Scribe - Volume 1 - 2020

VOL. 1 | DECEMBER 2020

FREDERICK 8J1

ABIM TAYO

27

ISSUE 03 Editors' note 04 Excelsium 06 Fall of Icarus 07 Bates 08 Exam 09 Never Yield 10 I can't wait to start living 11 Joe's wincing liver 12 Abandoned 14 The Importance of Logic 16 Deserted.

LUCAS 9M2

ABIM T

1

JACK 11C2

editors' note Dear Reader, we introduce you to Scribe: a community layered with the bricks of HABS’ finest creatives and cemented with the excellence of inspiration! These walls define the foundation for the artistic expression that we, the creative team, felt had to be formed within this school. You are poets, you are writers, you are artists, you are photographers - all of you direct the school’s creative path to a brighter future. Dear reader, we invite you to join this community and create! We leave you with the words of Robert Herrick: Seize the day , gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Ozair 11S1

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Oliver 11H2 Aditya 11C1 Yuvi 11J1 SCRIBE EDITORS

excelsium This is Excelsium.

It's something that I've been working on for a while and which has grown to 257 A4 pages.

This isn't my first worldbuilding project - I've been making them since I was 13 - but it is the biggest one .

Most people don't really know what worldbuilding is- it's not a word which I've invented, but it's not really widespread either. When I explain to people what it is, I explain that before Tolkein wrote Lord of the Rings, he had to make the world in which he was set. Making that fictional world, building it up...that's worldbuilding.

It goes without saying, but I'm really proud of this project. It's helped me through some tough times, and I will always be proud of the fact that I've spent my time on something that actually matters. I think of all the weekends I've spent on this and I'm glad that I've had these projects to use my time to make something which I can look at and be proud of.

I love talking about it, so please feel free to ask me any questions if you have about it. And, if you have time, ask me for the full document as well. It even includes an Etymology tab of where the madeup words come from, and it has lots of detail about everything you can find on that map.

And more. Quite a lot more. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

DANIEL U6R1

the world powers of excelsium Great Powers 1. Celestial Empire of Leisheng 2. Protectorate of the Three 3. Kingdom of Great Carltania 4. Kingdom of Cessuria 5. Kingdom of Leonasia 6. Kingdom of Laguille 7. Archduchy of Austrasia 8. Archduchy of Barbarossa Major Powers 9. Kingdom of Salamancia 10. Empire of the Romagnans (excluding Austrasia and Pomeria) 11. Danubian Commonwealth 12. Kingdom of Oxesland Upper Regional Powers 13. Empire of Anluk 14. Duchy of Pomeria 15. Kanagawa Shogunate 16. Grand Principality of Juntodar Lower Regional Powers 17. Republic of Frisia 18. Principality of Daria 19. Petty Kingdom of Alfrathegn 20. Red Horde Upper Middle Powers 21. Grand Duchy of Julessa 22. Grand Curate 23. Confederation of Arcadia 24. Consulate of the Plate Lower Middle Powers 25. Grand Duchy of Cortanza 26. Grand Duchy of Svestania 27. Grand Duchy of Utyrka

Note that nations which are part of any of the groups in the ‘Multiple Nations’ below are not listed in this hierarchy. For example, some Hesperian or Franconigerian states could be stronger than some of the nations listed here, but they would still not be present.

Multiple Nations 1.

Free Cities of Hesperia 2. Principalities of Franconigeria 3. Northern Realms 4. Warlords of Kuromasa 5. Middle Princedoms 6. Desert Khanates 7. Alfur Dynasties 8. Austronesian Megatribes 9. Cult-States and Barbarians

DANIEL U6R1

FREDERICK 8J1

fall of icarus Daily life goes on.

Women sow, children play, and no one notices the splash behind them Yet, A poor boy, called Icarus Was Drowning, The claws of the deep icy water gripping at his throat, And pulling apart his melted wings.

Yet he will not be remembered, His life a fleeting glimpse as we all head into eternal nothingness.

Only his father, The great Daedalus Remembers the sad lonely and short life of his son, While people play, drink and sleep.

ADAM 9H1

FREDERICK 8J1

bates Let me be honest with you, I’ve been dreading it all day. I’m new to the school so I don’t know what to expect.

The bell rang, at exactly 12:40, and the whole class packed up in a flash and made their way to the queue. The class could be described as a purple blue as we made our way to the Bates, as the whole class dashed towards it with out purple coloured bags swaying on our backs. I followed them, in order to not stand out, as I have the proclivity to do so.

As the new boys, I knew my place and I stood with my arms ironed against my side, to avoid any awkward contact with anyone else. Shortly after my year entered the queue, the older boys arrived. Forcefully, they pushed past every younger child to make their way to the front, leaving a group of angry, powerless, smaller kids behind. We were angry but we accepted it because they were bigger, taller, stronger and moved in packs like a bunch of wolves, so what were a few scrawny year 8’s going to do ? Well I’ll tell you what we’re going to do !

Nothing...

Finally, after what seemed like forever, we entered the dining hall. Inside wasn’t much better than the queue. It was louder than a concert and about as organised as a riot. Hungry boys dashed around, waiting impatiently for their food and often giving the lunch ladies the most unpleasant time when their plate wasn’t as full as they desired. I waited for the herd to pass, before carefully picking up my own plate. I then handed it to the dinner last, who slapped on the portion of food that I asked for, before screaming ‘’move !’’, as I stared,standing as still as a cat right before the pounce. I moved quickly after, I’m order to not bring too much attention to myself. That would be bad.

I paid for the meal and was left with the hardest decision.

Where do I sit ?

I stood in the middle of the dining hall, scanning the area but trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone, as I often had the tendency to stare at others and make things awkward. So I scanned the dining hall by looking down at the floor, using my peripheral vision to find myself a seat. Eventually, I had to move because of the piercing eyes of other students, and as if one they all looked my way. I moved quickly but slow enough to continue to scan, until I found the most ideal seat.

I dropped myself into the hard, brown, wooden chair that cradled the remains of somebody’s dry pasta. I tucked my chair in, after clearing the mess, while my fingers slowly pressed into the fresh, moist chewing gum that stuck to the bottom of it. I powered through the sloppy food, discretely covering my nose from the lingering smell of my spaghetti. I was on a table with the quiet, the weird and the awkward.

Get me out of here !

Feeling like I just risked my health, I lifted my final spoonful of food into my mouth.

As I hastily made my way towards the exit, I clumsily dropped my plate and its descent felt as it was happening in slow motion but it’s crash filled the whole dining hall with its noise. Once again, as if one face they all stared at me and the loud noise decreased momentarily, to the point where you could hear the slightest breath. I fled in embarrassment and my quick footsteps were accompanied by a burst of laughter.

Lunch ? In the Bates ?

Never again.

JACOB L6M1

exam Entering the hall felt like an ordeal, a painstaking and tedious task of walking through the doors with teachers ushering everyone to their seats whilst performing an age-old chant of shushing everyone in their vicinity. Even sitting down and neatly organising pens and rulers and useless maths equipment was stressful in itself because one bloody pencil always happily rolled off those godforsaken desks. I decided to put these struggles behind me and focus on the actual exam – the thing I should be most worried about and not some crappy table. This was the last exam of the week, only 15 more exams to go before I can kiss bye bye to the endless void of pointless essay writing and doing more than 4 subjects. I’d only done 6 exams so far and it felt like I’ve been sitting them for months on end. There wasn’t much left to do now apart from stare blankly at the huge clock on the screen whilst teachers went up and down aisles of boys to find one unsuspecting victim who has kept their phone in their blazer pocket, then bag them like they are forensic analysts straight out of your average police show. The time was slowly approaching when Geography Paper 2 would be slapped on our desk whilst we ravaged the name and centre number boxes with our pens – only to realise we’d have to wait a while longer for the exam to actually begin After hearing the words ‘Good luck boys, you may now start,’ I fumbled my way to the first question and pulled out the chunky A3 map we were given. Unsurprisingly the map was of an unknown Scandinavian town that sounded like a piece of Ikea furniture. I don’t understand why they have to make it so boring; why can’t they give us a map of somewhere more adventurous like central London or Paris and if they’re feeling extra special, somewhere which is outside of Europe – like a remote village in Nigeria. I quickly located the squiggly blue line of a river and went to write it down in the answer booklet. Bloody hell. Let me just summarise the situation and you can work it out yourself seeing as I have a lot on my hands right now. On the titchy desk in front of me is an A3 map; a double page A4 answer booklet; an insert containing 4 photos and all my stationery. Christ, please tell me how I’m meant to organise myself. Every question I do is like a battle between me and the exam paper as I carefully switch between each one ensuring nothing falls off the desk – all playing part in the great war of completing the entire paper.

Now came something I hadn’t prepared for. The front line. The first wave of invigilators. Every ominous footstep echoed throughout the hall and I started to panic as they got closer and louder and closer and louder. I quickly looked up and saw Mr. Thomas, the heavy artillery, the tank on the battleground. He edged towards me slowly, but every second was nightmarish. All I saw was a blob, the magnitude of his belly was unsettling as this hunk of a man walked down the aisle. He was so large you would be able to see him if he were behind you. No. Oh no. I’ve lost.

The sheer width of this human had caused not only the map, but my entire pencil case to fall off the desk; ruler, sharpener and rubber scattered all over the floor. As I went to pick it up, I felt a warm, cheese and onion breath drift into and violate my nostrils. ‘Sorry about that,’ he whispered as he grasped my papers and stationery with his fat, juicy Cumberland sausage fingers. I could not sum up the look of disgust I had on my face as I saw the wet blemishes on the paper as it was released from his clutches. As he rolled away clumsily knocking into desks, I looked behind me only to see a stretched shirt with patches of sweat soaked into it. As his presence drifted away from me, I felt a sense of relief and focused on finishing the exam.

Precisely 1 hour and 20 minutes had passed and in celebration of completing the paper I dropped the pen like a microphone, ready to hear the audience cheer but to my dismay there was only a loud crash and everyone around me giving me dirty looks. It was at this point, people started to use the classic timewasting tactics. About 10 people were in line to use the toilet to relieve themselves in multiple ways by stretching their legs and walking and most importantly emptying their bladder. I on the other hand have an above averagely sized bladder and I decided to bear the boredom of waiting for the exam to finish by sitting still for 10 minutes which in theory is not a hard task but oh boy was I wrong. I sat there for an eternity twiddling my thumbs, playing with all my pens, doodling on the desk and every time I looked at the clock – only 2 minutes had passed. Eventually, the 10-minute mark came and we were told to stop writing and get the papers ready for collection. I was praying that Mr Thomas the Tubby wasn’t collecting in our papers and thank god it wasn’t. The exam had finally finished, and I paced my way to the exit gates of hell, ready to face this traumatic ordeal again next Monday.

SHAY L6H1

FREDERICK 8J1

never yield Prologue Battle of Watling Street AD 60 “General Paulinus, the battle is lost. We will be overrun any minute, our legions have been completely decimated by the British troops.” On hearing this Paulinus’ face paled and cold beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He stared at the centurion who had brought him this piece of news, unwilling to believe it. But one glance at the battlefield was all he needed, dead romans lay everywhere, their armour drenched in blood. He could hear the British army celebrating and knew that it would only take one final push for every roman to be dead. He couldn’t believe it, Rome had never been defeated before and to think that they had been destroyed by some uncivilised barbarians was unthinkable. Paulinus knew that the shame of reporting a defeat to the senate was a fate worse than death. The only honourable option left was to fall on his sword and the centurion who had brought him the message had already done that. Yet Paulinus couldn’t bring himself to commit such an act, he was a cowardly man, not ready to face death. He moistened his lips to try and prepare himself to carry out the deed and was about to pluck up the courage to do so but then the British rebels charged for the final time…

Men and woman ran wildly up the hill, screaming like banshees as they did so and plunging their weapons into roman bodies and ripping the blades out in a shower of blood. The general’s heart quickened as he realised they were heading straight for him. In his final moments he found a consolation; when the rebels killed him he wouldn’t have to report a shameful defeat to the senate and the records would hopefully say he died bravely in battle and even if they didn’t, well he would be beyond caring. In a way, it would solve all his problems. A smile flitted across his face as this thought came to him. But then the Britons were upon him and all positivity vanished from his mind as he trembled at the terrible fate that the g-ds had given him. The barbarian army made short but brutal work of Paulinus’ guard and closed in menacingly on the General.

The British encircled Paulinus, pointing their spears at him to prevent any movement. He muttered under his breath “ come on, get it over with you barbarian brutes, just end me!” when the British didn’t move, his fear rose as he knew this meant that they were saving him for something terrible. However he couldn’t figure out what and resigned himself to wondering until whatever happened to him, happened. Then like a pebble dropping into a pond, the answer dropped into his head, sending ripples of fear through his mind. One leader would want to kill another and make a gruesome example out of their vanquished enemy. And he knew that the Britons only had one leader, so cruel and barbaric her name was feared throughout the Empire. The circle parted to allow a cloaked woman to stride through. She was well over six feet tall and walked as if she owned the world. She wore a finely embroidered dark, green cloak which was splattered and stained with the blood of Romans. From a black sheath she drew a glistening, silver sword, still dripping with blood and gore. Finally, she flipped back her hood to reveal a face that all Romans knew well. It haunted their dreams and lurked in dark places of their minds during day. Boudicca. She had long, flaming, red hair and piercing brown eyes. Her mouth was set in a cruel smile and in one fluid moment she pulled out a dagger and touched the tip of it to his neck. Paulinus’ pulse increased so fast he could hear his heart thumping beneath his chest. However, after a moment, Boudicca withdrew the blade, stood up and looked down at him with contempt. “Death would be too kind for someone like you,” she snarled. “Instead, I will make you suffer the greatest humiliation a Roman knows. Soon all Roman leaders will join you in this fate. Serving the Iceni as slaves.”

ZACHARY 11M2

ABIM 11R2

i can't wait to start living she sighs : a sublime realisation A smile her lips had forgotten before it reached her eyes: Beaming dreams That radiated through the thrumming rain beating against the reams of roads.

Her moment flows like liquid sapphire

Her hair (now) like rope In a succession of spectacular cataracts cascade down, Her Translucent shirt;

To the beat of her heart

stuck to her skin She breathed.

Silence like that in the blueness of the sea No sky above Nor earth below Yet The rustling branches Whisper in her existence

Loneliness bleeds from the depths of her breath “I can’t wait to start living” her wide eyes screamed.

ADITYA 11C1

FREDERICK 8J1

joe's wincing liver Huddled in a dark and damp corner; shuddering away from the realities of the outside world and aching to be kept far away from society. Sat and tucked away, nursing a crude bottle.

I am Joe’s wincing liver.

I cannot see, but I feel. I feel Joe. I feel him hurt, and ache, and swell. I feel him wince and cry. I feel sadness penetrating him. A knife in the form of a glinting bottle, stabbing and slicing through his weak and damaged insides. He needs to heal.

I am Joe’s wincing liver.

I turn away from a relentless splashing. Crystal waters tinted with broken dreams drowning him from the inside. I am Joe’s wincing liver. I feel his pain, as he feels mine. Regret will build up and never go, as he keeps consuming this fire, which will. Burn him into the embers of his former self.

Images cascade across his mind and his body, swelling and filling him with joy. Projections of happiness, love, support and desire, all encapsulated in this one. All this torn down. Destroyed, dilapidated, his life in ruins: his body beginning to decay. One solitary meeting to break Joe’s happiness. Light now shrouded in darkness, despair setting in. The proverbial rug pulled from under his feet.

I am Joe’s wincing liver.

I look back and reflect on what once seemed like true happiness. Hope vanquished. I recoil as he does. We work in tandem, but are separate in thought. I am a shadow to his body, a different entity to his mind. I cannot provide hope, only pray he realises it for himself, and thinks to change.

A solitary meeting, weak and blunt. No connection. No hope. No happiness. Love and joy departed, life and colour draining out of him. I am Joe’s wincing liver.

Beseeching him to stop, urging him to change. I know he can recover. If only he seeks help. I am Joe’s wincing liver. Until then he continues to submerge himself, to bleed the pain out, and with it, I shrivel and die too, succumbing to the sweet poison.

TOBY 10R2

JOESPH 10H1

abandoned My mum was never the caring type. Cigarette in the morning, a couple pints in the evening. Wasn’t good for the heart and the old chippy round the corner saw her gradually get more sluggish every day. She thought I’d turn out the same and me unwillingly driving back to her old, depressing place in my little scratched up Fiat seemed as if she was right. Wasn’t really my own fault though, it was more everything going perfectly wrong.

I woke up this morning with my head banging like a church bell. This was usually my typical hangover however, today was different. Getting up was another battle in itself. My eyes were begging to stay shut, adamant to not have to deal with the light seeping through the cheap, thin curtains, but the ringing alarm bell posed far too great a threat. I made my normal route through my apartment, avoiding the land mines of clothes riddled all over the floor.

Shower. Change. Tea… Eviction notice?

The damp yellow notice I hadn’t seen before. It looked as if it was slapped on my fragile wooden door, presumably by a teenager looking for some quick cash. Slapped on without a care for the consequences.

Slapped on to me, and for what? I was never the type to become severely stressed with my heart pumping at a dangerously high rate but this piece of paper which held the code to dismantling my life made me experience a pit in my stomach I hadn’t felt in a while. Feeling the nausea creeping up my body, I clambered towards my phone to call the woman responsible. Ringing. Ringing.

Voicemail.

Being 26 and driving back to your mum’s house does not fill you with pride. 26 and evicted, presumably due to the fact that I spent my two last nights with a dog. I couldn’t exactly have left him tied to that lamppost someone late at night. Could I? Well I’m stuck with him now, barking in an almost squealing tone in the back seat.

He looked like a Buster, called him that from the moment I saw him. Most likely the wrong name for his breed, even though I don’t have a clue what that would be, I’m not normally a dog person. Our eyes just met and I became one.

Arriving at the house, the front door was partly ajar, with the key still in the lock. No change there then.

Silence. Apart from her voice and an unfamiliar one, male, drunken and another of her ‘friends’. I dragged myself upstairs to my old room, Buster struggling with each step as he followed. The room was used, torn apart of its innocence with a needle on the sideboard along with a bundle of past smoked cigarettes. Buster started sniffing around, was it me he was smelling, or some stranger?

I awoke earlier than normal because of the streaks of light pouring in through the holes in the makeshift curtains. I made my way downstairs to see if there was any source of normal food or drink. The fridge had a few beer cans and the remnants of a takeaway but nothing substantial. Closing the fridge, I heard a voice behind me, and there she was, hair matted to her head, cigarette in hand, unaware of the ash she was spreading everywhere.

‘Where did you come from,’ she rasped

‘I got evicted, I’ve got nowhere to go.’

‘So you think you can just waltz back in? Well I’m not taking lodgers, unless you got any money.’

‘Well that’s the problem I’m broke. Homeless and broke. I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘You’re no use to me then,’ she said. ‘Like you ever were.’

There was a rustle in the hallway and in loped Buster who immediately crouched at my side, rubbing is head against my leg.

‘You best be on your way then’, said this woman I hardly recognised. ‘Mind you, he can stay… I always wanted a dog.’

ARJUN 11H1

FREDERICK 8J1

YUHAN 10C1

the importance of logic Before we consider logic in relation to the sciences, we should first define some terms and understand logic more clearly. Let us define logic as correct reasoning. It is primarily practical (logica utens), but has a speculative side (logica docens). Dialectic is essentially a part of logic that deals with discussions between two or more people. It is the actual use of logic in argumentation by analysing a given situation and so what is said about the importance of dialectic in general tells us about the importance of logic.

What is the object of logic? We can use the word “object” in two ways: material and formal. Cicero defines the material object of something as that “on which the whole art, and all that ability which is derived from art, turns” : it is the real thing that is considered. The formal object is the way that something is considered or the point of view that it is considered from. Many sciences consider the same thing and have a material object that is either completely or partly shared, but it is the formal object that distinguishes between two different sciences.

It is clear that logic materially considers all things that can be considered “because reason occupies itself with all things that are, and logic studies the operations of reason, logic will also be concerned with matters common to all things” . Why does Plotinus say that logic is “a certain super-reasoning much closer to the Universal” ? It is because logic, “not being confined to a single genus” deals universally with all knowable things. Therefore, “dialectic gently draws it [the soul] forth and leads it up,” “to the first principles”.

The formal object of logic is less clear.

We can all make a distinction between the mind and reality, and spoken or written words are a kind of intermediary between the two because they say something about reality, but in some way exist in the mind.

Therefore, it is either reality, words, or pure mental reason that is the object of logic. Now it is clear that reality, the sum of all things, cannot be the formal object of logic, because it is also the material object. If this were true, logic would be the same as metaphysics. It belongs to metaphysics to consider things purely of themselves: it is the study of being in the unqualified sense (being qua being), but logic deals with reality in a qualified sense: how reality relates to the mind. Logic considers any one of all things, but metaphysics actually deals with universal principles. The rules of logic about syllogisms and propositions do not actually exist in external reality, by are only in the mind.

The formal object of logic cannot be words if one considers the function of words. Logic is directed “not to the spoken word, but to the discourse within the soul” . Words are external signs of thought that exist to express mental operation: “spoken words are the symbols of mental experience and written words are the symbols of spoken words” . The object of logic is the word only secondarily and accidentally, because the word is only a means towards thought. Words themselves are the primary object of grammar. For this reason, Seneca says that “Dialectic is divided into two parts: words and their meanings, that is, into things which are said, and the words in which they are said” : the things that are signified are of more significance than the words used to say them. Unlike thoughts, vocal sounds are subjective, open to change and therefore do not signify anything in themselves: “whatever each particular person says is the name of anything, that is its name for that person” . Any definition of “word” that is not a “vocal sound” is really a definition of an idea.

It is thought, or mental operation, that is the formal object of logic, because this is what reasoning actually consists in.

More specifically, logic belongs in the intellect, where reasoning occurs. Logic exists to guide the intellect towards the truth. Because of its final end being the truth, logic has been greatly praised.

Logic is necessary for certain knowledge, which cannot exist without proof and refutation. Logic is therefore essential for perfect science: “the conviction of pure science must be unshakable” . Logic is by itself “according to Boethius… not so much a science as the instrument of science” and when it is put into practice as dialectic, “employs as helpers and co-operators… the studies and sciences” . This is because it has truth as its final end in an unqualified sense, rather than any one science, which has one set of truths as its end and is in one sense a part of dialectic. Sciences requires its principles to be resolved into conclusions and to be analysed. They also require definitions. All of these things are found through logic. “Scientific knowledge that comes through demonstration” gives “a better knowledge of the basic truths and a firmer conviction of them than of the connection which is being demonstrated” . However, science can exist “imperfectly, inadequately” because of the natural power of the intellect, which can do some of the work that artificial logic does.

Plato compared those without logic to two things: a sleeper and a slave. “The man who lacks this power… does not really know the good itself or any particular good; but if he apprehends any adumbration of it, his contact with it is by opinion, not by knowledge; and dreaming and dozing through his present life” . Life without any certain knowledge, but only opinion, is very comparable to the lack of awareness in sleep. One can still perceive without logic, but mere opinion simply leads to a disorientation and an epistemological drowsiness. A second thing that a lack of correct reasoning is compared to is “the state of mind… of a slave” . One of the kinds of knowledge that logic leads to is “the Good and the not-Good” , which is a necessary knowledge for a happy life. Without knowing with certainty what true goodness is, it is much easier to fall into involuntary ignorance, which can only cause pain.

Because of this primacy of logic (“It is the precious part of Philosophy” ), it was the beginning of classical education: “boys first were instructed in things pertaining to logic because logic teaches the method of the whole of philosophy” .

Logic and dialectic were part of the medieval trivium, which was a foundation for education about the natural sciences, in turn a preparation for the study of philosophy and theology. Logic is the basis of all learning.

Note about quotations: Cicero and Seneca are both Roman philosophers. Most of the quotations here come from the works of three classical philosophers: Aristotle, his teacher Plato, and Plotinus, who wrote in light of the other two. The “Posterior Analytics” and “On Interpretation” are two of Aristotle’s six works on logic, which I have referenced by a simple book and chapter number, which St. Thomas Aquinas commented on (the commentaries are divided by book and lecture). The Republic, Cratylus, and Laws are dialogues of Plato. The Cratylus is an interesting discussion on linguistics. The Enneads are the collected works of Plotinus. Ennead 1, Tractate 3 is a discussion on the nature and method of dialectic.

JOHN 11R1

LUCAS 9M2

deserted.

The winter months are the time of year I dread the most. My already thin sleeping bag is pierced by the biting cold air, to the point where sometimes I wonder whether there are lots of small holes letting the gusts of wind rush in freely. Businesspeople avoid eye contact with me during the morning rush, and parents tell their kids to look away when they pass me. My cardboard sign is soggy from last night’s rain, but I still sit up with a smile in hopes of benefiting from the short burst of generosity during the Christmas season.

The first moment happened when I was maybe ten years old.

We had a family tradition of Saturday movie night. My father would pop the popcorn and leave the bag open to let the warm aroma fill the entire house. My sister and I didn’t even need to be called; as soon as the scent made its way upstairs we would sprint out of our rooms and race to get the best seat on the sofa – the corner seat.

My mother took out a DVD and put it in the player: ’Aladdin’. The film played and my father began his regular commentary. I wasn’t focused, however, on his rant about how if Aladdin was so poor he should just “stop being so lazy and get a real job”. No, I had zoned him out. My attention was drawn to the prince’s long, flowing hair, deep brown eyes, and his purple waistcoat which revealed a perfect body kissed by the Arabian sun. I felt a strange swirling sensation in my stomach. I thought I must be ill or something, so I left to drink some water and cool down.

After brushing that incident off like it was nothing, I started noticing more and more unusual feelings. One evening after school my mother had taken us to Marks and Spencers just to pick up some socks and other bits and bobs, my hand firmly grasping hers as she pulled me through what seemed like each and every aisle. As I curiously scanned each and every product on the shelves, one particular aisle caught my eye. It was the men’s underwear section. The models on the front of the packages were built like Greek gods, and although I didn’t know why yet, I was drawn to them. Unintentionally, I slowed down in passing them, and my mum turned around and yanked my arm with force when she saw what piqued my interest.

"Stop that!” she exclaimed. From then on I knew the thoughts I was having were forbidden.

The next few years was a traumatic battle within myself, as I constantly punished myself for having these disgusting, unnatural feelings. What was wrong with me?Why did I want to paint my nails when all the other boys wanted to play football?Why did I sneak into my mother’s bathroom to play with her eyeshadows instead of sneaking downstairs to play on the Playstation past my bedtime?

I was pacing up and down the length of my room muttering to myself as I tried to build a script in my head. In between, though, I was constantly interrupted by voices of doubt, mocking my ability to muster up the courage. ‘You really think you can tell mum and dad your biggest secret?’ They told me. ‘And even if you could, you’re crazy if you think they’ll take it well.’

I had told myself this a million times over, but despite this, I knew the moment was right. I had held in my emotions for so many years that I felt I was approaching combustion, and just had to get it out. I could hear my heart beating in my ears and my leg tapped against the ground so fast I wouldn’t have been surprised if the floor boards started to collapse. Nausea, anxiety and fear played together in my mind.

Both my mother and father were finishing cleaning the kitchen after dinner. In the just polished marble countertop I saw my own self cheering me on, as if telling me this is my moment to finally be free. So, I called a family meeting.

Part of me wonders whether this was the right call, and perhaps I ought to have slipped a note under their bedroom door or simply texted it on the family WhatsApp chat – something less confrontational.

“I have something to tell you,” my nervous voice managed to communicate, “I’m gay.”

PARAM 11H2

ROSHAN 8J2