Creative & Cultural

from The Peterite 2012-2013

News, events & Activities

Drama

Les Misérables

This production was a real joy to work on. We were fortunate to have a very strong cast, who were up for the challenge of taking on this opera which is completely sung, containing only two words of dialogue. The taxing and complicated nature of the vocal writing required a particular emphasis on the singing, as well as an ability to deal with the many dramatic elements of the piece.

As the performances approached the sheer scale of the work began to loom over us all. A first act of an hour and twenty minutes is in itself as long as most school musicals, and to have this combined with a second act of a further hour was a daunting prospect both in terms of the time we had for preparation and the commitment that was needed from the cast as they continued with their normal school life. It was a worry at times but perhaps more for the staff than the pupils!

The set was superbly constructed by our technician Helen Heaton and her parents the weekend before the show and this just transformed the Memorial Hall and brought a sense of excitement and anticipation to the whole event. It was a delight to see the hall being developed to allow for drama, with the new lighting rig in use, and to have performing arts right at the heart of the school for this week. An orchestra of 25 was massed,

Creative & Cultural

as we decided to use radio microphones and work towards a fully amplified performance with all the richness and possibility of sound that this offered.

The performances just grew in stature as they progressed and particular thanks are due to all the principals, led by Guy CowmanSharpe as Javert and Bill Goss as Jean Valjean, who were quite outstanding throughout.

It was a great pleasure for me to be working with our new Director of Drama, Helen Lindley and my colleague David Spencer, who offered his customary highly professional support as Assistant Director of Music on the show.

Mr P Miles-Kingston

Macbeth

The Shakespeare Schools’ Festival is the largest youth drama festival in the UK. In 2012 700 schools performed across 90 professional theatres. In October a group of twenty-three St Peter’s students took a 30 minute performance of Macbeth to the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds. Three other schools also performed their abridged Shakespeare plays on the same evening.

The cast and crew worked incredibly hard in a very short space of time to create a fantastic ensemble production which really stood out and looked at home on the professional Courtyard Theatre stage.

The witches - Bethan Bradley, Anna Thrussell and Lily Spencer - were described in the review as ‘casually evil’ as they remained onstage throughout the whole performance, manipulating characters and constructing scenes.

Ben Turvill - as Macbeth – was the only actor over the four Shakespeare performances of the evening to be singled out for a well-deserved personal round of applause by the festival coordinator. In his final moments we saw him turn to Macduff and unbutton his shirt to prepare himself for the death that he suddenly realised was inevitable.

Power hungry Lady Macbeth - Emily Mahon – was stunningly assured in a red evening dress, but became incredibly vulnerable when Duncan’s murder had taken place. Ben and Emily created a mature and complex relationship though which the audience could be horrified by their actions and moved by their downfall.

This production had the essence of a horror movie, as the dead collective returned to stage smeared in blood to haunt the Macbeths. Rosalind Tait’s screams as Lady Macduff whilst she watched her children brutally murdered in front of her were poignant and upsetting. The text was interspersed with physical sequences, inspired by German Dance Choreographer Pina Bausch, in which the audience could witness the witches trading and trafficking with the Macbeths.

Behind stage was an extremely creative team of six, including Assistant Director Dewi Sarginson. The crew was responsible for the incredible costumes, haunting makeup, and efficiently minimalistic set. Lizzie Whiter designed, programmed and ran the state of the art lighting desk at the West Yorkshire Playhouse single handedly. Huge congratulations to all involved.

Miss H Lindley

Three Women written by Ben Turvill V

Review and interview by Ben Turvill

There are two versions of ‘Three Women’ by Sylvia Plath. The first, the original, is one more known to academics and teachers than to the pupils of St Peter’s school. The other version – the version more famous to Peterites – is that which resulted from a vast re-working and stunning theatrical representation by Upper Sixth Formers Dewi Sarginson and Jamie Fenton. These Sixth Formers, alongside actors Ruby Wilson, Lucy Schofield and Emily Mahon, and technician Alex Plane, managed to showcase the Shakespearean quality of Plath’s indestructible lyric: poetry effortlessly adaptable to all situations. Indeed, visually stunning theatre that both emotionally and intellectually grips the audience may seem a far cry away from three poetic monologues originally intended for the radio, but our crusading dramatists have not only introduced our school to Plath, but quite possibly re-defined the world of performance poetry and poetic theatre.

The Interview

Dewi: ‘Three Women’ was created in ten days.

Ben: Do you think it was a good debut play for you?

Dewi: Yes, it was certainly different. I don’t think anyone would have attempted it, especially as their first play. It was interesting to produce, and people enjoyed it, which was surprising: I didn’t think people would enjoy it as much as they did.

Jamie: They were really overwhelmed more than anything else.

Dewi: And I had said to Jamie at our first production meeting that this could not be a glorified poetry recital. We are treating this as a play. There had to be action; I was not going to let it be static. So the conversion of poetry to play was hard to overcome before you even start thinking about the language.

Ben: And so was it the language that first drew you to the poems?

Jamie: The idea came when I was reading through Sylvia Plath’s ‘Collected Poems’ on my own, on a weekend, as you do, and I came across the poems. Usually I leave long poems to come back to them later, but with this one I read the first two stanzas and though, ‘Hmm, I’m going to continue with this.’

Dewi: And then Jamie told me to read it and I thought it was beautiful work.

Jamie: So more than anything it was the language, yes. Also it’s not plot driven. I think it’s more language and character driven.

Dewi: I enjoyed the characters. I liked the fact that we could create these characters from the text, because in the poem they are essentially faceless.

Mark My Words

The riots of 2011 are still fresh in the minds of many, and yet, nearly two years after the riots took place, it seems the true cause of the unrest is still shrouded in denial, debate and obfuscation. This is what Fourth Fall GCSE Drama pupils tackled in their play, entitled Mark My Words. The play was a piece of verbatim theatre; a type of documentary theatre wherein all the dialogue was stitched together from genuine accounts from police, rioters, politicians and Mark Duggan’s family. It also involved audience members participating in the play, circling the performers and taking on the role of an angry mob outside the ‘police station.’

The starting stimulus for the pupils was being shown a photo of Mark Duggan, the man whose shooting at the hands of police was, some believe, the catalyst for the riots. As the play evolved and their research continued, the pupils found their initial sympathies and prejudices challenged and changed. This resulted in a more balanced narrative with no clear villains or heroes.

During the play’s evolution, the group were visited by PC Horsley from the York Police Force, who also brought along nine riot shields to show the pupils. In a question and answer session with PC Horsley, he discussed with honesty his own personal experience when he was deployed to work in the London riots. His account brought another angle to the play’s story.

Mark my Words was a fantastic opportunity for students to delve into complex political and moral issues concerning recent historical events. They used inventive structure and powerful physical theatre to engage the audience, as well as emotively telling the real stories of people directly involved in the 2011 riots. The result was an illuminating piece of didactic theatre and I think all members of the audience will have learnt something as well as being entertained. It shows that verbatim theatre can be a powerful political tool, allowing people sometimes not given a public forum to express their voice.

Miss H Lindley

The Wonderful World of Dissocia

The L6 Theatre Studies Group - Elliot Elstob, Brogan Grant and Elle Illingworth - performed a fantastic adaptation of Anthony Neilson’s The Wonderful World of Dissocia in April. The play is an exploration of mental illness in which Lisa, the protagonist (Brogan) is a psychiatric patient in a hospital and Dissocia is the vivid and colourful imaginary country in her mind.

The drama studio was transformed into a sterile white room with bed, hospital trolley and visitors’ chair. In the hospital the naturalistic scenes where Lisa’s boyfriend (Elliot) and Lisa’s sister (Elle)pleaded with a despondent Lisa to take her medication were very moving. Lisa appeared to the audience as withdrawn and depressed in reality, but as a lift transported her (and the audience) into her own head – Dissocia - she had lively and animated conversations with a variety of eccentric and witty characters including the insecurity guards, a scapegoat (expertly puppeteered and voiced by Elliot) and Biffer and Britney who had lost their lost property office. There were eleven characters in this adaptation and Elliot and Elle played five each. This multirole playing is a huge undertaking for any actor and it is a testament to the talent of the group that each character was so rich and varied in creation.

Miss H Lindley

The Tempest: Middle School Shakespeare

The Tempest is Shakespeare’s last known play, believed to have been written in 1611. It is the subject of a bewildering array of contemporary readings: is it a colonial play, investigating the oppression and enslavement of Caliban, one the original inhabitants of the island? Is it a proto-Darwinian consideration of nature-nurture?

No matter.

‘The Tempest’ is about how to find it in your heart to forgive, despite feeling you have been deeply wronged. It is also about the illusory nature of power. It takes us a couple of hours on the island to remind us that ‘the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance’.

Taking part in the middle school Shakespeare is to understand that this is the sort of thing you might end up discussing in the twilight hours of a February evening. Esme Wright and Beth Bradley particularly engaged in this type of dialogue from the start; the Ariels (Eve Bracken, Ellie Caley and Rosalind Tait) had the sort of creativity and inventiveness that seemed inexhaustible; Peter Gray as Gonzalo learned the clever diplomacy of the human buffer zone when faced with the cowardly malice of Antonio and Sebastian (Alex Gould and Frank Wilson); and Alex and Frank learned the heartache of memorising Shakespeare: respect to them both for never giving up! Our comedians Trinculo (Sam Lightwing) and Stephano (Alice Jackson), along with Caliban (David Adelugba) gave sparkling performances which happened after they’d learned in rehearsals that collaboration is the ultimate productive state; again, ‘the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance’. Their deftness and versatility was a delight to behold.

George Snell presented us with an entirely unexpected Ferdinand: gentle and lovelorn but recognisable in his eagerness to ‘score’ and in his rightly wary attitude towards his motherin-law. Gaby Richardson, (Alonso) resigned to playing a man from the outset, did this with dignity and utter conviction, playing not just a man – but a man who has just lost his only son. Not easy. The utterly reliable and extremely funny supporting cast (Henry Graham, Toby Johnston, Rowan Tait, Julia Crowther, Louise Gould, Izzy Hedley and Pippa Simpson) are the best I’ve had in terms of their commitment and patience. Again, their observations and assessments of what would and wouldn’t work were invaluable and suggest that without a thoughtful cast, directing is a thankless job. These thanks extend to the wonderful Mrs Heaton and scarily composed and unflappable costume ladies, Eleanor Graham and Polly Moss.

This cast worked on the production from December to the following May. A little excessive, perhaps, for a school play? Not a bit of it. The whole experience of acting is founded upon discussion, experimentation and collaboration and when a cast is young and new, this takes time. What we learned about the characters in The Tempest (warmth, wit, fickleness, anger, over-reaction, love, romance, forgiveness…) we also found in ourselves during rehearsals throughout those months.

Clever old Shakespeare!

Mrs JD Lawrence

Design & Technology Awards 2013

We were privileged to welcome David Turner and Owen Turner to St Peter’s, to judge the annual Design & Technology Awards. David is a Product Designer, and his company Scruffy Dog Design generates visionary design solutions. Owen’s company, United by Design, is an independent creative agency, based in York, and specialising in brand & communications design.

Both David and Owen were very generous in their praise for the work that is being produced by our Design & Technology students at St Peter’s School, comparing the standard to work often seen from the best degree students.

It was also a pleasure to welcome back Mike Dawson, who was Head of Design & Technology at St Peter’s for many years, to present the Dawson Award. We really value Mike’s continued support at our annual awards.

The following awards were made to GCSE and A level students.

Max Gill (A2)

Design Commendation

Max designed and manufactured a display unit for wine bottles. The judges saw commercial potential in the idea, and were impressed by the Computer Aided Design used in the planning of the product.

Brogan Grant (AS)

Design Innovation Award

Brogan created a design for novelty lamp, made from acrylic and polypropylene. The scope for adding further designs, and have a series based on the initial shape of a dog was a key selling point, and a concept that appealed to the judges.

Peter Hiles (A2)

Sixth form Design & Technology prize for 2013

Peter’s piece of Oak furniture was beautifully hand crafted, and had the added advantage of being made as a flat-pack product. Olivia Clarke (GCSE)

Minster Engineering Award for quality of Design & Manufacture

The complexity of Olivia’s bag, designed in the style of a Chanel classic, was quite outstanding. The quality of its manufacture, and also the high standard of finish impressed both judges. Will Shaw (GCSE)

Design Commendation

Will created a flat pack dog-bed for his Labrador. The simplicity of the design, and the commercial potential of the product immediately drew the judges. Will also considered the packaging of the product.

Harriet Langford (A2)

Dawson Award for Outstanding Achievement in Design & Technology

Harriet created two very innovative products (shoe storage and a coat rack) based on the same modular design. The initial inspiration for the products came from a molecular structure.

Mr J Whitehouse

Big Bang (incorporating Inspirations 2013)

More projects than ever before were entered into this year’s The Big Bang Yorkshire and Humber – making this one of the largest Science, Technology, Engineering and Maths (STEM) celebrations of young talent in the country. The event took place at Yorkshire Air Museum on 27th June 2013 and was officially opened by TV presenter Jan Leeming, winner of I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here.

The Big Bang Yorkshire & Humber, organised by NYBEP Ltd, the regional business education partnership, with support from Science City York and the Yorkshire Air Museum, is one of a series of events held annually across the UK designed to enthuse young people and celebrate their achievements in STEM subject areas, ultimately inspiring them to follow careers in these rewarding fields. Businesses from across Yorkshire and the Humber have committed to support the event by providing sponsorship of over awards that celebrate achievements in STEM and enterprise.

Brogan Grant, Max Gill, Harriet Langford, Hannah Whitehouse, Oliver Spearman, Olivia Clarke and Peter Hiles took part from St Peter’s School, showcasing their projects created as part of the GCSE and A levels. The judges particularly liked Harriet’s work, commenting on its excellent form and function, and praised Hannah’s exceptional planning and high quality end product.

Mr J Whitehouse

Music

Autumn Concert

This was an encouraging start to our concert series. The Brass Ensemble and Chapel Choir were in good form and the Swing Band also contributed two strong performances to establish the new group for the year.

Head Choristers Rebecca Widdicombe and Bill Goss sang some beautiful duets by Purcell and Alla Petrichei produced stunning solo playing, treating the audience to two pieces from her diploma programme that had achieved a distinction over the Summer.

Mr P Miles-Kingston

Durham Cathedral Evensong Service – Monday 19 November 2012

The Chapel Choir was privileged to sing an Evensong service in this wonderfully atmospheric building. The choir produced warm sounds throughout, with some exciting moments. The Dean of Durham, The Very Reverend Michael Sadgrove, praised the choir afterwards:

‘You really do sing well and you brought out the musical qualities of the canticles and anthem in particular. We look forward to welcoming you back soon.’

Christmas Concerts

The Wind Band, under Mr Blood’s direction, provided a splendid start to this year’s concert with an enjoyable performance of Christmas Express by John Blood, brother of the director. This was followed by some stylish playing from the String Orchestra with Elgar’s Serenade for Strings and the unusual Song of the Birds featuring cello soloist Edward Brown. The Flute Group, Clarinet Choir, Saxophone Group and String Quartet also contributed items, with the School Choir closing the half with a seasonal carol by John Rutter.

The second half went into cabaret mode as usual, with the Swing Band leading the way and fun items from the Boys’ and Girls’ Barbershop, Jazz Combo, Percussion Group and Chamber Choir. The concert finished with the Swing Band accompanying the School Choir in a rousing medley of Christmas jazz classics.

Mr P Miles-Kingston

Carol Service

It is always a joy to be in the Minster for this atmospheric service. The Chapel Choir sang well, with a beautiful solo from Rebecca Widdicombe in Away in a Manger and some joyful bounce in The Cherry Tree Carol featuring soloists Guy Cowman-Sharpe and Nicholas McLeish. The School Choir gave a lyrical performance of The Sans Day Carol by Rutter and this contrasted well with the more declamatory style of Mathias’ Sir Christemas later in the service. The Chamber Choir added a sophisticated performance of the small scale composition The Lamb by John Tavener. The Brass Ensemble also provided their customary support to our hymn singing with some rousing moments from the congregation.

Senior Music Festival

This was an enjoyable evening of music-making, with characterful and skilled adjudication from Joan Foster, a senior ABRSM examiner. The winners of the various categories were as follows: Percussion – Will Hartrey Woodwind – Libby Brown Girls’ Singing and Piano – Rebecca Widdicombe Brass and Strings – Nick McLeish Jazz – James Contreras Boys’ Singing – Guy Cowman-Sharpe

The winner of the Senior Music Festival prize was Nick McLeish for a memorable performance of Romance by Wieniawski.

Mr P Miles-Kingston

St Paul’s Evensong

The Chapel Choir took on the considerable challenge of an Evensong service at St Paul’s Cathedral, London on Monday 11

March 2013. It was a wonderful occasion and the pupils responded so well to the demands of the acoustic, singing with precision as well as great expression and freedom. With a congregation of around 300 present, the choir sang Orlando Gibbons’ beautiful Short Service, and Salvator Mundi, a masterpiece by John Blow framed by the Responses and Psalm setting. There have been some lovely comments from St Paul’s and the choir have been invited back to sing again. It will be a delight to return to this magnificent building in 2015.

Mr P Miles-Kingston

Concert at Leeds Town Hall

The School Choir, Choral Society, Concert Band and String Orchestra performed for the first time in Leeds Town Hall on Thursday 21 March.

The Concert Band began the evening with Kenilworth by Sir Arthur Bliss, which had been arranged especially for the occasion

by their director, Mr Chris Blood. It was a wonderful opening with some delicate solo moments from senior musicians supported by resolute and polished full sounds from the band.

This was followed by a lovely, subtle performance of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet, with soloist Calum Brown producing some beautiful lyrical playing, ably supported by our Senior String Quartet led by Alla Petrichei.

The half closed with Haydn’s famous Trumpet Concerto, with soloist Nicholas McLeish accompanied by the Orchestra directed by Mr Keith Wright. It was a delight to hear Nicholas enjoying the acoustic with some bright, elegant playing.

In the second half the choirs combined to give a warm and joyful performance of Mozart’s Coronation Mass. The soloists were all sixth-form students: Rebecca Widdicombe (Soprano), Sarah Carlton (Mezzo Soprano), Bill Goss (Tenor) and Guy CowmanSharpe (Bass), who sang with great assurance and poise throughout.

It was a great experience for our pupils and an evening to remember.

Junior Music Festival Finals

This was an enjoyable evening of music-making, adjudicated by Penny Stirling with her customary mix of positive comment and constructive criticism.

The winners of the various categories were as follows: Strings – Tom Dowdy Girls’ Singing – Rosalind Tait Guitar – Josh Ramalingham Woodwind – Sam Lightwing with Peter Gray highly commended Piano – Luke Dunsmore with Max McLeish highly commended Boys’ Singing – George Pindar Brass – Max McLeish

The winner of the Junior Music Festival Prize for the outstanding performance of the evening went to Max McLeish on the trombone.

Congratulations to all who took part both in the rounds and in the finals this year.

Cabaret

These popular evenings are always fun, and there was a fantastic atmosphere in the Memorial Hall this year, with the soloists and groups generously supported by a packed audience of staff, parents and relatives, pupils and friends on both nights.

The Upper Sixth soloists were too numerous to mention individually here, but they all performed with confidence and great character with full-tilt swing numbers, as arranged for Sinatra, Garland and Bublé, contrasting with slower ballads accompanied by just the rhythm section. They have been a wonderful team of musicians and have given us so many memorable moments over the past few year.

The groups played and sang a wide range of music from the Clarinet Choir’s Tico Tico to the Chamber Choir’s stylish Bohemian Rhapsody. I was indebted to several colleagues for helping with direction of their groups and to Pete Ogram in particular for leading his Saxophone Group and running the joint item with the Percussion Group on the Friday. He will be much missed as he begins his new post at St Olave’s in September.

Finally, the Swing Band do deserve a special mention as they acted as the foundation for the whole show and played with great skill and stamina through some very challenging repertoire. I Was Glad by Parry. It was good to mark the 200th anniversary of the birth of Richard Wagner by performing the Overture from Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg at the close of the service with Mr Wright supporting the Brass Ensemble.

Commemoration Instrumental Examination Results 2013-2014

The Chamber Choir started the service this year with Duruflé’s complex setting of Tu es Petrus directed by Mr Wright. The Brass Ensemble was on fine form supporting the hymn singing throughout. The School Choir gave a joyful performance of The Spacious Firmament by Richard Shephard, with the composer present in the congregation. The Chapel Choir though perhaps provided the musical highlight of the service with a memorable performance of

In another positive year, the following students are congratulated on achieving the top grade:

Grade 8

Hannah Gee Emily Gray Giles Gray Edward Brown Sally Hicks Simon King Harriet Langford Felicity Punnett Max McLeish

Clarinet Pass Cello Pass Saxophone Pass Cello Merit Clarinet Merit Electric Guitar Merit Singing Merit Singing Merit Cello Distinction Alexander Shaw Saxophone Distinction Rebecca Widdicombe Oboe Distinction Christopher Williams Cello Distinction

Diploma

Nicholas McLeish (UVI Hope House and Head Boy) was examined through a professional recital programme, and has been awarded a DipABRSM in violin performance. This is a tremendous achievement for a secondary school pupil.

Alla Petrichei

Alla arrived on a Bursary from Romania in September 2011 and it was immediately apparent that she was an exceptional violinist. In her first year in the Music School, she played several memorable solos in Chapel and in our concerts, as well as leading the Senior String Quartet. At the end of the year, she achieved an ATCL violin performance diploma with distinction.

This academic year, Alla has been active as a soloist both inside and outside school, and has been an invaluable member of all our string ensembles. One of the great highlights of the musical year was the performance of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet in our major concert at Leeds Town Hall in March 2013, with Alla leading the String Quartet supporting soloist Calum Brown.

She was highly successful in her recent conservatoire auditions, and chose to take up the offer of a scholarship to study in Manchester at the Royal Northern College of Music. We wish her continued success and will watch her career with great interest.

Military Wives Choir

The Swing Band supported the well-known ‘Military Wives’ choir from Catterick Garrison in a joint concert on Thursday 11 July in the Shepherd Hall at St Olave’s School. The concert raised £4000 for the charity Help for Heroes and was hosted by the Rotary Club of York. Mr P Miles-Kingston

Music Scholars and Mr Miles-Kingston

Creative Writing

Writing because you can…

The following pieces represent a state of independence in writing at St Peter’s. For our summer creative writing competition, entries in any form were encouraged from any year group member. Writing was self-generated and therefore delightful in its diversity. Jamie Fenton and Concetta Scrimshaw won for their prose entries, published in their entirety below. Jamie went on to win the creative writing section of the Ardingley Festival, a national competition for schools judged by Times’ journalist Tom Gatti. Ben Turvill scooped a poetry award for his magnificent Letter to Oscar Pistorius, delivered with breath-taking clarity in chapel.

Not all the pieces below are whole – but they give a flavour of the calibre of imaginations at work within our community.

Red

It is her silken dress, billowing out on the pale marble floor as she spins around like a brightly coloured spinning top; yet her movements are slow, rhythmic and dainty. It is the wine in the glass jug on the table, untouched by most people, bar the inebriated, cackling old woman swinging clumsily from side to side by the many drained wine glasses. It is his bow tie, contrasting starkly against the svelte and sharp monochrome of his dinner suit. It is her lips, luscious and glossy in the most expensive designer lipstick. It is the infatuated love that he experiences, one that makes his heart rate accelerate manically and his palms become clammy. It is the single rose that he gives her, so delicate and fragile, yet possessing great beauty, its bright petals studded with scintillating dewdrops. It is the satin bed sheets, tangled between their limbs, in a haze of euphoria and ardour. It is the intense passion, which makes his head spin and her breath quicken. It is the colour of the suede sofa of the brand new and spotless house they are hoping to share for many years to come. It is the sparkling gleam of a ruby ring, surrounded by glittering diamonds and set in a radiant gold band. It is the flower in the best man’s jacket, matching the taffeta and gauze of the bridesmaids’ extravagant yet not too ostentatious gowns. It is the effulgent and magnificent sunset overlooking the calm sea, the massive golden-orange orb that is the sun casting a warm, blazing coral glow through the empyrean sky. It is the sofa that she lays on, scarlet suede; it’s now faded and dull. ‘I’m tired,’ she yawns, but he knows something is wrong; she has been enervated more than usual in the recent weeks. It is her eyes; once bright and effervescent, now misty and bloodshot, drooping slightly. It is the ‘end call’ button; he wants to press it so, so badly, yet he knows he can’t; he needs to hear this news. It is the blood that taints his sweaty fingers, glittering with microscopic shards of china, pieces on the carpet. It is the many cards and envelopes that litter her bedside table, amongst roses and other flora. It is the resentful and loathsome rage that consumes him like a savage beast; he should have realised something was up sooner, otherwise she wouldn’t be in this state now. It is the colour of her nails; despite her hands being pale and shrunken, her trademark scarlet nail polish still decorates the ends of her fingers. It is the doctor’s clipboard, on which he is manically scribbling down notes faster than a freight train. It is her heart that is now exhausted and weak, coming to a gradual stop. It is the line on the ECG monitor, once jagged like the majestic mountains of the Himalayas, now nothing more than a smooth line. It is the carnations that are laid on her coffin, on deep mahogany wood. It is the autumn leaves that slowly flutter down to the ground in shades of burgundy, maroon and scarlet, coming to rest on the damp grass of the graveyard. It is the single rose that he gives her, so delicate and fragile, yet possessing great beauty, its bright petals studded with dewdrops; he throws it on her coffin, and walks away, his feet crunching in the autumn leaves, the pale morning sunlight slipping through the trees.

Concetta Scrimshaw IV Year

Crabbing on the Rappahannock

The sun was on the river and in the river and it moved slowly with the water towards the sea. The boy sat on the rickety jetty and watched the river flow past him. He wanted to go with it but it was too big. In his hand was a string and the string went into the water which was brown where he sat and blue in the middle of the river, where the sun glinted on the small waves.

After a while he lifted the string slowly out of the water. There was a crab clinging on to the piece of meat he had tied to the end. It was three inches across and parts of its shell were bright blue. He lowered it into a tin bucket at his side, which he had filled with water. The water in the bucket wasn’t brown or blue but clear, and he watched the crab scuttle round the edges before it found a corner and retreated into it. The boy thought how strange it was that crabs could find corners in circular buckets. He dropped the weighted string back into the brown water and it sank quickly out of sight.

The boy sat on the dock for a long while. He pulled out crabs frequently, and then less frequently, until it seemed that no more were coming. He sat on the jetty, a string in his hand, staring at the river as the tide moved out, imperceptibly revealing the yellow sand on the shore and the stones and the dead crabs. In the bucket, the ten or so catches were quiet - the very small ones slotted in between the larger ones. Occasionally a crab would swim rapidly around the edge then settle back down into its corner. The water rose and fell against the wood of the dock and the boy was lulled by the sound of it, and by the warmth of the sun. He fell asleep.

He was awoken soon after by the sound of a paddle in the water. He turned round to see a canoe coming towards him from upriver. In it was a boy of his age; the paddle was too big for him and he was struggling to keep the canoe from weaving. He managed to steer it towards the jetty and he threw a rope to the other boy, who pulled in the canoe and tied it up.

- Afternoon, Joel. When you gonna learn to paddle that thing? he said, looking down into the boat. - Shut your mouth, Nathaniel Tucker, you know it’s a two-man canoe! Joel climbed onto the jetty. He walked over to the bucket and looked in. - You gonna eat ‘em? - No. - Then why’d you catch ‘em? - I just did. - There ain’t no point in catchin’ crabs if you ain’t gonna eat ‘em. Nathaniel looked into the bucket with Joel. - Well, said Joel, why’d you catch ‘em? - Like I said, I just did. - You’re cracked: that’s a waste of good bacon. Them crabs would cook up real nice. - I don’t doubt it. - Can I have ‘em? - No, you can’t. - Why, ain’t you just gonna throw ‘em back? - I might. Or I might not. - If you ain’t gonna cook ‘em and you ain’t gonna throw ‘em back, why, I have no idea what you’re gonna do with ‘em! - How ‘bout that, said Nathaniel. - You infuriate me, Nat Tucker. I’m leavin’. He walked back to the end of the jetty where his boat was tied. - Ain’t you gonna ask me where I’m goin’? he said, turning back. - I don’t much care. Nathaniel had gone back to sitting with his string. He caught a crab and put it in the bucket. Joel tilted his head and looked at him for a while. - You’re queer, Nat Tucker.

Nathaniel did not look up from the river. Joel untied the rope and climbed back into his canoe. He pushed away from the jetty with his paddle and floated downstream without looking back.

Nathaniel sat a while but caught no more crabs. He looked down the river; Joel’s canoe was out of sight. He stood and picked up the bucket. A scraping came from within as the crabs moved around. Nathaniel walked to the end of the jetty, knelt down, and slowly tipped the bucket. The water came out in a small trickle, then a gush, bringing with it the crabs. They were washed out onto the wood planks and sat there for a second before first one, then the others, scuttled rapidly towards the edge. As they went over they seemed to hang in the air for a moment; then they fell, legs waving, into the river. They darted down and out of sight as soon as they hit the water. After all the other crabs had gone, Nathaniel noticed that one was still sitting on the jetty. He touched its back gently with his finger, sending it running towards the edge, where it too hung in the air and then fell. Nathaniel picked up the bucket and walked back down the jetty, onto the shore and into the woods. He was soon out of sight. The late afternoon sun shone on the planks, drying the dark splash of water from the bucket. There were small waves on the sand and it was very quiet.

Jamie Fenton UVI

A Letter to Oscar Pistorius

My dear friend whom I have never met, Nor, indeed, intend to meet, Do not fear yourself, your deed. There have been gloried men before, who, Like yourself: rose tall upon the Battleground and fell so far from there. For there have been men who have killed in glory; Men who have died in glory; Men who have done both through Battleground mud. So it seems There are now men who rose through glory, To a greater fate; A personal idolatry; An understanding of self, and place, Greater than any that comes looking down The barrel of a gun. There are now men who have fallen back through glory, And whatever the truth of whichever crime, A certain light can be hoped for: understood: That whilst the athlete is a warrior Of sorts, and fights for nation A battle of his own, That glory cannot be won - Nor is it preserved - Through shots through the barrel, Of a gun. P.S.

We all in hindsight should have thought That given a lifetime of amputation and hope, A life yet throned in glory,

Of a state, Of peoples before divided; at war, Of a beautiful girl of your own - A life still caged in top-end confinement. Imagine: yours - a man’s - a man who, From birth, had forever experienced Hatred, separation; violence and death, Imprinted by law in the state you love. We all should have thought in wealth, (Private security; barking dogs). You’d get frenzied: Kill that girl.

Ben Turvill V

The Barrage Balloon

I have been up in this balloon all night. It is freezing, but the view is amazing, a lit up London, with all the bustle of an empire rattling around underneath. They’ll come and get me later, bring me back down into the earthly embrace of the cobbles, but until noon tomorrow, I am stuck in my balloon, watching over the city.

In the old days, they just had massive forts outside cities, and men would storm through holes and scream in the smoke and the flame as bullets ripped through them, but now War has changed. There are no more Waterloos with banners streaming and cannons roaring, but just sitting in the mud, waiting for stuff to happen. The biggest difference now is that now no one is safe, not just the men on the fields, but their friends and family back home are at risk from the shells and bombs from above. It’s my job to sit up in my balloon and shout and shoot if I see anything in the sky that shouldn’t be there, anything that creeps over the horizon to attack the innocents below. That’s how they sold it to me, anyway.

I don’t have anything to do, really, I brought some paper, but I’ve already written to everyone I know, and I don’t want to waste anything. Just like the posters say. Don’t waste, don’t do this, don’t do that. Last weekend, my cousin got told off by some policemen for flying a kite near the cliff, said to a nine year-old that he might be signalling some German spies. We don’t get the kite out any more, even when he asks. Just in case.

Patrick Litten V

Jewelled Sorrow

She was alone with her thoughts. Alone. Alone for the first time since the day of his arrival. Breath.

Silence.

Breath.

The cold warmed her, the silence deafened her, the emptiness crowded her. The cold stones on her feet made feel more alive than a thousand banquets. She was away; away from the glamour and the lights, the hate and the love. Breath.

Silence.

Breath.

Peaceful and lovely. It reminded her of her poor days, dancing on the pier to the tune of Paulo’s violin in a crowd of people. But it was a different crowd, a crowd of familiarity and colours. Not the army of nameless guests in her unknown house, whose empty smiles glared at her nightly. Those thoughts brought back that tune, a tune of happier times, a tune of innocence.

She hummed it to herself. She was smiling as she jumped.

Guy Hall LVI

Enormity

It was August, the driest month of a dry year, and the sun was coaxing the last moisture from the once-green field of grass. A vague breeze stirred, making people look up in excitement and desperation, searching for a reprieve from the heat, but it whispered away. The warmth was oppressive and dividing. Some families hid in their houses, adamant that the shade would keep them cool. Others wandered the streets, having read the article about sweat, ignoring their dry tongues.

Anna and Tommy sat in the park under the slide. Their sweaty arms were touching uncomfortably, that strange, slick cold-and-hot feeling of warm skin and cool moisture. The grass they were sitting on was protected from the sun by the slide, and still retained some of its springy feel that the other, straw-like grass craved. Above them the slide had heated in the sun, the metal burning hot. It was a strange in-between haven that they had found – between hot and cool, harsh and soft. Anna had dared Tommy to touch the burning slide and he sat sucking his burnt finger, trying not to cry and wondering if it was alright to punch her.

They were eight and nine, and they were still small enough to fit under the slide, still young enough not to feel any embarrassment at the closeness that they would later find awkward.

Anna sighed. Tommy didn’t react, so she sighed again to get his attention. “Can we do something, Tommy?”

“Like what?” His voice was slightly sticky from the flat coke he’d drunk earlier.

“Let’s find the ice cream van!” The van had been in a different part of their town every few days. You never knew where it would turn up, or when. Anna loved the van. She had made it her mission to find it as often as possible.

Tommy groaned. “It’s too hot to move,” he told her, but Anna was already standing up, ducking to avoid hitting her head.

“Come on, Tommy.” He inspected his burnt finger for a moment to show her that he had bigger things to worry about than ice cream, before shrugging and taking her clammy proffered

hand, pulling himself to his feet. ..

The grass was brown and brittle. Tommy snapped a long piece off like a twig and became a wizard, brandishing his grass-wand like a sword. The field was empty but for the two of them. Farmers had given up on the summer crops, and any cattle had been moved. The silence was only broken by the steady padding of their footsteps.

When they were halfway through the field a gentle wind sighed softly. The children grinned at each other in excitement and turned towards it, breathing deeply, hoping it would cool their burning skin. Anna closed her sore eyes and froze. She crinkled her nose. “What is that?” A dank smell had been carried on the breeze, indescribable to her. Tommy sniffed and shivered despite the heat. The smell crawled up his spine like a beetle. “It’s gross,” was all he said. “Come on, Anna.”

He tugged at her t-shirt sleeve encouragingly. He didn’t know what the smell was, but it was frightening him.

Anna stayed where she was, facing the direction the wind had come with its ugly gift. She was entranced, drawn in by the excitement of discovery in the same way that Tommy was repulsed by the unknown. Pulling away from Tommy’s grip she took a few steps forward before turning to look back at him. She saw his trepidation. “It’s an adventure,” she told him, grinning. Tommy looked at her and then looked in the direction of the field’s exit.

“We can still find the ice cream van,” he said hopefully. His instincts were telling him to get away. He’d never been the naturally inquisitive one in their friendship – all their adventures were down to Anna’s curiosity. On any other day he would have followed her anywhere. But today it was hot, he was tired, and he was scared. Anna looked at him expectantly.

Tommy hesitated, stuck between two destinations. He was twisted towards Anna but his feet pointed to ice cream, to the known, to safety.

He took a step with too much weight. “You go. I’m going home.”

Anna blinked as the words thudded out, her face falling. Tommy avoided her eyes, looking again at the field’s exit. His bony shoulders were turned away from her. Later, she would remember a coolness that descended between them, a reprieve from the sun that was not so welcome. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound more certain than she was. “Okay.”

They began walking in separate directions. After a few paces, Tommy glanced back over his shoulder. He could see Anna’s back, dark hair shining and small hands bunched.

Anna seethed silently, disappointed and frustrated with Tommy and his betrayal of her. She walked with confident steps to show him that he was missing out, and resisted the urge to look back for him. She followed her nose, heading hopefully in the direction the wind had come from. Soon the smell grew stronger. Anna pinched her nose. The smell was worse than anything she’d experienced before in her short life, but she was proud of her strong stomach and she kept towards it. Somewhere inside, she felt a sinking feeling that she couldn’t quite name, like her stomach had turned to stone.

The smell was so pungent now that Anna almost turned and ran. She was afraid, but she knew that if she found something interesting Tommy would be jealous, and he would regret not coming with her. The thought sustained her for the next few steps. She came to the stream, pushing away the long brown grass on the dried-out bank.

Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. There was a thing lying a few feet to her left where the stream usually ran. Anna stared at it for a moment in morbid fascination. Flies buzzed around the thing, obscuring its true form from her. She blinked and as her eyes adjusted she realised what she was looking at. The thing had a hand, flopping to its side, swollen and blotched black and blue. Big eyes stared at Anna, unable to blink away the flies that crawled across them.

From the other end of the field, Tommy heard a high-pitched scream.

Lucy Schofield LVI

The Pawn, The King and The Castle

~ 1 ~ ~ Endgame ~

Tet, 1964. Shadows leap across Saigon as fireworks disturb the night sky. American soldiers, unconscious of their empty lives, and Vietnamese beggars, all too conscious of theirs, crowd the suffocated streets. Prostitutes and petty thieves lurk in dirty corners while bullet wounds in Buddhist temples go unhealed. Napalm coats the horizon and gunshots reverberate through the swinging slums while documents sit in the dark and syringes stab at the evening. Durant sits in the Peking Pig, clothed in smoke and the rank scent of bodily fluids, smoking lightning strikes and making a great show of being relaxed. Humanity sinks out of holes in bathroom walls as blood stains the streets outside. Durant is impartial to the slovenly chaos. Neutrality is a game he feels it necessary to play. He himself is a contradiction: French – Vietnamese, not a nationalist, but not exactly an imperialist either. It’s dangerous to get mixed up in ideology.

Tonight he wears a Gold’s gym tee shirt, leather jacket, dark cotton trousers and patterned brogues, all worn down by the urban poverty that surrounds him, an unpreventable wear-and-tear. The jacket is typical biker fare: emblazoned with wings and the word ‘LOST’ in a garish serif font. Durant doesn’t spare much thought for looks in a world where nothing is as it appears anyway. His smitty, wiry moustache goes untouched. His sort-of clean teeth suffer the stains of alcohol and smoke as he reclines. His matt-black hair is unkempt and he wears a shroud of cheap cologne.

Dan Stone LVI

Writing in class...

Below are some examples of creative writing produced through various stimuli in the classroom. The L6 study narrative and started by constructing stories from visual images: fertile territory for ideas, if you’re ever stuck on how to start!

Rain, Steam and Speed

Every day when sunset came, the train came with it. The whistle was the first sign to the fisherman; a shrill shriek of alarm before the train itself came thundering along the viaduct, its din cutting through the rain like a knife. It was not an elegant thing, like the high-stepping herons that the fisherman knew. No, it was a mess of turning, jerking churning gears and wheels. It had an unmistakable sense of urgency, of having to be somewhere. The fisherman sat, and he watched. A pale face appeared at one of the windows and peered towards him through the deluge. He looked back. Time slowed and there was a fleeting, transient moment of human contact before the train rolled relentlessly on and the fisherman was left with nothing but the slight taste of smoke and the whisper of a thousand raindrops.

Alex Plane LVI

The Plague of Frogs

didn’t care. In her eyes, this is what they all deserved. They had failed her, not the other way round. As she mindlessly watched the commotion below her, she effortlessly stepped back from her creation. Both physically and mentally. This was her walking away from not only what she created, but from all the people who had forced her to create such a tragedy. A final satisfied glare to the fiasco below was enough for her. She was done here. With a swish of her hair, turn in her hips and crack of her neck, she left behind her those who no longer had life, and went on to begin her own.

There was only one person to blame for such mayhem and chaos. She was to blame. Only her. The frightened and fearful cries from the previous party of people below whistled through her ears. The chairs and lashings of paint which fell from the skies passed over her guiltless eyes, as easy as water runs through a funnel. She Sara Pycock LVI

The third form poetry below continued with use of iconic art for National Poetry Day in October. This year’s theme was ‘Stars’ and the poems are modelled on Moniza Alvi’s I Would Like to Be a Dot in a Painting by Miro.

I would Like to Be a Star in a

Painting by Van Gogh

Right in the middle, too special for anything to go near it, Queen of the heavens. Its unusual four points digging forever into the darkness – each little diamond inviting you in. Thinking: would I benefit from moving myself further into the abyss, where I’m not alone? Maybe surrounded by a million beaming lights? Close enough to touch one But not so close that they can touch me. Silky skin and unnatural glow in reach. But I’m perfectly happy where I am. Dominating the sky. Tilly Mae James III Year I would like to be a star in a painting by Van Gogh. The shimmering light which emerges from my core Warms me. I’m placed next to a weird one. It seems to have no edges and shines brighter than all of us put together. As the comforting carpet of the clouds covers us at night the wind sings a gentle lullaby. We are waiting here: a whole new solar system Waiting for you to find us. So I would like to be a star in a painting by Van Gogh.

Will Fryer III Year

I am a star set adrift in an array of light and beauty. I am unique and perfectly balanced as the artist intended. Who am I to say I am better than any other star? Who am I to say I take away the melancholy of the darkness, imminent around me? I would not stutter to say I enhance the void cascading around me. One day I hope to be a great, loved star, way above in the night sky. A star in a painting by Van Gogh.

Charles Dunn III Year

The U6 experimented with a slightly less delicate form; they study Gothic literature as a genre and modelled their own Gothic fragments around the various motifs common to this type of writing.

The Phantom Pregnancy

The prayer book hit the pew, fracturing the silence with a stinging slap. Startled, Fra Favel spun round, his vestments nearly catching on a nearby candle flame. He had thought he was alone. She was easy to overlook, but as her fluid green eyes gazed upwards, cheeks bruised by the half-light, parted lips moist and tremulous, he felt a familiar stirring. Were it not for her wild, pale hair, she might have been mistaken for a boy: her shoulders broad with naked arms gristly below her choir robes, the fine hairs illuminated to give her a masculine maturity that mingled excitedly with her innocence. He moved towards her.

Lucy Mahon UVI

Gemma Willink V

Gothic Monster

To Robert

My dear friend, I am writing partially in order to set your mind at rest, yet also to ease my own mind by divulging a series of most terrible events that took place the night before last.

As you well know, and have expressed your concerns over numerous times, I have recently bought a comfortable albeit rather small apartment in London, near to some of the great universities of England, where I shall be tutoring the youth of our country in the great scientific mysteries of our time. Before I proceed with this most awful tale, let me assure you that I am well, despite what you may read in these scrawlings.

That night I did not sleep well and finding solace in my research I worked late; however, I could not progress with the resources I had available, so I took my cane and set out to access the university

library in hope of finding a book which might allow me to further my research. The street was particularly dark as the great celestial body of the moon lingered behind a curtain of thick, smoky clouds and the only light that graced me was the pale golden fire of a nearby street lamp.

Ahead, I saw a woman of fair skin and small stature, wearing the clothes typical of a servant at the university; in her arms, she cradled a babe whom could only have been but a few months of age. As she bustled past me I took note of a well-dressed, unusually tall gentleman, who had just stepped into the road to cross over towards myself and the woman. I caught no glimpse of his face underneath the hat he wore at an unusual angle, which struck me as odd. It was not until I heard a shriek that I realised something terrible was about.

Chris Bullock UVI

Untitled

New to the neighbourhood, she blended perfectly into the suburban housewife mould. Her assortment of flared skirts and perfectly-ironed blouses screamed ‘respectable’ so it was widely accepted that she was the right sort. They say she was a retired nurse, some say divorced, others widowed. All anyone knew for certain was that we had never seen her husband.

She reminded me of my mother, and it was a kindly face that would smile and wave from her front garden. Similar, yet foreign. Like her perfectly manicured garden and unlike my own mother, her appearance was faultless. No rebellious strand of hair ever dared escape the arrangement of her bob; her mascara never clumped; her finger-nails were perfect crescent moons – except, as I noticed with curiosity, the fingernail on her right forefinger, which was worn down to the quick.

Not even the most vicious of gossips could find any fault with her house either. It looked charming, with its white picket fence and net curtains fluttering in the wind. No-one could complain that her lawn was unkempt or her paint peeling. Everything was as it should be. Or so it seemed.

Georgia Latham UVI

Writing workshops: author visit – Phil Earle

Some of the most exciting creative writing of the year is generated by various author visits arranged by Mrs Chandler. Below are two of the prologues written in response to a masterclass run by young adult author Phil Earle. Concentrating on the structure of novels, the mixed third and fourth form group were encouraged to use a prologue to set tone, mood and atmosphere whilst playing with time in one of his existing novels Being Billy.

Prologue

He felt no sense of remorse. As he rounded the corner of the bannister that was what surprised him most. He had expected reluctance: regret at what he was about to do. But no. It seemed they had succeeded in drinking the soul from the building just as well as they had driven him out of it. His people out of it. But of course no amount of re-plastering and air freshener could smother the stench of the blood coating the walls of the hallway, pooling in the cracks of the splintered floorboards in his mind.

Will Kimpson IV Year

Prologue

I wiped the thin layer of sweat that coated my clammy hand onto the rough cotton of my trousers before reaching out towards the doorknob. I hesitated. Falling into a trance-like state, my hand levitated. I vaguely registered the shock of the cold steel. Then the door was open and I stood facing the bed. Our bed. My shoulders relaxed and my muscles slowly unknotted. I was back home. Glancing around, I saw that nothing had changed: the disorganised array of books in the corner; the faded blue carpet I now curled my toes into. After six years, everything was exactly the same, like I had never left. Realisation dawned on me: all this time she had pretended she didn’t want to see me – she wore a false mask – as now I knew she had kept our room so that when I returned we could go back to normal, back to us.

And I would not feel like any time had passed.

Issy Hedley, IV Year