BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS number 4

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

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

Editors: David Briggs and Luke Evans

Art Editor: Jane Troup

Design and Production: David Briggs, Luke Evans, and Ruth Bennett

Cover artwork: Bella Lazarides

Copyright © July 2021 remains with the individual authors

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

VISUAL ART

PROSE NON-FICTION

SCRIPT

The image on the front cover shows a painting by Bella Lazarides

The artist is a creature possessed of finely-tuned antennae. Whatever’s out there in the aether, they’ll sense it. And that something’ll find its way into the work. OK, great, I hear you think. But what has any of that to do with a story about falling in love with a bowl of soup in the new issue of Between Four Junctions? Peculiar times, I’ll reply. Locked down in our houses – isolated from each other, away from human contact, from the usual distractions, and forced to confront the emptiness of space, the slow, drawn-out progress of hobbled time – we learned to appreciate the smaller things. And, well, in such times, maybe more than just simple appreciation might develop, as Holly Osborne-Jones evocatively shows in her accomplished piece of flash-fiction ‘Inanimate Attraction’.

The majority of the written works in this magazine were submitted independently, rather than having been harvested from existing school projects, showing both that the magazine is beginning to establish itself as an idea in the BGS community, and also that there’s a burgeoning community of students and teachers who have discovered writing for pleasure. Both are very encouraging signs. In the poetry we find a tendency to imagine life in other realms, other worlds, or on other planets, such as in Kai Drysdale’s ‘Kepler 452-b’. These writers are alert to the possibility of alternative states, keen to imagine other, better ways of doing things, an idea conveyed with especially poignant force in Sol Woodroffe’s poem ‘Want to Want’.

In the non-fiction section, a similar concern with better ways of doing things finds expression in two selfcommissioned essays, on the legal status of recreational drugs and the legacies of ‘the age of exploration’, while a sharpened political sensibility similarly informs script and prose fiction submissions, especially the prize-winning piece of ludic fiction by Rosa Thorne, written in the voice of an imagined future linguist reflecting back on an earlier yet uncannily familiar age, which put me in mind of Jorge Luis Borges and the epilogue to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale.

The editors are grateful again to Mrs Bennet for production assistance, and to Ms Troup and the Art Department for providing us with such a rich body of visual art from which to choose the few pieces for which we have space. While we still aim to produce a limited print run of physical copies of the magazine, economies of scale keep us to 80 pages, and that makes the tussle for each page increasingly competitive. Absolutely no filler guaranteed. Finally, I am especially grateful to now have Mr Evans as co-editor. His talent as a writer is equally matched by his skill and nous as an editor and designer, and that has made the production of this issue so much more enjoyable.

As this strange time persists, we both hope that you find yourself developing a fondness and appreciation (perhaps something deeper even than that) for this small thing we’ve produced in its midst. I read mine last night, while spooning a bowl of French onion soup so good I knelt and wept.

David Briggs

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

a magazine for the written and visual arts

4

2021

POETRY

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

SOL WOODROFFE Want to Want

I want to want to sleep at night, to arise early with the dawn, to sanitise and mechanise my rest, to beat a sturdy circadian rhythm on which to whistle diurnal melodies, like the mythical manual labourer.

I want to want to know the tricks of chess, to stare for hours at a piece of art, to lose track of time in a museum, to read with an insatiable hunger, not like the idle browser, snatching a sample on a full stomach. You know full well you won’t buy the real thing. What is it that you want to want?

I want to want to listen hard, to take note of cadences, to lurch for each syllable, to grasp the meaning in your intonation. I want to want to laugh heartily and quit coveting a cool and caustic wit. What is it that you want to want?

I want to want her alone, to learn to dance to her song, to move with her movement, to beguile nobody and be loyal to some truth, get angry at deceit and those who play fast and loose, to be guided by principals, compasses and a calling. That is what I want to want.

LOTTIE LIVINGSTON

Mystic Message

It fell from above and into my hand from the magic place of the Misfits’ land, up above mount Fuji, into the clouds, a place without a single staring crowd. Then I looked down at the glittering lake to find a message in-printed, it spoke: I can explain what you seek in one single motion, but first look, think –do you really need an explanation?

So I looked at the picture and found it all, all I needed to see, to hear, to think. It fell from above and into my hand, from the magic place of the Misfits’ land.

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KAI DRYSDALE Kepler–452b

When I was younger, my daddy told me stories about the worlds, the moons, the stars beyond the naked eye. And his favourite was the one about the place just like Earth. He swore to me: ‘I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna get there one day!’ And I believed him.

I felt empty when he actually left; I was alone and my home left me. And so I wandered, wondering where to go, stuck between a boiling rock and an orbiting hard place. What would he say? He would tell me: ‘Ursula! It’s not just major, nor minor, but both, and neither. Just look up to the stars, tell me what you see. I’m listening.’

And so I let gravity pull me to the ground, so that I can look at the flickers of light in the night sky. And through the worlds, the moons and the stars, beyond the naked eye, he’s there.

On the planet just like Earth. He made it.

AMY D’AGNANO

Sonnet

The sun goes down, the sky from gold to blue; he sips red wine (Chateau de Lafayette). The glass reflects the table set for two; a little smile and one more cigarette.

How come you’re here tonight, my dear? Surprise! I swear, I’m not expecting someone else. By chance I’ve got some wine for you. Besides, is that Chanel? And such a lovely dress!

Sit here, my love, and have another glass. Forget your twisted thoughts: there’s only you. Look at the moon: it’s full tonight. Relax . . . As in that song, you are my dream come true.

The doorbell rings. Again. A joke, for sure. No, don’t get up, but just kiss me once more.

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KYLE KIRKPATRICK

A City by the Sea

last night I dreamt of a city by the sea there were fountains there were markets there were strays there were Spaniards who were red-faced when the tide came in

last night I dreamt of a city by the sea there were towers there were bullfights there were ticket booths there were crooks who sold out while the church bells rang

last night I dreamt of a city by the sea there were Jews there were Arabs there were bars there were lanterns that burnt brightest when the sun came down

last night I dreamt of a city by the sea there were dates there were oranges there were girls there were mothers who gave in long into the night

The Captain

I kept the fire going through ten o’clock drizzle, cracked open Coronas, drank ’em in eight, seven, six . . . retraced my muddy footprints back from the bathroom, found no goodness in my wide-eyed mates.

For what could they do with a drunken sailor’s son but refer him to the captain, that all too righteous right authority?

There’d be no need for pay, even less for parents. Slipping in his keys, reciting his lines, he could recline the leather car seat an inch.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

ALICE TOWLE

To Smile With Your Eyes

Sounds easy, doesn’t it?

Smiling with your eyes. But that subtle starlit twinkle is all but lost when your lips can’t move in time. The dance loses its leader, the partner left to flounder, both twirling in the dark.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it?

Smiling with your eyes. But without your lips your eyes compensate. The balance of the action is completely lost –all together too much harmony, the melody all drowned out.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Smiling with your eyes. They’d never had to consider it till now –a new yet ancient language. A subtle quirk, or slight raise of the eye almost needs an instructional ad.

Eyes left trying to convey something –anything.

Then they learnt how to smile with their eyes –words said in a single glance. A warmth glowing from within, unlocking the prison they were in.

ELEANOR COOKE

The Yellow Spring Days and days and days again, the man awakes and leaves his home, walks down the road, into the field to listen to the crickets sing.

He falls into the drenched grass, the spring dew soaks his jumper through, the coppery taste left in his mouth as he eats dandelions by the roots.

He scrabbles to stand upright, with mud covering his hands and knees his bare feet slip on the ground, since he left his clogs behind.

He takes off his dirt-splattered sweater, and leaves it on the wooden fence; into the forest, he hikes and climbs and goes to the yellow spring.

Under the pounding water, the man drags his hand to the sky, he flails in his panic to breathe and kicks at empty space.

The man breaks the surface, lungs spasming in vain; he crawls up onto the grassy bank in a vague attempt to slip away.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

He does not look to face me, as my fingers grace across his neck. His arm reaches out and, in his ear, I whisper silent death.

MARK VELICHKO Destroy It with Hope

It was born with the first human and will die when humans go. Invisible to everyone, yet to all a great foe. Pouncing on prey, both day and night, always present inside us, it knows when it’s right to come out from the back of the mind and plague your thoughts and dreams through the night.

It makes you scream, or boil with hate. It tempts you to do nothing, laze around, always be late. Many families it has torn apart, ripping the love out of everyone’s heart. With illness comes misery, this it causes too. It forces you to steal; to always want and never be true.

Sin, evil, temptation – it has got multiple names, as people try to explain it in various ways. Different for all, yet its purpose is the same –lurking in every thought, it makes you play its game. It manifests in many different forms and shapes. It brings distress, lack of harmony, and pain.

It’s not scared of the dark, or of lions, of angels, demons, water, or fire, and makes you burn eternally with tempting desire. But the damage it has caused isn’t incurable; something can be done to restore people back to feeling merry and young. One thing remains that can heal all our scars –the spirit that was there at the bottom of Pandora’s jar. In the darkness of night, there’s a tiny flicker of day, And all the unfortunate yearn to find their way.

As Hope unsheathes its wings, all the beasts fear; warmth and courage spread to everyone who’s near. Hope takes flight, rays of the sun piercing the stale night air, Soon the night is gone and with it the fiend’s lair.

Hope is small and often forgotten, yet every monster rushes away, For with it all humans see a way, Sometimes a mere possibility, the slightest little chance, That things could be better at last. Turning blind to their problems, they look to that golden path, On which happily rule peace and love. That simple notion breaks the bonds of the dark, And casts all misfortunes away for years to come.

So we should remember, that whenever dark times come our way, Things will improve, hopefully, one day. And clinging to that thought, and letting our troubles go, We’ll take a leap of faith and go with the flow, Trusting that Hope will lead us on . . .

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

LORETA STOICA

The Bridge to Avalon

All troops must break step on the bridge to Avalon, but one continues to stomp: one, two, one, two, furiously. The marble splits and cracks. Old sport, why don’t you stop now? But the whispers continue: right, left, right, left. He loved to chain the daisies, and chew the toffee coins. Why can’t the old chap see?

Can’t he see, that to me, his steps are hurting little Geraldee! You see, the bridge to Avalon is scattered with her daisies. But his boots continue to stomp: one, two, one, two, furiously. And now the daisies squilch and squalch like paper mâché. He always loved to press the elderflower pick and the apple pack.

Look, young lad, oughtn’t you to stop now? But the legs still lifted: right, left, right, left. Bitter clouds spun around his head like scummy bathwater tornado-ing down a drain. The bridge to Avalon shook and shivered and Geraldee cried at the thump of the infamous boot.

What a shame, the young lad had such potential. His eyes now unresponsive, once turgid cheeks now hollow,

but not like when he battled with his toffee coin. He looks a little poorly.

Shriek. Squeak. Scream. Obscure, terribly teethed shadows of a boot, Geraldee’s last daisy quivering. Little boy, you must stop now! Oh.

The little boy looked around, cheeks plump and plush full of a sugar rush.

The bridge to Avalon fell silent.

JASMIN LAY

Death’s Stage

after Wilfred Owen

When the sun is setting on youthful faces, nothing can save them now death has them in his hand. Not the rattling guns from that distant base, nor the choking gas wafting over the crimson land. You cannot go back, so greet him with a warm embrace; staying alive is too much when it demands they live in this defiled, blood-stained place piled with bodies. This is the stage where death stands.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

ADAM RASHID-THOMAS

Come in, We’re Open

Polishing, polishing his ingot with textile as geometric as the hamdan Hamadan rugs that congregate cylindrically in his forbidden boutique.

Polished metals: lamp and mirror dangle like dates on the Palm; his trade opening an oasis in the deserted bazaar, a boundless light, a shepherding star. I ambulate past amulets –the evil eyes antiparallel to the incense of jasmine and frankincense. I taste a floor with walnut husks, pomegranate pith, abluted clean. Chai sipped by a crescent face, in clear, cursive script, opened, read, closed, tied with silken lace.

Unpolished metals: hinged chains not from this province but a separate land. A new land beyond a land.

Did their people remember the smell of rose, of scented rice, of cottoned clothes?

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Shackle under shackle, sleeping swords in the musked billows, like jinns in rusting bottles –a portent of the external accords that animate the cluttered stocks and their politics.

We walk towards antiquity, We drown in the blood of the Nile, We are pushed down a deepening well, here you shall find a door.

A cracked latch – a glimpse past a perpetual pool to a green within green, a honeyed chorus resonates, you shed a tear –a salted lagoon swimming within a vast sea –drop.

Head on the ground, hums in the air, prostrating buds blossom sweetened sounds.

Here, my soul unlocks –polishing, polishing my heart.

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PETER FORSTER

Zygote

Now just as there was once a single mote of dust that orbited a lonely star –a pirouetting zygote which then might find other whirling particles and stir into their tight and welcoming embrace to shape a growing embryo that’s wombed in gravity, accreting rock and gas until a planet forms – our infant world –where soon, inside a hydrothermal vent, there’ll be a single living cell which could be ancestor to all – out there in front of us, a cluster of genetic code –so, too, in that fallopian tube were you: a mote who’d be our future when you grew.

PROSE FICTION

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

AMY D’AGNANO

After Lunch

“More coffee, Alan?”

The boy raised his eyes on the wrought iron table. “Sure, why not” he said, before getting lost in lazy thoughts –the seagulls flew low and the garden was starting to wither. Aunt Grace and his guest had said empty words during lunch and now they were suffering the heat in the garden, drinking a short and very bitter coffee in Aunt Grace’s little Chinese cups.

The old man dipped a dry biscuit in his coffee and, satisfied, stretched his legs under the table.

“So, Gracie; what about your sister, what is she up to?”

An awkward silence followed, and Alan could hear the cicadas croaking softly. Even they seemed tired in the late summer sun.

“So hot, isn’t it?” Aunt Grace said at last, as she adjusted the over-opened, sweet smelling roses in the glass vase. The old man shook his head thoughtfully, and the answer came only after another biscuit. “What you can do about it, Grace? It’s the lagoon. It’s damp, that’s what it is. Humid. Feels like we’re in our own grave, doesn’t it, Alan?”

The remark jarred with the delicate pain of things withering in late summer; something had broken and Alan nodded reluctantly in the direction of the old man, who was light years away from him.

A violin began to play an old song on the other side of the street, beyond the oleander bushes, and Aunt Grace started to sing quietly in her hoarse, smoker’s voice. She was still beautiful under the brutal sun.

Alan’s gaze fell on his aunt’s cigarette. He followed the swirls of lead-grey smoke as they disappeared into the still sky, and saw Aunt Grace’s hand fanning, waving with nervous movements; pouring more coffee, holding the cigarette, taking a biscuit. The spoon rattled furiously in the cup and then landed on the saucer; but it was too much for the sleepy sultriness of the lagoon and Aunt Grace slumped back in her chair, wiping the sweat on her forehead with her hand.

HOLLY OSBORNE-JONES

Inanimate Attraction

THE air was cold in your house. Not cool nor chilly, cold. Earlier that morning you’d woken up shivering, your blankets doing nothing to keep out the icy breeze drifting in from the cracks in the floor. You later found out, upon inspection, that your boiler was broken, and no matter how many times you beat it violently with a spanner it still wouldn’t appear to work.

So here you sat, hunched over your kitchen table with five thick blankets thrown over your shoulders. You gazed down into the small bowl of soup you’d made, a vague haze of steam rising from its surface into the air. It looked so tantalising there and then, a perfect little orb of warmth and colour compared to the greys and blues surrounding it. Small chunks of carrot and chicken bobbed around in the hot liquid, like little islands almost consumed by the ocean. It was beautiful, in its own uncanny, soupy way.

With a jolt, you broke out of your daydreaming. You blinked, looking around and then back down to the soup. ‘Am I going insane?’ you silently asked yourself, reaching one shaking hand to rub your eyes. ‘Daydreaming about soup. God, is this what the cold can do to a person?’ you thought glumly, shaking your head as you lazily reached for your spoon. With a heavy sigh, you dipped the metal into the soup, collecting little more than a tablespoon of pale broth on it before bringing it up to your mouth.

As you swallowed that simple spoonful, you could feel something. The warmth of the soup spread from your throat all the way to your stomach, but didn’t stop there. In your entire body, from your fingers, legs, even your heart, you could feel a soft warmth. It made you smile. It made your brain rush with endorphins as you smiled so brightly at the feeling.

Looking back down at the soup, your smile grew softer. The feeling it’d given you was so gentle, almost loving in the way it made you feel protected, safe. ‘Loving . . .’ you thought, delicately dipping the spoon back into the soup and slowly stirring the liquid, resting your cheek on your other hand as you mused. ‘It’s just a bowl of soup . . . but . . . the way it looks . . . the way it looks up at me . . .’ You paused. ‘Has any human ever made me feel this way before? An ex, a family member, anyone? It feels so new to me. But at the same time, it feels good. It feels like . . . love? Is that it?’

“Love?”

The word slipped from your lips, quietly announcing itself for all nearby to hear.

“Soup . . . do you love me?” you whispered down to the warm liquid, a light flush of pink settling on your cheeks. The meal only rippled in response, small waves of soup echoing out from the centre of the bowl. The ripples curved as they bobbed outwards, dipping in at one point more and more until a shape formed in the soup.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

A rippling heart. The soup continued to make small ripples, the distorted head shape fading gradually as it lapped against the sides of the bowl.

It did. Your soup loved you. As your eyes widened in surprise, you realised that you did too. No one had ever made you feel so loved, as appreciated as it had. You trusted the soup, you loved it and your wanted to spend the rest of your life with that warm feeling. The soup was what you were meant to be with.

Without realising, you had lowered your face to the surface of the liquid while thinking about all of this, so that your lips were almost grazing it. A few single strands of your hair met the soup, darkening as they dampened in the mixture. You brought your face down just the tiniest bit more, just until you felt your lips make contact with the soup. You kissed it gently, your slow breath sending more ripples across its surface as it kissed you back, sending small waves up against your lips in the effort.

You loved this feeling, and you wanted more of it. On this cold day, you’d found love where you least expected to. All you knew in that moment was that now you had, you weren’t letting it go.

EVA SCOTT

The Faery House

WHEN we were small, we went wandering. Wandering where the grown-ups didn’t know they knew. When they weren’t looking, when their minds were absorbed in Grownup Things like Timemoney, we would silently make the climb, wide-eyed and muddy-kneed, to our secret place.

Hidden all around.

It’s the garden with no walls where the faeries lurk. Tall wet grass up to our waists, where the papery crickets made the sound of distant trains. A sharp, brittle whisper, a croaking, carried on the wind. The grass and the dew made our little legs itch, red marks on our skin. It stung, but we loved it. Because we know nothing lasts forever. We trampled the grass into paths and our laughs were like birdsong: only lower.

Slower.

We made The House in the heart of the Elderflower Sea. The golden-green reached above our heads. We found a clearer patch and squashed down the stems so they curved like hair, until it was a huge grassy bowl. The sun glowed green through The House’s tall blade walls. It was warm and the elderflower held us like a mother. We named it the Faery House. A hotel for all winged creatures to live in. They had pointed ears and pointed dusty glass wings that fluttered like moths.

In the evenings, they would paint their wings with a silver-blue that they borrowed from the sky at dusk. Then they’d wait in the moonflower trumpets to welcome the moon.

I looked up at the sky and remembered learning about the sky god. I could see him now, bending over the earth in a blue dome: dark indigo at the top and a pale forget-me-not hue at its edges. Hands and feet planted in the horizon.

The sun was still blazing when we finished the Bowl. So we trampled another path, long and winding, to the edge of the Elderflower Sea. The trees made soft shadows, dotted with golden blobs of light. We tried to catch it in our hands but it always escaped through our fingers.

We decided to find some creatures to live in our Faery House (the Green Bowl), but the creatures were hiding.

“I saw one!”

“No, you didn’t. That’s a fly.”

“No. I just saw a faery, I promise!”

“Did not!”

“Did.”

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Maybe the flies were always the faeries. I picked wildflowers behind them. I picked leaves and stripped them of their flesh until only their veiny skeletons were left.

We stuck cleavers to each other’s clothes. We were at the Mouth of the Jungle and the cleavers were its taste buds.

“The jungle is eating you!”

A scream followed by laughs. Still we found no faeries.

“They’re hiding in the tree trunks.”

We pressed our cheeks to the cool rough bark, wrapping our arms around like vines, and listened to the wood’s creaking and clicks. We clicked back with our tongues on the roofs of our mouths.

We left a trail of flowers that lead out of the jungle, through the field, all the way to the Faery House. We lay down our heaps of flowers there and began the decoration. We made it a temple, a haven. We laboured away until the sunlight grew orange and shone sideways. Until the shadows of the trees swallowed upland.

As the world grew dark, we all felt a pull, calling us back. One day the game has to end, and we’ll have to pretend to forget. Time was running out. It was time for us to run out of the sea, of the field.

We said nothing as we waded through the cold, sharp grass to the train that was waiting on the other side. Our limbs became heavy and the skin on our bare feet stung. Our eyelids began to itch. The others flopped aboard the carriage, doorless and empty. The train pulled away and I was left running behind with fire in my lungs.

I chased the train by the side of the tracks, but the End of the Day was faster. It caught up, overtook, and I fell down a hole in the earth.

BELNICE HELENA-NZINGA

The East Wing

YOU are 50 years old but tell people you’re 60 so you can hear them talk about how young you look. You live in an extensive forty-five bedroom complex on Pennsylvania Avenue. You believe in self-care and maintenance, involving a raw vegan diet and holistic exercise: yoga, pilates and the Jane Fonda Prime Time Workout DVD are consistent parts of your daily routine. In the early mornings, you are often found, back arched, face down, leaning over the marble counter with your head submerged in a bowl of cold huangshan maofeng (six degrees to reduce puffiness around the eyes). You shower twice a day, and when bathing, you use an exfoliating seaweed and mildew body scrub with fossilised barnacle to cleanse and prevent wrinkles.

Tabloids speculate about the coldness of your character, the icy glare with which you look upon your husband. And maybe a few of them hold some truth. But your marriage is a commitment: to evade the limelight, to only show your face when necessary, to sit still – look pretty, support your frontman from the sidelines as long as you both shall live. You are mother to a nation, and valued by none. Sometimes you think you’d like someone to take care of, but when a small hand reaches for yours, you know it’s not what you really want. You wish you could turn back time.

When most people meet you they cannot help but think you need saving, believing that in some warped and twisted way the both of you are similar, that you are connected by your isolation, and when you flash a smile they think that maybe you care about them and their story. But when they grip the flesh of your hand, damp and cold to the touch, and you lower your rose-tinted glasses to meet their gaze, they realise that there really is nothing there.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

KYLE KIRKPATRICK

The Doctor’s Office

KATE and Kyle are waiting for the Doctor. They’re sitting ‘round a coffee table with a plastic chessboard on top. The whites are down a queen; the blacks are all out of knights, rooks and bishops. Kyle’s lessons kick into gear: handicapped stalemates over Heinekens, Dad sighing under his bushy beard. Dad would tap away at his phone between turns; Kyle would nick extra goes as they neared the endgame. Kyle’s a better opener than a finisher, you see. He’d learnt a trick or two off Dan, and Dan knew his stuff. They’d make time for ten moves before school most mornings.

—Keep central, all right.

—Like this?

—Yeah, like that.

Kyle’s openings got so good that he and Dan could play twenty-five moves. With the right amount of extra goes, he could beat Dad on rainy Saturdays. Kyle calls the game: the blacks in ten moves. When did chess lose the zeitgeist? he thinks, turning to the Doctor’s bookshelf. The Doctor has a stack of Harry Potter books – —seven, to be precise. This must be the collection, Kyle figures. For little Kyle didn’t care for J.K. Rowling. He climbed the ladder from Biff and Chip to Fantastic Mr. Fox to The Hound of the Baskervilles. One summer Mum took little Kyle down to 221 Baker Street where there’s a Sherlock Holmes museum. Kyle remembers purple flowers, the draughty bedroom and Sherlock’s sitting room. There were armchairs by the fireplace; there was a snuffbox on the mantelpiece and a chemistry set on the coffee table. Mum bought little Kyle a book from the giftshop: The Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes. The hardback is about a thousand pages long and the original illustrations are inside. It came with a leather bookmark which reads: There’s nothing more deceptive than an obvious clue

KATE and Kyle are waiting for the Doctor. Footsteps and chatter flood in from the hall. There are laminated posters pinned to the walls: Newton’s laws, Einstein’s formula, Descartes’ cogito, that kind of thing. Kate looks up from her phone and sees that Kyle is still fixated on the bookshelf. Yesterday, when all her troubles seemed so far away, she showed him her presentation.

—It’s called The Physics of Flight.

—Sexy title.

They were sitting at the back of the common room, a few feet away from the door. The deck was to-the-point, a blend of detailed diagrams and physics lingo. She walked him through each slide of black-on-white Times New Roman, read it through eight times before heading over to the Physics classroom. She did her thing, made her way

home and texted Kyle the play-by-play. What do you mean the Doctor didn’t know who you were? What does “I fucked it!” look like? Kyle turns away from the bookshelf and plays with his hair. He reaches for his bottle and evidences one of Kate’s little theories. Every boy, she thinks, has a trademark – —a quirk with which they’re born. They don’t lose these trademarks; they keep them for life. They don’t even know they’ve got them. This way all boys stay the same, more or less. Kyle will drink water like a cowboy till he dies. There’s nothing he can do about it because he doesn’t know he’s doing it. For drinking like a cowboy is his trademark. Once it’s in, it’s in.

Bibo ergo sum.

KATE and Kyle are waiting for the Doctor. The hallway chatter has settled down. Kyle hooks his bottle onto the side of his mouth, grows wearier with each sip of dihydrogen monoxide …. . . The soft stuff won’t do! Won’t see him through double Maths, nor the Creative Writing workshop – —an enlightened drum circle running low on pot. The tweed-jacketed English teacher ironing-out his next novella … . . . no, novelette: his eyes in revolution as the teenage poet affects poor Jean-Jacques.

—Man is born free, but it’s society, MAN!

Kyle isn’t averse to such private school pantisocracy. Au contraire mon frère: Kyle’s a dreamer, a real hard-liner. Not only would he legalise a drip of fine wine before the schoolchildren dine, he’d enforce it. He remembers the time Dan snuck in a half-bottle of vodka. Loitering outside the Art block on a crisp February morning, having played his twenty-five moves, Dan topped-up Kyle’s bottle.

—What is this: hand-sanitiser?

Doctor Dan’s cure for the common school day kicked in after ten minutes. Lessons one through four came and went and precious little sunk in. The post-mock, pre-revision-drive angst gave way to three lemony non-sequiturs. A missing pencil case, a girl in a heavy coat, a quick game of five-aside. Kyle woke up in a small, dark room on the top floor of the Geography block. He fixed his tie, passed into lesson five. Chemistry tests aren’t Creative Writing workshops: duffers and bluffers sit side-by-side in regular rows while the teacher bogarts her joint. Kyle couldn’t tell how late he was. He sat down next to Dan, pulled a paper and filled it in. Each question followed the last; blackon-white buttons generated numbers.

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ROSA THORNE

How did the Dubrovnik Empire impact upon the evolution of the English Language?

200 years after the collapse of the last aristocratic dynasty, linguist and historical international relations professor Katya Ivanova looks back

Language and History: an unlikely pair

ONE of the questions most commonly posed to me by students and fellow researchers alike is how I deal with a lack of evidence, particularly in the first half of the 21st century (a date which is of course significant in marking the rise of the internet). Here, many of my students query how they are expected to deal with reduced physical evidence, and almost no credible sources. My answer is usually two-fold. Firstly, issues the internet presents are also the period’s greatest blessing. Secondly, when physical sources fail you, there will always be language. It’s one of the few things we can take as guaranteed. Returning to our example of the internet, having lost many of the servers and many posts which have replaced written sources throughout the last half a century, how can you construct a clear and supported argument? Well, the loss of short vowels illustrates the increasing use of ‘text speech’ and evinces the widespread nature of internet usage. In fact, Newman argues in A Basic Timeline of the English Alphabet (2514) that, although Arabic influence did play a major role in the reduction of vowels, it was text speech that set the precedent, and without it this change could not have happened. Whilst this was somewhat polemical, Newman is completely right.

With the inseparable link between history and language in mind, I shall return to consider the most dramatic changes in several key areas of English so far this millennia, and their origins. These are:

• in English grammar – the reduced use of prepositions

• in English words – changes to spelling and the reduction of unnecessary sounds (although this can, and should, be argued to be not a new change but a continuation of already occurring changes since the beginning of Modern English)

• in written English – the loss of short vowels as unique characters, and subsequent adoption of diacritics.

Prepositions, cases and Russian instability

Each of these changes can be paired with a combination of historical events. The first traces of New Modern English (for the purposes of this article Modern English is recognised to have begun just before the 14th Century

and New Modern English is recognised as beginning shortly before the 22nd century) coincides with a tumultuous moment in Russian History, the instability brought about after the death of Vladimir Putin. However, we must first understand the context to this. The rift between Putin and Razman Kadyrov began to grow unstoppably towards the end of Putin’s life as he became more dependent on those around him. This both angered Kadyrov and gave him what he perceived to be his opportunity to gain power, and although the Chechen rebellion proved ultimately unsuccessful, it both unhinged the economy and unmasked Putin’s façade of strength. This is the background required to understand the instability that followed Putin’s reign, and proves that it is not the result of an uncharacteristic lack of forward-thinking, as so many have argued.

The twenty years of governments in name only that followed did little to give an impression of order, nor to curb the subsequent years of civil unrest, and Russia’s influence and status began to crumble, giving several Middle Eastern countries a chance to become major world players (I will return to Arabic later). Eventually however, the Dubrovnik dynasty emerged, and although Nikolai Dubrovnik found power balances had shifted dramatically during this time, Russia once again, thanks to its size, quickly become a superpower. However, for the first time Russia was not just a superpower, but one that also benefited from free speech and consistent internet access. As such, Russia became influential not just in politics, but also in the day to day life of other people, and the language began to make itself present in English for the first time. Although on average English levels in Russia were high, remarkably few people were completely fluent, and as such, mistranslations, based on Russian grammatical structures, became commonplace online. This manner of speaking – referred to as ‘Soviet speech’ – temporarily became a trend used to create a specific tone (much like phonetically written Scottish, kawaii Japanese, and abbreviations such as ‘u wot m8’ had before it) and that went hand in hand with views of Russian aesthetics at this time. This was eventually reflected in one of the three major changes to English, the loss of prepositions. Although the Russian language at this time did feature a large number of prepositions, meaning was mainly conveyed through a complex 6-case system. Nowadays, it is very rare for all 6 cases to be used in Russian; however, four, including the accusative (usually indicated by the suffix /a/), dative (indicated by the suffix /e/), instrumental (indicated by the suffix /m/, or /em/ after a consonant) and genitive (indicated by the suffix /o/ or /ov/) appear in English with Slavic-inspired endings.

Spelling, sounds and linguistical subtleties

The second of the changes to English can be explained far more simply, but it is impossible to pinpoint in time. Since before the beginning of Modern English spelling, spelling and language have evolved to become more concise and phonetic, with some sounds that are unnecessarily long, or difficult to pronounce, being cut out of language. However, this process has been especially distorted throughout the last 400 years, due to two conflicting influences. On the one hand, increased standardisation has occurred, an effect which has been exacerbated by the accessibility of online dictionaries. On the other hand, growing global literacy rates and increased L2 English speakers have allowed for the development of more diverse dialects, and escalated the speed of development. The most prominent sounds to have disappeared from English over the last half a century have included /th/, /sh/,

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/ch/, /ough/; and the sound /r/ (distinguished by the specific tongue curling movement that is only found in English), is now said in the same way as many other languages, with the tongue touching the roof of the mouth.

Of these sounds which have been lost, they have largely been replaced with similar letters, such as /f/ for /th/, which whilst still understandable for a 21st century speaker, has lost the nuanced difference between the two sounds. However, the sound /ch/ (and in certain cases /sh/ as well) has become replaced with /x/ similar to German and Catalan. These changes are best exemplified by the Modern English word ‘through’, which transliterated into New Modern English would be written fro.

During my research into late Modern English, I encountered many texts, including a Cambridge University linguistics competition that I have translated into New Modern English to better highlight these changes.

Fr xlnj, yo ned mjn xnjs nglsa nxt 500 yersa. Yo cn dsed fkos ssel grop (peplse smla mone, rsdns, past) & kntxt nglso. Xmpl, yo cn fks Nglsa r ngls rov rsdnsov. Yo cn fk

xnjs wya wrds sy

xnjs wya wrds ritn

I chose to translate this extract as it exemplifies a level of formality used frequently both now and 500 years ago. The original text avoids colloquialism and is completely technically accurate, allowing the opportunity to communicate subtle details in language. These subtleties include details such as the capitalisation of the word ngls in one case but not in another. The capitalised version refers to technically-correct written standard English, a concept which did not really exist in Modern English.

Vowels

I shall now return to the third of the changes to English – the introduction of diacritics as a replacement for short vowels. To understand this, we must first acknowledge the unlikely nature of the absence of diacritics in Modern English. The vast majority of other languages, including neighbouring languages, involve the use of diacritics. For example, accents in French and Spanish are used to distinguish between words with otherwise identical spelling but different meanings and pronounciations (such as ‘de’ meaning ‘of’, and ‘dé’, the present tense subjunctive 1st person for ‘to give’). Additionally, Welsh uses a number of diacritics, including the circumflex to mark long vowels. Japanese also use diacritics, for example は(ha, or wa)、ば(ba)、ぱ(pa). And there is even a case to be made for the uses of diacritics in Russian, in letters such as ё/е (yo/ye) and й/и (iy/ee), the former of which did not appear as a separate character on digital keyboards. As such, along with Nguni languages like isiXhosa, English not having diacritics is very unique and as such the change is highly logical.

Throughout Modern English native speakers and language learners alike had to contend with the highly problematic nature of having two words spelt the same but pronounced differently, (eg. read, close and lead). Furthermore, the increase in regional accents and globalisation of English exacerbated difficulties trying to pronounce vowels and as such, after the beginning of the Middle Eastern proxy war an opportunity presented itself.

The fall of the Dubrovnik dynasty, proxy wars and Arabic

The importance of the fall of the Dubrovnik Empire in changes to vowels cannot be overstated. After the death of Ilya Dubrovnik, a power vacuum opened up that marked the beginning of a bloody transition to democracy. The ensuing proxy war in the Middle East involved no less than 72 countries, divided politics and almost sunk the economy, but most dramatically altered the balance of global superpowers away from the rich European countries who had dominated for so long. It was at this point that English adopted Arabic diacritics. A fatha () dictated an /a/ sound, a damna () dictated an /o/ sound, and a kasra () dictated an /ee/ or /i/ sound, for example the sound /k/ is pronounced /ka/ (like the Japanese か, Linear B ⊕, Arabic خ , and Zhuyin 丂丫, all of which evince the widespread nature of sounds consisting of consonants combined with vowels).

As dramatic as this change sounds, it is important to acknowledge that this was already happening. Not only were vowels being lost in text speech, but accents were increasingly used by dictionaries to indicate stress. The first of the three major changes to English involved the use of cases, marked mainly by vowels, and as such the introduction of diacritics can also be interpreted as a natural consequence of this (having fewer vowels made these endings become more apparent and easier to read.) Finally, returning to the examples of words that are spelt the same and pronounced differently, you may have noticed that the variation in all of these is based on the pronunciation of the vowels, and so this also served to differentiate long and short vowels (long vowels are written in the same way as Arabic, featuring both the diacritic and the original letter), a natural progression in making English easier to read.

Final thoughts

If I have learnt anything from my years studying History, it is that conclusions should present a balanced, but decisive argument. Although acknowledging concessions is important, your view must be clearly stated, outlined and defended. I will not do that today. Certainly, I have my own opinions as to the most relevant factors in the evolution of language, and whether New Modern English really is more logical or universal than Modern English, but I would not for a second presume that it is the only correct answer, or indeed necessarily correct. Language is fluid. It means something different for each and every person, thanks to their experiences, the books they have read, and conversations they have had. Therefore, if I can leave you with a single thought, it is this: my version of English and yours are not the same, and no analysis of grammar and change can give it meaning if it is not also your meaning. Without that, no historical analysis is worthwhile.

Katya Ivanovna The University of Malavicina

VISUAL ART

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WILLIAM CLARK

Untitled digital photographic edit

INDIE MURRAY

Energy and Movement

abstract collage

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JESS HANCOCK

Untitled manipulated photographic responses to write structures

ESME BADHAM

After Frank Auerbach

acrylic on board

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ANANYA SHAH

Untitled etching and acrylic ink underpainting

MARK VELICHKO

Autumn Nostalgia

goauche on paper

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BELLA LAZARIDES

Lido oil on board

ANYA OLEINIK

Self-portrait colour pencil on paper

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EVA SCOTT

Artemis, Act I oil on board

CELINA SADEK

Lido oil on board

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RUBY FORSTER

Untitled acrylic on board

SERAFINA COMER

Clevedon Pier acrylic on board

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MAX RIDES

Bristol screen-print on paper

BERT ABEDIN

After the Fall mixed media collage

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FINN GOUGH

Seeking Comfort in an Uncomfortable Chair

digital iPad art

SAM BINDING

One Morning in Lockdown photography

PROSE NON-FICTION

TOM POPE

Drugs in the UK: It’s Time to Legalise Them All

WITH roughly 12,000 people in UK prisons for drug related offences, costing the UK taxpayer over £½ billion every year, drugs are undeniably the cause of many problems within the UK from a health, crime, and economic standpoint. Furthermore, with nearly 4,400 drug poisoning deaths registered in England and Wales in 2019 – the highest since records began– nobody can claim that the issue is going away.

The drugs trade is one of the most lucrative worldwide and is estimated by the National Crime Agency to be worth nearly £11 billion in the UK alone. The drugs market is huge, and the prices increase significantly from farm to street owing to the many different middlemen. People who smuggle drugs over borders take the largest cut and that is before the drug is adulterated with additives. The purity of amphetamine on the streets has been found to be as low as 5%, which means that of the £13 per gram of amphetamine that the consumer is paying, a mere 65 pence represents the actual product that they are ingesting. The rest can be a mixture of anything from washing powder to concrete powder. The fact that drugs are not adulterated to a uniform extent is extremely dangerous; one night a consumer could take a full strength pill and not feel many effects, while on another night the same individual could take an identical amount and end up in hospital with an overdose.

I spoke to Peter Bleksley, a former undercover detective who has dedicated over a decade of his life to “putting hundreds of people in prison for thousands of years” and achieving “the biggest landslide seizure of heroin ever in the UK”. Yet when he asks himself whether there are fewer guns and drugs on the street now as a result of his work, he comments, “the answer of course, is a resounding no”. In 1971, following US President Nixon’s characterisation of illicit drugs as ‘Public Enemy Number 1’, Bleksley entered New Scotland Yard thinking he was “on the side of the angels”. The media had coined the phrase ‘the war on drugs’ and yet, in hindsight, Bleksley realised that “we could never win this war – it will never, ever be won”. Hence, he concurs with me and many others that it is time for a rethink: “Why would we leave an industry worth billions to criminals?”

In 2001, Portugal became the flagship nation of drug legalisation after decriminalisation measures were brought in to tackle its widespread heroin crisis. Switzerland followed suit in 2012 for a similar reason. Following this, multiple US states started to permit the sale of cannabis. Drug legalisation is gradually becoming normalised, yet countries are understandably reluctant to lead the way. The vision that Peter Bleksley and so many others share is of “drug stores, on every high street, open 24 hours a day”.

How on earth could drug reform on this scale be achieved? How would drugs be made any safer for consumers? What would drag people away from their current dealers? The end result must be able to beat organised crime

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on four fronts: price, purity, availability and, crucially, support. This support has to be available for those who need it. 91% of the drug money spent in the UK is by regular users.

Cocaine is made from coca leaves, typically harvested in South America in countries such as Columbia. The farmers are paid roughly £370 for a ton of these leaves, which will produce around one kilogram of cocaine and will be sold on the street for up to £40,000. This means that the farmers are being paid less than 1% of the final price of the product, which is not acceptable. Under new rules, coca leaves should be imported as a fair-trade item in their natural state. This would stop any piracy of drugs as they are being transported, due to unprocessed coca leaves being relatively valueless. Similarly, heroin’s foundation ingredient, found in the opium poppy, would need to be transported in its raw state from countries of origin such as Afghanistan. The drugs would then be synthesized by government-run labs in the UK to ensure regulation and exemplary hygiene throughout every step of the process.

By intervening in the drugs market and taking it from the back alleys onto the high streets, the government would raise “billions upon billions of pounds,” according to Peter Bleksley, and they would also create a “considerable amount of space in our prisons”. Given that he has “never met a drug addict that didn’t want to get clean”, it would be morally indefensible to use that money for anything other than education and rehabilitation. If substantial sums were raised, and were spent on education and rehabilitation, there would be a significant reduction in the estimated 314,000 addicts in the UK. This would, in turn, liberate hospital space, not to mention causing an undoubted drive down in drug-related crimes that will come with taking drugs from back alleys onto high streets. This proposal will work, so long as we beat organised crime on price, purity, and availability. I make no apology for repeating that.

SAROSH AZIZ

The Age of Exploration

WAS the ‘Age of Exploration’ a positive development in world history? Our vast oceans have always held a fascination for humanity and a great desire to uncover the mysteries of what lies beyond the expanse. It was the instinct for survival, curiosity and ambition that were the big driving forces of early oceanic voyages thousands of years ago. But it is also a hallmark of humanity’s perseverance, bravery and resilience to go into the unknown and journey with all manner of adversity for months on end, far away from home and comfort. Ocean voyages started a long time ago. In fact, some of the earliest evidence goes back to 10,000 BC, with rock carvings of a boat manned by paddlers. We also know that boats were very important for commerce between the Indus Valley and Mesopotamia between 1,800 and 2,500 BC. Around 2,500 BC merchants were sailing the waters of the Middle East to the Indian Ocean for precious minerals and local monsoon winds were utilised for their swift passage. Exploration and voyages were nothing new for the Greeks in the 6th century BC, who were the first to journey to Asia. Fictional oceanic voyages were chronicled in epic literary works such as Homer’s Iliad. Other civilisations, such as the Polynesians, passed on extensive knowledge of sailing to subsequent generations with no written records. In 12th Century AD Marco Polo visited Hangzho, which was a bustling and successful port during the era of the Ming Dynasty. Then arrived the Age of Exploration, also known as the Age of Discovery. It was a period that lasted from the start of the 15th century to the middle of the 18th century. It was a very important era in world history and marked the start of the progression towards globalism. It was also the precursor to the Age of Imperialism when European nations firmly stated themselves as the dominant global powers. Led originally by the Portuguese, several nations from Western Europe to China played a part in charting and mapping areas of the world, many of which had never been seen before by other civilisations. Significant figures during that time included Vasco da Gama, the first European to reach India by sea; Christopher Columbus, famously credited with colonising America; and Pedro Álvares Cabral, known for discovering Brazil for the Portuguese. The Portuguese had become interested in the Atlantic Ocean in 1500 and, when Madeira became a hub, sugar was widely exported there. It became quickly apparent to the explorers what treasures lay beyond the vast oceans and in distant lands. In addition to the wealth of geographical knowledge that was gained from these voyages, there were also enormous economic and political benefits. The creation of colonies, sharing of technology and spices greatly profited nations such as Portugal and Spain as well as the Ming Dynasty in China.

Missionary activity was another driving force for these explorations, with the spread of Christianity and Western ideas having great impact on the cultures and beliefs of various indigenous peoples around the world, such as those in South America and Africa. We continue to see these influences today in their cultures, languages and

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religion. But the arrival of invaders long ago also brought disease, famine and often conflict, slavery and forced religious conversions. This greatly contributed to a decline in the local populations of those times, many of whom never recovered. It was the global domination of sea travel that made the Age of Exploration unique, and this led to many new technological developments in navigation and seamanship. These include the astrolabe, magnetic compass, caravel and sextant – all of which had enormous significance and continued to be used centuries after. Explorers brought back new goods. Tomatoes and potatoes for example, considered staple foods in Europe, were originally not native to our continent but were instead introduced by the Spanish in the 16th century. Other ‘New World’ crops include tobacco, rubber and vanilla. Our customs and way of life were forever changed—from drinking tea and coffee to the use of porcelain from China, aromatic spices from India and beautiful textiles and silks from Manila. Distant lands had been for centuries impenetrably separated by expansive oceans, and it was only through these early explorers that we could bridge the gap and expand beyond our limitations.

The Age of Exploration brought the world closer. Today we still see 90% of world trade going through our oceans, but it is the resulting human and social connections that bind us more, through the sharing of cultures and of our common ground, rather than our differences.

WORKS CITED

Abulafia, David. The Boundless Sea: A Human History of the Oceans. Oxford University Press, 2019.

Love, Ronald S. 2006. “Maritime Exploration in the Age of Discovery, 1415–1800”. The European Voyages of Exploration. The Applied History Research Group, University of Calgary, 2009. Archived from the original on 22 July 2010. Retrieved 22 June 2010.

Sletcher, Michael. “British Explorers and the Americas”. In Britain and the Americas: Culture, Politics, and History, editors Will Kaufman and Heidi McPherson. Oxford University Press, 2005.

KAI DRYSDALE

Obsession

INT. PRIMARY SCHOOL OFFICE – EVENING

There are boxes of toys and workbooks on a coffee table and a couple of tiny chairs for children. MARY (40s) is sitting at her desk typing on the keyboard. She is interrupted by several firm knocks at the door.

MARY (Monotone) Come in!

SAMUEL STEVENSON (late 20s) enters the office. He has several papers in his hand. MARY stops typing and looks up to face him.

MARY (happily)

Oh! Hi Sam. To what do I owe this pleasure?

SAM puts down his papers on a desk that has his name plate on it. He turns to face MARY and leans on the wall.

SAM (concerned)

Hi Mary, I just wanted to talk to you about Johnny Hart...

MARY Johnny?

INT. JOHNNY’S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

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There are questionable stains in the corner of the room. All of the furniture is broken to some extent and the blue painted walls are discoloured and starting to peel. A small ray of light from the hallway peers through the door and shines on JOHNNY, curled up in a ball in a corner, with his head buried in his knees.

SAM (V.O.)

Have you noticed anything strange in his behaviour?

MARY (V.O.)

What are you talking about?

The door opens, with a looming shadow standing ominously in the doorway. JOHNNY’S eyes squint as he looks up.

CUT TO:

INT. PRIMARY SCHOOL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

SAM sits down on one of the children’s chairs, hunched forwards. He looks at the floor.

SAM

I mean there is clearly something really wrong with him: he never engages in any group activities without prompting; he doesn’t even talk to the other kids. Above all, he is never happy.

SAM looks up to face MARY

SAM

Tell me Mary, when was the last time you saw him smile?

MARY

Well actually, I saw him smile yesterday y’know. I didn’t get most of it; too busy

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telling off the brats who pantsed down Mr Woods, but it was something about his mother. He seems to make her happy. CUT TO:

INT. JOHNNY’S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

A WOMAN steps into the light with a warm expression. She opens her arms and runs to JOHNNY, although he is expressionless in the hug. Stroking his head, she asks him a question, although what she asks is inaudible.

SAM (V.O.) (unconvinced)

Mmm. But that’s her job. Plus, I‘m not so sure that I would agree ....

MARY (V.O.)

And why would you say –

JOHNNY shrugs and the WOMAN’S expression immediately changes. She is frowning and appears angry.

SAM (V.O.)

Because it seems to me that there is something seriously wrong with his mother as well.

JOHNNY shakes his head forcefully as the WOMAN angrily asks him another question.

MARY (V.O.)

Ugh, here we go again!

SAM (V.O.)

What?

The WOMAN grabs JOHNNY by his shirt and raises her fist. CUT

INT. PRIMARY SCHOOL OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

MARY squints in disapproval and goes back to typing on her keyboard.

MARY

Samuel Oliver Stevenson, you’re always looking for an excuse to be a nuisance, come rain or shine. Need I remind you of last week? The school had to write several apologies to the Johnsons’ after what you pulled. We’re lucky we didn‘t end up getting sued! So just ... leave it.

SAM stands up.

SAM

But I know that I’m right. And I would rather be wrong and check than be wrong and not. Johnny could be in some real trouble right now and you’re being dismissive, as if it’s nothing!

MARY (authoritative tone)

I don’t think you understand me; I am telling you to stop. Look at yourself! You are obsessed with a problem that doesn’t exist!

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SAM

Mary-

MARY

And I hate to treat you like the chidren you teach, but I will if you insist on behaving like them. So I am going to repeat myself one more time. Leave. It.

SAM

But I-

MARY

Samuel, you are a teacher. Surely you must have some work to do now?

SAM grunts in frustration and leaves the office, slamming the door loudly. MARY sighs before returning to her computer

CUT TO:

INT. JOHNNY’S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

The door opens slowly and the WOMAN stands by the doorway. JOHNNY is curled up in a ball once more, eyes bloodshot from tears, with bruises on his face. He quickly looks up to the WOMAN

MS. HART

Hello my love. Dinner is on the table when you’re ready, okay?

JOHNNY silently nods and MS. HART smiles. CLOSE ON her closing the door slowly.

FADE TO BLACK.

INT. HARTS’ HOME - EVENING

The scene shifts to the dining room. MS. HART (early 40s) ALYA and MATTEO (12 yrs)

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are already seated at the table, with equally portioned plates of sausages, chips and peas. Only the sound of a ticking clock can be heard, although there is no visible clock in the room. The door opens slowly and everyone turns their head. JOHNNY stands by the door, head towards the floor and feet together.

MATTEO

Here he is! Th‘ man of t-

MATTEO looks towards MS. HART, who is staring coldly back at him.

MS. HART

The, Matteo; pronounce the E.

He clears his throat and looks at his plate. JOHNNY quietly scuffles to his seat. None of the children are making eye contact.

MS. HART

You may begin.

Everyone picks up their cutlery and slowly begins to eat. There is no discussion; only the ticking clock can be heard. After a while, only the scraping of plates can be heard as everyone is finishing their meal, except for MATTEO, who still has all of his peas. MS. HART clears her throat, signifying an announcement.

MS. HART

I believe that it is time for Matteo and Alya to have separate rooms.

MATTEO and ALYA loudly drop their cutlery, which makes an uncomfortable sound. MOVE TO their empty plates.

ALYA

For what reason Mother? Matteo and me ge-

MS. HART

Matteo and I, Alya. Subject, not object.

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There is a short silence.

ALYA (Stutters)

Y-yes of course. Matteo and I get on particularly well. Surely we are not causing any inconvenience for you?

MS. HART

I find it rather improper for young men and women to share a room. It will not

be too long before you adults are both tried!

MATTEO

But Mother, that is six years away .... We’re not ....

There is another brief silence.

MS. HART (dismissively)

Whatever the case, I disapprove, and my decision is final. The spare room will be ready for Matteo by the end of the week.

ALYA

If I may interject Mother, I suggest giving the room to Johnny...than. Johnathan.

MATTEO

Yes, his room is far too small.

MS. HART

His room is sufficient. Besides, he

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recognises the importance of two young adults that need their own space. Correct?

MS. HART glares at JOHNNY. Without making eye contact, he nods his head vigourously.

MATTEO (Mutters)

How would he know, he’s only six ....

MS. HART

What did you just say to me?

As MATTEO turns he accidentally knocks over his plate. It smashes, and all of the peas spill onto the floor. MATTEO, ALYA and JOHNNY’s faces freeze. They all slowly turn towards MS. HART, who is scowling.

MATTEO (Stutters)

N-nothing Mother...

MATTEO looks at the pile of peas on the floor before looking at MS. HART once more.

MS. HART Eat them

ALYA

Wait! Mother, surely this is too harsh fo-

MS. HART Eat. Them.

MATTEO is shaking as he grabs a handful of peas from the floor and puts them in his mouth. Tears begin to stream down his face.

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MS. HART (under her breath) Disgusting...

ALYA and JOHNNY‘s eyes are wide with shock. MS. HART closes her eyes for a moment, before drawing her focus to her remaining children.

MS. HART Alya.

ALYA Yes, Mother?

MS. HART Make sure that Johnathan goes to bed.

ALYA silently nods her head. MS. HART exhaustedly sighs as she gets up from her chair and leaves the room. Sobs can be heard from MATTEO. Underneath the table, ALYA holds JOHNNY’S hand.

ALYA

C’mon bud, time for bed.

JOHNNY appears hesitant for a moment as he looks towards the door before facing Alya.

JOHNNY (Quietly)

Okay.

ALYA and JOHNNY leave the kitchen. They walk up the stairs as MS. HART walks down carrying a belt. They do not make eye contact. CLOSE ON JOHNNY squeezing ALYA’s hand tighter.

FINN PURDY A Fishy Situation

Lights . . . and we see a moderator, dressed formally, on the stage of a political debate. The moderator sits behind a table, with two chairs on his right and three to his left.

MODERATOR: Hello and welcome to the 2022 political debate where you, the public, get to hear the policies proposed by those who wish to lead our country. I’m your moderator for this evening, a John Cleese type. But without further ado let’s introduce the candidates: the first candidate, standing with the Conservative Party, Douglas Farthing.

Spotlight on Douglas Farthing, an over-kempt man in a blue tie, entering from stage right as a producer walks out holding a sign saying, “APPLAUD”. Douglas sits down in the farthest stage-right seat.

MODERATOR: Standing with the Labour Party, Bruce.

Bruce, a man in working class dress with a red tie, also enters from stage right. The producer brings out the “APPLAUD” sign. Bruce sits down stage left of Douglas. The two clearly dislike each other.

MODERATOR: (In air quotes) “Standing” with the Liberal Democrats, Tim Stephens.

Tim enters from stage right, walking on his knees, wearing an orange tie. Notably, we don’t see the producer. Tim kneels to the right of Bruce.

MODERATOR: Standing with the Scottish National Party, Nicole Halibut.

Nicole enters from stage right. She bears a striking resemblance to Nicola Sturgeon. The producer brings out the “APPLAUD” sign. Nicola sits down to the right of the moderator.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

MODERATOR: And standing with the Independent Party as a political outsider . . . a fish finger.

The producer brings out an actual fish finger and places it on the table stage right of Nicole. The producer hands the moderator a note.

MODERATOR: We were also expecting the Green candidate Mr Blue, but sadly he locked his bike too securely and can’t get it out because of his, and I quote, “weak weak vegan hands”. But the debate must continue, and so let’s move to the question on the public’s mind: policy. Mr Farthing if you could begin.

DOUGLAS: Well, yes, um, thank you. Now if I were to be elected into her royal majesty’s oh so lovely scrum-diddly-umptious British government I would immediately rejoin the European Union, so we can leave it again! We have a fantastic plan. It’s ready to go. Just pop it in the microwave, heat it up and it’s ready to go; just like a fish finger.

FISH FINGER: Oi!

DOUGLAS: I beg your pardon?

Everyone looks around to identify the voice before looking at the fish finger.

FISH FINGER: Stop running your mouth, you trout! All you la de da humans talking about fish fingers. Well I am a fish finger, and I don’t agree with your ready meal rhetoric.

The producer brings out the “APPLAUD” sign.

DOUGLAS: Well I’m sorry you feel that way but our deal, as Cicero might have put it, is goodus maximus!

The producer brings out a different sign that says “BOOOOO!”

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

MODERATOR: And if Cicero were here today, I imagine he would have shot himself too. But I think we ought to hear from Mr . . . what is your surname, Bruce?

BRUCE: Bruce.

MODERATOR: Alright . . . Mr Bruce.

BRUCE: If the Labour Party were to be elected, we would first raise taxes by … (Bruce checks his papers) a million billion percent. Secondly, we would immediately begin nationalising British industry, starting with: (He takes out a list) The Birds Eye Group, The Saucy Fish Company, Five Star Fish Limited and The Fish Finger Corporation.

FISH FINGER: You ignorant minnow! Those companies shouldn’t be nationalised, they should be liquidated! Fish-kind has suffered for too long!

Producer brings out the “APPLAUD” sign

BRUCE: But we need the money! Otherwise we can’t waste it all!

Producer brings out the “BOOO!” sign

MODERATOR: And what would you waste this fishy money on, Mr Bruce?

BRUCE: The education system. And a blue Slush Puppy.

MODERATOR: Well I would’ve imagined it’d be a red Slush Puppy. I think we should move on to . . . (The moderator looks at Tim for a moment but then points to Nicole) Mrs Halibut.

TIM: (Timidly) Um, Mr moderator, you forgot m—

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Bruce jabs Tim in the ribs, causing him to fall over. Tim subsequently remains quiet.

NICOLE: Thank you, Moderator. If the Scottish National Party were to be elected we would immediately and without hesitation leave the United Kingdom. For too long Scotland has suffered; for too long celebrities have made awful movies about William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, with impunity. But no more! Braveheart and Mel Gibson will be swiftly banned from ever entering Scotland again.

MODERATOR: Well, Mrs Halibut, forgive me for saying, but that seems awfully expensive, how will you pay for it all?

NICOLE: We will fund the Scottish republic off the back of our world renowned fishing industry!

FISH FINGER: Oh you greasy little limpet!

NICOLE: Isn’t a limpet a type of shellfish—

FISH FINGER: Don’t interrupt me! You yammer on about hating Braveheart but you keep shouting “Freedooooom!”, without ever actually leaving! So why don’t you just leave!

Producer brings out “APPLAUD!” sign

NICOLE: Well I’d never really thought about just leaving before. Right! Scotland is now officially independent. Freedooooom!

Nicole leaps up and runs away, exiting stage right.

MODERATOR: Well, that was much easier than expected. Anyways, Mr Fish Finger, you have distinguished yourself above your opponents in this debate, but the question now falls to you. If you are elected, how will you run this country?

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FISH FINGER: If I am elected, the first thing I will do is appoint Captain Birdseye as Chancellor of the Exchequer in order to tackle our national budget deficit. I will also make conciliatory gestures towards the EU and make moves to regain our membership so we can better defend fish living in the British Channel. Under my government the army will be defunded with the excess budget going towards the NHS so they can further research maritime healthcare. This are just a small number of the changes I would implement. But to conclude I would like to say to the public: in this country we do not need hatred, we do not need stupidity, nor do we need timidity, we need a cod coated in tasty batter!

Producer brings out “APPLAUD” sign

MODERATOR: Inspiring words from an inspiring snack, but Mr Fish Finger, how do you address the claim that as a fish finger you would be unable to fulfil your duties as Prime Minister?

FISH FINGER: I swear to you all, the British public, that I will dedicate my batter and my filling to my position. I will not make light of the responsibility of office. And cod may strike me down if anything I have said is untrue!

At that very moment the Green candidate rushes onto stage, stopping at the table next to Mr Fish Finger, breathing heavily

MR BLUE: I’m sorry I’m late. (Pointing at the fish finger) Is this vegan?

Mr Blue takes a burger bun out of his pocket, places Mr Fish Finger inside and then takes a huge bite. The producer runs out with a sign saying “GASP”.

MR BLUE: Wait, was that not vegan?

Curtain.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

BERT ABEDIN is in Year 9.

SAROSH AZIZ is studying A-Levels in the Lower Sixth.

ESME BADHAM s in the Lower Sixth studying History, English Literature, and Art.

SAM BINDING is a photographer and a BGS parent.

WILLIAM CLARK is in Year 7.

SERAFINA COMER is in Year 11.

ELEANOR COOKE is studying A-Levels in the Lower Sixth.

AMY D’AGNANO is in Year 9 and is this year’s winner of the Brian Jacques Literary Award.

KAI DRYSDALE is a Creative Writing Scholar in the Lower Sixth.

PETER FORSTER is Head of English at BGS.

RUBY FORSTER has just completed her A-Level studies.

FINN GOUGH is in the Lower Sixth.

JESS HANCOCK is in the Lower Sixth.

BELNICE HELENA-NZINGA of the Upper Sixth holds the BGS record for reciting Pi from memory to 1,067 decimal places.

KYLE KIRKPATRICK of the Lower Sixth was a runner-up in the 2020/21 Cambridge University Religion on Film Competition.

JASMIN LAY is an Academic Scholar in Year 7 with an interest in Creative Writing.

BELLA LAZARIDES has just completed her A-Level studies.

LOTTIE LIVINGSTON is in Year 8.

INDIE MURRAY is in Year 7.

ANYA OLEINIK is in Year 8.

HOLLY OSBORNE-JONES is in Year 9 and is this year’s runner-up for the Brian Jacques Literary Award.

TOM POPE has just completed his A-Level studies.

FINN PURDY is studying A-Levels in the Lower Sixth.

ADAM RASHID-THOMAS is studying the IB in the Lower Sixth.

MAX RIDES has just completed his A-Level studies.

CELINA SADEK is in Year 11.

EVA SCOTT has just completed her A-Level studies and is about begin a Foundation in Fine Art at Queen’s Road.

ANANYA SHAH is in Year 11.

LORETA STOICA is a Sixth Form Scholar.

ROSA THORNE has just completed her A-Level studies and is about to begin a degree course in Arabic at Oxford University.

ALICE TOWLE of the Lower Sixth is one of Bristol’s two Youth Mayors.

MARK VELICHKO is in Year 8.

SOL WOODROFFE has just completed his IB studies.

BERT ABEDIN

SAROSH AZIZ

ESME BADHAM

SAM BINDING

WILLIAM CLARK

SERAFINA COMER

ELEANOR COOKE

AMY D’AGNANO

KAI DRYSDALE

PETER FORSTER

RUBY FORSTER

FINN GOUGH

JESS HANCOCK

BELNICE HELENA-NZINGA

KYLE KIRKPATRICK

JASMIN LAY

BELLA LAZARIDES

LOTTIE LIVINGSTON

INDIE MURRAY

ANYA OLEINIK

HOLLY OSBORNE-JONES

TOM POPE

FINN PURDY

ADAM RASHID-THOMAS

MAX RIDES

CELINA SADEK

EVA SCOTT

ANANYA SHAH

LORETA STOICA

ROSA THORNE

ALICE TOWLE

MARK VELICHKO

SOL WOODROFFE