this cottage and her. Now it and he are hers.

Blackness. The mountains cruel today in their thunderous clouds which scud across the sky – spewing grey water, making black bracken brackish. Him – determined, stubborn, striding alone on perilous ridges, seeking ravens. Gone from me now. Boat stealings. Summits. Breathings moving closer, abandoned.

Breathings carried in the cries of crows.

Him climbing, joined by her, not me. Supped on hare. Nocturnal.

There seem to be three: one incants and mutters - talks of being followed, watched in his nocturnal wanderings and stealings. Ousted by her.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Tuesday 21st November – the day was wet. Met William by the six-mile stone. The other one arrived today – mad in his raving. They made for the fells. Returning wet and wetter. ‘Water, water,’ it’s been said. I walked the coffin road stalked by or stalking death. Birds’ eggs on the table and the endless stench of endless sheep and their rotting feet. Rain and rain. Sleep brought ramblings of troubled pleasure, a lofty fell destroyer, readings and troubled dreams. Eggs were his prize.

Friday 24th November – a sunny, cold frosty day. A snow shower at night. We were a good while in the orchard in the morning. Fell dark dawning. Rain skeins, washed apples –rotting, stewed, spring’s profligacy –and sends the smoke wreaths curling. We walked and walked along perilous ridges, nature and sheep breathings. On the ridge an early lamb, flayed, with waxen eyes, abandoned by crows – a mother’s shroud in grass. A lamb sacrifice, wool white and ghost born. Another birth, deserted across the sea, the seas of France, another time, another prize. I noted lofty daffodils reeling and dancing on mossed stones. Later circled the moon lake.

2020 – torrents. A floodscape. Water. Mizzled light. Distantly the bells of Grasmere shimmer and rise across these liminal edgelands, a watery stillness not of this world. Dank, ditches oozing as the sky becomes land, and floating clouds coalesce in a murky stillness, as water fowl cut through the shadows. All contours vanished, and earth begins to drown in

a watery death which suffocates as hungry rain eats the land. Europe retreats, the land advances –lakes newly born, filled to the margins with the drip, drip, drip of their voracious appetites –seemingly insatiable … Visible again – he, bone and sinewy foot, laid bare –still she is next to him, circled in metal and bounded by stone. And how the daffodils dance.

PROSE NON-FICTION

The David Selwyn Prize 2019

The task for this year’s competition was to write a piece of practical criticism in response to the following passage from Jane Austen’s Emma.

In this extract, Emma Woodhouse, a young, unmarried woman of great wealth and independence, has gone with some friends (and some acquaintances) for a picnic on Box Hill, a pleasant spot with fine views.

They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.

Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing – looked without seeing – admired without intelligence – listened without knowing what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable. When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

for – and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves open to that very phrase – and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.

“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come to-day! – If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”

“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.”

“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”

“It is hotter to-day.”

“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”

“You are comfortable because you are under command.”

“Your command? – Yes.”

“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day you are got back again –and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine.”

“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me.”

“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before.”

“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February.”

“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice) – nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”

“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then whispering – “Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?” Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most distinct. “Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”

Comment on Austen’s presentation of this episode, making detailed reference to her use of language and structure.

The competition was open to students in Bristol schools, with a prize of £100 for the winner awarded by the Jane Austen Society. Oskar Bishop’s wining entry follows.

Oskar Bishop

Comment on Austen’s presentation of this episode, making detailed reference to her use of language and structure

In this episode from Emma, Austen presents the picnic trip to Box Hill as outwardly pleasant but beset by unfulfilled expectations and tensions between the characters; her use of free-indirect narrative provides an insight into Emma’s mind and a perception of the event which conveys her slight disappointment at the results of the day’s events, and especially with Frank Churchill. Emma is portrayed as narcissistic and rather vapid in her flirtation with Frank, which is clearly only undertaken to liven up her day rather than out of any regard for his feelings. However, Austen also reveals the potential social consequences of such a transgression and uses metaphors of marriage as a transaction to confirm the patriarchal power structure of Regency society.

Austen presents the difference between the expectations for and the reality of the picnic through repetition and unusual syntax, both of which emphasize her disappointment at the day’s activities. Austen ends the first paragraph, ‘nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there’, and her choice of syntax emphasizes the contrast between the expectations of the event and the likely reality of happiness being left ‘wanting’ as she establishes the inevitable failure of the day. This effect is compounded by Austen’s repetition as ‘want’ is both repeated in sequence and also becomes a motif which is used throughout the passage. The lack of ‘spirits’ and ‘union’ and the general atmosphere of ‘languor’ provide a marked contrast to the ‘other outward circumstances’ which were planned to ensure the day would be ‘pleasant’. This dissonance between the external and internal circumstances of the day indicates the tension that the events exert upon the characters, as manifested through the insight into Emma’s thoughts as provided by the free-indirect narrative. Austen’s separation of the group by means of the colon emphasizes this questionably ‘accidental division’, developing the tensions within the group. Austen also epitomizes the fractured nature of the group through the Elton’s showing ‘no unwillingness to mix’. The

double negative reveals the duality of the atmosphere and the conflict of the outward appearance and the inward reality of the failing trip.

Austen presents Emma as rather immature and narcissistic through the insights into her thoughts during her flirtation with Frank Churchill. Austen’s use of alliteration, as in the phrases ‘downright dullness’ and ‘silent and stupid’ at the beginning of the exploration of Emma’s thoughts, seems to imbue Emma with almost childlike qualities as she petulantly rails against the events of the picnic. Emma’s severe judgement of her companions, among whom Frank occupies the brunt of her ire, initially lacks nuance. She reduces them to their negative qualities, and these are only dispelled once the attention turns to her. In this unflattering description, Austen affirms Emma’s vacuity as the free-indirect narrative clearly expresses the description as being Emma’s opinion rather than the more authoritative perspective of unambiguous third-person narrative.

However, the picnic soon becomes ‘better, to her taste a great deal better’, the repetition indicating Emma’s relish at the change of atmosphere. The muted flirtation that ensues is clearly meaningless to Emma, however Austen conveys Emma’s disapproval of her companions. Austen presents this flirtation as almost a social transgression: an allegation which should be deeply guarded against; Emma and Frank ‘laying themselves open to that very phrase’ is presented as irresponsible by Austen. In the face of this seemingly meaningless accusation Emma’s reputation is ‘open’ and by association vulnerable to the negative social scrutiny of ‘having it sent off in a letter’. Austen here suggests the clear importance of the act. Therefore, Emma’s lack of regard and ‘gay and easy’ attitude seems almost naïve, as Austen portrays her as unaware of the consequences, compounding the sense of the group’s internal tensions. Austen presents Frank as a willing party in the flirting. However, his ignorance of the potential perception of the flirting may reflect the reality of the overwhelming burden placed upon women to ensure they acted with proper conduct, a key theme within the genre of the novel of manners.

The narcissistic and calculating side of Emma is revealed through her assertion that despite her flirtation with Frank, ‘she still intended him for her friend’. Austen reveals much about Emma’s ‘intent’, clearly indicating Emma’s position of power within the relationship with regards to its eventual result. The shift of the extract from Emma’s perspective to a wider overview of the scene is facilitated by Austen’s well-placed use of dialogue which widens the perspective of the scene and brings the focus back to its original ov . e rview of the ‘seven silent people’. Through this dialogue, Austen reminds the reader of the

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

presence of the slightly disapproving others, and returns the potential social impact of Emma and Frank’s actions to the foreground once again. The last line of the extract succinctly expresses this theme as, through Knightley’s cutting riposte, Austen asserts Emma’s folly.

In conclusion, Austen presents the episode as one with significant tension between the imagined and actual reality, conveyed through her use of repetition, unusual syntax and free indirect narrative. This dissonance is exacerbated through her rather scathing portrayal of Emma who engages in seemingly meaningless flirtation but is ultimately naïve in her actions, which draw the attention and condemnation of her companions – the end of the episode providing the most obvious example. Through this presentation of a minor transgression, Austen highlights the patriarchal social code which seems to govern interactions, any infractions becoming the subject of gossipy letters and snide remarks.

VISUAL ART

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Alysia Maestri acrylic on oversized Fabriano paper

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

iPad

Elliot Gunawardena

Sketches app and Apple pencil

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Eleanor Canning

iPad Sketches app and Apple pencil

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

pencil tone and colour pencil drawing on paper

Tise Benson

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Hattie Taylor

mixed media, using acrylic inks, paint, colour pencil and oil pastel on paper

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Naomi Parsons pencil tone drawing on paper

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Andy Lay

iPad Sketches app and Apple pencil

Sophia Uglow after Ursus Wherli

photograph of a deconstructed bowl of morning breakfast cereal

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Ern Abedin

iPad Sketches app and Apple pencil

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Emily Thomas pencil tone drawing on paper

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Bunty Buckman

pen drawing on paper

Romy Forster

mixed media, using screen print, pencil drawnig and acrylic on found cardboard

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Rosa Whatmore acrylic on board

mixed media, using collage, pen and pencil drawing, acrylic paint and woodblock-printed figures on found papers and maps

Tillly Edwards

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Sylvie Gray Stone

iPad manipulated landscape study

PROSE FICTION

LAUREN DICKIE Hope

We used to be the best of friends when we were very little. “Evie,” he used to say, “shall we visit the secret garden again today?” And when I nodded, he’d take me by the arm and lead me into our own little magical kingdom. We had the best of times at the end of his garden, where there was a wall strung with ivy and a fountain that bubbled endlessly. In summer it would be our whole world; we’d spend all day there until our mothers called us in because it was very nearly dark.

Then everything changed. One day, Mitch went to school. He was a year older than me, a bit like a dearly beloved older brother. I went over to his house after I knew that he’d arrived home, but his father answered the door.

“Mitch is in his room with his new friends, Evie. I’m sure he’ll play tomorrow.” He gave me a sympathetic smile and shut the door in my face. And I came the next day, and the next, and the day after that. But he never had time for me. What strong bond we’d had so little time ago had been broken fiercely and shattered, all over our memories, for the world to see. That’s when I knew that I was never going to be good enough for Mitch, the boy I no longer felt like I knew.

Several years later, when Mitch was leaving for university, he came up to me out of the blue and hugged me. And then he turned and left, no words playing from his mouth. But I knew what he’d meant. Mitch was always going to remember me. I’d left that imprint in his heart.

That was all I heard from Mitch for a long time. The years dragged by and I grew up into a determined person, so different from the curious little girl I had once been. And I was lonely. All of my friends had long since moved away, and with my mother dead my father now scarcely remembered who I was. I took long walks alone in the woods near my house, often passing beaming couples and blissful families with young children dashing around their parents’ legs, in wonder at the forest.

And then, one day, I saw Mitch. Strolling along the familiar path looking forlorn. He approached me cautiously, but that bond that I thought had been broken was still there. We

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

smiled at each other, building a silence yet not needing anything to be said. I’d almost given up on Mitch, because I’d given up on myself long ago and it had seemed too silly to keep the memories of him. There’d been a sadness growing inside me, but I hadn’t dared to let it out, because there’d been no one to let it out to. Yet here was a friend that I’d lost to the simplicity of age. We’d drifted apart gently with no real goodbye. If I’d known that one evening before Mitch went to school that that was the end, I would have told him a thousand things. But would that have made a difference? Because now we only have memories of years and years ago. And that’s all that keeps us together. But there is still hope.

DEVIN BIRSE Disorder

Percival Spark was the sort of man you read about either in talkative crime novels or romantic poems. He was a verbose and intelligent bachelor in his late twenties with a penchant for sharp wit and a poetic dialect oft reserved for those of a particular artistic inclination, one based on recent reviews of his new collection. He had it in spades. He was also a hitman, the sort with a sharp shark-like smile and deep piercing cat-like eyes and a voice that cut through the air as it laid down its intentions. He was in many ways a man of duality. He liked to think he was a good poet, a pretty good neighbour and a fine friend. He also felt as though he was a merciful executioner. He was always polite, only killed those who were morally questionable, and always fed their pets and left a wad of twenties like any respectful man should.

“Where are we even headed?” He shifted his head to look in the back of his car, his tinted blue glasses reflecting the face of the large man in the tassel-covered jacket.

“Boss said we needed to meet him at the ranch.”

“We ain’t gonna?”

“Yep”

It was a forgone conclusion. Ever since the boss had landed in Jugband it had been an inevitability. They had to meet the family.

He leaned back for a moment and exchanged a glance with his other passenger. Her eyes briefly glazed over his before moving back to her book. He flipped through his cassettes till he landed on one he liked. It was going to be a long drive.

Percival considered himself in many ways a deeply Byronic man. He felt he’d inherited it from his father. That and his poetic talents. Though to call his father’s music poetry would cause intense debate in most circles. He found out around age sixteen that there was a high chance he was related to Byron, and ever since then found himself relating more and more to the dead lord. “Byron was hedonistic. I mean, he had sex with his half-sister.” He’d often think to himself, “By contrast murder doesn’t seem so bad.”

He slipped in the cassette and was met by a brief glance from the woman to his side. He didn’t bother to read it; he wasn’t in the mood. The music began to flow, the drumbeat

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

started to hit him; he let the guitars carry him away into the morning drive. By the time Ian Curtis’s vocals hit his ear he’d already adapted to the rhythm of it all.

The ranch was a large sprawling mass of infertile land and emasculated men. Upon its gate it bore a large C – a declaration to all of whose birthright these dry fields and savage dogs were. One needed only look at the fear in their eyes so desperately masked by attempted glares to see that some ungodly entity of a man had drained all that bile and courage and taken it for himself. As he slid into the driveway the sounds and smells of an authentic American ranch hit Sharp. He was used to the sort of stink one was violated by in New York but, outside a few spells at his uncle’s manor as a youth, Spark rarely visited the country.

“Might want to shut that off.”

The man in the back pulled down his aviators and gave him an oddly stern look. Spark obliged. He only needed to look at the men who surrounded the great old house in front of him to realise that they most likely didn’t share his tastes. As he and his partners got out, he was greeted by the warm gaze of a man of around thirty-seven years of age. He wore a large moustache and a few scars. His tall body was wrapped in a brown jumper that covered a lightly stained shirt and, in his hands, he held a mug of coffee as if it were some sort of religious symbol. On the ceramic were inscribed the words ‘World’s Best Dad.’

He took a look at the trio before him. A tall black man in a tassel-covered jacket, a slightly shorter and slender figure robed in a floral shirt, a pinstripe suit with a tie resembling a sixties album cover, and a woman dressed in a coat and a scarf, her hair a mess that once resembled a bob and her eyes sunken both by the bags under them and excessive eye shadow.

“You Donny’s boys?” He let out an expression as he spoke, a cross between a smile a smirk and a scowl. It was the sort one saw from a passive-aggressive aunt or a particularly bitter divorced uncle.

“That we are,” Spark responded with a toothy grin; he too felt a need to display an expression that evoked feelings of irritation upon those who observed it.

“Come on in. My boys’ll give your car a quick search if that’s all okay.”

Spark got the distinct sense that he wasn’t the sort of man who you say no too.

“It’s fine. All I’ve got is some old pulp stories and cassettes.”

“Got any Elvis?”

Spark rubbed his chin. “Don’t think so. Mainly mixtapes.”

There was an immense disappointment in the man’s face. As if someone had just pissed on his flag. “Damn shame. Every hot-blooded American man should own some Elvis.”

NADIA KULIGOWSKI

An extract from Preparatory Hybristophile

Catherine,

With your prescription I’m giving you this thought diary. I’m aware the following weeks you are not in my care will be difficult, so it’ll benefit both you and me if you provide updates of your thoughts and feelings within this diary at least once a day.

Regards, Dr.

Kaitlin Reed

Dear Doctor, I think I am dead. Well, that is to say a ghost … I wail pitifully. I wake everyone up in the middle of the night going downstairs to the kitchen. I’m deathly pale. People want me to leave the house but the most unnerving thing is I’m one hundred percent sure the blood in my veins is one degree above freezing, to the point that … that the word zero haunts my dreams like a grey ghost flickering like snow on my shins. Wait! Should I talk more about how I’m feeling? Will that be a waste of time? With the increase of my dosage I’m finally feeling something. Whether it’s less, I’m sorry, I’m not sure, but it’s like I’ve felt cold, real actual cold now. I stepped off the bus today and felt a feverish warmth in my insides; all I could taste and smell was this sweet manufactured almond flavour kissed by paracetamol. I actually managed to thank the driver, although I still stammered. He said, “You talk funny,” and yet I didn’t fall into tears like a burst vein. Then the cold turned my limbs to glass and began to freeze, the frost glittering as it began to climb my wrists. I can’t feel my saliva, but I’m starting to get my hearing back, which is a blessing after all. I think.

I think I’ll always feel like everyone’s looking straight through me and it can’t be fixed. That’s so stupid. All that’s so stupid. I’m sorry. What I mean is, I wish instead these pills made people not look at me at all. Maybe I don’t. But not really. No, not at all. I just don’t like being looked at.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

What I like is to give myself distractions each week. Something knows I won’t be here next week. Then I can wonder, how did the days go by so quick? Hurtling around a no-future future, like the red circle of salt around my birthday, yet that calendar has aged two years. Perhaps it’s all the blue-stone and pepper and sulphur and God knows. I sink lower onto my double-edged sword. Quiet, unnoticed, pathetic, but asleep.

There was hurried scribbling out, remembering the fear that was being sectioned and how much she really didn’t need that right now. Small arrows to the words that were being suffocated by shiny mauve-reflecting biro ink.

Sorry I started rambling. I don’t like the way it sounds. Should I write in present tense instead? Would that be better? OK.

Well, a boy just came out of one of the clinic doors and sometimes I wonder … I wonder what would happen if I knew how to talk to people.

He’s very tall. If I asked, conversationally, offhand, maybe, just maybe, he’d reply.

He’d tell me his height.

He’d say he’s six foot two.

I’d say, that’s funny since I’m just under six feet, too. Going under, soft and pretty, like Ophelia in the water.

I’ll breed my death out of the hollows of these awkward spindly limbs.

She went to scribble over the confession, but stopped with the sudden wave of callousness.

In a week, maybe? A month? Soon I hope. Isn’t that funny. I’m funny, so funny, watch me. Please let me make you laugh some more. At least it makes me worth being around. Get another kick, go show your colleagues. I want hair around my head to float like a tiara, but instead I layer mascara and swallow pills.

“Can you do me a solid?”

Cathy sat up, her wrist jerking in a nervous spasm that sent a scrawl of ink across the angry flurry on her page. She looked up like a scared fawn staring down the barrel of a gun, making a noise somewhere between “Yeah” and “Huh, what!”

He sat down. An outsider would have thought he’d kicked in her spine.

“Wow! That’s so deep and artistic. What’s it for?” smirked the figure that had just slid out of one of the office doors to sit right next to her. In a room. Full of chairs. Right next to her.

Cathy immediately sensed the clear sarcasm and felt the oncoming mental breakdown she’d have over it later. Choking out all questions about his supernatural reading skill.

“Oh-oh no. It’s so stupid. I have to do this, you know, for my psychologist. It’s a joke. It’s not serious. My brother wrote it. I …“

He cut her off. Bored. Slumping downwards in the seat, his heavy boots sliding across the crisp white lino. “D’you go to Mira Lopez?”

She took him in shyly for the first time. A taller boy with skin the colour of maple syrup, steely grey eyes and tangled black hair around his ears and jaw. It inched threateningly close to his right eye and she sensed it as an endearing trait, that it often blinded him.It made him less intimidating.

“I uh yeah ... You’re in my year,” she said, recognising his fur-trim parka. She always saw him wearing that black parka. Their private school wouldn’t allow his oversized jacket. It was like he was a cartoon character, or must have always been perpetually cold.

“You’re?”

“Lyall,” he answered, rolling the word around his snake-bitten mouth.

“U-uh, I’m Cathy,” she said, even though he hadn’t asked.

“Cathy.” He tried the word out, raising his eyebrows “Ca-thy, Cathy Cathy, Ca …” The door he’d come through was being unlocked from the inside. He hurriedly demanded:

“Cathy, d’y’really wanna go to school?”

“No, not particularly.”

He grabbed her arm and started walking towards the door. She froze. A lady wearing a lanyard stepped out from the unlocked door and Lyall jerked a thumb in Cathy’s direction “My foster-sister.”

The woman raised her thin eyebrows but retreated back inside the door. Cathy’s eyes roamed to the sign above the door as Lyall guided her closer to the exit.

Methadone, Violence and Suicidality clinic.

Dear Doctor, Loneliness does strange things to a person. For example, as I walked to Lyall Thrope’s car I found swallowing a panic attack had never been this serene.

“Your eyes are fucking massive,” he said coolly from beside Cathy. “Sorry,” she sighed. Then she cleared her throat. “I drifted off. I’m ... tired.” He smiled, yet it did not thaw the cold slate in his eyes. “Lucky you.”

He nodded to the open can of Red Bull she clasped, as if in prayer. She nodded shyly and drank, desperate to be polite to the absent boy who’d given it to her.

On analysis, the case of Catherine Geist and Lyall Thrope was blurry. The motivations for action were almost comedic. The notes were easy to misconstrue. Quickly, the question – Why did Cathy follow a boy to a car he wasn’t even old enough to drive? – led to: Why did she take a drink from an open can with unknown contents? Assuredly, these were the simpler of the questions, but the first nonetheless. The first.

They reached a dented taupe-coloured car. Once they did, Cathy couldn’t remember where the dream started and ended. She felt nauseous getting into the car, stumbled, everything shifted and was violently duplicated. She said something that came to her mind and heard Lyall swear and laugh nervously in response. She smiled giddily as he turned the key. The drumbeat to ‘Where did you sleep last night?’ was disconnected, like watching a video that was five seconds behind, or remembering that cartoons aren’t actually speaking. She turned to look out the window but her rocking vision pinned the focus to the handle.

There was no handle.

The Red Bull can, his abrupt proposal, the fact that he wasn’t old enough to drive. As she faded from consciousness her smile did not falter.

“Thank you.”

For the first time, Cathy saw a rare sight. Genuine shock in Lyall Thrope’s eyes.

A car passed. The white headlights sliding under a lifeless girl’s sleep-glued eyelashes. The cold snake of light possessed her awkward bones; they twitched violently awake. The fear

that held these limbs together at their joints whirred back to life. She sat up in the carseat. Shaking fingers like sewing pickers pulling apart the mascara bonds between spider legs. She coughed. Coughed harder. Coughed until her shiny pink stomach contracted and warmth rose higher in her plastic doll entrails.

Lyall silently rolled down the window. Reluctantly obedient, she stuck her head out the open car window, she leant her weight and spat out the contents of her mouth. Warm rusty blood. It swam through the rushing wind of the motorway. From the side of the road a fox watched her small body’s grotesque dry heaving. Illuminated with the romantic flashes of a ghostly roadside glow, her chest rose and fell, her bones rattled like dice, breathing, juddering like there was a spanner in the works of her body. She looked up at the large McDonald’s billboard but the tv glow didn’t feel soft and warm; it felt empty.

“Oh my God.” It started as a whisper. She gripped the car door. “Oh God!” she sobbed hysterically into the dark. The tremors convected from her chest to her shoulders and culminated in sharp repetitive hair tugging, frustration and despair she couldn’t bring herself to inflict upon the driver.

“Cathy, sit. Cathy! You’ll get us arrested.”

She did not comply. Her right hand grasped at the hollow where the door handle should have been. She bordered on climbing free from the window. The dizzy red needles in her body rushed to her limbs again and the drive was to run. Run from what? She wasn’t angry at her captor. She was afraid of something nonetheless. Only when Lyall resorted to clicking the window’s up switch and glass pressed into Cathy’s stomach did she struggle free and flop back into the leather seat.

“Breathe. Jesus Christ!”

Intent not to be a nuisance to her potential murderer. She counted to seven and focused on the lights of the dash and radio.

“He hit me so hard I saw stars, he hit me so hard I saw God,” the stereo sang.

“H-how long have I been out?” she asked, instead of Why is my system full of Rohypnol?

“Since 2pm. It’s 11pm.”

“Our curfew is 10pm. It’s a Wednesday.” The reply was a sad fun fact, not a scolding. He didn’t answer but as Courtney Love stopped singing and the whispers of ‘Lullaby’ by The Cure replaced them, he pursed his red-tinted mouth to hold back a smirk.

Cathy surveyed him with eyes that were freshly hollow yet terrified. Lyall Thrope, a stoic Baudelaire-quoting gothic entity in an oversized coat. It would be impolite to say so, and

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

she wouldn’t dare allow these impolite thoughts, but his reasoning appeared very shallow. Did he really believe that the world had been cruel to him? What reason did he have to rebel? How could the support of a rich family and a place at the most privileged school in the country be a negative? In the dark she caught brief flashes of his profile in the passing streetlights. Out of stress his hair had been tucked behind his ears and in her panicked prolonged observing Cathy for the first time noticed the sharp, angular line of his jaw and how it followed upward to his sharp nose, that freckles dusted his cheek bones. The whites of his eyes had pinked slightly, his lashes were almost spiked in the brief light.

“Are you looking at me or chewing a brick?” he said feebly, without his usual confident whimsy.

“I-was-I-wondered-uh…” She wanted to ask if he’d been crying. Did he cry? Well of course, but.

“Either way you’ll lose your teeth.”

He passed a roll-up. She took it. He hadn’t made that up. She put it to her lips but couldn’t muster the strength to breathe the smoke into the back of her raw throat, touching the dried blood on her chin. He wasn’t crying she was sure of it. Her lips had left a bloody bruise on the white of the roll-up. The silence continued. Nothing moved except the car. The road sounded like baby monitor feedback.

Panic crawled the walls of her throat, so she cleared and spoke suddenly, feverishly. “This song. Y’know, it’s really pretty, but I can never take the lyrics seriously-aha-because he says ‘Spider man’, meaning some kind of pervy spider thing, but, like, it just sounds like Spiderman, like y’know Spiderman, and I just keep thinking of Spiderman crawling around eating children with his, like, ‘tongue in people’s eyes’ ... Weird … Spider-Man, right?”

Lyall closed his eyes like he was in pain.

“And then he just starts making slurpy noises like …”

“What is wrong with you?”

Cathy blinked rapidly in recovery from the verbal blow. His words cut in her deficient mind and split skin upon impact.

“U-uh sorry. I don’t even know what I’m talking about, I just …”

“Thank you?” He bit, quoting her. Silence. “Cathy, I knowingly took you into a building with people who knowingly planned to drug you. Then, you knowingly realised that my car door handle was removed and after you knew you were fading from consciousness you said,” he breathed in, eyes closed, “thank you.”

Cathy looked down as he parked in the services. What could she say? Did he want an answer? A fight? She felt years younger somehow. Passing out in thought behind her eyes again from fear to muse on the lights of the service station.

“They do slushies.”

“Yes! You coughed blood out my fucking car window,” he smiled, nodding, grey eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I…” She couldn’t. The words shuffled and reshuffled. His eyes seemed to glister, as though from her seconds of avolition he understood everything. She took a breath and turned her spine. Looked him in the eyes.

“I just really want a slushie.” It was the same wispy stammer of the same girl but it had been transposed to an assertive, fresh key. He nodded thoughtfully, his usual suave wit had returned, like hitting a static tv.

“C’mon, let’s get slushies, you and me. Pretend we aren’t fearing for our lives.”

She smiled, a sad crack in her porcelain face. “OK.”

So the protagonist stepped from the car onto her fragile gangly legs. Lyall, her arguablyreluctant companion’s dark form looked stark, black tangles of his hair bathing in the cherry soda of the motorway signs, taking on the rufescent cherry glow. It thawed the cool in his gaze when it horrifyingly drank the red. It was a haunting sight, so she drew nearer, like a beautiful car crash her eyes glued to him for some odd reason.

One could guess that it was at that moment that Cathy felt the weight of an unmistakably damned connection. A whisper of fate perhaps. It appeared to her as a sort of astral poetic form of the moment their souls were forever entwined by that kid passing her a roofied Red Bull can. Inseverable, this was what a relationship meant. She suddenly grabbed his hand, cold circulation-cut-off fingers clasping his like a dead fish and yes, she thought, this moment was uncalled for and weird, and that’s because it was. There was no other way of putting it. It was strange. Just strange.

“What the ever-loving Christ …”

Cathy looked him in the face and for the first time ever initiated a dialogue that wasn’t filled with awkward stammer or the notion of a self-destructive aftermath.

“Lyall, I trust you.”

“Why?”

Truthfully, a question mark never seemed needed when Lyall asked a question because they didn’t feel like questions. Cathy just nodded and smiled, the curtain of her hair shifted like

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

the unexpected shift of her character and they crested the last speed bump to the doors of the store. He didn’t shake off her hand but he didn’t seem to welcome it either. Past the automatic doors was a dark overcrowded establishment that was lit only by the rosy pink glow of red LED strips. Like a smoky old theatre in a candy-floss machine.

“Don!” He broke free from her fragile grasp on his hand and ran to the cashier.

“Ah freakshow.” They performed some sort of slap and finger curl, after which the old cashier wiped his mouth and smirked at Cathy.

“That’s a new piece a’ meat. Hardly your taste. Where’s Blondie?”

Lyall rolled his eyes in his usual dramatic fashion and whispered something, at which the man clicked his tongue and shook his head laughing. Cathy looked at herself in the reflection of the whirring red slushie machine, insecure and fidgety.

“Hey! Reverend! Can I get a tornado for my masochistic accomplice?”

“You’ve been here before?” Cathy asked, searching desperately in her jacket for change to buy Skittles.

“Sure. Before Harpenden my dad would come out of his sulk once every fortieth blue moon and take me for a day out. I’d get candy and the biggest slushie I could find. I mixed every single flavour, didn’t skip one, then I’d jump on the mattresses in the department store until I was screamed at.” He didn’t smile like his tone suggested. Cathy saw images of the boy with a brown slushie and a sad despondent father once this episode was over and it chilled her.

“Anyway, that is a tornado.” He handed her a melted Care Bear in a clear plastic cup. Finally, she submitted to the reality that his stiff composure had completely been discarded. She laughed and took it as if it were made of diamonds. She knelt on the grubby floor and set the drink between her bruised knees to get a keener view of the sour and regular sweets she was havering between. She was in line now with Lyall’s bony restless fingers tapping his leg erratically. His combat boots jittered as the restless energy he always seemed to be full of convected between bones. Contrarily, his tone was smooth and even as he proposed, “We should hurt them.”

Cathy was taken aback by the strange declaration.

“What? Hurt who?”

“Whoever did that to you.”

She looked shocked, and he rapidly went to change his tone, but she interjected, almost hurt.

“It wasn’t you?”

“No. I don’t get off on that!”

She felt confused. He’d clearly intended to abduct and kill her. If this was not his doing why was he being so careful about it?

“Anyway, I’m saying hurt in a flexible sense. Some innocent screwing with the human psyche.” He cleared his throat and continued the orchestrated running of his fingers through the thick black wefts of face-framing hair.

“I-well, we can’t arrest them. You’re right…” We. Cathy’s divine loyalty to her captor of eight hours shone like a butterfly-shaped comet hurtling through her stomach. She put the straw of the slushie to her bloody lips thoughtfully and observed how Lyall’s hair stuck out like the tendrils of an octopus from his nervous messing with it, as if it was the sole indicator of innocent intentions.

“OK.”

SCREENPLAY

LOTTIE WILLIAMS

The Last Funeral Pyre

FADE IN:

We hear a MATCH being lit then the warm crinkling sound of burning paper. We see blue-orange-yellow light fill the screen. The VOICE is Henry Jacob’s. He is 18 years old, his voice deep and slightly raspy.

I’ve been burnt many times, on purpose and accidently. That’s the risk you take when you play with matches. Sometimes I’ve taken a match and extinguished it against my own flesh. It scars, but it’s not noticeable. It’s just a small tissue-paper change. First nothing, then searing light. The skin bubbles under the heat of your actions, then scars, leaving a paper-thin memory. The skin is delicate, but it remembers. Remembers the pain, the excitement, the feeling of relief and utter despair. But most significantly it remembers that exact moment when the burning gold flame electrifies the flesh.

I’m sure some would say it’s like a cup of coffee. It wakes you up and makes you feel alive. But personally, I like to steer clear of caffeine. It wreaks havoc on the nervous system and apparent

1. fade to black

V.o Henry Jacob

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

ly can cause anxiety and depression. I could do without that.

When I was younger, I never used to think through my actions, what I did to my body. I would throw myself into chaos, confronting anyone who challenged me. That’s what happened with May and Ben. I don’t regret my actions and I don’t have remorse for them either. They were shaping me into a monster. Provoking me and Michael to our most primal instincts. They got what they deserved. Michael was the real victim, a casualty of war. He was sweet and innocent, but weak.

Flashback (five years)

The room is childish, with bright blue walls plastered with children’s drawings of predatory and carnivorous animals. A single bed with a dinosaur duvet occupies the furthest end of the room. Above the bed is a large window from which natural light illuminates the two BOYS who sit on the floor near the end of the bed.

HENRY JACOB is the taller of the two and looks significantly older. He is thirteen but thick set.

MICHAEL is the smaller and younger boy. He is eight years old, but due to his weak and skinny frame appears to be younger.

Henry Jacob

Can I show you what I found?

MICHAEL nods his head, smiles and leans in closer.

1. int. Henry Jacob’s bedroom. day

Well, you’re gonna have to promise not to tell. It’s a real secret and it will stay that way. Right?

micHael

I promise, I promise, I promise.

Henry Jacob

Well maybe I shouldn’t tell you. How can I trust you?

HENRY JACOB taunts MICHAEL by slapping the drawer under his bed and pulling a smug face.

micHael

I promise I’m not going to tell mum or-

Henry Jacob

Well in that case. Look at these …

HENRY JACOB then pulls the drawer out from beneath his bed. This shows us Lego, drawing materials, plastic dinosaurs and a pile of winter clothes. From underneath a blue fisherman’s-knit jumper HENRY JACOB shows a sock with a suspicious weight in it and dangles it in front of MICHAEL. He swings it from side to side and watches MICHAEL’S entranced face follow it.

micHael

What is it?

MICHAEL fidgets and shifts his position. HENRY JACOB pulls out a mottled yellow CARDBOARD BOX of MATCHES. They look water damaged and dirt encrusted.

micHael

Why- Where did you get matches?

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Henry Jacob

Down Ashcroft Road. They were by the bins near school. They were a bit damp, so I dried them in a sock behind the radiator.

micHael

Are you going to tell mum? She wouldn’t like it.

Henry Jacob

Of course not. She’d just tell me off if I told her. Anyway, they’re mine now, so I can use them.

micHael

Have you lit one?

Henry Jacob

HENRY JACOB repositions himself, so he sits taller than MICHAEL.

Two.

MICHAEL looks to the door sporadically and picks at the carpet.

micHael

What did you do?

Henry Jacob

I lit them and then put them out in an ice cream tub full of water.

But we could be a bit more creative if you want. We could melt a bit, like Year 12s do at school.

MICHAEL is interested again and starts giggling.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

micHael

Or we could set Rex’s poop on fire and then we could put it on the Ghoulie’s porch. So they have to stomp it out and they get poop all over their shoes.

MICHAEL laughs and his leg begins to bounce.

Henry Jacob

I like the way you think. May and Ben always look at us like we’re devils. Why not live up to the old bat’s expectations? But I think we should save that prank until they really hate us.

Both BOYS laugh with excitement. HENRY JACOB picks up the MATCH BOX and tucks into the waist band of his trousers.

1. ext. may and ben’s House. day

MAY and BEN’S HOUSE is white and small. It is constantly under construction so there is a skip in the driveway and scaffolding on the left-hand side of the house. There are no flowers in the garden only weeds and dying roses. The door is mossy green as are the curtains in the window and the tiles on the roof.

HENRY JACOB and MICHAEL inaudibly whisper to each other and repress their laughter. They press the DOORBELL and it rings the chime of BIG BEN. With each bong MICHAEL’S face gets paler and visibly fearful.

Henry Jacob

Run! Run!

HENRY JACOB and MICHAEL sprint away. In the background there is

a faint noise as MAY and BEN shout at MICHAEL and HENRY JACOB. The boys continue running until they reach home. HENRY JACOB is faster and looks back to make sure his brother is still behind him.

We can hear the boys laughing and MICHAEL’S rapid heartbeat.

The CLASSROOM is a sickly cream-coloured room, lit by large windows on the left side. Natural light brightens the room, which is decorated with posters of mathematical formulae (relevant to secondary education), famous mathematicians and corresponding theories, and progress charts for each student.

The room holds thirty children but not all the seats and desks are being used. The window shows that the classroom is on the second level of the building. It also shows a playing field outside.

The TEACHER is a woman, dressed conservatively in a long-patterned skirt and black jumper. Her hair is pulled back in a low loose bun. Her face is stern but fascinated by what she is teaching. She is energetic and makes large body movements to engage students.

We hear the TEACHER’S muffled and distorted lecture as we focus on HENRY JACOB who is sitting near the back of the class. He is fixated on looking out the window, oblivious to the lesson.

A SPIDER runs off the windowsill and onto HENRY JACOB’S DESK. He stops daydreaming and watches the SPIDER run across his desk. When the SPIDER is standing on the Math’s worksheet HENRY JACOB

1. int. scHool classroom (matHematics). day

corners it with his left hand and with his right hand index finger presses down on the SPIDER slowly. He prevents the SPIDER’S escape but presses down slowly enough to see the SPIDER squirm and flail its legs.

teacHer

Henry Jacob, can you solve the equation on the board? What is x when 4x + 3 = 23?

HENRY JACOB quickly presses down on the SPIDER, killing it. He looks up at the TEACHER and quickly answers the question.

Henry Jacob

X equals five, Miss.

He triumphantly smiles and wipes his hands on his trouser legs. Her returns to looking out the window as the class continues and fades into a droning background noise.

1. ext. suburban Garden. day

It is a sunny day, bright and humid. The GARDEN is square, boxed in by other houses but private. Perfectly pruned flowers and bushes run along the length of the GARDEN. Nature seems plastic and manmade as no plant has the freedom to grow.

MICHAEL and HENRY JACOB play in the GARDEN of their house. Their mother (ELEANOR)and Father (FRANK) sunbathe.

ELEANOR is a 40-year-old woman. Auburn hair, tall and youthful.

She is breaking a small sweat due to the heat of the day. FRANK is seemingly older than ELEANOR. Age has given him an overweight and tired appearance.

The two boys are play fighting with sticks, a Three Musketeers’ styled sword fight. They laugh and run around, disrupting the stillness of the GARDEN and neighbourhood.

eleanor

Boys do be quiet, I am trying to get some rest, and God knows your father needs his beauty sleep.

The BOYS stop running to look at their mother sadly. MICHAEL rubs the ball of his foot into the grass and soil.

Henry Jacob

Please play with us. It’s more fun when you do.

frank Your mother and I will play in a bit. Entertain yourselves for a few hours … quietly.

We see the shadows of trees and buildings move, indicating time passing. With muffled laughter and playing in the distance. FRANK and ELEANOR get up from the cushioned sunbed to play with MICHAEL and HENRY JACOB. It’s less bright than earlier, indicating it is after midday.

ELEANOR runs into the house and comes back carrying four pieces of brightly coloured plastic. She hands a YELLOW WATER PISTOL to FRANK, a BLUE WATER PISTOL to MICHAEL and a RED WATER PISTOL to HENRY JACOB, keeping a SECOND YELLOW WATER PISTOL for herself.

eleanor

The rules are no eyes, mouths or ears. If any of you get my hair wet there will be hell to pay.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

She turns to FRANK who passes his gun from one hand to another.

frank

Oh, and boys, mine and your mother’s pistols are already full, so you have five seconds to fill yours before …

FRANK’S sentence trails off as MICHAEL and HENRY JACOB sprint to the garden hose. ELEANOR and FRANK laugh together.

The water fight begins. We hear laughter and squealing as the family runs around their small GARDEN.

The BOYS and FRANK orchestrate an alliance through hushed whispers. At the same time ELEANOR walks off with four WATER PISTOLS to refill them. She walks out of the house to her family with FOUR FILLED PISTOLS, and hands them back to their respective owners.

frank

Five, four, three, two...

ELEANOR realizes their intentions, and shields her face and hair, running to the back of the GARDEN.

eleanor Wait, no!

frank One.

On one, MICHAEL, HENRY JACOB, and FRANK run and corner ELEANOR, spraying her with water. They all laugh in the sunny GARDEN.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

1. ext. may and ben’s House. day

HENRY JACOB and MICHAEL squat behind a shrub outside MAY and BEN’S HOUSE. MICHAEL sits with one leg bouncing up and down and distractedly picking his lip. In the other hand he holds a BROWN PAPER BAG folded at the top. He occasionally looks repulsed at the bag and turns his face away.

HENRY JACOB squats behind the bush and pulls out the mottled BOX OF MATCHES from his trouser waistband. Only three MATCHES remain. He looks at them intently and his eyes widen.

Like a meerkat, HENRY JACOB peeks over the top of the bush looking into MAY and BEN’S FRONT ROOM. We see them on the sofa; MAY is reading and BEN is doing a puzzle in the newspaper.

HENRY JACOB signals to MICHAEL with a nod of his head. The two boys crawl to the entrance of the house. When out of view of the front-room window they stand up straight.

No words are said but MICHAEL looks to HENRY JACOB to speak. HENRY JACOB responds by shaking his head.

HENRY JACOB signals again by tilting and nodding his head. MICHAEL looks at him then places the BROWN BAG. MICHAEL positions his body to run. HENRY JACOB lights a MATCH and sets light to the BAG. We hear the crackle and MICHAEL covers his face with his hand. HENRY JACOB presses the DOORBELL and we hear the bongs of BIG BEN. MICHAEL begins to run but stops as he notices HENRY JACOB staring at the fire as it lights up his face.

micHael Run, Run, Run!

HENRY JACOB admires the dancing FLAMES. He suddenly jolts, hearing a key turn in the door. He looks at the door, then to MICHAEL, and runs off. We hear his thundering heartbeat as he catches up to MICHAEL.

MAY is frail and in her late 60s. BEN is equally as thin and older.

MAY opens the door and screams at the FLAMING BAG on her porch. She recognizes HENRY JACOB running away. BEN, hearing MAY’S screams, rushes to the door and stomps out the fire. His shoe is damaged by the heat and covered in the dog faeces. MAY sobs quietly at the mess and looks to her husband whilst shaking.

The interior of the house is dimly lit. ELEANOR and FRANK sit in the living room reading and working. HENRY JACOB and MICHAEL are in their respective rooms.

A LOUD KNOCK at the door shocks the household. We see ELEANOR jump and FRANK turn to her. ELEANOR goes to the front door with FRANK close behind her.

The KNOCKING grows louder and angrier. ELEANOR opens the front door revealing TWO POLICEMEN. The positioning of the POLICEMEN mirrors the position of ELEANOR and FRANK.

Policeman 1

Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. Jones, we are sorry to interrupt you so late, but we have received a few worried calls and we would like to ask you and your boys a few questions.

1. int. Henry Jacob’s House. niGHt

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Both ELEANOR and FRANK look shocked and turn to each other. FRANK stands taller and wider.

eleanor

Of course. Come in right away.

ELEANOR and FRANK lead the POLICEMEN into the dining room where they sit.

We see HENRY JACOB in his room, visibly fearful and curious. He slowly opens his door, avoiding making noise, and goes to the landing. He can see the two POLICEMEN. HENRY JACOB returns to his room and from underneath his bed pulls out the mottled MATCHES. He then turns to his desk and tapes the BOX underneath. We then see the POLICEMEN questioning FRANK and ELEANOR. ELEANOR sits with her hands on her face covering her mouth. FRANK’S brow furrows and he hunches over with one arm over ELEANOR.

Policeman 2

I understand your anger sir, but Mr and Mrs Jenkins were devastated. If what they said is true about your son, Henry Jacob, his action of setting fire to a bag of dog excrement on their porch could mean he’ll face charges of arson. frank

I struggle to believe any of my sons would do such a thing. However, I do trust that the Jenkins would never unjustly accuse my sons. They’re good neighbours. Never did us any harm.

Policeman 1

The Jenkins have decided to let your son off with

a warning, as they do not wish to press charges. Could you please call your sons? We still have a few questions to ask.

ELEANOR and FRANK look up to the stairs and second floor. We then see HENRY JACOB on his bed. He’s shaking with anger and punches a pillow. HENRY JACOB gets up and goes to his desk, opens a NOTEBOOK and writes a list. It is obscured from view.

frank Henry! Mike! Get down here, now!

The BOYS slowly walk out of their rooms, meet on the landing and continue to walk together down the stairs to the dining room. The BOYS stand next to their seated PARENTS and silently address the POLICEMEN with a nod.

micHael

It’s true we did it. I’m sorry

FRANK shakes his head and ELEANOR begins to tear up.

frank

Have you anything to say Henry?

HENRY JACOB runs into his room and slams the door behind him. He scrambles to hide his NOTEBOOK.

We hear ELEANOR and FRANK apologize to the POLICEMEN and then we hear the front door shut.

1. int. Henry Jacob’s room. niGHt

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

frank

What the hell was that about?! Eleanor let me talk to Henry. Go take Michael to bed. He needs to calm down.

FRANK bursts through HENRY JACOB’S bedroom door. HENRY JACOB is lying on his bed staring at the door.

frank

You have some explaining to do. How dare you treat the Jenkins like that; they are kind neighbours. You could have seriously hurt them if things had gotten out of hand. How would you feel if you had their blood on your hands?

And poor Michael. Why would you rope him into this? He’s sensitive. You could have ruined his future. You are lucky to get off with a warning. Next time you could be arrested, charged … Oh God! Why would you do this? And where the hell did you get matches?

HENRY JACOB sits up.

Henry Jacob

I didn’t want Michael to get hurt.

frank

The way he was crying and shaking you’ve probably given him a nervous breakdown. I know you’re not quite right in the head, but why did you ruin Michael.

HENRY JACOB goes to speak.

Don’t try to speak when I am talking to you.

Henry Jacob

I love Michael but I hate the Ghoulies. They hate us and I hate them. If they can’t handle a prank, then they deserve it.

frank

You don’t realize the severity of the things you say.

Henry Jacob

I do. I know what I say, and I mean it. I hate you too.

FRANK strikes HENRY JACOB with an open fist. HENRY JACOB cowers, and tears fill his eyes.

frank

You talk like a girl and cry like a girl. I’m fed up with your insolence. You will behave. Your mother and I have decided that you deserve to be punished for what you did. It’s the only way you’re going to learn.

FRANK pulls out a SILVER TIN from his chest pocket and pulls out a CIGARETTE. With his other hand he pulls out a lighter and lights the CIGARETTE. He takes a deep breath and blows smoke out into HENRY JACOB’S room.

frank

To make up for what you did you will help May and Ben with the gardening. Your mother will watch to make sure you don’t do anything wrong. You will weed, mow the grass, trim the bushes, anything that the Jenkinses want you to do.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

FRANK leans forward again and grabs HENRY JACOB by his shirt collar, pulling him closer. HENRY JACOB’S face is red and tears are still in his eyes.

Agree?

Henry Jacob

No, we shouldn’t have to. We didn’t do anything to their garden. frank That was a rhetorical question. You will do as I say.

With his free hand FRANK strikes HENRY JACOB across the face.

HENRY JACOB is pushed to the back of his bed by the power of the slap and tears fall down his face, but he remains silent. FRANK leaves and slams the door.

HENRY JACOB is left alone in his room and sobs into his pillow. He eventually stands up and angrily tears down drawings and posters from his walls. He finds his NOTEBOOK and opens it to a page revealing the words ‘Me and Michael’. He crosses out ‘Michael’, then turns the page, revealing a list of words, but only the word ‘TURPENTINE’ stands out.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

ERN ABEDIN is in Year 9

CARA ADDLEMAN was Head of School 2019-2020

TISE BENSON is in the Lower Sixth

DEVIN BIRSE is a Creative Writing Scholar in the Upper Sixth

OSKAR BISHOP was Deputy Head of School 2019-2020

BUNTY BUCKMAN is in Year 8

ELEANOR CANNING is in Year 9

ISLA COMER is in Year 10

ABI COWEN completed her IB studies at BGS in 2020

ALISON DENNY is a specialist teacher assessor in the Learning Support department

LAUREN DICKIE is in Year 9

TILLY EDWARDS completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

HOLLY EWING completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

ROMY FORSTER completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

SYLVIE GRAY STONE is in Year 11

ELLIOT GUNAWARDENA is in Year 8

IMOGEN HALES completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

EDD HOFMAN teaches English at BGS and is working on a novel.

NADIA KULIGOWSKI completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

ANDY LAY is in Year 9

ALYSIA MAESTRI completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

RAF PARKER is in the Upper Sixth

NAOMI PARSONS is in Year 10

NADIN SADEK completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

ALEXIA SEXTOU is in Year 10

LUKAS SZPOJNAROWICZ completed his IB studies at BGS in 2020

HATTIE TAYLOR is in the Lower Sixth

EMILY THOMAS is in Year 10

ROSA THORNE is in the Upper Sixth

SOPHIA UGLOW is in Year 10

ROSA WHATMORE completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

JOOLES WHITEHEAD teaches English at BGS

JACK WILLIAMS teaches Philosophy, Religion and Ethics at BGS

LOTTIE WILLIAMS completed her A-Level studies at BGS in 2020

EVA YEMENAKIS teaches English at BGS

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

has been typeset entirely in Gilll Sans [30/18/15/12/11]

and is produced bi-annually in collaboration with the Creative Writing Department at Bristol Grammar School