ISSUE 05 - 2017 MARLING SCHOOL
CONTENTS The Loop........................................................................................................................................................4 Blue Lines - The Birth of Trip-Hop..................................................................................6 The Phoenix...............................................................................................................................................8 Photo Page................................................................................................................................................11 Dark and Unpredictable............................................................................................................12 500 Words Competition..........................................................................................................15 Shortbread Man.................................................................................................................................16 The Wanderers.....................................................................................................................................17 Betrayal........................................................................................................................................................ 18 Betrayal.........................................................................................................................................................19 Back In Time...........................................................................................................................................20 An Alien Sends a Postcard Home.................................................................................21 10 Questions for Young Fathers................................................................................... 22 Idyll Interrupted................................................................................................................................24 Photo Page ...........................................................................................................................................26 Credits ..........................................................................................................................................................27
EDITORIAL Welcome to the fifth issue of Marling School’s annual creative publication. Five years is a long time for a little magazine like ours, and a lot has gone into keeping it going. Editorial teams have scribbled corrections till their hands were sore, designers have worked deep into the night getting everything just right, and many biscuits have been consumed in the process. The only thing that hasn’t changed is our name. Fittingly for a rebrand issue, this magazine features a lot of new beginnings. We have the winners from our brand new short story competition, the INK five hundred, as well as stories pushing the boundaries of convention and articles on the birth and rebirth of pop culture, all squeezed into twenty eight pages. Thanks always go to Ms Harris for overseeing the project, and Marling PSA for funding our print run. We look forward to the next five years and whatever they may bring, but for now, enjoy the 2017 edition of INK. The INK Team Dan Guthrie, Managing Editor
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The
Loop 9:13 am
9:33 am
I’ve given up on calling his name, he’ll never hear me. I’m weak and my voice is hoarse, I just need to keep on running, keep on running and not stop until I’ve stopped them. My legs have turned to vapour and my core muscles are grinding against my withered bones, that’s what it feels like. How did I not see that cyclist coming? I’m chasing him so slowly and I can’t keep up! I just want to die it hurts so much, but I can’t right now, I have to keep running…
Of all the times that God could choose to bend me over and beat me, did it have to be now? I’m stuck in a bloody traffic jam, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to move! At this rate that... Monster... Will beat me to the office…
9:25 am Running was too much, so this bus is going to have to do. I’m panting, crying and breathing sharply but no one can hear me... Good.
9:29 am My stop is in a couple of minutes now. I have a little energy back, so if I can rush then I’ll beat him to the office. It’s usually a 20 minute walk from the station, but I’m so worn out that it will still take me 25 even if I run. God… if there is a God, have mercy on me. It’d be a first…
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9:52 am 2 minutes... oh my gosh, 2 minutes! And then I’m stuck here on this bus… He’ll be there in 2 minutes…
9:05 am I saw that gun in his bag… I know who he was, and I know exactly who he wants to kill, I can’t let him get there before me… I can’t keep up…
9:13 am I’ve given up on calling his name, he’ll never hear me. I’m weak and my voice is hoarse, I just need to keep on running, keep on running and not stop until I’ve stopped them. My legs have turned to vapour and my core muscles are grinding against my withered bones,
that’s what it feels like. How did I not see that cyclist coming? I’m chasing someone so slowly and can’t keep up! I just want to die it hurts so much, but I can’t right now, I have to keep running…
the taxi! It’s much faster than the bus and it’ll take me straight to Mindy’s office!
9:19 am
I’M HERE! Mindy’s office is just ahead, just a little walk across the road… if I can get there before him, finally, I can save her!!!
I’m barely running, I’m nearly hobbling, but I have to keep going. I might beat him if I use the bus… but I have a horrible feeling that I will just get stuck in traffic if I get on it. It’s just going to have to be more running I guess….
9:49 am How is he here? HOW DID HE GET HERE??? Christ, he’s almost reached Mindy’s suite, she’s gonna be dead if I don’t do something!!!
9:26 am I’m so... goddamn tired… I can’t run any further… I have to stop now, I’m bleeding and I just need to stop!
9:53 am I PASSED OUT! Oh My God! I don’t think I’ll ever make it to the office. I’m not going to make it... I’m not going to make it...
9:01 am Oh my god this hurts so much… why didn’t I see that coming?! That guy’s up to something though, I need to follow him. I need to see what he’s doing…
9:13 am
9:54 am She was murdered! Mindy’s been murdered… and all I had to do was be a LITTLE bit earlier and she could’ve run… she’s here drowned in a pool of her own blood, and I was powerless… I couldn’t do anything.... I let him kill her!!!
10:00 am There’s still a way! When I was hit by that bike, everything started again… some level of cosmic ‘de ja vu’… Maybe I can go back in time to that point and try again! I can save her!!! Jason frowned as he skimmed through his photocopy of his patient’s diary. There were pages and pages of just the same, all of this rubbish about resetting time. A common side-effect with disorders like hers. She had been spending her life in this wretched fantasy for months, never really leaving it.
9:05 am I saw that gun in his bag… I know who he is, and I know exactly who he wants to kill, I can’t let him get there before me… But I can’t keep up…
9:45 am
Matt Aspinall Year 13
I’ve given up on calling his name, he’ll never hear me. I’m weak and my voice is hoarse, I just need to keep on running, keep on running and not stop until I’ve stopped them. My legs have turned to vapour and my core muscles are grinding against my withered bones, that’s what it feels like. How did I not see that cyclist coming? I’m chasing someone so slowly and I can’t keep up! I just want to die it hurts so much, but I can’t right now, I have to keep running…
9:19 am I’m barely running, I’m nearly hobbling. But I have to keep going. I may beat him if I use the bus… but I have a horrible feeling that I will just get stuck in traffic if I get on it. It’s just going to have to be more running I guess…. NO! I can’t make this distance… I’ll pay for
Although… There was one detail that bugged him to no end. In most of these “infinite loop” fantasies, they were exactly that; infinite. So why was it that in Camille’s case, it changed ever so slightly each time? Why was it that on occasion she took the bus, and another time she took a taxi or even neither? Why was it that, sometimes... Entries were omitted all together? Despite these minute alterations, she hadn’t even realised the key thing: Melinda Collins’ death was an accident, a tragedy where she was left in a bloody mess after her head was crushed by a falling cabinet. To see a close friend in such a state… it was no wonder that Camille was traumatised to this degree. It was no wonder that she made such an elaborate story to blame herself. Really... No wonder in this grim case... at all.
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Blue Lines
The Birth of Trip-Hop Trip Hop is a genre of music that emerged at the start of the nineties, best described as a fusion of electronica and hip hop, brought together by the diversity of Bristol. Bristol’s location on the southwest coast of England meant it was the first port of call for many Caribbean immigrants in the 1940s, who brought their culture and traditions with them. The roots of trip hop came from a sound system called The Wild Bunch, made up of MCs, DJs and graffiti artists who spun anything and everything at their parties and events held around the city. The collective’s favourite place to play was the Dug Out, a basement club located at the top of the hill in the West Indian neighbourhood of St Paul’s and just down the road from Clifton, home to many of the local university students. The club’s unique location created a melting pot of styles and cultures, as punks and students danced with artists and rappers under the same roof to whatever the Wild Bunch chose to play, whether it was reggae, funk, soul or hip hop. When the collective disbanded in 1989 after a falling out, three of the core members, Robert Del Naja, Grant Marshall and Andrew Vowles, better known as 3D, Daddy G and Mushroom, grouped together to form a trio named Massive Attack. The group set about recording their debut album, heavily inspired by American hip-hop, Caribbean dub tracks and the British post-punk scene. The trio were growing bored of hearing the same repetitive tunes in the clubs, so set out to make what they described as “dance music for the head, rather than the feet”, enlisting the help of local producer Nellee Hooper to turn their ideas into reality. They began the recording process in the nursery of Swedish punk singer Neneh Cherry’s house, sampling tracks whilst Neneh made them cups of tea.
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The trio couldn’t sing themselves, so enlisted the help of reggae legend Horace Andy and R&B Shara Nelson to fill lead vocals on Year 13 most of the tracks. 3D and Daddy G did rap on three of the nine tracks on the album, along with former Wild Bunch affiliate Tricky, but Mushroom stuck to producing with Hooper. What started as quite a low budget project soon developed into something bigger, as in the last days of recording, Mushroom sold his car to fund studio time for recording strings in the legendary Abbey Road Studios. The album was eventually mastered and released in 1991 as Blue Lines, and over the space of forty five minutes, featured everything from old soul covers to moving orchestral ballads.
Dan Guthrie
The record begins with Safe From Harm, a tale about a mother wondering who will look after her child when she goes out at night, followed up by the reggae inspired One Love and the hip-hop influenced title track. After that is a modernised cover of a relatively obscure soul tune, Be Thankful For What You’ve Got, then the track Five Man Army, featuring verses from 3D, Daddy G, Tricky, another former Wild Bunch member called Willy Wee, and a reggae coda from Horace. Side B opens with Unfinished Sympathy, the group’s first commercial hit, with an iconic music video featuring a one-take journey following singer Shara Nelson around a Los Angeles neighbourhood. Up next are two more Nelson-featuring tunes, the melancholy Daydreaming and Lately, before the album comes to a close with Hymn of the Big Wheel, a modern reggae tune sung by Horace Andy with backing vocals from Cherry.
Blue Lines was originally released under the name Massive, as the group’s initial name seemed too unpatriotic when the album was released in the midst of the Gulf War, especially with the provocative artwork of a fire warning symbol. Despite all this, the album became a critical and commercial hit, reaching number thirteen in the UK charts, and paving the way for the future of trip hop. Three years later, Geoff Barrows, the tape operator on Blue Lines, would form a trio named Portishead and record the jazz influenced, Mercury Prize winning album “Dummy”. Soon after that, Tricky, bored of being a guest vocalist for Massive Attack, would decide to release his own album, “Maxinquaye”, inspired by his personal experiences with drugs and paranoia. The legacy of Blue Lines is still around today, as Burial’s use of samples and texture, FKA twigs’ sensual and experimental sounds, or The xx’s beats and introspection wouldn’t exist without it.
“What started as quite a low budget project soon developed into something bigger”
Blue Lines sounds like a classic over twenty five years on, which is pretty good for something that began life in a nursery.
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The
Phoenix Dropping her backpack onto the floor and fiddling with her sleeve, the young woman stepped inside. She had features that were smooth like soap, and her mouth was small and rosy and unconsciously shaped into a timid, disarming smile. She found the nearest sofa and lay on it casually, resting her legs on its arm and gently pulling a phone from her pocket. She switched it on, recoiling slightly at the light of the screen. She saw that she had a message, and hoping it could be someone in particular, she went to open it, but before she could see the contents she was distracted by footsteps, soft and light like raindrops, and she felt something prod the back of her head.
Little sister “Sod off, Emma,” she called and turned around. That familiar face grinned at her cheekily: a grin which touched each ear lobe and showed off wide white teeth. The gaps in her mouth made her seem happy, and it was always commented on - Emma, the little sister, had always had that. When relatives used to quip that she looked so pretty and adorable, her sister used to fume with annoyance. She didn’t mind that anymore though. That little girl was stood in front of her, hair cut short and tied in pigtails, eyes shining with mischievous glee, and she
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looked as she always had. This was good - maybe she wouldn’t have to explain everything. “It might be Dad, so go away,” she spoke up. Emma protested by grumbling and snatching at the phone. “I want to talk to him too, Grace, you never let me! Never-ever!” The older sister rolled her eyes, stood up, and stared the little girl down. She bowed her head quietly, whimpered, and retreated upstairs. She opened the message. 17:58 Landed and moving to base. All well. How’s you and Emma? x Grace smirked. He always texted like he was writing a dissertation - ah well, at least that meant Dad was okay. 18:03 Emma hasn’t noticed yet. Hasn’t mentioned it if she has. I’m fine. There was a pause. The phone chimed in her hand - he’d seen it. But there was no answer just yet, and - as stupid as it was - the suspense made her uncomfortable. She struggled to imagine what he
Benji Smith Year 13
must’ve been going through, even though he was away often. The clock had run past seven when the silence was broken by a sound from upstairs. It was quiet and highpitched, and came with an endearing softness like the singing of a nightingale. Everyday this same song would reverberate about the house in various forms on one day the upstairs would be home to a majestic one-man opera, and on others the source of rhythmic beating like pop. As much as it hurt her pride to admit it, Grace found the way her sister sang (so beautifully) to be admirable. It certainly helped whenever she felt sad or glum - like when Dad was on duty - to hear the familiar tone.
and the air grew sharp and bitter like a bullet. The park, which was always so thriving in summer, became vacant and empty. Grace hated the winter more than anything else. She always preferred the warmth of home and would happily be something of a recluse at least, she would have until very recently.
Longing for something It was a Tuesday afternoon when Grace first noticed the change in her sister. It was small and subtle, and would likely have gone without note by anyone else; the way Emma sang was solemn and remorseful, as if she were longing for something which she could not find. She took it upon herself to try and solve this - she would tend to her sister at every opportunity and make note of her behaviours.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t just sit and listen, for her nightshift was starting soon. She gathered up her bag and stuffed it with necessities: a torch, some water and her phone. Then, with that sort of clingy sibling hug in which the older always strives to look as uncomfortable as possible, she found and said goodbye to Emma, who grinned and waved as she went.
There was a definite sadness there. The loss of her father left no adult in the house but Grace, who was scarcely more than a teenager. At times the suffering of her sister became too much to bear, and it would be then that she would message her father and hope for advice.
Over the next few weeks, winter set in. The familiar path through Magdalene Way grew dry with frost,
17th September,
This was one of those times.
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16:56. Dad? U there? Grace felt beads of sweat forming on her brow. She bit her lip in nervousness until the phone chimed back at her. 17:03 What’s up? 17:09 It’s Emma. Not coping well. Cries and yells all the time like when Mum died. 17:30 Better tell her. Will be fine, but gotta move out soon. x
Grace sighed. Was that the best advice he had to give? She heard the pattering of small feet sliding down the stairs above her. Emma stormed into the room, her little hazel eyes rimmed with red where she had rubbed her eyes. Her hair was a mess - she didn’t care much for herself anymore. She seemed preoccupied, though, her gaze focussed as if searching for something. Clearly she had been looking in every nook and cranny; her head had a large throbbing bruise of duck-egg blue where she had caught herself on corners of furniture and walls. In her free hand she rolled up the corner of a little white blanket in apprehension. Bringing it to her mouth and chewing, she cried: “I can’t find Pa anywhere! He’s not upstairs, he’s not down here. Has he run away!?” She broke down again into a sob, throwing herself into Grace’s arms with such a force that both of them tumbled onto the sofa.
What they saw Neither of them had paid any attention to the TV up until this point. It was droning away; a man and a woman sat side-by-side on a crimson settee, shuffling through papers and occasionally stopping to cover some big story. Neither of them had much cared for the news - they had always had it on when preparing for school, and no doubt the affiliation stuck. Indeed, news was boring, they thought: for adults. What they saw at this moment was far more poignant, and they found themselves lying one on top of the other, eyes glued to the screen. A young, chiselled man
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with pale skin and black side-swept hair, was speaking with a quiet and solemn tone. “... Recent reports would suggest that this was an attack on a larger scale than anything seen before. Here we have our war correspondent, Nigel Rodham, live from Afghanistan. A warning to viewers that some may find the following footage distressing.” The scene changed to follow a vehicle sat on a roadside. It had what looked like a fence next to it, and blocky tan-yellow buildings peppered the landscape around it - it looked to be in a rural part of Afghanistan. It was hard to distinguish what this vehicle was; in the pixelated camera it was a large brown-grey block. However, a small orange flicker on its rear, left of the back doors of the vehicle bay, was eerily familiar. There was silence, and then a loud bang. The vehicle was clouded by smoke and there were yells in the background.
She didn’t know how long she spent there When the smoke cleared it left a flaming husk behind it. Emma couldn’t have understood, but the coldness of the reporter’s lips made her eyes water. Grace backed off and darted up the stairs to confirm her fears. Inside the largest bedroom, which was always locked out of respect when Father was on duty, sat a humble cupboard about knee-height. In it was memorabilia from Dad’s time in service: photographs, the odd bullet casing, the works. Beneath this pile was a service badge of his division. A yellow-orange phoenix, clutching a union flag in its claws, stared at the girl boldly. Grace grabbed at it, let herself slide down the wall onto the floor and sobbed. She could hear the whimpering of her sister down below. She didn’t know how long she spent there in the dark; she would’ve expected losing one parent to prepare her for losing the second, but it only made it more tragic. And then, when the phone chimed in the usual way, Graced sobbed even louder - though this time out of joy.
Still alive. Didn’t get hurt. Will be back soon. Dad. x
PHOTO PAGE: Robbie Weller Y11
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Dark and Unpredictable So now that Peter Capaldi is hanging up his cloak as the eponymous Time Lord to be replaced by former Broadchurch star Jodie Whittaker at this year’s Christmas special, it’s finally time to cast a critical eye over what was undeniably one of the most divisive periods in Doctor Who’s 54 year history. After his announcement as the Twelfth actor to take on the iconic role, Peter Capaldi was faced with a fanbase split between those who jumped on with the 2005 revival and became firmly locked into who the Doctor should be, and veterans of the older series’ Year infamously consistent inconsistency who were excited to see a different route from the show. Capaldi’s portrayal of the Doctor in the 2014 series did not help to mend this rift, with many criticising the brasher and more blunt personality of his incarnation. From the start, I could see comparisons, not always good, between Capaldi and the Sixth Doctor Colin Baker that for a long time I was hesitant to accept. In both cases a controlled, established actor was taking over from the youngest doctors of their respective eras: Peter Davison and Matt Smith, and choosing a portrayal that to the majority of the younger fans seemed incredibly jarring by comparison. Granted Capaldi has presided over an era when the BBC has been far more kind to the show than in Colin Baker’s day, and can leave knowing that it was his choice to do so, as opposed to being shafted after two seasons and an 18 month hiatus. Neither of these men are by any means bad actors; Colin Baker’s continued and further developed portrayal in the line of Big Finish audio dramas is proof of that. Far from acting, I would suggest that Capaldi’s biggest crutch was in fact his mishandling by the writers and production staff.
Let’s get it out of the way first: Series 8 was not a favourite with either group of fans. As the first shot for the new Doctor, it was supposed to be the attempt to hold on to the Matt Smith fans who were already recoiling at the loss of their “pretty boy” Doctor. How did the showrunners decide to do this? With Clara, that’s how... This is possibly the saddest part of Capaldi’s time on the show, as he is constantly overshadowed, and apart from one brilliant episode in series 9 is never really the focus of his own programme. The first episode of the series, “Deep Breath”, starts off well enough with the newly regenerated Doctor stumbling out of the TARDIS in a generally disoriented manner, chasing after a giant CGI dinosaur in a slightly longer and more comical version of the 13 pre-credit sequence from David Tennant’s first episode “The Christmas Invasion”. The problem is that it’s meant to be Capaldi’s episode, where we are supposed to focus on his new self, but the first half of the episode keeps switching back to Clara constantly going on about how the Doctor is different and old now, which would make sense for a companion unfamiliar with regeneration but previously Clara had met and saved every single previous incarnation of the Doctor. However, by the halfway point of the episode, it does start to pick up and we get a great moment at the end with an ambiguous dilemma of “Did he push him? Did he fall?” that sets up the potential for a dark and unpredictable Doctor which sadly isn’t delivered. The worst part of the first two Capaldi series is Clara’s many story arcs, with each being worse and more useless than the last. The main arc of series 8 is a love interest, something pretty basic but made worse by the fact that Samuel Anderson, who plays Danny Pink, is possibly the most bored looking actor I have ever seen. On top of that, there is a run of dud episodes with gaping plot holes, many of which have annoyingly stupid concepts such as the moon being a giant egg or a monster that turns
Alfred Taylor
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out to not even be real. In most cases, it is Clara who saves the day by making a smarmy comment that makes the Doctor have a good hard think about his attitude. Though last time I checked the show was called “Doctor” Who, not “Clara” Who. Despite its many flaws, series 9 has some of the best moments of the Capaldi
Alfred Taylor takes a retrospective view of the outgoing Doctor. era and new Who in general. A highlight of the series is the two parter of “Under the Lake” and “Before the Flood”. Set on a futuristic underwater base, this story is fantastic for its high quality of supporting cast and the return to form of the model and costume work that the programme has been famous for since The Daleks back in 1963. Another story features the return of the Zygons – a classic monster that first featured in the 1975 Tom Baker episode, typically enough titled “Terror of the Zygons”. However, the crowning glory of the series is the penultimate episode “Heaven Sent”, which in my opinion is one of the best episodes in the revival series’ history. It’s an expertly directed piece with a thick gothic atmosphere and a terrific plot twist. Unfortunately it is the precursor to the mind numbing anticlimax of Hell Bent, which is soul-crushingly bad. Mainly for Moffat’s insistence on mucking about with the lore, but also for being the umpteenth return of Clara, this time from the dead. This is completely unnecessary as Clara enjoyed a decent send off in “Face the Raven”. Her death being a powerful reminder of the consequences of ‘mortals’ attempting to think like the Doctor. Moffat’s insistence that no-one can die automatically reduces the tension of this, and every episode, especially those
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intended to be scary as the stakes become no longer viable. Two characters are even made immortal in this series, one of whom infuriatingly is Clara. For some reason, Steven Moffat has insisted that she is the most important of the Doctor’s companions, because he always goes back for Clara when there were other fantastic companions he had to move on from, including his own granddaughter. The last episode as a whole is completely out of step with the Doctor’s character and serves to further demystify Gallifrey along with the speedy removal of an incredibly important character in Doctor Who lore; that of Rassilon, the first Time Lord. On the note of character, Capaldi’s drastically changes for this series, his brash and stoic portrayal swapping out for a slightly bizarre ‘crazy grandad’ persona. This was mostly due to backlash from closed-minded fans of David Tennant and Matt Smith, although eventually in series 10 Capaldi settles into a more fitting cross between his series 8 and 9 portrayals.
Solid Season And now we move to what is undeniably Capaldi’s most solid season and sadly his last; series 10. With Clara finally gone, we get Bill, a new companion who’s moderately likeable and despite her less-thansubtle portrayal is a solid and safe option. Also along for the ride is Matt Lucas’ Nardole, a character that commonly serves as comic relief, but his handling by the writers make these moments welcome as opposed to distracting. A lot of the episodes return to the classic Doctor Who formula in which the Doctor and Bill arrive somewhere, somewhen, something’s wrong and more often than not abandoned, followed by a discovery, plot twist, emotional dilemma and denouement. To be honest, I believe Doctor Who stories need to be multiple parts to fully develop, although the former tried and tested plot style works perfectly for some solid solo episodes. The fourth and fifth episodes; “Knock Knock” and “Oxygen” are very well paced examples of this plot choice perfected. They are both also further examples of a solid ensemble cast; I cannot stress the importance of this in a programme that generally consists of a completely new (typically human) cast in every episode. Upwards of half a dozen new characters need to be fleshed out, cared for and sometimes killed off in the span of 45 minutes, which commonly feels as throwaway as it sounds. This is a problem that the classic series never had to trouble itself with, a full serial of 4 parts counting in at normally around 100 minutes followed by 6 parters at 2 ½ hours and the rarer 7, 8 and even 10 and 12 part episodes (The
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War Games and The Dalek’s Master Plan respectively) being as long as multiple movies. Again the episode before the last; “World Enough and Time” is fantastic, involving a time distortion concept and the most perfect portrayal of the Cybermen since “Age of Steel” back in 2006, although the use of Mondasian Cybermen from 1966’s the Tenth Planet, albeit fun for fans to see, continues to enforce the already heavyhanded First Doctor comparisons.
Move On So there you have it, an insight into some of my thoughts on the Capaldi era of Doctor Who which, with a potentially great Christmas special, will come to an end. This is always sad for a Doctor Who fan, but we will move on and, Peter, to misquote Matt Smith’s final words; “We’’ll always remember when the Doctor was you.”
500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
500 WORDS COMPETITION
This year INK magazine launched its first five-hundred-word story competition for pupils from Year 7 through to Year 9. The competition’s rules were split by year, as follows:
Year 7 students had to write a piece inspired by the picture above:
Year 8 students had to structure their story contributions around the theme of betrayal.
Year 9 students were to read Craig Raine’s ‘A Martian Sends A Postcard Home’ (1979) and write a piece with this poem as an inspiration for them.
The first iteration of this competition was a success with a large number of contributions. We hope it was enjoyable for everyone involved in writing their pieces and thank all who contributed for doing so. We hope this will continue to be successful in the years to come. Many thanks, The INK Team.
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500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
d a e r b t Shor Man
Finn DevlinShirley
Darkness. I could see nothing, not even my Year 7 hand in front of my face. Yet it was warm, very warm. There was no light seeping through any cracks. I didn’t know what was around me, however I felt enclosed – walled in by something I didn’t even know was there. My other senses were not registering; no smell, no taste, no hearing and not even my eyesight. All I knew was that I was laying on my back and that heat burst on to me from every side. WHOOSH! A breeze of cold air shot through my feet, traveled through my spine and eventually reached my head. Then light. A lot of light. It was blinding, from one extreme to another – pure darkness gave way to the light of god. However, I felt a bad feeling sink in my stomach; Something I didn’t want was there. A sudden jolt sent me sliding downwards, but then a solid bank stopped me. I was lifted, still on my back with a solid surface beneath me. Only then it sank in. Humans. The enemy of the Shortbread Man. Suddenly, I was scraped of the tray with a metal spatula, and put on a rugged wooden rack. Only then I realized how many of us there were. Seven on my left and five on my right - this was a disgrace. After they had inspected all of us, they left as quickly as they came; I was so confused. I rapidly jumped to my feet, with anger running through my veins. Now that I was on higher ground, I could see the open window over the other side of the sink. It would be hard to reach the window but with belief in myself I knew I could do the difficult task. I clambered down the tray, hopped over a knife and then came face to face with a rolling pin. All I could think was that I had to overcome all the obstacles in my way, and to my luck, there was a knob of butter right next to it. I was over! Then I heard footsteps. I saw a girl, about the age of seven or eight, walk through the open door to the living room. Our eyes locked. Her jaw dropped. She wearily walked over to me and whispered, “Who are you? Do you need help?” I replied, “Could you keep a secret and help me get to the window?” She gave a nod of the head and cupped me in her hands. I could hardly contain my excitement – a human helping a Shortbread Man? With that she gently placed me on the plant outside the window and I was off. I travelled down the huge garden and reached a hill. As I gazed over, there was a castle, lit up by the orange and red sunset of that night. It gave enough cover for the night, so I lay down and my eyelids joined together. I was out.
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500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
The brother and sister stared at the castle. Home. It was beautiful, silhouetted against the great, autumnal colours of the sunset with its highest towers reaching into clouds the colour of hell. Surrounding the mighty fortress was a vast city, covering many miles and still being expanded. Forcing its way through the city was a magnificent river, slithering past the houses and snaking under bridges, through parks and beside markets. However home was not the children’s destination; they were heading away from it. Fleeing from the place in which they grew, where they learnt everything they knew about life. But they knew that they were doing the right thing as they were not safe in the city. In recent years, a terrible disease had begun spreading through the city. No one knew how the disease had sprung upon them, but it was horrific. Anyone who caught it would become lifeless, losing any meaning of their own life; as if his or her character had been snatched from their grasp and replaced by a black abyss. They would wander around like the dead, with their misery overpowering anyone who looked into their empty eyes. They called them ‘The Wanderers’.
THE
WANDERERS The children were leaving alone; they would not be safe with their family. Everyone they had loved was gone. Their mother, their father, even their older siblings all had the disease, all without life or fun. So, one night the children decided to flee from the dying city and disappear into the countryside beyond. The girl nodded at her brother, and without a word they both set off away from their home. They felt so alone, in the world beyond their city. So small and so weak, and for the first time, they wanted to go back. Somehow they missed their home, missed the sadness and pain that they had witnessed.
Willem Adams Year 7
A drop of water rolled down the boy’s cheek, and it tasted like salt.
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500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
Betrayal Five left. There were six. Now five. One died. Five remain. Six hid. The rest died. I wish I could have gone with them. Now I’m here. With four. One will survive.
8th June 1941 Twelve was shot. Eleven was burnt. Ten aborted. Nine fell. Eight was stabbed. Seven was crushed. Six was killed for betrayal. Five is starving. Four is beaten. Three is mad. Two is sick. I am one. One is despairing. One is fearful. One is a killer.
9th June 1941 They came. They hunted us like a pack of ravenous wolves. We were a flock of wingless pigeons. We had no choice. Ten deserted at this point. We did nothing. He was shot. We blew up the truck. Twelve was injured by shrapnel. Twelve was shot. Eleven died in the fire. Seven was crushed by the truck. We ran.
head. A gash opened up on his forehead. It started to bleed violently, obscuring his view. We both stepped back and sidestepped cautiously in a circular motion. Six wiped his forehead with his sleeve but to no avail. He decided to squint so that he could see. With renewed vigour, he brutally lunged at me and landed a heavy blow to my stomach that winded me. I gasped. My chin was jolted to the side as the fleshy hammer connected with it. The force threw me to the floor. He wiped his forehead once again. I took this valuable opportunity to swing my leg round. He tumbled to the floor - landing on his palm and screaming in agonising pain. I rolled over and mercilessly put my hands at his throat, pushing down with as much force as my exhausted body could muster. He coughed and spluttered. He grabbed at my wrists and tried to wrench them off.
Six managed to get a breath and a knee to his stomach but I continued to strangle the traitor. His eyes were wide with fear. As his veins became 10th June 1941 infinitely more visible, I could see Year 8 Eight lagged behind. Eight was him plunge into the darkest depths of stabbed with a bayonet. We hid in a humanity: the primitive and animalistic cave in a cliff face. Nine jumped. Nine nature that lives in us all. The ultimate landed. Nine died. We learnt. fear began to resurface. The fear of death. I almost began to pity him but I knew that I could 11th June 1941 easily be in his position if I loosened my steel grip for even one second. His hands slid off my forearms and Six betrayed. Six was mean. Six was treacherous. One landed on the floor - creating a cloud of dust as they killed him. Six tried to steal. Six tried to betray. One did so. His eyes fluttered. A muscle twitched. He was murdered six. dead. Number six was dead. Forever. He snatched at my food like a snake. I grabbed a flint from the dusty floor and maliciously swiped at his
Malakai Wheeler
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500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
Betrayal Tom Edwards Year 8
Ardin looked out of the windows of the luxury hoverlimousine. Spread out below him was the terraformed Martian landscape with its gleaming spires and magnificent gardens of billionaires and trillionaires. This was the most high-end area in the galaxy, home to the most influential people of humanity. Ardin was a peace-maker, a futurist, the Prime Minister of the IUK, the Intergalactic United Kingdom. It wasn’t the real United Kingdom; most of Earth had been left for dust after a select few discovered faster-than-light travel and traversed among the stars. The leftover population of Earth had whittled away after global warming sunk city after city sunk beneath the waves. Earth was an unrecognisable scattering of islands. Ardin was going to meet Zarian, President of the Federation of the United States, in a meeting which would be broadcast from the White House to thousands of light years away, the most distant systems of human civilisation. The limo reached the Great Circle, a collection of the buildings most fondly remembered from Earth. The tiny little peaks of the Shard and the Empire State were barely visible in the shadow of new behemoths. The very centre of the Great Circle had the greatest monuments of humanity. Big Ben, The Pyramid of Giza and Mount Rushmore stood proudly but had been made bigger by hundreds of times just to be visible. The doors of the limo opened at the White House and cameras flashed continuously. Ardin hated cameramen,
constantly asking question and making rumours, so he quickly ran inside and didn’t respond to any questions. Ardin shook hands with Zarian and sat down quickly to an extremely long and boring speech from the President about relations and political rubbish. During that time Ardin looked round at the room they were sitting in, the antique twenty ninth century architecture and furniture worth hundreds of millions. Zarian was scared of him; he was a threat to her power. Ardin was amazed that she was the very first female President. One thousand, five hundred years had passed without a woman in the seat. Ardin almost felt bad for what he was about to do. Almost on cue there came a shout from the balcony: a man had appeared holding an ancient AK-47. Four rounds later Zarian lay dead on the floor. Ardin changed the name to the Federation of Earth; it was one of his conditions. The government had practically been begging him to take the seat. Another condition had been his offices were moved to the Houses of Parliament. Three month since the assassination and not one cameraman had accused him of the crime. Amazing. He shifted in the seat of his desk and sighed. In a space of seven months he went from a lowly idealist to the President of the Galaxy. Of course some people were angered by his agreement to give up the IUK for the Federal President. You can’t please everyone though. Ardin laughed; the galaxy was in his palm.
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500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
Back in time
Cameron Stewart Year 9
The air seemed cleaner, lighter. I knew what had happened, but my brain could not comprehend it. Cars revved past, as loud as the roar of a lion, screeching in their weirdly shaped metal skins. Telephones were as big as bricks; could they really not see how easy it was to evolve this dreadful technology? I was trapped here, in the world of old. Children ran past in the street, playing with wooden horses and plastic contraptions in clothes so funny I could barely hold in my laughter; not a single child moaned or whined for something. It was the ideal world. Except for the fact that it wasn’t my world. My name is Tyler James, and I am a banker, or at least I was. Now I appear to be a factory worker for Ford. How I got here I do not know. Where is here you may ask? 1987. I travelled 30 years back in time just by stepping through the wrong door. And I need to get home. Nobody here has any knowledge of time travel, and neither did anyone in 2017 for that matter, but here I am, right back in the year that I was born. My father was a scientist before I was born, maybe he could help me! Walking towards my old house where I was raised, I came across a sign advertising time travel. I should
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have known better of course, but I stepped through the door to its side. I was in an entirely different world again. Yes I had travelled forward in time, but I appeared to have gone too far. Once again the cars drove past, but now silent as the wind’s footfall, hovering mere centimetres from the floor. There was no one driving them as the owners slept in the back; they were self-driving cars! I stepped into the road and looked up. Dark polluted clouds littered the sky, leaving not a scrap of daylight, and the whole city was fed by artificial light, seeming to seep out of the very trees themselves. My high end phone looked like a shoddy piece of plastic compared to the holograph-projecting glass phones that everybody seemed to have. It was incredible, but terrifying like a nightmare that would trick you. Buildings swayed in the wind, preventing damage from hurricanes or earthquakes. It seemed as if they would be a problem for the vehicles flying through the sky, but the computerised drivers looped and dodged around them with ease. This world, however great and wondrous, was not my world. Taking a step forward I felt my penknife rub on my right leg. It was that moment I knew what I had to do. I would see my family and be free from this hell. I pulled the knife from my pocket and, taking one last look at the polluted sky, plunged it into my heart. It took me five hours to die, and the whole time I thought only of my family.
500 WORD STORY COMPETITION
An Alien Sends a Postcard Home My name is Aamilah, I am 21 years old and I come from Aleppo, one of the most dangerous areas in Syria. It’s been 3 months since I arrived in America, escaping from the war that ravaged my home. My family are still there, so I must work as hard as I can to be able to support them as well as myself. I miss my family a lot, as the saying here goes, ‘There’s no place like home.’
Joe Rapson Year 9
Because the plane tickets and registration process were so expensive, I was the only one able to come out here to work. I hope that soon I’ll be able to fly out my parents and my brothers and sister, so we can all have better lives, but until then I’ll have to support them from out here. My line of work is not a desirable one, but it is all I could get. I am a cleaner in a bank. During working hours, I work behind the scenes and clean the toilets,
Dear Mother,
POST
but after hours it is my duty, along with a couple of others, to clean over the entire block. My boss is very nice, which is a bonus, and a lot of people like me have to work under horrible conditions, so I cannot complain.
Back home, everything was chaotic; it was dangerous just to cross the street becasue of the fear of attack. The airport there was closed for many years, until the government had journalists flown over to make a documentary on how life was there for us. Right now, I am just finishing a postcard I’m sending home to my family.
Alien: a foreigner, especially one who is not a naturalized citizen of the country where he or she is living.
CARD
missing How is everyone? I am really in you all , but I have arrived be able England and have a job so I’ll to help now.
k . The I work as a cleaner in a ban get, and pay is more than most people y kind . my boss and colleagues are ver rn the I am slowly beginning to lea new my of one to language , thanks friends. you I hope the money I sent helps will be re mo t bu , ch all . It is not mu coming soon . Love Aamiliah
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Ten questions for...
Scottish hip hop group Young Fathers have been recording together since they were in their teens in the Edinburgh suburb of Leith. The trio, made up of Alloysious Massaquoi, Kayus Bankole and G Hastings, shot into the limelight after they won the Mercury Prize for Album of the Year in 2014 for their debut LP ‘DEAD’. Soon after, they released their sophomore album ‘White Men Are Black Men Too’ to similar critical acclaim in the UK and US. In the last twelve months alone, they’ve toured and collaborated with Massive Attack, made a short film for the National Portrait Gallery in Scotland, and contributed several songs to the Trainspotting 2 soundtrack. At the moment, they are hard at work on their as yet untitled third album, but G Hasting took the time to answer a few questions about their recording process and future plans.
of people who have looked in on us in the studio, not having strict roles that bands usually have but that’s just the way it is and how we grew up.
Q: What drew you to using the EMS Synthi in your tracks and live shows? A:
I walked into Tim London’s studio and seen it sitting there with its big colourful buttons and thought ‘I’ll av that’. It’s the best looking bit of machinery around. Sounds alright too.
Q: How would you describe one of your gigs, and where was the best gig you’ve ever played?
A: Four amateurs being very professional. They’re all Q: First off, how much did winning the Mercury Prize affect a bit of a blur but the best kebab is in Luton. It’s all in the grill. you as a band? A: Our folks got really proud of their wee laddies on Q: Why did you decide to call your most recent album ‘White the telly playing our wee hearts out. Bless us they said. Men Are Black Men Too’? Q: What is the greatest influence A: What better way to start a conversation about on your music? A:
I think to just wake up and get something done with what you’ve got. I’m keeping it simple but I’ve been talking too much lately, get’s on my nerves having to talk about stuff but makes me a more rounded person or something like that. Ken?
Q: What is your recording process like? Who decides which lyrics go where and who decides how the music sounds? A:
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I do the music. We all do it but it’s weird to a lot
something really complex than with something simple.
Q: Which of your songs best encapsulates you as a band? A: Deadline (the opening track from their debut mixtape ‘TAPE ONE’)
Q: What is your favourite song by another artist, living or dead? A:
Today its ‘Baby I Need Your Loving’ by Four Tops, but it changes.
out b a io tr h is tt co S e th to g in Chatt cording re d n a s n o ti ra o b lla co s, ce influen Q: You’ve recently been working with trip-hop pioneers Massive Attack. How did that come about?
Q: Finally, what is coming up on the horizon for Young Fathers?
A:
Young Fathers’ latest single ‘LORD’ is out now and their next album is out soon.
They asked us down to Bristol and we got on. Which doesn’t happen that much with us, we’re not big collaborators. We know ourselves and that’s enough to deal with.
A:
A new year. A new me. A new you. A new us. Keep the chin up.
Dan Guthrie Year 13
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Idyll
Interrupted Marling School Business Manager Emma Gray has revealed her creative (and possibly darker) side with the publication of her first murder mystery short story. Here, Emma tells INK about her experience and reveals a taste of what is to come. If you are intrigued by what you read, you can access the whole story online. All proceeds from the sale of the story go to Marling School – once a business manager, always a business manager. I started blogging at the beginning of 2017 as a way of relieving some of the pressures of being a School Business Manager (or SBM). If I’m totally honest, I was expecting it to be a weekly rant about education funding (and lack thereof!) but it soon evolved into a general wellbeing blog and I was pleased that other SBM’s enjoyed my style of writing and were finding the topics supportive.
Quite a following By July I had gained quite a following, so I embarked on a crime fiction project during the summer holiday. It seemed like a good idea at the time! It wasn’t until I had written and published chapter one that I realised I had no plan. I couldn’t go back and change any of the detail, the storyline was set in stone and I had to make it work. It was a massive challenge that completely took over my summer! When it was finished I decided to go back and add an author’s point of view, which turned out to be quite
Available on
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Emma Gray Marling School Business Manager
dark. I had to keep reminding my friends and family that it was just fiction. I could never be a full time author. It absolutely consumes your every waking moment. I’ll stick with School Business Management as accounts don’t haunt me at night! I’m so pleased INK has agreed to publish a small excerpt of my writing. I do hope you will follow the links and enjoy the whole story, knowing that you are also donating to the school funds. PS. I couldn’t use my own name because there is already an Emma Gray who writes stories about sheepdogs.
The blurb Tragedy strikes ten friends on holiday in Cornwall leaving them reeling with the knowledge that the crime was committed by one of them. But who? Anna thinks she knows but can she prove it before anyone else is killed and can she discover the terrible secret they are all hiding? As the story unfolds, the author herself becomes perilously entangled. Obsessed with the characters and their secrets, reliving her own past and slowly descending into a darkness of the horror that she is creating over her own summer holiday.
Paperback: http://bit.ly/IdyllInterrupted-paperback Kindle Version: http://bit.ly/idyllinterrupted-kindle
Extract from the book The water was cold and Anna was annoyed to find the warm gentle lapping of the shallows had deceived her. By the time she’d waded up to her thighs she realised she was either going to have to dive in or head back to the shore. “You OK?” Robert was beside her in the water. Anna nodded and launched herself under the water. “Next time, I’m bringing a surf suit.” She gasped on surfacing, trying to block out the cold and keep moving, they started to swim. Robert maintained an even pace alongside her, matching her crawl stroke with very little effort and slicing efficiently through the water with long tan arms. As they swam farther out, Anna slowly became aware that Robert seemed to be swimming closer to her, every time her face turned towards him he met her eyes and Anna could feel herself becoming anxious at his proximity. His body’s rhythm appeared to be locked in synchronisation with hers as if watching and waiting for an opportune moment to strike her. His eyes bored intensely into hers, he looked desperate, almost wild. Panic started to rise in her chest and the tightness gripped inside her, interrupting her own rhythm and making breathing difficult. In an effort to keep calm, Anna concentrated on swimming off to one side, trying to put at least an arm’s length of distance between herself and this man. As if to compensate, Robert manoeuvred even closer to her. At every arm stroke Anna’s fear grew, aware that if he locked his arm over hers he could pull her under the surface without any difficulty. She had nothing with which to defend herself and started to contemplate whether stopping dead in the water and turning back to the shore would give Robert the opportunity he was looking for. Anna looked behind her, the shore wasn’t so far away, she turned in an arc away from Robert who continued to keep pace. “I’m going back.” Anna knew that her terror was causing her to flail ineffectively in the water and she was splashing like a frightened child. Seawater was going up her nose causing her to splutter the acrid salt taste as it went down her throat. Her arms and legs burned in protest at the demands she was making on them and her brain seemed to disconnect from her limbs. She could feel herself sinking in the water.
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PHOTO PAGE: Fraser Bohn Y11
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CREDITS 2017/2018 Team Managing Editor: Dan Guthrie Design Editor: James McGarva Assistant Editor: Benji Smith Editor at Large: Alfred Taylor Image Coordinator: Marcus Kembery Supervisor: Ms L Harris
Submissions: Work or images for submission should be emailed to: marlingpublications@gmail.com We reserve the right to edit any work or images submitted. Views expressed are those of the individual authors. Printing funded by Marling PTA www.marling.gloucs.sch.uk/pta