Hampton School Lion Print 2021 by HamptonSchool

LION PRINT 2021

Artwork: Ludo Bellamy (Lower Sixth) 1

Welcome to Lion Print 2021 Welcome to the sixth edition of Lion Print, Hampton’s Creative Arts magazine that showcases the creative talent of First Year to Sixth Form Hamptonians. Our pupils’ contributions were produced in response to this year’s Creative Writing Awards competition, which challenged entrants to write an action adventure story in no more than 1,000 words. Sara Grant (a young adult fiction author) judged the competition and found it extremely difficult to select just six winners from among the finalists’ entries. She commented: ‘Surreal tales that played with reality. Twists I never saw coming. Terrifying surprises. And unique fantastical worlds coming to life in just 1,000 words. The writers at Hampton School wowed me! It was very difficult to select the winners. The standard of storytelling was incredibly high. All of these talented boys deserve praise. I have no doubt that if they keep going, one day I’ll be buying books with their names on the spine.’ Sara kindly offered detailed personalised observations for each of our finalists. Category winners and highly commended writers were awarded book vouchers and certificates.

The majority of the artwork in this edition of the magazine was inspired by GCSE themes ‘My Surroundings’ and ‘Rhythm’ and the AS Level/Pre-U theme ‘Sanctuary’. However, younger Hamptonians also provided excellent material and there is evidently a great deal of artistic ability throughout the School. We hope that you will enjoy Lion Print 2021.

Kevin Knibbs Headmaster

2021 Prize Winners Benjamin Green Solace Senior Winner Creative Writing Awards 2021 Maxi Grindley Princess Senior Highly Commended Creative Writing Awards 2021 Vishal Saha The Briefcase Intermediate Winner Creative Writing Awards 2021 Thomas Massey The Chase Intermediate Highly Commended Creative Writing Awards 2021 Ben Rowe The Mercy of the Sea Junior Winner Creative Writing Awards 2021 Sam Trotman Plane Sailing Junior Highly Commended Creative Writing Awards 2021

Please note that this year, we have included written contibutions from our senior Hamptonians as a separate section from page 55 onwards, as some of the content may be unsuitable for younger readers.

Artwork: Calum Warmer (Fifth Year)

The Encounter Parker was often described by his clients as a charismatic, handsome, fearless-yet-relatable adventurer who loved the sense of excitement and lived for the mysterious and dangerous places his work took him. His latest assignment was shaping up to be his most perilous, recovering stolen valuables being guarded by a squad of elite Schutzstaffel. Sharp thorns scratched at Parker’s skin as he moved through the magnificent forest of trees. It was dark, eerie and spine-tinglingly quiet. Just then he noticed a flicker of light through the dense, knotted ivy, Parker clenched his teeth and edged forward wearing a mask of determination. A rough track led him to an opening hidden by creepers, the cackling sound of SS guards stopped him in his tracks, he counted six crouched around a small fire. He couldn’t get past a highly trained security detail; using the satellite phone he called his employer, Sergeant Ironside to give him an update on his discovery. Ironside got changed and marched downstairs, unshaven, resisting the important yet exhausting regularities of his life. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy… Quickly grabbing his car keys from the ceramic bowl, placed under the antique

mirror in the hallway, he slammed the front door behind him. His day had started. Parker incessantly paced the dusty sidewalk questioning himself miserably. He glared at his reflection in the motel’s grubby window, he hadn’t slept much going through scenarios on how he could get past the soldiers. Sergeant Ironside showed up and was rather direct, hell bent on finding a solution. Abruptly, Parker declared, “I have had enough of this, I’m going back in. I have to.” After nine months of searching Parker was not about to give up now. “Very well but be careful. Good luck my friend.” The Sergeant replied, not caring too much about his friend’s safety. Hastily he made his way back to the forest and clambered up the ladder, hurled himself over the barbed wired fence, and into the spidery knot of the trees and bushes. The trees loomed over him like ghostly, stooped figures. Loud screeches of animals echoed under the cover of fog.

Parker had to act fast, he needed to buy some time so he could think, he stepped back to lean against an old oak tree to catch his breath. “NEIN! NEIN!” the German shouted. But it was too late, Parker lost his footing, an opening once concealed with rotten planks of wood gave way and he crashed into a ball of dirt and cobwebs. It reminded Parker of a safe room. Expensive paintings had replaced the overgrown shrubs, bars of gold replaced the trees and drawers filled with jewellery replaced the leaves. This was utterly incredible! Parker was lost for words. BOOM! Parker still clambering to his feet, was shaken by what he instinctively recognised as a grenade blast. Dust fell around him from the shaken ceiling like snowflakes on a winter’s morning, there was a surreal silence and the world slowed. RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATAT! The Mauser C-96 dropped through the hole Parker had fallen through. Suddenly things sped up, Parker’s reflexes kicked in as he grabbed the gun, checked the magazine and cocked the pistol – his survival instincts were heightened.

Parker could hear bushes rustling as he walked through a carpet of decay. As he made his way further in, a blanket of fiery scarlet autumn leaves enveloped the floor. Back tracking his path carefully, the light from the fire shone through the crowd of vivid green umbrellas. A gentle breeze overcame the humid forest. He could sense he was near. CRACK! The sound of dry twigs splitting under his worn hunting boots, made the hairs on the back of Parker’s neck stand up, he stood still in fear. He couldn’t withdraw, not anymore. “STOPPEN!” exclaimed a neatly dressed soldier with a Mauser C-96 Pistol in hand. Parker looked startled and jolted back, what an amateur move, a sense of despair and disappointment came over him, how had he let himself be caught. “Nicht schießen,” Parker replied, he remembered a little German from his time at Hampton, the all-boys school he had attended before going off to Oxford to study History.

Cautiously he edged out of the opening, bullets swizzed past his head. Parker could see bodies on the floor. He glanced Ironside using a tree as cover and sparks flying from his ‘Tommy Gun’, he was pinned down by three SS soldiers. Parker clambered out and fired, he saw the elite guard grab his stomach as the bullet penetrated and he sank to the ground. Almost simultaneously Ironside and his eyes locked, there was sense of relief etched on Ironside’s face. PWRAP! PWRAP! The first bullet was close missing him by an inch! Parker spun round and fired in the direction of the bullets; an SS soldier fell to the ground. The second had gone in the direction of Ironside. He turned, Ironside was clutching his neck, drips of blood trickled through his fingers and his eyes glazed over. Ironside turned pale in fear and leant lifelessly against the tree which once shielded him. Shlunk… Parker felt a sense of burning in his back, his muscles were locked, he was frozen to the spot, motionless, unable to shoot. Dropping to the ground; the SS guard he had shot moments earlier chillingly smiled over him. He tried dragging himself towards the safety of the bunker, but it was no use, he wasn’t going to make it. Parker caught a glimpse of the gold bars glistening, memories of his old school crest came back to him… as his eyes closed for the last time. By Adam Malik (First Year)

The Monster and the Minion

Artwork: Charlie Coulter (Fifth Year)

Panting for breath, but desperate to cleanse his ears of the sound of the monster’s pounding footsteps, the boy scampered down a dark, narrow alley. He stopped for a second, breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air. He dared not stop for long. Despite his rapidly beating heart, and his bone-dry lips, the boy continued to hurtle forward, dodging and weaving past everything in his path. The frightening image of the monster (now embedded in his mind forever) was enough to drive him resolutely forward. The expression on its face had been almost demonic; its eyes blazing with irrepressible rage, a whirling, roaring, unfathomable nightmare. The boy shuddered at the thought. However, as he turned a corner, his luck shuddered to an abrupt halt. He careered straight into the chest of a rather burly being. With a sinking feeling, the boy realised that he had just run straight into one of the monster’s minions. Although merely a pawn in the monster’s grand, elaborate scheme, the minion was still a terrible sight to behold, with a cold, tight-lipped expression and an aura of unquenchable anger. “There you are!” it said with a mixture of annoyance and relief. “Now let’s get you back to where you belong.” Taking the boy’s arm in its iron grip, the minion began to march purposefully in the direction of the monster’s lair. The boy’s heart was thumping at a rate that felt faster than the speed of sound. It was as if a wild animal was trying to escape through his chest. He desperately tried to wrench his hand from the minion’s grasp but, like a rabbit caught in a snare, the harder he tried to break free, the tighter the grip seemed. They stopped at a small, busy coffee shop to have, as the minion called it, refreshments. But the boy knew his game. He had read enough fantasy and adventure novels to know that these types of places were villains’ pitstops, a chance for them to gloat about their glorious plans. Admittedly, this time it was a henchman, not the queen bee at the centre of the hive, but the boy was relatively sure it would play out in the same fashion. Sure enough, after about five minutes, in which the minion demonstrated a great deal of false care by purchasing a sticky bun for him and the boy to share, and two glasses of orange juice, the boasting started. A barrage of reprimands, insults and gloats rained down on the boy,

but he restrained himself from saying anything, or indeed listening. He merely nodded and looked interested at what sounded like the right times. The minion, frustrated by the lacklustre responses he was receiving, began to raise his voice, and the poor, innocent child was forced to engage in a spectacularly boring conversation. Eventually, the minion ‘took the hint ’- if you can call the boy’s endless grumbling and groaning ‘a hint’, and they departed; the boy was being led to his fate. His heart sank lower and lower as they slowly advanced towards the monster’s lair. He was petrified, he had hoped he would never see the monster’s face again, but now there was no escape. They made their way up a neatly paved drive, and the boy marvelled at how such a horrible creature could have a garden as pretty as this. The area was bedecked with plants in full bloom. They were bristling with colour. The boy supposed that perhaps the monster did not always evoke such fear in everyone it looked at; perhaps, sometimes, it swapped its mask of terrible, vicious fury for something else? As he racked his brains, the boy vaguely remembered a time when the monster’s ferocious rage wasn’t quite as apparent. But times like that were always forgotten amidst the monster’s terrifying, unstoppable wrath. The boy was trapped in a cage of the monster’s anger. When he and the minion had entered the house, he had scrunched up his eyes to avoid seeing the creature, and in return had been locked up in a room with bare, white walls, containing nothing but an uncomfortable, lumpy bed and a hard, wooden desk. How had it come to this? He was meant to be brave; a resolute, unmoving rebel who laughed in the face of danger. But his cunning and mischievousness had been put out, like a single, sputtering flame doused by a large bucket of ice-cold water. He had been thrown in here, this prison (or bedroom). And what had he done to save himself? Nothing, that’s what. But in a moment, all his resentment towards himself had been forgotten; but not for a positive reason. There in the doorway, ready to unleash his wrath, stood the minion - his Dad. But it didn’t stop there. Behind him, in all her terrible glory, stood the monster - his Mum. The torture (in other words, a lecture) was about to begin. By Alex Watson (First Year)

Survivors

I looked at my men, sprawled on the hard stone floor of the damp cave. Some sleeping with their heads on their mud-coated camo jackets, others huddled in a ball rocking backwards and forwards muttering to themselves over and over again – I don’t blame them after all they’ve seen and been through. The rest were gazing longingly at photographs of smiling children and wives - all of them dead or in labour camps where they were worked on the brink of death. They didn’t show mercy, all races, all nationalities had the same brutal fate. Up until now, aliens were only imagined. Movies were made of slimy green creatures with three eyes and five heads landing on earth with a flying saucer and saying: ‘I come in peace’. These aliens were different, there were rumours that they came in massive fleets of ships; others said that each alien came in a singular ship and the sky looked like a swarm of wasps, but one thing is for certain, they definitely didn’t come in peace. These aliens were clever. Cleverer than us, after all they had probably travelled hundreds of thousands of light years to reach us. Landing on the moon was a huge operation and even with America’s top scientists on the job, it nearly went wrong. At first, the creatures were found deep in the jungles of Brazil: no one knew how they had arrived. There were around a hundred or so and this was the bait. When scientists caught a whiff of of these unseen creatures there was a row between the leading global experts and governments to study them; their behaviour, characteristics, appearance. On the other hand, there was a big majority willing to blow them off the face of the earth and by a unanimous decision they got what they wanted. The public was having none of this however, and flooded the streets of Washington, London and other major cities armed with placards and slogans, shouting for the protection of these beings. And whist this was all happening, the real attack was mounted. They went in fast and hard, they targeted supply lines, weapon and vehicle factories and important military bases and operations with weapons that have yet to be invented. It was utter carnage. I snapped out of my sorrowful trance and return to reality. And that’s when I heard it. Somewhere above, a terrifying, gurgling scream that was abruptly cut off. I jerked my head up and scanned the cave . My fellow officer lay on the floor severely injured writhing in pain. He slowly raised his mangled face - I had to look away - his pupils dilating in pain he raised his arm, pointed to the wall, then went limp.

“Where is he, has anyone got eyes on it?” Someone yelled: “I dunno, wait hang on its- arrrrgh…..” I looked to where the noise had come from: it was a sickening sight. There it was hunched over the lifeless yet still twitching body, its face buried into the dead man’s flesh. Its head looked at us, and it made a deafening screech bearing many rows of menacing teeth stained with the blood of my fellow fallen soldier. I yelled “Open fire!” The predator immediately sprung into action leaping onto the nearest soldier and killed him with one swift swipe on its dagger-like claws. It bounded onto the next one pinning his arms onto the floor, he wiggled like a worm but became still as the extra-terrestrial sank its teeth into his neck, blood splattered onto the cold cave wall, and I was helpless. Someone managed to salvage a flamethrower from the growing mass of dead bodies. The flames tickled the alien but they did no damage. Instead they made the being angry and that brave fighter suffered the same fate. It now turned to me and I realised I was the only one left alive. Slowly and menacingly it moved towards me like a lion stalking its prey, an extremely deadly lion. It leapt on to me pinning both my arms onto the ground so I couldn’t move. I cried out but no one was there to save me I tried to twist and turn out of the alien’s grip but it was too strong. It edged its face towards me. It bared its teeth like an irate dog growling at an intruder, it’s slim reptilianlike body placed firmly on top of me. I closed my eyes accepting the fate that I had been given. Suddenly, the alien went limp falling on top of me as if it was having a nap except it wasn’t breathing. I pushed the thing off me, counting my prayers. There he was holding a gun: he was my saviour. “This thing did all of this?” he said pointing to the mass of dead bodies. I just nodded. “We better get you back to camp hadn’t we?” he said again. I just nodded. “You’re not much of a talker are you?.” I smiled. Today my fight with the aliens was over but I know that in some corner of the earth, there would be always someone fighting for our freedom.

By Alfred Hayes (Second Year)

Artwork: Charlie Coulter (Fifth Year)

You Are Worthy Bang! The gun goes off. Screams try to barge their way through my mouth but nothing comes out, my voice, stops. A million thoughts scramble for my attention, though I came too tired to do anything, my thoughts, stop. I try to regain my balance, to hold my head high, though my legs wouldn’t budge. My heart stops. I fall, my eyes creep back into their lair behind my eyelids, braced for impact but it never

Artwork: Nizar Al-Milli (Fifth Year) 9

comes. I am relieved and spooked at the same time as I go plummeting down what seems like an endless void. However, I suddenly arrive at, well, nothing. All I can see is a thick, murky carpet in very dark brown, stretched across what seems to be the flow that I am standing on. Then a person starts to laugh, a creepy laugh,

and gives a slow clap. I soon realise that my mouth is gaping wide open. I quickly shut it and try to dust myself off and at least look presentable but then my hand feels something wet. I look down to realise that my hoodie is darker in an area which also has a hole through it. My feet nearly lift of the ground as I realise what’s just happened to me. “Am I…..” stuttering in shock, as I realise I might be. “Dead, no. But you probably will be. Only one person has got to re-try and he lived more than two thousand years ago.” Says the man in a remarkably clean suit. “Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Death. I know you’ve probably heard bad things about me, but I’m the guy who runs the place. I send people on their journey to try and get their three badges.” “ Three badges?” I exclaim. This man isn’t making any sense, I wish he would just leave me alone. He is Death, after all. “Oh, there are three badges which represent the three qualities that make you, you. You need to demonstrate each quality and then you will be given a badge, which will lead you to the next badge, and so on. See your shirt? The three stones are meant to be placed in those holes. Once you collect all of the stones you can pass through the portal and enter the Elder’s Domain. There the Elders will judge whether you are worthy.” Explained Death. “Coming Beth, just keep them falling. Anyway, got to go, there are many more dead people I need to attend to. Oh, and by the way, you’ve got 24 hours”. And, just like that, he disappeared. My head was swimming in a tsunami of a thousand questions as I struggled to process what had just happened. I looked at my hoodie, and there they were, the holes for the stones, but also a time reading 23:58:46. I have to get going now and I think I know where to go. Suddenly, a portal opened in front of me. Well, it’s better than this place, I thought. I took one last look up towards earth and I decided – I would be coming back. A football match. If there’s anything that makes me, me it’s football. The thump of the ball as you kick it so that it soars in the sky like a bird, this was the 3G pitch where I played my first football game. Flats swarming over and around and the sun, showering its rays down onto the pitch. I didn’t have much time to gather my senses though, as the air was stripped from my lungs by what seemed like a cannon ball thumping into my chest. I had to help my team. Early into the match and it was one-nil to us. We had some good opportunities but so had they. There was nearly nothing

in it. I made a good run through the centre of the pitch to pick up the ball, only one defender in my way of the goal. I quickly tried to fake him with a step over, but he was good and blocked the goal as he ran with me. I had to get past him fast. Then something terrible happened. A shout of pain erupted from the defender. I know I could easily score, but I would feel guilty. So, I did something I thought I’d never do, I stopped. The boy was clearly in pain and I rushed to help him. “Thank you,” he whimpered. Then a green crystal came out of the boy’s heart. On the front, it read “Sportsmanship” and on the back it read “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”. This was a saying that my mum used to love. What could it mean? Just like that another portal opened. “The Year Six climbing frame?” I wondered to myself. Why am I here? The bulky and scary Mr Myers was staring down at me. “Derek, it’s your turn.” Now I remember, the aim was to get across the climbing frame and on to the other side. I stepped up, ready. I got across the first two parts pretty well, however my hands were screaming with pain as they grabbed the sharp rocks for support. I tried to reach for the next rock but my hands were flailing. I couldn’t do it. I fell. I could hear my classmates sniggering. I dragged myself up to attempt it again. This time I leapt to the other side just as a blue crystal appeared from the rock. “Perseverance,” and on the back it read “one must believe in what one can do”. Just then circular beams of white and blue light swirled in front of me. I knew it was the next portal and stepped through. The Elders’ Domain. “But I haven’t collected the third stone” I objected. “That’s right, but you are definitely not worthy and so cannot go back to earth”, proclaimed a tall man in purple robes with a long, white beard. “But I’ve spent so much time meeting your challenges. This is not fair and I won’t let it happen!” Instantly a black stone appeared. “Courage”, it read, “always stand up for what you believe in”. “You are worthy”, the Elder concluded, as I floated back up to earth. By Finley Milner (First Year)

A Breath of Smoky Air Having a rainforest as your home is one thing. Losing it is another. Underneath the thick and luscious Brazilian canopies, the animals of the rainforest are only just waking. Beautiful, flowing landscape hiding one of the greatest treasures of the world. Natural beauty at its peak. Toucan rose earlier today, excited for the day to commence. She was going to meet up with her friend Monkey later, sit in the trees and eat passion fruit. She was also hoping that the day would not be drowned out by torrential rain, but with a few trees on fire, she could have not wished for it more. A rush of panic fell through Toucan while she frantically flapped around to arouse the rest of the animals and alert them of imminent danger. She could have sworn she had seen something much like a monkey setting some more trees on fire. Soaring high and low, the sounds of alarm slowly spread across the jungle floor. You could have seen genuine fear in their faces. Even mighty Leopard was running. “Monkey! Wake up! THE TREES ARE ON FIRE!” Waking up this early in the morning would have certainly irritated Monkey, however he was more than happy to start running from a fire that would destroy his home. No, he wasn’t dreaming. There were greedy outstretched arms of flames, crawling towards them, feeding on the wind and the trees. There was no choice. They fled. Soon, the forest floor devolved into a chaotic crowd of fear. Every single animal, fleeing for their lives. The fires did not care where you were in the food chain. They would just creep up to you and destroy anything in their way. After running for a few hours, they came to the banks of the Amazon River. As Toucan and Monkey came to the water’s edge, Monkey stopped abruptly. “Monkey, jump! The fire is getting closer!” “No, I can’t! The water would sweep me away with how fast it’s going.” “I will carry you across. Don’t worry!” replied the desperate Toucan. “But I’m too heavy!” objected Monkey.

“Monkey, this is our only chance.” She gripped onto Monkey, but only managed to cross a few metres with him in tow. It must have been a spectacle to see a toucan carry a monkey over the Amazon River only for the monkey to fall into the rapids. As Monkey was being swept away, all was lost until he suddenly came to a stop. “Don’t worry, I can get you to safety. Jump on my back!” Rising up and out of the water to save him was Capybara. Even with such small legs, Capybara waded through the rapids to the other side. At the other bank, Capybara asked “Did you see my parents? I can’t find them.” “No, but we can help you find them if we make it out alive!” replied the jubilant Monkey, shaking off the water from his fur. The three began fleeing together in a pack. After a few exhausting hours, Capybara could not run any further. “You two go alone, I don’t have enough energy to go on.” “Don’t worry! You can have a rest. The fire won’t catch us for a few moments. Toucan, can you try to forage out some fruits for Capybara?” “I can get some extras for us as well,” replied Toucan, before promptly flying off. ______________________________ Capybara simply lay down on his back and slowly dozed off only to wake up and see Toucan with a fresh branch of acai berries. The three sat down to have a hasty snack since the fires were already closing in again. Having refuelled, they began to run again. “I hate to say this,” said Capybara, “but really, the fires are accelerating… I think it’s feeding on the gusts of wind at the moment. We can outrun it, however we need to keep up our pace.” “And this is a RAINforest, but where’s the rain?” moaned Monkey as they kept on running. The sun was setting, and while the friends were trekking along, Capybara fell into a ditch as his vision was not the greatest in the dark. As he tried to find his way out, the three started to stress. “Jump. Just jump!” urged Monkey.

Artwork: Brandon Cao (First Year)

“I can’t!” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t. I was just born unable to jump. Look at my legs!” Capybara squealed as he rolled over. Just what could he do with those stubby little legs? The three tried everything. Digging him out would take too long. Capybara was too heavy for Toucan to carry and fly out. Filling the hole with water would be nigh impossible. Even worse, the fires were closing in. “Quick, we can get some branches so I can build a ramp for Capybara!” cried Monkey. Toucan flew away and began frantically gathering all the wood and branches Monkey would need. Monkey desperately tried to get back to Capybara with a ramp, but with nothing to use, what could he do… The heat was becoming unbearable for Capybara. No water to cool him down. No ramp to let him out. A final

try to escape… Not enough. The fire had claimed another victim. Not just an animal gone, but a friend and a hero. ______________________________ “And here we have the Brown Capuchin Monkey. He has been pushed out of his natural habitat by humans like us as they continue to burn and cut down the trees of the rainforest. After having a close shave with the fires, he is forced to stay here in Manaus City in Brazil having lost his home to people deforesting the landscape. To stop these atrocities will take effort, however, we can all come together and save the animals of the rainforest, and perhaps we can save ourselves in the process.” squawked the television. “Why do us humans do this though?” enquired the child. “Why won’t we stop?”

By Harry Ng (First Year) 12

The Deer

He came out of nowhere. His majestic stride was like no other prey. His body was pure and bright. He had velvety antlers that criss-crossed like the perplexity of the woods. He was the symbol of the woods. His ebony eyes held dark secrets. He pranced towards me, while staring at me; he was almost challenging me to shoot. I raised my bow. I took in the blissful aura of this enchanted animal. The stag glowed and I was in a dazed stupor. The animal was like no other; unique, almost royalty. I lowered my bow then it was gone. ‘DINNER’ I thought waking up from my admiration. I ran. Through the dark, ominous forest, through the shadows, the darkness swallowed me. Branches folded above me where no light would ever penetrate that fortress. I ran. The deer glowed in front of me like a million stars. Howls ruled the air. As I hunted, I remembered my brother and my father. What would they do? Would they risk their lives to keep their family alive? Would my mother and sister ever be able to live freely? I hated thinking about them, every time I remember the disaster that ruined our village. It made me want to fight. Yet, it could not be fought. So, I ran, tripping and stumbling hastily on the undergrowth of plants until I started walking on stone. I was in a cave. I looked around me. There was nothing of suspicion, but I still looked around searching every nook and cranny. I listened. There was a sound. A sound that ticked like a clock. It was a timer. I followed the deer. There was no time to stop and think. There were vibrations too. Miniscule vibrations but enough for me to notice. They were fading. That was a good sign. Running blind down the cave was like being in a room with no light. You couldn’t see anything. You could only sense the curves of the cave. BANG! I felt adrenaline burning in my legs as I left the cave. Only to find that I was in the deepest part of the forest. Everywhere I looked foliage engulfed my view. Seeing that there was no point in trying to go back through the cave and trying to find my way back by night, I followed the deer. I needed to wait for day. But I need to stay moving. Following the prey to its hiding places seemed to be the best bet. So, I ran on. My face was crunched up like a ball. The howl of wolves grew louder. The patter of feet grew. The darkness grew. Shadows from the depths of hell. Would

I make it home? I pushed the thought out my head. I knew that I must focus. I must survive. There was nothing else to do. I strung my bow, I looked around. I saw something in the back of my eye. The deer paced slowly too. I was the first to move. I knew that I had to keep moving. Then it happened. I stared into the stag’s eyes. He looked at me. I could feel the wisdom in those eyes. All light in the universe started exploding from the stag. I felt, my head in my hands: eyes shut closed. I squinted at the deer. I didn’t understand. How could something so natural be glowing? Instantly it hit me. The deer was man-made. As curiosity pulled at me, I stood up. I was just able to see now. The stag had materialized into something that was not of natural beauty but man-made tools and was not of such technology of nature. This deer glowed with the power of technology and beauty of nature. The stag looked at me. As though it had a message. The animal’s eye glowed with the pulse of life. Yet, something was wrong with the deer. I started to back away from the deer, afraid that it might explode. Without warning, it started to heat up and brighten. My instincts told me to run but curiosity got the better of me. It exploded, I felt the heat pierce my skin, sucked in the heat…. Ripples of happiness surged through me. It was at that moment that I saw the scroll. I looked around. There was nothing, but…knowing that anything could happen, I shot at the scroll. Nothing happened. I grabbed the scroll. Opening it with the greatest care and caution I could muster. I read the words out loud, Everything will change!’ I didn’t understand. Did it mean that my mother and sister will be happy and that my brother and father will come back from the dead.? There was no time to think. I had to keep moving…

By Isa Hiba-Saibo (Fourth Year)

Artwork: Matthew Barnett (Fourth Year)

The Night Seems Long

The night seems long as the ships travel over the misty waters, their silhouettes traversing across the horizon by the moonlight. The quiet chattering of men can be heard as we approach the mission’s target. I wait in silence and trepidation. The officer then stands up, cranking his back in the process and then speaks with determination

After a while we see the lights ahead of us switch on and we realise that we are now there. Fear grips us as we jump off the board and head towards land. I feel someone tugging me. It’s just Jack. He pulls me to one side and says, “Let’s do this!” We run ahead oblivious of the danger that we are in now.

“Oi, you lads, let’s succeed tonight, then you can be proud of yourself! Let’s show those Nazis what we can do!” I wish it were as easy as that though. I’ve heard the stories of all the missions before…missions that failed. The officer sits down, and we wait anxiously for the firing to start. We’re heading for the shore now. Our mission? To destroy the Nazi camp and factory complex one mile inland. Despite my trepidation, I was itching to see those evil wretches blown to pieces!

By luck, we manage to make it relatively easily across, away from the beach and head inland. We are now approaching Nazi operations – factories and camps. However, the camp known as “Der Spiegel Haus” is across the other side of the woods. All was now silent except for the slight chatter of a foreign language as they run through the woods.

Artwork: Augustus Carter (Fifth Year)

My heart starts beating extremely quickly and I can hear it very clearly. It feels as if it would explode through my chest. Our opponents start speaking to each other. We are in the middle of a Mexican stand off – neither side would escape from this without suffering some fatality. I remain silent not wanting to give anything away. Without warning, Jack gets out his pistol and shoots one of the Nazis. I don’t have any time…the Nazis stumble with their guns. We run for our lives. The Nazis chase after us through the woods. Rain starts to fall heavily, streaming down our faces. We keep running - my legs becoming like jelly as they fire more shots at us. Fear engulfs me as I say a silent prayer. God help me survive this, just one more time. Suddenly, I feel an immense pain. They’ve shot my foot and, in the melee, Jack shoots another one of them. The remaining Nazi flees. Jack peers at me – worry written all over his face. “Are you alright?” I try to say something, but a wince is the only thing that comes out. I hobble along as we see the German soldier has rediscovered his courage. He’s now crouching down and gets out his gun. Despite the tremendous pain in my foot and the loss of blood, I urge Jack to charge with me at the invader. We attack!

In the woods, we cannot see anything at all. Nothing. There is just eternal darkness and the rustling of leaves under our feet. Suddenly, we come to a dead stop. Something is breathing down our necks, we force ourselves not to scream! Jack turns around and instinctively lashes out behind him. I turn around. In the dim light of the moon, I could just make out the instantly recognisable armband of evil – the swastika! We could now make out the angry faces of some murderous Germans. Jack swears under his breath. There are three Nazis and the two of us. Their guns are at the ready.

I no longer care what happens to me - if I die, so be it. My death has not been in vain. He retreats towards the factory that is the target of our mission. We hear the tumultuous roar of Allied bombers ahead and can see darkened figures running away from the buildings. Then, without warning, the factory goes up in flames. It explodes with a noise loud enough to wake the guardians of Hades! The Nazi is caught by the explosion and is engulfed in flames. His piercing screams fill the air. He deserves to die. The sense of relief and sudden fatigue began to overcome me as the adrenaline faded away. I had survived this operation. Nazi factories and food supplies have been destroyed, hindering their war effort. Behind me, the landscape was filled with death and destruction, devoured by fires and dark smoke filling the air. To my right, I see sun rising – a sign of hope. I looked forward to getting back to England again. This will be over soon….well, I hope so!

By Joshua Chapman (First Year) 16

Artwork: Ed Martin (Fifth Year)

The Last Battle The tension in the air was palpable. The two armies met at Hearth, surrounded by steep, sloping hills, dotted with grand, ancient trees, with undergrowth scraggly and uncontainable. The only refuge from the unrelenting tangles and spikes was the clearing where the two armies found themselves. One army belonged to the King, it was clean, with glossy armour shining in the sun, flags flying high over the men and rows of archers with bow-strings pulled and taught, ready to release. The other were the Wilds, they had faces feral with hunger and dirt smeared all over them, they were garmented in no more than rags and their weapons ranged from pitch forks to grimy swords. Tom rode upon his horse, a loyal knight to King Maxon, black hair whipping in the wind, cool, calculating eyes piercing the other army. He held a shiny, grilled helmet casually under one arm. He was no older than twenty and as he took in the desperate people opposite him all he could think of was his family and his past. Tom was a young boy, only ten years old, and he stared grimly at his dying sister. His mother clasped her hand hard and tears ran down the faces of Tom and his mum. Tom’s sister lay on a collection of torn blankets and clothes, her face twisted grotesquely in pain. She had been ravaged by hunger and stared weakly up at Tom. Eventually, she grew still and her eyes glazed over… Immediately when the battle started, a red haze clouded Tom’s vision. He cheered as the archers released their arrows and the deadly whistling filled the air. None missed and the thuds were sickening as row after row of Wilds fell chocking, grasping for help. Tom let out a battle cheer as the knights charged completely covered in glistening armour that twisted flexibly with every slight movement. They cut through the Wilds as if they were tissue. However, there were just too many Wilds and they pushed the King’s army back until they were halfway up a hill. The knights fell back and allowed the foot soldiers to put up their shields and block the ferocious swings from the opposite army. The red haze lifted from Tom’s vision and he was suddenly disgusted by the actions that were occurring, but he put on a brave face because he remembered what he had been told. Tom’s mother gripped him tightly, her eyes staring at him intently, even though they were smothered in sadness. “Listen Tom, you must go, must go to apply for the King’s army.” His mum whispered, fresh tears carving channels down her face, “No more of my children are going to succumb to hunger…”

Tom watched as Wild after Wild fell, each one replaced by another, pouring into the clearing. The King’s army fought with valour, but the sheer exhaustion caused by the continuous battle took its toll and the King’s army was now almost half the size of the original force. The knights, the majority unharmed because of the sacrifice of the foot soldiers, called on every bit of cunning and courage, but if it wasn’t for their gruelling training they would have already fallen to the clubs that the Wilds were swinging with determination. “Listen Tom, I love you, never forget that, I am so sorry that you have to go, but it is essential that you leave,” murmured Tom’s mum, mortified that she had to say goodbye to her son so soon after losing her daughter. “It’s okay Mum, I’ll do what you say and I will be the best soldier ever, for you.” Tom stuttered, shocked by his mum’s request. “Don’t worry, whatever you do I will be proud, just remember be brave for me, be brave…”

Tom stabbed his Lance though the heart of a Wild, revolted by the sickly, warm blood that splattered onto his armour. Not that it made any difference, the tide of the battle had changed, and now the Wilds flooded into the clearing with the same force as the ocean. The King’s army would be defeated by the Wilds, the Wilds getting what they wanted, a chance to lead a new country. Maybe they would rule in a time of peace, with everyone happy, but that was unrealistic. Tom dug his feet into his horse’s sides, as he realised that the King’s army was retreating to regroup at the stronghold, not far away, and his horse shot away with him clutching on for dear life. The horse seemed to sense the panic in Tom’s movements, and so increased his speed, reaching the stronghold in no time, but foaming from the mouth. Tom bowed in front of King Maxon, who sat on his throne wearing a regal, purple robe, that flowed in waves of wrinkled cloth down to his feet. The room had lush, scarlet carpet, the colour of deep blood and walls adorned with

expensive oil paintings of the previous rulers. “So, you wish to join my army!” His deep voice boomed, full of authority, leaving no doubt who was in control. “Yes.” Said Tom… The rebels had caught up to them, there was no hope. Tom was dragged roughly out into the open, where a huge man, the majority of his face obscured by a thick beard, stood, waiting, holding a club. Tom’s last thoughts were about his mother, who had been confirmed dead when he had last inquired, and his dead sister. His face lit up in a smile as the club smashed into his temple. Tom was flying away from his body, which lay crumpled on the floor. He rushed higher into the sky, thinking ‘My family, I am coming for you’. He saw his mother, his sister and a father he had never known open their arms to him and say “And we are waiting for you.”

By Oliver Booth (First Year) 18

Footsteps and Voices I could hear something. Footsteps and voices. Someone was inside. A sudden panic spread over me, a panic I had never felt before as I sat up in that bed. It was fear. Someone was in the flat – my flat. Eyes darting towards the window, the only thing I could see was the darkness staring back at me. It was the middle of the night. Why should anyone be here? Maybe I was imagining? But those voices. Hushed voices, yet still drowned out by great, big footsteps, only revealing broken sounds. Someone was here. I pulled myself together, told myself it was all fine, yet still knowing I wasn’t. Dragging myself out of bed, I started creeping around in the darkness – I wouldn’t dare turn on the lights – my outstretched hands groping about to reach the door. The cool of the metal door handle felt strange against my sweaty palm, but there was no time for doubt, I pushed the door open. No figures could be formed out of the dark corridor outside. It simply looked endless, as if staring into an abyss. The voices could be heard louder now from the entrance of the flat. I knew I didn’t want to go, yet my feet still kept walking, one after the other. I thought I could see a light somewhere, I walked closer and closer… I fell to the floor as something struck me on the head. Darkness. Tom said they were going to come for me… Maybe this was it. Well, if it was Tom then I was in danger. I woke up for the second time that night in the boot of a speeding car. The occasional backfire could be heard from the engine, as well as a squeal from the tyres in a hard corner. The air was filled with a musty smell. Forcing my eyes open, I could see the ghostly glow of streetlights streaking past us, leaving a glare that made the darkness of the night even darker. The same voices could be heard from earlier, still broken yet now slightly audible. ‘Soon be there… not sure boss would approve… got the job done though…’

Artwork: Will Nunn (Fifth Year)

I had to escape, I knew I had to. Whether it was Tom or anyone else for that matter, I wasn’t safe. I went to the boot window – no option for help – no one there. Just the road shooting out from under the car, followed by those glaring streetlights. Maybe there was some way to open the boot. I felt around the boot lid and found nails. Now I knew it was Tom. The entire boot lid had been nailed down onto the car – it was impossible to get out. Without thinking, I unleashed a fury of kicks on the boot lid and didn’t stop. The noise was deafening. The car stopped; this was it. I didn’t stop kicking. At last, the boot opened but not because of me. Two faces stared back at me, bleak and foreboding, and they held a sack. I should have known. I attempted to run in vain. They pinned me down and then brought the sack over my head. A cloth pressed over my mouth; more darkness followed. Tom was a reasonable person earlier; I knew that for sure. The most he was capable of were harmless jokes, but then he got the pistol. That pistol corrupted him. He formed that gang of his, that gang that had expanded so much that random criminals started joining without knowing him. He made his empire and well, let’s just say he does more than harmless jokes now. I left him as soon as possible, but always knew he would come back for me someday. He was here – I had waited long enough, sent those two ages ago. A crunching sound was heard as their car drove across the gravel outside. I told the new boy to open the barn door – he hadn’t done much since he arrived. The night air was chill, the sky was dark, but showed hints of day breaking at the corners. Doors opened and shut, then the crunch of footsteps on the ground. Pete and Blake entered. They were holding a sack. The two put it on the ground and left. Only me, Bill and the sack were in the room. I told Bill to get out – this was private. Nick. Oh Nick, what a lost cause, still probably living in that flat of his, a loner. I shook him awake. He slowly opened his eyes.

“Tom,” he whispered, “Please… no… I won’t join you. You’re better than this…” The same old rubbish. He never realised, did he – he had to make a choice. But I had my answer. Ah, Nick. He was once my best friend. But he doesn’t realise I have a new best friend, A Colt Single Action Army Pistol. I rested my new best friend on his forehead. “So, Nick… just to clarify… you won’t join me?” “No, I won’t. Go on Tom - just shoot me then. But mark my words it’s going to cost you.” What a pathetic weakling. I pulled the trigger. Blood spilt on the ground.

I could hear a siren in the distance. Bill came rushing back in. “Sir… a police car… they were following him… ambulance too. We need to run.” Suddenly someone started pounding on the door, ordering us to open up. I gripped my pistol, ordered Bill to as well – the others had gone. They barged open the door. We tried to fight, think I hit one, but it was no use. I fell on the floor – they rushed Nick out in a stretcher. Five men gripped me and Bill before handcuffing us. They took our pistols. We were outnumbered. As soon as we were in the police car, I realised what Nick meant. The police would have me jailed for life.

By Avi Bhatt (Second Year) 20

The Mercy of The Sea

In haste, the two dark figures, silhouetted in the half-moon light, clambered down the side of their anchored dhow, into the trembling rowboat and began to traverse the raging sea. The island could not have been more than three hundred feet away, but the storm was worsening, the savage waves crashed down around them, and the wind roared in their faces. The searchlight back on their ship, intended to illuminate their treacherous path, bounced its beam chaotically between the white capped waters and the flaring stars. They knew the only way to keep the boat from being shattered, was to keep rowing. Suddenly an ear-splitting crack came from above and a blinding flash lit up the men’s features. The oarsman was short, well built, with long, unkempt hair. His taller associate, bundled up in thick coats and layers, wore a permanent grimace as he gripped a worn leather bag and braced his body against the violent swell.

They were about halfway now, so close but still so far. The current was against them and it was cold, so unbearably cold. Another huge wave rose from the deep coming at them fast. It towered over them as it took one last glowering look before the plunge. The men clawed desperately at the boat to stay onboard. “Brace!”, yelled one, as the sea drenched them in its fury. When the men burst out of the water gasping for air, miraculously they found themselves still on the boat. The taller man impulsively threw himself at the oars and began to row. With sickening dread, he looked vacantly out at the sea and prayed. He was no longer sure of the direction nor the distance to the island, but his only choice was to keep rowing.

Loud cracks and pops carried from across the water, but he took no notice of them. Clutching his bag, he stumbled, exhausted, out of the boat. There was no time to rest. One sample. That was all they needed by way of proof. One soil sample that would redefine the entire region forever. And he knew just where to get it. Breathing heavily, he lumbered over to the treeline, fumbling around in the bag for his tools. After unpacking several implements, with trembling hands he took hold of a stainless-steel probe, pierced the ground and extracted a thick layer of black organic matter. Examining the dark rich soil full of minerals deposited there by centuries of dust storms, he allowed himself the slightest of smiles. He carefully placed the sample in his bag and made his way back to the rowboat. His associate was sitting up and seemed to have recovered. On approaching, he raised the bag up into the air triumphantly and the two men shared a moment of pure satisfaction. They had done it. Their onetime dream was now quite literally going to turn into golden reality. The men shook hands and congratulated each other. They would certainly celebrate their victory in style tonight on the ship. But wait! The ship! Where was the searchlight? Why was it no longer on? Their bodies began to stiffen, their hands began to clench, and nausea gripped them once more. Any euphoria was quickly stripped away like a long roll of sticking plaster being ripped off their skin.

Artwork: Toby Gwynne (Fifth Year)

It was hell. His arms hurt so bad he was losing control of them; his chest was on fire and he was beginning to feel nauseous. Was that his companion groaning, or was that the storm? Suddenly, the rowboat jerked violently as it smacked into a hard surface. The man’s heart skipped a beat. He spun around to find that they had hit a rock directly parallel to the island which was now visible! A wave of relief swept over him in a moment that he didn’t allow himself to enjoy. They were running out of time. After a painstakingly long series of strokes, they made it to the shore of the island. The short man was muttering incoherently under his breath. The tall man simply ignored it, grabbed him by the collar and hurled him overboard onto the rocky beach with an angry grunt. Perhaps it was going to be easier just to leave him where he lay.

On impulse, they pushed out the rowboat and clambered onboard. Desperately they scoured the horizon looking for a shape, a shadow, their wild eyes hoping to pierce the inky black void that surrounded them. Then they saw it. A strange, shape-shifting silhouette. Could that really be their ship? Wait! There was a second vessel alongside. A crack! A pop! Pistol shots! And it suddenly dawned on them. Somalian pirates! They had been warned. Terror bubbled up inside the boat. They couldn’t go forward; they couldn’t go back. So close. But still so far. They were at the mercy of the sea.

By Ben Rowe (Second Year)

JUNIOR WINNER

Creative Writing Competition 2021 “Really exciting story. You have a beautiful touch with description and creating atmosphere. This is really impressive! You are revealing your story moment by moment and allowing the reader to experience it alongside your characters. Really exceptional!” Sara Grant Judge

The Abyss One lonely step. It was all that stood between the traveller and oblivion. One lonely step. It would bring him to his family. Surely that was a price worth paying? He had a name once. But that was a long time before. Before everything had changed. Before his life had been taken away. Before his only acquaintances were lonely, dusty roads. A soulless quest was what he had undertaken. And it was what his days were devoted to. To fulfil his purpose, he would need to find the last colony. In the days before the termination programme, many humans like the traveller had shared their humble planet. It was rumoured that their race had destroyed their first planet through pollution and unnecessary war. A precious few had escaped on a cargo carrying them deep into neighbouring solar systems. Those were the inhabitants who saw the crisis coming; those who had prepared over many long winters. Little did they know that others had survived in addition to themselves. The others were not looking for peace though. They planned the perfect course of action for themselves… The traveller gently stroked the silt coursing into the ravine. It was the very spot where all that he knew had been tossed. People, possessions, property. Regardless of value, the Termination Group would deliver to the abyss. In their eyes, it was they who were perfect. They were pure, cleansed entirely of flaws. This, the traveller knew, was far from the truth. Relentlessly, raiders would pillage their settlements, leaving behind just enough destruction for the settlers to rebuild. These sudden and violent intrusions could happen at any time. If you were a settler, you knew that you were never truly safe. At an excruciatingly unhurried pace, random residents were dragged from their rooms and their arteries severed. As the life left them, the last they would see was the allencompassing darkness of the ravine. He cried out. He had been lost in his thoughts for such a long time that darkness had now descended upon the land. Without warning, branches cracked behind him. And then the whole tree gave way to armoured trucks. The Termination Group had arrived. Dazzled, he stumbled backwards, slipping on the shingle. And with one lost yell, he tumbled. A few stray bullets traced their way down through the cooling air. None came close to his body though. They were more of a celebratory gesture than anything else. He had let his guard down and for that he had paid the price. Yet how worthwhile were those years; always looking over his shoulder; always wary of those who wanted him dead. The struggle would be over now. He could finally see those who he cared for once again. His pensive thoughts were interrupted violently as his scrawny figure fell into

Artwork: Freddie Liang (Fifth Year)

what appeared to be an ancient fishing net. It would have been from the era before the Termination Group. The settlers were free to live by the sea. Children would paddle contentedly, and adults could catch fresh fish to feed all the hungry mouths. Once more he heard voices. This time however, the voices had faces, friendly ones too. Soon he was warmed by the embrace of his people. They were of all ages. From short tempered infants to gnarly sages, everyone crowded around him, piling in to get a look at the new arrival. The homely aroma of burning candles filled the air. At the far end of the cave, aided by two young men who were coming of age, a wrinkled and tiny wise woman clambered down off a throne decked with gaudy jewels and carved out of the porous rock that the chamber was composed of. As she approached him, she bowed as low as her arthritic frame would allow and began to speak in a creaky, worn tone. “Traveller,” she began, as if every word was a great effort for her mouth to utter, “We have all waited endless days for your arrival and I do hope that you can help us.” Feeling that this was owed a response, the traveller attempted to break the silence of the great chamber but failed. It had been seven years since he had last spoken to another human. It had been his father during the final raid. The settlers endeavoured to hold up a resistance. It was, however, doomed from the start and was to no avail. Sensing that it would take some time for the traveller’s words to come, the wise woman called for a tablet and stylus and he scratched out answers to questions on the soft and impressionable wax. After many questions, a great feast was held to celebrate the coming of the cave dwellers’ saviour. The traveller had tried many times to explain that he was just a survivor, just like any of the cave people. For the moment, though, he was more than happy to enjoy the festivities. Then, the wise woman croaked a message and a hush fell around the colossal table. “Quiet please! Quiet! It is my understanding that this fine young man is unaware of our intentions.” A unanimous cry rose from everyone sitting. Even the children, sensing excitement, added to the tremendous clamour. “It is only two nights from now that we will march upon the Group’s settlements. We will take back what is ours and we will drive out the ideals of theirs from this planet never to be seen again. Traveller, will you help us?” He gave his reply, to huge applause…

By Eashan Aldridge (Second Year) 24

Artwork: Isaac Quigley (Fifth Year)

A Strange Encounter The old creaky gate crackled like a rusted iron door opening. I followed the usual path into the desolate graveyard. I felt queasy and fearful as I ventured deep into the forest of the deceased. Eventually I bundled my courage and sanity as I dived through the inky blanket of endless darkness. The gravestones varied from ancient to modern, but were all lined up like soldiers in trenches preparing for battle. I trudged on through the godforsaken palace of the dead, as tall, dark shadows lowered their eerie gaze upon me, sneering. ‘Snap’ as I heard a twig in the distance… I instantly froze, like a deer in front of headlights. I could feel my hands trembling and my voice quivering as I inched closer to investigate. My eyes were flooded with salty water and a lonely tear droplet found its way down my forlorn cheek. I was paralysed with fear. The icy knives of the moaning wind pierced my body, staking my heart. Darkness had drenched the graveyard. It seemed that this rampaging beast would not stop until it had consumed all light. A murder of crows circled me, like birds of prey, stalking their next victim. The frost mist fell upon me, like a dark, silent shadow encapsulating me in an eerie cocoon. The air reeked of rotten flesh and dirt. I could tell I was encircled in a miasma of fear, attracting the predators of the night. However, I continued to trot on through the thick, sticky mud and trudge through the dry, freshly fallen autumn leaves. ‘Hello?!?’I heard a sharp voice faintly in the distance. Abruptly, I was overcome with sudden joy as a smile slithered its way across my face. Had they finally come to rescue me from this horrid nightmare?... or was it yet another trick? Foolishly, I continued my trek. That memorable night still haunts me to this very day. As I inched closer towards my destination, I realised I had won the gruesome battle against the home of the lifeless. Finally, I was facing a small, out of place stone. It read “MR JAMES HENRY HOWARD Beloved Father and Noble Husband.”

I clutched the red rhododendrons that I brought and after a brief pause I realised why I had come to the dreaded place. ‘I wish you were still here, Daddy.’ I choked. I let out a wail of despair as I fell to my knees. The words in front of me flashed memories in my mind as they seemed to grab my view. My shaky hand placed the flowers against the broken gravestones. ‘Hello?!! Is anyone there?!’ This time the voice was softer and louder. It’s was also somewhat attractive. I stood up hoping to discover it was a plain trick. I scanned the area with my keen eyes. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a stifled glint. For a moment I stood there pondering before scrutinising the darkness against. Yet again I caught sight of an imperceptible glow. Curiously, I wandered the brambles of the mysterious realm of the departed, carefully thinking before each step. Every step that I took, felt as if I was inching toward the belly of the beast. Fear took control of me, and I shook vigorously. The faint glow grew dimmer. I hurried through the thicket, in fear of losing sight of the glow. As I encroached the glow, it steadily grew brighter and brighter. What could it be? Surely it wasn’t just a torch of the guardsman? At long last, I was facing a large thorny bush. I groaned in frustration as the curiosity inside of my feeble body took control of me. I scanned the area around me, looking for a device that would help me cross the thorny wall. Lucky, there were a few pieces of acute sided wood lying around. I took hold of them and desperately hacked my way through the spinous wall. My work had rewarded me. I was met by a luminous ball of light. At that moment it didn’t occur to me that meeting a ball of light would be somewhat strange and perhaps dangerous. I was mesmerised its beauty and captivated by the wondrous majesty and brightness. My mouth became loose and simply hung open as I followed it, turning through the stones. Although the cold darkness had submerged the graveyard, I felt warm and calm, a joyful feeling placed inside of me by the majestic spherule of brilliance.

“Father…” I began. Unexpectedly, the lustrous orb stopped and hummed loudly. “Fa…father? Is tha..that y…y..you?” I stuttered. The orb of light hummed louder. I was overwhelmed with joy! A river of hope ran through my body, hydrating every part of my lacklustre soul. The strange ball began to contort. It grew bigger and looked more like a person. Finally, it took the form of a handsome man. “Father!” I gleefully cried. The man opened his arms and embraced me. “My dearest son! I have missed you!” The voice was heavenly and comforting. The figure reflected warmth and vehemence.

“You have to come back with me! We need to tell mum!” I took hold of father’s sleeve and pulled it, hoping he would follow. “I am sorry my son, I cannot follow you home. This is my home now.” His voice was sorrowful. I was eager for him to follow me. However, I had to face the bitter reality. I jumped one last time into his arms, as I knew I would never see him again, although I was blessed to have seen him again. I turned and tried to return but looked back only to fatefully discover that he was gone. I was not sure whether I was hallucinating that day. Unfortunately, I had fallen prey to the never-ending darkness. I left the graveyard as suddenly and silently as I had entered it……….

By Falak Khan (Second Year) 26

The Escape Don’t believe anything they tell you.

Today was the day and I knew it.

Running away is the hardest thing you could ever do. Trust me.

Taking my phone out from my pocket, I paid for the VPN. My heart hammered against my chest as the adrenaline pumped through my lungs.

Glancing around my room frantically, I shoved all the things I needed into my rucksack. A fresh pair of clothes, water and all the money I had.

Sensing my dad’s looming presence at the door, I braced myself for the next beating of the day. Embracing fear like

Artwork: Ineesh Ghai (Fifth Year)

a long-lost friend, I dipped my head in submission, but I could still see him. His face was flushed with anger. His belt was loose on one side for easy access and I knew I was done for. I shrank into the corner of the room, catching sight of my mum’s picture at the corner of the eye. She was so beautiful. He didn’t even say anything at all, he didn’t even try to justify himself. I looked for his eyes but all I saw was hollow. He brought the belt down onto my face and I saw the stars. The deep, dark void started calling my name. Rae… Rae... Get up. A minute passed, then two and then three. The pain started to pull back like the tide on the beach. It left my cheek first, and then it slowly crept down through my whole body. I needed to get out of here. I had to. As I looked around my room, I took in all of my belongings. Plastered onto the wall was a picture of Regan Smith. The finest swimmer of all time. Half drawn, half scribbled paintings of my mum and I littered the desks. My 14th birthday party picture from last year stood alone at the corner of my bookshelf. A bunch of unfinished Lego projects found their way into my cupboards. After I had finished reminiscing on the bitter-sweet memories of the past, I inched closer and closer towards the door downstairs and slipped outside. I was free, or trapped in the same prison I never could seem to break out of. The prison of choice. I could run away now and never look back, or I could stay at home and watch myself grow into a monster. One foot after the other, running towards a new life of spontaneity and solitude, I grasped for it with both hands. I sat down at the bus stop and waited. I waited for the ride that would lead me to my fresh start.

Sprinting through the streets of London, I let the wind take me in different directions. Left, then right and back round again. The mood was perfect, the sky was perfect. Everything was perfect. My mum carried me in her arms whilst my dad sat patiently in the car, smiling at me through the window shield. We played for what felt like hours in the sun. The sun, like a hot ball of anger, slowly made its way down the road where we lay, scorching everything in its path. I thought I would die of heat stroke. Asking my mum for ice cream one more time, I looked into her eyes and for a moment she succumbed to my charm. “Actually Rae, not this time. You can have a fruit shoot from the newsagent’s kiosk at the end of the road.” “But mum…”, I complained, “Um… the ice-cream produces dopamine which could really help my mental health.” “So, you know that at eight years old and you still can’t make your bed. Come on Ryan. Come join us. Let’s go get some drinks.” We walked to the shop and I searched for the drinks. After a few seconds, I found the aisle and brought everything back for my parents to see, but something was wrong. The shopkeeper was frantically searching for money from the counter, whilst a man with a black mask held the gun up and was shouting words I had never heard before. My dad stood protectively over my mum and I, shielding us from all the danger. The man with the black mask was losing patience and I locked eyes with my mum. She nodded at me and did what only a mother would do. She stepped right in. “You should leave him alone. There’s a child watching,” she cried with a hint of fear in her voice.

What is wrong with me??

“What did you just say to me?” The robber asked as his voice rose higher and higher. But my mum went too far. She reached out to turn the man to face her, but before she could even touch him, he shot her. She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t even say goodbye, and it was all my fault. I was the one who asked for the drinks. I was the one to blame.

Before I lost hope in my decision, I sauntered into the bus and took a seat near the window. In deep thought, I instantly twirled the ring on my index finger.

“It’s the last stop… Get up,” said the bus driver hauling me back to reality. I barged past him and retreated to the warmth of the shadows.

It was the last thing my mum gave me before she died.

Can you find me?

I slipped into the past unknowingly, but sadly, that’s where the ghosts were.

By Jason David-West (Second Year)

Shutting my eyes, I fought off the nausea. Nothing seemed familiar. I saw the bus drag to a halt in front me, but nothing was there. As soon as the vision came, it went, and the bus slowed to a stop in front of me just as I anticipated.

33 28

When the Russians Took Over The clouds drew together, hiding any sunlight that was left as he readied to take off. He completed all of the usual safety procedures, extra carefully this time, it could be his last flight ever. As the jet engines started up, the pilot’s hands grew pale and shaky and adrenalin coursed through his body. Why did he join the air force? Lift off The fighter jet soared through the dark sky, gaining altitude, and getting further and further away from home. Maybe there would be brightness on the other side of the cloud, he thought. A few minutes into his flight, he started to relax. If he never flew again, at least he would be dying for King and country. Gunshots fired in the distance; he flew towards them. Readying to fire. The rattle of the guns became louder and louder. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, he gripped the button. An enemy vehicle passed over him. Frightened thoughts filled his head. The radio crackled as he received orders from the base:

“Bravo 107 is fragged, engage with enemy when possible. Over and out.” “Copy that,” he mumbled. “I have visuals.” He altered his trajectory, coming alongside the enemy. The Mikoyan MiG-29 swerved right and left avoiding an easy shot from the American. The F-15E Strike Eagle followed on the Russian’s tail taking a hard right to keep the enemy visible. Suddenly, one of the MiG-29’s engines cut out, and the American was able to pull in behind the Russian. He trained his weapons onto the enemy. The tone beeped loudly in his ears. He fired. The enemy’s terrified face was encased in a cloud of smoke and a burst of flames. He felt relieved. His mission was complete. “Enemy aircraft destroyed, and enemy ejected. He is lone with no support, I repeat he is on his own. My co-ordinates are 36.668419, -69.424507.” “Copy that, Bravo 107. RTB, that is an order, before enemy support arrives.”

Artwork: Augustus Carter (Fifth Year) He pulled his parachute, and was left hanging in the air, while the F-15E spun uncontrollably and smashed into the ocean below. His mind was still foggy, after the immeasurable force that had just been implemented on body while ejecting out of the damaged plane. But, at least he was alive and uninjured. He touched down into the ocean gently, and used his parachute to keep afloat. He waited patiently for assistance, eventually relaxing. But none came… At 1800 hours, the sun started to dip below the Earth, and he was still stranded alone in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Shivers constantly writhed down his spine like snakes, as freezing cold water seeped into his clothes, if someone did not rescue him soon, he would die of hypothermia. He tried to recall memories of his family and friends, tried to think of the positives in life. He watched ships pass by, while he waved at them frantically, attempting and failing to get their attention. Eventually, a boat launched over the horizon speeding towards him, he shouted and screamed, they noticed him. But, then he realized, it was the Russians. There was nothing he could do now, he would have to let them take him, and try to escape and he also wanted to find out why no rescue had come to save him. A rope ladder dropped down from the top deck, and someone shouted in a strong Russian accent:

“Copy that, over and out.” He started the journey back to land, taking a glance at his radar. Nine bogeys appeared. “Bravo 107 to control tower, I have nine bogeys on my radar, I repeat I have nine bogeys on my radar,” he stated while shaking with fear, this was the end. “Get out of there, Bravo 107, we are sending support now,” crackled the Commander. Lightning struck the sky, ironically summing up the mood. Terrifying. A bunch of black dots appeared at the end of his vision, like a swarm of bees attacking you after you have hit their nest. Slowly those dots became larger, larger, larger, until they were jets shooting towards him at 1519.874 miles per hour. His face was frozen in terror, the support was nowhere in sight. His jet swerved left and right avoiding Russian missiles and bullets, but he couldn’t dodge them forever. Bang! “Mayday! Mayday! I’m going down my Left engine has been hit, I repeat my left engine has been hit!”

“You either get on this ship, or you die.” He heaved himself up onto the first rung with difficulty, after hours in the water his muscles had tensed up and become numb. Nevertheless, he managed to reach the top of the ginormous warship. A mysterious General bearing a twizzled moustache grabbed him by the back of his collar and shoved him into a small cell with no windows and – by the looks of it – no way to escape. The lock clicked four times and then he was trapped. At least he was alive. His eyes glanced left and right looking for an exit. There was a vent in the ceiling! But, could he reach it? He jumped up as high as he could and his fingertips brushed the cover, and it was pushed back halfway. It was possible! He jumped again, but this time he nicked his fingers on the sharp metal. The cut began to bleed, but he tried again and managed to heave himself into the vent. It was a small gap, but as a fighter pilot he was able to crawl along it. He came to another opening in the vent, and he overheard a conversion which froze him in his tracks. “Yes, we have full control over America, we captured their President and have hijacked many of their air force’s bases.” Now he knew why no assistance had come, but he would be the only person able to stop the Russians conquering all of his dear country, America.

By Monty Hunt (Second Year) 30

Artwork: Charlie Murphy (Fifth Year)

The Last Step I Took Food! Finally! I was looking around for hours. It was, in fact, in a tidy little object with a dip in the middle. It had food in it, so I was not going to question it. There was a strange little metallic object with a zig-zag pattern just above, and I immediately thought that it was to protect me form the bright blue sky above with its ever so inconvenient rain and wind. I took one step towards it, two steps, three steps. Suddenly, I tripped and hit my head with my legs tangled. The object surrounded me, choking me until my vision sank to the size of a pebble. I yelped and screamed but no one came to me. The last sound I heard was one of joy and happiness—laughter.

I was born and brought up in a small family on the street. I had few relatives, but many friends (this was common at the time). I was very fond of my parents, especially my mother. She took care of me and scared all the humans and birds away. She had the smoothest fur, and I slept in it every day (we woke and emerged at night), offering comfort and warmth which I gladly accepted.

My father was a very different fox. His fur and actions were rough, and his eyes were dark, but his heart was warm. He was always away and I rarely saw him. He would come every now and again, usually with food. Most of the time it

protecting ourselves from other animals. We experienced rain and wind, cold and hot, wet and dry. The main part of surviving in the wild was food. We didn’t have much to our name. So, we decided to go out of our comfort zone, and go into ‘unexplored territory’. We travelled, and some of the more cowardly dropped out to go back. Eventually, we decided that it was futile. We discovered other foxes who already claimed the area, and they forced us out. We went in the other direction and came across a flat, green area. Some large, tall and muscular beings scared us away. We came back after two hours and found the place littered with men in bright, rubber suits. I had seen them before. They had long sticks which shot out a horrible spray, with a stench as bad as a durian. Some of my companions had never seen this before and slowly walked towards them. I, and some others ran, while we could. The yelps and screams of the others told us they fell for it. Some of the rubber people stayed at the green plain while others chased us. Away and away we went, through gardens and through hedges, but they still came after us. I took a sharp turn down an alleyway, but left the rest of them behind. Their footsteps got quieter and quieter as they got further and further away. I stayed where I was for a few minutes, then got impatient. I stepped out and saw an empty street. The rubber men weren’t there. I couldn’t see or smell anyone nearby. But there was a strange scent. I walked towards it and it became clearer and clearer to me that it was food. I was starving. It was a small bread crumb. It was tiny, but every little helps. I ate it and felt more energy surging through me. There was another scent, but it was coming from all around, left, right above, in front, behind. I tried to go to one direction, but it seemed to follow me. I stood still, in the middle of the road. It was dangerous, but I was curious. I wanted to find out more. Then, a hissing sound came from behind and swallowed me entirely.

was something he had found on the street, but sometimes he would bring a dead animal (a delicacy for all). He was the best hunter and scavenger I knew, and I wanted to be like him. Everyone around me always spoilt me, giving me enough food for my fill, and protecting me at all costs. Life was good until I came of age. I was let out into the familiar world, and beyond, exploring all the little nooks and crannies. Every night, I would meet up and go out in a skulk, living on what we found and

I struggled and cried for help but it wouldn’t stop. A sound of anger, and frustration seemed to be the only thing I heard. I tried to run, but my legs were paralysed. I wanted to be free, but I couldn’t. I turned around onto my back and lay down, still. A rubber man appeared in front of my face, and looked at me with cold eyes, behind the pale visor. I waited, waited, waited… and then bit. I tore through the suit and ran, the smoke now gone. Now were cries and screams, but they still had a hint of anger. I ran. Far away. I had realised that I didn’t know where I was, going further out than I should’ve. I backtracked through scents and sights to the street I was just on. Just sitting there, in the middle of the road, was food! Finally!

By Oliver Dugarić (Second Year) 32

Artwork: Kyan Soni (Fifth Year)

Plane Sailing I could feel the rumble of the engine beneath me, adding vibrations to my body’s nervous shaking. I looked out the small glass window as the roads and houses below grew smaller and smaller. I swivelled round to look at the other passengers around me. Their faces mirrored my fear and anxiety. No one said a word. Everyone’s mind preoccupied with worries about the upcoming jump. I checked my parachute cords for the tenth time, then my rope, my whistle, then my parachute cords again. I breathed raggedly as I attempted to control my negative thoughts of planes crashing, parachutes not opening, instant death! Standing on firm ground felt a long time ago already. The familiar sounds of the world were inaudible up here. I could see birds flying below, the clouds felt in reach. As we flew higher the levels of my stress and trepidation were rising too. I tried to tell myself that I was perfectly safe. What if signing up for this wasn’t the best option? I forced myself to ignore the thought. I would be back on the ground soon. I repeated this to myself over and over. I would be safe soon. Suddenly, I started to feel a little dizzy. Something felt wrong. I stumbled across to the door of the cockpit and pulled it open. ‘Excuse me—’ I said. And then I realised. I gasped and stopped mid-sentence. There the pilot lay unconscious on the floor, his face sweaty, as white as a sheet. I fumbled frantically as I felt for his pulse. He was still alive! The plane started to sway, feeling out of control. Immediately, everyone in the plane started to scream. Wrestling with my own inner terror, I knew that I had to help the others. Running to the passengers, I shouted as loud as I could above the fear, ‘CALM DOWN, LISTEN, STOP SCREAMING!’ Everyone looked at me as if I knew what I was doing. Oh my God, I wished that were true. Just before I turned back to the pilot’s cabin, the plane veered and threw me to the floor of the plane with a jolt. Desperately, I struggled up from my position. Pulling myself along my stomach, I dragged myself towards the cockpit. Again, I checked for his pulse. There, but weak. A thousand beeping noises bombarded me all at once. I looked at the complicated deck of buttons, levers and switches on the plane. None of them meant anything to me. Sitting down in the black, leather chair, almost hyperventilating with panic, I grasped the wheel. Looking again at the dashboard, I saw that the plane had been on autopilot with a timer, which had minutes before it

needed to be reactivated. I turned it off and took the wheel, tilting to the left to steady the plane. It swerved horribly, slamming my face into the nearby window. I tried again. To the right this time. Not quite straight, but it was better. ‘I can do this..’ I whispered unconvincingly to myself. I pulled downwards at the wheel, and the plane’s nose tilted slowly downwards. The same happened when I pulled the plane up. Perspiration fell from my forehead into my eyes, stinging. I had to land the plane before it was too late. Sweeping my gaze across the land below me, all I could see was the massive drop between the plane and the ground. And only buildings, houses, roads. Not a patch of green, open space could be seen. I heard a muffled crackly voice. My heart leapt as I looked towards the radio. I silently cursed myself for forgetting it beforehand! Scrambling to press the button, I could hardly speak with fear but was able to get out, ‘C…Can you hear me?!’ in a hoarse whisper. The reply came. ‘We read you.’ I let out a choked sigh of relief. ‘Please help me… the plane… the pilot has blacked out and we’re stuck in the sky!’ The voice becoming quieter and crackled to nothing. No response. ‘Hello, HELLO!… do you read us?’ I couldn’t lose contact. My mind was repeating over and over. Please don’t go! Please don’t go! After trying 5 times I banged the dashboard in sheer frustration. I looked out below me and I saw it… the field. The only experience I had of landing a plane had been in a simulator in an Aviation museum a few years ago. It was our only hope. Right, slowly, I told myself. I tilted the nose downwards towards the field. I started to shake and then it felt like a stillness had taken me over as I realised I had no choice here. I couldn’t see anything except the field, my landing spot. There was a tense feeling in the air, everyone in the back of the plane held their breath. The ground got closer and closer. I prepared myself for impact. ‘GET READY!’ I shouted.. The next sixty seconds were a blur. Shuddering, jolting, every muscle in my body straining. And then silence. And then screaming. Not of fear but of joy. We were safely on the ground. I unpeeled my hands off the steering wheel and turned around to look at the shocked faces of the other passengers. The numbness inside me started to loosen as everyone started to cheer. I had done it.

By Sam Trotman (Second Year)

JUNIOR HIGHLY COMMENDED Creative Writing Competition 2021

“I like how you created a wonderful atmosphere in your opening paragraph. You really let your readers experience the story. Well done!” Sara Grant Judge

Artwork: Mac Crawford (Lower Sixth)

I Was a Ghost

I woke up. I looked around. There was no-one there. At first, I had no idea where I was and what I was doing. Then it dawned upon me. I remembered hiking up the mountain. I had jumped at the chance to come here. I could see that we had planted a flag. But ‘we’ was the question. Where were my friends? I had not come up alone. Rule number one of mountain climbing: never go up alone. If something goes wrong, you would be all alone with little help. It could take days for someone to find you. I decided to make the trek back down. Unusually, it was easy to climb down – it was almost like I was floating. Every time I tried to grip a handhold, it was easy to hold on and support my weight. I did not even have to try. Strangely, it did not even feel cold. By the time I reached the bottom, there was noone waiting for me there. Most of the time, when mountaineering, there are people at the bottom to help you take of all of your equipment. I struggled to untangle all the complicated zips and buckles. The entry door to base camp was unlocked. After about half an hour of struggling, I somehow managed to take my kit off and my old clothes were waiting for me back at the cabin.

I tried to look for someone, but no-one was there. The whole place had an eerie feel of being abandoned. I decided to pack my things and go back to the local town, which was near the base of the mountain. The flight tickets in my bag were still valid, and according to the date, the plane would take-off at 4 o’clock sharp in the afternoon – assuming there were no delays. The airline was notorious for its 3-hour delays. Tomorrow, I had a whole day of waiting for a plane that would take off in a very long time to look forward to. However, I could not shake (off) the feeling that something was off. I had too many questions and no answers. Where was everyone else? Why did I wake up alone? Why did I even have to wake up? If I had woken up, then I could deduce that I had fallen unconscious. But why had I fallen unconscious? But I could not find any answers to any of these. I packed my things for the flight and decided to go to sleep for the night at base camp. There was sufficient food there anyway. When I woke up, I walked to the local town. Even though I was looking for answers to my questions, instead of finding answers, I only found more questions. After a gruelling hour-long walk down to the local town, I tried to hail a taxi to take me to the airport. However, no matter how many taxis passed me, none of them

stopped. It was like no-one wanted to pick me up. The town was hardly ever busy. It seemed that I would now have to walk all the way to the airport, even after I had dragged all my luggage here. Somehow, I carried on. I passed an old lady who was walking her dog. Her dog started barking at me randomly. The dog seemed to think I was its enemy. The old lady tugged at the dog’s leash. “Stop it Mike!” she exclaimed, “there’s no-one there!”. I was shocked. She continued walking as if her dog had decided to randomly bark at some air. “But I’m RIGHT HERE!” I protested. She couldn’t even see me, much less hear me. What was going on? Then something even more strange occurred. There was a puddle of water beside the road, but I could not see my reflection in it. I could only see the bright blue sky and one or two clouds. I decided to buy a newspaper. Perhaps I could make some sense of my situation if I found out what was going on in the news. I saw the headline on it and began reading. There was a large picture of me on the front cover. Bad news. MISSING MOUNTAINEER Bryce Anderson, aged 30, has gone missing at the top of the nearby mountain of Mt Neville. He was last seen on the 28th February; however, he went missing soon after. His crew, who were also hiking with him to the top of the mountain, report that he had become separated from the group following a storm, which resulted in very poor visibility. They suspect that he ran out of oxygen. Search teams have been scouring the mountain, however, there has been no sign of him. Police are asking anyone with information to come forward. Everything added up. My crew must have assumed that I had gone missing and made the decision to leave me. I found it so easy to climb down. Everyone must have left base camp to search for me. No taxis bothered to pick me up because they could not see or hear me, nor could the old lady - but her dog could. I could not see my own reflection in water. I was a ghost.

By Avinash Gogineni (Third Year) 36

INTERMEDIATE HIGHLY COMMENDED

Creative Writing Competition 2021 “I love that you’ve thrown us right into the middle of the action! Great start to your story. You really allow the reader to experience each exciting scene. Well done!” Sara Grant Judge

Artwork: Harry Spencer (Fifth Year)

The Chase My eyes were forced open. All I could see around me was white - suddenly I realised. I was floating. I was falling from the sky at considerable speed with what felt like a concussed head. All of a sudden, I saw the ground. It was coming closer and closer. I became aware of a little tag flailing at my side. Seeing the cord as my only option, I pulled it and out shot a parachute. Dazed and in shock I slipped out of consciousness.

When I awoke again, I tried to regain composure and shakily stood up. Looking around there was a thick, dense forest and a leafy canopy that obscured the sky from view, only letting through a few rays of sunlight. Shrubs and bushes covered the ground, yet no animals appeared, instead silence. Eerily quiet. The enormous, brown trunks of the trees encircled me and reduced my vision to only a few metres as their huge bodies blocked parts of the wood from view. A loud whistle rang out. The sudden break of the silence terrified me. After a second of subconscious paralysis, I turned and sprinted aimlessly in one direction. After being able to run no more, I slowed, walking to a large, charcoal coloured crate. Creeping vines and damp leaves hung over the entrance. A thick yellow sludge dripped slowly from the roof and the smell was awful. A putrid odour seeped from the crate’s contents and hung still in the air. Whatever had been in there was horrible. I pulled my bandana up to my nose to mask the smell and entered the storage crate. The interior plating was paper thin and in the corner was what looked like an empty military weapons cache. A feeling of sinking panic and dread swirled around me as I realised that there was someone else here and they were well armed. Agitation overwhelmed me coupled with a high level of confusion as I still had no idea where I was and why I was there. I decided to continue my now, very dangerous, journey. As I was leaving, I noticed two more identical crates behind the one I had been searching. Surveying my surroundings, the green and brown of the forest covered everything. A maze of trees and sloped ditches lay before me, lit only by visible rays of faded light piercing through the thick canopy. Still, even though I had traversed deeper into the seemingly endless forest, the only sound audible was the rustling of the leaves in the slight breeze. The lack of moving life around me was eerie and it made me nervous. All I could remember was a white light and a great pain in my head along with a feeling of numbness in my arms and legs. Apart from that, my mind was blank.

Continuing to walk, I saw flashes of flickering light penetrating the darkness of the forest. I had come to a clearing lit by tiki torches. Their flames danced in the steady breeze. Along the path, there were little ditches dug into the ground. Bizarrely, on closer inspection, they were filled with yellow bones, smeared with black flesh. Feeling nauseous I turned to throw up, but I noticed something very odd. A dark wooden pole was stuck in the ground and there was a large carcass strapped to it. I couldn’t see the front of its head because its back was facing me. Going closer to investigate I saw something which made my heart stop. I was paralysed with dread. A creature lay before me, but it was nothing like anything I had ever even dreamt of. It was about six-foot-tall, shaped like a man with an oversized misshapen head and skin of a greenish hue with a yellow tinge. It had armour on its legs and an exposed torso. What was most terrifying was its face. It had two rows of dripping fangs, backed up by sword-like canines but it also had four extra claws attached to the outside of its mouth that looked like they could tear flesh from a human with one little swipe. A ring of horn-like veins adorned as a crown on its head. The beast looked dead but still turned my blood stone cold from fear. Suddenly, a shot rang out. I snapped out of my trance and began to run, dodging around the ditches so as to not break my ankle. The sound of running water became audible and I found myself at the top of a waterfall. Hearing a loud, menacing, aggressive roar echo through the forest, I decided I was not going to wait to find out what had made it. I had no choice. Without pausing to survey the danger, I threw myself from the cliff into the powerful, current of the waterfall. I hurtled towards the surface of the water which upon falling, now seemed highly dangerous. I hit the surface forcefully… then I was under water. My ears were ringing and I was in a state of total disorientation. The pressure pulled me down and while I tried to fight my way to the surface, I was quickly losing energy. Finally, I was able to drag myself onto the shore. Lying on the hard rock, gasping for air I looked up to where I had been. Three figures suddenly appeared from nowhere. They looked very similar to the creature I had seen tied up but instead they were wearing helmets with red and white war paint streaked across their eyes. The terrible truth became apparent; this was a hunt and I was the prey.

By Thomas Massey (Third Year)

Paranoid The large clock on platform 7 clunked over to 14:37. This train should have left 7 minutes ago. I shifted uncomfortably in the well-worn seat, willing the train to move. With great relief I heard the sharp shrill of a whistle and the final few passengers bundled into the carriage. With a whoosh the doors slid shut and the train finally eased out of the station. I don’t know why I put my hands under the greasy Formica table in the Upper Crust Café. I was more likely to find a lump of second-hand chewing gum than I was a USB stick. I surreptitiously surveyed the people in my carriage. In the seat opposite mine there was a tall, salt-and-pepperhaired man reading the Telegraph. The headline read, ‘Government unexpectedly increases national security level to VERY HIGH.’ I couldn’t see much of him but my eyes were drawn to his oversized silver watch that poked out from under his cuff-linked sleeve. I don’t know much about watches, but even I could tell that it was expensive. His scuffed muddy shoes contrasted with his otherwise groomed appearance. Did he have to run to get this train? I wondered. As soon as I plugged the USB stick into my laptop, I realised the significance of what I had taken. If this information got into the wrong hands it could compromise national security and put many lives in danger. There was a woman seated diagonally across from me reading a battered paperback. She looked like she was in her forties and had curly hair tied back with a rust coloured scarf that matched her coat. She had a large patchwork tote bag on the overhead parcel shelf that was stuffed with books and papers. Through her thick lensed glasses, I could see her watery blue eyes. She glanced up from her book and caught me looking at her. She smiled pleasantly and went back to reading. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. If I told my parents where I was going, it could put them in danger too. Cold tears pricked the back of my eyes as I stood in my driveway. I could not bring myself to leave. The safety and comfort of home was pulling me back. “Goodbye house,” I mumbled, wondering if I would ever return. Across the aisle there was a man totally fixated on his phone; his large thumbs tapping away violently on the screen. He was scruffily dressed in ripped jeans, high topped trainers and an army surplus style khaki green jacket. Stubble covered his chin. His eyes were redrimmed and quite frankly, a bit menacing. His foot tapped anxiously on the grimy floor, completely out of sync with the hypnotic rhythm of the train. His anxiety was infectious

Artwork: Chand Dodhia (Fifth Year) as I consequently found my own heart beating faster as I surveyed the carriage. My suspicions escalated as all of the other passengers in my carriage remained on the train despite several stops. I could tell the train was getting close to London, as the buildings became denser and the green that usually covers the landscape was consumed by grey. As we hurtled ever closer to the destination, goose-bumps plagued my skin and my hands went numb. I realised that I didn’t belong here. I belonged back home, where the biggest drama I would ever face was trying to get my homework in on time. I realised how naïve I had been. What chance did a random teenager have against the professionals who were probably after me? This was it. My stop. I stumbled out of my seat. My knees were shaking so much I could barely walk. How am I going to be able to run away from anybody if I can’t even walk? I asked myself hopelessly. Suddenly, ice cold adrenaline shot up my spine. I put all my fears and doubts to the back of my mind. The only thing that I was thinking in that moment was RUN! I shot out of the carriage not even daring to look back for fear of who I might find. I quickly weaved through the thick crowds. I knew that this was my main advantage over anyone trying to follow me. I threw myself over the turnstile and into the deafening roar of the city. I just had to get myself to the Ministry of Defence Headquarters and then I would be safe. I put up my hood and briskly walked with my head down, trying to keep a low profile. Waves of paranoia washed over me as cold sweat. I quickly dismissed these thoughts and concentrated on blending into the crowd. I had done my research. It would only take me five minutes to reach the Headquarters. I thought to myself: in five minutes I will be safe. In five minutes, I might even be a hero! After what felt like hours, I finally reached the very ordinary building that I had seen in the photographs online. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as all the panic and stress that had built up over me dissipated out into the surroundings. I had made it. As I stepped over the threshold, I caught a flash of rust colour in the corner of my eye. I spun around to see that familiar pair of glasses and those magnified watery blue eyes. “Congratulations,” she lauded, “You have completed your first assignment.”

By Joe Murphy (Third Year)

Artwork: Sam Owen (Fifth Year) 41

24 hours

Chrome held the leather briefcase in his left hand. He wore a black tuxedo with designer glasses. It was perfect to blend in with all the other rich men in the airport. He carried a gun made entirely out of porcelain, which fired darts coated in botulinum in his back pocket. This way, airport security would be unable to detect any weapon that was concealed. Botulinum was the most potent substance known to man, with two nano-grams easily killing a human. It was more efficient and merciless, he preferred it that way. Chrome had a sly grin on his face, he had crossed the difficult path. It had been much easier than he had expected. It had been named ‘the Joining of the Giants’. Twenty four of the most powerful men in the world gathering together to discuss the future of the earth including the President of the United States. He thought the name was a cliché. It was the perfect opportunity, so he was surprised at the lack of security. The airport should have been crawling with bodyguards, surrounding each person, but there were very few in sight. Chrome himself was disguised as a bodyguard for a leading businessman in the oil industry, Khalil Latif. He was the 14th richest man in the world with a net worth of $101 billion. Latif changed bodyguards every day to exterminate any potential threat, however this allowed anyone to slip in without being noticed. The rush of wind accompanying the aircraft was welcomed by many, as there was an excruciating heat unfolding on the runway. It was a Boeing BBJ MAX private jet specifically modified for this journey. They were flying to Oliver Tambo International Airport, Johannesburg. Why they were travelling to such a place Chrome hadn’t the faintest clue, but he had a completely different reason for getting onto that plane. The interior of the plane had exceeded his expectations. It was lit brightly with 15-inch plasma screens on each of the 50 seats. The plane was designed for passengers to have the entire first deck as a living area for maximum enjoyment, with the cockpit situated on the second deck. That was why he chose this plane. An hour had passed since take-off. The quiet hum as the aircraft effortlessly glided through the air was a comfort for the passengers, but also a distraction as tiredness had appeared in a number of people. This was the moment to strike. A satisfying click followed as Chrome opened his

briefcase. In front of him was a cylinder labelled ‘Halothane Vapour’. Halothane Vapour was a volatile anaesthetic that was considered to be a powerful sleeping gas. Chrome picked up a gas mask and swiftly put it on. It would take two minutes for the gas to infiltrate the whole floor. He checked for the gun in his pocket and moved up the stairs to the cockpit. The gun only had two darts to prevent any threat from being detected. There was no room for error. He turned the handle on the cockpit door. It was locked, as expected. Every aircraft automatically locked their cockpit doors to avoid intruders. The door could only be opened from inside therefore you would need the pilot’s permission to enter. It was near impossible to forcefully break through, but it was still possible. Chrome knocked on the door. “Yes?” a pilot replied with a deep, rusty voice. “I have your lunch, Sir”, Chrome remarked with a change of voice. An endless silence consumed the aircraft before the sound of the lock releasing intervened. Chrome clenched the gun as the door opened. He would have to be quick. Two darts were fired consecutively as the pilots lazily slumped onto the floor. Chrome observed the upcoming journey. If needed he could fly the plane, but there was no sign of turbulence or any obstacles that needed a pilot. A smile formed on Chrome’s face but the job was not done. The briefcase now revealed a hidden second compartment loaded with 24 injections. They were Hydroxocobalamin injections which had cyanide in them, however Chrome had added his own twist. These injections had micro capsules containing the cyanide which would only release when revealed to infrared waves. The sleeping gas had now taken its effect. The gas mask was becoming cloudy because of Chrome’s heavy breathing. He had nearly finished injecting all the passengers aboard. The Hydroxocobalamin slowly leaving the syringe was oddly satisfying. He walked into the cockpit and spoke into the radio: “You have 24 hours to catch V.I.L.E”.

By Vishesh Jaisi (Third Year) 42

The Holiday Heist It should have been a wonderful holiday. Their hotel was right on the beach with its fine, golden sand and Simon could hear the waves from his room. However, his older sister spent all her time with a group of loud teenagers and his parents refused to move from the pool. Simon was so bored. He had another evening on his own ahead of him. His parents had planned a romantic (yuck!) meal at a local restaurant and his sister would, no doubt, be at a nightclub on the beach. It was 9pm and Simon was sitting on the beachfront on an abandoned deckchair. He was looking out to sea at the sailing boat lights and they bobbed up and down with the gentle waves. The only other sound was music spilling out from the bars further up the beach. Suddenly he could see

the glowing tips of cigarettes approaching him and he lay down on the deckchair not wanting to be seen. “We have to do this tonight,” said a gravelly voice “everything is set up”. “Are you sure that there will be no guards there?”. “Yes , that’s all sorted out now”. Simon was intrigued by what he heard. He wanted to find out what they were planning. “Let’s meet in an hour, outside Cafe Zee. Ricardo, make sure you bring a bag to put the statue in once we are out of the museum”.

Artwork: Tom Banks (Fifth Year)

As the men walked away, the sound of the conversation was muffled by the waves breaking on the sand. Simon sat in silence. Had he heard right? Were these men planning on stealing something from the museum? Simon had visited the museum yesterday when it had rained in the morning, but he hadn’t found it at all interesting. The only thing that had caught his eye was a panther statue made from a rare black stone that had been discovered on the island a few years ago. It was the only thing worth stealing in his mind. There was not enough evidence to go to the police so Simon decided to follow them and see what they were up to. It was midnight, and Simon stood in a narrow alleyway in front of the old museum. He had snuck out of his hotel

after his parents had gone to bed - his sister had no idea what he was up to and neither would she care. An hour ago, he had heard the men whispering to each other as they had approached the museum, he had been tracking them ever since they had left Cafe Zee. From their manner they were clearly up to no good. Before he had left the hotel he had bought a replica of the panther from their tourist shop. It wasn’t perfect but he hoped it was enough to fool them in the dark. He had also another surprise waiting for them in his bag and he was looking for the perfect moment. Simon heard a car approach slowly with its lights off, which then stopped outside the side entrance to the museum. A dim light shone from inside the car, clearly someone was on their phone. Were they talking to the burglars? A few minutes later Simon saw some dark shadows approach the car stealthily and a plan formed in his mind. He crept forwards until he was in the right position and then reached into his bag. The timing had to be perfect for this to work. As soon as the driver got out of the car and moved towards his friends, Simon pulled out a match, struck it forcefully along the side of the box, and then lit the smoke bomb. He lobbed it towards the back of the car where the burglars had placed the statue and then followed up with some bangers. All hell broke loose. The night was a mix of bangs and yelps from the burglars and the air was filled with eerie green smoke. This was his chance. With the men distracted, and unable to see or hear what was going on, Simon legged it towards the boot of the car. He swiftly swapped out the real statue for the replica that he had brought with him in his bag and then ran back through the deserted streets to his hotel. He hoped that his plan had worked and in all the confusion the burglars hadn’t seen him or would not notice the swap. His heart was thumping with a combination of fear and excitement, Simon had never done anything this daring before. The next morning Simon woke up late. For a moment it felt like just another day on holiday and then he remembered with a start his escapades from the night before. He quickly stuck his head out of his bedroom door to check to see whether his parents and sister were in the apartment. They weren’t. He rescued his bag which he had thrown under his bed for safe-keeping the night before and peered inside it. A sense of relief rushed through his body - the statue was still there and he had foiled the burglars. Not bad for a kid! Then the realisation of his situation hit Simon. How was he going to get it back home?

By Daniel Venner (Third Year)

The Last Divine Relic

Artwork: Chand Dodhia (Fifth Year) Far away, in an enchanted land, which seemed untouched by the steady march of time, there lived an old and compassionate master. One day, which, at first, appeared no different from any other, a gentleman stumbled across a baby boy abandoned in the wilderness. He raised the infant as if he were his very own grandson and watched in amazement as he grew, becoming extraordinarily strong physically, yet gentle in nature. Now, the boy who was named Xander, sadly found himself alone, and the sole guardian of his grandfather’s most prized possession his Divine Relic. Xander lived his life peacefully, but loneliness was everpresent, when one day he realised that a visitor was fast approaching his remote mountainside home. In the distance, Xander could see faint shadows of something moving. It rapidly approached, crashed into him and he was sent flying - smashing into a tree. As he lay frozen, a beautiful young lady sauntered out of the vehicle. Her face presented utter shock. For just a moment she feared the worst, until she noticed Xander slowly moving. As the young boy gently moved each limb, trying to fathom the extent of any damage caused, he wondered who this lady was – it certainly wasn’t normal for a lady of such beauty to pass by his home. Xander asked her name. “Arya,” she said in a voice as soft as silk. The couple sat together under the tree and Xander learned the reason for her travels to this remote area - to find the Divine Relic. Xander had a gentle face and seemed to earn people’s trust effortlessly. Arya was no exception. She shared her collection of Divine Relics with Xander and explained that there were still two that she had been unable to find. Looking at Arya’s Relics more closely, Xander realised that his grandfather’s treasure was indeed part of this collection. In Xander’s home, hidden within a piece of tattered, red cloth lay one of the Divine Relics. Her beauty and angelic face captivated Xander as if some sort of magic was overtaking him. Before he knew it, he had told her all about his precious heirloom. Overjoyed, Arya pleaded with Xander to hand over his Relic to her, but he instantly refused – it was far too sentimental. She apologised and told him the truth behind these Relics and their significance. Each relic supposedly held a unique power, but its true value would only be revealed once all five were collected and reunited. The Relics were pieces of a prism. After hearing this story, Xander asked Arya if he could accompany her in her travels. She took no time to agree. Arya had already in her possession three of the five Divine Relics. Xander’s would make four. The relics were like magnets attracted to each other by an invisible force, causing them to point towards their missing part. The vehicle they rode on was indeed fast, but they had no idea how far this Relic was, only its direction. After two days of travelling, both Arya and Xander grew tired and the need to rest was upon them. They stretched outside of the cramped car. A creature, towering 10 feet in the air, appeared suddenly in front of them. As it stomped on the

Earth, the tremendous shockwaves caused tsunamis and eruptions from nearby volcanos. Although Arya was a professional hunter, she was no match for a monster like this. Xander, who had grown to love his new companion, felt desperate to protect her and so he fought the giant monster. He used all his strength to hit the creature with a barrage of punches and a series of kicks. He toppled the monster to the ground and continued his fierce assault until it was completely immobilized. Arya was utterly astonished; Xander’s movements were so fast that she could not see them clearly, only blurs of his attacks. He possessed unimaginable power. After 10 more days of travelling, it seemed they were closing in on the whereabouts of the last Divine Relic. Day after day, Xander defeated countless enemies. Each one stronger than the other but he defeated them all with ease. His grandfather had told him of his strength, but it wasn’t until now that he truly understood it. A month had passed since Xander left his home and began his journey with Arya. Their treacherous journey led them to an old castle. Little did they know, an evil group of people dressed from head to toe in black cloaks, with large, pointed hoods, had been trailing them. They were an organisation known as Chaos D. These people hid in the shadows and stole treasures that had mysterious powers. They were the cause of many wars and conflicts and were feared by many for miles around. Now they were targeting the five Divine Relics to use their power to create more catastrophe in the world. They already had in their possession the last Divine Relic and instead of chasing the people who had them, they led them here. As Xander and Arya entered the old, ruined castle, they both felt an eerie and sinister presence but were uncertain of its origin. Instead, they followed the direction to which their Divine Relics pointed. As they walked further and further into the old ruins, dust-covered the air and the darkness was increasing. Suddenly, Arya had stepped on something which set off a trap. Arrows shot out from the walls, narrowly missing them. Though they thought they had escaped, they tumbled into a deep pit. Xander and Arya were wide-eyed and in shock; they had fallen into a trap. In front of them, a bizarre mist was released from tiny holes in the wall and put both Xander and Arya into a deep sleep. As one of the walls began to open, members of Chaos D appeared and stole the four Relics in Xander’s possession, and they began reassembling the Relics in the hope of acquiring its magical powers. Unbeknown to them, Xander was awake; his strength was no match for sleeping mist. He effortlessly carried Arya upon his back and waited patiently for night to fall. As all the members of Chaos D were sleeping in their quarters, Xander quickly took back the Divine Relics and led them both to safety. Reuniting the pieces to form a perfect prism, he was stunned. The Divine Relics didn’t hold any mystical powers at all! They were instead a symbol of accomplishment. The reason it existed was to make people enjoy the journey of finding such treasure. Xander was lonely no more.

By Abhishekdev Ramesh (Fourth Year) 33 46

The Unfortunate Case of the Doomed Deactivation Code

Martin Bradley’s heart was racing. Gripping the banister, he felt a slick layer of sweat on his palm as he galloped down the stairs.

enjoying a quiet start: focusing on low-key assignments while distancing himself from the seniors and officials. However, hours ago, that had all changed.

His mind returned to the morning’s improbable events. Earlier, speeding through the English countryside in a black SUV, he couldn’t get to grips with reality. Now, in danger, it seemed even more surreal. Bradley was a junior agent at one of the most respected spy institutions in Britain. Having been accepted a few months back, he had been

He was pouring over a book in his favourite spot in the corner of the library when a man with combed, silver hair wearing an immaculate grey suit approached him, introducing himself as the Head of Urgent Operations. Soon, Agent Bradley was given the most shocking news of his life: the world-famous, wanted Russian terrorist

Artwork: Daniel Clarke (Fifth Year)

Dmitriy Stefanov’s last known location was an abandoned hotel a short drive away, and Bradley was required to assist the infiltration. His mind was overcome with doubt, then bursting with questions. But every objection or query was met with the same answer: ‘There’s no time. Just focus on what you need to do.’ As he reached the final floor, Bradley lurched himself back to the present moment. There was nothing here that appeared different to the rest of the derelict hotel. The walls were diminished, covered in cobwebs in some places and totally crumbled in others. Mould blackened the ceiling, and debris was scattered over the floor, which groaned with every step. He knew his objective. Stefanov was probably miles away from the hotel, perhaps even out of the country – he was experienced and moved swiftly. Besides, nobody risked staying here for too long, since it had been wrecked by an earthquake years ago, and though the structure was miraculously still standing, it was poised at a delicate angle. But there was a chance some of his thugs remained, or Stefanov himself had unknowingly left personal evidence. Others had already secured the six floors below, uncovering nothing, yet he could still hear his shaky breaths. He decided to stick to the left of the landing, as opposite there was a gaping hole in the floor, like a mouth waiting to smother him. Treading gingerly and keeping one hand lingering over the pistol in his utility belt, he advanced down the corridor. A meagre bulb flickered monotonously overhead. He fished out his flashlight. He could make out a few larger suites. But even they were in a chaotic mess. At the end of the hallway there was a brown metal door that was intact. Bradley approached. He did so gradually at first, but then quickened his pace. Why was he scared? He was almost certain he was alone. He was within a metre of the door. Suddenly, his heart skipped a beat. The gruff voice of a man could be heard from behind the door. He pressed his ear to the door. Now a second male voice was heard. He spoke more softly, and had a heavy Russian accent. “Stefanov says we must return to the lab. Let them search the lower floors all they like. We have nothing to hide.” “And suppose we find one of their agents in there?” came the first voice, deeper, and English. “Kill them. We should head over to the lab now to ensure nobody can access the deactivation code. After all, the bombs are set to go off in just under 20 minutes.”

“All five?” “Indeed.” That was all Bradley needed to hear. He raced back across the hallway. His gut told him where this lab was. When he encountered the hole in the floor, he shimmied his way around it, pressed up close to the wall, and just behind he saw a metal door. Inside, the lab was not what Bradley expected. The room was made entirely of sleek white metal, apart from the wall on the far side which was essentially a large glass window. It seemed immune to the earthquake’s powerful wrath. In the centre, on a smooth desk, lay a computer. Bradley sprinted towards it. He had forgotten to shut the door behind him. On the screen, a page was displayed, titled ‘Deactivation Code’. On the keyboard, there was a post-it note. It said ‘Deactivation Code – Explosion123’. It all seemed too easy. Just like the rest of the day, it was all unbelievably peculiar. But Bradley didn’t complain. He rapidly typed in the code, finger hovering above the ‘enter’ key. Then, he was knocked off his feet. Senses awakened, Bradley knew the two thugs had entered. He knew which voice belonged to which man. Grappling with him was a great brute, with a scraggly beard to match his rough voice. In the background, pistol raised, was a slender, pale figure. Bradley’s strength as an agent was his deceitful appearance. He looked bookish and uncoordinated, when he was actually a skilled fighter. With all his strength, he kicked his feet from beneath the brute and sent him flying overhead. All Bradley heard was the glass shatter. He raised his pistol to face the Russian. He was surprised to see fearful eyes. Without hesitation, Bradley fired at the man’s knee. He shrieked and collapsed. Now Bradley could enjoy victory. But as he pressed ‘enter’, his heart dropped. A message was displayed. ‘Thank you. The bombs have been activated.’ That was when Bradley understood this was a setup. And he had failed at the last hurdle. A woman, dressed smartly, walked in. Bradley recognised her as one of the institution’s heads. She spoke into her walkie-talkie. “Bradley’s failed, though he shot one of our agents. Bring the next one in.” And that was when Bradley fully understood to what extent he had been set up. His own institution had made up this plot to assess him. And he hadn’t proved his worth.

By Mateo Puljic (Fourth Year) 48

The Briefcase On that grey Tuesday morning, two things were true: Jennifer Green was dead and Detective Miles Anderson was late.

“I’m sorry Mr Smith, but I’m not particularly convinced,” Bryson responded.

Anderson straightened his tie and quickly shut the trunk of his car. The car had to be fairly large because he was a rather tall man. He took a sharp turn and hurried down the road, concealed by the slithering early day mist, approaching the busier side of the city. Anderson triple-checked the contents of his briefcase, as he always did, to check he had his notepad and pen. A true detective, he disapproved of mobile phones – they were nothing but a waste of time. Anderson knew intuition and strategic thinking were superior.

Bryson, disappointed by his initial encounter, pulled aside Anderson, seeking advice from the accomplished detective. Bryson whispered into his ear: “Anderson, I need a second thought on this. Any questions you think I should ask?”

Anderson slipped into the courtroom quietly, the trial had already begun. The courtroom walls were painted a cedar brown colour and rows of grey, metal chairs were placed on both sides. Prosecution Barrister Charles Bryson, a plump, but old man with wispy white hair, stood in front of the audience, speaking in a solemn tone. “Ladies and Gentleman, the murder of 22-year-old Jennifer Green took place 14 days ago on the 5th September at Madison Nightclub. At precisely 10pm, Green entered the club and was seen exiting the nightclub at 11.45pm because she was feeling nauseous. We suspect her death occurred immediately after she left. Her body is yet to be found.” “Marcus Smith, the nightclub bouncer, was seen leaving the nightclub at the same time as Jennifer, while carrying a pistol a forbidden weapon. This makes Marcus an obvious suspect for this crime, therefore he is on trial today.” Bryson immediately summoned Marcus up for questioning. He was a muscular man, marked with snake tattoos. Bryson lowered his glasses, so they were resting on his nose and examined Marcus Smith carefully. “Please could you describe what you were doing at 11.45pm and explain why you were armed with a pistol,” Bryson requested in a firm tone. Marcus sighed, frustrated, before speaking. “How many times do I have to say this? I had a pretty bad night and needed a bit of alone time, so I headed out for a little smoke. And for the gun…” Marcus paused and itched his head. “...And for the gun - earlier that day I was doing target practice at my gun club. I do have a licence for the weapon, but I just forgot to leave it at home, that’s all.” Bryson frowned and shook his head. What followed was an exchange of interrogative questions, with vague responses from Marcus.

“I know we’ve just spoken to Marcus Smith, but I suggest you next ask the bartender Emily Webb how long she spent in the nightclub.” Bryson nodded, slightly puzzled why this was necessary, but nevertheless summoned Emily Webb and asked her the question. “Err, I left at about 12.15am.” Anderson was satisfied and sat down again. It was his deep understanding of these tiny details that made him a genius. The trial then continued with the next set of witnesses speaking about anything suspicious they saw. Anderson sat forward, concentrating. Jennifer’s best friend Ava Parker described how Jennifer’s working day had been so long that she had barely drunk or eaten anything. Meanwhile Lizzy Davies, another bartender serving that night, said she also saw Emily Webb go to the loo at about 11.46pm. Finally, after these witnesses, Bryson asked Detective Anderson to take the stand. Bryson announced, “Detective Anderson, you were the primary investigator for this case. Can you tell us the story as you understand it now?” Anderson hesitated as if thinking very carefully before he spoke. Then he began. “I have taken my time to fully process and analyse all the information and claims stated so far. From my understanding, Jennifer entered the nightclub at 10pm and left 15 minutes before midnight. I can infer that, although exhausted from her day, she went clubbing purely for the purpose of taking her mind off her work.” Anderson leant forward and stared purposefully at the audience, capturing their attention. “Ava Parker directly said that Jennifer had ‘not eaten or drunk anything.’ We know she was extremely thirsty and therefore didn’t have much alcohol, but mostly soft drinks. I also believe Marcus Smith did not fire a bullet outside the nightclub - we would have expected to find some residues left behind. But, forensics has found nothing.’’

Artwork: Seb Biedrzycki (Fifth Year)

Here, Anderson took a deep breath. “Mr Bryson, I don’t relate soft drinks to the nauseous feeling Jennifer felt later that night. I relate it to poison. I believe that Jennifer was killed by poison after her glass of juice was spiked by another person.” Anderson continued, picking up momentum: “And the only person that served her drinks that night was Emily Webb. Consequently, I firmly believe Miss Webb is responsible for the death of Jennifer Green.” A quiet murmur began to arise, as the audience exchanged confused glances at each other. Bryson took charge briefly. “Detective this is quite the explanation but how can you explain Jennifer’s missing body then? If this was a matter of poison, surely she would’ve just collapsed outside the nightclub and then been eventually found?” “There is a simple response to that Mr Bryson,” Anderson explained. “Jennifer would have collapsed minutes after she left at 11.45pm. And earlier in this trial, Emily Webb told us she left at 12.15pm.” “However, another bartender, Lizzy Davies, explained that Emily went to the bathroom at 11.46pm for a few minutes. This allowed Emily time to leave the nightclub (undetected), dispose of Jennifer’s body and return to the club, appearing to continue with her evening as normal.” Anderson smiled at the bewildered audience. Silence. The penny had dropped. The next hour was a blur for Detective Anderson. Despite many protests and pleas from Emily Webb, a sentence was given. Charles Bryson and Judge agreed Anderson’s theory made sense. There were several compliments to Anderson about his excellent detective skills. Anderson smiled to himself with satisfaction as he strolled away from the courthouse. What a mastermind he was! He had executed his plan perfectly and once again prevailed, after weeks of planning. Finally, before driving off into the thick fog, he opened his trunk to deposit his heavy briefcase. Anderson carefully placed the briefcase on top of the lifeless body of Jennifer Green.

By Vishal Saha (Fourth Year)

INTERMEDIATE WINNER

Creative Writing Competition 2021 “I was really impressed with your story and thoroughly enjoyed reading it. You are a natural storyteller with a wonderful sense of pace and drama. Please keep writing!” Sara Grant Judge

County Lines What’s the easiest way to make £100 and get a free pair of Nikes? Is it working 15 hours, sweeping floors at the chicken shop, or running 50g of coke after school, no one the wiser? Imari sighed, his head resting on the window of the number 53 to Newham. Pearlescent droplets of rain clung to the murky windows of the bus, dispirited passengers hunched over their phones, as a draft gusted through the crack in the window above him. He was returning from school, and a cloud of despondency settled over him. Since dad had left and mum had lost her job, he knew she was struggling, and money was tight. Imari had stayed late at school to try and catch-up on some work, surprising his teachers who, more often than not, saw him as a recalcitrant figure. They didn’t realise. That was the standard attitude towards someone like him. But Imari had work to do that night, work that his mum didn’t know about. As the bus reached his stop, he would have to keep his wits about him. His dealer had instructed him to meet in an alleyway near Upton Park Station. It was deep-set in winter, and Imari warmed his hands in the jetted pockets of his puffa jacket as an icy gust of wind bit into his skin. As he turned the corner,

a great looming figure slunk out of the shadows. He towered over Imari, but masked his identity with a jet-black neckerchief, his eyes boring into Imari. His stomach clenched in nervous trepidation as he was handed a clear plastic bag filled with crystalline powder. Imari knew what he had to do. Shivering, Imari made his way down onto the station platform. Luckily, it was almost deserted – a frail old lady and a middleaged man dressed in overalls were the only ones around. The train was due to arrive in twelve minutes, and as he turned his head, that’s when he saw him. A young man with a tall, slender build, wearing a charcoal grey overcoat and polished shoes. At first Imari didn’t think much of him, but when he got on the train he began to feel uneasy. There was sufficient space for everyone to have a carriage to themselves, but the man decided to sit directly opposite Imari. Why? Imari’s heart started beating out of his chest – he dared not meet the man’s eye, but thoughts started buzzing round his head. He began to question what he was doing. What if he got arrested? What if he was mugged? Should he get rid of the package? What would they say if he turned up empty handed? This didn’t seem so easy now. He shrugged his thoughts off. It could be nothing, and what’s more, he needed the money.

Artwork: Victor Smirnov (Fifth Year)

Imari arrived at Hempnall station, a small country town northeast of London. It was time to make the drop. A thick, hazy fog had set in, cloaking his surroundings in a shadowy grey. The flickering streetlight pierced into the darkness. Exiting the station, the eerie silence enhanced his paranoia, the quiet only interrupted by the scuttle of a fox skulking through the night. Suddenly, a strange noise pricked his ear. Footsteps from behind. He stopped. His head swivelled – but no one was there. Picking up his pace now, he found himself jogging, sweat trickling down his ribcage. Every rhythmic thud of his feet hitting the ground brought him a step closer to his destination. Again, the sound of footfall, a murmur of hoarse voices, the frenzied bark of a dog. Imari started sprinting. He looked behind him. But no-one was there - yet. His lungs started burning up, his hands clammy, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. But he was almost there now. Within sight. The voices were becoming ever louder, the footsteps ever closer. He burst through the door.

do was say two words – “THEY’RE COMING!” and suddenly all hell broke loose.

His head spinning, the acrid smell of cocaine and heroin filled Imari’s nose. Weighing scales topped with piles of white powder were placed around the room. The men stood up and froze at the sight of Imari, panting out of breath. All he had to

By Theo Webb (Fourth Year)

Scrambling, pushing, shoving, everyone rushed to get out. Three thin men climbed through the window; four others forced their way through the door. Imari was shoved left and right, jolted back and forth. Where to go? Abruptly, he was slammed to the floor, and his eyes rolled back as his head started to spin… Imari woke up, his cheek pressed to the tacky lino floor, his wrists bound and pressed roughly to the small of his back. Hauled to his feet, he heard, “I am arresting you on suspicion of the supply of a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Imari couldn’t think of what to say.

33 52

More Than a Game As it did every day, the crushing blanket of darkness rolled in from the heavens, bringing with it a bitter and unforgiving wind. Previously absent, a group of clouds slowly edged further and further across the sky, as if searching for a good place to observe the events taking place below, eventually positioning themselves exactly above the square-shaped battlefield. An ominous mist drifted down to rest on the vale like drifted snow. The two commanders tensed in anticipation, each daring the other to make the first move, each feeling in full force the responsibility of protecting the two hundred or so combatants they led.

On one side, a battalion clad in white armour, almost unable to hold out against the irresistible call of violence and battle. Like their commander, they appeared young and inexperienced, but possessed a violent and relentless nature which had saved them from many a past defeat. Against them, a battalion clad in black armour, wise, sagacious and with the benefit of experience gained from countless battles fought before. Still, they waited. A defiant roar echoed out onto the battlefield; the battle had commenced.

Artwork: Chand Dodhia (Fifth Year)

A stream of white soldiers entered the area, confident almost to the point of arrogance, maintaining an aggressive arrowshaped formation pointed towards their enemy, impatient for the order to attack. In response to this apparent danger, the more mature commander ordered his troops to begin laying claim to the top left corner of the turf in a tightly packed defensive formation. Even as the White troops pushed closer and closer to Black’s territory, they were met with all but a solidly defensive structure, seemingly impenetrable from every angle. Enraged by this patent show of passive tactics, the leader of the White battalion launched an attack, beginning a campaign to exclude White from the top right corner of the battlefield. His opponent countered, sending a small unit of his own to aid their comrades in the face of a brutal onslaught by the White soldiers. Chaos reigned, both sides beginning to lose troops at an alarming rate. Grasping the situation, the White commander hastily gave the order to retreat, and his soldiers regrouped before any further damage was done. “A true work of art,” observed his adversary, “don’t you think? The graceful movement of white and black across the playing field like a dance.” The irate White commander fixed him with a steely glare under which any monster would have cowered. Despite this he remained tight-lipped, the importance of retaining a calm and collected composure all too apparent. “Beautiful…yet so fleeting. Just like life,” mused the older man. “I call a recess.” Standing up abruptly, the man strode in the direction of the house for a much-needed interval to gather his thoughts and prepare his mind for the next stage of the battle. Above him, troubled clouds began to swirl about like old curtains, reflecting his mood. As if unable to contain their excitement, thunder clouds clapped their giant hands and on cue limitless torrents of rain began to pour down through an opening in the sky. The old man, protected by a wooden roof, patiently waited for his opponent’s return. Observing the battle before him, he planned his next move with great precision, absent-mindedly stroking his right thumb. His face, as calm as slow waves lapping on a beach, was etched with experience, each wrinkle on his skin a reminder of the countless battles he had fought before, and the wisdom acquired with them. His eyes darted over the battlefield like fireflies, observing and missing nothing.

The young man returned, sporting a superficial smile which belied his true emotions. Sitting down opposite the older man he reached into the bowl containing his white counters. Withdrawing one, he held it tantalizingly over the gameboard. “Just as a real battle, this game will be defined by the perseverance of the players. The only question is, can you keep up?” Opening with an invasion into Black’s left-hand territory, White began to cut brutal swathes in Black’s previously solid defence. Somewhat surprised by the reckless tactic, the older player answered with an attack of his own, moving a group of black pieces round the back of the main bulk of white counters in an attempt to surround and subsequently capture them. Having foreseen this, the young commander immediately launched a second offensive on the offending black counters. The two sides clashed as young violent energies faced up against older, wiser, more cunning tactics. Soldiers from both sides began to be captured and imprisoned as the game entered its final phase, with everything to play for. Spotting a gap in Black’s defensive formation, the younger commander moved a legion of white soldiers through the gap to capture a group of undefended black troops. A poisonous smile adorning his face he laughed with the confidence of seemingly assured victory. “No more running, old man.” All around them forked lightning struck with unnerving accuracy. The players barely noticed. At the last second his opponent reacted, cutting off the white soldiers by sealing the gap in the defence with a group of hidden black pieces. Cursing his error of judgement, the young man thrust a clenched hand, trembling as if struck by lightning, into the bowl next to him, realising all too late that he had run out of counters to play. “Looks like time’s up,” observed the older man. Even without counting, it was clear that the black counters on the board considerably outnumbered the white. This was not lost on the younger player, who, fuming, was forced to follow the correct etiquette and bow to the victor. “It’s just a game, who even cares about the result anyway?” The older player fixed him with a stern look. “Go is much more than a game. It’s a philosophy, a way of life.” He locked eyes with his son. “Learn to appreciate life before you so readily take it. Only then will you truly understand the way of Go.”

By James Abrahart (Fourth Year)

A Childhood Adventure The farm gate loomed over her like a castle entrance; the cattle grid, a drawbridge precariously suspended over a forbidding moat filled with ravenous piranhas and a grey, scaly monster that hadn’t been seen on Earth since the Jurassic period. Condensation collected on her boots making them glisten like golden armour. With her mind filled with excitement and the thrills of adventure, she grabbed a branch from the well-trodden grass and thrust it in the air as if it were her sword. Feeling suitably well equipped for her adventure, dare I say, her quest, with all the youthful vigour she could muster, she lunged forwards, her sword outstretched and shouted, “onwards!”, as though she were being watched by the viewer of a film or the reader of some epic tale passed down through the generations. With the confidence that could only be gained by the imagination of a child, she started to march through the muddy field, the evening breeze causing her plaited hair to

gently sway behind her. Suddenly, she decided to stop, her mind trying to formulate the next part of her adventure. Her eyes scanned the ground with inquisitive intent, trying to find some wonderous treasure or a creature eager to bestow her with a heroic quest. Then she saw it. A worm. Or, more specifically, Lord Wormington, Earl of Dirt, Baron of Muck, Knight of the Noble Invertebrates and Grand Master of the Wriggle. Carefully, she knelt down, pressed her face as close to the ground as she could and gently scooped up the worm. After making sure it was comfortable in her palm, she stood up and stretched her body towards the sky in order to look as imposing as it is possible for a small child to look. Slowly, she extended her arm outwards and stared at Lord Wormington, wondering how she should address him. Not wanting to offend the creature, but also realising that she wanted to be as concise as possible, she decided to simply address him as ‘Lord Wormy’.

THE SENIOR SECTION

she tripped. She felt weightless, her arms flailing. She was abruptly snapped out of this dream by her boots, which had become stuck in a particularly muddy patch of the field, causing her to plummet to the ground. She sat up dazed and looked around her. The field was empty, except for a few sheep and it looked like it was getting late, so she decided to reach into her pocket and pull out a sandwich wrapped in cling film. Carefully, she unwrapped it and took a bite. It was nothing special, just ham and cheese, but to her it might as well have been a full feast complete with a roast turkey and pheasant. Having spent a sufficient amount of time savouring the taste of her banquet, she thought back on the worm’s words and thought it better not to put off her quest any longer. With a renewed determination and a satiated appetite, she meticulously wrapped what was left of her sandwich and continued her journey. The sky burned a bright orange with the sun’s last effort to illuminate the field before it finally yielded to the night. She started to feel worried, her imagination struggling to keep her feeling brave. Tightly, she clutched her stick, which had begun to look less like a sword, and stood there shivering. All of a sudden, she saw a creature charge towards her. It was small dachshund, its delicate brown ears trailing behind it as it ran. ‘A noble steed!’ she thought. She sprinted towards it and scooped it up in her arms.

Artwork: Jamie Reger (Fifth Year) “Lord Wormy,” she exclaimed, her words startling a few distant sheep, “I have come to the Kingdom of Field in search of adventure.” The worm just looked at her through its wormy eyes. She wasn’t quite sure if worms had eyes, but she was certain that it was staring right at her. Being unsure of whether Lord Wormington had understood her request, she inquired, “Do you have quest for me?” The worm may have made no audible noise, but she was sure that it had said, in an authoritative and wise tone, “I do in fact have a quest for you. My land is being menaced by a fearsome dragon. I beg of you to make it leave before it destroys the entire kingdom.” Now having a suitable quest, she placed the worm back onto the ground, thanked it for its help and quickly departed on her adventure. She strolled through the field, the sky beginning to darken overhead. Every step was filled with joy, her mind lingering on each thought, distracting her from reality. Suddenly,

“Oh Daisy, I’ve missed you,” she said holding it out in front of her so that she could look into its eyes. She’d left Daisy at home with her mother that morning, but the two of them were inseparable and so always managed to find each other. Finally feeling ready to face the end of her adventure, she put Daisy down next to her and they both marched onwards. After a few minutes of walking, they found the dragon that Lord Wormington had warned her about. It was a large beast, with its pale white wool making it at least twice her size. She stood confidently, her sword pointing towards the beast and exclaimed, “I have come to vanquish you!” But the dragon only seemed to cower. She found this confusing, after all it was meant to be powerful and strong. Slowly, she approached the creature and lay her arm on its soft wool. It began to bleat, its head nuzzling up to her. “You’re not such a bad animal,” she whispered into its ear. Looking around she saw a gate only a few metres away and realised that the poor beast must have got stuck in the wrong field. Kindly, she opened the gate and ushered the sheep through, being careful to close it behind her. Her quest was complete.

By Jamie Reger (Fifth Year)

THE SENIOR SECTION

Silently Screaming I could feel the blood rushing through every vein in my body as I sprinted across the loose scree of the mountain slope. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as my lungs battled for oxygen. The wind, a whistling blade, slashed past my ears, almost painful. I swivelled my head from side to side, panicked, like a hunted animal. A searing pain in my calf snapped me back to attention. A sharp stone protruded from the bloody wound it had created. It focused me. I couldn’t stop now. Not with what I had seen. I had to tell someone. I had been taken to this place in the middle of nowhere. Gravel crunched under my feet as I strode towards the compound. Glancing backwards at the spiked, barbed fence lining the perimeter, I thought about how far I had come in my esteemed career to get here. Feelings of pride swept through me at this honour of my presence being requested. I reached the impressive doors of the building. Raising my hand to the scanner, they slid silently open, like entering an alien craft. A single, brightly lit passageway led the way towards a second set of doors. These ones were very thick and opened with a sickening scrape of metal against metal. As I stepped inside, I wondered what the doors were there to protect. A tall, smartly dressed man stood there to greet me. ‘So glad you could join us, Jon’, he said, without a hint of emotion. How long until they found me? An hour? Maybe two? If that. The fear and adrenaline coursing through me made it difficult to form coherent thoughts. I had no idea how far it was to the nearest town. The higher I ascended, the more the view showed only miles and miles of untouched land. Even if I did find people, would anyone even believe what I had seen? I gritted my teeth, ignoring the pain I was experiencing. I had to keep going. I couldn’t give up now. ‘As you know, we select only the best scientists for what we do here,”, he continued in his lifeless tone, “We need people who are willing to push the very boundaries of what it means to be a scientist. People will come to realise the importance of what we do here. We need people like you to help us with these new discoveries.” At this point, his soulless blue eyes turned towards me, forcing me to avert my gaze. Uneasiness rose through my stomach. I was beginning to feel almost fearful. “Are you ready?”, he asked, as the seemingly innocuous question turned itself into a threat. I nodded, attempting to reveal as little emotion as possible. He led me around a corner into a huge corridor. I recoiled in fear. Having rapidly descended the mountain, I paused, squinting desperately into the distance, hoping beyond hope to see

something, anything other than endless fields and trees. Nothing. Then. A snake of smoke seemed to appear out of thin air in the sky in the distance. If I could reach it, I might be able to escape. There was still hope. Looking back over my shoulder, the hope gone, replaced with only sheer terror. I saw a solitary figure running down the mountain. He held a knife in one hand, a gun in the other, and his eyes were locked on me. Glass windowed cells lined the walls, each imprisoning a person. Their bloodshot eyes stared at me, balls of pure fear. Even through the thick glass, I felt I could hear their screams. An information board stood mounted on a platform in front of each window. Breathing frantically, my eyes scanned across one – Derek Williams, Occupation: Cleaner, Family and Friends: None. I read another – Sharon McCardin, Occupation: Unemployed, Family and Friends: None. I read the same thing on each one: Family and Friends: None. I went towards an empty glass box, the same board stood there. Family and Friends: None. Occupation: Experimental scientist. Name: Jon Knight. I tried to scream. I swivelled round to see my guide looking at me impassively, oblivious to my reaction. “So, you see why you’re really here. Why would we choose you?”, he said calmly, “We need your amazing brain, Jon. For our experiments. Your skills will be lost, but you’ll help us build many brains like yours. Your sacrifice will—”. I punched him as hard as I could in the jaw, watching as his blood splattered across my clothes. Fight or flight. Now, flight was my only option. I didn’t know how long I had until they realised I had done this. I only knew I had to escape. Grasping his wrist, I forced his palm against the scanner, freeing me from what would have been my prison. Echoes chased me down the corridors as I fired through them like a bullet. My palm scan still worked. I burst out of the compound and ran across the gravel, across the perimeter fence. I was free. Then I heard the blaring alarm rising behind me. I sprinted at a speed I had never run before. I tried to fight back, tried to escape. But I was too tired. Too weak. I collapsed onto the ground, my head smashing against the hard mud. Footsteps pounded next to my head. A kick. The wind left my stomach. A second kick. My eyes closed. A throbbing in my skull awoke me with a jolt. I sat up. Yawned. I reached for my alarm. It wasn’t there. I wasn’t at home. This time I was on the other side of the glass panel. On the other side stood the man I had first met, staring at me with those same lifeless eyes looking at me silently screaming.

By Luke Trotman (Fifth Year)

Artwork: Augustus Carter (Fifth Year)

Rocco

It was not a concrete jungle like Alicia Keys had described it. It was retina heaven, a taste bud maze, a delight for the DNA. Blocks of concrete underneath, slabs of neon plastered over the top. LEDs grinned and lightbulbs winked away above the heads of the couples carpeting the tarmac beneath.

people were packed together like cattle and there was no room to move.

New York, specifically Times Square, infamous in every way. The date was February the Fourteenth, Valentine’s Day, a special day. Rocco was not married, interested in, or even talking to any women. However, what he was interested in was finding his boss. Now, like every other corrupt, middle aged politician, he had gone off, left his entourage in search for ‘some tail’; as he had put it. Rocco would lose his job and most importantly, his career if he did not find the drunk fool. He pushed on through the waves of loved-up couples.

He took out his smartphone and searched for the nearest, most exclusive nightclub in the area. His boss did not settle for anything less than lavish, his character revolved around one thing: money. Being corrupt, he could not get enough of it, constantly looking for a way to gamble, bribe, extort and steal his way into luxury. Money was his vice and it held him, aptly so.

Of course, like every other corrupt, middle aged politician, he had had one too many cocktails and decided to pursue his own idea of fun, alongside a few of his equally corrupt male counterparts. The problem lay in the fact that he assumed any mess that he would eventually make, someone else would clean up for him. Now this would normally be nothing to worry about, but ‘one too many cocktails’ was an understatement. A mammoth understatement. Especially considering a few ‘happy pills’ had found their way into those drinks. It had only been five minutes ago that Rocco had been informed of his boss’s quiet departure but a man can walk a surprising distance in that amount of time. Now it was his job to find him, bring him back and not lose his job along the way. Protecting people was his skill and he was exceptional at what he does, but finding people had not been included in the job description. The crowd was not parting for him and Rocco was growing increasingly angry at the number of people openly exchanging saliva in his way.

Artwork: Louis Middleton (Lower Sixth)

He could smell the pheromones in the air, clogging his nostrils, filling his pores. Love was a chemical, and it had been released like tear gas amongst protestors on this hot, sticky night. People were too absorbed in the skin of their partner and were taking no notice of the small giant of a man heading towards them. Rocco is six foot seven, giving him a significant height advantage, but the shiny head of his boss still eluded his vision. It was frustrating for him;

He mentally scrolled through each option his boss could have taken: taxi – no, bar – no, restaurant – no, nightclub – yes.

Rocco knew that if he did not reach the nightclub in time, he would have to wait in line like everyone else. The search result pinged up and the directions flowed out of the screen. He headed off. Rocco knew it was where he was headed because it was the only club in which his boss had an exclusive membership too. The club was situated just off the square, on the opposite side. His anger flared and his fists clenched. Rocco was entirely capable of working under pressure, but it had been a long night and he was nearing the end of his metaphorical straw, and that would get messy. Sweat was actively pooling under his armpits and trickling down the back of his neck. The night was baking, February always had bipolar weather. The lights had not stopped grinning since he arrived in the square, if anything, they had intensified, imprinting themselves on his eyelids every time he closed them. It was overwhelming, the traffic had come to a complete standstill, cars honked and their drivers’ equally annoyed voices drifted across the gathered crowds. Finally, his advantage paid off as he recognized his employer and his small entourage behind him. The feeling of relief quickly wore off when Rocco realized the nightclub his boss was heading to, had somehow materialized in front of him. Instead of cursing out loud, he broke into a run, dodging and weaving around the cars and couples littering the street. He was not more than ten strides away from his boss when he turned around. Abject fear lit up his face. This was for good reason; Rocco was not a man you faced in conflict.

THE SENIOR SECTION

Whether it was drunken stupor or the instantaneous response of his amygdala, Rocco did not know. Now he had two problems, his employer, a recognizable face, drunkenly stumbling through a crowd of a few thousand and, that he was still managing to evade Rocco. His boss was thin, incredibly thin, with an unexplainably large cranium. This gave him the characteristics of a cobra, not helped by the fact he was moving like one too. But Rocco was closing in on him, gracefully slipping through the crowd.

It was a matter of seconds before he reached out and gripped the moist collar of his employer. This halted him, impressively so, folding him at the neck. The pheromones clung to the oxygen particles in the air harder than ever, choking Rocco as he led his boss back to the convoy that had brought him here.

By Sam Skinner (Lower Sixth) 60

THE SENIOR SECTION

The Cleveland Bandit The Arizonan desert, Dave decided, was horrible. Everything was covered in dust, the heat was unbearable, and the only plants in sight threatened to put a thorn through your hand.

“Oh, I got it, sonny. I just wanted to hear ya say it yourself. So, who ya lookin’ for?”

Visitors, not that there were many in 19th century Arizona, said it was beautiful. Dave had been here for two months looking for his target, and had gotten over the scenery very quickly.

The Cleveland Bandit rolled his eyes. “Let’s think. We’re in the middle of the desert. I think it’s safe to say not many people make it out here. So, might it be possible that I’m looking for you?”

But still, he’d been well paid for this job, and liked to think himself a professional. Once, back in temperate, non-dusty Ohio, Dave had been one of a hundred young gunslingers, thinking themselves the fastest gun in Cleveland. The difference between them and him was that he actually was the fastest gun in Cleveland, winning the title of ‘The Cleveland Bandit’. Not quite as imposing as ‘The New York Bandit’, or ‘The Chicago Bandit’, but one had to be realistic.

“Oh, that’s nice. Did Emmet send you?”

Nonetheless, The Cleveland Bandit charged a high price, and earned his dues. To his left was a rocky outcrop. The Cleveland Bandit dismounted his horse and headed straight for it. He’d checked a hundred such outcrops already, but all he knew of his target was she did not have a horse. If she was anywhere, she’d be in the shade. Arizona was no place for a midday stroll in the summer. Dave looked behind the rocks and was quite surprised to find her there. More surprising was her reaction. She didn’t spring to her feet, grabbing the shotgun beside her, but continued to read her newspaper, holding a pair of skewered sausages over a makeshift fire. She didn’t even look up until he cleared his throat, and when she did, she greeted him with a smile, as if he were any other person passing by in the street.

“What?” “Am I late for lunch?” “I…I don’t know who Emmet is. And yeah, you probably are late for lunch, you’re stranded in the middle of a desert. It must have taken you days to get out here.” The woman frowned. “But I live here.” ‘’What? How? Who’s Emmet?” “I’m messin’ with you, kiddo. God, you’re easy.” The Cleveland Bandit glared. This ought to wipe the grin off her smug, freckled face. “Did I mention why I was looking you? It’s because I’m going to kill you.” The woman laughed. “Is that right? Good one, sonny.” Dave frowned. “I’m sorry, do you know who I am?” “Well, if you’d care to introduce yourself…” He glared. “I have a gun. I’m covered in dust. I’ve obviously been travelling for days, because I’m getting paid to kill you.” “Ok.”

“Hello, sir,” she said, in a southern accent. “Can I help ya?”

Dave sighed. “Why aren’t you scared?”

The Cleveland Bandit tried to think of something witty to say. His stomach grumbled at the sausages.

The woman shrugged. “I guess it’s that I don’t believe ya.”

“You get many passers-by around these parts?” he settled on eventually. “Or do you think I’m here looking for someone?”

“Right, yeah, but the reason I’m here is because I am looking for someone. Didn’t you get that?”

“I don’t know why anyone would wanna be wanderin’ through the desert at midday,” she said cheerfully. “Not weather for the faint hearted.”

“You don’t believe I’m going to kill you.” “Yeah,” said the woman, looking away to inspect her sausages. The Cleveland Bandit smiled to himself. This would definitely wipe the grin off her face.

Artwork: Gopal Bhachu (Fifth Year) He drew his gun and fired. In a flash. They didn’t call him The Cleveland Bandit for nothing.

Dave tried to speak. So many questions crammed his brain that none could make it out of his mouth.

Then the inexplicable happened.

The woman put down her sausages and her newspaper. She brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve, picked up the shotgun and rose to her feet.

Something appeared in front of the woman. In mid-air. Something blue. A shield or something to that effect. But it wasn’t quite solid. He could see from the front that it had depth, as if the surface was transparent, and it seemed to flow within itself. A substance of uncertain state, of unreasonable existence. Some kind of energy. A floating, blue shield of energy. Then it was gone, along with the bullet that had just left his gun.

Dave raised his gun and the blue stuff appeared again, snaking towards him, slapping down his arm. He screamed. His heart clattered against his ribcage. “Sorry, friend,” said the woman, raising the shotgun. “But there’s a reason people want me dead. ‘‘‘Cause I come from a world they can’t begin to comprehend.” Dave, The Cleveland Bandit, died in a world gone crazy.

By Jay Heading (Lower Sixth)

Princess Woah there, Princess, you gotta look where you’re going when you’re running about, otherwise you might run into some goblins or baddies. Don’t worry, I’m not evil; I’m one of the good guys, the knights, you know. I don’t tell many people this, but, come here a minute, I’ve even got proper armour and a horse at my castle. Really, I do. Honestly, I do, pinkie promise. I can show you it if you want, but it’s not easy to get there. I was kicked out by some evil invaders and now they’ve banished me. I would take you, but I can’t get there. Unless, maybe, are you a real Princess? Because maybe a real Princess can take me there. Will you do that for me? Please? Help me get home? Is that your mum over there in the red coat, standing with the lady and the pram on the other side of the green? They seem to be talking quite seriously, maybe you can quickly come and help me before they notice. Oh no, no, it’s not far at all. It might be dangerous though, we’ll have to go on a bit of an adventure. Look, do you see through the trees there? You see the log where the sunlight streaks through? Look on the other side of the log. Go on, just quickly, then you can see if you trust me. You see it? Rummage through the leaves a little and watch out for something shiny. There you go. A fairy gave me that ring; you can tell because if you look closely at the face, you’ll see it’s not a human face, it’s a fairy face. Now come on, you ready to go on that adventure? First of all, you’ve got to sneak through that gap, between the thorns. They might tear your pretty pink dress, but we’ve got to get through there, otherwise we’ll never make it to the castle. Don’t let the thorns touch your skin though. They’re poisonous and if your skin touches them, it turns blue like the Smurfs. Shush! You have to be quiet. Very quiet. Apart from the dogs’ barking and your mum talking, it’s almost silent here. You’re right, and the birds tweeting, I forgot about them. But if any human adults try to follow us, the evil invaders will hear them and attacks us.

Artwork: Daniel Clarke (Fifth Year) unless you give the water nymphs an offering. Nymphs are like mermaids, but invisible and without the tail. And they live in rivers, not the sea. Be careful with the mud as well, sometimes it disguises where the river really is. No, you’re too close! Come back; we’re going to have to find a new way across. We’re all on our own now. No one can help us here; are you sure you’re brave enough to do this? Good. Lucky you’re wearing welly boots, otherwise we’d be in real control. Great idea! We can make a bridge. Look – there are some logs we can use. I’ll carry these three and you carry that one. It’s still too little; we need more. Good spot – I’ve got these four and you take those two. Well done, we’re nearly there. You see that little path through the mud? We’ve got to follow it until we get to the road. That’s where my horse is. Keep your eyes and your ears open. You never know when a wizard might appear. And you’ve got to be careful, because they can take the shape of any animal. No, I’m sure your Cleo isn’t a wizard. Do you love her? Wizards are magical, but because they’re evil, nobody can love them, even if they don’t actually realise they’re a wizard. It’s the last challenge. We have to get across the path. Take a quick peek there through the bush. Do you see it? I know, there are lots of joggers and cyclists. We’ve got to get across without any of them seeing us. How do we know that they’re not wizards in disguise? Exactly, so we can’t risk any of them seeing us. Especially, because we’re so close. If they see us, they’ll turn us into frogs like in The Frog Prince. You tell me when the path’s empty. Now? I’m ready. Ready? I’m with you, quickly, quickly. Phew, we’re across. There’s the car park. We’re nearly there now, but we still have to be careful. The wizards could be anywhere, especially in the car park. You see the white car over there? Yeah, the old, small one. We’re going to have to sneak round there.

Look, there’s one of them! The man in jeans and a shirt with the dog talking to your mum. He looks like a human, but the earrings give it away. They’re wands really, but when wizards make themselves big, they have to carry them somehow, so they attach them to their ears. Wizards are never as big as Harry Potter; that’s the only thing it got wrong. They’re like evil fairies. I helped the fairies stop the wizards destroying Tiktok, so now they hate me. I like Tiktok too, but the wizards hated it, because they hate people having fun.

We made it. Have a quick look over the bonnet. The bonnet’s the bit in front of where the driver sits, here. Can you see people? That’s what I feared. There are too many people here. We’re going to have to get away a bit. Get in the car. No, the car is the horse. That’s why it’s white like my horse’s fur. My horse is called Merlin, because he’s magical as well. He had to turn himself into a car so that the wizards wouldn’t know where we are. Quick, get in!

Okay, we’ve got past the thorns and we’ve sneaked past the wizard. Now we’ve got to cross the river. It looks like a little river, but if you touch the water, you can’t move

Aagghh! Run! The wizards!

Good girl.

By Maxi Grindley (Upper Sixth)

THE SENIOR SECTION

SENIOR HIGHLY COMMENDED Creative Writing Competition 2021

“A very interesting and original piece. I admire your choice to write in a stream-of-conscious monologue. The underlying sinister tone was quite unnerving. A highly original piece of writing!” Sara Grant Judge

THE SENIOR SECTION

SENIOR WINNER

Creative Writing Competition 2021 “Powerful and shocking opening! You do a masterful job of launching into the middle of the story with enough detail to keep your readers intrigued and bring them along. Really great job! Keep going!” Sara Grant Judge

Artwork: Nicholas Murray (Fifth Year)

Solace Rosch liked his mace.

He liked the familiar feel of it in his strong hands. He liked the sounds it made as it hurtled through the air, before slamming against the heads of its victims. The first, a short balding merchant, slumped into the now blood-spattered wagon like a ragdoll as his skull split. The other, a skinny young man, desperately clambered out of the cart with his gangly limbs. He yelped as Rosch yanked him back by the hood of his tunic. The youth whimpered as the mace came down. Rosch grinned madly as he studied his bounty. He pulled back the blanket in the cart, revealing the smell of food and cider. The fresh grain and meat were in sacks of burlap and green glass bottles, all tightly bound together by thick rope. No bullion or jewellery, nobody hauling that loot would have such a pitiful wagon. Instead, several brass goblets, some studded with low grade garnets. Rosch snapped the rope, grabbing a frosted bottle of cider. He sloshed it into its mouth, smiling at its warmth. He then walked over to a nearby elm, against which he leant, revelling in his mood. The day was cold, the icy wind biting at his bearded face. Rosch started to wonder how many travellers would pass through this neck of the forest before he would have to return to his camp. This life he loved. Rosch knew that the law would have him strung up before a crowd, but he did not care. His friends - his family as Sisken would say - came first. Rosch would go to the ends of the Realm for them. He did not know if he would lay down and die for them, but he could never imagine life without them. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly, watching the white curl out of his mouth and into the cold morning air. The chill was noticeable, his skin tingling against the frigid wind that swept through the icy glade. Eventually the wind settled down and the birds no longer tweeted. A blanket of calm settled across the forest. Rosch heard a whistling and the head of an arrow gleamed as it whirred through the thicket. He heard a resounding thump as it struck the elm, piercing his leather cuirass by his shoulder and pinning him to the tree. He spotted a shadow wielding a powerful longbow at the edge of the copse. His face was concealed by the shadow cast by the canopy, but his stance was wide. To have drawn a bow of that span, he must be easily as strong as Rosch. Tensing, Rosch went for the mace at his belt, but screamed as another was loosed and ripped into his wrist, once again trapping him against the tree. The figure flashed toward him, and Rosch could now spy who had overpowered him so easily. The figure was small

and lithe, with a mop of snow-white hair that covered his brow. In fact, he was dressed in white from head to toe with a flowing cloak that concealed most of his body. As he lifted his head, Rosch saw that his dark blue eyes shared the sharpness of the dagger he pressed against Rosch’s throat. There was radiant beauty in his face, with pale white skin that almost seemed to glow and features that could have been shaped from marble. As Rosch studied him, it was clear that this sheer power was wielded by a mere child. His heart skipped a beat. The Shrike. Rosch had heard the stories. A pixie who roamed the Anerdasten Forest, vanquishing those who delivered any harm to Lady Nature, or those who travelled through her forest under her blessing. Rosch dreaded what this slip of a thing would do to him. The boy opened his mouth to speak, revealing gleaming white teeth. “What is your name?”. His sound was without tone, but the words of the boy’s soft tenor slipping into Rosch’s ears like a bard’s sweet tune. The boy shifted, and the edge of dagger was pressed ever so slightly into Rosch’s throat. He dared not look down, the conviction in the boy’s gaze imprisoning him, but he could feel warm trickles of blood run down his neck like mead, soaking into his clothes. The pixie did not ask again but glared with emphatic hostility. The arrow in Rosch’s wrist suddenly throbbed. “My name is Rosch. I beseech you to grant me mercy” he gasped. He knew not where this came from: speaking like the city folk he slew. “Linalaeth does not grant mercy to those like you. I may honour you with a swift journey into the void, if you tell me where those with whom you rape and pillage are camped.” Rosch felt the numbing fear crawl up his spine and pushed out his words. “In a glade beside the frozen brook, some 1000 yards north of here.” The pixie’s expression did not falter, but his gaze softened slightly. The endless blue of his eyes now showed a gleam of what Rosch could only hope was pity. “Thank you, Rosch.” The boy paused slightly. “May the Spirits take you swiftly.” Rosch sobbed as the boy pulled back, before thrusting his dagger between Rosch’s ribs. Rosch felt the coldest cold of the knife in his heart. He flailed his arms, clasping his hands around the dagger buried in him. He tried to breathe, but he only choked, and the veil of night was pulled taut over his eyes.

By Benjamin Green (Upper Sixth) 66

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Cover Artwork: Daniel Clarke (Fifth Year) 67