IN ARCHIE’S WORDS...
A collection of written pieces by Archie Hurst, Lower Sixth
Archie Hurst completed the one-year Varieties of English course in Lower Sixth (2023-2024). This involved reading and discussing a range of fiction and non-fiction writing, exploring different genres, and producing his own written pieces. We hope you enjoy this selection from his portfolio of work.
Artwork: ‘Sleep’
By Leonardo Falcone (Third Year)
Front Cover Artwork:
By Sam Berresford (Upper Sixth)
Sleep. Who needs it?
Opinion columns are devilishly tricky to get right. A tablespoon of sarcasm, teaspoon of witty humour, and a mountain of funny jokes, with a dash of seriousness.
Caitlin Moran is one of the greatest opinion column writers. Her combination of clever writing, humour and slight erratic topics of discussion make anyone who reads her work laugh out loud and say to themselves ‘Yep, I get that a lot’.
Her ‘Moranifesto’ was the main inspiration for this piece. In particular, the section on printers. Brilliant stuff. I hope I inspired the same amount of laughter and reliability into this piece almost as much as she did.
I’m always tired. Who isn’t? Dragging yourself out of bed in the morning to begin the long trek to work, fuelling yourself with coffee or tea to desperately try give yourself a small zap of energy to get your day going. Everyone has been somewhat sleep-deprived at some point in their life, and you often feel like you’ll never catch up on those precious hours that you so often miss out on. But how important is sleep? Not just for your mental state of mind and wellbeing, but also for your physical growth, day-to-day life and behaviour?
There was an article published in 2021 by the BBC, stating that 92% of people with depression complain of sleep problems. 92%??!! I’m no scientist, but that seems to me like there is a strong correlation between sleep and mental health. However, this study was based on adults, and it is a well-known fact that teenagers and children require more sleep than adults.
Faith Orchard, a psychologist at the University of Sussex, published a study in 2020 where she examined the data from a group of teenagers studied from the age of 15 to 24. Those who reported sleeping badly
at the age of 15, but didn’t have depression or anxiety at the time, were more likely than their peers to be experiencing anxiety or depression when they reached 17, 21 or 24 years of age. It cannot be underestimated that teenagers need their sleep. An awful lot of it is common sense. Their brains are still developing and learning, their bodies still growing. When you dive into the data, the results are shocking. Just some of the effects a poor sleep schedule can have on a teenager are: concentration difficulties, short attention span, poor decision-making, slower physical reflexes, clumsiness. These may just seem like stereotypical teen characteristics, but have you ever considered that teens may behave this way because of lack of sleep? It may at first seem preposterous but have a look at how your children behave after a good night’s rest, and when they are dog-tired. Every parent will know the difference.
However, there is an argument that it is, for the most part, not their fault. Young adults and children must deal with a crammed schedule, what with school, extracurricular activities, social lives. Let’s tackle the school issue first. Educational institutions demand
that students arrive at school promptly in the morning, usually from the period of 8.30am to 9.00am. Science shows that teenagers are biologically programmed to go to sleep late and wake up late. What? So where in all that clever system of education did someone decide that the best way for the younger generation to learn and expand their knowledge is to disrupt their natural sleep pattern and drag them, blurry eyed and half asleep into a classroom? Seems ridiculous, right?
And not only that, it’s also the idea of thinking “Ah, on top of all of this homework, long school days and content they have to learn – let’s give them exams!” It’s idiotic. Forcing a sleepy-eyed teenager to wake up at 8.30am, dragging them into an exam room and making them write about mitochondria for two hours is not an effective way to measure their knowledge of the subject. A young teen will be most stressed during their exams. It’s just a fact. The amount of pressure they’re under is immense, not only from the school, but their parents, to impress the rest of their family, competing with their smarter peers. This all makes them more stressed. And when they become more stressed, they don’t sleep as well. And when they don’t sleep as well, they don’t focus as well in class, or when they’re revising. And when that happens, they become more stressed. And then they don’t sleep as well. See? It’s a vicious circle, and the amount of pressure and workload the younger generation has to deal with is crazy.
On top of this, humans are social beings. Almost all teenagers would prefer to go out with their mates on a Friday or Saturday evening, stay out till late and mess around rather than get tucked up in bed with a cup of warm milk at 8.30pm, with no screens an hour before bed. The “screens” issue is a whole other thing.
Modern day teenagers are now more social than ever. You might disagree, but it’s true. In the 1980s, when a teenager was stuck at home with nothing to do, they’d go outside and throw a ball against the wall, or read, or do the crossword. Teenagers nowadays text their mates.
They always know what’s going on in each other’s lives. And the majority of this “social behaviour” takes place late at night. After a long day of school, sport, and homework, all a teen wants to do is take out their phone and have a look at what’s most recent on Instagram, like their friends’ post, text their mate that funny video. This is a younger person’s way of “relaxing before bed”.
As is gaming. Gaming is a parent’s nightmare, and a teen’s dream. Sitting down in your comfy chair or on the sofa, picking up your PlayStation controller and slaughtering Dracula 20 times before bed is a fantastic way for a youth to chill out before bed. Often, it’s a way for friends to catch up on what happened that day, or chat about Arsenal v Liverpool that was just on. Gaming is a way for the teenage brain to relax and just focus on something else for an hour.
Now obviously the science is there. Screens before bed disrupts the melatonin production in the brain, which ultimately disrupts their quality of sleep etc. etc. But taking away a person’s form of relaxation before bed is not an effective way of getting them to sleep better.
The system is ultimately flawed. Life’s tough for the younger generation. The combination of what they want versus what everybody else wants for them is a constantly tipping balance scale. While desperately trying to be as funny as possible, be popular, make friends with everyone - and on the flip side they’ve got a mountain of homework to, they’ve got that Maths test on Thursday and…oh God, it’s grandma’s birthday tomorrow and I’ve not sent her a card. To teens it can feel like they’re drowning under the pressure of life, quite regularly, and often their flotation device is getting enough rest so they can recover and do it all again tomorrow. Let’s not let our future drown under the tsunami of work they have to do. Speaking of which, it’s 10.30pm and I’ve still got Algebra homework to do for first period tomorrow. And I’ve gotta send Adam that text about Mia’s party next Saturday. And I told James I’d play Minecraft with him. Jesus I’m knackered.
A Life in the Day of a Young Swimmer
A Life in the Day is a renowned weekly piece in The Sunday Times Magazine featuring interviews with famous people which offer insight into their day-today lives. Examples include the likes of Donald Trump, Muhammed Ali, 50 Cent, David Beckham, the Dalai Lama and Guy the Gorilla from London Zoo. It was this book that inspired me to write my own Life in the Day. I wanted to include the elements of small insights into a person’s life that many may not realise, and perhaps give a different point of view other than that of a celebrity. Perhaps the Life in a Day of a pretty average, normal person will encourage you that you don’t always have to be performing on the world’s stages, or writing top hit songs, or having important business meetings in terms of billions of pounds. Sometimes it’s good just to be you.
5.30am
My alarm goes off at 5.30am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I generally don’t get up straight away, I lie in bed, question my life choices for a minute or two, and then roll out of my duvet and turn the alarm off. I then blindly make my way into the bathroom; I try not to make a lot of noise, so I don’t wake up my 13-yearold brother. He’d kill me if I did, even though I’m twice the size of him, he’s got a vicious little kick and a sharp elbow. I put on my trunks straight away (I should say funky trunks here, they’re brightly coloured blue and red, Speedo-esque, and the brand all swimmers my age wear); it saves time when I get to the pool, as we usually get changed on poolside - it’s quicker. This is because we never have enough time to go into the changing rooms, as the lifeguards are just as late as us getting there, and we’re not allowed to swim unless there’s two of them there – even though we’re all very competent swimmers, and an accident is quite unlikely.
My pre-morning session snack consists of a banana and a glass of water – it’s impossible to eat anything else, and if I did it would come straight back up again during the session – not ideal. My Dad usually drives me – he doesn’t always have his finest moments at 5.45am in the morning. Stamping on the brakes and shouting “What the f*** are you doing awake at this time in the morning! F***ing idiot!” at the oncoming traffic is the morning entertainment. It doesn’t take us very long to get to the pool, we live only fifteen minutes away in normal traffic, and early in the morning it takes us even less – generally the only people we see are tradesmen and nurses smoking outside the hospital.
We’ve had times before when we’ve got to the pool and been told we can’t swim – because of the two-lifeguard rule. These mornings are the worst, because you know you could have easily stayed in bed and not had to wake up – but now you’ve got to drive all the way back home and get back into bed and then get up again an hour later. It’s soul-destroying and leaves you feeling both happy that you don’t have to swim, and angry
A Life in the Day of a Young Swimmer
and irritated that you’ve made the effort to get up and make the journey, and then you get told to go home and go back to bed – which realistically nobody does.
Our coach is quite often in a bad mood in the morning. There’s the usual “You get in the pool now, hurry up or I make you swim everything fly (butterfly)”, in his harsh-sounding Bulgarian accent. Everyone is still half-asleep at this point, so it doesn’t generally have the desired effect.
I have to say, the worst feeling I – or anyone – will ever experience is jumping into a cold swimming pool at 6am in the morning. I tend to jump in and sprint off, although I’m usually too sore from the previous night’s session for this to be a majestic movement. More of a hippo-type blunder. Morning sessions generally aren’t too difficult or physically demanding. It depends on the week. If we’re getting ready for a gala (competition) we’ll do lots of underwater work with breath control, and technical work doing drills etc. This is considered ‘easy training’. However, if we’re on a ‘hard week’ in terms of training difficulty, then the session will be hell. Those are the sessions where you wish you stayed in bed. The general feeling is one of gasping for breath with your vision going slightly blurry and feeling as though your arms and legs are on fire.
After a morning session, I love to have a fry-up. A couple of hash browns, eggs, some beans, and, because I’m veggie, Quorn sausages. If I don’t have my fry-up after a morning session, I’m usually quite grumpy for the rest of the day, and don’t really function in many of my lessons at school. That’s the ongoing problem for me. School. School, for me, is of the utmost importance. More important than swimming - it’s my future. Focussing on lessons and taking good notes, especially considering I’m doing A-levels right now (Chemistry, Maths and Spanish), so I can achieve the grades, get into university. Obviously very important. But sometimes, I just can’t focus. Even before I was a swimmer, I found it quite easy to zone out and stare at a teacher without really listening to them for 40 minutes. Now, being tired and blurry-eyed most of the time, it’s even trickier. However, I don’t neglect my schoolwork. My parents would never
let me do that. They always make sure I stay on top of my homework, and always chase me up if they hear I’ve got a bad mark on a test. It’s getting the balance right. Any other student-athlete will agree with me. You need an almost perfect balance, not too much, not too little of either, but just enough of both and they balance together in perfect harmony. And it makes everyone’s life, especially my own, so much easier – but this is very hard to do.
I always used to cycle to school with my brother. I find now that we’re going together less. This is partly to do with him getting older and being more independent, not needing his big brother to monitor his every move to make sure he doesn’t crash into a woman and her pram. It is quite sad, though. That is one of the things about my ever-busy schedule. I’m finding more and more that I have less and less time to spend with family and friends. It’s a sacrifice.
How much I enjoy my day varies throughout the week. It’s dependent on a lot of things: firstly, sleep. Sleep is a massive thing for everyone, especially young adults, who are still growing and need the rest and recuperation. The NHS recommended number of hours is seven to nine. I quite often don’t get near that. What with being both mentally and physically exhausted from training, and school, I can usually pass out as soon as I get into bed – often at about 11:30pm – and then I get up at five the next morning. You do the maths.
Artwork: ‘Life in the Day of a Swimmer’ By Harry Richardson (First Year)
A Life in the Day of a Young Swimmer
Second, is whether it’s what we call ‘Peak Week’. The way we structure our training is like a pyramid. We build it up week by week, getting steadily more physically demanding and tough, until we get to ‘Peak Week’. This is the hardest week of training out of a five-week cycle. During Peak Week I am sore 24/7. There’s no way to avoid it. There’s not enough time to recover enough in-between each session; no matter how much stretching, rolling, massage gun, whatever you do. In Peak Week, school feels like it drags on forever, minutes like hours, teachers droning on, my hand cramping up after writing yet another essay, when all I want to do is go home, curl up in my nice warm duvet and comfy bed, and go to sleep. However, on the other hand, if the week is ‘Easy Week’ (the opposite of Peak Week – this usually happens just before a gala), or what swimmers call ‘taper’, then I have a great time. I’m well rested, not tired at all, not sore – it’s amazing. It also depends a fair amount on football.
Swimming is not my only sport. I love football. I’m an avid Spurs fan and play centre-back/right-back for my school’s 3rd XI. I’d like to be in a higher team, but I’ve accepted that with swimming I have a greater commitment right now. I have training three times a week, one being a main games session on Wednesday, and then a match on Saturday. Sometimes we play a midweek fixture, which is always nice because it means I get a lie-in on Saturday morning. I also get involved outside of playing football. I did my refereeing qualification two years ago, and ever since I’ve been regularly refereeing youth football on Sundays. It’s very good money – anyone wanting to make some money should try out being a referee – although it can be a tough job.
Going back to our training schedule – as I’ve said before, ‘Easy Week’ is usually just before a gala, which spans over a weekend. These weekends switch up my schedule entirely. Let me run you through a race weekend.
Race Day
Last weekend I competed at the SE London Summer Championships – or what’s more generally called Regionals. It’s quite a high-end gala, held at the London Aquatics Centre (LAC) in Stratford, and is often used by young swimmers to try and qualify for Winter Nationals – I’ll get onto that in a minute. I’d entered for my main races which are the 50m, 100m and 200m Freestyle. These are short enough that they’re considered a ‘sprint’. How well your weekend goes depends a lot on the gala schedule. A gala is generally split up into two sessions per day, and each session is split up into heats and finals. You pray that all your races aren’t crammed into one day, that they’re nicely spread out, so you have time to recover in-between, and not all early in the morning. For this gala, I had the 100m and 50m freestyle on the Saturday; the 100m was in the first session of the day. This meant I had to get up at about 6am to make it halfway across London for a warm-up time of 8am. Not ideal.
Once you arrive at the pool, it all kicks into gear. You start prepping for warm-up, doing your stretches or whatever you need to do to limber up before getting into the pool. Warm-up is chaotic. A hundred-odd swimmers crammed into a 250-metre-squared pit of water. After the warm-up the most important thing is to not waste it. I get all my clothes on and get changed as quickly as possible, the worst thing to do would be to get cold, and then you’ve just wasted the past 30 minutes of near-death experiences you’ve just had to encounter.
Then the race. I’ve fast forwarded a bit here – the inbetween is very boring, a lot of just sitting around and chatting. Before my race I must go and put on my race suit. Now a race suit is a very expensive, very small piece of semi-waterproof cloth you squeeze onto your body just before your race, and it makes you faster. This is something to do with compression and buoyancy and the way in helps you sit in the water...etc. etc. For me it’s just so painful it makes me swim faster so the race is done more quickly, and I can take it off. It takes me about ten minutes to put on my race suit, which is mostly a lot of wriggling and pinching.
About five minutes before the race, you go to the marshalling area, where they tick off your name and make sure you’re there. For the LAC, the marshalling area is a small room that is very hot and humid. This helps a lot, as I said before - it’s better to be warm before a race. I have my own little routine before each race. Every swimmer is different. Sometimes you get people pumping out push-ups, which I’ve never understood. I generally check that I’ve got everything, put on my hat and goggles, tie my trunks, and then start to do a few stretches, swinging my arms about, touching my toes, all the business. Then we go out for the race. We go out during the end of two heats ahead of us – this gives us time to get ready without having to rush.
This is when I get quite superstitious. I always take my clothes off in a particular order. Hoodie then joggers, socks and then finally T-shirt. I then go through the same five processes. Firstly, I go and adjust the diving block to the right setting. This is how far back the wedge on top of the diving block is, the higher the number the further back it is. I put it on three - not too far back, as this can mean I can’t get enough power off my dive, but not too far forward – that’s a flexibility thing. Secondly, I do two squat jumps. This just kind of gets me going, gets the blood pumping. Third, I stretch out my quads – the stretch where you hold your foot behind you and balance on one leg. Fourth, I slap myself anywhere I feel I need to get activated, usually my shoulders and quads. You’ll always see a lot of swimmers do this. It also helps to hype you up and give you that rush of adrenalin just before the race. Fifth, the Michael Phelps back slap. Before every race, Phelps would stretch his arms out behind him and then swing them around, slapping his back, almost making him look like a large, hairless bird trying to take off. Iconic.
The worst thing possible to happen to a swimmer is to false start. When you dive in too early, and you get disqualified automatically. It can also happen if you move too much on the diving block. I’ve been disqualified before for twitching on the block. Just a slight jolt forward. Barely noticeable. And then you still must swim the race, as you’re never sure until you finish the race, and you look up at the results board and the big LED
letters ‘DSQ’ are flashing next to your name. It’s the most infuriating thing in the world.
Never mind that. You’ve dived in, you’re in the water, you’re racing. Gasping for air. The first 50m feels alright, quick, you’ve still got some energy. If you’re swimming a longer race, the second 50m also doesn’t feel too bad, as you’ve paced yourself and not gone out too quickly on the first 50m. If you’re doing a 200m, however (considered a longish sprint), the third 50m feels awful. It’s like all your muscle fibres are exploding, screaming in complaint, feeling like they’re going to explode. You feel like you can’t breathe, you’re gasping for air, all while desperately trying to swim as fast as possible.
Swimming is a mentally tough sport. You can feel like you’re on top of the world one week, feeling great in the water, strong, but relaxed. The next, you feel sluggish, your arms feel like wooden planks and your legs like rocks. You can barely move and it feels like you’re going to fall asleep in the pool. Ultimately, it’s whoever is persistent enough to get through it, not give up, and show the resilience to tough it out and carry on. Swimmers can be on top of the world, winning their age category, getting faster and faster each week…And then suddenly they’re not. They burn out. Suddenly, the best swimmer can just disappear in a matter of weeks.
I often ask myself the same question. What will happen next? You don’t really know. It’s tough. It’s a commitment. You really need to love the sport. You’ve got to think that it’s worth getting yourself up in the morning, then dragging yourself to the evening sessions, then doing it again the next day. All while you need to study for school, have a social life, sleep. A lot of people can’t handle it. Often, I just need to take a break. But, at the end of the day, I do it because I enjoy it. I enjoy looking at my times after a race and thinking, “It was worth it.” Ultimately, it’s all worth it.
The future? You keep going, you always want to be better. The end goal is nationals. For me that’s a natural stopping point, you know. I feel like after that, I’d be happy with finishing there. There’s not much else I’d really want to achieve in swimming, to be honest. Then what? I don’t know. It’s exciting. I can’t wait.
Letters From...
On the 23rd of August 1942, the German army began their invasion of Stalingrad, Russia. Yuri, a hardened Russian soldier, fights desperately to return home to his dear Katya and little Mikhail. His story entails the hardships enduring during the months of desperate conflict and tells not only a story of hardship and ruin, but also his emotional journey and yearnings for a better life.
The Beginning.
My love,
August 27th, 1942
I am writing to you from the broken ruins of our once glorious city. Above me, the crumbling ceiling of what was once a family’s home shakes with the vibrations of the dreadful conflict all around me. When the Germans first invaded on August 22nd, I thought to myself – why? We are under this conflict because of the misconceptions and unguided ragings of a man who has too much power. It is sad to see the world torn into little shreds of paper like this; the once beautiful carpets with intricate patterns that adorned this floor now reduced to burnt rags; the smashed glass on the floor from the happy, smiling pictures of this apartment’s once residents.
It is an understatement to say the past month has been hard. The Germans began the bombing of the northern suburbs a few days ago – I think that is how long it has been, it seems to be a never-ending onslaught of fiery explosions and falling timber and rubble. I keep two thoughts in my mind constantly. The thought of returning home to you, my beautiful wife, and our little Mikhail. How is he? He must have grown so big – perhaps he is now able to catch the fish from the river by our house without the rod toppling him over. The second, the thought of the enemy. When we first received the message, they were advancing on the city, my stomach turned like a salmon writhing in the paws of a bear. Another message we received, direct from our glorious leader – “Not One Step back.” I carry that within my very bones. No matter what, I will rid this city, this country, this world of this Nazi filth; if that is what it takes to win. I will fight to the last breath – and then fight some more to return home to you. Do not fear my love; the Russian bear is far mightier than the German Eagle; the Eagle may be able to briefly settle wherever it wants, but the bear is the permanent King of the forests and plains. I will fight for you.
My love, Yuri.
Below: a map of Stalingrad during the German invasion – centred on the main front, a 9-mile stretch in front of the Volga River
The Icy Tear of Stalingrad.
My Dear Katya,
October 30th, 1942
I do not know how it is possible to suffer as our glorious Red Army has suffered in the past weeks. The conflict is ever raging on, every speck of dust and block of concrete being fought over as if it were the holy land. I have come toe to toe with our enemy and have had to summon every drop of my fighting knowledge and experience to survive this onslaught. After my last letter, the Germans outgunned and outmanned us, and pushed us back to within a stone’s throw of the Volga. As I watched my comrades being felled by the torrent of bullets that rained upon us, I could not help feeling a sense of hopelessness and despair. How would we survive this? I have witnessed unbelievable horrors, men desperately dragging their dismembered bodies away from the advancing muzzles and marching boots, balls of hellfire exploding, the splattered remains of what was once a human being now encrusting the streetlamps in place of “Missing Dog” posters.
The strength of a thousand bears is behind our Red Army. Despite the tragedy and losses, we have suffered, I cannot fault the determination of our troops. There is an army camp, a Krasnaya Sloboda situated on the opposite bank of the Volga, just across from the No.1 Station. Do you remember when we visited, those years ago, and you saw the statue of the children dancing the khorovod around the crocodile? I think of that time, and it brings me warmth and comfort. Your laughter lit up the cold winter air, and I found myself in such a state of admiration that the outside world seemed a million times glummer without your presence felt.
We receive our supplies without fail. Food, munitions, new clothing at stretch. On October 14th, a German attack came close to our encampment, and the supply boat was fired upon by the advancing enemy. That was the point of fight or die. Summoning all our spirit, remembering the words from our great leader, we battled like never before, forcing the Germans back, holding them off for another precious day. Time has become irrelevant within the ruins of Stalingrad. We do not know when, where, how the Germans will attack. Sleep is a rarity. Closing your eyes is considered treason, acceptance of your fate. I have seen comrades shot in front of me, their desperate plea for the end echoing around the hollow shells of buildings, driven madness by the inhumane conditions we are in.
Do not take my words as surrender of will, however. We receive good news from Moscow, and with good prayer, Uranus will bless with good fortune in our war. My love, I only think of you, returning home, holding you and Mikhail in my arms, and feeling the comfort of your hands holding mine.
My love, Yuri.
November 30th, 1942
Uranus.
My Dear Wife,
My words are short today, but they bring much joy. I do not know if the news will have reached you yet, but we have launched our counter-offensive, our ‘Operation Uranus’. I praise our glorious leader for conjuring this plan, an absolute artwork of military strategy and wisdom. By attacking the weaker, undersupplied, and undermanned Axis Troops on the flank of the German spearhead, there was no chance they could survive the siege they found themselves under. The wings of the Eagle area now caught flapping desperately in the drooling jaws of the Russian bear.
I have also caught word of the stupidities of the German High Command. It seems we also have Herr Hitler to thank for our successes. After the German army realised it was surrounded, instead of ordering the retreat, he commanded for his troops to stand and fight. What with them now lacking in munitions, food, and medical equipment due to cut off supply, it was like the angels sang a heavenly choir to my ears when I heard this news. I will continue to send word of our advance but take spirit from this. I take my hat off to the ever-strong spirit of our unstoppable Red Army; for I am only a small piranha in a great shoal, slowly but surely eating away at the weakened skin of the drowning German shark.
My love, Yuri.
By Alex Barton (Third Year)
Artwork: ‘Stalingrad’
Artwork: ‘Letters From’
By Finley Barrand (Upper Sixth)
January 5th, 1943
Homecoming.
My beautiful Katya,
I yearn for your company. The past few months have only been step after step towards the prize of victory for our great country. My pen now flows freely in the information I can provide; with Operation Uranus complete, the strategists in Moscow devised a second plan to drive their spear deeper into the heart of the German army. Operation Saturn saw the hope slowly diminish for General Paulus and his men, with the band of our troops drawing tighter and tighter like a boa constrictor around its prey –despite the small mishap where a German battalion attempted to break through our lines, swiftly and efficiently dealt with by our every ruthless and supreme army. We are now the ring of children, dancing around the panicked crocodile.
As I peer into the gloominess of the tunnel I find myself in, I realise I can finally see the small ring of sunlight at the other end. These past months have been horrific, harrowing; they will stay with me for the rest of my life. Watching my fellow comrades turn mad with the events unfolding in front of their eyes, I wondered when I would be the next to turn into the savage, drooling, inhuman creature they had become. This battle has also taught me so much. I now see the true nature of war and conflict. I had never imagined I would be fighting against my fellow countrymen, let alone having to point my gun at the face of man I recognised; shared dinner with; danced with; laughed with; sang with. It has also taught me what I must hold dearly in life and what I must learn to forget. The past is something that can do one of two things to you. Bring you joy. Or haunt you. Memory is such an important part of life – I do not know how I would have survived if I had not kept the image of you in my mind. The small scene where I held Mikhail in my arms for the first time, his hands small, limbs so fragile, his only protection from this cruel world being the roughened hands of his war-hardened father resting uncomfortably underneath his armpits.
As I turn my head towards the ruins of Stalingrad, I can hear small sounds of conflict still raging on. Let them be. I am done fighting for the small follies and quarrels of ridiculous little men with silly moustaches. I will turn my head homecoming next – towards the smoke rising out of the chimney of our cottage, the sun glinting off the water, flowing freely across the smooth surfaces of large boulders, silver salmon leaping over obstacles lying in their path, flicking their tails as they fly through the air, and then disappearing underneath the surface of the water back to safety and freedom. Freedom. I wish to find out what this word feels like.
Operation Ring shall be successful. I will not let it be the opposite. I will trek through every valley, climb every mountain and wade through every river to get back home to you. You. My dear, beautiful Katya. I send my love and wish with Godspeed I arrive like a breath of wind upon our doorstep, my arms open wide to welcome your embrace.
My love, Yuri.
Micro Stories
These were written after I read Grace Paley’s micro story, A Man Told Me the Story of his Life.
A Woolly Hat Told Me the Story of its Life
Hats love to be worn. In my early life, I wasn’t worn much. I just had to hang out with the other hats, sitting there on the rack, waiting. It was always massive whenever someone got picked. Are they just being looked at? Are they being tried on?! Are they being bought??!! Imagine. Absolute rollercoaster of emotions. Getting picked up. Then tried on. So close…but then getting put back on the rack. So close…but yet so far.
It’s a hat’s dream, y’know, getting worn. We’d really like to be worn all-year round, but for some reason the big people don’t wear us for several months in the middle of the year, and instead we just sit in the cupboard, waiting impatiently.
Anyways. I was waiting in the shop. Waiting. Waiting. I waited for a long time; my turquoise wool gleamed in the warm light that cascaded through the large windows of my shop. Then, one day, I was grabbed by my fluffy bobble that sat on the top of my head – how rude, by the way. Never grab a hat by its bobble. So offensive. Honestly.
But then I got a hold of myself. I thought “Hang on, this could be it! It’s finally my moment!”. And from the moment the big person walked out of the door and put me on her head, I knew we’d be the perfect pair.
My folded-up rim fitted her head perfectly. I wasn’t too long, or short, so I didn’t stick up too much and make her look like some sort of beanpole, nor fold up and make her look like a fisherman. I have a silky, smooth lining, and she has dry skin, so I don’t make her scalp itch. She said that’s her favourite thing about me! And my bobble. She loved my bobble. My silky-soft, fluffy, dark blueish-green bobble. It flowed in the breeze, its many tiny fur strands waving majestically, almost with a little voice of their own, saying “Look at meeee. Loookk at meeeeeee. Looookkk aat meeee everyyoneee.”
The many years we’ve spent together have been good. Tough. But good. I think I’ve been washed…twice. Once after that time we went to the park and the wind blew me into a puddle. And the second time when the thing with four legs left something brown and smelly on me. That was not nice.
I’m worn a lot. It seems that I’m not always there necessarily to keep her head warm, but kind of as a fashion item. I quite like that. She loves to go on trips. We’re always going on walks together, and when her kids were little, she always used to give me to them when they complained they were cold. I was always too big for them, slipping down over their eyes, meaning they would have to look upwards if they wanted to see something.
I remember that time when I was suddenly shoved inside a weird plastic box thing with a zip, bumped around a lot and then suddenly we were in a colder place. There were also these freezing raindrops that fell more slowly than normal raindrops but were very pretty and had lots of little patterns that I could see when they landed on me.
I was always happy to be worn, no matter what. A hat is often neglected a little; disregarded now as people now just pull their hoods up, or just don’t think we’re fashionable (we very much are, you’ve just got to wear us right). I think hoods make a person look dark and moody. Or balaclavas. They just make you look like a criminal. So, we hats love being used. I mean, what else can we be used for? For some people, we’re simply just a functionality item. Keeping their heads warm. Those are usually bald or old people. For others, like my wearer, their hat is more than just a hat. It kind of… completes them. I think my owner and I completed each other. The way my turquoise colour, though now faded, still nicely suits her, along with the other blue green clothes she wears. My bobble, that sits resplendent on top of both my, and her, head.
Now I’m worn. There are threads coming out of the sides, some of my wool is coming undone, and my bobble has had to be stitched back on numerous times. But my wearer still wears me. And I still wear her. That’s the thing about a hat. It’s not always about just keeping warm, it’s the connection you’ve made along the way.
By Thomas Deedman
Artwork: ‘Football’
By Ollie Nicholls (Third Year)
A football told me about David Beckham
I found it in a ditch, in the park. I was down there by accident. I’d slipped while walking home from training, my muddy boots not providing enough grip either on the pitch or on normal ground. I spotted it, sitting underneath a rusted shopping trolley, snuggled up next to a pile of old clothes that someone had dumped there. I didn’t think much of it. It was just a regular old ball by the looks of it and the “ADIDAS” logo barely visible on one of the hexagons. It looked more like “AD I S”. Then I turned it over, and I just about made out the faint writing, in small, neat, blue letters, inscribed on its surface “OFFICIAL MATCH BALL OF THE FIFA WORLD CUP 1998”. And then, it told me its story.
PEEEEEP. And the match started. There’s a lot of emotion behind a football. The focus and concentration behind that perfect touch, the joy when it’s struck juuusssttt right, so the ball hisses through the air like a snake about to strike. The hope that it’s hit just right so it sizzles into that top corner. The raw passion, concentration and joy behind every pass, touch, shot.
David Beckham understood that about a football. Controlling the ball gently, calmly, gracefully, and then moving it on with perfect precision without even breaking a sweat. Dancing like a ballerina, twisting and turning this way and that. The way he would step up to a free kick, knowing exactly where the ball would go, almost controlling its movement with his mind.
However, this story is not a happy one. It is not one where our David scores the winning goal against Argentina, that fateful night in 1998. It was 2-2. Extra time had just begun. England were playing well, they’d had chances, and looked dangerous. I went towards Beckham, and as he tried to cushion me down with his usual grace, he felt someone barrel through the back of him, knocking the wind out of his lungs and sending him flying to the floor. Diego Simeone hadn’t even tried to be fair. He’d gone straight through the back of him like some sort of charging rhino, blindly trying to knock
him off the ball. The red mist descended. In a sudden flash of rage, David lashed out his leg, catching Simeone and sending him tumbling to the floor. It was so quick, if you’d blinked, you’d have missed it. I knew as soon as it happened that that was it. The referee knew. David knew. Simeone knew. The rest of the England team knew. As the red mist slowly cleared, David realised his mistake. He didn’t even try and argue with the referee.
The red card shone with an evil energy, like some sort of evil spirit or demon, the light from around the stadium reflecting off it for all to see. And all could see. England’s hopes extinguished.
After that I never felt the same during that game. It wasn’t the same without David’s gentle touch, the beautiful way in which he passed me around. England lost, 4-3 on penalties in the end. I still remember the emotion from everyone around me. The anger, frustration, disappointment, and sadness. The happiness, joy, relief. Many a player kissed me, hugged me, tears brimming in their eyes. I realised in that moment, that’s what I bring to them. Me. A small little round rubber and leather ball. Kicking me around for 90 minutes can bring so much excitement, so much emotion to someone’s life. Football can be an escape, a relief from the bores of daily life. It can bring a distraction from things that may trouble you. It can bring you pain, suffering, in ways you never would have imagined. For some, football is live or die. It can be the end of a world, or the start of a new life.
It was all a blur after that. I was passed around so much, I lost sense of where I was. The stadium began to empty, people hugging and kissing each other as they began to leave. Some stayed as long as possible, taking in the atmosphere of the stadium, looking around, absorbing it in all its glory. I was left for a while, and I stared up at the sky, in awe of the vastness of the world around me. Then I was scooped up, a gruff voice mumbling something about tidying up and ‘people never cleaning up after themselves’.
For me, football was over after that day. I was put away in a cupboard, never to be seen again. I rotted there for years, watching the plastic poles, bibs and cones come and go, as I sat there, reliving the same night, over and over. Then one day…
“Eh, looks pretty ancient this one, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, you can just chuck it.”
“Might keep it, bring it home to me lad”.
“Yeah, sure whatever mate.”
I was shoved inside a rucksack, right next to a crumpled up, empty bag of prawn cocktail crisps. Did they not know who I was? Where I’d been? However, when I came back out into the daylight, it was a little boy’s face that grinned down at me. He played with me every day, whether it was shooting, keepy-ups or dribbling around
plant pots, only occasionally knocking one over. Then one day, we were walking back home from the park. It was a rough day. I’d narrowly avoided being chewed up by this weird furry four-legged thing and was looking forward to a dry night in the shed. I was being bounced, up and down, up and down, again and again and again. Then I felt a long fall and heard a shout of “NO!”. I looked around, but I couldn’t see the boy. And this wasn’t the shed. I looked around, and all I could see were these weird things with long necks and mouths, and no legs. They moved weirdly, bobbing about and poking me with the weird long cones on their mouths.
Finally, I came to rest. I snuggled in the shade of a weird metal thing. There was a weird pile of clothes next to me, and I swear I could see the white shirt that David Beckham wore that night amongst the dregs of fabric. I smiled and closed my eyes. Peace at last.
Nothing seemed to go right...
He slammed his hand down on the alarm. The worst part of his day. He closed his eyes, imagined the sun streaming through the windows, birds chirping a tune, warm, pleasant, beautiful flowers, green grass, perhaps a few bees and squirrels frolicking in the garden. He opened his eyes. The cracked cream plaster ceiling filled his vision. Sighing, he turned, now turning his vision to the grey-brick wall, no window, no sunlight. As he rolled his skinny body out of bed, he could feel every single muscle fibre and tendon scream in complaint. Loping to the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. Pale, white skin stretched unevenly over the many jutting bones, blue veins intertwining, twisting, turning at every point. He should go to the gym tomorrow, he thought. That was what he had said yesterday. Cracked valleys of skin covered his face, becoming angrier and angrier as he rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to remove the crusted layer of gunk so he could see properly. He stepped into the shower, letting the warm, smooth water run over his body. He took a breath.
As he stepped out of the brown faded door of his apartment building, an overwhelming smell of cigarettes, urine and dust slammed against his nostrils. Putting his head down, he began to shuffle towards the train station, the crusted soles of his shoes slapping against the grey concrete, each step echoing through his aching head. Step. Step. Step. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Turning his hand, a jolt of adrenaline shot through him. He was going to be late. The pace of his steps increased. Hurriedly, he clattered down the worn stairs of the railway station, his shoes down clapping a misshapen rhythm on the dusted plastic covers steps. As he stumbled onto the platform, he took a sharp intake of breath and…his eyes flicked their focus to watch the screaming wheels of the train begin to accelerate, waving goodbye at him, taunting him. As the beep of the closing doors echoed through his head, he raised his inflamed hand to his forehead, rubbing the beads of sweat that had seeped through his crusted skin away. Nothing seemed to go right.
He collapsed onto a bench, the ribbons of sunlight seeping through the ceiling of the platform, wandering over the objects scattered across the platform. Crisp packets, glass bottles, condoms, dropped sandwiches, a briefcase. A briefcase? He blinked, trying to rub the rest of the layers of gunk out of his eyelids, hardly believing his still sleepy eyes. No. It was there. A black, polished leather briefcase, glinting amongst its grim surroundings, almost winking at him. Other people didn’t seem to see it, walking past it, even stepping over it, too absorbed in their own selfish troubles to observe this anomaly that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. He rose, suddenly filled with a sense of purpose and belief. But also, questions. What was in it? Why was it there? Is it full of money? His shoes came to a stop, less than an inch between him and the case. He could almost smell it. The scent of being new, clean. Should he pick it up? Tentatively he reached out a hand, brushing his fingers against the shiny metal handle. It had two large silver locks, each with an indented dial with the numbers 0-9 perfectly engraved into each little valley. He snapped his fingers away, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. It wasn’t his. He shouldn’t be touching it. He turned away. But then suddenly he stopped himself. There was something about it, the way it was so out of place from everything else. The way it had just seemed to appear from nothingness. He snatched the case from the ground before anyone could ask him what he was doing, he took a few quick steps, accelerating away from the station. He was sick today, he thought. Shifting his eyes left and right, he creaked the door of his building open, making sure no-one could see him. No-one was there. Good. He bounded up the stairs, his shoes now tapping an upbeat rhythm on the wooden steps. As he placed the case onto the top of his creaking table, a wave of adrenaline washed through him. Again, he ran his fingers across its surface, feeling every indent in the polished leather, caressing the metal clasps, nudging them, carefully attempting to click them open. For a while he fiddled with the clasps, twisting the many numbers, trying his luck. No use. It wouldn’t open.
He turned away, the expression on his face turning back to its usual melancholy, depressed glamour. There was no use. Stupid. Why did he think it was so amazing? It was just a case after all. Blood rushed to his cheeks; his fists tightened. He picked up the case and slammed it against the wall. It gave off a loud thud as it hit the wallpaper, creating a small tear in the ugly, faded criss-cross pattern. It bounced onto the floor. The clasps opened.
Breathing heavily, he approached the case. How? He didn’t question it. This time he didn’t hesitate, grabbing the case, greedily rubbing his hands together, licking his lips as he imagined what could be inside. Money? His hands clasped together, almost in prayer. He didn’t
Artwork: ‘Nothing Seemed To Go Right’
By Thomas Deedman (Fifth Year)
believe in God. Maybe he did now? His slender fingers trembled as he opened it just a crack, then closed it again. Maybe he shouldn’t. No. His fingers reached for it again, this time purposeful, throwing the case open. He stared down at its contents. A small digital timer stared back up at him, the number clicking down slowly, carefully. A plastic case attempted to cover the jungle of wires underneath it, a mash of red, blue, green, yellow, miniscule lights flashing from somewhere within the undergrowth of it all. Three large red sticks lay on top, their dull red surface laughing at him, the sticks forming cruel red lips which grinned at his now sheet-white face as all blood and moisture drained from the surface of his cracked skin. The timer beeped. 3. 2. 1. Nothing seemed to go right.
The Hunt
The sharp rays of sunlight bore relentlessly down onto his bare neck and shoulders, unforgiving, baking into his skin. He blinked, sweeping his weary eyes across the yellow-baked plains of the savanna, and as he crouched down, he lifted a hand to wipe away the small beads of sweat that were forming on his brow. What little moisture he could salvage was more precious than diamonds, the sandpaper feel to his tongue a constant painful reminder of the bleak unforgiveness of the plains. The layers of yellowing, cracked skin slowly peeled away from the palms of his hands, and blisters of blisters rubbed against one another as he shifted the heavy wooden spear back and forth.
He sighed and stood up. It was becoming futile. He had lost the track three times in the past week, and each time he felt he was getting close, his target seemed to skilfully and mysteriously evade him.
No. He must carry on. He willed himself to, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes. He made a brief prayer. His eyes opened, sharpening, and focussing in on the route ahead. A rush of energy surged through him, newfound and raw. He drew in a deep breath, and his ribcage expanded, the many bones visible as his skin stretched and contorted around their rigid shape. Another reminder that food was too scarce. He must be careful.
It was a peaceful, cool afternoon. The day had been forgiving, and as the sun set over the horizon, laughter floated out from the small wooden hut. A trickle of smoke crept its way out of the makeshift chimney, and in the distance, she could just see the figure of her Papa loping his way back towards the hut, coming down the hill and towards the glade. And then she saw it. It was about half a mile in front of her Papa, shiny fur almost glowing in the fading light, muscles rippling with each step as it prowled towards them. “Mama!” she shouted.
A pair of furry ears twitched, and its great mane of shaggy brown hair whipped around, amber eyes shining with an evil glare as many different blurry shapes and figures appeared in its vision. As it raised its wet, leathery nose to the air, a refreshing scent drifted into its nostrils, calling out to its stomach, wavering but ever strong and present in the light breeze that moved like a tide over the sands.
The orange ball peeked over the horizon, the waves of heat making the air shimmer in front of it, like an ever present warning signal to anything that ventured out there. He could just make out a ring of vultures in the distance, slowly circling around and around, infinitely waiting, beady eyes watching impatiently for the inevitable death of something below. Was it to be him?
As the dark tendrils of night slowly crept over the darkening sands, he spotted a tree, just further on, its leafless, spindly branches seemed to beckon to him like a witch’s long fingers. He looked down at his feet and saw the damage that the day’s walking had done to him. Blood seeped out from in between his toes, long, sharp toenails cutting into their beds, rough, untamed. The skin on the side of his feet was cracked and curling, and he winced as he raised his foot to look at the soles. Large, angry blisters stared back up at him.
He approached the tree, his vision blurring in front of him, his legs barely moving as he stumbled, almost drunkenly towards the base of the tree. He slipped the spear into his waistband and hauled himself upwards. He rested his head against the trunk of the tree and let the spirits of his happy memories take him to the land of the dreaming.
By
Artwork: ‘The Hunt’
Lucas Woods (Second Year)
“Papa, you need to do it like this!”
“I am.”
“No Papa, you’re doing in wrong! Here, weave under.”
“Yes, weave under.”
“Now over.”
“Over.”
“Now through.”
“Yes.”
“No! Silly Papa.”
He smiled.
Snap! His eyes flicked open. He quickly scanned his surroundings, looking for what had made the noise. The moon was full, like a glowing white orb illuminating the landscape with a pale, ghostly light. His eyelids narrowed, focussing in on a small hill that peaked just over the top of the grass. Slowly, carefully, he reached downwards for his spear. To his dismay, his hand grasped at emptiness. Eyes widening in panic, he looked around for it. The sharp tip glinted tauntingly at him on the ground below. It must have dropped while he was sleeping and had fallen to ground.
Making sure his movement was slow, he cautiously manoeuvred himself into a crouching position on the branch. Breathe.
After what seemed like an age, he allowed himself to drop to the floor, landing gracefully like a cat on all fours. He picked up the spear and fastened it tightly into his waistband. He would not let that happen again.
He took a deep breath and let it flow through his body, calming his nerves and feeling the sense of relief wash over him. He stood there for a moment, the silence draped over him like a blanket, covering everything around him with a deafening weight. And then he heard the woosh of air, snarling, biting, gnashing teeth and yellow flaming eyes come whirling towards him like a demon from the depths of Hell. White hot claws slashed across his back, knocking him to the ground and stealing the breath from his lungs. Teeth the size of daggers sunk into his shoulder, jerking him about like a ragdoll and tearing flesh from bone as he desperately tried to shield himself from the beast’s attack. He fell to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds, and he wiped the cascade of blood from his brow. The beast took a step back, padding maliciously backwards and forwards, growling, its rippling muscles sending small shockwaves through the ground with every step. Breathe. They crouched. Breathe. The beast leapt towards him, fury, hunger with the desire to kill...
The body slumped to the ground, the spear sticking upwards through its back as dirty blood flooded out of the wound like a river, its ribcage rising and falling as it took in its final, dying breaths, shallow and scarce. He stood over it, breathing heavily and staring down into its eyes. The fire within them had gone out, and they stared blankly back at him, pale and watery, like urine.
The journey home was short. He did not care for the pain, as he shouldered the beast’s fur, and slowly plodded on. He had done what he set out to do, and his belly would be full for the next week.
But the hunter did not smile with joy, nor happiness. Instead, he returned home, to an empty hut.
Hustle
The sun set over the bay, its looming appearance on the horizon dwarfed by the many numbers of shiny white yachts that sat, their huge hulls bobbing steadily up and down in the waves that lapped gently against the cobbled stone of the harbour.
Music floated out of open windows, creating a strange hum that was attune to the serene mood that was emerging in the coming of the evening. There was one anomaly. Lights buzzed. Large, colourful luminescent letters twisted themselves into a multitude of different shapes and forms, beckoning callously to the passersby. Sickly red velvet carpets lined the entrance halls, fake ornate gold lions roared sneeringly from atop the various buzzing, beeping and blinking machines, each displaying numbers, seemingly incomprehensible amounts, the word ‘WIN!’ being screamed over the droning decibels of noise. An aura, a mix of despair, disappointment and raw anger emanated from anything living that had been drawn in by the deadly trap of money.
Amongst this chaos, a shining beacon stood out. The small, shiny, metallic ball rolled around the never-ending circle of doom, a whirlwind of emotions flew about the room, anxiety and anticipation bouncing off the walls, excitement radiating at intense levels incomprehensibly high. The buzz of activity rose as the ball began to slow down, servers walking slowly to look at which number it landed on, beads of sweat forming on the foreheads of those sat at the table.
She remained calm. She had done this many times before, each calm as the next, cool, calculated, knowing exactly what she was doing. The ball rolled slowly to a stop. A cheer erupted around her, the other big, beefy, men in expensive suits sitting around the table groaned with disappointment. She smiled. She always won. That was the hustle.
Artwork: ‘Hustle’ By Ewan McVey (Fifth Year)
By Jamie Roberts (Third Year)
Artwork: ‘No More Time’
No More Time
Darkness. A musty, old smell lingered in the air, an undertone of dying rodents making it unpleasant to the senses. Not that anyone was here anyway. Faded roses patterned the walls on a background of sickly pink, matching with the threadbare crimson carpet, both as depressingly worn as the other. A large metallic shape sat squatly in the corner, its grey rusting surface encrusted with switches, dials, buttons, keys, knobs, and levers, each caked in layers of dust. The large screen that dominated most of its appearance stared blankly outwards into the room, swallowing any light like the horizon of a black hole. A single red light on its panel blinked steadily, weak, but there, sure and true like a beating heart.
A chatter of voices floated out from the door. Thousands of hands ran over its surface, many fingers pressing, flicking, pushing, turning, twisting, tapping. Zeroes and ones scrolled endlessly, trillions of numbers and commands per second, processing incomprehensible figures and connecting to billions of locations around the world.
The second hand scrolled slowly around the clock, counting down the infinite minutes and hours. He rubbed his eyes, reddening the already raw bags of skin that hung loosely around his sockets. He swivelled on the chair, which creaked unhappily underneath his weight, and began to type. He rubbed his eyes again and looked up at the vast monitor before him. The ones and zeroes kept scrolling, going on and on into infinity. He turned his head to look at the clock. Groaning, he rolled his eyes towards the direction of the sound, a small monitor located on the far left of the control panel. He had to squint to make out the small letters that were displayed in front of him. He stared down at them. They stared back up at him. A cold rush of air washed through the room, sweat poured through his shirt, forming dark stains underneath his armpits, another forming on his crotch. Swallowing the large lump that had formed in his throat, he moved his trembling hands towards the panel, and took a deep breath. The ones and zeroes roared, shooting out tendrils of information which raced across the globe, unstoppable. They weaved their way around rocks, underneath cities, zapping across molecules and shimmering through atoms. Then they stopped. The earth rumbled, and a tear rolled down the man’s face. In his glasses, you could just about see the reflection, a small but hauntingly terrifying sight. The orange mushroom-like cloud bloomed in the clearness of the reflection.
The clock sat there. Silent. The second hand no longer counted down. There was nothing to count down to. Time no longer had a place in this barren, desolate world, no purpose to serve. A sigh seemed to waft out from underneath the machine. The light blinked once more.
Darkness.