“To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”
– Winston Churchill
Rebirth and rejuvenation encapsulate the prevailing themes of this edition. The transition from Michaelmas to Lent term has influenced this idea, as pupils’ moods mirror the weather and nature that is now blooming around us. With many ongoing struggles and conflicts occurring throughout the world, the idea of change can offer a sense of relief, even hope, to many, which was something that this issue sought to achieve and express through both language and art.
An array of talent is showcased across all year groups in this issue, joining the College together as a community. This varies from paintings and drawings that reflect growing up and movement, to short stories and poems inspired by nature and the oscillation between despair and hope.
Mimi K and Millie E
Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’ - a changed story
Nestled in the centre of Bristol, the Old Vic has always been one to put on a show. Written by Lemn Sissay and directed by Scott Graham, Frantic Assembly’s ‘Metamorphosis’ is a physical and dynamic interpretation.
Frantic Assembly tell the familiar with great fluidity and pace. Salesman Gregor Samsa (Felipe Pacheco) wakes up one morning with intense worry about being late for work – his second thought being that he has transformed into a giant insect. His extremely disturbed family can do nothing but wait and see what happens next, anxious about how they will be able to support themselves without Gregor working. His sister, Grete, played by
Hannah Sinclair Robinson, initially keeps him fed and his room clean but all the family must pick up the slack to pay off their debt and keep themselves afloat. Gregor’s father is the quickest to turn to anger, beating Gregor mercilessly when he feels the reality of working life himself. With renewed purpose, and a metamorphosis of her own, Grete has increasingly less time for Gregor. The story spirals to a tragic conclusion.
This production deviates somewhat from the original. The play identifies Gregor as a fabric salesman which, in our opinion, is genius in a subtle way. Throughout the play, both Gregor and his family almost worship the bright
skeins of silk that Gregor brings home. It demonstrates how devoted Gregor is to his work as it never truly leaves him: even in his home he is haunted by his labour. Another important distinction between the novella and the play is that Gregor didn’t physically transform into an insect. This worked well for the audience as it led us to question whether he really changed or is it how the other characters see him? Do they view him as a disgusting insect even though he is still a man?
Further high points of the show are sometimes literal: Gregor’s ascent up the walls and his bug-like movements are a spectacle for the audience. The off-stage voice of the Chief Clerk gives
a chilling effect, presenting him as a dark, mysterious man, controlling the Samsa family like a puppeteer. Like many Frantic Assembly productions, the walls themselves move, mirroring Gregor’s physical and mental state: as they twist and turn, so does he.
The performance does veer into sensory overload with so much going on visually and aurally, and it is easy to miss an important element. With the scenes so overpacked and loud, the production would have benefited from a few more quiet moments.
Sophia B, Lexie I, Clara M and Gigi S
Metamorphosis
(inspired by Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis’)
Emily woke up at 7:15 on a grim, grey Tuesday morning to the harsh sound of an alarm going off somewhere in the silent dorm. She groaned with the effort of prising her sleep laden eyes open and rolled over – or tried to.
She furrowed her brow in confusion, her back felt larger than usual, and strangely damp. She moved to prop herself up on her arms but found it quite impossible. More perplexed by the minute, she desperately writhed and wriggled the best she could, but merely rolled around like a drowning beetle. She reached up to wipe the sleep from her eyes, and felt four probe-like, slimy and sticky fingers close over her wet, bulging eyes.
Emily flung herself onto her front, crouching on all fours in an ungainly way. Expecting the worst, she peered reluctantly into the mirror beside her rumpled bed.
The bewildered thing staring back at her was in no way human.
Her enlarged head was erupting in boils and warts, a long, worm-like tongue flicked in and out of a cavernous mouth. But that was not the worst of it. Her bulbous head squatted on top of her broad, clammy back, pocketed with what looked like blisters and greenish-black lumps.
In short, Emily Sherlock was no longer a beautiful, blonde 14-year-old; she was, in very literal terms, a toad.
Emily lost it. Gargling and croaking, she hopped frantically around the dorm, in a full-blown panic. Her protruding eyes swam with unfallen tears; her voice was hoarse, cutting through the crisp morning air.
That was when the rest of the girls woke up.
Tilly looked over to her left, and saw that Emily’s bed was eerily empty, but there was a trail of slime leading to the mirror.
She screamed at what was reflected.
In the middle of the dorm, Emily was leaping from bed to bed. Tilly ran forward with her school shoe, and struck, bringing her weapon down with a wet smack upon Emily’s back.
Emily let out a “Ribet,” flinching away from the stinging pain of her pursuer.
“Tilly! It’s me, please, it’s Emily!” But Tilly didn’t register her words. The whole dorm was swarming around Emily now, shouting, repulsed by the horrendous monster in the middle of their dorm.
Emily cried and yelled, finally getting the attention of Isla, who crouched, terrified by the door, who, raising her voice in shocked realisation, shouted “Emily? STOP! It’s Emily! JUST STOP!”
The dorm fell silent.
***
Isla rose, shaking, tears spilling out of her eyes, and stepped forward. The monstrous thing cowering in the middle of the dorm raised its swollen head and peered nervously around, as if waiting for them to fall upon her with savage blows again.
Terrified, Emily turned to the door and hopped away, trying to escape, but she was cut short by the sound of footsteps outside the door. She knew she couldn’t go outside. What would people think of her? She would be carted off for scientific experiments, kidnapped and kept in a zoo, stolen away from her family...Irrational thoughts and worries flitted through her confused, jumbled mind.
Isla was building in confidence; she walked towards Emily, reaching a single hand out to reassure her. She spoke in comforting tones, “Em, it’ll be okay, just go to your bed and we’ll figure out what to do, okay?”
The other girls gathered around Isla. “Who has a plan then?”
Bea and Tilly looked at each other and nodded sadly. “We can’t keep her,” Bea replied, “She’s hideous! Tomorrow, early morning we tempt her out of the dorm and leave her outside. She can fend for herself.”
Isla was shocked, these were Emily’s closest friends, how could they even dream of abandoning her like this? “No, we can’t let her down. She’s still Emily – she hasn’t changed inside. We have to help her.”
***
The next morning, Isla woke to find the rest of the dorm empty, silent. She raised herself up and looked around the dim room, a wave of shock ran through her.
Emily was gone. ***
Emily stumbled outside, surrounded by the girls, Bea and Tilly amongst them. She smiled, glad that they had finally agreed to help her.
Suddenly, in two swift movements, she was bundled up in a pile of duvets and
blankets. The rush of movement sucked the air from her lungs. She grunted and writhed, trying desperately to break free. A Doc Marten booted her from the other side of the blankets.
She screamed and yelled, begging, kicking out with all four long legs, but again she was treated to a harsh kick to shut her up. Soon, she felt herself being dropped on the frozen January ground.
As she tumbled onto the frost-bitten grass, she looked around for any sign of where she was, and saw eight girls rush around the corner, sprinting away from her. She frantically pulled herself up and sprang desperately after their retreating forms.
What seemed like hours later, she recognised the gate to the car park. Emily clambered up the walls, gripping with her sticky feet. As she approached the dorm window, she heard laughter and shouts form inside, peering in, she noticed her friends sitting on Lexie’s bed and chatting, playing the hairband game, all acting as if nothing had ever happened.
Then she saw her bed.
Completely empty, a carcass: her sheets and belongings gone, all her photos taken down and her wardrobe empty and hanging open. Emily felt her heart ripping in two, crumpling apart, dying.
She looked down, expecting to see moss-coloured slime, but instead she saw a normal girl, still wearing her pyjamas, hair done up in a messy bun.
She laughed, cried, overjoyed. She hammered on the window, screaming “I’m back! It’s me! I’m here!” but no one answered, no one heard.
Emily was left, screaming and yelling, invisible, unseen, unheard, alone.
Gigi S
Dr y Bones
by Lucy R
U s e d
T h r o w n
A tool
To the hills
Drowning in a Pool of solitude
Dried to the core My heart left cold They left me here to rot to be swept under The graving grope of death that receives This forgotten soul left to the elements Relieve me of my earthly burdens
I can only wait alone on the hill
For the ground to grow over My l i f e l e s s body
Silent stillness that latches
On my barren lungs like a Parasite-stripped carcass
Dry bones abandoned by Those without memories
Cracking and scraping
Half fused sinking mud
Blood-blotted grass and Grave clearings rest here
Whispers of life lost to Whatever monster stole My flesh I say looking Into a mirror by my bed
My gaunt cadaverous eyes
A strange self-portrait of the Fist-shaped holes that spotted my Chest aims thrown like a dartboard
Behind turned backs a sabotage that Rendered me weak and alone like dry
Bones on a hill
Crying to no one
Beaten blue Ripped wide
Blood bed Play dead
Dried
Bones
Westminster
Come friendly bombs and on Westminster fall!
The great tower which reigns over it all, Scaled solely by figures bright and tall, Who reap power laid by the hands they ignore.
One pudgy finger who reigns as best, While those who follow his overbearing chest Are left depleted. They are the rest, Empty beneath their everlasting smiles.
One town destined to rule the lot,
As others pour over their grovelling rot, Festering upon the growing beard of England, which shall concede it not. One foul beast at heart, laurel resting on its ears.
Let Westminster fall!
Or others have no chance at all
To shift the bricks; a place otherwise destined to fall.
‘None to the needy, the crippled, the poor. Yet let the scholars get more and more.’
He who by birth was given
The spoon of life, contented in his position Of wealth and satisfaction, Now replenished by those who wish to flee.
Come friendly bombs and on Westminster fall!
Come meet the impudent heads which do gall!
Come see such sights which at Westminster befall!
The gluttonous fraudulence which we name Westminster.
Peter W
Reading
Come friendly bombs and fall on Reading! Where no one wants to have their wedding, This town’s downfall no one is dreading. Friendly bombs: bring down the fire.
Nobody cares about the river, Where boring people go to dither With water so cold it makes you shiver, A cold and slow running waste.
It’s got no shops; the place is boring! Everyone who goes there’s snoring! And the rain is always pouring! I’d rather it rain bombs.
Come friendly bombs and fall on Reading, The fire from the sky embedding Itself in the ground and ending This sad and sorry town.
Henry W
Fifth Circle
I fell and fell and fell and fell.
Tumbled down into the gaping maw
That called enthrallingly for my doom.
The pit clawed and ripped and wrenched
The faults that sat like an unexploded bomb
In my own cavernous chest. I masqueraded
Ease and nonchalance in an effort to disguise
The restless anger that twisted and fed
On my gut like a fat baby latches
To their mother to suck out her milk.
Cruel and unrelenting, desperate to swallow whole
The instinctual care of their origin.
Rotting nutrients lay waste
To the acid of my stomach,
Stopping me from digesting
Those unthinking words. They pierce the armour
I have built from resilience and hurt with Glass slivers of casual comments
But the seething growths do not cower,
Not like my eyes, weak under
Devastating judgement. They hold on
To every slight like an ancient headstone
Clings to the moss obscuring its purpose and meaning.
When the bomb finally ticked down into its last second, Debris and destruction travelled on the waves
And the red wire remained uncut,
It frayed and sparked, seeping into the cracks
As Pandora’s jar fell from the shelf.
It whispered insidious words and coaxed
Hatred and bitterness. The flames used
Resentment as fuel. And time was the accelerant.
It takes years and years for
The final grain of sand to fall, and,
The end is always met with unhappy faces, Pleads for ‘Just a moment more.’
And still the black beast takes
On these melancholy souls
And grows. And grows and grows until
All that is left is the shell of a chest.
Anger soared and built this land, Found its home in the fifth circle of hell.
Xanthe B
The Prelude (inspired by Wordsworth)
Night fell and veiled the comfort of my home, Shadows crept, jeering, taunting.
They crept like forgotten things but not afraid. The dark peak rising again to haunt me, Deserting those aggrieved fellow stars, Betraying those green fields, the sea and sky. Surrounding me were others the same, Dark, dark monstrosities, towering, waiting. Those peaks dogged me like a parasite, Ravenous to burden and obsess over Me, reaching and chasing after me. They blanketed the benevolence of life. The menacing peak stole from me: My dreams through life were taken, tortured Turned to things that had no place, no right.
Sophia B
Echo
You are sculpted by the gods themselves, Strands of spun gold stroke your face. You are more divine than a Botticelli angel, Unparalleled beauty and effortless grace. Your eyes are pools of liquid silver that mirror the heavens, You are the sun of we who orbit you.
My eyes must tell the stories that my mouth cannot not speak, But do your eyes shine so bright that they blind you? Do you not see? Oh, your ignorance! How can I love you alone? Longing for you is like claws digging into my skin. I echo Emptily.
My hope of you your words hold none. Silently yearning, I shall drown under the weight of my love. I hold heavy hope in my frail hands.
I return the warm embrace of your words, yet they do not reach you. My eyes pour love over your body, like the morning sun Melting its light over a flower. Yet you feel no warmth from it. My heart aches with the pain of a bird who flies with a broken wing. You do not love me. You cannot love me. So, I take all of you in like the clutch of a wave on the shore, yet you slip away, and out of reach
Jojo K
His Last Duchess
In chambers grand, I once did reside, A silent figure by my husband’s side. Pandolf’s brush, it captured my image fair, Yet failed to grasp the depths of my despair.
Condemned to silence, a fate unkind, My thoughts and dreams, to him confined. In his possession, I was but a prize, A mere object in his dazzled eyes.
My laughter silenced, my spirit caged, In fancy halls where I was once engaged. Now as a portrait, I am made to stay, A silent witness to my own dismay.
But beyond these walls, my spirit’s free, Amongst the fields and by the sea. No longer bound by his cruel decree: In nature’s embrace, I am finally me.
Harry P
I disappeared behind the moon
Emptiness patrolling the border of my heart’s hollow cage
Holds high a glistening shield, to reflect away any flicker of light. Its frown so bleak is scolding and blank, devoid of all grace.
Until taken was the last breath of black depressing air.
Air filled to the brim with despairing emptiness. Its last blink and closing glimmer
Finally engulfed by absolute darkness. I disappear behind the moon, I am alone now.
Truly alone.
Emptiness patrolling the border of my heart’s hollow cage
Holds high a glistening shield, to reflect away any flicker of light.
Its frown so bleak is scolding and blank, devoid of all grace.
Until taken was the last breath of black depressing air.
Air filled to the brim with despairing emptiness.
Its last blink and closing glimmer
Finally engulfed by absolute darkness.
I disappear behind the moon, I am alone now.
Truly alone.
Jojo K
In the Chair
In the chair
She sat, An off-white shawl draped over her shoulder. Her face stern, as her father had instructed. Hands gripping tightly, an unconscious decision. She looked and stared.
In the chair
They had sat.
She sees the paintings of happy mothers with smiling babies, Of families, of lovers. She longed for that life.
In the chair
He sat.
An artist trying to keep out of her business, Trying to ignore the gruff noises her father made. Disappointment. Looking in her eyes, trying to paint more life than what was There.
She was an empty shell.
Tallulah B
The Party
(Winner of the Remove Writing Competition)
The sand got everywhere. Miniscule bites of torment a constant reminder of its presence with every movement. That night, however, the men tried to forget the grating sand as best they could. They lit a raging fire which leapt like a beautiful golden dancer in the centre of the camp, swaying and jumping, crashing and burning, throwing honeyyellow fingers of light in every direction. The firelight drifted serenely over drunken faces, twinkling in dazed, drowsy eyes. These weather-beaten men, who had been away from England for so long, could for a brief while feel as if they were sat in their own drawing room, warmed by their own log fire, sedated by drink from their own cellar.
Booming laughter shot out into the night like cannon fire, undercut by the breathless sharing of unseemly jokes, passed from man to man like spies in dark city streets. The aches that had gripped their bones only hours earlier were left in the desert, whilst thoughts of loneliness and fears of this strange land were held at bay by the glowing sphere of light.
Reginald Harvey had been in Egypt for six months now, part of an archaeological expedition commissioned by Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself. It was an illustrious roster of the best academics Britain had to offer, as well as being a who’s who of all the high-strung and close-minded heirs of England’s aristocracy, accompanied by dozens of local guides, footmen, manservants, mistresses, waiters, and cooks. It was Christmas Eve, and due to the harsh bite of the desert nights, the caravan, on their way up the Nile from Cairo, had stopped on the banks of a sapphire oasis not far from the shore of the river itself.
Reginald tapped Ali on the top of his head gently with the silver ball atop his heavy cane crafted from an Irish ash tree. Ali had been with the expedition since they had landed at the port of Alexandria, a wiry young urchin who had picked up a smattering of languages from the diverse host of sailors who graced the docks on which he was raised. He now served as Reginald’s baggage boy and attendant.
Ali sat faithfully by the Englishman, cross-legged in the sand. He looked up at his employer and master, charcoal eyes sharp as the desert wind. Sitting on a folding chair of canvas and wood, Reginald looked down at the boy with almost fatherly kindness.
“Ali,” said the lean, moustachioed man, “Fetch another bottle of the claret from my baggage. There’s a good man.”
The olive-skinned youth keenly leapt up from the ground and, without shoes lolloped away from the fire to Reginald Harvey’s tent, his small padding feet hardly leaving an impression in the fine sand.
As Reginald turned back to watch the cavorting flames, a content smile forming on his thin, chapped lips, he heard a most grating voice call out to him.
“Reggie! A most jolly Christmas to you and your kin, old chap!” The voice, as Reginald had sure enough expected, came from Sir Thomas Bartley, the detestable youngest son of the Duke of Lancaster, who was sitting across the fire from him. He had awfully slicked back blond hair, and after months under the Egyptian sun, his previously sickly, lily-white complexion had transformed into something akin to a red Leicester cheese. A horrible, purulent fellow he was, easily angered, as any of his servants would tell you, and it wasn’t unlike him to go on inebriated rampages through London, to the misfortune of many a local resident and many a lady of the night, who upon seeing him on the warpath after numerous whiskey-sodas, would not hesitate to turn off their lamps and lock their doors.
It was this awful man who addressed “Reggie” now. Reginald hated it when he called him that.
“Say, Reggie, hand me that vase you’re so attached to. I am in desperate need of something to ash my cigar into!” Sir Thomas guffawed obnoxiously at his own joke, drunkenly lolling his head from side to side to make sure others found him as equally droll as he did. The only ones who let out even a chuckle were either his equally oily
old school friends, or the few unlucky saps who owed him money. Still, Sir Thomas was pleased with the outcome.
Reginald had been ridiculed for buying the dusty old ceramic vase off a grey haired, toothless knick-knack flogger back in Cairo. Anyone could see it was an ugly old thing, irregular brown patterns and a hideous depiction of a man, mouth agape as if in terrible pain. Something the old man had said to him, however, had convinced Reginald to part with quite an exorbitant sum in exchange for the thing.
“This, Englishman, this, is the vase of Shamun’rah. No other like it. None, nowhere. When the wind in the desert blows just right, a sound as beautiful as siren’s song will be heard. When the fire hears the song, it burns brighter than the desert sun, it keeps you warm all the cold night, it keeps you alive all the night. You stop the song, you interrupt Shamun’rah, then no fire. Fire is life.”
Yet the vase hadn’t made a sound.
Before Reginald could reply to Sir Thomas’ quip with something well-mannered and even-tempered, Ali returned with the wine.
“The Claret, Mr. Reginald,” announced the boy with a grin. Reginald smiled back and thanked him with a ruffling of his hair, which was black as a jackal’s pelt.
“Thank you, Ali. I just have one more small request of you, then you can enjoy the party for the rest of the night.” Ali looked very pleased indeed at this prospect. He had always enjoyed listening in on drunken foreigners’ conversations when he was growing up in Alexandria. Their bawdy songs and strange tongues intrigued and entertained him.
“You know that vase I brought from Cairo. The exceedingly ugly one.” At this remark Ali chuckled for it was a hideous thing, he thought so too. “I want you to bring this vase over, quick as you can. It’s in the tent. Good chap.” Ali went off on his duties, and shortly returned with the vase clutched carefully,
close to his body so as not to drop it. Before Reginald could thank the boy, Sir Thomas started up again.
“Good lord Reggie I was joking! No one gives a tinker’s fig about your ‘magic’ vase!” Sir Thomas cried, slurring his words and gleefully chortling.
Again, Reginald didn’t have a chance to reply. He heard it. He heard the siren song, the voice of Shamun’rah.
He slowly turned back to Ali and saw him holding the vase at arm’s length, terrified, as it seemed to shimmer and vibrate, the brown shapes shifting, the screaming man jumping, waving his arms. He turned around again when he heard a terrific roar.
It was the fire.
The great golden dancer was as grand as lion, easily five times its previous size, shining as bright as the face of God, curling hands reaching twenty feet in the air. Then the song stopped as quickly as it started, and the golden dancer died. Even the cinders were as cold as snow, and the party was plunged into darkness and silence.
Not a man spoke. Not even Sir Thomas. Reginald turned to Ali, feeling as if icy hands were gripping his heart, pulling his limbs as if he was a marionette. In the darkness he could make out the boy. There was nothing in his hands.
On the sand lay the shattered vase.
Reginald, gripping his heavy ash cane, raised its heavy metal ball above his head and, in the short moments after, created a beautiful song: the mournful wails and delicate screams of a young boy. No man there had ever heard any piece sung with such passion. Hearing the song, the golden dancer rose again.
Arthur K
Lazarus
(Runner-up in the Remove Writing Competition)
It took him a couple of seconds to realise where he was.
It had only been mere moments before that he had been standing in a random building searching for whatever few provisions hadn’t been taken already, then he had fallen. He could hear his haggard breathing through his respirator, the long-drawn-out sound, not that it mattered anymore. His mask was cracked, rendered useless by the fall.
Even now he could feel the spores entering his airways. His arms and legs spasmed out in all directions like a marionette on broken strings. His hands clawed deep into his neck leaving a bloody trail of tears where his nails had sunk in. For in this world some things were worse than death. His hands shook as the enormity of the situation hit him.
He had been infected with the virus.
Many considered it to be a fate worse than death, the complete loss of all cognitive function supplanted by a new desire to eat and consume the living. He thought he could never let that happen, especially not to his family or friends. Not me, he thought, his body moving on its own quickly, rising to find a way out.
He launched himself into a frenzied search for an exit. From room to room, he ran trying to escape. His fingers deftly searching all nooks and crannies, his legs powering his body through. Yet even as he searched, he could feel his heart slowing down and his breathing more strained.
As he approached the next room, he could hear a faint sound, small at first, but slowly growing as he approached. It sounded like a mix between a cry for help and a gurgle. Finally, he entered the room. On the floor lay the remains of the owner, his ruined clothes and peeling flesh saying more words than any sentence could hope to fill. He lay there motionless until a groan escaped his mouth.
It was alive. It was one of them. He tried to bend down to go get a better look but by now his legs were cramping, starting to stiffen up.
With the strain of standing mounting, he sank down next to the owner. It almost looked like it was smiling at him, its rotting face twisted in a permanent grin as it reached for him only
its arms were too far gone even for that. He took one last look at the owner before resting his head against the cool wall and allowing his eyes to close. He could feel his arms growing stiff; even now it was an effort to bend them.
As he sat there feeling the poison in his lungs hum as his heart pumped toxic blood around his body, he thought about it. Becoming one of them. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. He only wished he could see his family one more time, but he could never make them human again.
Finally, after what felt like an age, he opened his eyes, only everything looked different. The room was blurrier. The objects that were so sharp for him mere moments ago had now turned into blurry obstacles. He went to bend his arms to push himself off the ground but found that they had almost locked in place. After much trying, he got up and slowly shuffled towards the door.
As he continued to enter other rooms he felt at peace. It wasn’t that bad to be one of them. His hearing was sharper.
The undead, they spoke to him; he could hear them laughing even now, the same chant ringing over and over again in his ears.
“Food. Hunter. Move.”
Oh, how stupid we were, he thought. The undead weren’t the enemy; they never were.
He stumbled outside his legs now unbendable. He felt something touch his arm, but he couldn’t be sure what, for his eyesight had left him hours ago. It was almost a shame. He could just barely see how bright it was yet there was no feeling of warmth.
But he could hear! Better than before as well: thousands of voices, a grand cacophony all streaming into his head. The collective consciousness of the great undead host, all hell bent on one single purpose to feed. He knew he wasn’t insane; he knew he wasn’t crazy. He was free. He knew he had to join them.
And just like that one more voice joined the great chant. And it was hungry.
Max B
The Box
(Runner-up in the Remove Writing Competition)
I don’t know how or why it’s here.
The box appeared on my bedroom desk as I woke up, and it hasn’t moved since. It’s a small, square shape, just the right size for me to lace my fingers around its edges and try to lift it. But no luck. No matter how hard I try, it won’t even spare me an inch. Desperate, I throw things at it, peeling my arm backwards before throwing book after book at this placid box. Still no luck.
Eventually, I give up, and slouch in the chair next to it, glaring at the delicate patterns embossed over the box’s beaten exterior. Its intricate detail and gossamer threads all weave and entwine together to create a flawless detail of lace and sublimity. The timid image of a tulip settles on the top face of the cube, its petals so rich I want to reach out and touch them. On the front facing side of the box, I trace my fingers over what I think is a Chinese symbol: 睡觉. The image furrows into my brain, and it intrigues me, so I search it up online; the symbol means ‘sleep’.
Days pass by, and the box still hasn’t moved. However, the strange manner of the box disorientates me. Every morning, I spring out of bed to see a new image form on its top side. After the tulip, a heron appeared, then the peculiar image of sharp icicle. Next came a five-point star, followed by a small igloo-shaped structure, then the picture of the sun, and subsequently an apple. Today, the proud golden mane of a lion roars back at me from the box. I can’t explain its aberrant behaviour; but the idiosyncrasies of the box faze me. I don’t know how or why it changes - surely it’s impossible? The box still tunnels through my mind, interlacing and furrowing amongst my thoughts, as if it’s an eternal flurry of wind whirling around space and time, without any known reason or purpose.
“Are you listening?”
The gentle voice of my mother echoes around my ears as we sit together having dinner. I simply
return the question with a distant nod. It’s the same reply to all her recent queries about me. I understand how she can be worried about me, but I still can’t help but engross myself within the cave of my room, occupied by my curiosity for the mystical box. I haven’t told anyone, but for extra caution I’ve kept a pile of clothes slung over it when I’m away to avoid suspicion arising.
Over a week has passed since it first arrived, and my interest has only deepened further. 11:59 pm, I am waiting patiently to witness how the image on the top changes. Abruptly, the box starts to glow, getting brighter and more vibrant, until the light perforates my twisting vision. I strain to reopen my eyes, squinting as a sharp, ambient spear of light pieces into them. Downstairs, the soft chime of the grandfather clock reverberates in my ears, announcing the dawn of a new day. I crumple backwards before my eyes can acclimatise to their surroundings.
The image has changed.
What was a lily only seconds before has now transformed into a small spindly creature: an ant. I tenderly let my fingers brush against the new image, the demure light flickering against the gold of its new exterior. Satisfied, I clamber back into bed, letting my thoughts ponder about the obscurity sitting on my desk. Eventually, my eyes start to feel heavy, and I drift off into a soundless sleep.
As the days go on, the box continues to change; I continue to get more confused. Exactly two weeks have passed, and the image has changed from the refined picture of a daisy to a rabbit, and then an eagle; with its wings outspread, and chest proud. Now the box portrays a strange monkey-type creature: an ape, I think. I decide to stay up again, and marvel at the scintillating light as it appears when the clock chimes midnight; it’s become a routine of mine by now, but the feeling still sends a buzzing thrill of intensity through my bones.
As usual, the image transforms: to the delicate sliver of a crescent moon.
But this time it’s different. The Chinese symbol on the side stays ignited in its gentle glow; it doesn’t dim. I ponder in my thoughts, still trying to uncover an explanation for all of this mystery. 睡觉. Sleep. The question burns in the back of my mind, racing and overwhelming my head until I have to pause to take a breath.
Then it hits me.
All the images I have been seeing spell out a hidden message. I don’t know how I know this, but I can just sense the secrecy intertwined beneath the words. I take the first letter from each image and put them together. The first image was a tulip; so ‘T’. Then ‘H’ for heron, ‘I’ for ice, and ‘S’ for star - it spells out ‘THIS’. My mind screams, and I am driven into a trance, my brain calculating and joining the puzzle, sending ripples through my shaking body.
I pause, then stop moving. The dubious words sink in, little by little, engrossing my thoughts, my senses. Denial hits me; it’s not true. It can’t be. I gasp, and repeat the words out loud:
“This is all a dream”.
I say the words again steadily and calmly, but as soon as they escape my mouth, a blazing light streams out from the Chinese symbol. I stumble backwards, my vision gently starting to blur, unfocusing into a fog of murky shadow, the endless tenebrosity overwhelming me until I am plunged into pure darkness. Nothing is real anymore.
It’s true.
Zara S-J
Bird Watching
The sun beats heavily in the storybook sky, nobody’s gonna go to school today, and sweeping among the giggles and shouts of children running wildly around in the park the sound of a man in the shaggy brown jacket hums a tune as he sits secluded on one of the park benches, isolated by the empty benches on either side of him ‘cause there are no reasons. The birds are his company, the pigeons that go only where there is food, the discarded litter that feeds them and nurtures them keeps them close, tethers them to the buffet of the park and the rugged man that lives on the dark green, metal bench. Tell me why? The parents give him a wide berth as they make their way to the entrance of the park, sheltering their curious children with oversized handbags, broad figures and distracting words. That need to protect against the chaos and dirt of the man sitting on the bench, and the man keeps humming. Mother feels so shocked Father’s world is rocked and all they can do it keep on making their way to the park where they hope that their children will play peacefully. That typical summer day is reassuring in its predictability, the air will be thick with humidity as the sun sinks lower and for now, as it stays high up in the sky, it is the sweltering heat of that very typical day that urges parents to slather their offspring in sunscreen I don’t like Mondays. For the man that sits on that same bench every day, it’s easy to discern the dynamics between the families; the nannies that calmly sit together with one eye on their charge and the other in the conversation, the parents that hold one phone to their ear whilst trying to spot their child who has disappeared into the throng of lookalike people, the older kids hanging back interested in their friends and forgetting the child running recklessly though the park. She wants to play with her toys a while, that’s fine with the people around and the man on the bench warbles on. The afternoon has ploughed on, and the watchers get bored, their minds begin to swim with future troubles that come with awareness and leave with contentment. Supper preparation comes swiftly sooner as the lesson today is how to – and the pigeons rise in a horde of black, spotting the birdman with his loaf of bread and while they may have their home with the bench man, feeding time is anywhere. Captain tackles with the problems and the hows and the whys. The children pack up, reluctant to leave the haven of their playground, the world of their games that consume their time. And they all leave. Silicon chip. The man stays on his bench, this is his home, it is not a transient place, not an adventure, not a spot to hang out on. This park is his home, the one he does not own yet cannot leave. An invisible man that everyone can see what reason do you need to die, die? In a day of crises averted, all the different tribes of familiar bubbles head out, until, as the sun sinks solemnly asunder all that is left in the park is a man on a green metal bench surrounded by his own family of lost souls and outcasted pigeons. Doesn’t understand it because when the lights go out and the man is alone, that is when the public place he calls his own becomes a sanctuary where he can exist in harmony the other miscreants and rabble rousers, away from rigid men and brown nosers. I wanna shoot the whole day down.
Xanthe B
We broke off and became one. Diving into our beautiful dream
So suddenly alive in the blissful dark I clung to you to breathe, to survive, We burnt through the night, plunging Towards the edge of what doesn’t end Our souls scraps of metal welded together Through the scorching heat of our flight. Intertwined through the particles we sprint Into nothingness.
Pulling and yanking the air behind us
The light cannot keep up, it trails behind But we ignore it, we can’t slow down
Like a dart we move, blindly ignorant Until we hit it. A hazy cloud. We are lost Jolting through it, air crumbling over us, A scorching ball of white light, slowing We descend into the tail of what we ignored, Each atom a shot, from this cloud
That we now bleed out our light
The air struggles over us, friction burning Into our wounds, leaking, we fall Burnt to a liquid, we slip away
Jojo K
Ophelia
“God a’ mercy on his soul. And of all Christians’ souls. God buy you” – and with those words and eyes wider than the moon she skipped out of the great hall. Whether it was a skip, a stumble, or a glide it is hard to say as her gait changed as frequently as her emotions. By the wooden doors stood arrangements of hydrangeas, rosemary, and columbines - so with a hand as still as a hummingbird’s wings mid-flight she plucked a selection of each type of flower and went on her way.
With grace, she took out the violets in her hair and laid them on the mud outside the castle. The great stone walls that stood above their gravestone, and the conversations inside their epitaph.
Moving further away from the castle sanctuary, she weaved the new flowers into her hair. She was like a fawn learning how to walk as she forgot how to plait – an act she had done so many times it should be muscle memory. Yet her fingers refused to do as her brain instructed, leaving traces of petals, her failed venture, on the ground as she went.
The cobbled castle path took its time to diffuse into the fields but in time it did, until no trace of civilisation remained.
“Mmmmm, la la la. Mmmmm la la la.” A sirenic song danced from her lips. Unlike in Elsinore where her song reverberated, bouncing back and forth between the cold stone walls, pummelling her as she stood between them, here her voice had no boundaries.
“Mmmmm, la la la. Mmmmm la la la.” Each time it got louder, as if she herself couldn’t hear it.
“Mmmmm, la la la. Mmmmm la la la.” Louder still, she desperately tried to hear the noise she was making.
She couldn’t. The voices in her head were singing much louder.
Like a rabbit emerging out of its warren –frantically searching for predators – her head spun as she searched for the origin of these voices. Her whole body joined in the search. Her arms swung up in response to her head, first routinely, then without restriction. There was no pattern to her movements – it was far too wild to call a dance. Like forgetting to plait, she forgot how to control her body – or perhaps something external, outside of herself, took control.
After briefly succumbing to these external forces, in a sharp relapse of conscience, she frantically tried to regain power. Her life was a string, and she was connected to one end and something else was tugging the other. When the tension was at its highest, a steely, sliver pair of scissors snipped straight through.
As Satan fell from heaven, Ophelia too dropped out of God’s grasp. Another lost soul with no hope of salvation.
Now the voices were silent, but she was still deafened. Her lips parted as gracefully and peacefully as a rose blooms. Stained, like she had just eaten a cherry, her lips grew from resting open into a wide circle. Wider than her mouth could stretch with an expression somewhere between pleasure and pain. Thinking life was being drawn out of her, she tried to resist, but she couldn’t. Of course, nothing was drawing life from her; no, a scream parted those picturesque lips. A blood-curdling scream she could not hear. She was still deaf. How could a sound so horrific possibly be born from a face so innocent?
Like the child her actions in court rendered her, she crawled through the meadow, mechanically moving one limb at a time. Lifting her hand only inches off the ground, she placed it in front of her: her stabiliser as she dragged her knee through the mud. Through mud and sticks. Through nettles, bugs and flowers. The lily-white skin of her knees stained, beads of red seeping through.
Looking at the state of her legs now you could never guess that they belonged to a girl like Ophelia. Like a baby abandoned she was left to desperately fend for herself. But like a baby abandoned she couldn’t. She cooed to herself as she made her way to the brook.
Unseen, unheard, Ophelia rested on the surface of the water, waiting for a Prince Charming to save her. The water spread out her auburn hair, placing each curl in the perfect position. Her lips had a soft curve. Her fingers lightly touched each other. The irises beneath her lids were not sparkling emeralds but heralded the melancholy of the willow trees. Like a painting she lay there, still, motionless, although the ripples of the water could have been mistaken for the illusion of a rise and fall of her chest. The water that surrounded her became her tomb – adorned with lichen and weeds rather than jewels. Still. Motionless. Frozen for all time.
Mimi
E
Demeter
Autumn looms. Golden petals drip from trees like the tears on my cheek.
Torn from my side. A good wife. A faithful slave. A selfish master.
I hate him. Through fiery leaves and frostbitten snow, I hate him.
I fall to my knees. My fingers slip through her open palm, vision clouded.
Enfolded in grief. Head cradled in wilted grass, soft soil stains.
Nature didn’t prepare For the inconsolable sorrows of a mother.
She’s gone.
Wails echo through the ground. I know she can hear me.
I can’t breathe.
Master Death holds her tight in his icy embrace.
Like a flame, The world erupts into its autumnal procession.
Unquenchable madness. Screeches through skeletal branches of his boney fingers.
Lie still. Skin writhing. Clumps of limp grass in my fists.
Washed thoughts. Dry eyes. My chest an empty hole.
I’ll wait forever
To hold your cold body, returned to my grieving heart
Spring will come. Just not soon enough.
Never again. But there’s always next year.
Lucy R
The Moon
Cracks of silver light comes streaming through the trees.
Rousing the night-crawlers, a striking ray that commences the hunt. The dull glow of the moon Casts shadows on the scuttling forms Of creatures in the undergrowth.
Fox noses from its den, Owl untwists its head and sets its Gaze upon the prey.
Silver on silver cuts through the Night as life begins to shake its way awake. The chase begins.
The moon the moon the moon the moon; I will look to the moon every night And it will never look back An eternity of silent service
To the entity in the sky. Still, my pleas For solace echo into the black backdrop That frames the moon so well.
And nature will resound with shrieks And howls and noises of the wild, And the moon will blink its grey eye.
I will sleep the whole day and wake with you, Dedicate my whole life to the divinity of you And still there is no reply. Only silence comes from space.
Xanthe B
Morning at Marlborough College
In Marlborough’s halls, the morning light,
Soft whispers rise to greet the sight. Through windows, gentle rays touch, And shadows dance in gentle hush.
The campus stirs with tranquil grace, Students wander at a relaxed pace.
Birdsong drifts in the peaceful air,
A harmony at dawn, calm and rare.
In courtyards touched by morning’s kiss, The College wakes to gentle bliss.
Laughter echoes and joy unveils
A day unfurling its golden sails.
Kaito T (MCM)
A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o’clock I was waiting for the sun, Waiting for the sun on the silver-soaked fields That would hug the ground like a sheep-fur rug, Waiting for the tulips to open like a yellow fist. It was still dark, like a charcoaled etching. Like a newly finished deep-sea tapestry.
I waited for the misty-green daylight tapestry, And the rising of the stretching egg-yolk sun
To sound out breakfast like a gong. But etching Their way onto the exposed horizon, ghostly fields Held down by the icy chill of snow like a fist.
Snow that settled on every grass blade, a diamond rug.
Not just the frost or dew but winter’s new rug, Weaving through the bare branches, an unfinished tapestry. I wrenched back the curtains with a bulging fist, Pouring in like spilt juice, the springtime sun
Tinting my room in a golden hue like the fields, Reflecting like a mirror, the white page of a blank etching.
The countryside sheathed in white and grey, an etching’s Glow. Snow billowed up at each wind’s breath like a shaken rug That puffed dust onto the lazy, low-lying fields
Sitting solemnly, like squares of an intricately woven tapestry Fit for heaven’s palace. As I wandered out into the sun’s Glare, my hands shrunk into a fist
Under my fleece-lined, ages-old coat. A fist
That waited to be engraved with warmth like an etching In each caving wrinkle, ravenous for the hug of the sun And its saving heat, that would pound down like a thick rug On a stone-cold floor. But hidden like an unravelling tapestry From a proud weaver, they couldn’t escape the freeze of the fields.
Snow was a sheet of pristine glass on the fields That opened this grey world to a new dimension. Winter’s fist Held my layered body tight and rigid with cold. The tapestry That was the snowed-in horizon, sharpened like a knife for an etching From the streaming night. A miracle patterned the world, a rug Sent from the rippling clouds that masked the sun.
But the shifting shine of the fields, leering like a secondary sun Inviting me forwards, a beckoning fist, to the deceivingly warm rug Of blinding white. A godly tapestry. Snow’s final etching.
Lucy R
A Found Poem
Sunlight is scattered. Tainted fragments peacefully bounce. Shade traps the Glimmering sunlight, And murmurs, echoes, and whispers. Disperses.
Daisy W
Daffodil
Oh! My Narcissus!
How beautiful you gleam.
The moon! The stars!
All inferior to you,
Scattered moon light.
They swallow me.
A halo crown of moon beams, With broken jade so fair, aglow.
The dark faint fragrance,
Loomed in the dark, Poisoned me with such soft touch, Waiting by the water.
Until I come close.
Then devour me, In your sweet love.
Only when I start to rot, I will realize spring is gone
Elieen S
Primrose
Adorned in a halo, the springtime stars
Beaming heavenwards in their bright golden gowns, Dance freely, unscathed by winter’s gruff breath, Shined in liquid suns, their beaded crowns.
Cradled in a nest of springtime green, So peacefully crowding the grass-hugged ground.
When frolicking children, chorusing their glee, Pluck a honey-sweet primrose, their pocket fingers wound
Round the bitsy, budded stem, ornate in her charm. Rings of rich orange, a promise spring will stay, Though night creeps forth with the horizon-hidden sun, Dawn erupting in flames, on great mountains will she lay
And while snowdrops and daffodils wilt with the rain, Still sweet primrose looks on in her buttercup plain.
Lucy R
Commentary: The Great Gatsby Chapter 3
(Winner of the Lower Sixth Prose Project)
In the dialogue at the beginning of the passage Fitzgerald leads us to believe that Gatsby has built a façade around himself in order to disguise the dark reality of his past and identity. His guests gossip about him, charging him with all kinds of fantastical deeds, such as “killing a man,” and being a “German spy during the war.” Out of these rumours a kind of glamour is built surrounding Gatsby, made all the more convincing by his apparent absence at not only this, but all of his parties. Marius Bewley’s ideas of Gatsby as a “mythic” character are then fulfilled. The Gatsbian mythos has been created, and Fitzgerald highlights the “core conflict in the American dream” in the split between the Gatsby of legend or “illusion” and the Gatsby of “reality.” All of these rumours are, of course secondhand, indirect, as they are prefaced by “somebody,”
or they are heard “from a man.” Despite the dubious nature of their veracity, a strange communal foreboding emerges out of the whispers: “She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked for Gatsby.” It is doubtful whether these rumours are part of Gatsby’s decadent facade; they seem to be instead an unwanted aftereffect. I would argue that this point in the passage undermines Clare Stocks’ opinion that Nick “wants to portray Gatsby as ‘great’ and ignore or edit anything that might undermine that image,” as the image Nick has given of Gatsby thus far is a largely negative one. Through rumour and gossip, Fitzgerald characterises Gatsby as a darkly elusive and foreboding figure who displays his extravagance in order to conceal a shadowy past.
However, the utter reversion of our expectations when Nick finally does meet Gatsby instead acts to paint him in an stark contrast between the Gatsby of whispered rumour, and the frank, genial and perhaps even forgettable Gatsby of “reality.” When Fitzgerald finally does introduce Gatsby, he is a rather underwhelming man, especially set against the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties and the Jazz Age, an era defined by liberation and frivolous abandon. Fitzgerald achieves this deflation of our expectations by withholding the information that a seemingly unremarkable “man of about [Nick’s] age” who sits at their table in an unassuming way is, in fact, the titular Gatsby. Just as Fitzgerald’s initial physical description of Gatsby is limited, his dialogue is also rather bland: “Your face is familiar...Weren’t you in the
First Division during the war?” Furthermore, the reveal of the man’s true identity feels understated, almost accidental: “‘I’m Gatsby’, he said suddenly.” Perhaps the ‘suddenly’ does inject a little excitement into this reveal, but it would be far more jolting if Nick had not just experienced a rather banal exchange with Gatsby. Here, then, Fitzgerald realises the “core conflict of the American Dream” where the heightened expectations surrounding Gatsby are shattered by the underwhelming but pleasant reality of the man himself.
Stock’s theory that Nick wishes to only portray Gatsby positively manifests itself not in his greatness, but in his simple kindness and seeming integrity.
Idris S
The Time Machine
‘Are you ready, Captain?’ Jack said. ‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Affirmative.’
Jack pushed the gleaming silver button in front of him. Click.
‘Door open, Captain.’
The Captain crawled into the metal room ahead of her, sliding into the exact position as she had practised. After the Captain was seated, Jack popped the small compartment open, and placed the special capsule inside.
The capsule that could take the Captain anywhere.
Jack pressed another button, and the red lights began to flash.
The Captain felt her excitement grow. She imagined the machine spinning around and around until she felt dizzy. She imagined opening the door to another world.
‘Okay, Captain. I’m going to close the door in 5...4...3...2...1...blast -’
A voice boomed from upstairs: ‘Kids! Stop being stupid and get out of the washing machine!’
Bea C
Carina H
Playing Nora
As one of the “most complex characters of nineteenth century drama,” playing Nora Helmer was always going to be a challenge. A Doll’s House, I think, is a work of art –Ibsen’s beautiful language and brilliant understanding of human complexity created a piece that is just as relevant and powerful today as it was in 1879. I only hope we did it justice.
What could be seen as the milder play, compared to Ibsen’s Hedda Gabbler, A Doll’s House created just as much controversy when first performed, if not more. Known as “the most dangerous play of the century” and an “outpouring of sewer across the European stage,” Ibsen had unintentionally started a social revolution. A Doll’s House is set over three days at Christmas and follows Nora as the immature wife of Torvald Helmer (Santo Thomas), the bank manager, and her journey as her life falls apart in front of her. As DK described it to me, the iceberg of her life is shattering, and she is desperately trying to hold onto the pieces. And her journey really is incredible: Nora grows from a child into a woman over 3 days and ends up with a perspective on life way ahead of her time.
Over the three acts, Nora really does change dramatically. In Act One she is immature, giggly, and quite frankly, annoying. In Act Two she is desperate as she plans to use her sexuality to get money from Dr Rank (Jomei Greensall), and even contemplates suicide. But in the final act, her desperation morphs into
a clear view of her life, and she transforms into a mature woman ready to take responsibility for her life and her actions. Kristen Linde (Anfisa Wray) presents a contrast to Nora’s immaturity and, in her dialogue with Krogstad (Jamie Beaumont), the audience sees the life Nora could have potentially had. When rehearsing the final duologue between me and Santo, it developed the nickname “King Lear” –demonstrating its complexity and significance. The journey both of our characters go on in such a short space of time is immense, but we loved picking it apart before seeing it slot together as we both awaited “something glorious.”
To make the performance feel like the nineteenth century, we had to adopt a new physicality. Rehearsing in corsets and heeled boots definitely helped. With the initial instruction that Nora was always conscious of her appearance and wanted to look like a painting for Torvald, I discovered that her physicality would change slightly for each person. Even though she had been married to Torvald for eight years, she still wants to draw attention to her neck and jaw – which Torvald himself often examined.
Keeping up my energy for almost 3 hours was extremely tiring, especially as Nora is so highly-strung and goes through so many different emotions, so I am very grateful to the others for coming on with such high energy in their scenes, which gave me the boost I needed.
In preparation for rehearsals, I wrote down all of Nora’s core childhood memories to see how they may affect her adult life. My biggest obstacle was trying to remain calm and in control of myself while playing Nora and not letting her emotions take control of me. The guidance and direction we received from DK ensured we stayed on course. He helped us understand our characters and bring depth to them, and it was his expertise that brought Ibsen’s written work to life. The beautiful costumes were made by Dale Armitage and Mrs Allott in the costume department, and it felt so luxurious putting them on each night. The beautiful set by Mr Cox really did turn the Ellis into a real-life doll’s house, and the incredible lighting by Miss Butler added to the mood of each scene.
From the moment DK mentioned that A Doll’s House was a potential option for the Penny Reading right through until the last night of the performance, my whole life revolved around this play. Once the cast list came out, I did nothing but research my character and the play and learn my lines. It is now very strange to have something that took up so much of my time and attention at an end. I will always cherish the memories of those rehearsals, and I am so grateful to DK for giving me the opportunity to play such a wonderful character.
Mimi E
Othello at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse
A story of a doomed love, this play encompasses loyalty, friendship, racism, jealousy and sexism through the secret marriage of a black general to the daughter of a Venetian senator and the sabotage of such a bond by a jealous friend.
Each playhouse interprets and performs this play differently, and this was certainly one of the more gripping shows!
In an intimate 340 seat playhouse, one of the most distinctive things about this space is the lack of main artificial lighting. The stage is lit at times by candlelight, and at others by hand-held torches by the cast. This allowed for the audience’s eyes to be drawn wherever the light is. In Act 5, the slow putting out of the candles cleverly foreshadowed the death of Desdemona accompanied by the famous quote ‘Put out the light’, reinforcing the central theme of light and dark.
Set in Chelsea and Docklands rather than Venice and Cyprus, Othello is a police officer and appoints Cassio as his inspector. This brought a modern twist to the play, whilst keeping the integrity of the storyline intact.
Another choice that made this performance memorable was the portrayal of Othello’s subconscious by
a separate cast member. Using writhing movements and mime, we watched as the actor slowly took over Othello’s mind, acting in parallel to Othello demonstrating his mental conflict.
The portrayal of Iago could be considered one of the best of the non-eponymous characters. His mannerisms and subtle comments to Othello perfectly displayed Iago’s deception and wit, making it clear to the audience what his cruel intentions were, whilst Othello appeared to remain oblivious.
Roderigo, often an overlooked character, brought a wonderful comedic factor to this tragic play. Appearing in many ridiculous outfits (including a Deliveroo rider), he was portrayed as a lovesick hopeful who was susceptible to Iago’s schemes.
Desdemona was also played very well, confidently standing up for herself whilst retaining her naïve innocence showing her emotional range.
This production is to be thoroughly recommended, either to gain a better understanding of the play, or simply to enjoy some entertainment.
Faith S
In Comes the Art
I’ve longed for my dog days to be over, Sleeping in this fuzzy belly must now pass, For I have found my place of change, and In comes the art.
In comes the art, the patterns and places Brighter than ever before: I am beautiful now, almost unrecognizable. Everyone else is Unsure.
For I have found my place of change, and In comes the art.
In comes the art, the beauty with age, What is waited for appears much better Than the rush; worthless impatience. Slumber time is at an end, and I crawl out of my Chrysalis.
I look at my glory and think This is my art.
Willow C
Editors: Arts Editors: M
With the guidance and support of Dr Justice
illie E
Atalanta R
Amelie B
M imi K
Elodie T
D iya C
Rose G Henry H
The Piccalilli Team:
Front cover image by Sophia E | Back cover image by Clemmie C
