BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS number 5

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 Izzy Neumann

Cover artwork: Ishaan Kumar

Copyright © May 2022 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

The image on the front cover shows a detail from a painting by Ishaan Kumar

EDITORIAL

As we emerge from two unprecedented years of pandemic and episodic lockdown, it’s timely to consider the extent to which our writing has retained vestiges of our experience of that time, even while it makes a marked return to the themes that occupied us before Covid. The last two years have changed us. Although it’s sometimes difficult to articulate precisely how, we can find ourselves transported back there so easily when we read, for example, Jooles Whitehead’s poetic evocation of the rituals of wild swimming, Jennifer Benn’s exploration of place and lifestyle in ‘Siren Song’, or even Kane Rickard’s sestina in celebration of spring succeeding the snows of winter. But other cultural currents and political concerns continue to exercise us, have never really receded. Pleas for our oceans, such as Amélie Chalk’s powerful poem ‘Manitus’, remind us of the plural and interconnected nature of the challenges we face. Similarly, Jasmin Lay’s cautionary Petrarchan sonnet about the colonisation of Mars, or Isla Reavley’s haunting dramatization, in verse, of an obsessive artist’s pathological objectification of the female body, show the breadth of political concerns in our community, and how writers can engage us with these themes. In prose as well as in poetry, pupils and students actively sidestep hegemonic attitudes, showing an alertness to the ways in which diversity of characterisation can enliven creative work. Eleanor Cooke and Salma Elsaid demonstrate just such an ability to take imaginative leaps in their narrative perspectives. Contrastingly, Olga Jastrzebska’s plangent story ‘One-Way Ticket’ shows how the deliberate restriction of a point-of-view can be an equally effective narrative strategy. Freja Abrahams and Kai Drysdale, meanwhile, give different but equally consummate demonstrations of the ways that formal invention can transform the art of fiction.

It requires no small measure of imaginative range and emotional maturity to be able to achieve critical distance from one’s own experience, to stand back far enough to view it in context, and this can make non-fiction a challenging form, especially for younger writers. But the assured control of voice in Mak Crosby’s and Henry Oxley’s autobiographical writing would seem to contradict that assertion. Writing ostensibly about dance, and a tortoise, they conduct us on thoughtful explorations of how identity is shaped by our consciousness of gender, of age, and by our relationships. We are also pleased to include the winning entries from the recent One-Hour Essay Challenge, run by Dr Massey. Alice Towle’s inventive defence of panto took the laurels in the Senior category; Naomi Penney’s consideration of whether colours have a history won first prize among the Juniors.

Finally, we are thankful again to Jane Troup and the Art department for giving us a wide selection of vibrant visual art to choose from, so as to make these pages even more dynamic. A choice of images from the new Canvas Competition accompanies some deft and charming studies of landscape and architecture.

We hope you enjoy this new issue of the magazine.

David Briggs

POETRY

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LORETA STOICA

Strawberry Seed

I’m not broken for I was never whole. That strawberry-seed-sized part forged into flesh on Orion’s belt and my memory of your honeysuckle smile encircles me in its fanged nausea, and that sweet caramel you dropped on my cracked-marble lips, my naked velvet shadow, my milk-moss skin, my carved flesh opens for you. My God! I feel numb.

I’m told to cry, to shout, to fear. Star-dust reels into beauty until I’m breakable, borderline romantic. That fucking part sinks, distorts, morphs –patient in the antechamber. I wish to feel, but to feel is to weld that strawberry-seed-sized part to my man-made breast.

KANE RICKARD

The Jay’s Sestina

A jay flies through the woods, trees covered in snow. Bushes crouch in the fields, buffeted by wind. The grass is brown: the colour of dying leaves. The bird is a lost traveller, freezing feathers bristling with ice. He needs to warm up: there should be a fire close.

His chicks, however, are not close. His home by now will be covered in snow; even the sea is blanketed with ice. Here, the roads of the city endlessly wind as the night grows ever darker and colder –fierce, freezing winds blow. Trees stripped of leaves.

A house: food and warmth locked away: the jay leaves as the gloom grows ever stronger. Drooping branches lie still, a desolate expanse freezing whatever is caught in the wind and snow. Storms roar and howl, with bleak winds carrying hail and ice.

The snowflakes are webs of ice spun in the clouds, taking their time to leave. Trails of trees follow paths gouged by wind; burrows from long-gone creatures since closed. There are lakes here trapped in snow, and most of them are completely frozen.

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Spiral clearings eat through brambles, pools of mud freeze: transformed into murky ice. Hedges of thorns endure storms and snow (their age shown by torn leaves). Eventually some paths close, but regardless of season these roads still wind.

“Winter never was my favourite,” remarked the jay in the wind. He continued, “Even the sea is frozen and all the warm places are closed.” He paused for a moment: where was the ice?

The trees wore strange leaves; rain where there should be snow.

No villages close, but there was a warm wind. The snow had vanished; everything was unfrozen. The ice was gone, the trees had healthy leaves.

And then he realised: this was home.

JASMIN LAY

Without Wings

My grey eyes flutter to the sprawling sky, stretching far further than the eye can see; to the great boughs of an elderly tree; the opal moon, a clouded misty eye, a jewel the magpie could never forget, hanging from the stars like a crystal ball, bathing everything in a moonlight shawl. It says goodbye in the pink streaked sunset.

Plentiful stars shine with shimmering light. Among them, I see angry, red Mars. Up to this pure planet many would spring, to look back at the cobalt Earth with delight. They might count every vivid, glowing star, but there’s a reason we weren’t born with wings.

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ALICE TOWLE

18.01.20

for Anthony

It’s been two years since you told me that Cookie Crisp was okay for diabetics; that sugar wasn’t too bad, was in fact healthy. You hadn’t a clue why the nurse had such a problem.

Two years since your nine lives ran out. I didn’t think you’d last so long. Said goodbye eight – no nine – times now; wondered how you survived but kept coming back. I believe that it was out of spite.

It’s been two years since you were the man I remember. You’ve become a saint. But I remember the sweary, old-fashioned, insufficiently-woke man who gambled, got drunk, didn’t die.

MAANASWINI MANISH

Dare

You close the chapter of my tale in your twisted world, tearing out every word and ripping every thought that I ever dared to think. And yes, I still dare to come up to you –poised, with head held high. I demand the pen to write the journey of my existence.

You char my helpless body. My fingers are burned, blistered. But the dust in my eye does not cloud the bitter truth and my soul remains untouched. And yes, I dare to come up to you –my dignity still intact, no tears cascading.

I ask back the fragments of my reality.

You submerge my curls into the water, so icy cold and meaningless, wanting to drown my dreams and desires. Gasping for breath silently. And yes, I dare come up to you –soaking in my pride, a tsunami of resistance. Give me the drops of my destiny.

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You are an arsonist disguised as a firefighter. You are a drowner playing a lifeguard. You are all of my fears moulded into one but still I dare to come up to you –my head held high.

JENNIFER BENN

Bristol

Snugly inland, I used to hear the sound of foghorns in the Bristol Channel.

Even here, in the city, seagulls squawk and swoop with seaside abandon.

Both sounds have a hint of coastal glamour. Remember the thrill of that first glimpse of a grey/blue sea at the end of a seemingly suburban road.

Cities on the coast, people on the coast – so I have heard –

look outwards, opening up to the new, the strange, the exotic, while inlanders hunker down, closed, shut, trapped inside a landmass.

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On foggy nights, hearing foghorns’ muffled, mournful booming, on summer mornings, seeing belligerent seagulls strutting the streets,

I am glad to know the sea is nearby, lapping at my mind.

Siren Song

In these Covid times, I listen to the chatter: we are, apparently, yearning to flee the city. The siren song of the suburbs calls to us: find somewhere green, quiet, safe.

We spurn the thrum of city streets, the buzz, the charge, for the blandishments of birdsong –apparently. Off you go then. Leave the city to us, the stalwarts.

On the bus, on the Marylebone Road, I see the London plane trees either side: thin, sour soil, dirty air, impure rain –yet see how they thrive!

JONATHAN ZENG

Sonnet on Chess

Nightfall, the town’s ecstatic nature fades; darkness is now the warden of this land. A spear of light unknown, unseen, evades. Your origin? A war needing command.

The light of peace dims as leaders approach. The stage is set with board, pieces, time, a hand of engagement that some reproach: we commence an age-old conflict in mime.

A duel of unparalleled skill and wit, where strategies prevail over a wing; but if the kingdom crumbles you can quit and prove yourself by slaying the king –

while deep in thought two tacticians reveal the calm of gods above a troubled field.

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AMÉLIE CHALK

Manitus

For me it is a place to simply be; I give to it and it just lets me sway with all my thoughts and worries floating free, up north where, through the ripples, I see rays of sunshine, as on yellow-stained glass –the waves the priest, the water the churchyard, and in the depths grow coral and seagrass. And yet there lies a darker side where charred

rotting acts of human sin and greed turn the churchyard to a graveyard full of things that are too dead to even bleed. More plastic now than the current’s pull;

Therefore, it has become a grave I see. We should have simply let it be the sea.

JOOLES WHITEHEAD

Solstice Swimming

The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

— john keats, ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’

The lake appears larger now in its winter garments –willows no longer long leaved and weeping; shrivelled sedge hibernating, dormant.

The morning is cold and the sky steely; the cabin shields us from December’s winds. In this liminal light, a russet fox snouts the field

a trout ripples, observed by a heron, and the six rams crop the pasture. Stories are shared, the temperature taken,

boots struggled over and head coverings adjusted. We have embraced this freedom in a time of little freedom, glad of this communion.

We are all determined, if not a little unhinged, as we mount the black pontoon, maintaining balance with rubber soles.

Some navigate the ladder, others, perhaps superstitious, slide from the side into waters of two degrees, seal-like.

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Neoprened hands find their rhythm; lungs struggle for breath; we slowly break the surface. Silence characterises these winter swims, breathing draws our focus, navigating the ice. Still the rams graze, their curled horns like extravagant Princess Leia copies.

They have no time for us and continue their progress. This water has become a ritual, one of few permissible now. Water, baptism, renewal – many resonances here.

We’ve become a community of shared experiences as we swim through weed-braided waters. At times, chilled sea-urchin water needles the skin

and we are lobster tanned as we emerge. Two full moons, six months apart, but the same dark depths.

ISLA REAVLEY

Muse

I was struck by inspiration from a drowning girl, hair drifting like silk, dress billowing in clouds. In those empty wastes, we watched her, suspended in glass. Spectators’ gaping mouths, and crinkled smiles, traced her drunken posture; her neck tipped back, christened with long purples, and a nettle coronet, as weeds clutching bones, dragged her further still.

What a shame!

A shame, but Ophelia doesn’t hold a candle to her. No, she died twice as charmingly –lips parted, features delicately marred, except for swollen limbs, stiff and cold, smudged and sunk, from halfway down. Even that was easily admired: her tint, those blue-blushed cheeks, powder, royal, I crushed into paint for my piece. A lovely grey scrubbed from decayed finger tips, crushed, blended, and swept smooth to shade my sky. Beaten, she came up lavender.

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Blossomed skin, unstained. Well, it would have gone to waste.

I rubbed out broken veins, joints, smoothing colour, green improvised from eyes stitched shut. Almost Baroque, wouldn’t you say? A heavy influence of Juliet captured in paint!

Yes, I added red dug from her arm –too dark.

So, I brightened it with ribs. She couldn’t do herself. She wasn’t a natural artist you see. She her red like an abstract piece, dripping for dripping’s sake – how messy! Flesh distending without that lovely tint, tears crude and unpolished, to join my portrait wall, but she’s almost finished.

MARK VELICHKO

He’s a peaceful Hawaii, bathed in sunlight and warmth, but beneath the lush palms and golden beaches lies the world’s tallest mountain, a volcano, emperor of the ancient sea bed peaking above Magellan’s waters like St Peter’s spire towers above Rome; a bright star, destroyer and creator, his light radiating across the universe, illuminating each celestial sphere;

sun of Austerlitz scattering mist, blinding me; clearing the path for my advance, always following close behind like a collie, never leaving my side;

as sought after as ice on a summer’s day; yet his presence isn’t required and his voice is a mosquito, ignored only until it bites;

like Venus in the night sky, a bright light, always there, thought to be a heavenly paradise, the lover’s sphere, a place of beauty, with lush forests teaming with life until seen by Mariner,

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his gaze penetrating the thick sulphur clouds, uncovering a ragged desert, hot enough to melt lead, peppered with volcanoes, crossed with ravines like acne on a teenager’s face; the eye of a hurricane sweeping through the Caribbean; a desert oasis for the lost traveler.

I know many words to describe him, yet I can’t tell you who he really is.

KYLE KIRKPATRICK

Bedroom Deduction

Blackouts ceased to interest me around 2007, when the iPhone first helped to figure out a handful of rather fundamental questions. This high tech assistant having detected on my behalf, I eBayed the armchair, closed the case, and muttered a goodbye to the dust-coated magnifying glass. Gone were the manhours

of bedroom deduction; the old ways rendered redundant, what remained were five or six phone numbers – appended to these, each friend’s

address. I scroll and scroll through the contacts application, so soon reunited with my keys or wallet, and left in want of a vicissitude.

PROSE FICTION

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MOLLY FLEMING

Between the Pages

spring comes to Eyam as to no other place in Britain. Perhaps it is due to its self-imposed quarantine during the years of the Black Plague or its situation, being comfortably sandwiched between two brooks which infuse Eyam with its blood supply. The village’s name derives from Old English and first appears as Aium, meaning an island. Enveloped by rough feathered moors, its sumptuous, myriad green fields do indeed resemble an oasis among that desert of heather. Standing in the centre of the village, one could almost be a doll in a ‘Fisher Price’ play set; the quaint tea-rooms, the rustic village hall, even the gravestones have an air of charm about them. I suppose, from the outside, Eyam appears much the same as any small provincial village – full of people who know each other too well and don’t know themselves at all. But Eyam and spring are synonymous, born from the same womb and nurtured by the same milk. It is uncertain at first, stumbling and bumbling, like a baby taking its first steps, tripping itself in its eagerness to arrive. Then scampering, clambering, gathering, up tree trunks, down riverbanks, deep into the earth and finally through the air. Birdsong. Syrupy, almost coagulated, it satiates the rawness of winter as a lozenge to a sore throat; revivifies the benumbed and harmonises births. Higher still, wet sunlight trickles into the valleys and peaks depositing fat pools of fertile gold. Foliage grows so tightly that it is impossible to see where it ends, or if it ever does. The perfume of the flowers pacifies all, humming a drowsy refrain of contentment. Surely the epitome of an English paradise. Wikipedia characterises spring as referring to ‘resurrection’, ‘rejuvenation’ and ‘rebirth’. Yet on this island of abundance, we welcome the warming of the soil in simultaneity with death. The delivery of the first lamb is taken as the signal. Zealous schoolchildren assemble the stages, sticking the teak beams into those familiar divots made young again each year. Cotton caps cover copper ringlets and curtains of calico are suspended above each tableaux. Congregations of jumbled residents form regiments of starched white that enclose the village, fracture the grass blanket. Eyam is a fragment of country once more. Made isolated by its own. Birdsong chokes, smothered by the single clang of the funeral bell.

Be silent for them. Remember their sacrifice. May it plague us always.

SALMA ELSAID

Between the Pages

Fluorescent lights shone down onto the rows of books, illuminating the darkness of the library. Lawrence loved working the night shift. Barely anyone was around so late at night, so he was able to simply sit and enjoy being in one of his favourite places. The atmosphere was calm, yet he could not keep his mind on work. His attempts to focus were futile; every time he honed his attention he could feel his focus slipping from him like sand falling through an hourglass. His thoughts jumped from topic to topic. One second he’d be thinking about his favourite chocolate, and the next he’d find himself daydreaming about the attractive man who had been coming into the library recently.

The library was fairly large and impressive. The room was circular, creating the effect of endless shelves. The shelves loomed high over the armchairs dotted around the room. There were a few large tables, usually occupied by students of the university. Each wall had several large windows with simple stained-glass designs. There was a smell of oak floating through the aisles, accompanied by a scent of black coffee and book pages. Lawrence thought that it was quite wonderful. He had been a student worker in the library for some months now. His job was quite easy, he just had to sit at the front desk and help people check out. He also helped with the cataloguing of the shelves; he found that he soon learnt where everything was by heart.

He tapped his foot on the floor, a rhythm emerging quickly. There was a certain tranquillity to the way his furious typing melded with the light tapping as he attempted to return to his work again. His book was not going to edit itself. It was a contemporary novel about a group of students and a fateful summer they’d spent abroad. For some months now, Lawrence had been trying to get his book picked up by publishers. And time and time again he was turned away. He had been trying to edit it in the hope that some publisher would find something worth saving in his writing. It often seemed that no one would ever see the real meaning behind his work, that no one else would ever really enjoy it. And maybe it wasn’t even that good anyway. Maybe he had just written a bad book that no one would read. Maybe it was all just a waste of time.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the creak of the door opening. Glancing over, he realised that the man who had walked in was Aaron Hawthorne. Aaron had caught Lawrence’s eye a few months ago when he had started coming into the library. He had been almost too friendly, but Lawrence hadn’t really noticed. He’d found this intellectual man so intriguing, like a puzzle he was trying to put together. The first time they met, Aaron had been searching for a book he’d needed for an essay. Lawrence ended up helping him find it, and that awkward first conversation was what had led to their current comfort with each other. Aaron had become almost enamoured of Lawrence. His awkward jokes, his snarky remarks, the little laughs that escaped him when he found something

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particularly funny. Aaron resolved to return there the next day with a list of books he needed tucked into his folder. And from then on, they would both secretly look forward to their next meeting, to the next time they could talk again. Aaron would come and talk to him about books and history and art. They could spend hours simply sitting and discussing their opinions on such things.

Aaron looked around and quickly spotted Lawrence walking over to him and sitting down with an amicable smile. Aaron’s stance was always very open. He sat with a straight back and good posture and talked unconsciously with his hands when he was passionate about something. Lawrence, on the other hand, was quite closed off. He was often hunched over his laptop or a book, and he held his hands crossed over his front when he was talking. Yet they shared a similar spark in their eyes when they were excited. That shine in their eyes was what made them like magnets; that’s what drew them to one another.

Lawrence ended up opting to take a break from his work; he put his attention towards talking to Aaron instead. But the light chatter did little to distract him from his thoughts. The fear of failure he harboured was often why he didn’t take chances. Lawrence had to be sure that what he was doing was right, otherwise he simply wouldn’t do it at all. Writing his book had been a step out of his comfort zone in that way. Doing something simply because he wanted to was alien to him. And here he was, unable to get the book published. Maybe he was right to worry like he did. Clearly, he did not have what the publishers were looking for in an author. What if he just didn’t have what it takes? What if he just wasn’t supposed to write?

“Laurie? Are you listening?” Aaron snapped him out of his trance with a laugh. Lawrence laughed too, focusing back on the conversation.

Time wore on, the night outside getting deeper and darker. The library was completely isolated, occupied only by the two men sitting comfortably together on a comfortable sofa near the back of the room. In front of them was a circular coffee table. Aaron was telling Lawrence about a class he’d taken recently. He was in his last year at the university, and was only taking a few classes. Lawrence was still in his second year, majoring in English Literature. He had always wanted to do something to do with English when he was older. Even in childhood, his most vivid memories were those of books that had been read to him, books that he had read himself, books he had seen. His entire life was held together by prose and poetry, strung together with beauty and thought.

Very rarely did Lawerence feel the need to share his prose with people. His mind would write his thoughts out, almost as if they were supposed to be printed by a typewriter for their beauty and their thought. But they weren’t fated for the page, nor for others’ ears. Instead, they lay in his mind, a pit of thoughts jumping on top of each other, trapped in a box they could never leave. Aaron could open that box with ease, teasing out story after story, thought after thought, opinion after opinion. The time after would leave him feeling empty, as if Aaron had taken everything he had and left him without a filling in his mind.

Lawrence’s reluctance to share also carried over to his actual creative work. No matter how much Aaron had teased and tugged, Lawrence would not let him see his book. He claimed that it would only be good enough for

Aaron’s eyes when it was good enough for a publisher’s eyes. Aaron had neglected to tell him that he had started working at a publishing company. He was working there while completing his master’s degree part time. He justified not telling him by saying that it would create an “unfair imbalance” in their friendship, but truly it was because he wanted to see the book with the eyes of a friend, an admirer, a lover. Not the eyes of a professional. Yet this day, it seemed that Lawrence was ready to share. It wasn’t clear if it was because of the lack of action from the publishers, or the need for praise he secretly harboured, but he silently slid the laptop over to Aaron when he asked to see.

“Just this chapter though. Don’t want you to know too much,” Lawrence said in a lightly teasing tone. Aaron pulled over the laptop, seeing the doc scrolled down to a middle chapter. As he read, he felt the words dripping like syrup in his mind, filling his thoughts with pictures, with feelings, with beautiful art. His silent enjoyment of the pages did not go unnoticed by the younger man; he found himself smiling slightly.

“You’ve got to show me the rest of this. Jesus Christ, I didn’t know you were this good,” Aaron said, looking up at Lawrence.

“I’ve already said, only after I get a deal.”

“I could get you a deal, Laurie. Give me the rest of the book and I’ll get it published.”

“What?”

“I work for a publisher. I’ll get it published.” Aaron admitted. Lawrence stared at him in disbelief for a moment.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious.”

Lawrence’s eyes lit up, before he engulfed Aaron in a hug. Aaron chuckled, hugging him back. They stayed there for a moment, and then Lawrence pulled away. He was still dangerously close to Aaron’s face; as he looked up at it he felt the urge to lean in and kiss him. So he did.

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OLGA JASTRZEBSKA

One-Way Ticket

she couldn’t see, yet she knew precisely when to leap or sprint, like second nature. She timed it perfectly and didn’t even take a tumble.

The whole, dull day, she’d gripped the table tightly, as each tick of the clock had made her heart beat faster and faster, until the bell had sounded and she’d made it to the giant, grey doors before she realised she’d forgotten to take a breath.

Finally, she was racing blindly down the flowing, concrete steps, the blazing colours of her knitted scarf flapped wildly in front of her eyes and she was swallowed by a warm figure with a soft scent. She felt the roughness of her mum’s leather glove on her face and squinted, as the rich colours of autumn flooded her eyes, blurred by the bite of the bitter, brisk air.

There was no time to be spared: she couldn’t bear the thought of wasting a single second: every minute from half three till six was precious. It made her passionately upset to have to leave her gran’s promptly at 6pm every Friday, to the point where she’d even threatened to run away if mum didn’t let her quit Brownies. She leaped into the back seat, jammed the seatbelt in and begged her mum to hurry up.

Tapping her foot aggressively, she was becoming more and more offended, as each traffic light tried to delay her arrival at Gran’s.

Her mood marginally improved as they passed the first landmark: a fish and chip shop where she ordered a large portion of chips with extra salt every week; not long after, they passed the Tesco where dad always bought her three-for-two strawberry laces if she promised to learn her spellings; and soon they would rush off the roundabout, past Smyth’s Super Toy-store and speed off down the bumpy road before turning right, then take a left and then another left in order to arrive at Gran’s with only three minutes wasted. Despite being agitated, she was extremely proud of her time: previously she’d lost six minutes, but was able to make herself feel better by justifying her sluggishness as a case of the ham sandwich she had eaten, which had caused her to develop a stitch.

Confusion hit her; then shock, followed by more confusion. Her mother was lost. Or confused? All the spinning around on the roundabout must have made her dizzy and now she’d taken the wrong turning: she’d completely dodged Smyth’s Super Toy-store and was heading straight down the ring road to their luscious, little suburban neighbourhood, where it was a miracle they had managed to find a house.

Stunned into silence, her foot stopped tapping, her mind went blank momentarily and all she could do was blink. A thorough questioning ought to be performed, she decided: maybe they were taking a different route? But that would mean her having even less time with Gran, which was wholly unfair. It wasn’t like her mother to be confused.

Only then did it strike her that her mother had not yet inquired about her day. This only irritated her further: if her mother wasn’t going to talk to her, then surely all her concentration should be completely centred on taking the correct route, so that they’d arrive punctually at half three?

It took her a few moments to register that they hadn’t even been moving for several minutes now, and that the ring of trees around them was in fact the wall of evergreens Dad had planted to stop the neighbours from spying; and the dog plodding cheerlessly towards them was, in fact, her dopey golden retriever. And it made her even more miserable to realise that they were parked in the driveway of their suburban house.

Grabbing her book-bag, she exited the car hastily and followed her mother expectantly inside. Only when her mother walked purposefully up the stairs did she draw the line, and stubbornly plonked herself on the stool in the hallway, book bag on her lap, shiny school-shoes still securely fastened and arms crossed in frustration.

A few lengthy minutes passed before her mother returned downstairs and encompassed her with a hug. She felt obliged to hug her mother back, rather reluctantly, as she could hear her sniffing and did not wish to catch a cold for fear of being unable to go trick-or-treating the following week.

After a tedious staring competition, several sighs and many jumbled mutterings, her mother finally had the decency to inform her that Gran had gone away.

A wave of misery took over her at the thought that Gran had not personally informed her that they wouldn’t be seeing each other that week. That whole monotonous week, all she could focus on had been her weekly trip to Gran’s – eating carrot cake for dinner, watching Strictly together, and leaving with her pockets overflowing with enough sugar to rot her teeth and another threadbare scarf to add to her collection.

An episode of Dora The Explorer sent her mind racing down a different path. How lucky Gran was, off on another adventure. Memories of Gran proudly showing her countless photo albums filled with snapshots of countries that weren’t England overwhelmed her: she remembered France and Spain, which she could find on the big map in the classroom, but then there were others – Mexico, Greece, Morocco and even Australia. Gran had visited them all.

But Gran always sparkled with excitement as she pondered her finest idea of having a colourful beachside home in the Caribbean, which was far way, all the way across the Atlantic. Gran had gone to chase her dreams. She was overjoyed for her, and even more excited by the idea of a present from a world so far away.

Over the few weeks that followed, the joy she felt for her grandmother decreased substantially, and she was even more annoyed to hear that her Gran hadn’t thought to share any photos with her parents. While her parents were engrossed in dire adult conversation, she thought of ways in which Gran could compensate for leaving her, and she settled on skipping Brownies and having double servings of carrot cake.

The fourth week passed and by now the trees were bare, their leaves an unsightly slush in the roads that had her yelling when they took her feet out from under her. By now, her mother insisted she wear the unbearably thick and uncomfortable woollen tights which the school required; and by now she had carefully compiled a long list for

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Santa, after studying the Smyth’s Super Toy-store catalogue. That fourth Friday she rushed down the corridor even faster than she had on previous Fridays, making up for lost time on the steps, which were coated in a fair layer of stubborn ice. She slid swiftly into her mother’s arms and then rapidly made it into the car. It had been four weeks and she was certain this meant that Gran would have returned from her enchanting expedition.

The weeks were up. Gran would be home with a fresh cake, a new favourite show and photos of the house they’d one day spend all summer in.

To her dismay, four weeks had passed and Gran had not thought to return home. She was left with only a dim, hollow feeling as they passed Smyth’s Super Toy-store and took the dreary exit home.

Only when mum came into her bedroom that night did she realise how many hours had passed. The winter light, which had been feebly attempting to illuminate her room, was now completely vanished, and in its place she glimpsed a few stars dimmed by clouds, just as Mum brought the curtains together. It was hard to tell what time it was, but she didn’t mind going to bed: her heavy eyes were already half-shut and, feeling weary, she asked her mother if it would be all right to sleep in her Brownie uniform. Naturally she answered no, but the question raised enough concern for her to enquire why she was feeling so miserable. She couldn’t tell if the question was stupid or peculiar. Why was Mum not upset that Gran hadn’t yet come home? What if she’d gone away and decided to never come back? Mum squatting uncomfortably at the end of her bed made her feel uneasy.

Every word stabbed her as she learned her grandmother had no intention of ever returning from her paradise. She’d gone away for good, Mum claimed, with a brief hug and awkward head rub, before she vanished from the room.

She couldn’t sleep that night, but rested her head gently on her damp pillow. How could her parents stop her from seeing Gran till she was very old? She wanted to be very old right now.

ELEANOR COOKE

The Dollar and the Drachma

nathan sat there, dead still, vines wrapped around his torso and holding him to the ground. He had panicked at first, that his mother’s protections might not recognise him, and he called for help but the vines just held him. There had been a storm, a bad one, and it had brought down the trees onto the temple. It was broken and crushed where one tree had fallen onto the main altar and where the smaller ones had knocked down the walls. He watched as the vines snaked around the trunks, pulled them aside and cleared the debris of branches and twigs.

He flinched as the pillars, no longer supported by the branches, crumbled to the ground. In the new clearing he could see the dust remains of the statue, everything crushed except the head of the goddess. Wind whipped around the temple, stealing the dust and carting it away from its origin. His restraints released and he walked into the shattered temple, missing the faint calling of his name from Matthew.

Matthew thought this archaeology phase might be worse than the stand-up phase; without a doubt it was worse than the musical phase. But just like all the other phases, Matthew had to stand around and wait until Nathan got bored, then finally shout for him so they could leave. Of course, this time Nathan had been shouting for him, on account of the “sentient” vines wrapped around him, but that was beside the point. Matthew had shouted back and received no reply, not unusually.

He had had enough of waiting and walked towards where the temple ought to be, following Nathan’s rather obvious footsteps. Who even walks around an old temple barefoot, anyway? Past the old well that Nathan had insisted Matthew see, apparently having been used by some famous ancient king. Liondas or Leondis? Anyway, past the stupid well and past whatever these little half-columns were meant to be, he continued to where he hoped he’d find Nathan.

Nathan wandered around the temple, eyes glowing white as the rubble and dust lifted and swirled, collecting from all over the floor. Finally, the goddess’s head lifted from the ground and joined the dust storm. The vortex wrapped around the plinth and started to shrink as white light held the larger pieces together and the dust filled the cracks. Nathan’s eyes returned to a dark brown and the light stopped as Themis’s stone eyes looked over the land again.

He knelt by the statue, feeling the vestigial energy from the shattered altar and drawing on the ancient sigils to protect the temple from further decay. Nathan threw a veil over the whole building. Instantly, the wind stopped and the dust settled to the ground once again – no wind, no rain nor storm would penetrate the veil. Nathan became faintly aware of Matthew’s nearing presence, so he picked up his bag and prepared to leave, but not before taking a quick picture of the temple, the statue and trees behind it in the sun.

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Matthew rounded the corner, now able to see Nathan, the temple and the lack of sentient vines. Sometimes he thought that Nathan hallucinated, was able to see things that Matthew couldn’t, but he always said they were real. Walking towards the temple, Matthew saw Nathan spin around and run towards him, looking excited, ecstatic even. What was there to be excited about in an old temple? Matthew would never understand, but it made Nathan happy and, to Matthew, that was the reason to come here and suffer through the waiting.

He stumbled as Nathan practically tackled him. Matthew had to drop his bag to catch him and stop both of them from tumbling onto the ground.

You ready to go yet, Nate?

Yeah, you wanna go to that new Gyro place? Apparently it’s really good.

OK, but you’re paying this time.

I would if they still accepted drachmas.

Huh?

What?

FREJA ABRAHAMS Dictionary of Death

“do you have a visual yet?” Sylvie asked Luke down his earpiece.

“No, not yet.” Luke peered through the scope of his rifle, scanning the park below for their target.

“Sylv, you said she always walks this route home after she gets her prescription,” Ben said, holding his phone over his earpiece.

“There’s nothing wrong with my intel.”

“Then where is –”

“I see her.” Luke’s gun followed the woman through the crowd: a contingency plan in case something went sideways.

“OK.” Sylvie tracked their movement in her mind. “Start walking.”

“Five feet,” Luke told her when Ben and the woman got close enough.

“Prepare for collision.” She called the movement like she used to call her brother’s shows. “And collision. Go.”

A second later, Luke and Sylvie heard the sound of Ben’s microphone hitting the woman’s coat, a muffled apology, and finally, the sound of Ben walking away.

“Target out of view,” Luke said, taking his eye away from the sight and lifting the sniper off the ledge.

“Ben, did you get it?” Sylvie asked.

“Yeah,” he shook the small pot of pills. “One successful Chicago.”

1. The largest city in Illinois, a state in the central US.

2. The process of replacing medication with a poisoned alternative. Inspired by and named after the Chicago Tylenol murders.

Ben got home last. When he opened the door, Sylvie was studying a map on the kitchen table as Luke juggled some small throwing knives.

The apartment was clearly the kind of place that should have been renovated years ago into a modern industrial place with lots of exposed brick and copper. But the landlord lived in the building, and he was far too lazy to put

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any kind of effort in or ever check up on his tenants. As long as they paid rent on time, he didn’t care where the money came from or what they did to the property. Which was lucky because they kept a lot of weapons in theirs.

“Hey.”

Before Ben could step inside, Luke took the knife that had most recently landed in his hand and threw it at the door. Ben stepped out of the way just in time.

“Sorry,” Luke said as Ben pulled the knife out of the wooden door frame and walked over, placing it down on Sylvie’s map on his way to the kitchen behind them. He pulled a half-empty bag of bread towards him, placing two slices on the surface.

Sylvie pushed the knife out of the way, scribbling something down on the area underneath. “What you doing, Sylvs?” Luke asked, flipping one of the two remaining knives in his hand as he walked over.

“Figuring out our next pay-cheque,” she replied without looking up.

“Ah.” Luke looked behind her at Ben and raised his eyebrows. In return, Ben nodded slightly, pulling his lips into a barely perceivable smile as he buttered his bread.

“Okay, stop that.” Sylvie stood up straight, clicking her pen and looking between her brothers.

“Stop what?”

“Your stupid twin, telepathy thing. It’s annoying.”

“That was a circus trick, you know that.”

“I’m not talking about the trick. I’m talking about that thing you do when you stand silently and somehow have a whole conversation with each other.”

“We do not –”

“Ben,” Luke gave him a sceptical look.

“We’ll stop.”

“Sure you will.” Sylvie shook her head. “Just come here and take a look at this map.” Luke walked around the table whilst Ben leaned over the counter slightly, continuing to make his sandwich. “I can’t see any blind spots on his walk from home to work.”

“So shooting him’s out?” Luke asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then, why don’t we do a Needle in a haystack?”

1. Something that is impossible or extremely difficult to find, especially because the search area is too large.

2. A specific form of stabbing with a long and needle-thin knife that is left in the victim and attached to a tightly woven item of their clothing. When the clothing is removed, the knife comes out with it, causing unnoticed internal bleeding and soon after, death.

“I thought about that, but there’s nothing for it to attach to.”

“Hey, where’s the lettuce?” Ben asked, rooting through the fridge.

“No, not lettuce,” Sylvie said dismissively without taking her eyes off the map. “We’re in the city.”

Ben stuck his head around the fridge door and stared at his sister. “I was talking about the actual lettuce but whatever.” He walked back over to the table, abandoning the sandwich, and traced the highlighted route with his finger. “What about a Golden-sun?” Golden-sun noun /ˈɡəʊld(ə)n -

1. A warm golden colour resembling that of the sun or sunlight.

2. Poisoned paper handed to a target. Named after the Golden Paper Scandal of 1838.

“He’s an investment banker on wall street,” Sylvie shook her head. “He’s not gonna take any kind of paper we shove his way. And besides, there’s no blind spot. The paper will be traced back to us as soon as they do an autopsy.”

“Fine,” Ben rolled his eyes, going back into the kitchen and closing his sandwich, forgoing the lettuce. “What were you thinking then Sylvie?”

“Slow acting poison. Lift his wallet, put it on a card he uses often. Maybe a coffee shop he goes into on his way to work.”

Luke flipped the throwing knife twice in the air before catching it. “So you want to do a Lookie-loo with a Golden-sun? You berate me for a needle in a haystack, but you want to do a Lookie-loo with a Golden-sun!”

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Lookie-loo

noun / ˈlu-kē-ˈlü /

1. A person who looks at something for sale without intending to buy it.

2. Stealing something with the intention of returning it.

“That’s because, Luke,” Sylvie looked at him with a confident smile, “a Lookie-loo with a Golden-sun will actually work.”

VISUAL ART

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INDIA BARTON

untitled digital print on canvas

HARRY TOLFREE

Percy Jackson & the Lightning Thief

acrylic and pencil on canvas

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WILLIAM WANG

A Cat Blowing the Seeds

acrylic on canvas

NANCY ROBERTSON

A Tribute to the Suffragettes on International Women’s Day collage on canvas

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ROBIN PURSER-HALLARD

untitled acrylic on canvas

ADAM STEVENSON

untitled

acrylic and collage on canvas

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ANUSHKA SUTHARSAN

My Mum acrylic on canvas

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MARK VELICHKO

untitled acrylic on canvas

LORENZO DI MAURO

An Evening Walk

acrylic on canvas

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ALISHA HUTCHINSON

Tyntesfield House

drypoint etching and underpainting

AARUSH THUMMA

The Garden drypoint etching and underpainting

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CLAUDIA MOLDOVAN

Tyntesfield House II

drypoint etching and underpainting

RHIANNON GREEN

Street View mixed media

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GINNY SADLER

Tyntesfield Garden

drypoint etching

HARRIET BATES

Tyntesfield House III

drypoint etching

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PROSE NON-FICTION

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MAK CROSBY On Male Ballet

To an audience, ballet is an elegant cacophony of shapes and lines: grace that emanates out of the dancer and a type of beauty that draws tears from the subtleties of movements. But behind the illusion wrought by stage, lights, music and the audience, these dancers are like racehorses. Sweat glinting in the lights to match the glass jewels around them, legs so finely trained that each movement in their three act show is a matter of muscle memory and yet they’re still radiant with prepossessing might. A fine breed of young people sharing the same callused feet and bloodied toes and lactic acid that always manages to slightly paralyse the next morning’s movements. It seems to be a small price to pay for the spotlight. But my love affair with ballet came not because of this but because of its brutal purpose to find perfection in movement. Yes, ballet is far more than girls in tutus; ballet is an evolving symphony of skill and art.

It was, however, Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall album that first convinced my family I had a knack for dancing. Yes, moonwalking, forward leaning Michael made me dance persistently the whole car journey to my grandparents. The fast-paced beats and melodies are quite far from the violins and violas of Tchaikovsky’s and Stravinsky’s scores, but both of them make you want to dance. So I tried tap, jazz and contemporary, but ballet just stuck. It wasn’t the feeling of being the only boy nor the lycra leggings clinging to my scrawny eight year old body that particularly appealed. No, instead the feeling of calm and purpose as barre got underway and its unparalleled strength in focus and movement made my heart warm to it. Assemblé en tournant and temps de poisson would be moves you’d do to impress your ballet master, but to impress a friend I can always moonwalk too.

Our studio sits in a sports centre, quite far from the ornate and intricate ceilings of the Royal Opera House. Tucked behind the sports hall you’d be surprised to hear a piano’s chords and see a company’s costumes. It’s a small studio, but it’s still a monastery in the global religion of ballet. The clichés of pink, sequinned tutus and floods of girls is far from the reality of ballet (although I must admit, I don’t mind the latter). That illusion of control as a dancer spins five times on what seems like a single toe comes from years of blood, sweat and tears. Grand allegro, the big jumps to him and her, always turn the muddied faces of boys coming in from football, who look through the steamed glass door, from a judging oblivious disdain to what seems like shock and even amazement as the legs float metres above the ground in lithesome splendour. A boy doing ballet? He must be weak and sissy. But the muscles that carry me from exercise after exercise, the muscles that lift girls above shoulder and head tell them otherwise. Music ties a partnered couple together into one. It aligns itself with the développé and plié of each dancer. Without men, you wouldn’t have a company. No one to lift the females high; no one to spin them fast and

no one to hold them tight. They’re a backbone to the show, but also the spark to light the fire. A male solo comes and those sixteen bars of dedicated music give way to an explosion of motion that your average man wouldn’t deem possible.

Male dancers are commonly stronger and fitter than footballers — a fact my dad once told me. It always comes into mind when they gawp in on class. And when the school people ask, I answer: no I don’t go on pointe; no I am not gay; and no I am not the only boy. In fact, ballet is much like a sport in the athleticism and physical training it requires to master it. But what makes me choose ballet over the ball is how it can tell a story and really say something about music, history, society and people in a way sport doesn’t. Yes, standing in a stadium cheering for a team is electric, all eyes focused on the ball with joyous fixation, but when Juliet sits and stares into the audience, her Romeo dead downstage left, everyone in enchanted silence, that is something that stays with you. Just like ‘good toes naughty toes’ is to a ‘one bounce’ game of footy, both breed a life-long love for their discipline. David Beckham may have more money and fame but Rudolf Nureyev leaving soviet Russia to dance with the likes of Margot Fonteyn at the Royal Ballet in London is symbolic of the passion ballet gives you and the struggle you push through to reach greatness. Your average footballer runs on average about ten kilometres per game, but compare that to a male principal who jumps around 275 metres and lifts over one and half tonnes all combined throughout a single show; I could certainly tell you what I think is more impressive.

And after class, I hope I will not be judged by the leotard I wear and lack of mud at my feet but by the sweat on my skin and muscles in my legs. The judgment of those boys is because of ignorance, but that ignorance is influenced by a society that sets gender roles, and those roles should be whatever you want them to be, because the removal of yourself from those insular minded standards brings a happiness and a freedom to everyone. It means I can pull my feet into position and move to the pianist’s rousing strikes and go from from stiff and cold to being focused on balancing somebody on the palm of a hand, to looking effortless and absolutely beautiful in the flow of music, all because I’m happy I can be a male ballet dancer.

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HENRY OXLEY

Marty in 2019 the oldest tortoise in the world died. She was 344 and had been the pet of a Nigerian prince over 200 years ago. Alagba had two personal attendants and was thought to have healing powers. Giant tortoises rarely live to 200 years old, so Alagba was a strange miracle. The prince in question was Isan Okumoyede, and when he acquired Alagba she was allegedly already 100. Many suspect it cannot be the same Alagba, that the tortoise had been swapped out. Of course, the palace denies these claims.

This brought a smile to my face. Reading an article where someone accuses someone else of swapping out a tortoise reminded me of Roald Dahl’s Esio Trot, where an old man, infatuated with the woman downstairs, hears her worries about her tortoise’s size. And so, he repeatedly swaps out her tortoise with different sized tortoises till his apartment is completely full of small tortoises, medium tortoises and large tortoises. When reading this book as a small child I remembered thinking that if this story was about a dog her reaction would probably have been different from falling into his loving arms.

Seeing the videos of Jonathan (189) lumber around his massive pen made my heart bleed. The idea of ‘cuteness’ comes partly from pity. Seeing a kitten get stuck in a blanket and struggle to escape is cuter than seeing a lion devour a small gazelle. So seeing a big, slow tortoise was very adorable to me. Seeing images of Jonathan from over 100 years ago being claimed by the English governor of Saint Helena – who poses pompously for the photo while three downtrodden locals care lovingly for the “governor’s tortoise,” and Jonathan, not knowing any better, looks up inquisitively at the governor – also made me think I might want a tortoise. And when I saw Marty for the first time, I knew I wanted a tortoise.

There were about 20 of them. All huddled up in the cold of winter inside a shoebox. They were no older than a week, and no larger than a 50-pence piece. My only experience with tortoises before had been online images of Herman’s tortoises and giant tortoises; now I was seeing a Greek spur-thighed tortoise right in front of me. I then had to choose a tortoise. All the paperwork had already been completed. I chose Marty because he was the most inquisitive, coming up to the edge, clearly wondering who I was while the others enjoyed their breakfast. Looking after a tortoise isn’t about leaving them outside and hoping they make it through winter. You have to remember they are exotic animals. English weather doesn’t suit them. You need a UV light as well as a heat lamp, since they are cold blooded, and you can’t leave them outside overnight. You also have to pick weeds from local fields that are high in fibre and protein. I have been asked on multiple occasions what I was doing in my nearby green space, but it never normally goes further than whispers from a small child of “What’s that strange boy

doing?” and the parents hastily walking past to spare themselves from embarrassment. I’d rather smile to myself about the interaction than have to explain the intricacies of looking after a tortoise to the local ramblers.

When you envision a tortoise owner you think of some old person who can’t walk a dog everyday and is a bit old fashioned, someone still obsessed with a colonial mindset of wanting something exotic for exotic’s sake. But this was not my reason at all. Tortoises are seen as cold and uncaring, but this is just not true. They do have nerves in their shell, meaning they like to be stroked. They also are cold-blooded, meaning they value the warmth a human can give them. They like close contact. This sort of relationship may seem purely functional from your perspective but after a while they get used to it and seem to enjoy it in a different way.

Learning to care for a tortoise means you have a reason to get up, and seeing a small creature peering up at you when you walk in the room, only to realise you mean food and to dart to his food drop-off point, is very endearing. The weird behaviours put a smile on my face. Having him defend his small 3x1 metre patch of land from any change, whether it be planting a new sow-thistle or hydrating it with water, he will always wake up and come out ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ style to peer at me disapprovingly. Tortoises can’t smile. They don’t whine. The only way they can show their emotions is hissing. Although Marty has never hissed at me, you learn to know your pet a lot better. It’s nigh-on impossible for an outsider to tell what he wants. It’s like learning a secret language; it’s an exclusive club, and it makes your strange cross-species relationship stronger.

In the summer he can escape to the wilderness, that being a slightly larger enclosure outside. He clearly loves the outdoors, and it’s satisfying to see the natural order of things take place. The outside is where he belongs Although not as expansive as an Athens shrubbery or a Galapagos volcano, it’s still nice to see him in his element.

In following summers, I’d hope to see him outside, not enclosed by anything other than my garden walls. But, of course, this can never happen. Giving Marty infinite space would most likely not end well. In the past many have seen tortoises to be invisible, living infinitely, with titanium defences impenetrable for any predators. Sadly, this is not the case. The only part of this stereotype is that they live for decades. I can imagine myself at 70 retiring to my land, watching Marty lumber over a large expanse of corn fields, American dream style. Realistically, I believe I don’t know who will die first, me or Marty. I don’t know how I feel about that thought. It seems so far off so that it doesn’t matter. After some consideration, I realise that the stereotype of old tortoise owners might very well apply to me in 60 years. That’s a scary thought: fulfilling a role you purposely made an effort to avoid. Even so, I’ll still have Marty.

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NAOMI PENNEY

One Hour Essay Challenge (Juniors)

Do colours have a history?

On one hand, colours definitely have a history. This is evident as everything that is and ever has been must have a history. In fact, colours have more history than many objects and ideas, as they have been used for a very long time. There is a history to how colours were manufactured, developed and used. For example, Roman Emperors, from the rule of Julius Caesar to the fall of Rome, wore purple togas. These were made of a pigment extracted from clams, a process which was extremely time-consuming and expensive. This has helped develop a connotation between the colour we know as ‘purple’ and the idea of wealth or power. Another event making up the history of colour is when Isaac Newton added the final colours to the rainbow as we know it – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet – after refracting white light with a prism to produce a spectrum of seven distinguishable colours. This has had an impact on how humans reference colours, and how they are categorised.

These are key events in the past which have had some impact on the world today, at the centre of which is colour. There are infinite events in history where colour has had an impact on humans and where colour has been developed or manufactured and used to symbolise different things in different religions or cultures. Therefore, colours must have a history.

On the other hand, colours could not possibly have a history. This is purely because colours do not exist as a universal idea and are only refractions of light on objects. This light then travels through the human eye into the retina, which then sends different combinations of reactions from the three cones of vision to the brain, making human beings feel sensations of colour. Some people have different sensations of colour, and an example of this is people born with synesthesia (where colours can be associated with different shapes and letters) or colour blindness (where certain colours cannot be distinguished or colour may not be seen at all).

In this way, colours cannot have a history, as they only exist through human perception, and any events relating to colour that may be considered the ‘history’ of colour are just ways humans have manufactured or categorised this sensation (e.g: Roman Emperors’ purple togas), and are not the history of colour itself. When Isaac Newton developed the rainbow, this was purely based on what he saw, and the human reaction to colour. This may even have been biased, as Isaac Newton had a known affinity for the number seven, and this is a prime example of how the ‘history of colour’ is only the history of human views and reactions to the individual sensation which we as a species refer to as ‘colour’. Therefore, colours cannot have a history.

In conclusion, the answer to the question ‘Do colours have a history?’ depends largely on whether history can only refer to something that is concrete and existed, or whether something that may only be a human perception (and could be different for everyone) may also have a history. If the former is true, then colours do not and cannot have a history, but if the latter is true, then not only colour, but other ideas such as taste and material may also have a history.

To summarise, I believe that colours themselves do not have a history, as colours are only a human perception and exist differently to other living beings and maybe even other humans. Instead, I believe there is a history to how the human race has reacted to and harnessed the sensation of colour, and how this has impacted the world today.

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ALICE TOWLE

One Hour Essay Challenge (Seniors)

Defend panto!

pantomime

/

1. british

a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, which involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas.

Looking back on my time as a law student, there are few cases more bemusing than one handed to me by a Senior Lecturer who, at the time, just left me with a Post-it note on the front which read “Have fun! This isn’t a joke.” Because what kind of case is this? I mean, seriously, one where I have to defend the very nature of something so simple and innocent. Something which has formed an intrinsic part of the childhood of many in our country. It was with great trepidation that I took this case. What if I messed it up? Seriously, an entire country would be knocking down my door: the older folks would have their pitchforks, the young ones their mobiles. I would become a victim of cancel culture before you could even blink. I wouldn’t have lasted long if I had truly been left to the vultures. And it seems like the court scribe couldn’t contain his amazement either. The sarcastic tone and nature of his transcription is something which I don’t think would be replicated in any other case. This would have been a fireable offence if it were any other case, but perhaps it is such an outlandish case that I don’t think anyone could bring themselves to care.

“Defend panto!” What kind of an assignment was that? I was a junior in my second six, and I couldn’t refuse. But I wanted to laugh. Who could possibly object to panto? But it appears that there are many, and that they are willing to waste time, money and resources in court. So, there we were. It was my first encounter with a case like this, and I am glad it was my last. However, due to the nature of this case, I believe it to have been a useful teaching point. A case that is understandable, an experience which is (for the most part) a unifying one for all people

growing up in the UK, and one where the topic is not so heavy it can’t be spoken at length without anyone being upset. Perhaps the best way to go about this is to leave a small part of the case here, so that when I outline my key arguments later you can see the basis of my defence.

Panto vs The State [2022]1 AT 394

Trial summary 04/01/2022

Tried in the Court of Appeal

UK Court of Appeal

1. By order of 1 February 2021, received at court on 4 January 2022, the UK court of ludificor referred under article 10 of the UNHRC six questions for preliminary reading on the interpretation of articles 7,9 and 10 of the Culture and Arts Treaty, and on the conditions for liability of a member state for damage caused to individuals by a breach of this act.

2. Those questions were raised in proceedings between Gok Wan, Robert Michael Rinder, Craig Revel Horwood and the United Kingdom concerning the permission implicitly granted by the competent authorities of that member state to an anti-pantomime group to organize a complete panto black-out this pantomime season, the effect of which was to completely close the UK’s pantomime sector for almost 30 hours.

The main proceedings and the questions referred for preliminary ruling:

10. According to the file in the main proceedings, on the 22nd of December 2019 “le groupe contre la bêtise et l’amusement”, an association “to protect the world’s children from being subjected to tomfoolery”, halted 20 pantomime productions across the UK citing that they were

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a. corrupting the nation’s children with pro cross-dressing messages

b. taking up valuable time in theatres when more serious plays should be shown

c. causing a blemish on the otherwise phenomenal culture of the United Kingdom.

11. The times and places of these demonstrations were clearly communicated, and this information was disseminated through the media.

12. The demonstration took place at the stated time and in the stated places. Consequently, audiences from two theatres across the UK were forced to evacuate the theatres.

13. Separate proceedings are being filed by claimants for emotional distress and frostbite, which are being brought forward by the complainers’ association. This case will be tried in six months’ time.

The case was deceptively complex for someone who had just graduated because it was asking whether the UK was in the right to allow the protest. Yet while this was the key point of the case, I had to spend a large chunk of my time defending panto as an art. This is because in order to prove that the protest was unlawful, I had to prove it was unfounded.

Firstly, I examined panto as an otherworldly experience. Surely the jury could see that in the wake of 2020, a year which will no doubt have been written about in your history books, escapism was important. Vital even. In a world where we were locked inside, the escapism that panto allowed was important. The otherworldly nature was important. It is also an inclusive art form, and not just for the people involved – audiences booing and yelling when characters enter the stage, and who may even be encouraged to sing at points. Diversity also matters. The key moments of gender role reversal are useful for young children as they begin to break down societal stereotypes. Additionally, it gives struggling actors jobs. I hate to be disparaging of my clients, but at the times they were in panto each of them was at a crossroads in their career and they needed to be seen not only by a new audience of children, but by an adult audience that may have forgotten about them. The dynamic of a play so clearly aimed at children but filled with innuendo is bound to appeal to adults. A night off with mild entertainment. What could be better?

Fundamentally, throughout this case, I realized that a world where you have to defend panto is a sad one, a black-and-white world lacking in imagination. And I hope that the magic of the good old fashioned “He’s behind you!” is kept alive for generations to come.

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KAI DRYSDALE

The Nature of a Weekly Shop

INT. THOMPSONS’ CAR - EVENING

The scene opens with ELIZABETH (40s) driving home, but with a scowl on her face. Her son, JOSEPH (10) is covered in various soup stains and has a smile on his face.

INT. THOMPSONS’ CAR - TWO HOURS EARLIER

Now, ELIZABETH is driving towards the supermarket. JOSEPH is clean, but also bored.

JOSEPH (deepened voice)

And as she turns the corner, the wild Thompson is ever so focused on the road. What could she possibly be thinking? The world may never know!

ELIZABETH chuckles slightly without facing JOSEPH.

ELIZABETH

Joe, are you still using your David Attenborough voice? It’s been three days since you watched that documentary!

JOSEPH (normal voice)

I know Mum, but it was so cool! He made fish swimming sound a million times more exciting than it actually is, so I wanna carry on using it.

ELIZABETH

Oh all right. But only if you promise to tone it down a little when we’re in Tescos, okay?

JOSEPH

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Okay fine.

INT. TESCO SUPERMARKET - LATER

ELIZABETH is pushing the shopping cart down the dairy aisle. JOSEPH is walking beside her, holding on to the rail. They stop outside a fridge full of various kinds of milk.

JOSEPH (deepened voice)

And as the Mummus Parentus stops outside the fridge, it begs the question: will she stick to the gross watery mess that is green milk again? Or will she finally splurge for the obviously superior blue milk?

ELIZABETH

Come on Joe, the green milk is good for you!

JOSEPH

But me and Daddy hate it! You’re the only one that can stand that rubbish.

ELIZABETH

Joe, you’re basically drinking cream.

JOSEPH

And you’re basically drinking water.

ELIZABETH

Joseph, I’m buying the semi-skimmed milk.

JOSEPH retches exaggeratedly. ELIZABETH rolls her eyes, before smiling at JOSEPH.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

ELIZABETH

Tell you what, if you stop with the retching, then I’ll let you pick the soup for this week.

JOSEPH immediately stops retching.

Yes!

JOSEPH

JOSEPH starts to run down the aisle.

ELIZABETH

No running Joe!

JOSEPH slows down to a leisurely walk until he turns at the end of the aisle, where he starts running again. ELIZABETH sighs.

INT. TESCO SUPERMARKET - MOMENTS LATER

JOSEPH is facing a large stand with many varieties of soup.

JOSEPH (deepened voice)

And so the young boy faces his final test. His Everest. Which soup shall he choose to feed his family? The world is in his hands.

JOSEPH quickly scans the stand, before fixating on a plastic tub of tomato soup at the very top.

JOSEPH (normal voice)

Ooh, tomato!

JOSEPH begins to climb the large stand, and eventually grabs hold of the small tub.

JOSEPH

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Haha! Success!

JOSEPH begins to lose his footing.

JOSEPH

Uh oh.

JOSEPH falls, bringing the entire stand down with him. There are a few mumbles and grumbles as a small crowd begins to form around the scene. ELIZABETH rushes to the front to see JOSEPH covered in soup.

JOSEPH

Mummy, I got the soup!

JOSEPH holds out the tub.

ELIZABETH

Oh god. Not again.

INT. THOMPSONS’ HOUSE - EVENING

JOSEPH and ELIZABETH walk through the door, the former looking cheerful, the latter looking exhausted while carrying bags of shopping. DANIEL walks to the door and hugs JOSEPH, although carefully, and kisses ELIZABETH on the cheek.

DANIEL

There are my two favourite people!

JOSEPH

Hi Daddy, can’t talk. I have to clean up quick; David Attenborough is on in fifteen minutes!

JOSEPH runs up the stairs. DANIEL chuckles before helping ELIZABETH carry the bags of shopping to the kitchen. As he begins to put it away, ELIZABETH sits on the chair and faceplants onto the table.

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DANIEL

So… soup?

ELIZABETH (muffled) Soup.

DANIEL Banned?

ELIZABETH

Banned. It was my favourite Tescos as well.

DANIEL

And I’m assuming that I’ll be taking him to the next shop that he’ll destroy.

ELIZABETH

And every one after that.

DANIEL

Yeah, okay.

ELIZABETH sits up.

ELIZABETH

It would be so much easier if he was just a troubled child. But no, he takes out the entire soup stand with the power of David Attenborough!

There is a small silence, before DANIEL and ELIZABETH start laughing together.

ELIZABETH

Oh, how did we get here, eh?

DANIEL

Well, I think it has something to do with a

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

certain marine biologist. Who recommends a nature documentary for a first date anyway?!

ELIZABETH

Hey, if it works, it works!

There is a banging sound from upstairs.

JOSEPH (yelling)

Eww, gross!

ELIZABETH (yelling)

And why are you butting in?

JOSEPH (yelling)

The walls are thin Mummy!

DANIEL (yelling)

Hey, it’s natural!

JOSEPH (yelling)

That’s it! I’m giving up on nature!

ELIZABETH and DANIEL laugh. CLOSE ON ELIZABETH standing up to help put the shopping away.

LORETA STOICA

KANE RICKARD

JASMIN LAY

ALICE TOWLE

MAANASWINI MANISH

JENNIFER BENN

JONATHAN ZENG

AMÉLIE CHALK

JOOLES WHITEHEAD

ISLA REAVLEY

ISHAAN KUMAR

MARK VELICHKO

KYLE KIRKPATRICK

MOLLY FLEMING

SALMA ELSAID

OLGA JASTRZEBSKA

ELEANOR COOKE

FREJA ABRAHAMS

INDIA BARTON

HARRY TOLFREE

WILLIAM WANG

NANCY ROBERTSON

ROBIN PURSER-HALLARD

ADAM STEVENSON

IMTIYAZ OMER

LORENZO DI MAURO

ALISHA HUTCHINSON

AARUSH THUMMA

CLAUDIA MOLDOVAN

RHIANNON GREEN

GINNY SADLER

HARRIET BATES

MAK CROSBY

HENRY OXLEY

NAOMI PENNEY

KAI DRYSDALE