Arvon Anthology

La Neve Mostra Tutta La Verita

An Anthology of Creative Pieces written in the snowy hills of Shropshire

Published by Thomas Tallis School 2010 Copyright Š Chenai Takundwa, Eli Murray, Eliza Hopewell-Williams, Frances Waite, Frankie Mayo, Holly Taylor, Jerusha West, Jon Curtis-Brignell, Lucy Porter, Maddie Denton, Meghan Sullivan, Oonagh McGowan, Phoebe Demeger, Reuben Thomas-Davis, Rose Griffiths-Bonadio, Tallulah Harvey, Tennessee Williams and Zizzy Lugg-Williams This Anthology was created in association with the Arvon Foundation at the John Osbourne House in Shropshire with the help of the authors Bernadine Evaristo and Dean Parkin. It has been published for the purpose of distribution to a party or parties made known to the publisher by the aforementioned authors and organisation, at their own discretion.

Edited by Chenai Takundwa with assistance from the authors.

Cover illustration by Holly Taylor.

Images by Jerusha West.

This book is not for resale

La Neve Mostra Tutta La Verita

An Anthology of Creative Pieces written in the snowy hills of Shropshire

The Poetry Section

I come from…

By Chenai Takundwa

I come from a small Blue town Its streets all lined with trees Whose yellow blossomed branches Weep in the summer time Their sweet seep Falling with a plonk!

On our windscreen “It’s just like rain,” she says As she turns on the windscreen wipers.

I come from hushed midnight conversations Falling silent Whenever the disingenuous children Walk into the cloth covered living-room And play with the bulbous, crocheted cotton doily On the shiny wax-scented coffee table Bought from that blind old lady Who sews in the market.

I come from red and yellow sunsets and that smell before the rain and flying ants after and dance and song and laughter and akuna matata…

Yes, just like the movie I come from the mighty house of stone The forgotten legend Of how my ancestors roamed the earth When it was new and the animals could talk Of how they got their tusks From the kind Mambo So the roaring Shumba Would hunt them no more…

And other such tales Around the fire of Grandmother’s hut “Khumusha is so much better that Town, Mama.

They’ve got light bulbs in the sky!”

I come from‌

By Eli Murray

I come from the city But I didn’t really notice it Concreted gardens below and around me Surround me My own balcony of course!

Filled with flowers and plants.

I come from a reconstructed nature Mum came down from the North Dad went up there I come from somewhere between A confused accent baath/bath glaass/glass graass/grass trAnsport?

Not sure what to say, I get on with it.

I come from window gazing Cloud watching Not speaking, too much.

Grandfathers I never knew Grandmas I love and loved so Visits to a barn house in France, catch up with the family Mum stayed behind, moved to the city Visits to a red brick house in London, close I am growing up so close to where my father did I come from a front door, with the choice of blue, red or green.

I come from a field, with the choice of yellow, brown or green.

I see it now and then, different every time I come from constant noise of the vehicles and the voices from a bad nights sleep from a long days sleep I come from my bed and always go back there.

Always

By Eliza Hopewell-Williams

Gummy somewhere-tongue Of a boy’s first three-minute kiss (blind worm) Another pulsating surf a waveBaby blue Spray Oven timer in empty house, A boy touches his girl’s face, And someone puts Salt on wild strawberries He decides; “the most vulnerable part of A woman’s body is the top Skin pale thigh”- then Burst in a hot white bath.

Chalk scrapes across a white stone, She strains a sneeze Sea shore. All waves. Tick-RockPop. Two people simultaneously Blush.

The Poem of the Goat

By Eliza Hopewell-Williams

He is socially awkward.

The Poem of the Lily

By Eliza Hopewell-Williams

Her petals are the tongues of Beautiful girls.

Always

By Frances Waite

Always water cascades from a fall, always each droplet disperses light that scatters and lingers falling on, touching on, leaves which stand pondering and protruding high above the rest Sometimes they edge to the floor, intoxicated by the soil and the underworld which incorporates centipedes, beetles, frogs each with their own story

Always water touches lips dancing underneath lights in glasses stark, dim, shadowing, never-ending, fluorescent always light from the sun depending on the spin, the twirl, the curve, the tilt There is always the spin, the flash of comets, the craters on the moon always etched never moving, nor growing the sea of tranquillity no choices, decisions, no pumping, no pulsation mounds of rock and dust Always there will be people carrying out calculations, studying, reading Losing. Life, loved ones, love Everything disappearing in a flash, bang, gone Always there will be fighting, chasing, warring, beating Trivial matters.

Political. Important. Un-important.

Always we will know that everything must end.

Always we know that she wants to end.

The sun will eventually stop shining, spectacularly transforming Supernova Everything frazzled, abolished, wounded Seeping.

No pulses, no tick Always there is the hope of hope.

Mr. Twiggy

By Frankie Mayo

At the beginning of the year, the tree stood tall Proud and defiant by the back garden wall Up Mr. Twiggy, we dared to climb All of the summer, all of the time It would still stand here now, at the back garden wall The largest tree in the garden, the proudest of them all If it wasn’t for the storm on that terrible night And the fire in the sky, the blinding light.

Trunks hit the earth, our tree in flames And left only with a memory of our childhood games.

An interpretation of Always and Never

By Holly Taylor

At this moment a viper springs upon its prey and gouges venom into its neck.

A lone child wanders around the frozen meats section in a nearby supermarket.

Elsewhere a woman applies thickly inches of cream upon her stomach and waits for her dog to enter And lick it off.

Always a light will be flickering on the roof of a piss-stenched, dampened toilet.

A man straddles a bull in hope of redemption; he is thrown to the hard desert floor.

Ribs are broken. Men will jeer.

A sister falls in love with the idea of suicide and moths flutter their way into a musky lampshade, each tenderly pats against the side.

In time people will meet, gather in groups and discus each of their sexual intentions.

Swingers congregate.

A small red haired girl gets trapped in a fridge But later realises she can escape.

A drop of bleach squirts into a partner’s eye and the jay cloth leaves a mix of wet and hair on the bathroom floor.

Two siblings are separated at birth but later meet in life and lust for one another.

They are isolated from the world.

Always will there be a firm hand forcefully flung towards a tender cheek, areas become swollen.

There will be blood carefully dripping down a flight of sharp stairs and a fox takes comfort in the copper taste.

Right now a father breast feeds his first born son And a hidden society becomes exposed.

In a clinic waiting room a 19-year-old girl picks the skin around her nails and wonders if her Chlamydia test will be positive.

Around the world there is a flat faced gymnast falling from a beam in unison with a bullet blazing towards a rabid dog in the suburbs.

In a small town an elderly woman crucifies a pigeon and places it outside her porch.

Spit flies into an interest’s mouth and sweaty palms are exchanged.

A young boy accidentally staples his hand; he is left speechless.

Always heads will drop.

Never Will there be silence.

In Search For…

By Jerusha West

In search for inspiration Deliberation Contemplation.

In search for inspiration.

A revelation?

In search for inspiration Maybe it will come; or not.

I come from‌

By Jon Curtis-Brignell

I come from the fringes of a town that is Almost, but not quite The countryside; I come from badgers and foxes, Hills and drives.

I come from learning to write the number 8 In one fluid motion, Instead of two clumsy orbs Precariously perched on top of one another; I come from spelling tests And lessons in punctuation and grammar.

I come from linseed oil being rubbed with a cloth Into a gradually darkening piece of willow.

I come from reading under the covers at night; I come from the opticians More times than I care to remember.

I come from absence, As well as the wanted presents From an unwanted presence.

I come from robots in disguise that are More than meets the eye.

I come from four strings Rather than six.

I come from Sundays that Never quite begin.

I come from a sense of righteousness Borrowed from 1980s action films: Primary coloured worlds where Biceps, one liners and synthesisers are King.

I come from a long time ago In a galaxy far, far away.

I come from sleepover conversations Late into the night That are still Continuing.

The Secret

By Lucy Porter

The secret inside of me seeks redemption, urges me to cleanse.

She Morse codes against my chest When the air falls still.

She tugs at my voice box to produce sounds not words.

To punish.

The centre of my every move, touch, breath, thought.

I can feel her engorging, feasting, and leaving only my secret.

She dances, wiggles a long slow learning curve up to my lips, hesitates, and picks her moment.

A chameleon to her surroundings.

I am merely a controlled secret, sanctioned in my own embodiment.

She’s set the pace, almost a lap ahead; All I can do now is try and catch up with her.

Always

By Maddie Denton

Everything is happening all the time.

Everything you have done and everything you will do Is happening at this very moment.

A child is being born in a burst of agony and ecstasy, A tree in a forest falls to the floor with anguish and a groan.

A million kettles are boiling, all for different mugs, And they reach their climax in a cannon of whistles and steam.

The sun is burning someone’s skin, cracking Peeling into red flakes on the floor; Someone is being blasted with radio waves.

Someone, somewhere, is crying, crying over the loss of their child, Their husband, their sister, crying about the past, the present, the future.

Someone, somewhere, is dying.

Always, there is a cat being left outside – too many intolerable problems.

A snowflake falling, Letters being printed.

They spell words, sentences, poems, criticisms, threats. Do you feel threatened?

A candle is being lit, a candle is burning, a candle burns out.

Wax falls on the table and leaves a stain and an attempted scratch.

Always

By Meghan Sullivan

Always someone is late, a women stands outside a cafĂŠ in the rain The drops glancing off her head.

Somewhere an oak tree, bending with age Falls cut down for furniture, chairs and dressers.

Right now a child is crying, sobbing for its mother, the panic Searing through its chest Churning upwards to its eyes.

Somewhere a mother comforts a child, soothing words And heads lolling onto breasts, all traces of panic gone.

Somewhere a fox lurks in an urban jungle, stalking And seeking its prey from plastic trees, carcasses spilling out.

Somewhere a wrong decision is being made Somewhere someone’s life changes.

Somewhere presents are opened, the joys in the box diminished Somewhat disappointing in the unforgiving light.

Somewhere a kiss is stolen, a first kiss, Somewhere else the 300th both as tender.

In France a new love is found, in America a love is lost.

Somewhere rain clouds roll away to reveal the sun.

Somewhere a snowflake falls, nowhere is it the same.

Always a bird sings, always death claims a victim.

Life always moves on.

The poem of the magpie

By Oonagh McGowan

The magpie in me wants to steal them all: The sparkling, shiny, glistening, sequinned things; The autist in me wants all the lines all straight The labels facing the same way, exactly; The poet in me wants to transform each simple concrete noun, Into a glittering, perfect metaphor.

The dancer in me, wants to glide across the floor In a perfect quickstep, foxtrot, cha cha cha.

The minimalist in me wants clean lines, all in white Called names like chalk, and linen, and bone; But the hoarder in me, keeps on keeping stuff And the me in me likes red, and blue, and purple;

The prescriptivist in me wants to introduce a law Which bans people from using “less” when they mean “fewer” But I don’t know why Because I’m a descriptivist at heart.

Caveman: A Biography

By Phoebe Demeger

The caveman inside me is a bit of a wanker by modern standards.

That’s why I keep him inside.

The caveman inside me is sick of bus lanes and cycle paths; He would rather no cars at all.

He owns the road.

The caveman inside me has no time for washing up, for raisin fingers.

He would happily eat with his hands and make jewellery from the bones.

His choice of clothing is his own throbbing abdominals, glistening with enemy blood.

The caveman inside me rips the breast implants from women: Be who you are, dammit!

He is the wolf-whistler, not the wolf-whistlee.

He strides up to women and commands submission – they gladly oblige.

He gathers up his anger in sacks, swings it at other men who get in his way.

The caveman inside me would never dream of waiting in line for a stenching, clunking bus – he pounds the Earth with his feet, dammit!

Shouts, yells, curses, spits, stamps, storms.

Braves the rain without a waterproof, the daredevil!

He drinks not tea, but panther-black beer!

The caveman inside me was the first to introduce two sticks together, to liberate fire. He changed the world with his bare hands.

When’s it my turn, dammit?

(And he never plans to say ‘Pardon my French’).

Eternal

By Reuben Thomas-Davis

Somewhere a fire is sparked, ignited; Tinder and tender.

Simultaneously a gramophone blares into a room; A forgotten age; urchins and kings, Meanwhile an ant is crushed and flattened under a child’s shoe.

Always shines the sterile, UV glow in a lab, A leopard; crouched and sprung chooses this moment to strike As a bear snatches a salmon from the air on its journey upstream, And a sister touches her infant brother for the first time.

Choose a moment, a comb of honey is plucked from a hive, And the bones of a badger are crushed, cracked and crippled, As he rests upon the warm road.

As you read, a chopper whirls downwards, losing control Whilst a harp sounds in a lonely barn.

Always a mountain goat stumbles, Scrambling for a purchase on the scared mountain face, A gush of water spews from a broken main.

In a thousand places, a thousand hearts beat in unison, as they realise; We only glean a glimpse of all that can be seen Only accomplish a fragment of all that can done.

Together with a smile upon their face they set sail for the evening sun.

Always

By Tallulah Harvey

Somewhere a coat hanger rocks, humiliating Stripped naked.

Somewhere cold stands a girl shivering, quivering, waiting, sleep tinged eyes glazing, wiped away with frosty fingers. At this moment the sofa sighs, inhaling As a plump tush plants itself upon its face.

Sinking deep into its cheeks, boneless and aged.

Always a small boy wriggles into bed, crawling under Its skin. Pop! and a smiling head emerges with An elastic ping! Always misused, abused, oppressed, sticky Lies the pitiful soap bar.

Scabbing, flaking, misshapen.

Here look, a girl picks a rose and places it in her hair A tangled growth of black curls erupt from Pins that imprison it.

Somewhere falls a drop of wine from a Generous cup clasped in merry fingers.

Seeping through the carpet, rough, smooth, plush.

Blood stains, evidence of clumsy consumption.

Each fragment moment, second Always forgotten by the ever bounding time.

La Verita’ Delle Pecore (The truth of the sheep) Da Rose Griffiths Bonadio (By Rose Griffiths Bonadio)

Quando sta nevicando (When it snows) fa freddo dappertutto nel mondo (the world is cold all over) Ma mentre la maggioranza delle cose sono bianche (But while the majority of things are white) la neve rivela le pecore per quello che sono... (the snow reveals the sheep for who they really are...)

Bugiarde! Bugiarde!

(Liars! Liars!)

Ma non e’ la loro colpa (But it isn’t their fault,) Vedi, (You see,) Presumibilmente bianche - (Presumably white - ) ma il loro colore richiama quello dell’orine (their true colour is that of piss) Ne e’ prova il gruppo in cima alla strada!

(If you don’t believe me just walk up the street and wait till it snows!)

Quando la neve scomparira’ (But when the snow melts,) le pecore splenderemo ancora (the sheep will shine again) Quindi...

(Therefore...)

Non giudicate fino a quando neve perche’ (Don’t judge until it snows) la neve mostra tutta la verita’! (because the snow reveals all!)

The poem of the Salt and the Pepper

By Tennessee Williams

A perfect example Of things not having to be the same, In order to get along.

The Poem of the Locker

By Tennessee Williams

It’s a good place to stash Things you don’t want others to find, As only you Hold the key.

The Poem of the Moon

By Tennessee Williams

It’s lonely being the moon; Everybody says that he loves you, But few have made the effort to visit.

I Come From

By Zizzy Lugg-Williams

Where are you from? Over and over.

Britain I reply. Over and over.

Is it possible to not feel anything?

Not white?

Not black?

Not even in between?

You can’t come from a place if you’ve only been once.

You can’t come from a place if you’ve moved away.

London.

I would say.

But then why?

You can’t come from a place just because you live there.

But then you can’t come from a place if you’ve only been once.

Maybe I don’t come from a place but from things.

I come from laughter maybe.

From wood fires and gas fires Apple Macs. Record players. Vegetables from the garden and homemade furniture found in skips.

The restrictive religion of atheism.

Dungarees even at weddings because dresses stop you crawling.

I come from the M25, the Severn bridge, Reading service station for the first loo break.

The Lucozade sign at the mouth of London that means I am home.

The motorway sign, “Croeso y Cymru� that means I am home.

I come from the Houses of Parliament late on a Sunday night and the lone protestor who camps for his cause throughout my memory.

I come from Cardiff accents, from Caerphilly accents, from that strange neutral British accent.

I come from Mozart warbling, New Order blaring, Prokofiev thrashing Stone Roses pounding and the quiet ruffle of the Sunday paper.

The Prose Section

C10

By Chenai Takundwa

I’ve been here for about three months now, and it’s amazing. Most days, you wouldn’t even think there was a war going on. The locals are very accepting of us. They even invite us to their various gatherings with their colourful foods, sweet beers and pulsating rhythms. Most days, we’re just one of them.

We’re more like body guards than soldiers really. Last week I was part of the President’s escort. I drove the sergeant’s 4x4 right behind the president’s limousine. As we took him into the Sheraton, His Excellency himself pulled me aside, patted me on the back and said, “I’ve heard about you young man. Keep up the good work Comrade,” leaving a crisp twenty dollar bill in my hand after he shook it.

An extra round of Chibuku for everyone that night.

Most days are good, but yesterday was one of the few bad ones. We were running low on funds at the base and the road blocks don’t really get us much these days. No one travels unless it’s an emergency. This meant that Kepesi and I were going to have to do the rounds in the sergeant’s 4x4.

We were the only two soldiers in the base trained to do these, so it got us a lot of respect. And money.

Our wives and children never wanted for anything. Usually, we did these rounds only once in a while, when we needed some extra cash or someone in the village stepped out of line. Recently, they’ve been stepped up, even when we don’t need the money. After what happened last night, I can never do another round again.

Flash Fiction

By Eli Murray

The room was full of paper of all different assortments: writing paper, drawing paper, printing paper, books, magazines, newspapers. In the centre of the room there was nothing, ever, it was always empty. A clean white rug sat there, the centrepiece of the room. There was a desk, in the far corner, but it was of little importance, never used. The paper ran along all five walls of the room, each stack the same height. The walls themselves were empty – blank, white, clean, apart from the furthest one, which had illegible words scribbled across it.

This room was not for living, no bed, no chair, and yet it smelled of a body hard at work. A lot of time must have been spent in here; by one person?

Tomato

By Eliza Hopewell Williams

A lonely man sits in a room. This room is white. His suit is a crisp grey and pressed, on the slightly less white but equally crisp bed. He sits on a hard bare wooden chair naked. There is a radiator, table, lamp and a shelf in the room, all white or wooden. On the shelf is a clean but untouched full collection of Kafka. His hair is greyer at the tips than the root, and his eyes are bright. The bright eyes are not a result of happiness, achievement of anything fresh, but just as if they have been closed his whole life and they now briefly brighten in search of change.

That morning he had thought to make himself breakfast, but became stuck in the process and now sat at the table with what he had found on a stark white plate in front of him. His eyes watered. Never before had he slipped into love so acutely strong. Never before had he slipped into love. Never loved never. His love blushes, blushing. She shines dully in the harsh skylight. Her skin is smooth like wax.

He tentatively reaches out, shaking, and touches her face. Her hair is dark and thick. A slug of love slides up his throat and tentacles reach out, combined in tongue and almost bleed with happiness.

She sits silently and waits for him to slice her open.

Automatic writing

By Frances Waite

The lights twirled and fell around me. I stood high, the lighting changing as different combinations of trains pulled in and out. The air flew and hung. Switching like the trains. Controlling each other. I was a tiny figure, so high, but yet still so low. Wanting to plummet down, but I was not quite there yet.

The hustle and bustle of people took me away from real life for a few hours as I nonchalantly waited for the train to stop and for my nightmares to return. The pulse of the train always pushing us forwards. I looked out the window, the reflection in the mirror (me) shadowing my vision and transporting me even further away from reality. Thus, the rain was getting dispersed in all colours, each droplet immersed in a different colour, each drop radiating and flinking. Then I dropped back a level and I was back to the train; the fumes of potato had caught up with me, and now the smell of cheese lifting into the ceiling of the carriage; each grate seeming to emanate its own smell. In the harsh fall of the night the grass now so fluffy like candyfloss. Bubbling from the ground and sprouting from grains.

The crowd on the train dispersed as we caught the next station, and the left-behind ketchup bottles were seeming to represent the people that had just left. Never leaving, never dying, never moving forward. Though now we were here, people lifted bags like rifles. And there was just me and the ketchup bottles looking frazzled and broken in this light. Dead. Gone. I felt so alone, yet it wasn’t me that had gone, it was them and now reality was beginning to squeeze between the forge of window and pane. Tiny imaginary whispers floating from outside haunting and taunting. It wasn’t okay and then I was there in the room seeing and breathing in there. So untouchably real. The red, everywhere.

My vision clouded, obscured, gone and replaced by horror. Shadows and the past and her, and the red. I wanted to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, so I could breathe, so I could see (‘don’t blame me’).

Please, don’t. Blame. Me. Her ending was not peaceful, not quiet, not like a whisper from a tree or the float of a feather. I was the tree and she was the whisper.

In the Drawing Night

By Frankie Mayo

I glance behind me and see the single line of footprints I’ve made in the snow. The path is shadowed by tall trees but I have to squint my eyes every so often as the shafts of sunlight pierce the dappled pathway. I reach a river, once fast flowing but now clogged with the constant snowfall. I can see the glittering lights flicker on in the distance as the sun draws near its destination and a village prepares for the night.

However I’m still confronted with the watery scar on the mountain before me; I notice a ruined bridge only slightly downstream, but disguised by a fallen and snowy pine. I scamper across the trunk of the fallen giant, but stop short because the tree has cracked and broken. It is clear lightning caused this damage by the heavily weathered burn marks on the cracked wood.

I compose myself, taking two steps backwards and breathe heavily. Quickly darting forward I launch my body off the bark and forwards onto the bridge. I land with a thud after my quick flight, the icy bridge making my footing unsure in the drawing night. I walk away, almost slipping again down the slope as the night is dark, but I re-gain my balance and stumble onwards, towards the promise of light.

7 Days

By Holly Taylor

I’m a kind natured man, never caused any harm; wouldn’t touch a fly.

I was quiet at school; took interest in things such as conkers. I liked them.

The round.

I would never blaspheme in front of children.

Never would I do that.

Never in front of children.

I see them often. Walking past my front window. Snot dribbling down their chapped buttoned noses.

Swine.

I see her.

Everyday, apart from Saturdays and Sundays where she goes out with her other friends. Girlfriends I suspect.

She leaves for school at 8.25 on most days, if she’s woken up at around 7.15.

I catch her at 8.27; on average it takes her 2 solid minutes to walk past my house Wearing that tight fern green woollen jumper of hers- nobody wears it like she does- the ‘V’ arrowing down her chest.

Her slick flaxen hair always perfectly ribboned in the centre of her parting leading south to hover with at least ½ an inch above her broad shoulders.

And her crisp white socks never breaching above her fragile ankles, little black slightly scuffed pumps at the toe. Her scruffy side.

The one thing protecting herA pleated navy and yellow tartan skirt willowing around her tender thighsBut still revealing an inch of her softly puttied knees.

She has a slight squint about her, as if she’s always searching. She towers above her friends.

A fast bloomer.

Her top lip slightly more potent than the bottom, a glossy nude lubricates the cracks. Her coarse lashes and fluttering almond shaped eyes.

The colours of nature and she is nature’s greatest form.

I am her guardian, God. She is my creation.

Eve. She’s an impish little thief.

Yet she is untouched.

Italian room

By Jerusha West

The room was an incredibly beautiful one, the type of place you’d go to if you wanted to cleanse your mind from the various frustrations of living in the city, or merely escape the many pleasant, but sometimes overly-hysterical cackles and shrieks from down on the beach. There was a pale green painted wooden chest of drawers in one corner, and beside it, a large curved kaleidoscopic vase, full of cream white roses which filled the room with a delightful scent of sweet purity and a sense of enormous tranquillity.

A Room Named Regret

By Jon Curtis-Brignell

In this room, a small skylight illuminates a slim, rectangular area of the worn, thinning carpet. Four white walls face inwards, unadorned by pictures or other decoration. A small desk sits opposite the carefully made single bed. On the desk sits a chessboard, the pieces lined up in formation, anticipating their next move.

On the bed is a clean and pressed brown flannel suit, meticulously arranged next to a crisp white shirt and dark brown tie. At its feet, two shoes stand lightly shined, ready to cautiously tread the city sidewalk. In a slim oak wardrobe, six more suits hang similarly in the darkness, varying shades each waiting for the allotted day when it is their turn to be worn; they all know when this will be.

On a small bedside table, there is a glass of water perched atop a copy of a novel the owner of the room has read many times before. It does not matter which chapter he reads before he closes his eyes at night; he knows how the story will end.

Sitting, waiting, in the closed desk draw is a small box containing a diamond ring. The box has not been opened for many years, but its owner knows it is still there; he cannot erase this fact from his consciousness. The draw will remain closed, the box will remain unopened, and the ring will remain unworn.

Dear mum

By Lucy Porter

I wish words could construct some image of this place; if conflict were a colour the place would be dripping, drowning in its shade. I am living in constant limbo, the choking realism of our premature deaths or futile dreams of ‘Afghanistan’s Heroes.’

Out here there is very little time to think, I am thankful for that.

I am constantly being puppeted, moulded to conform to a ‘real soldier’ with an hollowed inside, who does not smell the gasoline dripping stenched bodies nor skin turned to fruitcake stuck flapping to my heel, nor the thick significant bump in the tanks, slowly compressing numb blended bodies, adding a mere unevenness to the floor.

Those are the times when I bury my head, deep in my collar where very faintly there is the comforting smell of orange and berries, our flat, your washing powder which seeps deep, deep into my lungs , aromatic and breath feeding. This can’t be it, this won’t be it, this is no life, I won’t let it be.

All my love, I won’t leave you.

Your son

War

By Maddie Denton

It was funny, yesterday, having my birthday here. My twentieth birthday and my first time away from home. When I woke up I forgot partially where I was, and I expected to see my mother walk in with breakfast for me, on a tray that I got for her last Christmas. I thought she would be there with a book, or a suit, or maybe a pair of slippers, wrapped in her crisp, red wrapping paper. But she wasn’t.

When I opened my eyes properly I was still here; nothing had changed. My cot-sized bed was still too small for me, I banged my head on the bed above me as I got up again and the floor was still rough and cold. No one came to see me; no one even cared. Everyone just remained in his or her own little bubble, grunting and shuffling along. I didn’t want to say anything, so I didn’t. I was asked why I was so ‘distant’ and I tried to explain, but he who asked didn’t care. He said to me that it had been his birthday last February and he had still been here, and every year he wondered where he’d be so lucky to still be here next year. It took me a while to work out why he would be lucky; idyllic was a word I knew not now, and if heaven were a place, it would be far from here. Then I realised what he meant, and it scared me, it really did. What hope for me was there if everyone else was scared too, if everyone was meant to be braver than I?

I said nothing for the rest of the day, at least when it was optional. I concentrated all my energy on firing. I’ve always found it so difficult to hold a gun and pull the trigger on someone’s life, but suddenly it wasn’t so difficult anymore. We were just practising so no one was getting hurt but I was imagining the bullets sharply piercing someone’s skin and them collapsing to the floor in a messy failure. It gave me great ecstasy – I pictured everyone as a light switch being turned off, one by one – I was the bulb that would remain, and this will not all be over until I am the only light remaining. I know you think I’ve gone mad but how can I survive if everyone is trying to turn me off too? I’ve joined the game, and I will come out alive; I want to see my next birthday.

A knock at the door

By Meghan Sullivan

That room is the room that greets you when you open the door, dark and tall with a narrow wooden staircase in the middle. He hates that staircase so straight-laced it keep him in line, knocks him back like his cloying marriage. If he were the kind of man to drink too much whisky and not enough soda that dismal staircase would prove an obstacle. It was a straight line in its steepness, it seemed to push him down to respectability, you couldn’t stumble up those steps tipsy, drink in hand. You had to be sober, thinking of nothing but business and money, life’s only objective. The room held him back, it had been in this family for generations and he felt the need to grow, expand out of the heavy atmosphere of the house. Rip the crusty wallpaper of the walls and stop living the middleclass dream, the dream that was his nightmare. Yes, Alec hated those stairs; especially the way they climbed upwards making the room seem lofty.

The entrance hall seemed to be his own personal Bastille, the four walls keeping him within the belly of the house. The house itself had held innumerable prisoners’, maids, cooks, their backs broken by the thankless toil of keeping the house alive. Alec remembered how he loved the house as a child, the grandeur and beauty of the lofty entrance hall, now it had faded and held nothing but a disconnected fascination for him. All laughter and desire, anything untoward, had packed up its permanent residence. They still returned occasionally, but like visitors who swung by in a carousel of laughter and warmth they stayed for the night and then fled in the early hours of the morning; leaving nothing but a scent of expensive perfume in their wake. He lived a highly respectable and blameless life, yet he couldn’t for one moment mistake it for happiness. For years he had lived a prosperous life, for years the carousel of middleclass dinner parties, business, and luncheon at the club had been his whole life, and he suspected that would be it, all he would carry to the grave. Marked on his gravestone: Alec Bagley A respectful man Well loved by his business partner and wife.

That was until a loud knock startled him from his mid-morning slumber.

Camaraderie

By Oonagh McGowan

Dear Mum, It’s proper hot here. Like you wouldn’t believe. You know when we went to Turkey that time, the whole of the family, and Louise got sick because of the heat. Well that doesn’t even come close. It’s so dry it’s like the air is choking you, and the dust. It gets into you, everywhere. You know what I’m like about stuff being clean. Well I don’t like it I can tell you. It’s like at the seaside when the sand gets in your toes and all over and even in the car on the way home and in your bedroom later it’s still there. Well it’s like that only worse.

I used to love our trips to the seaside. Me, you, Dad, Gemma and Lou and Nan, all of us together.

Them days was good. I’ve been thinking about them a lot since I’ve been out here.

Anyway, I’m writing this from the tent. I share it with a few of the lads but it’s just me in here right now.

They’re great lads they really are. And you get this great feeling of - I dunno - all being in it together.

There’s a word for it but I can’t remember it. We learnt it at school but I can’t remember it now. You know me I never had many friends at school. Dunno why. Couldn’t wait to get out of that place. I always had Ben though so it weren’t too bad. Ben always stood up for me. He was like a brother to me. I would of liked a brother.

Don’t get me wrong I love them sisters of mine Mum! Give them a hug from me won’t you? How’s little Gems doing now she’s started school? I bet she’s really enjoying it ain’t she? Bright as a button that one. That’s what I always tell her anyways. And what about Lou? Write soon and let me know how they’re getting on. I love that picture that Gems did that you sent of me in my uniform. Made me feel right proud it did. I keep it in my pocket and I look at it all the time. I used to have it on the wall… but I took it down.

Anyways as I said the lads is great. It’s like a proper family out here right enough. Except there is this one lad. Keeps on picking me for some reason. Dunno what I’ve done to him honest I don’t.

The others are a right laugh but he always seems to find something to get at me about. Like Gems’ picture. I don’t get it. But you don’t want to know about all that.

Here’s hoping you’re all well, Love to everyone, Yours ever, Jamie

After the Transformation

By Phoebe Demeger

The stirrings of keratin subsided, the sickly bone-warping nestled into shape. Nerves on end, alert, electricity flowing. A ribbon of burning hot and numbing cold streamed through her nostrils, tickling the forefront of her brain. Four to the floor, sturdy comfort with clicking claw tips. Her flustered heartbeat slowed to a rhythmic heave. Ribs out and in, new skin taughtened then released. Lashes hung over dull neon orbs.

One deep sniff.

Caught on the air as clear as a slap, the warmth and bounce of children. Her children. She riverpadded through the hall.

To protect.

A dewy, black muzzle penetrated the gap in the doorframe, nudging it open. Ignoring their screams, ignoring the cushions rebounding off her shoulders, she clambered onto their beds, licked at their stomachs and necks, nuzzled, huffed, batted.

To nurture.

Rumbling, sandpaper growls reverberated within her throat. Soothing, a call to behave, relax. Their confused screams had ceased, replaced by soft, puppyish whimpering. They couldn’t understand how their nightmare creature, the grandmother-crunching monster, had not only manifested in their room but was cuddling up to them. Spongy tongue, chinchilla-goat caresses. Fangs reduced to affectionate nips. Incomprehensible.

Her body became a windbreaker. Pulsing and sweet, semi-curled around her little ones. They grasped each other, more for security than from pure fear.

To guard.

Remember

By Reuben Thomas-Davis

Robins chirp softly in the winter breeze as the snow-kissed sun slips unnoticed towards the waterline.

In front of the man, sprawling fields of sugar-white snow glistens below the frosted evergreens. He clenches his lungs, absorbing the breathtaking landscape for the last time. Beyond the trees and fields lies a lake – ice receding into water then to ice.

He first experienced the view as a young man, a nomadic cattle herder travelling from town to town selling his cattle. As a young man he walked by the lake for a drink from the clear spring water that carved down the valley opposite and ran into the lake. As he walked he was pursued in silence by a Nymph. She craved for his sharp jawbone, unshaven stubble and crisp scent. She emerged from the water into the calm summer evening; he was not shocked but transfixed by her vast, endless black eyes. That evening he was granted a wish, a wish that would emancipate him from the nomadic life he had grown to despise, a wish that granted him a wife and handsome children. On the condition he returned to the Nymph to join her in the lake before he died. If he did not comply he would be forgotten, memories of him erased from all those he had known and loved.

In that place he first kissed his promised wife, first cradled his first-born child – wide-eyed and beautiful. He returns now, alone, happy, as his wick in the candle of life begins to burn out, a webbed hand reaches for him from the lake, slender and smooth. He grasps it willingly, not defeated but fulfilled, content, remembered.

Cara mama e papa

By Rose Griffiths Bonadio

Come’ state? How are you?

Non so dove’ iniziare. I don’t know where to start...

I get up at 5.25. I wake up at 3.25.

I prepare breakfast for the people on the team.

I sit underneath the red light.

I study the radar.

It goes bleep, bleep. My very own lullaby.

I stay under the flickering red light until the clock says 1800 – nightfall.

Then I walk heavily along the cold metal grates. I taste liquid iron in mouth.

I wish I could talk to you about [CENSORED] and how this reminds me of when I was 5 and I fell down the stairs.

The other day when we left [CENSORED] and arrived at [CENSORED] all I could think of was that time we drove to Bergamo and how our car broke down…except this time; we did not have a car to sleep in.

I need [CENSORED] I want [CENSORED] but I cannot get it.

I hope [CENSORED] but I love you mama e papa no matter what.

My sergeant says we’ll be back on [CENSORSHIP] so I’ll see you soon.

All my love Eduardo

The Duchess’ Slippers

By Tallulah Harvey

The Duke’s house was grand; looming, towering high, it was well respected and admired for its ostentatious beauty. I quivered in its presence. Looking down upon me it winked and flashed me an intimidating smile that made me suddenly aware of my inferiority. It knew that I was no prince nor lord, but merely a shoemaker, a good one none the less, but alas, only a shoemaker - and it didn’t want me to forget it. I had been hired to make the most illustrious pair of slippers for the Duchess’ nimble feet. The Duke’s first and long deceased wife had borne him one child, and his present wife: two.

Re-marrying within a year of his eldest’s birth. Both wives were beautiful beyond words, one modest, the other supercilious: aware of the power her beauty held. The Duchess had requested a pair of shoes like no other, ones that became part of her beauty, reflecting her image. The Duke, summoned for me, enticing me with the promise of a rich reward. He had paid for my room and hospitality at a local Inn not far from the Duke’s home. I was to regularly attend a meeting with the Duke to sensor progress. This was my first visit; excited for a challenge, I greedily anticipated the Duchess’ ideas.

The door swung open to reveal a hooded figure; bowing slightly, they lead me to where the Duke was situated, awaiting me. There was a suspicious wiggle in their walk, a swaying pendulum, rhythmic and hypnotizing. I was seated next to the Duke and once more I felt substandard. The Duchess entered, followed sheepishly by two more hooded figures, who joined the first at the side of the room standing in a straight line militantly. The Duchess - a tall woman - perched on a seat facing me; she observed me severely before smiling as if she had seen something she liked, but I believed it to be my skills rather than my appearance. A skeletal figure, not sickly slender but with thick bones jutting out of her skin, a square jaw. She exuded warmth: golden brown, baked to perfection. Hair: thick, short, dark, fiery.

“I like diamonds.” Her voice, quiet and sweet, resembled a shy, spoilt child. The word “diamonds” lingering in her mouth agape, tongue curled. A frozen expression on her face that suggested that the very idea or word of such jewels was itself a sensual experience, and one to be savoured.

“You designed the empress’s diamond shoes did you not Marco?”

“No!” - shrill and hurt - “I want something no other woman owns, not diamond-encrusted, but diamond shoes.”

“Is that possible?” the Duke slowly enquired, unconvinced.

The hooded figures became animated, pouring drinks and such. One swung round too quickly.

Her hood fell off, a long slim pale neck, hair chasm black, tied simply distinctly with a red ribbon. A present: I eagerly longed to unwrap her. Quickly, she concealed herself once more, before the Duke noticed. It appeared to me these were his daughters.

A Note

By Tennessee Williams

I sit in my concrete tower. King of the Wasteland. Surveyor of the Sand.

God of Nothing.

I have one window in my tower. A long thin strip of glass that runs round the top floor, reinforced with mesh. Dividing the flat nothingness into squares.

The walls of the floor I occupy, are bare, square polystyrene tiles, that one can push one’s fingernails into, imprinting little half moons into the white. The off-white, speckled floor is also in squares. So formal. So straight. The speckles on the tiles dance before ones eyes, swirling and grouping into patterns and figures. Hypnotic.

A way to pass the time.

I stand and peer through the glass - my only other pastime.

I contemplate death.

I begin by wondering if death is more fulfilling than life. The unchanging wasteland gives no answers, so I begin to think the answer is Yes. I then climb up onto the roof and stand at the edge. I feel the ridge before the drop, the iron shavings, the little chips of paint that stick to the soles of your feet. I smell the rust and the welding; after what seems like an eternity of standing at the brink, I fling myself out of my stupor and onto the floor, pushing my face into the metal and inhaling its solidity, its attachment to the world.

It’s become ritual.

Everyday as the sun sets, so orange it could break your heart. I stand. And I contemplate.

Letters from the Frontline

By Zizzy Lugg-Williams

Hey Matty!

How’s things back home? How’s school? Your grades still good?

I’m doing swell here, the other day a bunch of rebel locals came streaming into the valley but we tore them down! I was stood on top of a tank and do you know who I looked like Matty? I looked just like that Action Man you love. Seriously, bullets were flying out of me like I was made of them – like I was exploding. You should’ve seen it Matty, those dumb idiots didn’t know what’d hit them, they was dropping like flies – bunch of Commies. I bet you we’ll win this war soon y’know. We’ll really show them who’s boss won’t we Matty?

I’ll be coming home real soon. Just you wait, I’ll bring you a tank for that Action Man, then he can look just like I did, king of the world.

Be a good kid for Mom Matty, I know she worries.

Danny.

Dear Mom,

Whatever you do, don’t show this letter to Matt, I think it might just break his heart.

I’m so scared Mom, I don’t think I’ve been this scared ever before. It’s like my whole life, I’ve been preparing for war. Like the games us kids used to play out on our front porch were some kind of training. But it wasn’t enough Mom. How could it be? Cowboys shot Indians and somebody always won. We’ve been camped in this valley for eight days now and there’s been no action. No one’s winning this war.

You’d think it’d make me feel safer but it only makes me worse. They’re watching us Mom. I know they are. And you hear stories all the time. They know this godforsaken place so well, we can’t ever catch them, it feels like we’re chasing ghosts. I swear, I need to shoot something.

People are going mad in here. You can see the cold fear in their eyes but they can’t show it. I think that’s what makes them so agitated. Most of the times when you look at them it’s like looking at a child, like as if a whole bunch of Matts had been dumped in this place. I think that a lot, you know Mom. I know you won’t like it but I’m starting to think some of those people you hate back home might be right; I look at their faces, young faces but with sallow eyes. Guys my age, so shaped by fear that they look like old men. Then they snap at you for staring too long. Say you’re looking at them funny.

Tom punched Burris clean in the face the other day, it took four guys to haul them off each other. As far as I can tell, Burris had been looking at people funny too.

Mom, I hope I make it back to you next month in one piece. I hope I make it back to you at all.

Your Dan.

Biographies

Chenai Takundwa Chenai Takundwa was born in Harare, Zimbabwe and lived in Bulawayo until moving to London at the age of 15 to live with relatives. Here, Chenai was placed in a pupil referral unit to help her assimilate to British teaching and from here she was given the opportunity to participate in the magazine, ‘Live’ which sparked her interest in writing and has led to the ambition to become an investigative journalist which she hopes will be a way to give a voice to those who’s suffering is not normally exposed.

Chenai feels most comfortable writing poetry but would like to venture more into prose in the future.

Eli Murray Eli Murray presents something of an enigma for the reader, and little is known about his early life or the influences which have shaped him. We know that he studied for his GCSEs at Sedgehill School in Lewisham, before joining Thomas Tallis Sixth Form in September 2010 in order to pursue his love of the creative arts. He is currently studying English literature, Fine Art, Photography and History of Art, which he manages to fit in around his main passion in life, which is sleeping. An intensely private person, he divides his time between his home in London and his country residence in Lincolnshire.

Eliza Hopewell-Williams Eliza (spelled with a silent Scarlet) Hopewell-Williams was inspired as a child by the writing of Malorie Blackman. A creative all-rounder, she pursued art at the Brit school, before moving to Thomas Tallis in order to broaden her intellectual palette. This now includes A-levels in English literature, History, Art and Photography. As a writer, Eliza’s primary influences are ee cummings, John-Paul Sartre, and her great-grandmother, Kathleen Raine. Eliza has two ambitions in life: to have a novel published and to have a portrait in the BP portrait awards. Eliza currently lives in the nice bit of Lee Green, but would one day like to live in South America.

Frances Waite Frances Waite is a 16-year-old reader-writer. She is currently studying English Literature, Chemistry, R.E. and Geography, she holds significant passion for the first and last. Her writing expertise lies in short, descriptive stories. She finds it “hard to write day to day”, so she utilises moments of inspiration. She has used the Arvon course to rekindle her writing. She admits to making judgements based on book covers, but finds this beneficial in making unplanned discoveries. She rarely finishes books, due to a desire “to read everything”, immersing herself in at least 10 books at once. Presently she is reading ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’, and has resolved to make it past the first couple of chapters.

Frankie Mayo A genius. One man lost in a world of fantasy, head in the clouds, feet wading through history. A love for Conn Igulden’s Roman Fantasy series. His writing reflects such characters and settings: reams of poetry and prose sung, danced and performed. Tales of woe and tragedy, nobility and honour, battles for the greater good. Central to his love of literature: ideas! The clever, wily, dexterous plots that underpin novels, forcing you to pull out your Deerstalker and pipe: Detective Frankie at your service.

Endowed with artistic powers, he crafts a world unknown to the human eye, bringing his stories to life.

Holly Taylor Holly was born in Lewisham. In year three she wrote her first book ‘Lale Lady.’ Because of its overwhelming success she decided to take a break from writing in order to find herself. After this long search Holly got back into writing and was now looking at script writing. Holly was attempting to write the “ultimate love story”. Unfortunately it was lost in her Nan’s toilet, but she did not lose her passion.

She kept a strong interest and in Year 11 started writing a poem every night. These poems were very particular - a journey of self-discovery and expression. Her passions have stayed with her and in the future she would like to be involved in film.

Jerusha West Jerusha West is seventeen years old, and lives with her parents and two brothers in London. Jerusha West first started writing when she was six years old, reconstructing scenes from her favourite book ‘Madeline’ by Ludwig Bemelmans; she would also draw the illustrations to complete her interpretation of the Madeline series. She enjoyed the writing course at the Arvon Foundation.

Jonathan William Edward Curtis – Brignell Jon Curtis-Brignell was reared in Sussex. Following a prosaic childhood, Jon became passionate at A-level about English and studied English and Philosophy at Southampton University. Following this he completed a teacher training course and came to teach at Thomas Tallis in 2005. He is inspired by and loves the work of Roald Dahl and Wittgenstein. Jon uses Vo5 clay paste product on his hair every morning. He does not usually reapply during the day. He gets his hair cut every half term and twice during the summer. His beard is trimmed weekly with an electric trimmer. The matte but somehow shiny black surface he admits is “hard to maintain”, but a combination of genes and hygiene seems to achieve the desired effect. The overall image is teamed with intricately detailed thigh high slippers stitched to perfection by Peruvian midget children.

Lucy Porter Since early childhood, Lucy Porter would sit tucked up in bed in a sea of books. She confesses, “I was obsessed with reading…I couldn’t stop”. Surprisingly, the first book she ever read was “The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe” at age 4! Therefore, already having a grandiose literary knowledge, by age 12 she was moving swiftly through sheets upon sheets of homemade paper, poem after poem…

However, straight away she makes it clear that a “poem a day is her idea of hell” and explains that poetry is a release of emotion – defiantly not a passion; using the slightly frightening phrase, “if I did not have a way to express myself I would kill myself”. So does this mean you want to become a writer then? “NO.”

Maddie Denton Madelèine’s passion for literature and appetite for knowledge developed at an incredibly early age.

She chose not to read Winnie The Pooh nor Mr Men, but instead enhanced her brain capacity by reading The Odyssey. Madelèine now chooses only to read Russian novels, which must be in the form of the original manuscript. Madelèine finds A level English Literature “restricting”. If she had the authority, she says she would “alter the AQA syllabus so that it was much, much more challenging”.

Meghan Sullivan Meghan started writing when she was about seven years old after reading the Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien which proved to be a great inspiration for her. She enjoys reading children’s literature, such as the books by Enid Blyton, because she likes the innocence in them. She would like to capture this same innocence alive by becoming a children’s book author. She is studying English Literature, Philosophy, R.E. and Classical Civilisations at A level. She enjoys collecting antiques books and she is currently reading Goblin Market by Stagpoole.

Oonagh Scarlet McGowan Oonagh Scarlet McGowan was born and raised in London. She studied English at University where she read at least “five books a week”. She then worked at the National Theatre but the money was terrible; she earned nowhere near enough to add to the 100+ scarf collection she keeps. Sometimes, shockingly, even two are worn at a time. She teaches at Thomas Tallis Secondary School, where her favourite aspect is working with students who are soon to depart for university. She describes the current cuts to education as “shocking” and is “delighted” at the students’ retaliation. A second hobby of Oonagh’s is “food and drink”. When asked of her ideal last supper she responded “oysters, steak and chips and lastly a slab of dripping overripe brie” all teamed with a different alcoholic beverage.

Phoebe Demeger Phoebe Demeger’s writing career starts every morning with peanut butter and jam on toast, which she ranks the 5th most important thing in her life. Her literary interest was sparked at a young age by the weird and wonderful world of Roald Dahl. This love for the fantastic continued to the present day through her appreciation of Tim Burton’s dark fantasy. Both his poetry (“Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy”) and his films have inspired her work. Her dream is to become a script writer.

Reuben Thomas-Davis Reuben started taking an interest in reading and writing from a young age, sparking from his love of the book ‘The Hungry Caterpillar’ when he was six. His literary tastes developed into deeper sophistication as he grew older. His favourite book is now ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He would rather study History or Art at university; however, he might, perhaps, like to continue with fiction or journalism in the future. Reuben is described by his teachers as being “the only boy who wears his trousers properly”.

Rose Griffiths Bonadio Rose has a history of multi-lingual reading (despite having a rabbit named Dumpling who has developed a taste for book pages). She particularly enjoys the work of Jasper Ford and Joanne Harris. In the future she intends to continue writing poetry and fiction and hopes to study English and Italian at university because she finds phrases and words exclusive to both languages’ “enthralling”.

She loves to write and her favourite word is “swinge”. In her writing she is intrigued by interpreting her own emotions and trains of thought into her characters and has a particular fascination with criminal psychology.

Tallulah Harvey Tallulah Harvey is a writer who greatly enjoys fantastical literature. This may have stemmed from her early exposure to Greek Myths and Legends and her more recent but complete love of Angela Carter’s fairytales – her favourite of many is ‘The Magic Toyshop’. Influenced in this way, Tallulah had grown into the creative writer she is today. Having already written her own stories, she defines her taste as “really weird and really shocking”.

Tennessee Williams At a first glance, Tennessee comes across as a very intellectual and fast-minded character. This should not be doubted because, after taking a step further into her mind, it’s clear there is a whirlwind of ideas brewing within her, as well as a sharp minded wit. Tennessee explores and experiments with every aspect of English literature. She has started to write her own novella named ‘The Boy, The Girl, The Man and The Wind’. Within the space of a year, she has already completed “Part One” of this.

She is not only creative in the prose field, but takes a strong interest in the world of film production, which she intends to follow up on once she has completed her novel. Her main childhood influence is CS Lewis, although it’s clear that she is her own muse. She seems to be already climbing with steady hands to reach her aspirations.

Zizzy Lugg-Williams One of Zizzy’s earliest works was ‘Suicidal Cat’ which featured a cat that thought nobody loved them, and which may have been influenced by her favourite book at the time, ‘The Tiger who came to Tea’.

She has now moved on to enjoying more sophisticated texts, and her favourite books include ‘The Great Gatsby’ and ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’; she is currently reading ‘The Heart of Darkness’. She enjoys books that promote messages as well as having a high level of description. She prefers writing to reading but feels that reading is easier and more relaxing, though enjoys writing in a diary format when specific important events occur.

Vote of Thanks The authors would like to thank the Arvon Foundation’s John Osbourne house for hosting the workshop and for providing such an inspirational environment. We would also like to thank our Tutors, Benardine Evaristo and Dean Parkin for all their help and support.