Creative & Cultural

Drama

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

The Drama department’s first play of the year was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, performed in October as part of the annual nationwide Shakespeare Schools Festival. The festival invites pupils to perform a thirty-minute version of a Shakespeare play at a professional theatre, alongside other schools. This year eighteen St Peter’s pupils performed at the Joseph Rowntree Theatre in York. We were delighted to perform on the same evening at St Olave’s with their fantastic version of The Merchant of Venice.

This was the Shakespeare Schools Festival director’s appraisal of A Midsummer Night’s Dream: ‘I was impressed by the passion with which the cast portrayed their characters: from Egeus’ (Benji) anger with his daughter to the affection between Hermia (Vicky) and Lysander (Mathis); the determination of Helena (Milly) to win Demetruis’ (Owen) love; the mischeviousness of Puck (Ava); the petrified reactions of all the Mechanicals to the transformed Bottom (Felix).

‘The comedy was very strong thoughout. I particularly enjoyed the characterisation of the Mechanicals with their hilarious gestures and the contrasting relationships between frustrated director Qunice (Olly) and each of his actors.

‘In addition, the drama was played effectively. The conflict between Titania (Rachel) and Oberon (Ewan) was very realistic and reminiscent of a custody battle. This encouraged Oberon’s cruelty, which the ever-obliging Puck was happy to serve. All the fairies had an ethereal quality that really felt as if they were manipulating the natural world.

‘Strong physicality was present throughout – the Mechanicals’ preparations for rehearsal; the way Puck puppeteered the lovers; the confusion of Bottom in the movement sequence after he was turned into a donkey; and the perfectly timed fight scene with the lovers were all a pleasure to watch.

‘This was a well-developed, hilarious production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream from a talented and passionate cast, who understood the all nuances in the text. I would like to congratulate everyone involved in this superb production. I hope to see your school in the Festival again next year.’

Nadia Nasif

GrEASE

In November Grease was the word. The second production of the term was performed by a cast and crew of sixty-one pupils, making it St Peter’s largest production in my time here.

Full of foot-tapping tunes and snappy one-liners, this well-known musical was always going to be a popular choice and this proved to be the case with sell-out crowds on all three nights of the run. There was a real buzz throughout the cast and crew and this produced a show with great energy, underpinned by a band of staff and student players who were also really enjoying the experience. The principals all performed strongly but this was very much a team effort on the part of all the pupils and staff involved and the production was warmly received by all who attended.

TrIP To THE GREAT GATSBy

In December sixth-form Theatre Studies pupils dressed up for an evening in 1920s style and went to see the Guild Of Misrule’s acclaimed version of The Great Gatsby. This was an immersive production where the audience are invited to one of Gatsby’s parties, taught how to dance the Charleston, play poker with the characters and are taken around many rooms in Gatsby’s world as the actors need their help to continue the plot.

#20MINUTESOFACTION

In January 2016 the world lost the great actor Alan Rickman. One of Rickman’s quotes is ‘Actors are agents of change … a piece of theatre … can make a difference. It can change the world.’ This year more than ever I believe St Peter’s pupils have been making political theatre which can really make a difference.

In February the A-level Theatre Studies group created and performed a piece of theatre titled #20MinutesOfAction. One of the assessments in Theatre Studies is to collaborate to create a ‘unique piece of theatre.’ This can be a re-imagining of an existing play or completely created by the group themselves. This group chose the hard option and did the latter. Their piece was centred on a real-life event: on 18 January 2015 a Stanford University student named Brock Turner was arrested, and later found guilty of sexually assaulting an unconscious 22-year-old woman on the university campus. There were a number of factors that made this particular case so widely-known: • the extremely short sentence given to the perpetrator (a Stanford athlete) by Judge Persky (a former Stanford athlete) • the victim-blaming culture that ‘Doe’ and women in general experience • an eloquent, honest and passionate 18-page letter written by the anonymous victim ‘Emily Doe’ to Brock Turner himself

• It re-addresses the concept of consent • Brock Turner’s father’s misplaced priorities and dismissive phrases including that a jail sentence was a steep price to pay for ‘20 minutes of action’, which is where the title came from. The majority of the text used in this piece was verbatim, meaning the real words spoken by the real people involved as the result of an extraordinary amount of research. The piece was originally performed to an audience of 40 in the Whitestone Art Gallery as a small-scale exam piece. It was site-specific in a gallery because of the way the group felt evidence had been collected and exploited and the fact that every part of ‘Emily Doe’ was laid bare, like an exhibition. However, it was felt that the piece raised such strong relevant points for discussion, such as consent, rape education and alcohol consumption, that it should be seen by a wider audience as part of the PSHE programme at St Peter’s and was therefore shown to the sixth form in assembly.

GCSE - IF NOT ME, WHO?

The GCSE groups also intended to show the need for change. They were tasked by the exam board with the overall brief of ‘looking forward/looking back’.

One group decided to devise a play which spanned from women campaigning for the vote in 1917 to #WomenWhoVoteTrump in 2017. It focused heavily on three particular real women who inspired them.

Emmeline Pankhurst (played by Freddie Cowman-Sharpe)

The group found that Emmeline Pankhurst’s great-granddaughter Dr Helen Pankhurst made a speech about what Emmeline would have felt at the 2017 March4Women. The audience looked back at one of her inspiring speeches, and contrasted this with the 2017 ‘policies regressive in terms of feminism’. (Dr Helen Pankhurst.)

Emma Watson (played by Rosie McLeish)

One of the women who stood out to the group for her use of the word ‘feminism’ was Emma Watson, and they used her UN speech from 2016. This was also where the title of the play came from: ‘If not me, who? If not now, when?’ This speech showed the group the necessity of looking forward and continuing to question genderbased assumptions and equality.

Malala Yousafzai (played by Margo)

The Taliban attempted to murder Malala in 2012 and as she recovered she became famous, and this enabled her to speak for equality in education in Pakistan, her home country. The reason they chose Malala was the way she represents places in the world where gender equality has further to go.

GCSE-THE SECOND AMENDMENT

Another group began by looking at gun-crime facts: in 2014 the USA had 59 school shootings and 12,570 people killed in gun incidents, whereas in the UK there were no school shootings and 30 people killed in gun incidents. They decided they were lucky to live in a place where it is NOT ‘the right of people to keep and bear arms.’ This was why they called their piece The Second Amendment and decided it would be based on real-life events in America.

When devising they decided to focus on the 1999 Columbine High School shootings and the 2014 Isla Vista shootings. Their play used the brief ‘looking forward/looking back’ because it presented these events in chronological order and followed it with a third, fictional, American high school shooting in the near future which has not happened yet and could be prevented.

They found a series of adverts by ‘Moms demand action for gun sense in America’ which show children holding a gun and a banned object asking which one is banned? One of these is a Kinder Egg and they used this to shape the play at the beginning and end.

GCSE - LOOK UP

As part of their practical coursework the groups explored the poem Look Up by Gary Turk which discusses our reliance on technology and social media. They used this stimulus to create varied pieces which looked at indoctrination through social media, the use of robots in the home being closer than ever, bullying through social media and the idea of lack of human connection and interaction.

GCSE Drama

We were really happy to see two pupils taking the design route for their GCSE Drama qualification, Elliot Milman did the lighting design for the production of 100 and Shania Wong did the costume design for the macabre storytelling piece Once A Tail Is Told. Mathis, Farah and Joe performed a physical and hard-hitting performance Pool (no water) in front of the visiting examiner, all gaining full marks for performance, which is very rare. Well done to them.

AN INSPECTOR CALLS

Studying the set text An Inspector Calls by J B Priestley saw St Peter’s dining room transformed into The Birlings’ home in 1912 where two fourth-form GCSE groups collectively performed the three-act drama, which takes place on one evening. This enables them to consider the play practically, in order to write about in their final examination.

LoNDoN TrIP

At the end of the summer term lower sixth pupils made a trip to London. There we visited the Globe Theatre to see Kneehigh’s Tristan and Yseult, and the Old Vic Theatre to see a new production of Buchner’s Woyzeck staring John Boyega in the title role. They also took part in a workshop with The Guild of Misrule to explore immersive theatre.

Miss Helen Lindley

Art

There have been changes in the Art department this year. A new Head of Art, as well as changes in exam board for GCSE and a totally new qualification at A-level was reflected in the work exhibited at the end of year show, On Your Marks... Emphasis was on the achievements of both examined year-groups, and although the whole of the Art block was, as ever, bursting with work from students across all year-groups it was the fifth form and the upper sixth who are represented here.

The A-level in particular is now also a two-year course, and builds on the skills acquired in the GCSE years. First-hand observation through drawing and visual note making is at its core and is a focus during the lower sixth year in particular. Informing their practice through in-depth research into artists and trends in art helps to develop the students’ visual and artistic fluency and the nurturing and ‘bringing on’ of an individual voice. The theme of the examination unit this year was ‘Environment’ and this theme was their starting-point for a very rich and varied body of work. Upper sixth students have all trodden a very individual path and this was evident in the wide variety of work shown in this exhibition.

Mrs Charlotte Chisholm

GCSE Coursework and Exam

Olivia Thew

Clara Wright Ella Meere

Music

Autumn Concert

The pupils made a very encouraging start in our Autumn Concert, which is the first major concert of the academic year. There were a number of polished ensemble performances, including from the Clarinet Choir, Flute Group, Brass Ensemble, the Chapel Choir and the Chamber Choir, performing a wide variety of music in multiple parts with fluency. We were also treated to some advanced solo performances from our upper sixth musicians. In the second half we moved through to the Memorial Hall to hear our Wind and Swing Bands play lighter repertoire, the Wind Band’s performance of Pirates of the Caribbean being a particular highlight, with great enjoyment clearly evident from the 66 players involved.

Evensong in york Minster

The Chapel Choir sang a beautiful Evensong service at York Minster on Monday 21 November. Starting confidently with Humphrey Clucas’ bright set of responses, the choir achieved good ensemble and phrasing in Psalm 106. The Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis by Charles Wood were performed with a wide dynamic range and real accuracy, with a dramatic finish to the Gloria. John Ireland’s wellknown anthem Greater Love closed the service with accomplished solo singing from our head choristers supported by strong ensemble singing from the choir. It was certainly among the best services that we have sung since I became Director of Music, and my thanks go to all the pupils and staff involved.

Christmas Concert

It was a fun show this year with a warm, festive atmosphere in the Memorial Hall. The Wind Band set the tone from the beginning with A Christmas Festival and this was followed by strong performances by the String Orchestra and Chamber Choir. In the second half, we returned to ‘Cabaret’ format with the Swing Band playing well and polished close harmony sets from the Barbershop and Barbieshop. The Little Big Band provided a good contrast to these vocal performances and we closed the show with a Christmas Medley involving both the School Choir and Swing Band. It was a pleasure to direct the show and see all the performers really enjoying their music-making.

Carol Service

We are fortunate to be able to hold our Carol Service in the majestic surroundings of York Minster and there was a warm atmosphere this year, with strong congregational singing supported by our School Choir and Brass Ensemble. The Chapel Choir performed two pieces, with the tranquil Iona contrasting well with The Seven Joys of Mary, which had been specially arranged by Dr Richard Shephard as a gift to the choir this year. The Chamber Choir sang Walton’s well-known All this time and the School Choir the bouncy Victorian carol Jacob’s Ladder and Richard Lloyd’s witty arrangement of I saw three ships. The readings were very well communicated by pupils and staff and it was a joyful occasion.

Evensong in Westminster Abbey

Our Chapel Choir were invited to sing an Evensong service at Westminster Abbey on Thursday 5 January and it was a special occasion with a congregation of over 500 present in the building. The choir sang confidently throughout, with a warm, open tone in the canticles by Charles Wood. The pupils then produced a suitably bright, joyful sound for the anthem, The Seven Joys of Mary, arranged for us by Richard Shephard. It was a wonderful way to mark the last day of Christmas and a very memorable trip for the pupils. My thanks to the staff who helped to supervise the choir and to Mr Wright in particular for his organ-playing during the service.

Senior Music Festival

This was a very enjoyable evening this year, with performances of a high standard in all the classes. Our adjudicator was Anthony Krauss, the Assistant Director of Music at Opera North. He spoke with real authority and provided some excellent feedback to the performers that praised positive aspects of each performance whilst also offering guidance on areas to improve.

The winners of the classes were as follows: Boys’ Singing: Daniel Hicks, with Tom Dowdy highly commended Woodwind: Sam Lightwing, with Rosie Stephens and Felicity Edwards highly commended Girls’ Singing: Gaby Richardson, with Fleur Booth and Amber Rose highly commended Brass: Katherine Spencer Harp: Felicity Edwards Strings: Rosie McLeish Piano: Carl Leighton

The winner of the Senior Music Festival Prize for the outstanding performance of the festival was Sam Lightwing for a sophisticated and beautifully shaped performance of the first movement of the Hot Sonate by Schulhoff.

Durham Cathedral Evensong

Our Chapel Choir travelled to the beautiful cathedral in Durham on Monday 13 March to sing Evensong. It was very much a team effort with our chaplain singing the office, Mr Wright accompanying on the organ and committed singing from everyone throughout the service. The choir successfully navigated their way through a challenging Lenten programme, with Gibbons’ Short Service followed by Purcell’s masterful verse anthem Jehova quam multi sunt hostes mei. The pupils did very well to cope with the split parts in the Purcell and we had stylish solos from Daniel Hicks and Tom Dowdy. The Dean of Durham was very complimentary about the choir and invited us back to sing again next year.

Junior Music Festival

This was an enjoyable and worthwhile evening with many promising performances. Our adjudicator was Clive Harries, a very experienced adjudicator and senior examiner for the Associated Board. There were a number of performances commended, and the winners of the classes were as follows: Percussion: Tom Storey Girls’ Singing: Abigail Brown Piano: Jasmine Brimmell Brass: Toby Search Harp: Iris Greaney Woodwind: Annabelle Stanford Boys’ Singing: Oscar Hawes Strings: Marion Akhurst

The winner of the Junior Music Festival Prize for the outstanding performance of the festival was Annabelle Stanford for a beautifully phrased performance of the Cantilena from the Flute Sonata by Poulenc.

orchestral and Choral Concert, york Minster

This year we began with an impressive performance of Schubert’s Third Symphony, conducted by Mr Wright. The String Orchestra had worked very hard over a six-month period to learn the entire symphony and this also gave some of our senior wind players an excellent opportunity to experience a full symphonic texture. Following this was a delicate performance of Fauré’s famous Pavane in a chamber orchestra arrangement with four vocal soloists conducted by Dr Harrison. This was a great opportunity for six of our upper sixth form to take on solo roles and to involve our Senior String Ensemble. To finish the concert the School Choir and Choral Society sang Rutter’s well-known Requiem. This was an atmospheric performance with support from Mr Wright on the organ and a small instrumental ensemble that featured lower sixth-former Felicity Edwards on the harp. The soprano solo was beautifully sung by our head girl chorister, Fleur Booth.

Summer Concert

This was a very enjoyable event with a wide variety of music on offer. The Wind Band had their main performance of the academic year under the direction of Dr Harrison, starting the concert with two substantial medleys from the famous West End shows Phantom of the Opera and Les Misérables. There were plenty of opportunities for the band to show off their impressive dynamic range and a number of solos were incorporated, including some fine trumpet playing from the head of band, Ellie Richardson, as well as solo debuts from some of our fourth form. The Clarinet Choir played some complicated repertoire, including a Puerto Rican dance with lots of pauses to keep the audience guessing! The Flute Group and Chapel Choir were on fine form and we enjoyed four highquality solo performances from lower sixth-formers Izzy Crook, Felicity Edwards, Jack Hargrave and Carl Leighton. A highlight of the concert was to see the combined double bass players from St Peter’s and St Olave’s, numbering nine in all, playing two arrangements. The concert finished with a joyful rendition of Oye Como Va from the Percussion Group.

Cabaret 2017

I had a wonderful time directing Cabaret this year. 19 members of the upper sixth put themselves forward for solos and they all really rose to the occasion with some super singing and playing. There was a fine pair of pieces from the Chamber Choir and some crowdpleasing character in the Barbershop set featuring a memorable rendition of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire arranged by Tom Dowdy. The Barbieshop included an arrangement of Say Something by Katherine Spencer and their performance of It’s raining men will remain long in the memory. The pupils made a lovely presentation to my colleague Jo Appleby and the School Choir then finished the show with a medley from High School Musical. This was sung with great energy and I was grateful to all of them, and our staff, for their support in a very rewarding show. Congratulations also to the Swing Band on their playing behind the soloists.

National youth Choir

We congratulate our Head Boy Chorister, Sam Lightwing, on being invited to join the main National Youth Choir following his audition last November. This is the flagship national ensemble for young singers aged 16-22. Sam has been singing in the training choir and this step up into the main choir takes him into a very select group of young singers. The choir numbers around 100, with eight sections, and Sam will be singing first bass within a small group of ten baritones.

The National Youth Choir routinely participates in events such as the BBC Proms and Snape Proms and at venues including the Royal Albert Hall, Royal Festival Hall, Barbican and Birmingham Symphony Hall. The choir tours internationally every three to four years, and makes frequent recordings and broadcasts.

We are also pleased to see Carly Jackson (fourth form) and Isabella Crook (lower sixth) being accepted into the National Youth Training Choir.

Sam reports: When I got my place in the main choir of the NYCGB I felt really anxious: I was one of the youngest people in the choir and I wasn’t studying Music at university, like the majority of the members. Despite this, it turned out to be a tough but manageable challenge and a lot of fun.

The rehearsals were hard work at times, especially in the evenings when everyone was tired, but rewarding because of the sounds we could produce. Repertoire consisted of Prauliņš’ Missa Rigensis, the premiere of Eriks Ešenvalds’ Salutation commissioned by NYC, and many more. The culmination of the week was a live-streamed concert in Trinity College Chapel, Cambridge under Stephen Layton as conductor which was a magnificent end to the week.

Aside from the music I had a great time getting to know so many interesting people, with social activities every night and breaks throughout the day.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time and would recommend it to all singers who enjoy singing in choirs.

Sam Lightwing, UVI

Instrumental and Singing Examination results 2016-17

It has been a very positive year for the pupils with much success in our graded music examinations. The following are to be congratulated on achieving the highest grade:

Grade 8

Fleur Booth Eve Bracken Ellie Brierley Jasmine Brimmell Trumpet Singing Singing Piano Jasmine Brimmell Hannah Bilton Kitty Clapham Isabella Crook Julia Crowther Tom Dowdy Jack Hargrave Sam Stanford Cassie Bythell Ellie Caley Tom Dowdy Ben Dunsmore Violin Flute Merit

Singing Violin Merit Merit

Singing

Merit Double Bass Merit Clarinet Merit Piano Singing Singing Singing Piano Merit Distinction Distinction Distinction Distinction

Felicity Edwards Piano Distinction

Louise Gould Jack Hargrave

Singing Singing Daniel Kondratiev Singing Rosie McLeish Singing

Distinction Distinction Distinction Distinction Rosie McLeish Viola Distinction Edmund Meredith Clark French Horn Distinction Gaby Richardson Singing Distinction Katherine Spencer Trombone Distinction Sam Stanford Saxophone Distinction

Diploma Successes

Katherine Spencer has been awarded the Associate diploma of Trinity College London (ATCL) in piano performance. This involved Katherine performing a 35-minute recital of challenging piano repertoire, including a complete Mozart sonata and concert pieces by Chopin and Debussy. This is a nationally recognised qualification that is used as an examination target for undergraduate students at Trinity College for the end of their first year of study.

Daniel Kondratiev and Man Yi Lee have both been awarded the Associate diploma of the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music (ARSM), also in piano performance. This is a brand-new post-grade-8 qualification involving a half-hour recital of concert repertoire, which is assessed both in terms of technical assurance and performing skills. Daniel and Man Yi are amongst the first students in the country to be awarded this diploma, with Man Yi being awarded a merit in the qualification and Daniel a distinction.

It is always special to be awarded a diploma whilst at secondary school and reflects the hard work and dedication of these three pupils. We hope that these successes will inspire many more of our musicians to take on these qualifications in the future and we have now had 19 diplomas achieved by St Peter’s students in the past ten years.

Mr Paul Miles-Kingston

Creative Writing

Down to Earth

I heard it before I saw it, a high screeching wail that shuddered down the tracks to the platform. Up ahead, coming out of the numbing morning fog, the train was slowing down to pick up the next batch of commuters. Quickly, I grabbed my bitter coffee and hefty bag before springing to the platform edge in order to force my way through the doors as soon as possible. The train stopped. Those steel panels groaned open and I barged my way through to grab a seat before the rest of the solemn crowd could beat me to it. Deliberately, I let my bag roll over onto the seat next to mine to hopefully ensure that most of my fellow, semi-conscious travellers wouldn’t bother to make me free up space for their own backsides. I was right! A dozen glowering pairs of eyes went by but no words were uttered from those grinding teeth. Feeling just a bit proud I laid back, opened my laptop and began to work on tomorrow’s presentation.

Today, like every other working day, I have gotten up early and caught the 6.30 train to London and most likely will not get back home until eight. I work as an architectural design editor, spending entire days cooped up in my little office and facing a glaring monitor. I work six days a week, constantly putting my nose to the daily grinder and taking my working life one excruciatingly dull hour at a time. I am sour, I am demoralised and I am tired, but I still get up almost every day to go to work and crawl back into the hole from which I earn my salary. And today was to be no different.

After about an hour my cramped chariot rolled into King’s Cross. A bleak dome of grey cloud hung over my head as I pushed through onto the platform and into the hectic streets. I soon arrived at my work’s building and, trudging rather than strolling, passed through the automatic doors. Proceeding to the elevator, I glumly nodded at the receptionist and soon found myself packed in with several other employees. There was Carl with his synthetic and cheesy grin, Cindy and her unbreakable upper lip and, of course, there was Mark.

You see, in life there is always an enemy. Whether it be a bully from your school playground, a neighbour that scowls on a morning and grumbles in the evening or even a steely father-in-law that never gave you his blessing. Mark was just that to me, he was a street lamp that smothered the starlight of my life. Whenever, wherever and however it was possible he would be there to climb the corporate ladder, clambering over me as he went.

Mark had been a driving force for me in my early days at the company but, as the months had ground on into years, he was now just a cattle prod to keep me working. He was taller than me, funnier than me. He was a ‘rising star’ in the company and I was just another loyal servant. Mark was perfect.

The jerk turned to face me. “Listen Smithy,” he slurred, “I have some news that might interest you.” Oh how I pleaded for that elevator to hurry up. “Yes, Mark? What is it?” I muttered. “I’d just like to let you know that, from now on you’ll be working for me. I’ve been promoted for my work on those fire station designs.” “What?” I stammered, unable to believe what I was hearing, “that’s unfair! Those designs were a group project – you can’t take credit for them!” Mark, sniggering through that gaping hole he called a mouth, proceeded to revel in my frustration. “Listen Edward, we both know that I was head of the group and so I am the one responsible for the project’s success.”

The bell rang and the doors pried themselves open. I hefted my bag onto my shoulder and began to march out into the office when I heard that low-life make one last gleeful remark. “And so, Edward Smith, as your new head of department, I want a report on the project’s work in half an hour. Be quick about it; I’m having brunch with the chief executive soon.” With this I turn and glowered in Mark’s direction, staring with a resentment that bordered on hate, and remained in a stance of defiance until the elevator doors groaned shut once more.

For the following, dismal hours I slaved over my keyboard, enduring the endless racket of hundreds of fingers striking keys around me and the relentless ticking of the cheap, mounted clock at the end of the office floor. I produced, after tremendous strain and hard work, an evaluation for the group project and handed it over to my new boss. Having to work for my mortal opponent, the man that had beaten me down and stepped over me in the company, was the final nail in the coffin. My mood plummeted down to Satan’s basement and I was left to rant and complain in my cubicle-sized office whilst Mark, being the hard-working soul that he was, laid back in his new leather chair with a view over the Thames.

The macabre cloud that hung over me must have attracted the attention of my co-workers, who promptly veered out of my way whenever possible. With even Carl’s stupid, fake grin straightening as my snarling figure passed by, I was more than ready to leave at the end of the day. I went home, at last I went home. Retracing my morning trudge to work I headed straight for King’s Cross and soon fell into a cramped little corner of a train carriage, feeling just as weary as I had been over ten hours ago.

You’ll find me to be a gloomy, lethargic and overall miserable person, most of the time. But at home I am different. The walls, roof and people there shield me from life’s hurricane. It is my family that drives me, I realise. It is my wife, who meets me at the platform with a warm embrace, and my two beautiful children that keep me going. Nothing, not Cindy’s implanted grimace or Mark’s bolstered ego, can drag me under when I have the people I love to keep me afloat.

I am adrift in my life, I will lose sight of what’s important and favour to focus on the insignificant and stressful. Yet, no matter how much life churns my world around me, I keep above the waters. Even when the spray blinds me and current grips me like a vice I cannot be lost because I have my anchor. I have home, and that’s what keeps me down to earth.

Adam Dalton, IV

Down to Earth

I want to be down to earth, It’s my dream to be calm and undisturbed. But my head is in the clouds, My heart scattered in the sky. My body is in shreds, My soul is lost. My mind drifts into outer space, Past the milky ways. Where galaxies upon galaxies, Dance with secrets long forgotten. The empty moon looks down on me, Sealing my scars and my fate. All the stars are burning bright, Piercing through the darkness. I thought I could catch a shooting star, I wanted something to stay forever. I might not be down to earth, But the earth will come down to me… One day.

Molly Smith, IV As people begin to seep through the wrought iron gate, hinges stubbornly reluctant to open in the cold, the crow is disturbed. The frozen figure leaps in surprise, feathers bristling, and takes off, displeased; its territory has been rudely stormed. It soars into the distance and eventually bleeds into its surroundings, swallowed by a vast mass of milky clouds, comparable to a careless wash of colour on canvas, with violet shadows that dance serenely on the surface, threatening snow. The clouds become bloated over time – full and heavy and fit to burst, feeling much like many of the forlorn figures gathering and assembling themselves in a remote corner of the landscape.

Georgie Lawrence, V

Beyond the chaos of the traffic, there can be found a surging mass of pedestrians forever in a hurry down this long street. From those who have tiredness etched in their faces hair dishevelled and suits crumpled, clutching their cold coffees in their hands as they push their way to work, to the tourists. These roam in pairs or groups, large cameras poised in hands to capture moments of their visits. They may even notice a pillar of stone, may register the flags and in that moment will snap a picture that will carry no meaning for them, for they never really looked at the statue and without even a break in stride, they will continue on their way.

Tom Hatfield, V

At night, everything seems different. The array of autumnal hues dissipates into charcoal silhouettes etched upon a sapphire sky. Metallic shimmers of holographic beetle-backs glisten in the dim starlight as they scuttle up tree-trunks, higher amongst the lofty branches.

Clara Wright, V

Down to Earth

The floor of the plane instantly turns into cold night and an inevitable drop awaits. My shirt becomes an extra layer of skin, fused by the fear translating into sweat. The beep of the buzzer sounds and I drop. The wind swirls and rushes past me as I plummet down. Too fast to see, I simply close my eyes and wait. I reach out for the cord in a bid to gain back some control. My fingers, enclosed in the warmth of the gloves, fumble to get a grip. I finally grasp the ring of the metal and tug. My muscles ripple and scream with the force. My head spins as the parachute is released and my body is wrenched backwards. The sudden change of direction causes a moment of confusion and my head, oblivious to the change of pace, lurches forwards sending a searing pain through my neck like the crack of a rifle.

Sam Beighton, V A momentary sonic boom fills the pitch-black air and shakes me to the core like an earthquake. The sky wakes up as streaks of multi-coloured light like a paint palette coat the abyss. A scent of gunpowder settles in the atmosphere, growing stronger with each eruption of colour. Used rockets from above fall to their inevitable fate. As the display draws to a close, a wave of disappointment floats over the previously avid spectators and a black blind is drawn. The crowd forks and floats in different directions, much like the pearly haze hanging intermittently amongst it.

Ellie Pyrah, V

Outside the window, the earth lies spread out before me, wrapped by a thin film of atmosphere and lit by a gleaming sun dipping below the horizon. Illuminated is a canvas of azure blue interspersed with puffs of white in the sky. Of the sun itself, only a fierce white

semi-circle is visible, surrounded by softer shades of orange and yellow. Nearest the capsule, innumerable specks of light are visible on a surface which is revealed to be dark green, rather than the blue coating the rest of the world.

Jamie Dunsmore, V

The city is riotous (in the rush hour particularly). The people of Paris spill out of their office buildings and their dreary shades of grey band them in unison. Despite that, they’re oblivious to one another as they dance like enchanted shoals of fish. The crowd blurs into an unfocused streak of bland formality. Cars squeal among the bustle of the street and drivers cry out in frustration as horns are vigorously pressed and the sound cuts through the rush hour chaos. The city comes alive with the exotic chatter of languages I don’t understand.

Ellen Storey, V

This countryside in particular is dominated by a gentle, humble valley: a valley backed by a shocking, sheer-faced cliff moulded from the deep of silver-greys of steel and the stubborn lighter greys of granite. The monstrous cliff stands to the far left of the painting, towering above its peers. Down this cliff, the skyline seems to thunder, piling over lead into waves and waves of the clearest blue. This blue hollers down to a clustering herd of buildings: buildings with frost-bitten walls and windswept roofs, tired from the battle against the elements.

Jack Mayfield, V

I try to locate the noise but all I can see is trees, trees and more trees. Loving trees, whose branches try to reach across the path to each other; proud trees that stand alone, are too tall for anyone to imagine seeing the top of and the other trees don’t grow too close to as a sign of respect; stringent trees which line either side of me like regimented soldiers, not one daring to step out of line, lest it left a gap for someone to break through the barricade. Grass-green leaves cover their twisted branches, contrasting with the goldenbrown of the rough bark.

Harriet Edwards, V

In the forest, the leaves are still spring-green and lush. The first dark spots appear on some of them as a warning that summer is fading. Winter buds poke through the hazel trees. There is an opera of birdsong tumbling through the air. October is the month of fire; the leaves turn to magma-red, hot-oranges and fever-yellows. The sun is cold and pale, throwing down weak lances of light. The sun-spears do not reach the sooty heart of the forest which is rayless and eerie. When squirrels return to their mossy beds, there is no sound in the forest. There is no insect-hum, no leaf-rustle, no whistling wind.

Ella Meere, V The station floated in the gloom of space like a lighthouse on a shore, throwing out the only brightness for miles. Inside the station sat a man peering out of a porthole into the inky blackness beyond. Space had swallowed up the horizon like some great dark leviathan from the depths of the ocean. Suspended as the only visible object for many millions of miles, the great sphere of Earth hung. It spun lazy pirouettes across the black dancefloor that was space.

James Smith, V

To my left, under the sombre shadows of the lifeless hazel trees, lay a small, derelict graveyard. Long, dark shadows stretched over the dilapidated graves. To my right lay a deserted village memorial. The battered writing seemed neglected and forgotten. Above the plaque of writing stretched a stone cross, as if grasping to catch the clouds. It stood, withstanding the countless years of pounding from the brutal English weather. Under the memorial’s gaze lay a small, solemn wreath adorned with bright scarlet poppies.

Paddy Livings, V

Despite the close proximity and environment, the tree on the right was completely different. After the first initial jut of growth, the leaves only continued to cover the skeleton of it for half of its height. A spindly hand reached up to the sky with its many fingers, on which only a few leaves, like bats, hung. They shimmered and flapped until they flaked off pathetically before wafting tiredly to earth.

James de Planta, V

Out of the corner of my eye I see the ever-present flight-attendant who is wearing a little bit too much make-up. Her cherry lips are pursed into a threatening smile, hiding her too-white, lipstickstained teeth. Her neck, that is a slightly different shade to her face, is wrapped tightly in a sky-blue, smooth silk scarf. Outside, the landscape is clothed in a bleak coat of mist.

Tara Jones, V

An impenetrable layer of thick, dark cloud choked each entity it came across, grasping each with its vine-like tendrils. Exhaust pipes sputtered with the effort of pumping more and more of the heavy gas into the air. The steady whirs of the queuing cars were now familiar to me, the low hum part of my nightly evensong. Mingling with this is the shrill screeches of intoxicated women, each harpycry piercing the night air. The men, in retaliation, respond with their own unique calls: cries of ‘oi – oi’ pervade every street corner that I turn down, sexist remarks flung at every passing female, as if this blatant peacocking could actually woo.

Anna Geddes, V

I stand alone yet surrounded all at once by vast open horizons lying flat around me. An odd cloud, passing over the high sun accompanies me as I walk to the entrance of an old copper mine, once paired with a warehouse of corrugated iron. Now all that remains are wafer-thin walls of rust and the memory of miners that once worked there. The entrance of the mine, hidden in the cliff face, is now just a void of darkness held up by feeble wooden frames.

Evie Cowans, V

Suddenly I am out, the freezing air cutting through my clothes, the sky ablaze with anti-aircraft fire; everywhere, planes are burning and wherever I look I see hundreds of billowing parachutes. Mine has fully opened, jerking me upwards, the harness digging into my thighs. Ploughed fields and thick hedgerows rush up to meet me, dotted with fires and parachutes, gunfire erupting everywhere. I prepare to meet my destiny, music provided by a chorus of bullets and engines.

Alex Phillips, V

Looking mindlessly down through the dewed window, the morning light glinting on the pregnant drops, I saw no movement to disturb the dawn’s peace save a solitary shape contracting then extending in a regular rhythm: the neighbour’s young daughter attending the garden. Her stocky frame bent determined over the sodden earth; she thrust her dented, aged spade into it once again. Her burgundy jumper, though tired from love and wear, still showed up brilliantly against the muddy backdrop in front of which she acted, like a holly berry against a Christmas wreath.

Rosie McLeish, V

Tennessee gardens

‘Where the tailor may go, and the doctor may meet, In the garden of Tennessee. Where the workers may be and the farmer will sow, In the garden of Tennessee. Where the teacher may teach and the preacher may bleach, In the garden of Tennessee. Where the herald may cry and the slaves do all die In the garden of Tennessee’

The Bridge across the stream connected the town like a vein through a tree. Brushed silver coated the outskirts of the gritty cobble sides, fervently inactive to the summer light and entirely plain. Darker silver coated the cobbles, the thick paint smoothing the irregularities; as if in the centre existed a depression, such that the pull made it warm to touch even in the coldest months. The lower side beams mirrored that of a Chinese antiquity, as the perforated red stone curled in on itself like a human hand. Mounted at the sides were the stone railings, same colour as the brick but different material, curving such that the gaps between the pillars looked like pieces of bread, the entirety of the barrier looking like battlements from a castle. There were no ornaments at the vertices of the bridge, no lamps or extensions or small decorative pillars; just the steep incline at the beginning and end - an industrialist’s motif. The actual curvature of the bridge defied realism, yet it remained unassailably strong. The power it pertained was awe inspiring but erroneous; never before had existed such a monsoon of unadorned grandeur.

The stream which ran under it came from House Mountain some 30 miles north and separated just beyond the bridge to pervade throughout the whole town. Stretching out SW to the school and allotments, west towards the festival dome and the Dew Mill; east towards Siller’ mall and the rest of the shops, and down SE to the Old Folks club and the Livery. The town curved up to the church in the north, and the stream stopped just east of it. Cassie had often strolled up to the church, not only for Sunday mass but because she liked gazing at it. She would often look at the church from the park and try to grab it with one eye closed. How tickled she would be if she could walk round with it in her pocket, how extremely happy she would be. The feeling of fuzziness and warmth like when a butterfly lands on the back of one’s neck. She longed to have a pet butterfly. Mrs Sanders says it would be boring and callous to have a creature locked up in a cage, their job is pretty self-explanatory. But she wouldn’t have it locked up, she would build a wood shed outside. James said he would line it with film so that she could see into and watch her fly around all day. She could grow plants in there, strawberries, raspberries and everything that she could eat. Hopefully she would eat, not like Dune who only eats buttered meat from the Longsdale farm. She has grown so very thin. Are butterflies cannibals?

The bell at the top of the room sprang into life. The tassels beneath it wriggling like a playful worm underfoot. She got up and made her way to the study. She knocked on the open door. Her father didn’t turn around. She picked up the spade on the left of the door, ran towards him and jumped on his back whilst clenching his chest. He let out a rush of air and screamed with laughter as she started to hit him on the head with the pink plastic. He struggled as she tried to tickle him but then got a hold of her hand. Before he knew it she was out the door squealing. She ran up the small set of stairs and through into the kitchen. Lanalie was there making apple custard and black tart crumble. She turned to look at her and with one smile revealed she knew exactly what Cassie had been doing. She laughed and flipped the neighbouring pan upside down and held it to her head. Cassie let out a giggle. Lanalie pointed towards the top right cupboard. Cassie walked to it, waiting eagerly, Lanalie made a drippling motion with her hands. Cassie grabbed the syrup and put it on the counter next to her mother, but was immediately caught in an embrace. She hugged back, wishing that she never had to let go. Her father came into the room, picked up a paper and started reading, smiling at Cassie. She went to sit down next to her father, reading the back of the paper; it was a behind picture

of a German shepherd trying chase the ball at the last week’s Colts game but was being held back by the leash. Under it marked ‘ Man vs football, A dog’s game’ Her father shook his head and made a pulling motion. Cassie gasped and glared. Her father looked over to her mother. She couldn’t make out what he was saying because of the angle but she smiled as he mother laughed wiggling the spoon in an authorising manner. She loved it when her mother became all demanding. It made her father nervous. She remembered the time he mother got him to drive all the way to the mill just because they left her blanket. They probably think she was too young to remember but she has a surprisingly acute memory. Factual recall comes with ease too her. She still can remember the lessons she had with her mother about the history of the gardens, its coat of orchids stretching for miles. When people came to try and renovate it into a factory complex because of the supposed nearby oil abundance, there was much uproar. They dug up all the land to get to the reservoir underneath. No one knows if they found oil because before anything the pungent smell of methane released drove the plantations away. The orchids grew back soon enough and the smell disappeared. Now no one comes here unless they live here. She likes it like that. A small but tight community, bounded by the ass and cheek, her father says. Although she does hope people come over the bowl some-day. Not everyone can handle the glare of the garden sun. She’s never been over the hills but if it’s anything like this she can’t wait to go.

Her mother beckoned towards the counter. On it lay a folded envelope. Cassie looked at it questionably. Her mother pointed to the wall next to the table. The dew mill was that direction. It must be the money they owed Marcus for the wood he delivered last month. She got up and picked up the envelope. It was heavy. Her mother smiled a delicate smile. 3 fingers she held up, then made a cycling motion, tongue out body swaying. Cassie laughed and nodded. Apparently she pulled stupid faces during exercise but she wasn’t so convinced. She slid into her boots and headed for the door. Her father didn’t look up as she left.

Cassie walked out of the cul de sac and down onto the market street. She knew if she took the bike she’d be back in time but she wanted to see Mark outside the school. He said he would meet her there and he’d bring cinnamon buns. She loved them. She glanced down the cobble street as she cut across. The mill was on the other side of town so she had to cut across Chandler road and the bridge to get there. There were hordes of people passing, looking at the months collection. Everyone kept stuff they didn’t want and then sold it at the end of the month. Hopefully there were some raisin biscuits. She wanted them every time. As she cut into Chandler street, she couldn’t help but notice the figure next to the bollards. Shaded by the tire shop but not completely obscure. It looked like Tyler. The negro from Texas. He was sweet. Funny in an adorable way. Another thing she wanted to put in her pocket. Most of the boys made fun of him, some called him freak. But she liked his laugh, and he had a beautiful smile. She approached the Bridge, many times she had stood at its peak, looking out over the town despite it being lower than other parts of the area. The feeling was divine. She would do it again, but was stopped by a noise coming from the edge of Chandler Street. A figure emerged. It was a man. He wore a dark rainbow sweater with reindeers on it. Visibly sweating. He ran towards her, running with purpose. But why at her? Suddenly they collided, Cassie sprawled onto her back and hit her head ...

Nathan Goyea, LVI

The Dwelling of Frost

The Dwelling of Frost Spires of grey rock towered above the clouds, Monumental Gods robed in snow. Their majesty fascinated man, From times before memory, We’ve stared in awe for ages. We may never truly understand them, But we must never forget, To respect these ancient giants, From whom the great rivers come. The dwelling of frost, Tower above the children of the earth, And will do so throughout the ages. Sometimes flakes of water fall upon their heads, These delicate arts of the sky lace their snowy cloaks. Their snowy peaks, filled with man and flake, Will always be the dwelling of frost.

Piyush Koorapaty, IV

The Sand Swordsman

The relentless sun began to descend, a cold chill now upon the soft desert floor. To the east, far off into the distance, small flickers of lights could now be depicted, dancing on the horizon. A pale figure covered in torn cloth rags proceeded towards them, stooping low, keeping quiet, and all the time keeping their hand hovering above a leather sheath at their waist.

Screams of agony and pleas for death disturbed the silence in the air. Fires and torches littered the Roman camp, lighting up the arena in which the captives were tortured. Bodies lay wasted on the floor, a covering of sand obscuring their wounds. Unceasingly, Roman soldiers rode in chariots, swaying from side to side as they drank bitter wine in one hand, and annihilated fleeing victims with a blood soaked sword in the other.

Silent and agile, swift and effortless, the cloaked figure walked to the edge of the camp, careful to keep close to one of the tents, deep within the shadows. He seemed to scan the arena, searching for something, wandering, until suddenly he tensed. He gripped the

wooden handle of his blade, trembling as he did so. His shoulders were now pushed back, a violent rage beginning to build within him. His eyes were transfixed on a small boy, leaning against a wooden post. The boy’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing heavily, his sand covered lips dry and cracked. A streak of red covered his chest, blood cascading down onto his legs. His face was chalk white, beads of sweat arranging themselves on the arch of his brow. Tiberius stepped forward.

The boy that had stepped into the light of the arena was slim and athletic. A piece of black cloth covered his mouth wavering in the mild wind, but brilliant green eyes reflected the fire of the torches, adding to the ferocity of his stature. The noise slowly died down, most of the soldier’s eyes now engaged on the boy. Several advanced towards him, sniggering to themselves slightly, like hyenas approaching their prey. The breastplate of one of the soldiers reflected the moonlight, spots of blood here and there. He had a scarred face and a sly grin that showed his overconfidence. His hand reached out to grab the boy’s shoulder, aiming to bring him to his knees. Instead, a flash of colour caught his eye moving in the direction of his abdomen, just under his armour. The blood drained from his face as he sensed a warmth spreading across his stomach. Looking down, he was able to catch a glimpse of the boy’s fist enveloped around a wooden handle, before he dropped to the floor in shock and agony.

Tiberius removed the knife cleanly from the body, took two swift strides, and propelled it towards the nearest soldier, a soft thud as it plunged into his chest. The next had caught onto the situation and made for the boy. He coiled back his arm to swing his sword at the boy’s head, but Tiberius ducked and swept a cloud of sand into the air with his foot. This distracted the soldier for a few seconds, enough time for him to grab a sharp tipped tent peg and slice the man’s throat, blood spurting down his chest.

The wind became more apparent now, howling in the night, drowning out shouts of the drunk men. The tents endured waves after waves of sand, slicing across the skin and blinding the eyes of nearby men. Horses frantically searched for cover of some sort, yelping when they were forced to calm down and fleeing from their charioteer. Through all the commotion, all the panic, Tiberius could be seen carefully prying the small wounded boy off the post, lifting him over his shoulder, and walking towards one of the escaped horses. Dozens of men swarmed out of the weapons tent, shouting and cursing, charging towards the small boys. The wind grew stronger, the waves of sand became more immense, all the while Tiberius never looked back, never squinted to look through the sandstorm. He simply lay the boy over the back of the horse, and faded into the night. Nothing would stop him saving his brother.

The village to the west of the caverns was the home of two hundred people. They sold clothes and milk from their cows to foreigners, but other than that they lived a fairly simple life. Cows lazed in the sun, penned up for most of their life, swatting at flies with their ears every once in a while. A soft drumming could be felt on the dampened sand, the vibration pulsating through the animals bodies, unnerving them. The townsfolk lingered at their doorways, interested in the sound that was growing closer and closer. On the horizon a horse could be seen carrying two passengers, the sun’s streams of warmth transfiguring their look as if an artist had gone over in watercolours; hazy and blurred.

Tiberius jolted the horse to a stop and descended from the horse.

“My brother is dying,” he exclaimed, “please, someone help him!”

A man and a woman rushed over to the body on the horse and lay him down. A soft whistling could be heard through the cracks in lips, and his hair clung to his shirt, drenched in sweat. The couple inspected his wounds quickly and carried him inside, muttering to each other hastily. Tiberius followed them to a small hut, but was told to stay outside. He waited for three long hours, feeding the sand on the ground through his fingers, mulling over the last things he had said to his parents. At last the woman came outside.

“He will be alright,” she said calmly, “but he needs his rest. You do too.” Tiberius thanked the couple and walked inside. His brother lay on a stone table, asleep and breathing smoothly. His chest was covered in white cloth, wrapped around his back and looped over and over again. His clothes were changed, the torn blood-ridden ones discarded. An old man wandered round behind him, tall and cloaked, wrinkles showing the vast amount of time spent in the blistering sun.

“He is a very lucky boy,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the room.

He then turned to face Tiberius and asked, “Why did this happen to him?”

Tiberius explained the feud between his home village and the Romans. That his brother was captured and taken prisoner, and that they were torturing him. He told him about the Romans he killed in order to do so, and the horse he stole to flee.

The man’s eyes were stone, wide open and fixed on the boy.

“You killed Roman soldiers?”

“They would have killed my br…”

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” The man grabbed Tiberius by the throat and threw him against the wall. “Do you realise what peril you’ve brought upon everyone here?”

Ben Hobbs, IV

Little Gran

I don’t want to think of you dead in a coffin. I want to remember your warm hands worn down with work. Making me breakfast aged 10 before I went to school with the cream from the top of the Eshott milk poured onto Weetabix. Nothing tasted sweeter at 4 years old than snapping rhubarb sticks and dipping them in sugar.

Remember fishing on the mill? With my new green rod and March brown fly. We caught 4 rainbow trout out of the Coquet and lost 2 on the way home, we laughed for hours.

Raspberries, strawberries and honey from the hive at the top of the garden, the smell of tomatoes in the greenhouse and the vines hanging above. Walking along the road into Felton, lying on the green next to the road side as the jets flew over low and loud.

Remember being slapped by your mother? When she became pregnant for the thirteenth time and you said ‘… not another one’. You had to leave work early every day, pushing the pram with your daughter in, on the way home to look after your twelve siblings. You smiled when the doctor told you your daughter would be alright. Grandad Tot would have her pram on a rope, sat on the bench, pushing and pulling it back and forth after a shift at Woodham Colliery.

I don’t want to think of you dead in a coffin, I won’t because you’re always there, warm in my heart. It’s good to laugh; you had a good life you would always tell me. Reaching ‘99’ then curling up to sleep, your unconditional love forever blessing my life.

Charlotte Hollinrake, III