Timelapse - a creative writing initiative between Harrow School & Notting Hill & Ealing High School

TIMELAPSE A creative writing initiative between Harrow School and Notting Hill and Ealing High School.

Summer 2020

Editors’ Note A time when the world seems to be on pause, the coronavirus lockdown has given space to reflect on what happened before, the world now and where we might be in the ‘new normal’ of the future.

It is with this backdrop that Timelapse was born.

Keen writers in Year 10 and 11 from Notting Hill and Ealing High School and in the Removes and Fifth Form at Harrow School came together in a virtual way in June 2020.

Working in groups of three, they were given the task of finding an image which exemplified lockdown. This image could be of anything which felt relevant to them, and each image then became the springboard for three pieces of writing: one set in the past, one in the present and one in the future.

The writing here has been devised completely independently by the students and is the result of several weeks of planning and editing. We are grateful to the marketing team at NHEHS for helping to put this all together to best showcase our students’ hard work.

We hope that you enjoy reading their work as much as we did, and we trust that this will be one of many collaborations between our schools in the future.

Mrs Ashe (Head of English, Harrow) and Miss Silvester (Head of English, NHEHS)

Contents

Page 6

Past, Alice Rowlands

Page 26

Past, Lauren Beale

Page 8

Future, Daniel Sidhom

Page 28

Present, Nina Indjic-Ast

Page 10

Present, Korina Szysko-Nicewicz,

Page 29

Future, Remi Jokosenumi

Page 12

Future, Cristopher Liu

Page 31

The Worst Disease, Ayobami Awolesi

Page 14 Florida Man Fails Anti-Lockdown Protest,

Amber Deane-Johns,

Imogen Day and

Dylan Winward

Page 34

2020, Freya McNeill

Page 37

2077, Abha Bhole

Page 39

Past: Log-Arms, Indi Abrams

Page 20 Lonely Unity: Past, Brian Donohugh

Page 43

Present, Olivia Frew

Page 23 Lonely Unity: Present, Sia Patel Page 24

Lonely Unity: Future, Jaya Emery

Page 46 Embroidered World, Yasi Chishti

Past

by Alice Rowlands

November 1918 The streets of Covent Garden hadn’t been this hushed for as long as Frank could remember, save for the low, consistent thrumming of raindrops upon the cobbled streets. People scurried past, wordlessly, their eyes darting from face to untrusting face as if mere eye contact could be contagious. Leaving the house was a last resort, only to be done when absolutely necessary; to buy food or the morning paper; to check the post office for any news from the front.

The flame of victory had been blown out like a candle by the swift, biting winds of the coming sickness. Frank could remember how fast the news arrived, faster than the troops, bloodied and battered, could stagger their way home or the commanders could pat themselves on the back. Alfred had said in his letter that names varied from one division to the next; ‘Flanders grippe’; ‘the Spanish lady’; ‘Blitzkatarrh’ as the Germans called it. ‘Blitz’ meaning ‘lightning’, given how fast it struck. A man could be standing in the morning complaining nothing more than tiredness and a headache, and within 24 hours he could be on the verge of death, his skin tinged a pale blue with a hacking cough. The infected were walking corpses, as if Death had showed up early for his appointment.

At least that was what Frank had heard from the letters that Alfred and James had sent. The paper was crumpled and ripped from the journey and held the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. He kept his brothers’ letters in a biscuit tin, blue with gold accents, on the top shelf behind a stack of books. He wasn’t sure who exactly he was hiding them from; it wasn’t like there was anyone around to find them. Maybe it was him, a desperate attempt to shield himself from the memories.

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It was almost funny, he supposed. Or maybe ironic was the correct word? If the whole thing were simply the plot of a play, he was sure that he should want tickets in a heartbeat. He could see the reviews now: “Two brave soldiers who survived the devastation of war, only to be smitten by disease. A masterpiece.”

The worst part was that they were almost safe. Frank could remember the wave of relief that head felt when the armistice was announced. ‘VICTORY’, ‘PEACE’, ‘WAR OVER’ plastered on every front page. When the sun rose on that day, it felt warmer, the sky seemed brighter. The desperate scurrying of the people on the streets became a leisurely stroll. Wives and children babbled excitedly about the soldiers’ return. The school children that Frank taught, at least those who had stayed in London, were lively and optimistic, barely allowing him to keep his lessons on track. News of the sickness was understated, even ignored, hailed as a thing of the battlefields and, very soon, the past.

But many of the soldiers never made it home. Frank was sure that if his mother was still alive, the shock of her two sons dying would just about kill her. Then again, he was lucky. Many families would never know what happened.

Now everybody was alone, too wrapped up in their own grief and fear, too scared of the future and too hurt by the gaping hole in their lives left by those lost to come together. So now it was just him, Frank supposed.

He hung up his hat on his peg, the other two pegs left vacant, and closed his eyes, listening to the raindrops against his window.

They were his only company now.

Page 7

Future

by Daniel Sidhom

Lonely am I on the nights and days that conjure my remaining senses. My tears forever roll down my face, but I make no sound.

I wander as lonely as a cloud, through the corridors of despair, thinking of you. It is as if being close to you was a crime, but now that I think of it, we are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal. The blood moon weeps for me, as I think of the agony you left me. I noticed the storm in your eyes, the heaviness in your heart and the silence in your voice, yet you never let me in. And now that I think of it, immersed in solitude for eternity, you wouldn’t know me, nor the world in which I live today.

The future of this Earth taught me no more than to love it with perverse affection. No judgement, no feelings, just a sense of desire to drown my sins.

February 18th, 2060 I walked slowly into the building, my shoes clicking with every step of the way. My blonde long hair was combed neatly to the side and my moustache precisely curled. I took the elevator to the 74th floor, where my client was already patiently waiting for me. “Do come in”, I politely gestured to the man to come into my office. I sat at my desk and clicked the desk panel to reveal an online scanned document. I rotated it side-

ways so that my client could clearly see it.

I glanced at him and patiently waited for him to finish thinking. He looked up apologetically, but I nodded, feeling his sadness.

“Mr Gregorovich” I began hesitantly, “I was most fascinated with this piece of work. You tell me yourself you have experience from the past with this sense of isolation and rejection. Am I correct?” The man looked at me with his empty eyes, his mouth slightly apart twisted in some sort of discomfort.

“This will be my last piece of work, yes, before I…”. His voice trailed off into the distance, as if recoiling from the poisonous experiences of his past. Once more he looked at me, his coldness cutting my heart.

I reached to my left blazer pocket and took out a letter, still sealed, and handed it over to the man.

“A letter of gratitude from my director”, I said. “I will begin editing your piece within two days. The publishing expenses will be all dealt with when I speak to the board, and as for the printing, I have contacted the Sentinel newspaper agency to make the arrangements.”

The man smiled at me. “You have not changed one bit”, he said. “You’re still the most unemotional person I have ever met, even at twenty-two.”

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I looked down at my trembling hands. “We may have lasted together for a short time, but let us take advantage of this opportunity. Let’s take a walk.” I stood up from my chair, switched off the hologram on the table, and opened the door.

noticed, you left your children and your wife to come to me. She committed suicide and the three children were sent away to foster care, but you always cared for her didn’t you. You were always so considerate, even with me as with her.”

“Of course.”

The man reached for his left pocket. “No”, he whispered. “But I would rather stand alone than to be around people who don’t value me.” I should have seen the jolt of his hand. I should have noticed the silver metal gleaming in the yellow sun. The bullet pierced through my skin, propelling me backwards.

I stumbled and fell onto my chest, blood starting to rush out of my mouth. The man kneeled and gently turned me over, before searching my pockets. He took my phone, my wallet and my diamond ring. He wiped the gun with a cloth, and carefully placed it next to my twitching hand. He stood up, adjusted his hat, and walked silently into the distance.

Walking through the streets of Covent Garden felt quite different. Memories of childhood hit me, and I saw myself at the age of five running around with my friends.

I wondered where they would be today.

Their own families, relationships, something that I could never really truly grasp.

We took a walk for thirty minutes, weaving past shops and robots fixing a cobblestone pathway. The streets were abandoned, as though the man’s eyes filled this place with their emptiness. “Do you know what it feels like to be alone?”, the man asked suddenly.

We stopped walking just as we reached the entrance of Punch & Judy. A feeling of uncertainty hit me.

I lay there, peacefully, deep in oblivion.

“What is it that you exactly want from me Mr Gregorovich? Is it truly to publish your piece of writing, because as far as I can see, you still cannot get over our past?”

The man smirked but had a look of disgust on his face. “I could say the same thing for you. A bright and handsome fellow at twenty-two, outstandingly educated, richer than most can ever imagine to be. Yet so alone and isolated. No family member to talk with, no wife and no children to play with. It’s a shame how pathetic you really are, living in poverty of loneliness.”

I looked at him, anger rushing through my veins. “And you live in a life of luxury as well?”, I asked mockingly. “The last time I Page 9

Present

by Korina Szyszko-Nicewicz

The horizon stretches on, houses upon houses, trees upon trees - the telephone wire extending between them as if splitting them in two. It’s funny, really, how untrue that is. The wire enables a major form of communication; the only thing keeping most people together. The streets are filled with the joyful smiles and boisterous laughter of people meeting friends and savouring their time outside with each other. Shouts and conversations drift down the roads, intertwining with themselves and dancing across the wind.

(“No, Spencer, you can’t just bail on us!” someone laughs. “You promised you’d go once you passed your exam!”

“Could I please have a-” “Your shirt’s so cute! Where-”)

There’s a slight surrealness surrounding the fact that they each have their own lives, troubles, and complexities, but before my thoughts can draw me in, the sun reappears from behind the clouds just barely skimming its surface and reflects across the café tables. The weather is perfect for this time of year and the sky ethereally sunlit. (“I’ll meet you at the park, yeah?”)

The park’s been there forever, I think, with its trampled grass and scattered dandelions.

I’m not really sure. I was never one to go to the park anyways, but one thing’s for certain - it’s full of people nowadays. There’s a child, with their mother pushing them on the swing they’re on, and I watch her startle as they jump, “Mummy, look!”

Their eyes widen at the rustle of a squirrel between the trees, and they run arms outstretched, kicking up burning leaves from underneath their feet, spiralling down and down to touch the floor below. (“No, Mum, it’s not meant to rain... It’s not winter! I’ll be-”) The birds by the benches startle at the disturbance; they shake their wings and take off into the sky until they are distant silhouettes seeking refuge. Two, however,

Page 10

simply perch. They perch on the telephone wire circling the park grounds, at a wary distance from one another. To think that there’s all this space - all the space in the world, almost - and they choose here. (“The leaves are pretty here this year. How’s the weather in-?”)

I don’t hear them twitter, or chirp, or sing their heavenly songs. They overlook the world, the wire suspending them the only thing keeping them together. Nevertheless, this wire holds people’s lives; the communication they share between loved and lost ones: short phone calls between friends, an odd argument or two. It’s such an indispensable, simple, seemingly insignificant thing, but it means so much to so many.

I think to myself that it’ll be that wire keeping us together in the future, when the crowds start to dwindle from rumours of a pandemic. All of these idyllic scenes will be lost in the wind and in distant memories, when the events that many call ‘inevitable’ happen. The parks will be empty and the roads engulfed by silence, spreading like wildfire and like the disease.

(“I’ll call you later-”) The birds take off at the sight of plastic billowing in the wind, and swerve around each other over the heads of the meandering crowd.

The one thing we wouldn’t have lost would be that wire, and yet we would be grateful for it more than ever before. When things start to get rough or people start having less time for each other, it’ll be the thing keeping us connected, keeping us suspended between the limbo of sanity before we ever truly fall.

So that every once in a while, you can call the person you care deeply about and tell them that you love them. (“Mhm- yeah, no honey- yes, I promise- I’ll be home soon, ok? Love you.”)

We all seem so carefree now, but if these things are lost like the ever-disappearing birds in the distance, what will happen? I can only imagine the impact that this could have and the things that we’d miss. We’d all be a living metaphor, the personification of ‘you never appreciate what you have until it’s gone’. And what would be gone? The days at café tables, the times when you could laugh freely in the streets, the evenings sitting in a park… we’d all be like those birds, with all the space we could ever dream of, yet forced a stifling distance apart.

Page 11

Future

by Christopher Liu

I looked forlornly out of my window. It was a sunny day during lockdown, and I was tired of being isolated indoors day in and day out. My eyes carelessly wandered across the sky outdoors, which was a light shade of blue, before finally settling themselves onto the sight of an empty wire, suspended by itself in mid-air.

I hesitated. Last time I saw the wire, I distinctly remembered seeing two robins, perched on the cable, at space from each other, looking absent-mindedly into the distance. They were at such great lengths from each other that they appeared to be respecting the social distancing rules of the humans, perhaps out of caution - or even sympathy - for the wretched creatures they saw on the ground, who were now confined within their own houses.

At the time this had puzzled me. There was such a large area of sky - a vast, unending sea of blue - for the birds to explore, to travel across, yet still they were perched there, unmoving. The birds appeared to be trapped by some force unbeknownst to them, unable to move, like myself in a lockdown.

Now, the birds would be flying again. They would be traversing the vast skies, travelling across lands yet unknown, and meandering past the endless landscape. They

would be able to do whatever they wish, unconstrained.

I yearned for the future, for the time when the lockdown would end, when I would be able to do everything I wanted again. I yearned for the day that I would go back to school again without fear of the virus, and for the day that I would be able to travel to the places that I cherish, at my own whim.

I have only begun to understand what the most important things in life are once I have begun to lose them. They are the most mundane things that I normally do not enjoy. I envisioned myself going back to chapel in my bests with a herd of unruly schoolboys, the sound of the chaplain faint within my ears; and last but not least, the dull and dreary days spent in the common room.

These happy thoughts made me smile.

Sometimes I asked myself: what if the lockdown will never end, what if the things I plan to do in the future will never happen, and those dreams of the future glided with gold become illusions and never truly materialise?

In some sort of way, the lockdown was a learning experience. It allowed us to more fully appreciate what we used to have. Freedom seems more like an opportunity rather

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than destiny. Something that we had once taken for granted, but now appeared to be some sort of far-fetched privilege that had ceased to exist.

The empty wire gave me hope that there will be a time when we would be free again like the birds. Free to do what we plan to do and like to do. Freedom is only meaningful when we can make use of it.

I also thought about those less fortunate than myself. Those without families, those left homeless and destitute on the streets.

In a lockdown, what were they to do now?

With nowhere to go to and no one to talk to, my heart filled with gratitude for what I had compared to others, even in this lockdown. How strongly would they feel the frustration and hopelessness when they saw birds free in the blue sky? My heart felt moved by their hardships.

I thought about the nurses and the doctors on the frontline, who risked and sometimes even sacrificed their lives for the benefit of society and to save those in need. While I was at home, these people were working day and night tirelessly and with great risk.

Their every sacrifice was just so that civilians like me could have our freedom back.

Their courage and selflessness made me think about whether I would be able to do as well as them when it comes to my duty in the future.

a single wire connecting them, overcoming all the hardships and the difficulties of the time. Although freedom had been taken from them, the single strand of wire that linked them had not and it made them resilient.

What is this put in our own context? Social distancing has kept people apart, however, fighting for a common cause has brought people’s hearts closer. We were all connected by wires of neighbourhood, friends and families. We were not alone. Together we were stronger.

I looked deep into the blue sky and hoped that the two birds enjoyed their freedom. I hope that we will not have to face another crisis like this, but I know that if it comes, we will have grown and learnt from what we have experienced.

I imagined the birds flying off, towards the bright and distant future.

When the day comes when everything has been restored to normal, what will I miss from the days gone by in the lockdown?

What was in the minds of the two birds when they looked back from the sky? I imagined this could be the time where they accompanied and supported each other with Page 13

Florida Man Fails Anti-Lockdown Protest

by Amber Deane-Johns, Imogen Day and Dylan Winward

3:23am The cursor blinked at Jack as he stared at the empty search bar on the computer screen, hands hovering over the keyboard as he prepared to launch himself into the sea of results his next words would bring up.

Protest lockdown Florida he typed, hitting enter with an over dramatic tap to finish off the phrase. The page loaded sluggishly, desperately trying to connect to the website through the next-door neighbour’s WiFi, until one by one the results popped up below the search bar.

Jack clicked through several pages, scrolling through countless threads titled in angry capitals with a few too many exclamation marks, protesting the authorities and their fictitious virus. The further from the first page he went, the lower the risk of the protest being discovered and broken up early on by the police.

A thread titled ‘JOIN THE REBELLION. JACKSONVILLE BEACH’ caught Jack’s eye, a refuge from the multitude of exclamation marks in the results above and below. Jacksonville Beach was a short bus ride from his apartment and the short description below seemed legitimate, rather than a thread obviously fabricated by the government to catch protesters breaking lockdown law. Clicking onto the page, Jack scrolled through the few comments that were already there, checking the time and exact place of the protest, before typing his name in the chat box to sign himself up, promising to show up at 3pm later that day.

There were only a couple of usernames officially signed up, but many more had liked the original comment on the thread and would probably turn up for the protest anyway.

Making sure he’d read all the information he needed, Jack closed the tab and mindlessly entered into the world of conspiracy theories, resigning himself to watching video

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after video explaining how the government was hiding aliens from the public and making up fake viruses to keep people indoors.

Nearly two hours later, Jack found himself with his head lying on the table next to a video claiming that Finland doesn’t exist.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering grimly how many videos he’d slept through. Closing the lid of his computer, he looked around at his dingy apartment, the streetlights shining dimly through his thin, moth-eaten curtains. Knowing he couldn’t spend the day sleeping, Jack made his way to bed, not bothering to change out of his clothes before he collapsed, exhausted, onto his thin mattress.

Jack was woken up by a heated argument in the street in front of his apartment block.

He recognised the woman’s shrill voice as Mrs Williams’ who lived on the first floor, clearly kicking her husband out of the house for the third time that month. He rolled over to look at the clock by his bed which gave him the unwelcome message that it had just passed 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

He swore under his breath, remembering that he had to be at the beach in less than an hour.

Groaning, he slowly heaved himself out of bed and groggily made his way to the kitchenette in the next room and over to the rumbling fridge in the corner. Jack grabbed a jar of pickles and the last slice of plasticky cheese from the top shelf, leaving the fridge bare except for a half empty carton of longlife milk. Finally, he picked up the last two slices of bread from the food bank making a luxury sandwich with two slices instead of the usual one sliced ‘open sandwich’ he ate to save food. He would drop by the food bank for his weekly basket of food after the

protest.

Chewing on his sandwich, Jack walked back into his bedroom, crumbs trailing behind him as he opened his wardrobe and pulled out the few clothes that were hung up there in order to get to the cardboard boxes at the back. Putting his sandwich on his bed, he lifted out the first box and tipped its contents out onto the floor, sitting down beside them. This was the fruit of Jack’s hard work over the past 7 years.

In all his 25 years, especially ever since he’d aged out of the care system, he’d never been able to hold down a job for longer than a few weeks, but had just about managed to get by on the money he made from pickpocketing and stealing from the bustling crowds of tourists that swarmed the streets and beaches of Jacksonville. The contents of this cardboard box (as well as the two others) consisted of wallets and handbags and even some clothes that he hadn’t yet managed to sell on.

For the past couple of months, Jack had had to rely on cash that he’d missed when he’d originally rifled through the stolen wallets, as the social distancing measures had forced him to take a break from his job due to the high risk of being caught. That was why he was joining this protest, so he could start to earn some money again.

Fortunately, when he’d turned 18, his last foster mother had bought him the apartment he now lived in, so he didn’t have to worry about rent. He’d also managed to bypass the neighbours’ electricity meter so that he could use their energy. He used very little of it anyway, keeping the lights off most of the time and only using the heat-

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ing in the very depths of winter; the Florida weather leant itself well to a life without heating. Despite all the money he managed to save, the occasional time he would need to buy something, the cash from his adventures through crowds was necessary. Times like today when he needed $2 for a bus ride.

A ten-minute rummage through all three boxes made Jack 5 dollars richer and he left his apartment feeling triumphant, just in time to catch the bus that would take him fifteen minutes down the road to Jacksonville Beach.

I’m not normally allowed to talk to people I’ve met on the internet, let alone meet up with them, but I think my parents would allow it if they knew our mission. Coronavirus has absolutely ruined my life! I can’t see my friends, or leave my house, and senior prom has been cancelled! So I’m taking the matter into my own, capable hands; I am protesting.

Over the past few days, while I was meant to be browsing Google Classroom for schoolwork, I was browsing Reddit. I would normally never dare go on such a weird site, but as desperate times make for desperate measures, it was my last resort. Meeting up outside is now illegal (ish) and a hardened criminal would never post a picture on Instagram or VSCO, so I braved what is practically the dark web to find someone who I could meet up with to help me get my prom and life back through protest. I read the text about what the protest would involve: we’re wearing black shirts so we look unified, and we’ll meet at 3pm on Miami Beach. I read the comments of my fellow protestors, my fellow right-minded individuals, and I felt excited; the protest - unlike coronavirus- was real.

I saw some fellow goth-look supporters, a man and woman in the designated black shirts walking towards me. I’m embraced awkwardly by what I can only describe as some guy. I’m scared. Could it be a paedophile, looking to take advantage of a young person like myself? Stepping back, I am not relieved: it’s a youngish man who gives off a college dropout vibe from him. But what do I say? I’m rendered speechless. I really don’t know how to act around people I don’t know, I literally just talk to other kids in my microcosmic high school and then the occasional boy near me on the Snapchat map.

I gather my thoughts and tell myself my usual mantra of ‘You’re being an idiot, Fiona!’ in my head. I need to lead with something not so awkward, but as he greeted me with a hug first, do I really need to be overthinking it? He clearly has no standards. In the emotionless monotone of a Starbucks employee, I say ‘Hi, my name’s Fiona. And you are?’

Congratulations, self, you officially made yourself look like an idiot in front of this guy who you don’t even know and this other girl who’s come to stand with you. I had been wrong to think that this guy was the paedophile I was meeting, as looking at this new chap, it is certainly him. A textbook internet predator, the epitome of ‘over-enthusiastic’. He looks so normal, so there is definitely something fishy going on behind the scenes.

Why did I sign up for this? How could I have been so stupid? We stand as a trio for a few seconds until the new one breaks the silence. ‘So, I’m Dylan, and, erm, you are?’.

He pockets his phone.

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‘Fiona,’ I say. I don’t continue, aside from my name and views on Lockdown, what more do they need to know about me?

Then, the silence hands in the air like the supposed germs. We collectively realise we have nothing more to say, and so much for the protest! It’s mind-numbingly obvious we are the only people who’ve shown up, despite the thread having hundreds of viewers, and people commenting that they’re looking forward to it. Now, it looks as though the internet were excited to laugh at how gullible we are; I feel like a meme.

But while I grimace, Jack says ‘Well, all good things take time! If we do this everyday until Lockdown is lifted, we’ll raise awareness and more people will join us later!’

ing to the excitement of the wind in my face and the soft sound of the ocean beating on the shore. Tick. The second hand slowly revolved around the pastel outline of my kitchen counter clock. Tick. I could think of nothing but the excitement of breaking the bars of my self-imposed imprisonment.

Tick. I had to go out. There was nothing else for it.

Like the first time, I grabbed my coat, muttering an excuse about forgetting to buy the milk, sliding my phone gently into the pocket of my Levi’s. As if in a trance, my legs carried me through the door and out into the street. I was doing it again. For the second time in my life, I was breaking the rules. A rush of adrenaline seeped through my veins; my eyes brimmed full of the rush of excitement that my open defiance took with it. I drew up to a halt on the pavement, frozen by the fear of discovery and punishment. What would happen to me if caught out past curfew?

It’s the first time I’ve met up with people from the internet, and it has gone worse than getting groomed. I’ve been publicly made a fool of.

I glanced around, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of a busy-bodied police officer, ready to chastise me for my irresponsibility.

But I saw nothing.

Nothing has been the same since that moment on the beach.

Before I knew what was going on, I found myself back at the entrance of that beach, heart addicted to the sweet vapour of liberation. The smell of the sea assaulted my nostrils, triggering a most violent smack of nostalgia. Even though it had only been a couple of hours ago, that glorious afternoon of freedom flashed before my eyes.

The first guy says ‘Jack.’ You can hear the full stop, making it clear that both he and I agree that we’re here for a purpose, not for niceties.

Suddenly, sitting on the same old couch, cereal bowl welded into hand has lost its thrill. Overnight, the thrill of sitting down with nothing to do had faded like old paint, into a deeply unsatisfying bore. Going down to the kitchen or changing the set of pyjamas which I kept glued to my body no longer drew out the happiness that I once attached to such mundane daily tasks.

I couldn’t escape my memories of the beach earlier today. I sat down, my mind wander-

The sight of the ochre sun on the horizon line snapped me back to reality, realising that I was in a battle for dominance with the darkness that would inevitably set in.

Like a battle drum, the sea slowly thrashed

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against the soft sepia sand. My trance took me back to the same spot, desperately craving the recreation of the scene from earlier.

My eyes scoured the grounds, desperately scanning for any sign of the footprints of our defiant meeting earlier. Finding nothing only made me more frantic in my desire to find evidence that the meeting was real, that it had happened.

Still, no matter how hard I looked, the footprints and tracks had vanished, swept away by the all-conquering tide. Just as I was about to turn away out of disappointment, my eyes caught a glimpse of a small paper card corner, poking out of the sand. Slowly, I plucked it out of the ground, curious for what it would reveal.

had sunk its final couple of feet, swallowed by the expansive horizon.

Terrified of the consequences of my endeavours, I quickly pocketed the business card, safe by my breast for another day. The combination of the fading light and my escaping imagination made it impossible to read anyway. But as I travelled home, there was only one thought beating resonantly and repetitively in my head.

That was not the last time I would visit that beach.

I stood there, alone on the beach, bathed in the fading light of the sunset, trying to rearrange the smattering of ink into a recognisable form. A cauldron of emotions hit me. What would happen when this was over? Would I still be standing here, hopelessly in love with a beach that I had never visited before all of this? My phone buzzed mindlessly in my pocket, but I ignored it.

Once upon a time, I would have been distracted by it, but the sea itself was enough to set me in an inescapable trance. In that moment, I was ready for the incoming tide to sweep me away to sea. Unlike the world on pause, the ocean was ignorant to pandemics and lockdowns, transcendent of the petty concerns that strike us as so material.

My brain began to wonder what it would be like to get swallowed up by the vast expanse in front of me.

Out of nowhere, I heard the rustling of tires coming towards the beach. It was late.

While I had been standing there, the sun Page 18

Lonely Unity

by Sia Patel, Jaya Emery and Brian Donohugh

Page 19

Past, Endless Walks Lights blare to lifeless soul, by protectors no more.

Not again…what’s your story?

Pacing through once crowded streets, wandered now by few so stressfully past gilded bridges, gold-lit trees – few looked not for an enemy.

Determined eyes paired masked false glee came carried by passing “elites”.

Judgmental expressions curtained by fabric, life as usual it seems.

Though all old customs rendered mute, my skin still lacked esteem.

They cross from street that I pollute cloaking their evident panic.

Approached the bus stop discernible, filled seats cleared in my wake, I chose to stand, analyzed behind tinted glasses, glasses searching for hints of a mistake.

Looking up I witnessed vivid blue behind their accenting badges.

Pair of officers came near, suspicious yet unmistakable.

Unjustified claims of suspicious activity, inexplicable aggression, they plead cooperation.

My case stated, their doubt remained my life, my worth in question. why? “you fit a description” “we were told of suspicious activity nearby” “we need to check your record” Defined by color, my fears materialized.

Conversed, complied, confessed – my appeals dismissed abruptly.

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For my fate had been determined, they saw what they needed to see; my profile now created, the criminal decisively me.

My hands suppressed they knocked me down, my breath collapsed now purged.

My legs withheld and I, consumed by concrete’s compression; helpless in my struggle as a bee in disarray.

I resisted.

Only slightly, judgment limited foolishness; slightly enough to amplify – “DON’T RESIST!”. taser’s shock did little - backside numb from pressure greater force applied, chest collapsed beneath me, great grasps for breath expended me.

My pleads ignored, people gathered, the sunlight faded off the lake, darkened trees by luminated bridges cameras shielded the view.

As orange world grew dark, vibrant city grew dim through bustling commotion came silence through desperate lungs came final breaths through flailing eyes came emptiness.

And what of those who came before?

Were their lives worth as little?

Their voices silenced as they cried for help.

What of Martin and Malcolm?

Have their movements been ignored?

Claimed as equal, we stand apart.

They say we share same ground as they watch us from above.

Chained by past, equal we’re not.

Through echoed requests from walks of all, our muffled voices never travelled far.

To claim there’s change is ignorance, to say job’s done’s blind trust – for as they think that all has changed our endless suffering stays the same.

So long as one defies what’s just, justice can’t be served.

For as I depart with final breath, I pray change comes; it warrants my death.

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In silent walks and whispers clear, they sit for new day born from thoughtless tragedy.

A new name brought for a cause readmit, another trend with this week’s casualty.

These senseless murders, now normalities; brothers and sisters to be forgotten.

What could justify such fatalities?

What can they do to avenge their fallen?

Perhaps I am the catalyst - inspirer; I observe these streets, now bright and crowded, myriad of wanderers who gather fight for me, their voices loud - not clouded.

My people stand as others hear their talks.

On their journey for us, their endless walks.

Brian Donohugh

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Present As I walk through the previously deserted streets, I am reminded of how much has changed since we have been locked in our homes, looking down at the reality of the issue of inequality from behind the glass screens of our phones. Now we are taking action, marching through the same streets that we were wary of stepping into for so long.

I glance around at the London streets. I can hear the rustling of the trees, the distant noises of cars and buses. It all feels so normal, but there has been a shift in our views of community since we have all been isolated - an urge to finally defeat the immortal inequality that has constantly plagued society. An urge to create an unprejudiced world where we can respect and learn from each other, where everyone is safe and free.

The masked figures around me are united by our central cause, and I feel a profound connection with each one of them. We are all of different backgrounds and races, but together, in this moment, we are one. I survey the faces surrounding me and wonder what led each of them to be here at this point in time. Was it feelings of anger, hope or defiance? Was it the exasperation of having to continue to fight this thousand-yearold issue in today’s day and age? No matter how we got here, we are all committed to the protest, and are carried forwards by the waves of vehemence that radiate from the crowd.

ordinary - in the midst of a pandemic, we are still fighting. It reminds me of the power that we hold as people; the power to continue our protests even when we are risking the possibility of spreading this virus, because if we do not make a stand now, we may never get the chance to.

In the distance, the city outside of this protest seems so familiar - the sight of the cars and the sound of the birds in the trees. But around me is a new world that I have not seen before. A world of defiance, of fighting against wrong; of communities coming together to break the societal barriers that we as humans have been confined in for too long. This crowd is a small part of a global phenomenon; we know that our collective action drives the switch in viewpoints that is now occurring, and that we must fight to accelerate it and educate ourselves and others.

The sound of previously desolate streets coming alive is a reminder that we are no longer isolated, and that we can come together in every way to ignite change. We know that we can be the revolution that will break the barriers between us and create an equal world if we come together, no matter what the cost.

Sia Patel

As I am brought back to the present and remember the masks that cover most of the faces in this crowd, I am brought back to the fact that the situation we are in is not Page 23

Future If God existed, would He sleep? And if He slept, would He dream? Hastily, Sophia tried to dispel those thoughts from her head, for questioning the unfathomable ways of God was distracting her from planning her escape. She knew how to get away, but did not yet have the resolve. “God is the only one who can save me now.” Sophia silently repeated the mantra, over and over, wishing that somehow the constant iteration could make a miracle occur and they all could go back, go back and excise the year 2020 from history.

Still, even though she had more pressing matters on her mind, Sophia could not shake the ostensibly worthless questions from her head. She imagined that God would sleep, but in the process of sleeping He would still be consciously engaged in the world and its tribulations and its misery. What about dreams? Sophia supposed that God would not dream, for the purpose of dreams was to tell you something, and God, being omniscient, did not therefore need to know anything that dreams could tell. Dreaming was left to mortals like herself, who were constantly haunted by nightmares as punishment for causing the virus and the war. Sophie shivered in the glacial air, and shaking thoughts of dreams from her brain she broke into a jog, eager to get back home before dusk.

Getting home after dusk meant that she would risk beration from the guards, and, depending on who was on duty, a penalty.

Luckily the Second Gate had not closed yet - she could still see the monochrome houses that lay behind its open doors, and not the insidious gleam of the Gate’s shut doors.

That night Sophia’s dreams plagued her. All through the hours of darkness she waltzed through a house, not the sort of house that they had nowadays, inhospitable and oppressive, but a grand house reminiscent of the past. In the ballroom Sophia watched an emotional God weep before bewildered souls, and then in the dining room she looked upon a hospital devoid of doctors, which was instead run by an apathetic deity, drenched with a passivity that prevented him from sympathising with his victims. In this hospital the virus roamed around the patients, infecting and reinfecting them this however did not affect the hospital’s inhabitants, for in Sophia’s nightmare they were already dead.

In her lessons the next morning the purpose of school once again dripped out of Sophia’s head as she chose to ignore the history teacher. “In 2020 both the threat of Covid 19 and the discussion raised by Black Lives Matter protests appeared to obstruct world leaders’ rationality, as they all entered an impossible war.” The teacher’s dissonant voice rattled into Sophia’s defiant ears, as she wondered once again why they were learning about something that everyone already knew about. She longed to learn about something more compelling, perhaps what lay beyond the Gates.

“The Gates are there for your safety, they will keep the virus out.” Her mother’s warning voice echoed throughout Sophia’s head.

Sophia knew that the Gates were there for safety, yet every time she saw all ten of them, constantly manned by armed personnel, she could not help but wonder: are the Gates there to keep it out, or us in?

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Sophia did not understand why there was so little information about what lay beyond the Gates. She felt fatigued by the lack of true information, and wretched from the pointlessness of life inside the Gates. All she knew was that she could not go there, or else the virus would kill her. If that did not terminate her existence, then starvation would, or the cold, for she had been told that beyond the Gates lay nothing but devastation. Yet everyone knew that this was not the whole story, for people had gone out there. The way out was simple, just through a tunnel, it was just out of fear that people did not leave. The last person had escaped so long ago now that their face had blurred into forgottenness in people’s minds, yet rumour of their actions had not completely faded. “God is the only one who can save me now.” Sophia realized that she did not believe in that statement anymore.

She wondered why anyone would. If the world was a broken cage with an unlocked door, it was God who indicated that the door was not shut, and it was up to her to do next. God would not free her, but He would show her where the exit was.

a miserable place, leaving us to exist in uncertainty and suffering?”, Sophia had wondered. Her mother had replied slowly.

“If the world was not so tragic Sophia, no one would look for God.” Jaya Emery

Sophia was going to escape. She had to see for herself what lay beyond the Gates. She had to know whether the world had really been destroyed by the virus and war instigated by protests, or whether there was something out there. There had to be. This insignificant place of nothingness and insincerity could not be all there was left in the world. As Sophia walked towards the tunnel, she gazed at the stars, glistening against the unforgiving blackness of the sky, seemingly crying at her departure. As she neared the tunnel, a conversation that she had had with her mother entered her mind. “Why did God make the world such Page 25

Past

by Lauren Beale

Page 26

Summer stretches languorously in front of us, Like a cat, Waking up.

We are drunk on time And the cider Nicked from someone’s fridge.

Each second spent Under the sun, Sand in our shoes, Salt crushed hair, Grass stains, And nettle stings.

The greasy sheen of sun cream, Slicked across warm skin.

Rough towels and soaking swimwear, One sandal And an empty bag of crisps.

Eventually, The day grows cooler.

We slink back home, Furtive night-time glances As the heat of the day, radiates from flushed skin.

It’s late, But no one wants to, Be alone In a dark, stuffy room.

The night is restless, Knowing we’re just impatient for another day to begin

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Present

by Nina Indiic-Ast

It’s the afternoon. That awkward stretch between 3 and 5, where the minutes feel endless and the world has fallen gravely silent.

Worst of all the weather is at a standstill, the sky outside is filled with grey clouds, no cathartic rain to keep you entertained and no sun to make you happy. It feels as if whatever my surroundings are, I just blend into it; like I can feel myself fading, fading into the left side of my bed where my body has sunk into for who knows how long. My lights are off and the room is masked in a temperamental light that feels just as uninspiring as everything else. Looking down at my phone, I am yet again unsurprised to see no new notifications but my own carefree self and friends a few months ago. The photo brings back such a needed wave of hopeful memories when we were excited for the year ahead of us when COVID was just a news story that felt a million miles away. We’re all embracing each other like people aren’t dying. I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel someone’s arms around me for no reason but to share that warm feeling of knowing someone cares for you and has your back. I would do anything to feel that once more but the idea feels even further than the memories I had just relived. My homepage springs up almost immediately, the same old apps I had grown accustomed to staring warily at me. Instagram was the first app I opened up. I don’t even know why.

It’s honestly the pitfall of society, people who claim to be more ‘real’ and authentic continuously posting the most patronising and uninspiring content. I scroll through not really paying attention, just looking for something that could hold my interest for longer than a couple of seconds. Every time I see another celebrity make some tonedeaf comment about “how hard” this whole situation is and then see thousands of comments calling them entitled and ignorant, I lose a little faith. I think secretly we’re all lying down halfway through the day, unsure of a reason to get back up, always hiding behind that fragile facade we put out every day for the world to see. I bet those celebrities cry themselves dry each night and all those people commenting too; we all just channel out our hurt differently, some pretend everything’s fine and others call them out for it. The toxicity of my phone drowns me, the headlines are no consolation, calling crowds a thing of the past and this lifestyle the new normal. That phrase sticks in my mind as I imagine living each day as I’ve been doing, and the thought makes me sick.

I sink deeper into the bed, curl into myself, and hope the next time I open my eyes the sky will be a little brighter.

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Future

by Remi Jokosenumi

Week x of lockdown; I don’t know what month it is. I can hear the consistent stressed rhythm of the rain beating against the windowpane. I can hear the overwhelmed gurgle of the gutters rapidly filling; I can hear the rushing water descending through the pipes like a surging waterfall, and I can hear the harsh, yet endearing hush of the torrent whipping down on the steel drainage cover.

I shift around in my bedsheets and try to open my eyes. Managing only a pathetic squint, I rub my eyes and use my pinkie nails to scrape out the crusted rheum huddled cosily in the corners of my eyelids. At first, all I can see is darkness, and now the darkness is stained by irregularly shaped off-white spots, and now… my bedroom begins to materialise. I can see navy blue veins popping through my gaunt arms; I can see the grey patches of dry skin on my purlicles; I cannot see my long scraggly legs, for which I am grateful to the duvets covers for, however, where the duvet cannot reach, I can still see my oversized feet and my big toe poking out of the hole in my left sock. I look up slightly to see my bookshelf. Books from my childhood: the Gruffalo, where the wild things are and the entire collection of Winnie the Pooh, gentrify the shelves amongst “fine literature”.

My eyes fixate upon a stack of unwrinkled GCSE textbooks; my eyes glaze over as I

fantasize over the summer that was viciously snatched away by the bony claws of the Pandemic.

I roll over in my bedsheets a second time and glance down at my desk. A perfectly positioned ray of daylight breaks out from behind my blinds and casts a light over my grandfather’s Nordengreen classic watch.

The beam of light, however, is not the golden ray filled with dancing dust mites seen at the breaking of a Mediterranean summer dawn; the light is a drained grey that gives the watch face and brown leather strap a discouraging sterile tint. I try my hardest to see the time, straining my eyes and stretching my neck, but can only catch the minute hand. It’s twenty-five past Something.

I flop back onto my pillow and feel around my duvet and bed sheets for my iPhone; I grab onto my phone wire close to my hip and reel in the phone until I feel the rubbery texture of the phone case at my fingertips. I thumb the on button and squint, as I brace myself for a brief explosion of blue light; I am disappointed as the flashing image of a drained battery occupies the black screen; note to self: Instagram is for the day, sleep is for the night.

I tense my core and launch my body upwards, flicking my arms behind me to steady myself. I instantly cringe as my

Page 29

right-hand lands on a mildly damp spot on my mattress. I mean… I’m pretty sure it’s sweat. It’s been rather warm over the past few days; I know from Jude’s story. He’s posted numerous pictures and videos on his Snapchat story of him and his friends in the park with the sun shining high and hard… or was that a memory? It’s been raining for hours now so it couldn’t have been that warm, but then again this is England.

But was it sweat from the heat? Or have I just been lying here too long? I shake the ponderous thought out of mind and swing my legs off of the bed, and with my hands on drier parts of the mattress, push myself up. My muscles ache and my hamstrings tighten under the weight of my frail frame; it’s been some time since I’ve been vertical, but I hold my balance, nonetheless.

With a sock on my left foot and my other foot bare, I shuffle sluggishly over the blue terrazzo carpet towards the door. As I swing the door open, I am forced back like an exorcised demon, as a blast of scorching white light engulfs me. The light ripples through me pricking every tendril on my face, connecting every synapse in my nervous system, and tracking the flow of blood through every vessel in my body. It hurts, it hurts a lot, but it’s a refreshing alternative to the blue light I have become accustomed to.

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Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile

by Abha Bhole, Freya McNeill and Ayobami Awolesi

Past

The Worst Disease

by Ayobami Awolesi

Our hands clutched the ice-cold instruments as we held them up to the cracked marble. Streaks of moonlight snaked through the gaps between the buildings surrounding and spotlighting us like criminals on a panto stage. They warned us that this was an incursion towards the corrupt society that burned against every fibre of being.

The cold wind drifted gracefully spreading as far as it dared to go. Looking at Amelie, I saw a tear run down her face before departing off her chin. I bent down on one knee and looked her dead in the eyes. “Tu m’étonnes! Our society needs to be amended and you are here sulking! Allez!” I dug

my nails deep into the palm of my hand hiding my emotions.

“I am not afraid!” Amelie replied. This time she squeezed the chisel even harder between her short, fat fingers and made her way towards the left corner of the arch.

Every wall was coated in the names of commanders that “led” brave soldiers into war whilst they sat in safety eating croissants and drinking tea. Papa was one of these brave soldiers who laid down his life only to have a battlefield serve as his grave and his name forgotten by most.

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Amelie raised the hammer with her right hand and the chisel with her left. As she placed the latter on the surface she froze.

I took a deep sigh and walked up to her.

Squatting down I grabbed her hair from the roots, squeezed her cheeks with my hands and whispered into her ear “Do I need to remind you about what happened to Papa.

About how our commander cowered in the back whilst Papa led a group of soldiers into the battlefield sacrificing himse-” She snapped her head towards me. Hatred now displaced the grief that was once in her eyes and she began to take the first step.

Letter after letter the sharp stone broke off the stone as the hammer made its way down onto the chisel’s handle as she began to write the name “FAVRE” on the wall above it. The sluicing rain hit the floor as hard as it whizzed from the sky. I found a nearby bench and sat down on the soaked wood as my bedraggled clothes pressed up against my thighs.

A puddle formed next to my feet and I glared deeply into the reflection of my face assessing all its details. I then stopped as I came across my eyes. Each eye was split into two one side being a murky grey and the other a dirt brown. My sister and I had inherited a condition called heterochromia from Papa and he had inherited it from his papa before him. But along with this condition we had also inherited another disease which was the worst of them all. Poverty.

My meditating had been stopped by the sound of hurried footsteps making its way towards me as it got louder and louder. Finally, I looked up and saw a worried look on Amelie’s face. “The police… they saw me… we need to go now!” she exclaimed, trying

to catch her breath. Immediately I understood the situation and instructed my sister to put her mask on. The masks had the face of Caravaggio, an Italian Painter who had died due to mysterious circumstances and was quickly forgotten by society. A fitting mask for the occasion. “Allez!”

After hastily putting on our masks, we sprinted towards the entrance and saw the police car’s headlights glaring at us through the gates. The policeman followed us through the gates and began to chase us.

Shots fired relentlessly but thanks to the lack of visibility none of them hit me.

My heart started to race as my feet carried me as fast as they could and just as Amelie began to fall behind, we turned a corner and climbed into a tunnel just large enough for us to go through. I dived into the tunnel and Amelie followed closely behind. We then continued to crawl through the dark until we were sure the policeman was unable to follow. We then sat side by side next to each other. My chin quivered uncontrollably, whether it was because of the cold or because I was scared, I did not know.

I turned to my sister and took off her mask for her. “Did you finish it? Did you finish writing Papa’s name?” I asked, still gasping for air. With a solemn face she nodded her head and I instinctively embraced my arms around her. As my hands pressed against her wet clothes, I could feel a warm liquid drip down my hand. I knew that she had been running, but that didn’t mean that the rainwater on her clothes should be warm.

I looked at my hands and the liquid was a strange colour. The texture felt strange as well and I then began to realise that what was on my hands was not water, but blood.

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One of the shots from the policeman had pierced Amelie’s torso and she was losing blood fast. I held my hand firmly against my sister’s chest to try and stop the bleeding, but it didn’t help at all. Masses of blood came oozing out of her like a punctured balloon filled with water.

“Alexandre…” she softly said. Water filled my eyes as I looked at her blurry face. “No! J’en ai marre! This can’t be happening!”

Why? Why was it the poor that always died in the slums of the world. Why is our society so imbalanced? None of it made any sense.

She let out a futile cry before it came to an abrupt halt. I wiped my tears away and gazed into her abnormal eyes as they stared into nothingness. This was the harsh reality of life. Whether you live or die is not up to you. It is not up to your parents, it’s not even up to God. It is up to the amount of paper and metal coins you own.

Poverty is the worst disease of them all…

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Present

2020

by Freya McNeill

I sat in the darkness. The arch’s stone was cool against my back, reaching through my thin baggy shirt. Shivering, I adjusted my binder and closed my eyes, fantasising about the warm hoodies stacked away in my cupboard. Someone walked past me and then stopped, I curled my hand around my beer bottle like the last soldier holding onto his battalion banner.

“You look like a tramp,” a voice said, scoffing. I reluctantly opened my eyes then blinked, adjusting my blurred vision to a girl who had long black braids with purple tips - it took me a moment to recognise her.

“I think that’s doing tramps a disservice, some - ” I held up a warning finger to her, feeling that familiar sensation in my throat before letting out a massive burp. Pausing for a few seconds, I reached for the glass bottle again welcoming the cold liquid to slip down my throat.

“Disgusting.” I shrugged and rubbed my hands together.

“Well you’re the one who dated me,” I pulled myself up, pouting with chapped lips.

“Shall we keep that past tense?” She adjusted her medical mask to re-cover her nose.

“I promise, I’m not going to infect you,” I laughed, putting an honorary hand over my face. She rolled her eyes but I could have sworn that she smiled underneath it.

I remembered her sparkling eyes when we danced under this spot, my hands on her waist as I tried to lead her but kept treading on her toes. I always was the perfect gentleman. “Trust me?” She looked at me as if she saw our shared memories in Méliès’s distorted crackly film.

“Vivanne, we’re not in England, get over here milady,” I said in my terrible English accent, a name that only her mother called her rolled off my tongue like it did a year ago. She laughed, shaking her head.

“You’ve got me in your spiffing logic guv’nor,” she responded, up for the game, “two metres.” Viv gave me a pointed look but stepped forward all the same. I slid over a beer, she picked it up with her hoodie sleeves and nearly downed it in one.

“Woah, easy there tiger.” I said, “Last time I gave you a beer you took one dainty sip and spat it out.” She shrugged, finishing it off.

“Alex you know me, the epitome of grace.”

She winked, looking down at her scuffed boots. We sat there in silence with the

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evening chill starting to creep in, we looked at anything that wasn’t each other. The place was deserted, the usual late night antics with teens and lovers were gone leaving nurses hurrying home after a long shift.

got a temperature, went into hospital and then we got a call today that... he wasn’t coming home.” I ran a hand through my short hair. I drew closer, my hand reaching for her shoulder. “Two metres.”

“How come you’re here anyway?”

“Right,” I shook my head, awkwardly retreating my hands, fiddling with the seam of my checkered shirt “Two metres.” I sat on them.

“I want to get away from it all.” Viv said, “You used to take me here and I would wait until my dad had the night shift at the hospital. Nights here to forget everything. I’d take a small bottle of wine under a jacket” I grinned, even rebel Viv wouldn’t stop being classy. “You’d bring some cheap weird liquor and a packet of -” “Cigarettes.” A smile tugged at her lips, she sat cross legged rapping her hand on the bottle.

“Yeah cause you seem to like poisoning your lungs and I would always -” “Respectfully decline,” I laughed and shook my head opening another beer, my tongue skimming the bottle rim. “Well I listened to you V, look no - ” I turned my pockets inside out.

“Cigarettes,” she said softly, “I haven’t heard you call me that since…”

“I know.” Our faces lit up in the flickering blue light as the police car zoomed past, sirens blaring cut through the stillness of the night. I gave a nervous laugh putting a hand on my pounding heart. We instinctively shuffled closer. “How’s your dad finding all this?”

“He’s scared, of being there, of maybe endangering us.” Viv sniffed, “And...then he

“I wanted to get away from it all, Papa with his fake smile at home sobbing in the bathroom when he’d thought I’d gone to sleep.”

“You see the success stories on the news, he’ll be fine” Could I promise that? I wanted to reach out to her. To hug her. Anything. But all I could do was sit trying to not make my teeth chatter.

“I know,” she whispered, putting her head in her hands, “I know.” There was two metres to separate us but there was more than that, she had dyed her hair, I got an ear pierced the nights that we shared under this arch I now spend alone. I could have left her there under the arch but tonight she needed me to stay - to wind-back-the-clock.

“You know why I took you here?” V looked up at me, searching for some kind of meaning inside my blue eyes with their copper rim. I didn’t know if I could give it to her, some meaning beyond the genetics lottery or the luck of us checking out the same library book. “The night I came out, it was chaos, I mean catholic family and their perfect ‘daughter’ - how did I think it was going to go? I’d cut my hair and my sister took me here. I mean she drives us to school past it everyday but it was the first time I really saw it you know? She told me

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about our great grandfather that when his Dad got killed in the war he wrote the family name…” Feeling around the left corner, my hand brushed against the small defiant carving spelling out ‘FAVRE’. “here.” Viv turned her phone torch on peering at the carving still etched in the stone. “My sister asked if I had picked out a new name yet. I hadn’t, not until that moment. Alexandre after him.” Viv smiled at me and she looked at her phone, the white bright light illuminating the spot. 2:04.

“I have to get back before my Papa notices I’m gone,” she got up and gave me one last look, I smiled at her capturing the moment as a mental polaroid picture. “Alex...call me?”

“Sure.” I watched her leave, zipping her jacket and disappearing from view.

But I don’t think I will.

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Future

Favre, 2077

by Abha Bhole

The afternoon sun blazed in the sky, bathing Paris in its golden glow. The view from my window would have been beautiful, were it not for the bombing. The Avenue des Champs-Élysées was littered with marble.

Some pieces were the size of pebbles; others were larger than houses. The acrid stench of smoke still lingered in the air. Explosives.

Ancient technology. It was no secret that the rebels were underfunded but this was an entirely new level, even for them.

The screen flashed image after image of anarchy and destruction. Favre. The name was repeated everywhere. Every emotion, from outrage and indignation to disappointment and scorn was attached to it. I remembered standing in the rubble, blinking as cameras flashed in my eyes. Voices shouted all around, demanding, questioning, complaining. Humans never stay still for long.

We always want an answer; we always want someone to blame.

A shock wave had rippled through France.

For now, the whole country was in silence, but it wouldn’t last long. The fallout from this would be immense. Another year of interviews, reporters and accusations. Everyone was accustomed to the attacks by now, but this was the first time the rebels had targeted something of cultural significance.

This was their way of showing that they were serious, that they would do anything

it took to have their Republic back, even if it meant destroying history.

I estimated at most another day before I was swarmed by the media. I had grown up in a world of cameras and microphones, hardly surprising considering that I was in charge of the country. After the Government of the French Republic had collapsed during the Climate Crisis, the entire democratic system was reshaped, and the position of ‘President’ was replaced with ‘Governor’.

Only last year, I had been elected and the bombings had begun during my term. I wore my mask constantly, trying to reassure the people that it would not be long before this was over. The rebels would tire themselves out and our military would swoop in to finish them off. In truth, I could see that it was only a matter of time before the country fell into civil war.

The rebellion was enabled through complacency. Nobody took them seriously at first, brushing them off as fanatics. They were ignored even when civilians suffered in the scuffles. Riots were covered up; shootings were suppressed. Most of France only realised there was a problem after the first bombing. That false sense of security cost us our hard-won peace. It is said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

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There were many who disagreed with the change in the system. At first, the protests were peaceful. Then came the riots, and then the rebellion. They attacked anything they found that was of importance, from transport lines to water purification plants.

As time went on, they became more and more organised. They swayed hearts and minds; with people came power. It wasn’t long before they became large enough to spin their own narrative. They were the underdogs, the misunderstood heroes fighting to liberate France from the tyranny of my Government. They became like a cult; to them, their story was one of honour, justice in the face of oppression. Any of their number who thought differently were silenced.

There was a knock at my office door.

“Governor Favre?”

It was my secretary, Camille.

“The fragment you requested.” She handed me a black case.

“Thank you, Camille. That will be all.” She nodded and left.

Investigations were being carried out, although there were no conclusive results yet.

For all their crude technology, the rebels were masters of espionage. Several spies had been found within the government framework over the years and the hunt still continued. Everyone was monitored, constantly. Even I was not free from suspicion.

Some might have argued that I was even more likely to be a mole, seeing as the attacks had intensified during my rule.

I sighed and went back to the window. By now the smaller pieces had been cleared away from the street. They would be transported to a lab to be examined. Later, collection units would come for the larger fragments. After it had been determined what kinds of explosives had been used, the remains of the arch would be safely stored away, until the rebels had been subdued and there was enough time and money for the monument to be reconstructed. If we did ever manage to subdue them.

I placed the case onto my desk and opened it. Inside was a small piece of marble, not much bigger than my fist. There was a name scratched onto the fragment. “FAVRE”. My family name etched by the son of a soldier.

He had fought in a war long ago. World War 2, they called it, although my ancestor had not been famous. My parents had told me the story more times than I could count.

How the poor father of a struggling family had been killed on a battlefield. How his son, burning with grief and anger, had carved his name onto the arch with a chisel.

I wondered what my ancestors would think of the young woman staring at this piece with my eyes. Eyes of cobalt blue lined with copper. An heirloom, a story passed down through generations.

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Past

Log-Arms

by Indi Abrams

I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself, yet no gunshot rang out. The rhythmic clacking of hooves on hard-packed dirt was accompanied by jovial birdsong, not the echoing boom of gunpowder I had expected. Victoria’s scream, however, came on cue.

I felt the cart lurch forwards slightly as the horses gave a start at the holler and I opened my eyes in time to spot the man escaping into the greenery of the park. No point in giving chase; he had too much of a headstart to catch up on foot, and the carriage wouldn’t make it far, what with all the trees.

Victoria was hunched over. I felt my heart trying to burst free from my ribs as I reached out my hand to her. She turned to face me.

“I am fine, Albert, no need to worry,” she said, with a strong voice, characteristic of the woman. This wasn’t the first attempt on her life, and as I would soon learn, it would not be the last.

“Well, thank goodness for that. We can’t have our Queen dying on us, now can we?

And I, for one, would not like to become a widower just yet.”

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Victoria laughed, a hearty laugh that those less favourable of her might have called a ‘chortle’. The carriage had slowed to a reasonable pace, now, and the driver, voice quiet and shaky with meekness, asked, “would you like to return to the palace, your highness?”

“Well of course not!” Victoria declared, much to my horror. “We shall not have our outing ruined by so pathetic an interruption!”

“Dear, I do think that it would be best if we went back. It is entirely possible that that swarthy rascal is still around,” I intervened.

“And if he is? His gun clearly does not work, or else we would not be having this conversation. I appreciate your input, as always, Albert, but I wanted a carriage-ride, and I shall have a carriage-ride.” And that was that.

We continued on, and all seemed peaceful. I tried shutting my eyes, and breathing slowly, in order to calm down, yet the helplessness brought about by this blindness was unbearable. And I could not focus on my breathing when all I could hear was my heartbeat. I tried admiring the greenery; after all, what’s more peaceful than nature? Behind every tree I saw something, be it a shadow, or a hint of movement. The carriage-ride was torture.

Upon returning to the palace, my first order of business was contacting the authorities.

The prospect of a regicidal maniac on the loose chilled me to my core. Officers arrived sharply (though, I reckon that they ought to have been faster, and I said as much), and I talked them through the event. They left soon after, intending to search the park for traces of the criminal.

I decided, during this interim, to speak with Victoria. If I’m honest, I went to check that

she was safe, as much as I did to talk to her.

She was a headstrong woman, but even she saw the sense in alerting the police. Argument averted.

“Good thing we got back when we did,” I said, as the slate-coloured clouds overhead began spewing forth torrents of rain. I pitied the policemen who would now be trudging through the muddy park, searching for rapidly disappearing footprints.

“Good thing we got back at all!” Victoria’s eyes took on a cheeky sparkle.

“Indeed! Ah, but what will we do when the police get back? They’ll not find anything in this weather.”

“Do you doubt our police force? I would never allow such incompetence,” Victoria announced smugly.

“I doubt that they can follow tracks which don’t exist,” I retorted, gaining the upper hand in our bout of words.

“Ever the optimist, Albert.”

“Ever the realist.”

This continued for some time, before our little dispute was interrupted by Robert, our head servant, announcing the return of the police. In a shocking display of nightmarish manners, they stood, sopping wet, on top of our brand-new Indian rug. With a dejected shake of his head, an officer announced their inevitable failure, prompting me to shoot Victoria a triumphant glance.

We had a problem, now, which was one more problem than we had leads on this attempted murderer: without a way to arrest

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him, Victoria was in perpetual danger. And the chances that she would agree to remain indoors was slim, at best.

“In that case,” Victoria’s voice rang out, “we must make him reveal himself!”

“Oh, and how might we do that?” I asked, sceptical.

An officer spoke up, next. “Her highness is right, I’m afraid. Though I’m not sure how we can do that.”

“Albert,” Victoria said, with a glint in her eye that told me I would not like what she was about to say, “we must take a carriage ride again tomorrow!”

“Are you insane?” I cried, “have you taken after your grandfather?”

“Far from it, Albert! We shall dress these policemen up as common folk and take them with us, so that when the gunman shows himself, they may arrest him!”

“Or, your highness,” an officer interjected, “we could send a decoy out in the royal carriage?”

“Now that would indeed be a clever idea,” I agreed profusely, only to be shot down by an admittedly good point from my wife.

“And do you think that the killer would fail to notice? Do you think he would fire without first looking to see his target? Nobody more competent than a madman would draw a gun without first checking to make sure his target is there!”

And so, it was decided that we would go out tomorrow. This meant, among other things,

that I had great difficulty getting to sleep that night. I played the scenario in my head for hours upon fidgety hours. Victoria, of course, slept like a log. Eventually, however, I dozed off.

My dreams were no solace, however, as the figure – who took many forms, as I did not get a good look at the man – haunted every corner of the palace, stood in ambush at every event. He poisoned, he shot, he strangled Victoria, in every single horrific nightmare. When I was awake, I longed for the refuge of sleep. When asleep, waking up was my only escape. And what if the man did not show up? What if he was plotting something far greater, instead? After all, only a fool would fail an assassination, before trying again, in the exact same way, on the very next day?

Many times, I awoke, often at the perceived sound of soft footsteps, or the cocking of a gun. I saw figures in the darkness, but when I glanced to Victoria and back, they were gone. The hair on my arms was perpetually on-end, and when I closed my eyes, I felt someone watching me; I heard the subtle shifting of a patient killer.

Yet none of my fearful fidgeting woke Victoria. For that, I was thankful: should I have woken her, I would have had better things to worry about than a killer! Her snores broke the silence, punctuating my paranoid thoughts. At times, she would throw a great log of an arm over me in her sleep, a log to which I would cling, and drift down the raging torrents of fear, into a vast ocean of sleep.

Morning came, to my relief, and terror.

Robert served us breakfast, as he often would when he could tell that the mood in the palace was undesirable; in such sit-

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uations, he feared that a less experienced servant may accidentally fan the flames of whichever negative emotions were roaring at the time. Yet I did not eat, and I urged Victoria to refrain, as well. I had not lost my appetite, as one might assume, on the contrary: I was hungrier than ever! I would not, however risk the food’s being poisoned. Just because the would-be assassin attempted a shooting yesterday, that does not mean that he will resort only to violence. Assassins, I imagined, could be tricky.

Victoria ignored my desperate pleading and inhaled her meal of cured ham and heavy bread with gusto. I, on the other hand, took to eating my nails, rather than the food on the plate before me. She showed no signs of poisoning, which set my worries aside, until I remembered that some poisons are slow acting. I would have to be nervous for days!

Eventually, the time for our criminal-chasing carriage ride came along. Worchester, our driver had readied the horses, and moved the carriage around to the palace gates. Oh, how I loathed that dreadful thing. In that moment, I vowed never to set my pathetic bottom on a carriage seat again, after this. I stepped up into the open-topped coach, and offered my hand to Victoria, who often had trouble entering the vehicle.

And we were off.

If I was nervous in the night, now, I was hysterical. My foot, having obtained a mind of its own, tapped incessantly on the carriage’s polished wooden floor. My eyes, which refused to blink, lest they miss the man, darted wildly about. I inspected the face of everybody near, even the police officers, who were now dressed in civilian clothes, in case the killer had snuck into their ranks.

The gnarled knots of the oaks, which I once so loved, seemed to be sneering at us, chastising us for our foolishness.

Something moved.

It disappeared behind the tree. Discreetly, I gestured for an officer to have a look. I braced myself for the inevitable gunfight. As the officer peered behind, however, no more than a grey squirrel leapt from the undergrowth. How foolish I felt!

Victoria gasped as a man leapt out from the crowd, which had formed to watch our precession. He pulled a pistol from his coat.

Cruel light glinted off of the weapon’s muzzle as he cocked it.

His arm was outstretched.

He raised the gun.

My eyes met his, and the frantic, animalistic rage that I saw chilled me to the core.

Police were rushing forwards; the crowd recoiled in shock; I screamed a soundless scream.

He fired.

The man fell to the ground as the police officers piled on him. They rolled about wildly on the hard-packed dirt. The gun had flown from his hand, and smoke billowed from its barrel. The man was on his back now, as the police officers held his arms in place behind him.

Victoria’s grabbed my hand and squeezed.

Never had I been more filled with dread than the brief moment as I turned my head to look at her. The corners of her mouth curled into a triumphant grin. Those log-like arms embraced me once again.

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Present

by Olivia Frew

It was quarter past three. Prince Robert lay awake staring at the ceiling, memorising the decades old carvings of flowers and elaborate patterns with eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness over and over as he chased sleep. It had been like this for weeks now, the sleepless nights, ever since his father had announced he was stepping down from the throne in the wake of his son’s wedding, an arrangement that had been made years before. Robert had no interest in being king, he longed for a life outside the suffocating walls of the castle where he could make decisions for himself instead of having them thrust upon him. He yearned for the freedom to discover who he was without the constraints of the lavish life he was born into.

from the garage and just drive. ‘It’s the middle of the night, who would see?’ he thought.

He had connections all over the globe, it could be so easy to take that leap of faith but in spite of that, he was terrified.

His brother on the other hand was all but ready to take the crown and lead the country in the wake of his father abdicating; however, in light of the scandal surrounding the legitimacy of his royal blood, that was entirely out of the question. Robert would have to take it upon himself to fulfil this destiny and put his own wishes aside.

Yawning, he climbed out of bed and slowly crept to the door, opening it quietly as to not alert anyone who may be lurking.

And yet, the closer he got to his impending nuptials, and all that came with it, the less he found himself caring about the consequences of leaving. It wouldn’t be too difficult, he could pack a bag, take one of the many cars

Sleep was a long time coming.

Robert knew this and sat up, stretched, and reached for the glass of water that usually rested on his bedside table only to find it empty. On any other night he would call for one of the multitudes of servants to bring him water from the kitchen however he knew he would have servants answering his every demand for the rest of his life so he might as well do something for himself while he still had the chance.

“That’s odd”, he thought, the hallway, which was usually illuminated by ornate lamps on either side, was pitch black. ‘Someone must have forgotten to switch the lights on’, he said to himself as he softly moved forward making sure to avoid any especially creaky floorboards.

He made his way to the main staircase and began his descent. Perhaps he should have

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turned a light on after all because around the fourth step his foot slipped, the stair which had previously been underneath him was gone and there was only air. He tried to grab the banister but it was too late. His arms flailed around him as he soared through the darkness and tumbled down the remaining steps banging his head on the way down and knocking himself out completely.

er and without warning grabbed his hand swiftly pulling him across the room towards the door.

The first thing Robert felt was the throbbing behind his eyes. He winced as he regained his vision, slowly adjusting to the brightly lit room he found himself in. Very quickly he realised he wasn’t alone. A girl, looking to be around the same age as him sat across from him looking worriedly at his face and, based on the pain he was experiencing, what he assumed would be a bruise forming on his forehead.

Finally, they seemed to arrive at their destination as she stopped abruptly causing Robert to nearly lose his balance. Dizzy from their journey, it took a moment for Robert to regain his bearings and realise that she had taken him to the portrait room. Paintings of his ancestors on canvases as big as himself lined the walls. Robert took a tentative step forward taking in each painting, there was something about them, erie almost, their eyes seemingly never leaving him.

The girl was pale and wore a white frilled dress that, although lavish, looked extremely outdated. Gently, she leaned forward and pushed the hair from his eyes, looking at him as if she was searching for something.

Although Robert had never seen her before, her presence calmed him and he sighed at her touch.

She picked up her pace dragging Robert behind her. They weaved through the hallways darting around each corner and cutting through rooms filled with ancient artefacts from previous monarchs.

She smiled slowly, “Who I am is not important Robert. The question is; who are you?”

At last he came to the largest, an oil painting of a family all dressed on white, sitting in the gardens together almost casually had it not been for the militant level of precision they were posed in and the stern looks on their faces. A girl around his age was posed behind her father, she was pale and wore a white lace dress. He was drawn to her, where had he seen her before he wondered. He looked closely at her face, expression neutral but something about her eyes looked sad.

Lost.

“How do you know my name?”

Then it hit him.

She ignored his question, “I mean Robert, who are you? Who are you really?”

He had been so absorbed in looking at the paintings he had forgotten the girl that had brought him there. The girl in the painting.

He turned to look at her, the same sad eyes greeted him as she slowly moved towards the painting.

“Who are you?” he asked

“I..” he didn’t know how to respond. It was a question he had been asking himself for years and was yet to find an answer. She didn’t wait for another response howev-

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“I remember that day,” she said softly “the last day we were all together as a family. I was the oldest of six. I was supposed to become queen that year, but much like you, I couldn’t handle the pressure. It wasn’t the life I felt I was destined for. It was all too much for me and... I never made it to the coronation.”

don’t let history repeat itself.”

His vision was getting blurry. He rubbed his eyes but the girl standing beside him continued going out of focus. He reached out to grab her only to be met with emptiness. And then suddenly, there was only darkness.

Robert’s eyes widened as he realised what she meant.

“I’m sorry” he whispered not knowing what else to say.

“I didn’t tell you this for your pity” she laughed hollowly, “I’m here so you don’t end up like me. We are the same Robert, don’t you see. I can’t have history repeating itself.”

“I don’t have any other choice! I have to do this. If not for myself, for my father.”

Suddenly Robert felt a gust of wind hit his face. He looked around and saw the paintings and then walls falling away from around him. The city was now splayed out in front of him like a map. The glow of the sun rising in the distance illuminated the skyscrapers and buildings. He looked across from him to the girl and he noticed her eyes were damp.

“You do have a choice Robert, I thought I didn’t have a choice, one could say I took the easy way out instead of standing up for my freedom.”

Robert looked down at his feet.

“Is this where you…” he looked up but she wouldn’t meet his gaze “Be brave Robert. Take that leap of faith.

One that I never had the courage to. Please Page 45

Future

Embroidered World

by Yasi Chishti

The moment I wake up and face my embroidered ceiling, I realise who I am all over again. It doesn’t have to be the stench of fossil fuels over pumping in their engines or the exotic aroma of the mexican coffee that my robot places next to me. I can tell quite instantly that something is off. Skipping all my regular hygienic tasks, which makes my robot frown, I scurry down the Buckingham Palace stairs, there is something important going on; and if I’m going to ever become a future Queen I will need to know.

So I stumble down the stairs, hair unkempt but my persistence sticking to me as much as my nightgown does. Before the colossal palace doors can swing open, I grab a pleated jacket off the door knob to my right and enter the dining room. My father who sits on his elevated AutoChair 2000, greets me with a quick wave of his hand, whilst my mother pats to an empty AutoChair 2000, which is adjacent to her. These chairs were apparently “essential”, the last of the real fossil fuels went into making them for my family. But as I gawk out the large oval windows to the city below me, the entire population of London suffers through the haze of corruption, which mainly we, the royal family, have caused.

Straight after, what we call Task No.6, but is actually the term for “breakfast”, my robot,

whom I call Jenny, hands me my division outfit. There are 3 divisions, and we, the royal family, dictate them all. But the only division which should really concern us, is the one we care the least about. We call it the Vagrants, only the homeless and divisionless are confined to the boundaries of that division. However, the other two divisions are out of necessity Militia and Sage, basically just the brains and force of our kingdom.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, my awkwardly large green eyes stare back at me, my outfit as leader of Militia is a bulky red vest which stops abruptly at my hip bone and some clunky black pants. I step into AirBoots 2000, saluting to my father and stepping into my shoes. These shoes are one of the newest inventions of Sage’s, so as I soar past 3 counties, I feel secure knowing their reverse gravity theorem is what supports me.

Looking down at what London has become, I couldn’t help think of what it used to look like. Green fields and birds that chirp without hesitation. I think back to the family records, my ancestors and how happy they looked, and how desperately I pray the future will hold hope like it used to. Even so as I gaze around me, what looks back at me is a bleak bleak unreturnable London, for which even I have no faith.

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TIMELAPSE Summer 2020