Iamhonouredtohavehadthechancetowitnessthetalentofthewritersandartiststhisyear.The amount of effort thatgoesintocreativityisstaggering,soIapplaudeveryonewhoparticipatedin thisjournal.IhopeyouenjoyreadingthiscollectionasmuchasIdidduringtheassembling.
A big thank you to Mrs. Stansfield for her dedicated contributions and support inthemakingof thiscollection,andanotherenormousthankstoeverypersonwhosubmittedthisyear.Enjoy.
The brick of smiling and cement of the perfect pink blush sheltered from all who looked on. When prettiness earned praise and promiscuity earned distaste, the shelter morphed into a little bedofsticksandstraws,desperatetobepurified.
It wobbled from traversing pushes for more smiles, more laughs, more dimples and more skin but less skin, less sultriness lest the poisoned touch brought forth desire. Time warped and stretchedinnocentgrazesandstrokes,andthelittlesheltercouldbarelystandwithshakinglimbs. They were too weak, too fragile, too breakable. The soft straws invited invasion, moreattempts to stomp on remaining strength. They loved the hourglass shape cowering behindthesanctuary, enjoyed the fabric hugging those perfectly, magical curves. They did not have to learn of the torturous system, nor did every bite and swallow of shame matter in the rituals that promised applause. When they asked for squares, the triangular shelter forced itself to squeeze into the role.Whenitfinallycollapsedintoatiredsquare,alltheywantedweretrianglesagain.
Creases could not layer youth. Curves could not possess the slender. Probes and rasps were so recited andsoartificialbutsorawandrealitseepedintosticksandfrozethestraws.Betweenthe scatteredbuzzesandthedisappearingandreappearingshadows,therewasnothingtopickapart.
A big mosquito flies through the feeble defences of the shelter. It chews through the fabric of home and nestles comfortably on top of every patch ofskinitcanfind,leavingbrightredmarks initswake.Anotheritch,anotherscratch.Whenitfinallybleedsfromexhaustion,everyprevious bitenipsthroughtheirpatchesofskin.Theyallbegintoleak.
The universe I live in is very oppressive, it’s like a giant office. Every day we are forced to labour for hours on end withlittletonobreaksbyBosses.MyBossiscalledJude.Shesitsatthe front desk and spends her time eating Oreos and watching the latest soap opera while we slave away for sometimes a hundred hours a week. Henry and I work in the Chemist Department, of theofficeuniverse,developingpillsforsleepproblemswhichisironicaswe’redeprivedofsleep ourselves.
Our only relief in the eveningsisnightclubs.Everythingelseisshutbythetimewefinishwork, oftenatmidnight.Henryisintothisnewclubcalledthe“FangedFamiliar,’intheuniversebelow ours.WeallliveinonehugeSkyscraperwhereeachfloorisadifferentuniverse.
“It’s in a graveyard - there’s a topiary bush theshapeofacatandwhentheeyesglowyouknow theclubisopen-it’sagothnightclub,”heexplains.“Takethelift,I’llseeyouinthere.”
For each universe, the mode of transport changes depending on what sort of universeitis.Ours haslifts.
I thickly outline my eyes with the black eyeliner I had bought on the black-market last month and put on my black leather dress before I take the lift down to the Nightclub floor Ifollowall the other people dressed in black along the path to ‘Wilkins Cemetery.’ I can hear the grating noise of electronica and smile to myself. At the heart of the graveyard I can see the black cat topiary bush. The eyes are glowing lizard green. As we approachthebushthecatopensitsjaws and we climb inside. We are in a room draped with darkredvelvetwhichopensoutintoamaze of black lace.Waiterscarryplattersofglassestheshapeoftoads,containingswirlinginkypurple liquid. The nightclub is disorientating and as I approach the DJ, who has a cheek piercing and spiderweb tattoos. Venom, byGoldrush,pumpsoutofthespeakers.JustasIbegintojumptothe music, I hear raised voices and people begin to scream and scramble towards the exit. “Boss!” someone yells. I slip outside with a group of hooded teenagers dressed in green scales – they must belong to the Crocodiles. I hear someone yell “Seventh floor!” which is my universe, so I shovemywayintotheliftalongwiththeotherpeopleheadedforthatfloor.
It takes only a few minutes until the lift comes to a stop and I climb out. Something feels cold, very cold. I glance back atthelift,confused.TheuniversewhereIliveisalwayscloudy,itnever snows… As other people push past me snowflakes drift down, I realise that I am on the wrong floor. This is the eighth floor! AsIturnaroundhopingtohopbackonthelift,Irealisethatithas disappeared. I had totally forgotten, different universes have different modes of transport and I
guess this world doesn’t use lifts. I stand in the snow ataloss,it’sabadideatobecaughtinthe open, you don’t want to be picked up by the Bosses for idling. The Crocodile crew have their hoodsupandIpullmythinblackcoatcloser,oneofthemgivesmealookandIfollowthem.
Something is looming ahead, barely visible through the blistering snow. A huge building. Like one enormous black wall. It’s adorned with an almost overwhelming number of gold swirlsand cupids, sothatitismorelikearock-climbingwall.IseetheCrocodilesjointhepeoplestreaming insidethroughrevolvingdoorsandfeelmyselfcarriedforward.
The entrance room is dimly lit, and I can see a huge staircase spiralling out of sight like long locks of walnut hair In asortofdaze,Iampressedupthestaircase,landingafterlandinginnear darkness passing me by Someone trips me painfully from behind. I’m on my knees and people are turning blank faces to stare. From under one of the landing doors I can see a silvery light. I don’t want a Boss to stop and question me, so I open the door and find myself in a narrow corridorfilledwithmilkylight.There’sanothersmallerdoor
As I open the door I take in the contents of the room and my eyes glow. Before me is a sea of pearls but not just white pearls, dusky blue pearls, mauve pearls and even yellow pearls like drops of honey. At the centre of the room is a small man ploughing the pearls. The folds in his skin are stratified like puff pastry, so that I can barely see a pair of amber eyes below the rusty foldsofhisskin.Heglancesupfromhiswork.
“What do you think, you silly girl?” He grumbles in a croaky voice.“I’mploughingthedreams of the world. You see each one of these pearls here? Well, each one is a dream and if I don’t plough them you wouldn’t dream at all. Don’t just stand there, give me a hand!” I try to get to him, almost slipping, as pearls scatter around my feet. “Careful! Careful!” the old man moans. As I approach him the pearls heave up and I fall through them until I am standing on the floor again and it’s as if the room has flipped. The pearls now make up the ceiling and Istandonthe floor with them floating above me. AgnarledhanddropsdowngraspingarakeandIknowwhat I’ve got to do. I have to rake the pearls from underneath. Raking the pearls is like polishing glass,theyaresosmoothandglossythatit’snotverystrenuouswork.
I have beenploughingforwhatseemslikemomentswhenonceagainahandreachesthroughthe pearls and pulls me up by the cuff. A man dressed as a professor with a white wig and white jacket hisses at the old man and drags me out the room. As he does, I can feel him wipe something wet on the back of my head and once againIamonthestairsalongwithhundredsof other people. As we reachthetop,mylegsaretrembling.Thereisadoor,muchliketheentrance one and on the other side another professor is sorting us into two lines, shining a light on the backsofourheads.
We are standing on a bridge inside the building and under us what seems miles below are thousands of people selling their wares from tiny stalls. They are selling dreams. Liquids of every colour, with signs: ‘cures nightmares’ and ‘makes you dream about parties, beaches and feasting.’ButIknowtheirdreamsarefakesbecauseIknowaboutthemaninthepearlroom,and noonebelowissellingpearls.
At the end of the bridge ahugeflickeringscreenscrollsthroughourpictures.Hundredsoffaces, different messages…andoneofHenry!Buthehasfairerhair.Anditsays‘KingHenryV’above hisfaceand‘Missing.Pleasecontactauthorities.Rewardforinformation.’
I am led with the people who had just been to the dream market to awaitingcoach.Itsmellsof synthetic strawberry Despite my efforts I can’t keep my eyes open,somethinginthemovement of the coach or is it the strawberry smell? When I awake, we have arrived in a bleak seaside town, the weather is still cold as we stagger off the coach, so perhaps we are still in the same universe? I stand disorientated, looking at the empty shops as the other passengers drift away There isonlyoneopenstoreandasIapproachitsomeonesoftlywhistles.There,partiallyhidden in the shadows is Henry. But he is the paler Henry. He clearly knows me. I know that in this universehemustbethemissingKingHenryV.
“IknowyouareHenryV,”Iblurtout.
“What are yousaying?OfcourseIam.Aren’tyouheretogetmeonboardthetransportshipsoI cangetthehellawayfromthistown?”
“Look out there in the bay See thatship?That’souronlyrouteoutofheretoJudea.We’vebeen waiting weeks for you. We need to oust Judas and take back the city Have you brought the pearls?”
The ship charges us two pearls, one for each of us, for safe passage. I keep the blue pearl. As night falls, we board the ship whichmovesoutofport,glidingsothatalthoughwearetravelling atgreatspeedyouwouldhardlyknowwearemovingatall.
After two days we reachtheportcityofJudea.There’safairnexttothequayandlargeshipsout in the bay. The night air is impossibly warm, and I canhearthesoundofcarnivalmusicandsee the glittering lights of pinkandwhitepaintedstallssellingtreacleblackcandyflossandmerrygo round rides. Posters on the stalls say, ‘Welcome to the Land ofAristocrats,thelandofJudasthe Disciple.’ They show a woman who is the double of my Boss Jude, wearing a tuxedo and smiling widely We had heard rumours of this land in The Skyscraper, where aristocrats live on
And there she is, standing by a stall, playing the loudest music. It is one of those with a mechanical arm suspended above an enormous pit of stuffed toys. But sewn oninplaceofbead eyesareblackpearls.Andsurroundingthetoysarethesameoilylookingblackpearleyes.
“Win a ticket to purgatory, adream-pearl,anenemy’sforgiveness,agoodnight’ssleep.Winwin win!”Shechallengesus.
Henry grabs my arm and urges me. “Thisiswhatwe’vecomeallthiswayfor!It’sourchanceto get rid of Judas the usurper, to reclaim my throne.” I feelinmypockets,Istillhavesomecoins, and right in the seam of the pocket the small blue true pearl isstillthere.ButHenryhasalready paidandhasenteredtheenclosure.Iseehimstartingtosinkintothepearlsandrushinafterhim.
We are floundering around sinking deeper into the pearls. A cloud of sooty dust, like crushed blackbird feathers rises and we are in a desert of broken pearls. Chipped pearls and tarnished pearls.AndJudasisinthedeserttoo.
“I will send you back to where you belong.” She raises her hand to strike me, but falters. I am glowing. A pearly blue sheen consumes me. Flecks of blue green and pink dance across my arms.Iamshininglikethepearl.WithonelongglitteringhandIreachouttotouchJudasandshe crumbleslikecindersinmyhands.
I see Henry waiting for me by the now empty quay as theblackmistslipsaway Thefairground has gone. I turn to Henry “What now? Do we stay in Judea or turn back? I still have one pearl left…”
“Judea?” he takes my hand. “This land is mine now. As my birthrightdemands.Useyourpearl totakeyouhome.Ican’tcomewithyou.I’llbesomeoneelseinyourworld.”
Hesitantly, I take the last pearl from mypocketandswallowit,andI’monthepavementoutside TheOffice.AsIlookupatoneofthewindows,HenrywavesatmeandIheaduptomeethim.
BeeBillett
IllustratedbyMariaBelopolsky
Misplaced
Hope was a traitor, an empty promise, an illusion. Hope was deceptive. It had so often been unforgiving to me. I wanted to stamp it out, extinguish it for so many years, but that stubborn flame just wouldn’t go no matter how hard I tried. I clung to the memories we shared, the days where we would banterfromdawntodusk,thechildisharguments,wishingIcouldexperienceit again.Butwell,thoseareonlyechoesfromthepastI'veneverhadthewillpowertoleavebehind. Thosedaysaregonenow
“Doyoulikeseashells?”heasked.
And so began the rant about his collection. “My father’s a missionary, so he gets to travel a lot and bring me shells from around the world! Do you wanna look at my collection?” He would look at me with eager eyes and a big smile as he told me the origins of his belovedshells.That kid,hehadamorbidfascinationwiththeocean.
I began tolearnmoreaboutthisboywithhisseashells,whowasenergetictoafault,Imustsay.I would roll my eyes with a huff ashedraggedmetoanearbyrockpool,wonderingwhenIcould go back home and sleep instead. But every time he spoke aboutseashells,therewasthisglintin hiseyesthatmakeshimlook alive.Iwantedittostaythere,soIlistened.
We would meet up every weekend. His lopsided grin would widen when I told him about an embarrassing tale, or that time when he teased me for liking octopuses after I pestered him endlessly about teaching me how to draw one. I sulked, refusing to meet his eye until he apologised.Lifewassimplebackthen,itwasjustus,withnooneinbetween.
Ofcourse,hewastherewhenthingsweren’tsosmooth.
He found me crying once when I was fourteenandhewassixteen,curledupinthecornerofmy room, with sheets of paper crumpledaroundmeandmybreathragged.Igrinnedupathim,nails digging into mypalmastearsstreameddownmyface.Hedidn’trun.Instead,hekneltbesideme and held my trembling hand. “I’m here,” he said, and that’s all it took for metothrowmyarms around him. I could feel his hand running acrossmyback,onlystoppingwhenhefeltmybreath evenout.
He became my sourceofstrength.Icouldsmilebecauseweweretogetherandcouldcrybecause it was him. The thought of us being apart would slip into my mind...I didn’t even want tothink aboutthat,butsometimesIdid.Ihopeheneverthoughtaboutit.
He opened up too. About his family, and their constant arguments, about how theywouldnever consider hisopinion,abouthowtheirhighexpectationsandhowIwouldsuffocatehim.Once,he called me after midnight, his voiceheavywithdespairasherecountedtheday’sevent,thejovial facade he often wore melting away. I could do nothing but sit on the edge of my bed and press the phone against my ear, offering whatever comfort I could throughthedistance.Ikeptthecall going until the next day, reluctantly ending it only when his breathing steadied into sleep. I promisedtoprotecthimfromthenon.
He wouldn’t go to the beach with me anymore, and responded with “I have work to do” every time I asked. I confronted him about the strange behaviour he hadbeendisplayingawhilelater, onlytobemetwithan“I’mfine.”
He texted me less and less. I tried scheduling days to hang out andspendtimetogetherjustlike whenwewerekids,buthewouldn’trespond.ThatwaswhenIdecidedtoknockonhisdoor.
FORSALE.
I blinked. It was still there. Big bold letters in red. FOR SALE. I didn’t dare let myself wonder whatthatmightentail.
No,no,no.Thiscan’tbe...
AsIapproachedthehouse,acoldgustofwindblewpastme.Apainfulreminderofmy consciousness.FORSALE. “I’ll always be by your side! I’ll protect you! I promise!” Sohe couldn’tbegoneandthishousecouldn’tbeforsale,right?Thisisjustanillusion,right?Iclung tothehopethatthiswasafragmentofmyimaginationandscrambledtolookthroughthe window.
For weeks I tried to contact him, wondering if he wasalrightornot.Itried,triedsohardtohold onto him, to hold onto the smallest possibility that he would come back and this could be
dismissed as a mere dream. It’s funny how everything could be ripped away from you in less than a second. It’s hilarious, how he was like the sun:HowInevertrulyhadthechancetoreach him despite his teeming presence in my life. It felt a bit offwithouthimbymyside.Everything becameabitquieter.
I wanted to laugh with him, to just catch a glimpse of his smile again. My hands groped the darkness,desperatelyseekingcomforttofilltheemptyvoidasItossedandturnedonthebed.
Why does everyone I’m close with leave so quickly? It’s probably because I didn't check up on him often enough. I should have seen the signs, I should have spent more time with him, I should have prioritised him. I haven’t been a good friend to him, I was the reason he left. I’m not good enough.
It’s okay though, I'm alright, I can do without him, and he can do without me.
He’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. ThiswaswhatIutteredpatheticallytomyselfeveryday. I tried to write my emotionsdown,butwordsdidn’tseemenough.Hewasmyfriend,myanchor andtheonlyonebymysidethroughthickandthin.
I was searching for someone I can't see anymore. I was listening for the things I can't hear anymore. His shadow still lingers around me. I could only suck in a breath shakily, trying to compose myself while walking on the streets,astheimageoflaughterandseashellsflashedpast mymind.Asingletearmanagedtorolldownmycheek.
This isn’t funny. Where are you? You would not break your promises, right?
I was eight. He was ten. “Be happy, otherwise tell me and I'llpunchthebullies,”hesaid.Iwish itwerethateasy.
The monster never stopped playing with you in its vicious cycle. Every time it held the shoe to yourfeet,theglintthatsparkledinitseyetoldyouitknewwhatitwasdoing.
Thatglinttoldyoutokeepyourmouthshut.
When theyearsflewby,thememoriesbecameblurred.Youfoundfigureswhoheldyou,laughed and cried with you all the same. The blemishes of the past were collateral damage. If your wounds were invisible, you were perfect. These figures offered sentiments, shared striking adventures and wildness, such wildness that made you fantasise about being a part of. You returned the favours, showering them with equal love and adoration and companionship. Amongst their countless smiles, there was one that made you grin a little wider, blush a little harder.
He was the prince to your princess, the one who fastened sweet roses to your hands andwasso gentle and tender in handling you, like you were a rare, salvaged diamond he found in the deepest depths of the earth and intended to keep forever. The shadows that left raw tears streaming down your cheeks and purple bruises on your heart trickled through the beacon of courage he ignited inside you. In the hypnotising gift of his warmth and scent when he cupped yourcheek,youdidn’tnoticehishandmorphintoaclaw
OneSeptembernight,anightmarerainedlikeaplague.
The monster was back. It tore intoyoulikeananimal,socrazedandhungryitrippedwhereskin was visible, all while your lips hung open and you tried to squeeze out a whimper,awhine,but no sound came out. Its large, leathery hands wrapped around your neck, and you begged and apologised andsobbedprofusely,repeatedlyuntilyourthroatwasdryandparchedandexhausted and sore, but its fellow monsters tore from their human shells, and they ripped you into shreds likeyouwerenothingmorethanasloppybucketoffleshforanimalstofeedon.
In the haze of yourtears,anotherfigurestrokesyourhair.Itkissesyourforehead,andtellsyouit is a monster in disguise, sent to stretch your suffering. But miraculously, it bears empathy. Humanity. It weeps tears of guilt and humiliation, its apologies like sticklessbandagesdrowned in the wet blood of your bitterness, a ball of fragile fire barely contained in your thick sleeves andsaggypants,burningthetalliesofsecondchancesnearingathousand.
