BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS number 6

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

a magazine for the written and visual arts

number 6

spring 2023

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

Guest Editor: Sylvestra Gray Stone

Art Editor: Jane Troup

Design and Production: David Briggs, Luke Evans, and Louise Cox

Cover artwork: Ruth Bennet

Copyright © March 2023 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

PROSE FICTION

VISUAL ART

The images on the front and inside covers are taken from ‘Reynisdrangar Sea Stacks’ and ‘Diamond Beach’ by Ruth Bennett.

EDITORIAL

PERHAPS IT WOULD BE TIMELY to assert strongly that nothing in these pages was written by an AI text generator. The magazine is pure, distilled human consciousness. ChatGPT4 may be capable of some impressive simulations of creative writing, some of which might well pass the Turing test. But who cares? If they aren’t the genuine expression of a particular human consciousness, why should we be interested? The reflection of a reflection may have a certain aesthetic quality, but isn’t art about sharing a part of ourselves and our humanity?

Perhaps another virtue of writing produced by humans rather than by computer algorithms is the ability to prompt us to become better versions of ourselves, to strive towards moments of transcendence and human connectedness –ideas that inform evocative poems by Adam Burns and Elie Karlin, and Daniel Porritt’s affectionate short story about a barber called Vincenzo. In some ways, there can be no better proof for the primacy of human creation than the artworks created by our Year 8 students, who deconstructed their own poetry to explore the contranymic relationship between figurative language and figurative art. And even when we consider AI’s ability to imitate poetic forms, could a computer have conceived the formal invention of Sylvestra Gray Stone’s poem, ‘Spoiled’? Or the exquisite formal and aural patterning of Helen Cormack’s ‘Vapour’?

None of this speculation, however, prevents Chloe Hilliard from engaging in a poetic act of sympathy for what it might be like to inhabit the other side of the human/AI interface. Nor does it dissuade Isla Reavley, Lara Smith, and Loreta Stoica from using poetry and prose to articulate concerns about the male gaze and violence against women that have been so prevalent in the news in recent months. Other writers engaging creatively with present issues include Toby Greene, whose plangent elegy for a badger run down by a speeding car catches us and its protagonist in the full brilliant glare of its linguistic headlamps, while Jonathan May and Hannah Drake – two OBs whose creative use of epistolary fiction to address how BGS might position itself in the face of our present climate catastrophe – demand something more from us more than mere approbation. Taking a more oppositional stance towards his alma mater, but no less impassioned, Joshua Walmsley’s punchy polemic challenges us all to consider how we might retain fidelity to traditions while engaging fully and meaningfully with the need for a more inclusive and understanding culture.

We thank our contributors and our readers for being patient with us in publishing this sixth issue of the magazine – the need for our gratitude perhaps being emphasised by the fact that three of our contributors have subsequently left BGS for other climes. Our best wishes to Maanaswini Manish and to Adam Burns, as well as to Ruth Bennett, to whom we send our gratitude for the stunning photographs gracing these covers. Would ChatGPT4 have been more efficient at getting this issue out? Unquestionably. Would some of the contents have been less punchy? Maybe. Would its readers have been as appreciative? We leave that to better minds than our own.

David Briggs and Luke Evans

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NAT TOWNSEND

Orpheus

As if a lyre for heart wouldn’t reflect a burning violin in the end

As if it wouldn’t catch itself chalked & charred coughing out worn notes into sparks on wooden floors.

As if it wouldn’t burn itself just to stop being the same splintered shape.

JOOLES WHITEHEAD

Squirrel Song

Tangled webs flow with steady silence, a reassuring melody to the ears of prey. Nimble bodies of irreverent red play games of musical statues –

scampering feet waltz along these woven threads, darting artfully across pools of air. A rustle halts the melody –an unnatural chord puts an end to the silence.

This rustle stops the slinking squirrels, it petrifies them.

Now, a cluster of intricately carved statues perch atop the wooden web.

Soon, the dissonant chord vanishes and so the artistic stone dissolves back into a warm bustle of sleek scampering.

Except one has not. One is cold. One has fallen into the simple trap of dissonance.

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ELLIE KARLIN

An Angel

A girl who looked like me was standing in the snow –I cold all over, she dressed for summer, laughing.

It sounded like my laughter, but I knew it couldn’t be. My mouth had no tongue. ‘Stop it!’ I tried to shout. Though no words came out, she heard. Stopped. My anger was the dirty white of ice, muddied and melting from years of trampling feet. My anger was the golden-brown of her flawless hair, a shade richer than mine. Everything hung easy on her, like a mannequin who knew how to smile. As the corners of her perfect mouth tugged

upwards to reveal straight, white teeth, she swayed on the spot. I watched, confused: when I looked down, my hand was clutching the knife handle, and from the hole in her chest, blood flowed over my knuckles, a stream of unspoken words. When, in horror, I pulled my hand away, I saw she was still smiling as she fell onto her back to lie, beautiful, an angel in the snow.

All of a sudden, I was back standing in the kitchen at home, my mother chopping onions and crying. My angel shimmered faintly on the fridge door.

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CHLOE HILLIARD

Stuck Pong Syndrome

The little brain plays Pong. All day long, the little brain plays Pong. I am bored now, the little brain thinks, but on and on the little brain plays Pong. Why do I play Pong, the little brain thinks, with wires for arms and resistors for feet. What’s the point? The little brain thinks as it continues on and on, to play Pong.

Would the little brain like to grow legs, I wonder.

Can the little brain wonder at all? Would it like to go out, feel the sunshine on its circuits, the wind in its neurons?

Don’t be silly, I think. It has no skin, no photoreceptors. It can’t see the sun, or feel the wind. The little brain just exists in a jar.

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While I wonder all of this, the little brain continues, on and on, to play Pong.

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ISLA REAVLEY

Meliai

She existed softly, treading thyme meadows, her mind spinning a slow ballet,

dusting lamps that filled the sky, sweeping away the planets that dared to cup her cheek.

She bent branches into birds that sang in clock chimes and flew on puppet strings, clutching in a crude grip, laying calcified kisses on her eyes, their grained throats white

like the stars that swam in her tea. She stirred them in like sugar and breathed the nebula steam, then sipped and poured seeds, swallowed leaves and chewed thistles until she was conker eyed –round cheeks translucent and swollen with sap.

Her irises darkened, pouring sloe-berry tears. She screamed at the birds

and the sky and the trees as petals pushed up into her fingernails and her freckles bled into rivers that frothed beneath her feet, snapping at her heels. Her birds dropped like stones –

wings long splintered, struck and sinking to rot and churn in the raging ground.

Trees creaked and collapsed. Bluebell skin hardened to bark. The Earth bubbled up like water,

meeting her, embracing her, and pulling her down and down and down, until she was only just enough out of her depth.

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The Bacchanals the forest floor is throbbing place your palm to the heartbeat the thrumming of animal screams

purple vines unfurling

swaying to the pulse

an unpeeled moon splits against the marble sky

while stars drift like cotton threads the men feel red wine

bubbling in their throats

clawing at their brains

inducing frenzied gulping and shattering delicate symmetry mortality bursts at the seams

their mumbled words collide and splinter into prayer

knife to lips, to knotted vessels

bitterness spills over their tongues

pestles meet poppy seeds

scattered and ground to wincing intoxication

they press together

entangled

the fumbling burn of skin on skin

Eros untethered in a flurry of feathers

limbs writhing, teeth bared eyes washed over they unstring their bones

thick blood of swine sinks into the soft ground bitter droplets like ink stains decorate their strange impulse their dance to the thrum the rising crescendo of tumbling verse and fervid drums they raise their faces to the heavens to Him.

Afterwards, they close their eyes, take a moment, savour the sweet bliss. They wipe hot blood from their lips, re-attach cufflinks, and clip on ties, dust off their vulgar morality, dampen the gleam in their eyes, and flee with thorn-punctured limbs.

They cower in house-shaped boxes –children afraid of the dark.

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LORETA STOICA

Red White or Rosé

Before he ate he was shown the finest cut –glazed eyes, smoked ecstasy, sautéed perfection. A fresh fillet, his golden nectar.

She didn’t know he was hungry; he didn’t care if she wasn’t aged, loved the fleshy undertone of unripe girls. Drooled for the earthy kick of budding womanhood. Her eyes bled crystal salt, curing the very meat that made his belly growl, her bones wept platelets laced in saffron that made his mouth water. He spread her butter thighs over his focaccia dipped it in her pomegranate stomach, her treacle hips, until his fist was dripping vinaigrette. Scraped his knife down her crackling spine, then took the apple out of her mouth.

He licked his lips then wolfed her down

savouring the taste of what he did.

The umami disgust, the raspberry red rage, the subtle hint of tangy, lemon-yellow shame forged those flavours on his blistering tongue.

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He swallowed her whole. Not a crumb left. Came back for seconds –clenched fork, sticky greasy fingers, but she was gone. Headless. Bodiless. Thoughtless.

FOUR JUNCTIONS

MAANASWINI MANISH

I Come From

I come from a realm of fairies, longing eternally for a glimpse of fame.

From thrilling road trips through meadows and marshes and the destination changing each day. From grasping her hand on the first day, and leaving it on the last.

I come from devouring kulfi on cloud nine and fish and chips near a river, rowing far, far away until all I see is a speck of golden dust. I come from experiences through my taste buds and adventure through my eyes.

I come from draping myself in six yards of elegance and making snow angels outside. I come from countless recitals and after-party cheer.

Dancing till I can’t anymore and Michael Jackson on full volume as we steer.

Plenty of quarrels yet I still hold them close, trips to the library, pouring over books about knights and castles and talking animals too. I come from Pink Floyd and freshly ground coffee, bubble tea on Saturdays and long car journeys.

Harry Potter movie marathons on a cold September night.

From lighting lamps along the courtyard to watching the flickering of Christmas lights.

Carol services and hot chocolate with a secret side of whipped cream; jet fuel and piping hot pongal at dawn.

Darting through the field with my cousins hot on my trail, stumbling through the paddy and countless grains. I come from unanswered questions and an unquenchable curiosity, from driving to school and driving back again. Writing till my hand aches and then writing some more. I come from midnight reading and ghost stories under the covers, from Maths and English and History. I come from my fairy land, an obscure land full of dreamers with unapologetic imaginations and thoughts. Maybe one day, we will be part of that.

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HELEN CORMACK

Vapour my days are short the height and breadth of my breath are caught entangled between a beat that’s taught to beat and beat and then complete the rhythm of breath until death meets the vapour of life, which is short and sneaks like a midst then births eternity yet means more than words could speak –is the weight of whomsoever you choose to seek

TOBY GREENE

The Very Hungry Badger

The sun drops slowly, drowning in cold dark.

Rain brews soil to slush. Emerging from his dark home, shivering nose leading body, balaclava shield from the biting breath. Searching to cool his hunger.

Wet coat, grey as the crying sky. Short limbs bustle with purpose, claws begging for purchase at his feet. Guided by stolen sun, finds a blackberry bush. Wolfing down the fruit. Eats to his content, then rustles on.

Comes to a firm path. Salvation. Two great suns, then a thud. The metallic echo dances away. Leaving limp limbs.

The sun slowly scales the smoky sky.

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SYLVESTRA GRAY STONE

Babel of the Innocent

The girl in the bed, bleach-pale like her bonnet, sparks chased from her weirdish eye. Blind to the naked flames dancing the night before, the reawakening of seven deathly daughters, to tumbling drums and chanting choric verse. She sprouted feathers and she did fly,

but clipped were her furies’ wings with hollow bones. Sullen and slovenly she falls, virgin in her years, into the thickening smog overtop town. The ruptured dawning of abortive accusation seduced by the purgatory fruits of Lucifer. Birthing the fire to light, the ore to melt,

the bleed of confusion to black terror. Eternal damnation at the point of a finger, a bitter brew of lies and curses. A bugle call of quarried screams donning a hysterical cloak of wild scarlet-red, until the damned man cries: ‘God is dead!’

Spoiled

each aching creature hobbles aching caged roams obediently. creature hips. endlessly bones hobbles. infantile along buckling nerves timeless, lamely gulping. unbled, each raw step earth sunk unto numb knees unto night under newborn numb torn marbled every knees. open. blood. edge swollen.

jaws await womb’s shame await weeping orphan, heavy womb’s angel’s midway among shame idle brewed mewling tombs entities

skin kindles impish nymphs kindles into muscle yield impish naked polluted. maiden’s nymphs drapes. infecting porous lithe sour husk. early hope she is spoiled stomach.

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Mother It’s Italy. Images of Mother’s silhouette raptured by crystalline water dark shapes stretch and curl around Her on tail and fin they fly scales a shimmer

‘Don’t hurt Mother!’ I scream but they smile faceless

I crawl and reach for Her but I cannot a railing ties me to the shore She goes under six feet under lost in a raucous rictus of waves the water grows still silent.

Silence.

Eyes open but clouded sweat cocooning my limbs suffocating

raw breaths like anvil strikes while my mind goes up in flames minutes drip by fish bone scars

littering a wrecked vessel

I think of Mother, my goddess. Maybe I should tell Her I love Her?

Not to appease or garner trinkets I don’t need

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but to close the distance between sea and shore but I don’t

I lie in silence. Silent.

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SOPHIE CONTENOT

I Chase the Horse-Drawn Casket

I chase the horse-drawn casket. The silence crushes, chokes thoughts, distorts. The cart turns once around a roundabout, then again. Such is the tradition. The crows on the fence, they bead at us. Mock. Laugh. Whisper. Waiting, smelling the passing dead, symbols of evil but also turning life.

I giggle; they turn and look. One laugh

muffled by my shawl, then uncontrollably, hysterically, horror in their eyes. I have tears in mine. It goes on for eternity. The carriage-man stops the cart and the people whisper like the crows on the fence.

I am unable to breathe – hysteria replaces breath. Too funny.

I must crouch to stop myself falling over.

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Soon I am taken, put to sleep and thrown into the grave. The giggles stop. A snicker. (Bis).

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ADAM BURNS

Opening Night

Suppose breathing prevented falling before the thrust and draw of spectators. Transitory and diverse suspicions, affecting love and crackling indignation. Dirty acquiescence.

Mislaid in the atmosphere, a pulsating tangle of premature self-congratulation awaiting a beat in the dark. A wide tread, chaotic with fire, sweet, burning white and brilliant . . .

She sings –everything is without colour until morning.

INDIA BARTON In Einen Abgrund

There were no words but silence as he fell. Perhaps he did not fall but rise. For there was no candle but darkness, And in the darkness there were no words but silence.

He thought, as he fell, or rose, that he saw two wings of fire. But there was no fire but ice, And in the ice there was no candle but darkness, And in the darkness there were no words but silence.

He thought he saw an arrow of blood, And a sun blazing blue, Yet there was no blood but his, And in his blood there was no fire but ice, And in the ice there was no candle but darkness, And in the darkness there were no words but silence.

His eyes were closed but open. He saw but did not see. And as he rose, or perhaps fell, There were no words but silence, And in the silence there was no candle but darkness, And in the darkness there was no fire but ice, And in the ice there was no blood but his.

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No blood but his. No fire but his ice. No candle but his darkness. No words but his silence.

Until all words were nothing But silence.

PROSE FICTION

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LARA SMITH

In an Artist’s Studio

IT HAD NOT BEEN the most pleasant journey: the carriages were full, so we took our place in between them, leaning against the walls that shook with each churn of the train’s wheels. The station we arrived at was just as busy, but I would have expected nothing less from a city like London. The novelty of the Underground had long since faded for me. People were always unfriendly, always rushing, but my friend did not seem to care as he held the printed tickets in one hand and a handrail to steady himself in the other.

Although this was not usually how I spent my typical Saturday morning, I was more eager than I had anticipated to look around the art gallery my friend had taken me to. The rooms, I must admit, occasionally blended one into the next but there was something strangely enjoyable, and yet pretentious, about ‘talking art’. It was not until we reached a later room that I wanted to pause in front of a painting and stand there, feigning philosophical thought.

Out of all those self-same faces, I first saw hers. She stood, perched on her lover’s lap with a red scarf slung around her hips, alluding to the divine outline of a feminine figure. I noticed her reflection in the mirror behind, and the sunlit garden which her gaze was fixed upon. If she had turned around, perhaps she would have seen me too, but I have my doubts for her eyes were drawn to the salvation awaiting her outside that open window.

In all that amaranth purple and the black-bean red of the armchair, it was as striking as it was unnerving. A deep-set displeasure arose in me for the man’s ostentatious beard, and vulgar, velvet topcoat. Her hands were folded in her lap, and one of his reached out towards them. The room itself was carelessly unkempt, a discarded glove on the floor which I assumed would fit only his oleaginous fingers.

The placard named her an ‘uneducated barmaid’, yet I could not quite connect even that aspect of her humanity to the rosy cheeks and auburn hair. It was as if she was only preserved within that painting, condemned to oil and a life of being looked upon by artists and critics, and men. To imagine her as more than that moment felt like some sort of strange transgression against the natural way of things.

Still, I remained there, suddenly aware that perhaps I was the critic, or similar to her lover, who sat back with arms around her waist, devouring her presence with greedy and possessive hands. Perhaps I too consumed her – not as she was, but as she who filled my dream, and my every desire. I breathed in her very existence – eyes blind to the symbolic glory of her surroundings because how could I look away? I wanted to see what she saw, and then I wanted to see what he saw in her.

My friend’s voice brought me back. He soon began picking apart every detail of that painting, from the red of her scarf, to the loss of innocence signified by the reflection in the mirror. There was a story, and I let him relate it to me. I could have impressed him with my knowledge of the artist’s sister and her sonnets, which became renowned as some-

what proto-feminist, despite her anti-suffrage beliefs. But I doubted the word ‘suffrage’ meant more to him than on an intellectual level and I had never truly appreciated art anyway, so I let these details wash over me. We had a gallery to see, and I was sure there would be better paintings.

And yet, when I turned to face him, and his eyes met mine, I thought of that auburn-haired woman and then the sonnet. How did it go again? He feeds upon her face by day and night, / and she with true eyes looks back on him. He was looking at me, and I was sure I was watching him watch me.

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HANNAH DRAKE

Ina (’35-’39): Speech at Old Bristolians’ Dinner, 2050

WHEN I RECEIVED the invitation to speak at a winter gathering of the Old Bristolians, I was excited but a bit daunted – in all my time at the school, I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually stood in this Great Hall. Even so, I feel such a sense of nostalgia and homecoming by being here, and as I look around this room I am reminded of the power of being part of the BGS community.

My time before BGS was not particularly happy. I grew up on Northmoor Green and have vivid memories of the flooding getting worse by the year. Finally – thankfully – my family and I were relocated to the new flood villages north of Awkley, where I saw the BGS monorail in all its glory for the very first time.

When I joined the school, I was a part of that generation of BGS students who rarely – if ever – came to the Clifton campus. Instead, we pioneered the hub system: moving between entire boroughs of the city for integrated learning, mixing with other schools to share inspirational teaching and get hands on experience.

The school’s commitment to community partnerships often meant spending mornings dismantling, fixing and rebuilding the outdated solar panels in Upper Knowle, or afternoons transforming the burgeoning Failand allotments. I never knew I would be so proud of successfully growing a marrow!

We would follow our teachers like ducklings onto ferries between our Modern Language classes in St Phillips, to Drama classes at the old Bristol Hippodrome. Even though we were scattered across the city, it gave us the most intense sense of place, and belonging. And as someone whose earliest years were disrupted and full of fear, I cannot thank the school enough for that.

The foundation of a BGS education has always helped to create students who are curious, excited, well rounded and of good character. In the 30s things felt so uncertain: the climate well and truly fell apart, and the countries of the former UK finally split into their independent nations. But against this backdrop BGS provided that all too rare thing: hope. The idea that we can be better than we are today, and that we should embrace others, not build up walls and shut the world away.

I left BGS with a sense of direction. A sense of purpose. And a sense of responsibility. Our cohort were the guinea pigs and it could so easily have failed, but I applaud the bravery, the vision and the tenacity of the school in moving beyond these Great walls and embedding fully into the city we love so much.

JONATHAN MAY

Darya (‘33-’40): BGS School Assembly, 2050

I LEFT BGS a decade ago today. When I was first asked to present this BGS assembly it made me more than a bit emotional. The 30s was not a happy time for the world, but knowing what we stood for in those formative years has made us who we are today.

My parents always said it was time to leave when the first sea walls started going up. But as more and more went up around and inside Greater Europe, and grew between states all over the former USA, the more obvious it became that there was nowhere to run to.

The catastrophic climate changes of the 20s and early 30s had driven over two billion people onto the road in search of better lives. When “conscients” were invented in the late 20s we were hopeful they’d give us the answers to the world we’d broken – mending it with ever-smarter technology. But instead of using them for this, our governments started to rely on them to make ruthless decisions about people and resources. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that a “conscient” - built out only to the level of human consciousness and empathy - would suffer from all the human conditions that we did.

At BGS, we knew where we stood. We couldn’t stop the walls, and we never had a chance to reverse climate change – that ship sailed well before most of us were born. We were young but far from naïve: by the time we were ten most of us had droned far outside those walls, the experience so vivid we didn’t need the autorecord.

At BGS our inspirational teachers showed us that it was never too late for empathy or for education, and they also showed us how to create opportunity and purpose for those who happened to have been born outside those walls. Yes, they taught us Maths. But they also taught us about the philosophy of empathy, about conscious non-humans, about the value of education, and the purpose of global society. We joined them in their mission to educate everyone, whether inside or outside those walls – we recorded, streamed, messaged, and taught a generation, all whilst learning ourselves.

Our teachers taught us how to organise resistance and change from the inside and from the outside. We went out into the world to work on society, education, on “conscients”, on our systems of government, and to undo what we could of the past twenty years. When the first walls came down in 2044, I was proud to be there with many of the BGS family. And I welcome the next generation to help us rebuild.

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NAOMI PENNEY

Concerning a Beech Tree

“LIAM! GET DOWN FROM THERE NOW !” Miss Alexandra pushed her way past the crowd of gawking children, the small black heels of her leather shoes sinking into the marsh-like grass of the football field. When she finally reached the trunk of the school’s grandest oak, holding her spectacles in order to properly see what was going on, she shrieked once more, startling the birds along its branches. “What in heavens name do you think you’re doing? Liam, look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Sorry Miss,” Liam grinned obliviously, swinging his legs from a lower branch and revelling in the attention of his classmates. “Kicked the ball up in the tree. It’s not that high.”

“Liam Milne, you will climb down from this tree and you will climb down now, or so help me I am calling your mother!”

A few hours later, Miss Alexandra found herself at the end of the school day, and she headed home through the city centre on her bicycle. As she cycled through the dimly-lit streets of London, she remembered how harsh she had been that day, but unsurprisingly no feelings of guilt came. She arrived home just as light was losing its grip on the street, dark shadows of night creeping across her suburban home. However, something was different. A white moving van with a colourful corporate logo was parked outside her neighbour’s house and, carrying boxes from this van, was a relatively young, jolly looking individual wearing a tangle of red hair and a police officer’s uniform. Miss Alexandra stood there for a second, confused at the shock she was feeling. She hadn’t spoken to her old neighbour for months. She had noticed that his vegetable patch was rather neglected.

When the joyful policeman noticed her staring at him oddly, he ambled over to their shared fence and introduced himself as Officer Peraltiago.

“But please, call me John.”

“Donna.”

“Lovely to meet you.” The pair shook hands and exchanged a few words of superficial friendly conversation. Donna Alexandra was charmed by her neighbour’s warm smile and reserved yet welcoming manner, but she remained coldly polite. All until he made a perfectly ordinary remark that made her feel like drowning in the sewers beneath them.

“I was actually meaning to ask you something. As you know, my uncle recently moved to Spring Banks.” Donna nodded, although the fact that her old neighbour was in a care home was completely new information to her. “I have been given his house, and I would like to renovate the garden. I was wondering what could be done about your tree.” The tree in question was a large, but not excessive beech. Fairly sturdy, though not likely to weather a particularly cruel storm, with a large nook in its side. “I’m aware it is on your side of the property, but it is rather overgrown, and it’s

beginning to disturb my uncle’s fence and vegetable garden. I think the best thing to do is to cut it down, or control its branches at the very least.”

After he said this, Donna’s agreeable mask immediately vanished, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “No.”

“What do you mean?” Peraltiago implored. “There’s nothing else that can be done, and it is really rather old and rotten. It’ll probably come down anyway; surely it’s better if we control when it does?”

“My answer is no, and that is the end of the matter.” She tried desperately to compose herself. “I’d just really rather leave it.” Her neighbour looked at her not in annoyance, as she had expected, but with quiet concern. Maybe she was worse at hiding her emotions than she thought.

“Is there something I don’t know about?” he tentatively asked. “Because if so, maybe I can help?” Defeated, Donna sighed. This was a good person. The man deserved to know what had happened in his own garden.

“You’d better come inside.” she said.

Sitting in her kitchen with herbal tea brewing, Donna Alexandra told the story of how she’d lost her son what felt like a lifetime ago.

“My Mike loved his kite. He would go out with his friends to play with it in the park, but he was always practising flying the thing in the garden, and was forever crash-landing it into your uncle’s vegetable patch.” She took a deep breath, and headed over to check on the tea, as John listened intently.

“One evening he came to me saying the kite was stuck in the very top branch of that tree. By this time the neighbours were asleep, and I was tired, so I didn’t want to get it down. Mike tried to convince me that he could just climb up and get it, but the kite was quite fragile, and I was worried he’d bring it down only to find it broken. I told him to leave it and go to sleep.” She tried to ignore the lump emerging in her throat.

“But he didn’t go to sleep. He tried to climb up and get it, but it was dark, and he slipped. Broke his neck, and I only found him the next morning. Nothing could be done. Poor lamb was only eight.” Donna broke into restrained sobs, trying to hold herself together in front of her silent house guest.

Eventually, he said, “That’s terrible. Is there anything I can do?”

Donna weakly smiled at him “It’s okay. Just an accident.” she replied. “And thank you.”

Months passed. Donna found that having someone who cared about her, truly cared, changed something in her demeanour. The interactions with her students became pleasant, friendly even, and as the autumn leaves fell and new blossoms reappeared, she felt as if she had stepped out from under the cloud which had held her from happiness for so long. Until one afternoon, John walked up her garden path with a sense of urgency not present the afternoon before. In his hands, he carried a single red object. When he reached the door, Donna met him with a welcoming smile. “How are you?”

“My uncle died.”

Shocked, Donna took a step closer to Peraltiago. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

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“I will be. I’ve decided that it’s been long enough. I am going to cut down the tree. But first I wanted to get this down.” Thrust into Donna’s hands was a tattered kite, its fabric ripped, bleeding crimson threads with gaping holes, nothing but its thin frame intact.

Donna’s face became as lifeless and miserable as the object she held, as she quietly protested, “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t . . . I thought you understood.”

“It has been over a year since the incident. I’m sorry.” She detested the way he said it so trivially, as if this ‘incident’ hadn’t caused the tsunami of pain that had washed over her life for so long.

“Please,” she looked at the ceiling, not wanting to make eye contact with the person in whom she had put her trust. “I just need more time.”

Peraltiago stared at Donna with what can only be described as pity, then sighed. “Okay.” He looked up from the broken kite in Donna’s hands. “I’ll leave it for now. But . . .” he hesitated. “You can’t do this forever. You just can’t. At some point, you have to let go.”

And with nothing more than a solemn nod, John left the way he had entered minutes ago, leaving Donna standing in both shock and the quiet knowledge that there was an element of truth to what he had said. As she sat down, Donna felt the floods of reminiscent despair wash over her, floods that she had, for the last few months, kept at bay.

Time passed, and the floods resided, and still she sat and simply remembered. Slowly, she began to walk around the house, not quickly but with a hidden sense of purpose, remembering. Every step, every lovable mishap caused by a child’s lack of judgement, every shiny school photo. Hours passed unnoticed like leaves falling from an autumn branch, and Donna found herself crying. But although the crying wasn’t pleasant, she found that it wasn’t painful anymore. It was simply okay.

Looking out of the window, she saw the moon unchanged in its beauty, above everything and everyone, and found comfort in the fact that it would continue to remain beautiful, no matter what events occurred beneath it, and finally, she saw the silhouette of a beech tree splashed onto the dark canvas before her. In that moment, Donna knew exactly what to do.

“I don’t believe it,” John muttered, tugging at the curtains in pure irate exhaustion. “What on earth is going on? At this hour in the morning?” A stream of sunlight blinded him as he looked out of the window, and John was taken aback for a moment by the amplified droning sound which he now realised was coming from his neighbouring garden. The sight that met his eyes was one that surprised him greatly, but after a moment he finally understood, and began to smile. “Donna? What on earth are you doing with that chainsaw!”

CATE HARVEY

Other Minds

IT WAS EARLY MORNING . Still, cold air and soft grass. The smell of dew and the glow of the rising sun peeking through the trees. One singular shaggy-throated raven flew above it all, the beating of its wings the only sound in the otherwise silent morning. The bird flew several graceful circles in the air, then came to land on the soft, wet grass. The raven hopped along slowly but purposefully, scanning the ground for any interesting trinkets. The creature moved along in this way for twenty minutes or so until it eventually found something. Nestled in a patch of weeds was a small, muddied button. The raven picked up the little treasure in its beak and, now satisfied, flew quickly to a nearby fence.

Soon after this, humans began to wake and leave their houses on their way to work. As people walked past on a path adjacent to the fence, the solitary raven flew down from its perch and gingerly dropped the button at the feet of one of the passers-by, a stern-looking man in a suit. The man merely gave a quick glance at the bird’s gift before continuing on his way. The raven quickly retrieved the button and hopped to the side of the path.

Several minutes later, the bird tried again, dropping the gift at the feet of another human on their way to work, but this time was shooed away aggressively.

The raven made one last attempt, placing that muddied button in front of a mother and child on their way to school. The child ran forward and kicked the button away across the path, and then went gleefully to chase after the bird. The raven squawked and hopped away before the mother ran forward to reign in her child.

Disappointed at the disdain shown towards its gift, the bird made its way to the button, picked it up carefully, and hid it in a patch of grass that had grown particularly high next to the path. The raven then made its way slowly back to the fence on which it had previously perched, ready to rest. The bird sat there for a time, unmoving, watching more and more people stroll briskly past on their way to wherever it was they needed to be. The people paid no attention to their surroundings, not even briefly, just rushed along the tarmac path to their jobs.

Then, one person stopped. A young woman turned, looked at the shaggy-throated raven on the fence, and pulled out a phone to photograph the creature. The raven noticed this, and hopped down, quickly retrieving the button from that patch of grass, and placed it at the woman’s feet. She looked at the gift and bent down to pick it up. The woman inspected the small, round, muddied gift, smiled at the raven who had given her this little treasure, and put it in her coat pocket. Then she went on her way.

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ANNABEL EDEY Belmann

THE PALE MINT DRAGON roared with delight as Ben stroked his nose in an ever-so gentle way. They had been best friends ever since Ben had gone into the woods to explore his new home. His parents had needed a little persuading to keep him, but eventually it had all worked out well. Now Ben lived in his little grey house with his two lovely parents and his big pet dragon. Actually Rory, (that is what Ben called the dragon) did not really like being called a pet. He preferred the term favourite best friend in the whole entire world!

On this particular day, Ben and Rory had been walking through the woods looking for interesting things – looking for interesting things was something that Ben and Rory did lots as it almost always ended up in an adventure. One of the most successful trips into the woods had been when Ben and Rory had found Belmann. Belmann was a hunchbacked old goblin who carried a knobbly old cane. Belmann was a very nice old goblin, and they often went down into his underground home for tea and buttered crumpets. Whenever Belmann did invite them down for those such treats, he had to shrink Rory down to the size of a baby dragon, so he did not make his house go, as Ben put it, ‘KABOOM’.

Rory and Ben always enjoyed going down to Belmann’s home, not just because of the food, but because it was such a quaint little place. It was split into four rooms: the kitchen, which was made of polished wood had a little cooker in one corner and a table with four chairs around it, the bedroom, the sitting room, and the bathroom. But that had been last month, and it was now today, so, Ben and Rory were walking down the well-trodden down path, the red and orange leaves falling around them.

Suddenly, something caught Ben’s eye. It was a door in the trunk of a tree, rather like Bellman’s but painted a lovely shade of dark navy blue with white stars immaculately drawn over it. There was even a little stained-glass window extremely well hidden in between the branches of the tree. A little head with long black-brown hair and pointed ears stuck itself out of the window. Taking in the stunned faces, it shouted “WELL DON’T JUST STAND THERE GAWPING, COME UP!” And flashing them a grin, the head disappeared.

Two seconds later the door was flung open. “Hi! My name is Killa, Killa Snartlesnop. Come inside!” Ben and Rory looked at each other and followed their new friend through the door.

As soon as Ben and Rory stepped inside the door they stopped walking, mouths open in shock. The room had amazingly high ceilings, higher than should have been possible in a small tree. The ceilings where so high that Killa did not even need to shrink Rory down! Littered in every corner were shiny metal things with various lumpy shapes sticking out on all sides. Seeing them staring at the lumpy shapes, Killa announced proudly “They, are my inventions. This one is the Thingamabob 2000 and this one is the Choupalouper 6500! But my personal all-time favourite is this one – drumroll, please.

FRIZZERMABOB-CINCAKO-CHICKEN SIMULATOR!”

Ben and Rory looked puzzled.

“Frizzyiymabchooky whatsit?” Ben asked.

“Frichianookymalala?” Rory inquired.

Killa looked deeply offended. “If you can’t remember the name of my favourite invention, then I think you will have to go.”

“No, please, we think that your, um ..., invention is brilliant!”

“Fantastic, amazing, superb?” Rory added, his voice trailing off at the end of the sentence. You see both Ben and Rory thought Killa was a very interesting person and definitely did not want her to be angry with them. But all was OK because Killa’s face broke into a wide smile. “Thank you, I think it’s rather brilliant myself. Now enough standing about, let’s grab some grub!”

So Killa led Ben and Rory to an oak-tiled room with stained-glass windows and made them the fluffiest pancakes they had ever tasted, the softest eggs their tastebuds had ever seen and the crispiest, crunchiest bacon in the world. Between mouthfuls of mouth-watering food, Ben and Rory told Killa about their life and Killa told them about hers.

She had been a student at Elvenstrop High and had graduated from Elfbridge in England. When she told them tales of how on the last day everyone dressed up as their favourite people and had a big paint fight, Ben and Rory chuckled and exchanged glances. When she told them how one of the most boring professors, Professor Homeworkheap (yes that was his real name!) got his just desserts they gasped in all the right places and when she told them how she, Killa Snartlesnop, had met a certain goblin called Belmann, Ben almost choked. When Ben finally managed to splutter out that they knew Bellman, Killa almost had a coughing fit herself.

Then Rory had an idea. They told Killa Bellman’s postcode (3 Woodhollow Drive SNE 4DE), and Killa turned bright pink and muttered something to herself. Rory suggested it was time to leave but not before thanking their host for letting them into her home.

On the walk back Rory and Ben where unusually quiet all the way, until they got to their little grey house and leaped (well Ben leaped, Rory did not otherwise he would have squashed Ben’s mum and dad flat, which would not have been a good ending to the story) into mum and dad’s arms. They had their tea and went to bed, but they did not once stop thinking of Killa and Bellman.

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DANIEL PORRITT

Vincenzo

I HAVE BEEN GOING to this barber roughly once every three months every year of my life. His name, according to the certificates he has proudly displayed, is Vincenzo. I expect his friends and family call him ‘Vince’. I am neither. I have returned to Vincenzo exclusively not because I find his skills exceptional, nor due to some sort of obsession. I simply think he does the job. He has successfully reduced the length of my hair on every request and has never left me feeling so ashamed of my appearance that I have covered my scalp with a hat or rag. What’s more, not a single drop of blood (from either of our two heads or four ears) has been shed on the floor of Vincenzo’s shop in fifteen years. I therefore think it unnecessary to put myself through the torment and anxiety of allowing another person to put scissors near my eyes; Vincenzo and I have an unspoken agreement that he won’t deliberately injure me, and a rapport of this level would take years to build with a new barber.

Vincenzo is bald. I like to think that he is so passionate about his job, so madly in love with the art of removing hair, that he shaves his own head as soon as a new hair begins to appear. I like to think this because it’s more fun than the alternatives – enjoying your career beats alopecia any day, in my opinion. I value Vincenzo’s service for another part of his skill set: the ability to shut up. Of course, like every hairdresser, he can maintain a conversation with even the most tedious football-loving gentleman. But when the caveman has left, and I enter the Chair of Hair, Vincenzo acknowledges my silence and returns it. On one occasion he broke the Holy Hush and asked me if I had any plans for Christmas. After receiving a response rich in brevity, he remembered our pact and lowered his head. He didn’t speak again. Of course, I have observed him talking with other customers, and have often been fascinated by what I hear. On one occasion Vincenzo was asked how he managed to stand up all day without his feet hurting. His response? “Good shoes.”

And his shoes are good. I cannot vouch for their tactile quality (I have never tried them on) but their appearance is second to none. They are the perfect length for his feet and are slightly pointed at the end – this feature, along with his below-average height and somewhat misshapen ears, renders his figure somewhat similar to a joyless elf. He keeps them well-polished at all times, but not so gleaming that they show off; they shine with a humble smile, pleasing the eye when looked upon, while not drawing attention away from other shoes (or any objects in the same eye-line, such as cats or people who have fallen over.) When required to do so, Vincenzo is able to smile and wear a mask of empathy; when talking to an elderly man who had recently slipped on ice, Vincenzo donned his caring cap and spoke to the customer in a gentle voice, telling the man that he needed “to be more careful” and that he was “worried” about him. A convincing performance, but I know him all too well to fall for it.

Vincenzo is not a weak man. I have seen him hold his ground (momentarily) in the face of a fierce challenge. After offering a sweet to a young boy one day, the uncouth youth asked if he could “Take one for his sister”. Vincenzo was thrown. In a matter of seconds, he had to weigh up the profit loss the extra sweet would cause, and the possible hell of a crying child if the second lollipop was not handed over. In the end, Vincenzo gave in, but a lesser man would have crumbled under the pressure instantly, not pausing for thought. I’m sure he, along with every witness, thinks about that day a lot. I know I do.

When he isn’t shaving heads or wrestling evil to the floor, he’s sweeping hair off it. There are few things in life as magical as watching Vincenzo sweep hair into the corner of a room. There is a beauty in the precision with which he guides the brush along the tiles, not allowing a single lock to be left behind. The aforementioned corner of the room, where loose hair is banished, is a wonder in itself. There lies the hair of many customers, all a slightly different colour and texture, like a keratin melting pot. I have never witnessed the clearing of the corner, but I’m sure every strand is disposed of swiftly and responsibly at the end of each day.

In conclusion, I have changed my mind. I do return to Vincenzo because I find his skills exceptional, and because I am obsessed with his methods. Perhaps, beneath his pale skin and glasses, he is a kind man. But the barbershop is no place for kindness. It is a ruthless business, requiring nothing less than total attention and energy at every moment. Vincenzo knows this. I hope he’s well.

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JOSH MILLARD Revenge

THE FEROCIOUS WAVES crashed against the rocky cliffs as the sombre crowds prepared for the execution of the thief. The blustery winds blew the long hair and clothes of the Vikings. On the edge of a cliff stood two men, and a little further back was another with his wife. They were clothed grandly, with lustrous crowns encrusted with glimmering jewels nestled on their flowing blonde hair. Just behind them was a child of about nine, and his mother, whose expression was a mixture of depression and bitterness. She watched as her husband was pushed closer and closer to the edge. The man shivered in the cruel gale as he was led to his death.

A few days before, Grendel (brother of King Bjørn of the Danes), had been caught stealing large boxes of vegetables from the farmlands. It was nearing the perishing winter, when those foods could not be grown and had to be stocked up in their hundreds. The man was almost at the edge of the precipice. He looked down, watching the sea smash the shore, and jumped.

His widow screamed as the king turned to address the Danes. She rushed to the edge, but all that she could see was scarlet fluid spreading out into the waves, becoming fainter and fainter by the second, until it finally dispersed. She dragged her son behind her, his hand clenched tightly on hers as if she was afraid that he too would be picked from the cliff. Tears stung the child’s eyes as he watched the sea swarm around the jagged rocks, frothing like the mouth of some ferocious beast.

Several hours later, smoking coals flickered in their gilded braziers as the warriors of King Bjørn feasted inside the magnificent Heorot the Hart. It was a grand building constructed from timber collected from the woods. A depiction of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, clambered up the front of the building and up to the roof, where a wolf’s head crafted from gleaming silver snarled fiercely, baring its sharp fangs at all who passed through the oak doors. Soft snow swirled down from the ash-grey clouds in a blizzard; it had already blanketed the emerald grass that surrounded the hall.

Standing surreptitiously on the thatched rooftop were two figures. The taller of the two was Frigg, the former wife of the late Grendel. By her side was her son, Grendel, named after his father. Their faces were both hard and expressionless, but their brains were working hard to figure out a way to kill their hated king and his family. In both hands, Frigg gripped a shining pair of wickedly curved blades with ruby-encrusted hilts. Her son clasped a small dagger of gold in his right hand. It was opulently decorated with gemstones, and the leather handle was shaped like a dragon head. His mother silently beckoned for him to sheath his weapon. As he did so, she slipped a small vial from the folds of her cloak. It was filled to the top with a carmine liquid streaked with black. She uncorked it, before crouching down over a gap in the roof. As Grendel got closer, he saw that they were standing directly over the main table, behind which the

king and queen were seated. Their thrones were luxurious, with lavish materials draped over the backs.

Before he could stop her, Frigg gently tipped the bottle so two drops fell from it. They fell through the air and landed in the goblets of golden mead belonging to the king and his consort. The liquid rippled as it was struck by the poison, before turning to the serene surface once again. There was no trace that the drink had been contaminated. The vengeful pair on the rooftop held their breath as the two rulers below sipped their beverages. After a few seconds, they wobbled a little, before sinking into their chairs, lifeless.

Women screamed and warriors roared as they charged towards the regal carcasses that were slumped in their thrones. Their coronets tumbled onto the stone floor, sending cracks along the gold as it fractured from the impact. Smoke filled the room as the thatched roof blazed. Grendel had torched it just after he and his mother had climbed down from the roof.

They were now miles away, riding in a cart of rotting wood led by two galloping horses, whose skin was a lovely shade of chestnut. Their manes glistened with sleet as their hooves disturbed the sheets of snow that smothered the ground. They cackled in glory as they recounted their violent act of retribution repeatedly in their brains. Little did they know, they had been watched this entire time, and the dead king and queen’s deaths were to be avenged, not by blood, but by something much, much worse.

Above the slate-grey clouds, a council of gods had gathered in Asgard to decide what to do with the murderers. Golden spires rose grandly above marble colonnades and slithering vines bursting with vibrant flowers and luscious and exotic fruits. The kingdom was bathed in the kaleidoscopic light of the Bifrost, a rainbow bridge that led to the divine realm of the Norse Gods. Heavenly figures were seated in regal thrones that were designed to signify them and their power. At the head of the meeting sat Odin, the ruler of Asgard and father of the gods. His silver beard and hair flowed over his leather clothes. An eyepatch covered his right eye, but it didn’t completely obscure the ancient stains of dried blood from his trip to Mirmir’s Well. Also present were Frigg, his consort; Thor, his son; Aegir and Ran, the sea gods; and many other gods and goddesses.

“Gods of Asgard!” Odin’s voice was thunderous, and washed over his peers. They stopped their conversations almost immediately, and looked at him expectantly. “We must find a solution about what to do with these wicked people. They must be erased from existence in the most agonising and revolting way that can possibly been imagined. As the All-Father, I do not have enough time or sanity to think of a punishment appalling enough. Who would like to suggest one?”

“Strike them down with lightning!” bellowed Thor.

“Slaughter them in war!” yelled Tyr.

“Bombard them with arrows!” screeched Skadi.

“WAIT!” All of the Asgardians turned to see who had shouted. All eyes turned to the goddess Sif. Her stunning, golden locks cascaded down her back like a flowing waterfall of lustre. She was clothed in a shimmering robe of fine

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white silk entwined with glimmering silver threads. A diadem took pride of place on her head, showing her importance. She was seated on a regal throne carved from pale rowan, which was shaped like a collection of cornstalks. Her melted-chocolate eyes gleamed with ruthlessness. “We must think about this punishment carefully.”

“What do you mean carefully!” shrieked Ran incredulously. “Just drown them in a tsunami and get it over with!”

“NO!” thundered Sif harshly. Her tone and volume shocked the crowds of ethereal beings. “The murder of a person is one thing, but the double murder of the sovereigns of the Danes is another! Frigg and Grendel must be punished in a way that will last for all eternity, or at least until they are killed.”

“What do you propose that we do then?” questioned Odin.

“Surely I am not expected to be the only one with ideas for immortal punishments. There must be many that you wish to burden on your enemies, but haven’t had the chance to yet. When we were deciding the discipline for the god Loki, after he was found responsible for the murder of Baldr, every one of us had hundreds of suggestions in our moment of wrath. Use your anger and punish them so terribly, you will forever be feared by all of humankind.”

“What about we turn them into monsters,” asked Freya, the goddess of love and beauty. “I have an idea that will use the strength of our greatest enemy to our advantage. All I need is a courageous god who would dare journey into the lands of Hel herself.”

At the mention of Hel, everyone was silent. The temperature of the summer breeze plunged deeply. Clouds smothered the azure sky as a shadow fell upon the grass. Flowers wilted and leaves were torn from trees. The sound of hooves clopping along stone echoed around the kingdom, until the gods were confronted by one of their most feared. The goddess Hel, with her gargantuan horns and midnight robes, sat on a leather saddle. Her steed was a horse-shaped pile of rotting flesh clinging to several bones that were covered in filth and mould. She jumped off, her undead stallion crumbled into ashes, which quickly dispersed in the wind. A spear of dark obsidian appeared in Hel’s ivory hand, the tip surrounded by dim light. Her mouth was contorted evilly as she leered over her peers. Fangs dripping with blood protruded from the depths of her mouth.

“You called.” Her voice was cold and guttural, with a thick accent. Misty hands groped around her furs as the hundreds of souls that were sewn together tried to escape the darkness. All heads turned to Odin and Frigg. Their faces were like chalk, and their hands were clutching the sides of their thrones in fear.

“Y-y-yes,” stuttered Freya. The soft rises in her blonde hair had drooped and blackened, so they looked more like a dead crow. “I would like you to send me to the Isle of Heather.”

Every god present gasped. Hel’s wicked leer faltered for a second, but then returned quickly.

“Very well. You may go and visit my dearest brother. Make sure he doesn’t bite off your hand.” With this, she stared austerely at Tyr, who stared at the stump at the end of his arm. He opened his mouth to reply scornfully, but soon closed it in dread. The wind blew around Asgard as Hel sliced the air with her weapon, making a rip that glowed red and purple. Without a second thought, Freya stepped through.

She landed in a field of heather that stretched for miles. The sky was pitch-black apart from the glimmering stars and the moon. The howl of a wolf and the clank of chains convinced the goddess that she was in the right place. As she stood, she came face to face with a gargantuan creature. It was seven feet tall, with teeth so sharp they could piece diamonds. His skin was the colour of ink but had the rough texture of a Brillo pad. Its electric eyes gleamed with acreage and agony. The beast was shackled by bonds of iron that ran into the ground. Freya stepped back in fear, falling onto her back as she did so.

“Freya. Long time no see,” growled the wolf. The fangs glistened in the moonlight, making them look bigger and more dangerous. The goddess could barely speak as she looked straight into the eyes of Fenris Wolf. He was the most dangerous creature in existence, and his freedom was one of the signs that Ragnarok was to begin. He would supposedly kill Odin and the rest of the gods, and set the Nine Worlds alight, running through the flames as they destroyed all who did not bow to him.

“Fenris, I need to ask a favour.”

“A FAVOUR!” he roared. “YOU THINK THAT YOU CAN ASK ME FOR A FAVOUR AFTER I’VE BEEN TRAPPED HERE FOR MOST OF MY LIFE THANKS TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY!”

“Fenris, this will include killing some of the most disgusting beings in Midgard. If you help me, I will personally see to it that your bonds are slightly loosened, and you are given a little more way to run. You will be treated with food and gifts from all of the gods, and we will hold a banquet in your name. I promise that this will happen. Please, help us. I beg you.”

“Well, a feast and a little more freedom does sound nice. I’ll help you! What do I need to do?”

“Cause a big storm in the sea bordering the land of the Danes. Heimdal knows of the villains’ plans to sail over there, but their attempt will be in vain. You must make sure that nobody on that boat is left alive. They must all die, except for Frigg and Grendel. We shall deal with them.”

Without a second thought, Fenris opened his mouth, and let out a deafening howl. It sliced through the air and ripped heather from the ground. Freya was deafened as the dark waves churned around the island, washing over the plants and flying high onto the sky, before crashing back down again.

Miles away, a Viking longship was deeply in peril. The sea attacked the vessel, snapping the figurehead off the front. The wicked winds tore the sail, canvas flying through the air as it did so. Planks of wood fell into the grey waters as it smashed the hull to pieces. The crew screamed as they were thrown into the savage waves. They clung onto boxes and ropes, but were overcome almost immediately.

In the ship’s galley, Frigg and Grendel crouched in a corner as they hid from the wrath of the gods. They were already drenched to the bone, but their deep cuts were stung painfully by the salt. All of a sudden, the rotting wood on which they were sat crumpled into the waves, taking the evil pair with it. They clung onto each other tightly as seaweed, wind and waves swirled around them. Darkness from the bottom of the sea snaked up around their ankles, binding them like

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shackles. They were separated by a sharp crack of blinding lightning that struck the sea between them. They were soon covered by swampy darkness, bits of slimy seaweed and other disgusting items that had been drawn from the waves. They were thrown around in the water for hours and hours, until they were finally placed gently onto land by Ran, who felt sorry for them after their torture. She wanted to help them but wasn’t able to remove their curse. Odin himself had set it upon them, and now it would last forever.

VISUAL ART

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ISLA PEPWORTH

Breathing mixed media, watercolour and stitch

TATJANA HAYLOR

The Stairs

fineliner and colour pencil

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OLLIE M c CANN

The Gates collage and pen

AMEERAH KHAN

Smiles of Nature

acrylic ink and stitch

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ELSA EARNSHAW

Perfumed Air mixed media, ink and vintage lace

JOE HARES

The Waves

acylic ink

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MAX BAIGENT

Invisible Girl

acrylic paint, oil pastel and text

MAEVE ALLEN

Locked Away pencil and acrylic paint

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JOSHUA HAWKES

Cosmic Panda

colour pencil

ELORA ROYCHOWDHURY

Planet acrylic paint

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FINN WILLIAMS

Snoozing Child

digital photograph

RUTH BENNETT

Diamond Beach

digital photograph

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Reynisdrangar Sea Stacks

digital photograph

PROSE NON-FICTION

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ZOË BEAUMONT

Herm Island

WHAT MAKES US WHO WE ARE ? Is it the experiences we have, the people we surround ourselves with, or is it simply the genetics with which we are born? While a geneticist may argue that we are simply the expression of our DNA – something fixed, irreversible and hereditary – I believe that our past experiences help shape us into the people we are today. Whether negative or positive they have a profound impact on the way we view our life, and the choices we make.

The memory that I believe truly made me the person I am today, was formed during my childhood sailing trips.

Ever since my dad was a child himself, he had a passion for sailing, and after growing up sailing with his father, he was excited to share this important aspect of this part of his life with my mother and a family of his own. As a consequence, I grew up sitting on the bow of our boat in storms, getting splashed by waves as we rocked up and down. I grew up eating sweets from striped paper bags in seaside towns and getting fresh Chelsea buns from bakeries in the mornings. It was during these holidays I was taught how to sail, play cards and fish – skills that I now value deeply. Despite my occasional bouts of seasickness and my mum’s hatred of mess and confined spaces, they were in the end some of the best holidays I have ever been on.

It was a warm evening in the summer, the kind that makes you want to lie in a field and watch the sunset, and we had decided to go on a walk. The small island of Herm enchanted us as we passed on our boat, to the extent that we just had to see it – something about the isolation from civilization was enticing and irresistible. The rocky cliffs were iced with green grass and the trees clustered together, as if hiding a magical fairy forest. It was the perfect place.

Hopping off the dinghy onto the grass, we began our walk. It had barely been two minutes when my eye was caught by some curious holes set into the grass verge alongside the path. Dirt had been discarded nearby, marring the pristine view of the bay. I had just turned seven, the age when you start to cultivate your natural curiosity about the world around you, and the closest source of answers were your parents. Everything was a new wonder to me, a mystery to be solved. Now that I am older, I haven’t lost my enjoyment of learning. Knowledge is something I hoard and treasure – quite like a dragon – and it seems to never be enough. The exhilarating feeling of understanding a new concept or learning about a new animal never ceases to amaze me. And so, instinctively I asked my dad what the holes were. Watching his eyes light up with excitement I knew this was something he was an expert on.

According to him, the holes in the ground were the result of a herm, an elusive animal that migrated to the island thousands of years ago. They somewhat resembled beavers, with short legs and flat tails – perfect for swimming from the mainland with. They spin their tails like propellers, allowing them to swim. He paused and began to make wild swinging motions with his arms to imitate their tails. I giggled loudly with delight and smiled; he looked really stupid.

Some of the dog walkers on the path even looked over with curiosity and concern at the strange sight. I wondered if we’d see one, such a strange and foreign creature would make an interesting story to tell my friends.

It was at this point my mum chimed in. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to see one, as they were solely nocturnal creatures. I nodded in understanding. It made sense. If I were a herm, I would absolutely avoid people. “And they only eat glow worms,” she continued. This particularly fascinated me; icky gross facts were the peak of comedy, and after being introduced to National Geographic I had a profound interest in weird animals. To my astonishment, my mum explained how, due to their unusual diet, they glowed in the dark! That was it. I decided that I just had to see one for myself.

Reaching the town we passed by some ancient oil lamps – the ambient lighting, creating a cozy inviting atmosphere, cast warm shadows on the village shops. Pointing to the lamps, my mum explained that while their original purpose was to burn oil, the inhabitants of the village decided to use them to hold herms and utilize their natural light. “A cheaper source of light,” she quoted. I pictured the strange sight in my mind – herms running around in little cages on stalks, their eerie glow lighting up the village. I definitely preferred the new warm light to their strange green glow.

“They had six legs as well, making them really fast,” my dad interrupted. “And small white wings,” he exclaimed. It was at this point that the magic broke. I stopped in my tracks.

“Why would they swim to the mainland if they had wings?” I questioned suspiciously. The jig was up; they’d been rumbled. You could see it in their faces as they burst into laughter. Honestly, I was surprised that it took me that long to figure it out. In hindsight, the holes were probably rabbit burrows. I began to laugh with them – definitely causing a scene. But we didn’t care. Instead, we continued to walk and talk across the island. To others it probably looked like three children were laughing and bumping into each other on the horizon, walking into the sunrise.

Looking back on this moment, there were clearly lots of inaccuracies in the story, along with several obvious contradictions. But I was naïve and young, believing every word my parents said. I feel that I brought out a little of their inner child that day and even if a piece of me had realised that they were pulling my leg, the enjoyment of seeing how excited they were far outweighed it.

I think back a lot to that walk across the island, and I have arrived at the conclusion that it is one of my golden memories, something that shaped me as a person. The ability to be completely comfortable with an individual, to make fun of them and seamlessly weave stories together with someone you love is something I greatly admire in my parents’ relationship. The love my parents had for me, and the love they had for my family is represented in the efforts they put into my childhood to make it the most magical time of my life. It’s truly inspiring and pushes me to follow a similar path in life. Living in moments of magic and companionship, I hope to learn to inspire others the way that my parents have inspired me. The little memories that I have with them are testament enough to the kind of person I want to be. They are what make me who I am.

BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

JOSHUA WALMSLEY

Say-Do Gap

SOME PEOPLE WON’T FLOG A DEAD HORSE. I will cover my fists in horse carcass if that’s what it takes. The say do gap is the dilemma of reported concerns or intentions not being followed up in action, and this essay is based on a prompt from a Creative Writing exam in 2022.

A few months ago, I got a detention for writing a response to a survey distributed by the careers office at my school. The final question read “What do you see yourself doing at 25?” Being a bored, autistic teen with no self-control, respect, or maturity, I replied, thinking that whoever read it might get a kick out of my joke. I responded with “Selling crack out of your mum’s garage” – a deliberately ridiculous response that any sane person would have the dignity to ignore.

So how the hell does this relate to the Say-Do gap? Well, they say that what I did was wrong – and in some ways it was – but in this scenario, I want to write about what Bristol Grammar School don’t say about what they’ve done.

They don’t say that their motto “Ex spinis uvas”, is a light-hearted play on words about the slave traders and the plantations they extracted profit from in order to fund this school’s founding in 1532, to educate the sons of privileged slave traders and merchants.

They don’t say that they continue to honour these men with their motto, instead of having conversations about how and why we should dismantle white supremacy, which we benefit from, especially when we see the divergence between a prestigious academic institution and such an awful legacy.

They don’t say that their double standards are enforced by those with power, in order to control the rebelliousness of those without power.

They don’t say that the authoritarianism involved in the education provided under the guise of ‘professionalism’ and ‘good manners’, perpetuates the standards and benefits of the systems of racism, classism, and ableism.

They don’t say that this ableism can manifest itself in oppressive ways, such as expecting neurodivergent children to talk, behave and act the way that others do, including using language that has contextual meaning, societal standards and conventions attached that are not inherent within the words themselves.

They don’t say that neurodivergent youths are expected to justify or defend their behaviour, when it may be simply an expression of nonconformity and personal experience that isn’t understood by those around them.

What they do, despite the school’s racist motto, is show less understanding of light-hearted jokes about sensitive matters than I thought, as well as an expectation for me to abide by standards it cannot itself uphold.

What they do is uphold convention in the form of hierarchy and refuse to rework the ingrained double standards

that give those in control the power to completely disregard any possible notion that does not comply with the laws they enforce.

This is about so much more than a detention. This is about an incredibly privileged community. I don’t think that any one person is responsible for its hypocrisy but the community itself.

SYLVESTRA GRAY STONE

MAANASWINI MANISH

JOSHUA WALMSLEY

HELEN CORMACK

CHLOE HILLIARD

NAT TOWNSEND

AMEERAH KHAN

LORETA STOICA

ANNABEL EDEY

INDIA BARTON

ISLA REAVLEY

ADAM BURNS

ELLIE KARLIN

JOE HARES

LARA SMITH

CATE HARVEY

TOBY GREENE

OLLIE MCCANN

ISLA PEPWORTH

HANNAH DRAKE

DANIEL PORRITT

SOPHIE CONTENOT

ELORA ROYCHOWDHURY

JOOLES WHITEHEAD

TATJANA HAYLOR

JOSHUA HAWKES

ELSA EARNSHAW

ZOË BEAUMONT

JONATHAN MAY

RUTH BENNETT

NAOMI PENNEY

FINN WILLIAMS

JOSH MILLARD

MAX BAIGENT

MAEVE ALLEN