Poetry & Prose 2023

With thanks to Mrs

Stansfield

Foreword

I am excited to present this year’s edition of Poetry and Prose Journal, a wonderful display of a range of pieces from across all the year groups. I believe this 2023 edition conveys the hard work and incredible imagination of each and every writer, who should feel proud of their creativity and bravery in laying their imaginations out on the table in such a beautiful way. I hope you enjoy the fruits of their artistry as much as the editing team have enjoyed overseeing its preparation.

As always, none of this would be possible without the continual support and dedication of Mrs Stansfield, whose guidance with this anthology Cerelia and I are very grateful for.

Editor,TéaSand

Many thanks to Mrs Stansfield, Téa and everyone who has contributed to this year’s PoetryandProseJournal. It has been a pleasure to have worked on this inspiring anthology. It is wonderful to see such creativity at King’s, with submissions from the writers being interpreted by the artists, and everyone should be proud of their valued contributions.

Art Editor,CereliaDavis

Poetry

Figure Frozen in Time

My feet drag me to the floor, As the crowd gives a deafening roar, Sword in hand, I make the last climb Before I become a figure frozen in time.

I bare my teeth, and give a low growl To my opponent, who returns it with a scowl. And I hear the death-bell ring its last chime Before I become a figure frozen in time.

The battle is long, swords pierce the sky Until one girl lets out a horrific cry But I am oblivious; am far too covered in grime To realise I will soon become a figure frozen in time.

Then the mountain roars, Lava covers the moors, Hinges are ripped off their doors As Vesuvius speaks.

Chaos envelops the arena in full, And each horse, donkey or bull Has fled the scene to avoid the red slime, But will soon become figures frozen in time.

As I watch the world around me die, My opponent is swept up, high into the sky. Then I fall to my knees, the end of my prime And prepare to become a figure frozen in time.

TéaSand

Fire Dances

I could see figures in the fire when I was younger. They leapt out of the grinning blinding red gums of the wood grain, Flickering upwards like fish from the water, Wearing fantastical gowns, Flashing crowns, Robes of flame, They had mouths that laughed, Eyes that sparked, Eyes that smiled back at me.

Too fast to be seen with certainty, They flickered in and out, gone in a second, Quicker than the spit of a spark, As they do in my memory now.

Maybe young minds have a way somehow Of slowing down time to give me the whirlpool memories that I have, Of dresses bejewelled with sparks, Crowns of glowing coal, Feet that trod the white-hot logs with dainty split-second precision, Figures graceful as fairy-tale brides, Too many to fix on, Too close to see,

Two eyes that smiled back at me, While the heat flushed my face, but still I watched, Mesmerised.

Where they went, those figures in the fire, Is a mystery not for me to solve.

Perhaps our minds go so fast with daily thoughts when we are old That the gowns and crowns and dances are too quick for the eye, Perhaps they are still there,

Holding their fantastical masked balls in the flames, Smiling at me as they say

Ah, she is too old now. She will see us again one day. Maybe if I look hard enough, Sit and stare,

Bring my mind to a halt

On its journey to nowhere, They will laugh at me again and hold out their hands

Offer to me their fiery palms, As they dance up the chimney

To a new venue in the stars.

SophiaHarkness

Shooting After the Star

The stars all shimmer in the light, But only one chooses to take flight. The shooting star, flying higher than a kite. Causing joy for some, and for others fright. It zips through the celestial night, Getting brighter and brighter with all its might.

He looks out of the window, with glittering eyes, Eager for one star to shoot out of the skies. He is tired of his mother, with her ‘comforting’ lies. He knew his father! He’ll live with the stars when he dies. But no matter how hard he tries, The boy breaks down, and silently cries.

The life of both energies is too strong to part, It is too hard to separate a connected heart. The star and the boy are like horse and cart. My word! Here it comes! The star reappeared! It was the opposite of what the boy had feared. The other stars stopped and smiled, when They saw that Father and Son were together again.

Sand

Téa

I am owned

Why stars, When I am bone. I am flesh, I am owned. Great mountains stand alone. Yet I am flesh, and I am bone. Ages gone, and ages past, They last, and last and last. I blink and I am gone, I am flesh, I am bone.

Why beasts, When I am flesh. I am flesh, I am owned. The beast lashes, the beast rakes, Flesh is pressed, flesh gives way. The beast is beast, and beast is flesh, The beast will die. And bone is left.

God blinks, A thousand eyes, A thousand years, The life of a fly. I am flesh, I am bone, I am man, Man is owned.

AidenMasiero

Today

Today I felt

Frustrated, angry

With a side of madness.

A fire-eater flying above

Taking flight

A bird in the Blue, Blue sky.

Fiercely broken by the power of Lightning, the Split Between The life, the death.

Running pointlessly

Today

Tomorrow Or always

Dragon-riding

Bright, loud And Purple

Across the wide, wide World, the Life Or Death.

Téa Sand

Where is my Icarus?

It was a pale daythe clouds huddled together, squeezing out heaved tears. Not a ray of sun could be seen, for her loyal, grey soldiers guarded her irregular frown.

The soldiers formed their line, a perfect scieldweall- protecting what’s more important. But when was it decided that the soldier was not significant? He is certain that if he were knocked down, he might not rise again.

It is a long day for the yellow star, her relentless gaze meaning to bring life, but often burning it to the ground. Her fiery presence should be basked in, So why does no one ever look at her without a furrowed brow?

Her daily journey above the clouds, Paints a pretty picture in the sky. Her sweat runs yellow, her blood gasps orange, streaking across the world’s canvas and recognized below with positivity.

She prays to know why her pain is appreciated, Why rockets and planes shoot towards her but never to her. As her soul leaks out across Earth’s ceiling, She sighs and waits to do it again soon later.

She thinks they must be afraid of her, The great, ugly ball of anger in space’s solitude. The other planets, the other stars, She doesn’t blame them for not wanting to be burned at her touch.

She wonders that if she were to leave, would the green down below on Earth still thrive? Would they remember to stretch towards her, without her gently tapping on their heads?

She yearns to know if her tap is scalding, if they resent her and she destroys more life than she nourishes. She wonders how being so rich in her gold, ever left her feeling so poor, alone in her superiority above.

LilyRobertson

IllustratedbySylvainChan

The World After Covid-19

I open the door, and sprint down the steps, Run into the street, before the crowd intercepts To take in the smell of everything clean And see the world after Covid-19.

The railings are pristine, the streets look brand new, With a space of two metres within every queue Every mouth proudly utters the word ‘hygiene’ In this world after Covid-19.

An abundance of health signs adorn the walls, The skyline, centres and the halls To urge people in expanding the space between In this crazy world post Covid-19.

Many shops have shut down, All over the town, With exasperated sighs People widen their eyes, to the truth that

Whilst a great many things have changed, Germophobes no longer seem so deranged And some will have a much more polished routine In the new world after Covid-19.

TéaSand

See Through These Eyes

Nobody likes me and my long black legs, That weave these complex and tangled webs, For I am small and too little to see, Even the flies seem to ignore me.

But not the giants that look down below, And tear apart everything I know, Stamping in vain at the uneven floor, While I smoothly scuttle out the door.

Their shrieks of terror slowly fade away, As I search for a new place to stay, This corner is dark and quiet you see, I’m hoping nobody will find me.

We all have a soul that rests in our heart, And in this world, we all play a part, See through these eyes my personality, How can I be a nonentity?

CereliaDavis

IllustratedbyCereliaDavis

In the belly of a beast

We ride in the belly of a beast, His armour tough and strong, His tracks take us where we want to go for a feast It never takes too long. His snout shoots out iron and his engine roars like a lion He kills quick and offers no mercy, Because we ride in the belly of a tank, A tank of the stirring army.

Our enemies may have more armour, They may have bigger guns, But they are slow and heavy As we are light and fast

Everyday our numbers grow larger As they begin to grow less.

We storm through their lines

Never to come back alive

But we fight for our motherland

As the motherland provides.

NoahRendo-Castro

Hippolyta

"Hey! That’s 40 pieces of silver!"

"Excuse me, where can I find the temples?"

"Get out of my stand, slave!"

Their shouts were deafening. As I am dragged through Athens, my shackles grazing the hard earth beneath me, the city was waking. Bustling shoppers piled onto the streets in hundreds, and the sound of women's skirts swishing mixed in with the angry stomps of men's sandals. It felt as if my eardrums were to burst. However, I admit I was interested. I cocked my head slightly to listen to a heated conversation between a woman and her slave of about 12 years old. I instantly wrinkled my nose in disgust. How could these people enslave children to do their dirty work? And they call me the barbarian, I scoffed to myself. At least the Amazons treat everyone equally, be it green girl or old woman. I smiled fondly at the thought of home, and consoled myself that I would soon escape this foul-smelling city and return there.

Alisvolatpropiis. She flies with her own wings.

And I will.

I let my senses wander to the left, to a fruit stand where a middle-aged man was selling apples glazed over with caramel to a little boy. My stomach rumbled in response, but I tried to shake the hunger away. I couldn't let myself be tempted to consume the food of barbarians. Blood-baskers. Instead, I let my eyes drift over to a group of wealthy looking girls conversing animatedly. I felt a pang of jealousy. Of course I shouldn't, as I am a warrior queen, notorious for my fierce beauty that could destroy a fleet of men with one look and tear armies apart in one fell swoop. But I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be that sort of beautiful. These ladies had long, flowing hair that cascaded in curls down their skin, which was slightly bronzed by the powerful Greek sun. Their dresses were intricately designed, with ornamental patterns that covered the skirts. They looked radiant.

But wait, a tiny voice said in my head. What was I doing? Comparing my Artemisgiven beauty to that of some purposeless, child-enslaving pigs? I shook my fiery curls and stood up straighter as I passed a group of gladiators, who were guffawing hoarsely as they strutted about, like hens in a chicken pen.

Because that was all the Athenians were. Chickens. City-sackers. Child-killers

My blood roared behind my ears. Roared to the sound of my heart, beating and pulsing, aching for home. Home.

I have to get out of here.

Autinveniamviamautfaciam. I shall either find a way or make one.

And oh, did I ever.

TéaSand

The Swan Box

I lived in a small house at the forest border near Apeiron, a town known for its poets and diligent engineers. Although I was familiar with most of the forest there were some places I had not yet ventured and while I wandered I noticed a green feather on the path. As I picked it up I heard the sound of a waterfall and was overwhelmed with a tugging sensation pulling me towards it. Rainbow-flecked waters shimmered in the sunlight, casting an opalescent glow. As I stepped closer the waterfall ’s magnetism became physical and I could feel myself being propelled towards it. A flame of panic licked my insides, surely, I would be bashed against the rocks or drowned. I screamed as a hole in the sheet of water formed as if a stone had been dropped through it. I expected to have my head crushed against the rock wall behind the water, but instead I was thrust into what seemed to be a cavern behind it. Still choking for breath after the horror of what had just happened, I began to take my bearings.

I was definitely in a cave of some sort and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a glowing form further within the cave. Cautiously I began to edge forwards in case I was dragged towards it like I had the waterfall. To my surprise, the glowing form seemed to be a golden cage. Within the cage was what seemed to be a human woman, but she couldn’t possibly be human because she was black and white as if she had been cut out from an old movie. The woman had glossy black hair, a soft compassionate face and a small slight figure that wore a dress of cotton white material that seemed to cluster around her limbs. Her jet eyes pleaded for help. Those same eyes glanced down into her arms where a black and white baby nestled.

I hurried forward reaching through the bars to try and squeeze her through the gap of the doorless cage. As I grasped her outstretched hand it felt like water and she seemed to melt, but instead of forming a puddle, I realised that she had turned to feathers. Black and white feathers swarmed the air as a gust of wind blew them around the cage. The feathers were disappearing one by one as if they were evaporating like steam.

For several minutes I stood watching the cage as the feathers all disappeared. Now that the woman was gone, I noticed a pale light coming from another cave. As I moved towards it, I realised that it was a tomb. The cave was almost round and in the centre was a huge stone sarcophagus. It was covered in leaves and there was a hole in the roof above it that let the light in.

The walls of the tomb were piled high with beautiful and ancient gold and jewelled boxes, plates, and goblets. As my eyes glittered at the sight of so many treasures, I noticed a tiny silver box under a heap of amber combs. Although it was not nearly as grand as everything else it stood out and was studded with dew-like gems of fiery iris blue. I couldn ’t help myself. I picked up the box and gently touched the elegant carved swans on the sides. This box wasn’t as elaborate as the others. Five swans swimming in a circle around the exterior of the box was the only thing depicted.

I was unable to resist the temptation to pocket the box - for safekeeping I told myself. Then I went back the way I came, slipping through a gap in the curtain of water. Once released, I don’t know how I found my way back home.

That night I dreamt of going to the waterfall but this time I was following someone there. I could not see their face. Tall, with hair of blackbird hue, everything about them spoke of luxury. When we reached the cage, the figure reached out a hand

wearing rings of jet, ruby and emerald to the black and white woman in the cage. He turned, but before I could see his face I woke up.

The next morning, I intended on going back to the waterfall to see if it was all a dream but when I put on my coat, I found the silver jewelled box and knew that it must have been real. I tried to open the box, but it was locked. A crisp letter lay on my doorstep with my name in elaborate gold letters and a wax seal depicting some kind of bird. Inside was an invitation to attend a dance in the town square that evening. The person inviting me was called Cassius Crow. I knew the surname but had no idea who the writer was. I decided to consult my Aunt Ada who knew everyone in the town. Plump with cheerful rosy cheeks and long thick dyed red hair, she had a huge fondness for cats and now owned at least five and had a tooth missing from horse- riding as a child.

‘Oh yes, his father left him everything and he lives quite alone in that huge old place, apart from some staff who never come into town.’

Walking home I began to fret over which dress to wear to the dance, but when I arrived, there upon my doorstep wrapped in paper was the most beautiful dress I had ever laid eyes on. It was the dark blue of a swallow ’s feathers and of gossamer fabric. Thousands of tiny blue glass beads were held in delicate netting over it. ‘Like the box, ’I thought. The overall effect of the dress was of a glimmering mist.

As I picked my way past the carriages lining the town square that evening, I was violently shoved into one. The walls were covered with beetle wings, and it tilted with such force that I was forced to clutch the sides. Before I could gather my wits, before me was a castle that seemed to be made entirely of black and white chess pieces. Two knights loomed over me like gargoyles and at the heart of the castle was a huge cross marking the King and the towers were castle pieces. What a shadow this castle would cast! Not only was the form dramatic but also wildly intimidating.

The carriage gently tipped me out and I managed to muffle my gasp. Although I had never seen his face, I knew that this was the figure from my dream: this was Cassius Crow. He welcomed me courteously, but I was furious. His mother had been renowned for her gentle beauty but there nothing gentle about Cassius. He had eyes as dark as his hair, a sharp jawline, a slightly pointed nose, and strong cheekbones and this gave him an almost elvish look. It was also impossible not to notice the contrast between his pale skin and dark hair which made him blend well with his house. He was very tall and radiated confidence and invited me inside. It occurred to me that I did not know my way back home. He led me through the black front door to a grand entrance hall where a black goat trotted to his side.

“Now, we are going to go and see my witch,” he announced, already striding miles ahead of me.

We entered a room with a ceiling entirely made of glass. A middle-aged woman was washing the strangest thing I have ever seen. It was a golden toad and about as large as a hot air balloon.

“Toady here is all set whenever you are ready,” the woman exclaimed with enthusiasm. Cassius turned to me and gestured to the toad.

“Hop on,” he demanded impatiently, before tossing me onto the toad’s back and hopping on himself behind me.

The glass in the roof folded back and we were flying I held on for dear life as the toad began to soar upwards and away into the forest. As we passed a tree, I grabbed a

pinecone. When we had reached a sufficient height, he turned to me and asked in a voice that emitted a deadly sweetness.

“Give me the box, girl,” he smiled maliciously. Miraculously I spotted a wasp’s nest and with all the force I could muster I threw the pinecone at the nest and leapt from the toad onto the ground.

I began to recognise my surroundings, I was near home, I was near the waterfall. I knew that Cassius knew where I lived so going home wasn’t an option, but the waterfall was. The tugging sensation once again forced me forwards and I was pulled through the sheet of pearly water. The cage was there as it had been only yesterday, and I could see a pale figure standing before it. I rushed forward to ask the woman for help, but this wasn’t a woman. It was Cassius. I paused in terror unable to move. I had to blink several times to comprehend that Cassius wasn’t hurt, in fact there wasn’t a sting on him.

“Please,” he whispered, “The black and white woman you saw yesterday is the soul of my mother, the baby is me. Please, give me the box. It is the only way you can set her free so that she may find peace.” I knew he was earnest. The black and white woman appeared in the cage and like in the dream, he was holding her hand.

“Cassius, I ’m so sorry,” I whispered with shame and regret, “Here.” I gave him the box and as he took it from me, he produced a key from around his neck and unlocked the box. Inside, was a piece of jet inlaid with an ivory swan. Cassius held out the carving to his mother and as they held it together, they both disappeared in a blizzard of black and white feathers.

BeeBillett

Spirit of a powerful woman

One day, I shall be the most powerful woman in all of Scotland.

Right now, everyone worships my husband. He is pathetic, weak, but a man.

Life for a woman is a prison. The sooner he realises that, the sooner I can change my fate.

Although he is afraid of gaining power by killing Duncan, it is the only way for me to escape this prison. He will never understand what it means to be a woman. Power is not given to me, therefore I must take it.

My hands are stained with the blood of men.

Nevertheless, Lady Macbeth is the most powerful woman in Scotland.

TéaSand

Lya

“Be careful”.

I smiled. “You always say that.”

“And now I’m saying it again.” Lya brushed the leaves from my coat. “Have you been checking the shields? Again?”

“I’ll be gone a few weeks. You make sure you check them every morning and every night. If you hear or see anything, anything at all, you hide, OK?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.” Lya’s skin had the elastic plush and lustre of a magnolia flower. I hated leaving her alone.

The hatchlings chattered behind me. I checked that the capsules were securely fastened in the back of the boat. The humidity levels were low in one of them. I unlatched the lid with a hiss and adjusted the dial, careful not to touch the little green mouths that gaped and yawned. There were ten capsules in total, each holding fifty hatchlings.

“Are you sure they aren’t too young?” Lya ran her finger over the nearest creature’s snout. It snapped its jaws and she laughed.

“You always say that, too.”

“Well, look how tiny they are!”

“You get far too attached to them. Ugly little things. They’re a harvest, that’s all.”

I shivered as she checked each capsule. How could it be ten years since Reya and I lifted Lya from pods very similar to these? I felt the loss of Reya every day, but welcomed the grief. She’d brought more happiness than I could have imagined, and it was her courage that persuaded me to steal Lya and run from the city. The six years together, hidden away in our home burrowed out of the cliffs, were ones I could never regret, despite the dangers and sadness that followed.

“I’d better go.” Lya stood and leaned her head against my shoulder. I longed to hold it there, cradle her dear head in my calloused hands, just for a moment, but she’d know. She always could. I had to go before she read the knowledge written in my eyes.

I watched as Lya hitched her skirts up into a knot. Her mother’s clothes were far too big for her, but she insisted on wearing them. I liked it. It was as if Reya still walked with us. With a yelp at the cold, Lya began to wade into the oily green water. Protesting was hopeless; she always helped me with the boat.

“Make sure you wash properly after.” I said to the slim of her back. She was cooing and chucking to the hatchlings as she pulled the boat around.

A shudder of foreboding made me pause. I lingered to take another look at Lya’s flowers. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. She’d planted them into holes dug in the cliff face, let strings of petals and leaves the ribbon in and out of the stunted trunks of the last trees still standing. Even with the cloud pressing grey and solid against the sky, eternally blocking the sun, the colours of Lya’s garden winked bright as stars. As if she’d scattered handfuls of sapphires and rubies into the ever-encroaching undergrowth.

The pain leaned in and forced my bones upright, glad I was facing. Away from her so she couldn’t see as I closed my eyes and let out a breath. I hoped I was doing the right thing. The operation was my only hope.

“Stop dreaming, old man!” she called as she held the boat, waist deep in the water, her eyes dancing with light The boat gave under me as I climbed in, that familiar sway and liquid bounce I’d known every day of my life.

“Be careful, Dad, won’t you?”

“Always,” I replied, but my throat was thick. She climbed the steps, taking care on the bank; the vines had already snarled their way to the clearing, climbing over the chopped heads of their brothers. Her skirts were slick with the water, the green oil staining the hem. I longed to take her with me but if we were caught, I would lose her. I wished I could stay for longer but the rot inside me was beginning to spread.

The boat slid smoothly into the green water. I couldn’t take my eyes from Lya as she stood at the doorway of the cave, her flowers blooming around her. I drank in every line, every shade of colour, the pearl of her hands and the grace of her shoulders. When I could no longer see her, I closed my eyes tightly, burning that last, bright image into my heart. I watched the river shoulder its way down through the cutting, its muscles flexing around rocks that stood proud. I checked on the hatchlings and swallowed a pill as the pain surged.

There was nothing to do but think as the boat carried me closer and closer to Skorn. I could already see it, a malevolent slick of oil that gleamed black on the horizon. Memories of its blackened towers and ashy streets, the stink of the desperate people who lived there, were haunting. I shook them away and thought of Lya’s garden.

AmandaYoung

A visit to The Globe

The State Trumpeters were just fiddling with their music ready to herald the arrival of the King and a brand new show. It’s called ‘Hamlet,’ and some people say it’s so good that one person came all the way from Rome to see it. I have been so excited on this very beautiful evening, the distant sunset falling over the Thames. The actors muttering on the stage set the scene for an exciting evening.

But first it was time for people to cram their heads at the stage. Southwark was a great place for a theatre. Everywhere in the ‘actual’ city was so ugly. The city’s snobby officials appear to have no taste for the Arts, and I think that having the theatre in an area out of their control is a good idea.

I adored the reeds keeping watch over the theatre. It makes a huge change from the ugly tiled roofs of the rest of the area. The problem with plays in the winter is that this beautiful theatre is rightly outdoors and it gets so cold and wet that it is like a scene of an immersive battle experience, but at least the summer brings an oasis of arts and theatre to the greatest city in the world. I love the rousing sound of the State Trumpeters heralding the arrival of HM the King and HM the Queen, for the greatest entrance to the greatest stage on the planet

AngusHumphries

Nameless

I woke up to the face of the neighbourhood announcer, his wildly grinning face staring pointedly at me.

“Good morning, 400, time to get up and come to church!” The television screen across from my bed gleamed a sicky yellow. Yellow was supposed to be a ‘soothing colour to awake to’, but all the same I sprang out of bed almost immediately. Because it was what I had done yesterday.

And the day before.

And the day before that.

I cleaned my face and dressed myself, my eyes flitting to the grandfather clock in the centre of the room that was ticking slowly. It made a sound like a metallic belch every time the pendulum swung from side to side, then back again. I was momentarily mesmerised by the incredibly hypnotizing noise, until I noticed what time it was and shook myself. I sauntered to my cabinet and opened a small silver jar that rested purposefully on the top. I removed the lid and quickly ran the contents inside, namely a silver serum, into my brilliant white hair. Nice of them to give that to us, I thought. I laced up my boots and grabbed the small silver disc with my number on it. I pinned it to my front and set off towards the Church. Walking briskly, I nodded my head in greeting to the other fellow inhabitants of my city, Nameless.

“Salutations, 400. I trust that you slept efficiently?”

“Indeed, it was so, 688. Go forth with my compliments.”

“Accepted. Have an efficient day, 400.” And thus, went my greetings of that morning.

And yesterday morning.

And the morning before that.

Accepting the small can of spray paint given to me upon entering the Church, I stepped into the silent, cold, unadorned room of faith. I was always stunned by the silver, structured, shiny box of prayer, although today it looked even more marvellous. Powerful, even.

A sudden blast of cold wind ruffled my air, and the cool breeze echoed throughout the sacred hall. That’s rather strange, I thought. There wasn’t any wind yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor the day before that.

“Greetings, lowly occupants of Nameless. Today we have an exciting thing to show you before you all resume your daily worship to the Heads.” The priest grinned from ear to ear slightly eerily. For some reason that grin sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to ignore it as I followed her with my gaze just like all the others as she strutted down the silver hall in her latex bodysuit of the same shade, her stiletto heels echoing as their rather jarring click-clack resounded throughout the entire room.

“Today is special. Special, because we have a new edition to the Nameless family,” She announced. I heard more than one gasp from numerous members of the community.

The Heads of Nameless never allow anyone into their city. I mean, they hadn’t let anyone else in yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor even the day before that.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“Here, we have our most distinguished guest, none other than one of our eminent Heads’ daughters!” My mouth dropped open.

“I sincerely hope that her efficiency will be unrivalled, and that she will fit right in with us into Nameless.” With that, she gestured to her left noiselessly with her lustrous silver glove, revealing the most intoxicatingly hideous creature I had ever seen.

Black, straggly hair covered her pale, rough skin. A dull, grey shirt with the words ‘Question Authority’ splayed on it covered her chest. What looked like her trousers were ripped at the knee, and huge, looming, dark boots with the laces untied stomped their way up to the podium. I gulped quietly. This thing was the Devil in person. I had once read about the Devil in a book, but it was snatched from my hands. I can’t remember why.

I snapped back to the present as the priest’s pristinely smooth voice cut the air around me like a knife.

“013, would you like to salute your fellow citygoers?” I realised with horror that she was speaking directly to the creature clad in black, who had her head hung so her fiery, yet dark hair shrouded her eyes. She waited a moment to acknowledge and process the question, then lifted her steady, unlit eyes. And for a second, just one second, and her eyes locked onto mine. I was overcome by the intensity of the stare; however short it was. But nothing was as peculiar and irregular as what she did next.

“My name,” she said coolly, “is Aurelia. Not 500, not 600, and certainly not 013.” The way she articulated those words made me shudder. Then, she swiftly spun around to face the priest, who looked both stupefied and horrified.

My head started spinning.

“I refuse to be known as some ridiculous number like everyone else.”

I covered my ears with my hands.

“I am more than just a number.”

My mind screamed in agony.

“And so is EVERY SINGLE OTHER PERSON here that you’ve brainwashed!” I fell to the floor clutching my head in torment. Her words were excruciatingly painful. I thought the torture would never subside, until Aurelia turned on her heels and stormed out of the Church. A single tear trickled down my face. Only I didn’t know why, as I couldn’t quite place my emotions in that moment.

We all just stood there, shocked by this outburst, until the priest laughed, or rather, growled

“Well, she sure is an…interesting one, is she not? Not to worry, Nameless, we will soon have her corrected…I-I mean-” the priest speedily tried to rectify her words – “I mean sorted out. As for today’s daily practice, uh…just continue as if nothing happened!” I had never seen the priest so flustered. It was extremely rare for anyone in Nameless to make a mistake of any kind. In fact, I was almost certain the mistake-making was against the law and was among one of the worst crimes one could commit. It just wasn’t the done thing. In any case, the priest smoothed out her suit and cleared her throat. “Have an efficient day, Nameless.” And then she left. Everyone turned around, seemingly reassured and convinced by this. I, on the other hand, wasn’t. Something wasn’t right. Something…something Aurelia had said about being brainwashed…a thousand burning questions fired up suddenly in the pit of my stomach, but I pushed them down firmly, instead reaching for my small can of spray paint I had safely stored in my purse and got to work.

I trudged to an open wall in the Church, followed by others with the same cans. A feeling of instant power rose up in me, a feeling I was new to. And all because I would be the first to spray the wall today. I hadn’t done that yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor the day before that.

Thatiskindofsad, a small voice in my head piped up. Youfeelpowerjustbecauseyou are the first to commence the practice. Aren’t there other ways of feeling joy? This quiet voice in my mind was deafening, and my head began to spin again. I shook myself in attempt to throw away those thoughts. What in the name of Nameless was up with me today?

I tried to occupy myself with the regular routine of Church mass. I shook my spray can vigorously and pointed it to the naked wall. A flash of colour shot out of the can and covered the wall as a sign of respect to the Church. It was said that by graffitiing the Church walls, we could let out all those loud thoughts that poisoned our minds and get rid of any thoughtful energy and creativity the Devil supplied us with that ruined our lives. Apparently.

Why be yourself when we could all be the same version of ourselves? That was Nameless’ motto. I muttered those words to myself in my head over and over and over until I had a sudden realisation that was so impactful and vivid that it knocked me offguard.

None of it made any sense.

Be the same version of ourselves? Is that truly all that life is about? Does my presence not count in the inherent permanence of the universe? What even is the universe? Am I myself in it? Could I only be living a half-life in which I was the same as everybody else? Why do I care? Should I care? My head was spinning rapidly now as I tried to compose my thoughts. Good God – my thoughts! Why did I care so much about my thoughts? Wasn’t I happy enough with just being 400? Wasn’t that good enough?

My head stopped revolving as I realised – no. No

It wasn’t good enough. A life where I was not really me was a life I wanted nothing to do with. It suddenly dawned on me that I wanted a name. A proper one. A beautiful one,

like Aurelia. A name that meant something, not just a stupid number drawn out of a silver hat upon acceptance into the city.

A fiery, burning blast of hot wind ruffled my hair. The winds of change.

Only this time, I am ready for them

TéaSand

Margaret and Anne

When I first came to King’s, I was revolutionary. “A girl!”, they all said. “Here? At the King’s school? In 1580? Goodness, who does she think she is?” Even my brother, Kit, often wrinkled his nose when he saw me in my school uniform: crisp, white blouse with a grey petticoat and slender skirt, hat and ribbon, and penny-loafer shoes. Although, I suppose he acted so because he had his friends’ company around, who I expect didn’t want to spend time with his ‘odd little sister’ Margaret. But Kit was a kind soul, so I just brushed it off. All the same, though, I couldn’t help but feel frightfully nervous. Whatever would everyone think of me? Would I be accepted? I gasped loudly at the next thought. Would they even let me past the doors?

“You’ll love it here, Peggy,” Kit assured me a few weeks before, as if he could read my mind, “Even if it is only temporary.” Girls were denied an adequate education the majority of the time, that is until Kit entered the King’s School Canterbury. He was the brightest of his age, a literary genius and Latin whizz, with a sharp tongue and bright mind. And because of his extraordinary abilities, the school allowed, for a few days only, his sister to tag along. “If she even has half the mind of young Christopher,” the headmaster said, “then I see no reason to deny her an education.” And that is how I entered the school, as a temporary plus one to my elder brother. I swallowed my thoughts and forced myself to calm down as I reached the magnificent mahogany doors. This was it. This was my moment. This was-

“Mind out of the way! Oh, I say! You must be Margaret! Hallo!” My eyes widened as a flurry of white and grey, about the same age as me, flounced towards Kit and I, breaking ranks of the others. My eyes widened even more when I noticed a crucial detail.

“You- you are a girl!” The girl threw her head back and laughed, sending her golden curls tumbling over her back. I immediately took a liking to her.

“Well, jolly good observation, Margaret! You really are as bright as your brother! Oh, I say! You are a girl too!” Her last comment sent us both into laughter, until I regained my posture and steadied myself.

“I do apologise,” I began, “It is just that- I wasn’t aware of other girls being accepted! Or do you have a genius brother too?” I meant the last part as a joke, but at once her expression brightened. “My brother is a lyrical genius, and a poet. My situation is in fact the same as yours, Peggy dear! Oh, I seem to have forgotten all of my manners! Mother will have a fit. My name is Anne. I’m dreadfully pleased to meet you!” Her eyes sparkled. In an instant, all my previous worries disintegrated, and I really began to feel at home, even though I hadn’t even walked through the gates yet!

“So is my brother! Oh, how splendid! They can be great friends, just as we shall be.” At that, Anne linked her arm through mine and she strutted through the crowds of children, and I strutted alongside her, into my new life.

The gardens of the school were fresh and green, with nightingales perched on the rooftops. The sports courts looked beautiful, as did the river and its flowery bank. All the while, Anne and I conversed, and I was positive that our hearty laughs could be heard from the main school. On the opposite side of the glade I glimpsed my brother, Kit, and another boy walking together, just the same as Anne and me. I turned to my left to tell Anne so, but she had already broken off and sprinted towards them and began to embrace the friend. I ran towards them too, a little more ladylike, but still as excited as Anne, as I wished to introduce her to Kit and vice-versa.

“Oh, William! I must introduce you to Margaret! She is my best friend, and you are talking to her brother!” Anne explained matter-of-factly. At this, William chuckled. “I am aware of such, Anne dear, as I am the literary genius,” he winked at me and grinned. I blushed. Anne only rolled her eyes.

“You just wait and see, William! Margaret and I, will be the smartest women in all of Britain!” Her last remark sent all of us into uncontrollable laughter, and as the sun began to set in the west, I smiled to myself at the thought of my new friends. At last, Anne turned to me and smiled, her eyes shining, and the boys bid us good-night and walked off.

“Oh, my dear Peggy, I really meant what I said before!” Anne grew serious. “We simply mustprove ourselves smarter than our brothers, if we are ever to get anywhere in this life!” I laughed and once again we linked arms, a token of our friendship.

“Oh, Anne,” I said with a newfound confidence, “I assure you that you and I will be superior to our families and show the world our intelligent minds ”

“Why in fact, if I have anything to do with it, the very names of our brothers Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare shall be replaced with Margaret and Anne!”

TéaSand

Self

I darted across to the corner, sweat forming on my forehead. She was behind me. I could feel her penetrating stare burning the back of my head. A bead of sweat trickled down my face as thunder lashed out over my head. I yelped in pain and crashed down onto the pavement, utterly demolished. I screamed and screamed for help, but nobody answered. I was on my own. I could hear her voice screeching with laughter because I was hurt. Pain in others was what made her happy. She was only out to get me. A sharp pain seared up my hand and light danced in my eyes as darkness clouded over me and I lost track of my senses. The emotional rollercoaster I’d been riding for so many years went off track. The railings broke, the boundaries fell, and the world went black.

The first thing I thought when I awoke was - I am dead. I half expected a team of paramedics to be towering over me and numerous worried people around me, but no. I realised that I wasn’t dead, and that the many worried people were 2 pigeons and a rat. I jumped to my feet and prayed to God that she was gone. She was the one thing that had stopped me from being the innocent, optimistic girl that I once was. She kept me from sleeping. She even kept me from smiling. She was Fear itself. She was…

Lightning mutilated any vegetation in sight. Thunder tore apart the houses and rain drowned the pavements. All of the apartments and houses were destroyed bar one. The corner house. Painted an ugly, evil black, I wouldn’t blame anyone who thought that the Devil herself was keeping it safe. Tentatively, as quiet as a mouse, I took a step towards the house. I winced, for fear that something bad would happen. Nothing did. I kept taking slow steps forward. Before I knew it, I was at the entrance. I was standing in front of Hell’s gateway. Every cell in my brain was telling me to leave, to get out right now. Every bone in my body was itching to run away. But I stood my ground. The only way to overcome fear is to face it, or so I’d been told. Reluctantly, my shaking hand reached towards the doorknob

and

I stepped into Hell.

The scariest part of walking into this house was being reminded of the memories that I had made here. The birthdays, the day-to-day moments, and the day that I had become detached from myself forever. I remembered the young girl doing her plaits in the mirror, smiling at herself and at the world, blissfully unaware. Or perhaps it was naïve ignorance. That was back when she loved herself. Not so much now.

So, this was what Hell looked like. Nameless faces on frameless walls. The infamous pit of doom which sucks poor souls into oblivion and crushes them. That’s the worst bit, because you’re aware, but helpless. Just like me.

I took further steps and spiralled deeper into the house. Darkness had shrouded this place for too long. Suddenly, I found myself face to face with a huge oak door. My stomach churned and I began to backpedal. You shouldn’t have come here. I could practically feel their broken souls feed on any positive emotions I had - if any were left after what she did to me. WhatIdidtome. I walked into the room, and caught a glimpse of my worst fear, for I had just walked into a Hall of Mirrors.

I felt as if somebody had filled my head up with cotton wool and then whacked it with a cricket bat. I felt like a person with arachnophobia who had just locked eyes with a giant tarantula. But I wasn’t arachnophobic. I couldn’t be put into a category. I couldn’t be deciphered. No one would ever get me. I don’t belong.

I was staring straight at the heartless person who had single-handedly ruined my life. She took away the only people who had ever accepted me. She was responsible for the lonely life I was forced to live. But, if I got the chance to start over, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t face them. Notafterwhatyou’vedone

I ran out of the Hall of Mirrors, breaking my reflection into a thousand shards, and into a room painted all in black. A curtain was draped over a painting on a crumbling wall. This was it. My shaking hand reached out towards the curtain and yanked it down. On the wall hung a painting of an aged, but beautiful woman. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” I sobbed into my hands. I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. I cried and cried into my blackened hands.

Next to the painting was a burned armchair. I cried some more. It was all my fault. The fire, the screams, the destruction that I caused. I remember her last words before she died.

Vivamus,moriendumest. Let us live, for we must die.

I didn’t understand it then, but now I understand the lesson that my mother was trying to teach me. I had spent my whole life being afraid of myself. I was afraid to try again. Now I’m being given this opportunity to go back to my life, to start over. I had been given this chance before, but I was utterly unable to live with myself. I was just too damn afraid.

I walked out of the room silently and down the corridor. Oh, how I hated her! Why can’t she just be normal? Instead, she lives to see me experience pain and fear, day after day. I was born to hate myself. She was only born to hate me. I’m the only one with this problem. No one else has her. Only I do. She is connected to me and she won’t rest until I am dead. Ironically, this is what she lives for. Toseeyougone

I kept walking down the dark corridor, my heart sinking a little more with each step. CRREEEAAAAAAAAKK. Something moved behind me. I whipped around and…

My candle blew out.

TéaSand

Gothic Nouveau

Fancy? Fancy. Pah! I will not live my life in fantasy. You might say that was my doctrine in life. In my mind, I knew fact from fairy-tale, dog from doctor; my world was concrete, solid and unwavering in the face of those irrational sceptics and spiritualist corruptors who would try to taint the honesty of reality with their unsubstantiated claims of the arcane and paranormal. No, I preferred to walk among men, not mogwai.

All this is to say I was quite perplexed by the events of that night. I had just driven up to visit my great uncle Harold. The old blight had stuck around for a little over a century at this point and had decided to host a celebratory dinner, as was the custom of his generation. Uncle Harold became the much-adored patriarch of our family and had the intimidating estate to prove it. Indeed, I recall its mighty exterior in great detail: its pristine battlements, unchallenged by all but the weather and how its seemingly freshly sharpened spires trespassed into the heavens themselves. The Gothic abode would have better fit Transylvania than the rural Pennsylvanian landscape in which it found itself. To many motoring down the driveway, it may have seemed like they were entering another world all together, yet my adamantly rational mind stayed firmly put.

As I parked up on the gravelly court before the castle’s entrance, I was greeted by my uncle’s wife Rose. Rose was Uncle Hal’s fourth wife after my aunt’s passing and one of dozens in his amorous encounters. A few lifetimes my uncle’s junior, Rose was glamorously clad in the fruits of my family’s long lineage: her fervent red hair was hoisted above her head, secured with an ivy hairclip while her locks dripped with other jewels of my family exploits. The rest of her was just as decadently decorated, her body draped in some family-significant dress, tailored for her more ‘modern’ tastes. “Petey!” she exclaimed with delight as she so loved to patronise me. She leapt towards me as I stepped out of my relatively humble car, hugging me slightly too tightly for one who was technically now my new great aunt. Nevertheless, Rose was more well-versed in the formalities of greeting than she was the last time I saw her, asking how my trip from California was and how my work was going. I replied in kind, answering her enquiries and asking some of my own, such as how my uncle was whether she enjoyed her new home. She replied cordially as expected, lapsing in only a small complaint in how unsurprisingly isolated the estate could feel at times.

“Outside of Hal, the company is outright dull!” I believe she said, somewhat indignantly. As we spoke, we strolled up to the door to be welcomed by my uncle’s equally old and rather decrepit porter who offered to assist me with my luggage. I was immediately reminded of the vast labyrinth-like corridors that spanned the castle, as I witnessed the seemingly endless rows of doors and stairs diverging from the main hall. The hall was a spectacle in itself; a testament to the engineering of the

time even given its relatively young age. Like all the grandeur of New World, it was attempting to imitate the authentic design of Europe. The porter, deceptively strong for his bony figure, returned with my luggage and offered to lead me to my room. I agreed as I wanted to get settled in for the weekend and I promised to catch up with Rose later, though I confess I rather hoped not to. When I arrived at my room, I found it uninviting, much like the exterior of the once glamorous estate. This was, in fact, something that could be said for the entire interior: it seemed to be characterised by the same sharp, perpendicular angles that had been so distinctive of its outer appearance. It had the same dingy darkness too and mimicked the harsh elements of the outside with its cold, damp tiling. It always confused me how those who were so affluent would choose such an uncomfortable place to live. It was a foolish endeavour in ego and grandiosity in my opinion. Nevertheless, I could and would have to withstand it for a couple days. I unpacked my small, functional suitcase, for I was only meant to be here for the weekend, and began to charge my phone and laptop from the portable power-supply I had remembered to bring. The castle, for all its opulence, had forgotten the facilities of the modern age I so desperately relied on I bathed, groomed and dressed myself before departing down the corridor from my room.

I found the porter waiting for me. He explained he had been sent to see how I was settling in and to alert me that my other relatives had arrived. He led me back to the main entrance hall where I intended to greet my family in the main hall. Rose had beaten me to it, offering up her usual serviceable small talk. She had needed to be taught this from my uncle. The victim of her pleasantries was my scrawny cousin, Oliver, her new ‘grandson’. As children, Oliver (or ‘Oli’ as everyone called him) was one of few of my cousins I actually took an interest in. He was somewhat better adjusted and indefinitely kinder than my more dreamy relatives. Speaking at large, my family would typically rather exist in some contrived world of their historical importance than make something of themselves in the present. As much as I still disliked this about them, I had begun to regret my youthful intolerance a bit. It was the reason why I then found myself in a hall of around twenty strangers.

A flamboyant lot, the monochromatic hall was splattered with the colours of my family’s eccentric garb, each uniquely odd. It was a quality they undoubtedly all took from the man we were all awaiting, a conceited attempt at gaining his favour no doubt. Though I was hardly indistinct myself, what set me apart in my family was that which helped me blend into modern society. It was things like my contemporary outfit, my unexaggerated hair and most significantly my friendly demeanour. My relatives were hardly the most charismatic of people, brandishing an unnecessarily sharp tongue others would blunt. This was not to say they did not understand social expectations. Far from it, unlike the ignorant Rose, each of them had been drilled on proper manners, etiquette and small talk since birth, yet this seemed rarely to translate into genuine amiability. Oli was an exception; far more refined, he stood as a kind of ambassador for the family to the outside world.

Hence, gravitating once again to the man whom I could most easily tolerate, I approached Oli and Rose to relieve them of their mutually painful small talk. They both greeted me immediately; a kind smile ruled Oli’s face as he asked how I had been. I replied, giving him the abridgment of my latest news and reciprocated his question in kind. He explained that he had been looking after Aunt Liza (Uncle Hal’s ex-wife) since her unfortunate fall last spring. Niceties exchanged, I jumped to that which most heavily weighed on my mind, the question of where dear Uncle Hal was.

No sooner had I asked this than the bell rang to gain the hall’s attention. The porter, now general attendant, requested that everyone move hence into the dining room to be seated. Along we all scuttled, excited to savour what would doubtlessly be a very generous meal. And it was at this point things became strange: as we entered the dining room, I noticed the same paintings I found in the auditorium placed across the walls. They had dressed up for the occasion, wearing fabulous frames of silver and saffron gold. After some initial confoundment, I concluded they must have been copies and took my seat. Then came the whisper again, clear as crystal. It said my name, ‘Peter’. Before I had a chance to question it, a door opened next to the head of the table; it was my uncle. He had not tried to supress the room, yet it fell silent nevertheless. Uncle Hal appeared a little differently to the last I saw him, however: he unsuccessfully tried to conceal a mild limp as he darted for his chair; his hair was ungroomed and uncut; his beard and eyebrows had grown wild, concealing the majority of his face. He tiredly stood before his seat and stated “My family, I welcome you to my home – I appreciate it’s not very welcoming itself,” with the latter part said under his breath less loudly.

Ever a man of few words, Uncle Hal sat down and all at once the caterers brought out the food. Though the meal began with a more restrained starter of salmon, it soon descended into more peculiar cuisine as course followed course: crickets recaptured their noise as they crashed to the table, hot and seasoned on a still sizzling pan; the typical dinner prawns were substituted with more ‘niche’ crustations and the bread had taken on a muddily dense texture. Even seemingly normal items had seemingly uncanny properties inexplicably thrust upon them. The teapot flooded the table with a plentiful and persistent steam, veiling the horrid contents that lay on it. By the end of the meal, the scene had transformed from the civilised scene of polite society it was at the beginning to a misted-over mire, home to foul-eating beasts. To my surprise, few words than ‘beast’ could better describe my unphased relatives as they messily scarfed down their fill of the disgusting banquet.

Hence, I was as glad as I was surprised to be ushered away to my uncle’s study before the cheeseboard could arrive. I sat in a freshly cured leather chair and awaited my uncle’s presence. Unlike the dining room, the only paintings in this room were landscape, not a face to be seen. One particular painting did catch my eye, however. It was of the same dimensions as those in the dining room, yet it was entirely black and not hung, but resting at the bottom of the wall. As I redirected my gaze from the mysteriously bland painting, I noticed Uncle Hal sitting at his desk. How he silently snuck in is a matter that still puzzles me to this day. He greeted me and offered me a friendly greeting with a smile identical to that of Oli. Never one for small talk, Uncle Hal got down to ‘business’ right away.

“You’ve noticed them, have you not?” he asked, inquisitively raising one eyebrow Quite confounded as to his meaning, I could only ask what he meant. ‘The paintings. Their whispers. Their choice.” He clarified.

Rational as ever, I gazed simply puzzled, as I confined my reasoning to the perceived boundaries of ‘reality’. Uncle Hal did his best to explain, how the paintings were us, how I had been chosen to be one of them, and how his first choice was, of course, Oli. His direct descendent and groomed since birth, of course Oli should have been the one to take over. Nevertheless, the paintings, the patriarchs had chosen me, so me it was to be. Quite convinced my uncle had obviously been deprived of his medication, I called Rose from the dining room to the study to show her my uncle’s dire state. She remained uncharacteristically quiet while Hal expressed his empathy for my reaction.

Then came the horror, the shock, the confirmation that my oh so logical and coherent view of the world and reality was entirely wrong. Hal unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a fast increasing absence of flesh. As it disappeared, it did so layer-by-layer, revealing the many dreadful, bloody systems which I had thought were crucial to maintain our existence. A man’s entire being was decomposing before my eyes. And yet, his body was still outlined by his clothes, even those parts which had disappeared. He got up and took Rose’s hand, stating quietly, ‘It’s time’. Then came a display of far more genuine love than I ever expected from Rose: the gleeful girl picked up the plain black painting that lay across the skirting board and placed it on the wall. Posing parallel before the painting, the two kissed and were absorbed into the painting. Frozen in time, they became a picture. A familiar whisper ran over me, simply saying “It’syourturn”

And so that brings us to today. I have spent the last eighty years living in that world of fantasy I so vowed to avoid. Fancy and fiction have become my every day, just as it will yours. You see, it is your turn. You are their choice this time

FinnCleghorn-Brown

If you would like to talk about any of the issues explored in this collection please do email pastoral@kings-school.co.uk or reach out to a Peer Listener.

All donations from this publication will go to the chosen King’s Week charity.