UppLit Volume 7_Uppingham School

UppLit

Contributors

Uppingham Pupils

A Day in the Life of Uppingham

Fourth Form Set (NA-K) God Complex

Emily Winter, Freya Martin, Time Mao Yamanouchi, Antony Tsai, Elsie Barnett, Jess O’Donoghue

Mia Pinaeva

N Abdul-Karim

D W J Addis

Review of Othello (Frantic Assembly) at the Leicester Curve

An Arresting Mind

Zeus and Io

Anonymous Beauty Ethan Cousins Language Hallucinating Kerecsen Martin

Alejandro Pena Mibelli

To Whom It May Concern

Elegy for the Moths and Imagist Short Writing

Cover image by kind permission of Jonathan Wolstenholme.

Editors’ note

It’s a real honour to be bringing about the first edition of UppLit this school year. A lot has changed between this issue and the last, including the loss of editorial from our former Head of English, Dr Methven. New year, new changes!

UppLit has always showcased the creative talent of the school community, however it is now a student-run magazine aiming to promote the versatility of the English language as Uppinghamians see it. In the spirit of ushering out the old and bringing in the new, we’re proud to be placing a spotlight on our newest year, the Fourth Form, who’ve contributed the most to this issue. One of their contributions, ‘Time’, was inspired by a series of Surrealist paintings. The other is a body of work entitled ‘God Complex’ which consists of four pieces with three authors per short story. We also have a collective piece, ‘A Day in the Life of Uppingham’ produced by pupils from all years; and, of course, a variety of individual pieces in both prose and poetry. Additionally, this issue contains a couple of pieces written by staff. You can enjoy Mr Addis’ poem which, in true classicist style, follows the infamous story of Zeus and Io (a woman that Zeus attempts to court), and an opening of a story by our very own Head of English, Miss Abdul-Karim.

As 2023 approaches, we are excited about the publication of a number of poems by our Fourth Formers that were selected in a competition run by Young Writers for inclusion in their anthology, The Power of Poetry – Inspiring Voices. This will be released in January and we congratulate them on their success.

For now, we hope you enjoy reading this wide range of writing, and we look forward to seeing what’s in store for UppLit #8!

Ethan Cousins, Mia Pinaeva and Alejandro Pena Mibelli

A Day in the Life of Uppingham

It would be unfair to pick a single day at Uppingham as a memorable day of my school life. Most of the moments in my school life are precious …

… “Sir, I have to go, my peacock eggs have just hatched!” … … “Miss, can we leave early so we can be first in the queue for the bacon butties? Please!” … A coveted and limited item.

… Charlie smashed it flat to Long On, like so hard! Jonty looked like he had not seen it. Then suddenly he sprung to life, ran in and to his right, dived forward and caught it with both hands! OMG, serious, serious, grab! …

… When we’ve been there ten thousand years, Bright, shining as the sun, We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, Than when we’ve first begun …

… Prep had just almost begun – we all remained downstairs apart from a mischievous New House group claimed missing. They roamed the 4th Form dorms: One thought, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the fire alarms went off?” The room remained silent until the idea dispersed… on Friday he ate through five puddings, but he was still hungry … … I wake every day at 07:10, open my eyes and see everything blurry. I get out of bed and stub my toe in the same corner as every other day. Groundhog Day. I get my towel and go towards the shower, only to wait another ten minutes for one of the cubicles to clear …

“I have time. Right?” … singing hymns in chapel is so smile inducing, hearing the entire school sing as one, and you’re one of them … … “What lessons did you teach this morning, Sir?” - A well-known but nuanced conversation starter at Uppingham. Lunch chat.

… punting in Cambridge and someone fell into the water. We had Chelsea buns after… … tea, the one moment you either dread or you’re excited for. Some people check the menu, others try to guess, but one thing everyone has in common: we’re wrong. Spaghetti, you say? No, ratatouille. Lasagne? Maybe beans.

Then we have slippers, every Uppinghamian knows that slippers are vital - most people represent their personality through them: ostrich slippers, shark flip flops, Shrek crocs. The stairs going into the dining hall are almost certainly an Uppingham slipper runway. … after a wet, wild and windy netball match, my friend and I decided to share one trench coat on our way up to the Co-op. We waddled over the crossroads like little ducklings looking for their mum and had a very close shave with four Range Rovers, coming at us from four different directions … … “Nettles! Ah! Ah! Ah! Matron, save me!” … …Hearing Matron shout your name may be the most terrifying experience that I will ever have.

… chocolate hobnobs. Classic …

… why are the boys on the back row of the volleyball squad all stamping and moving like General Grievous? …

…and there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago, Most dear to them that love her, Most great to them that know…

… the walk. Some consider it frightening, but I consider it a game. Thrilling, riveting, fascinating: the hundreds, no thousands of ways this could go! He could tell me to take off my jewelry, maybe looking begrudgingly at my tights, indicating how he wishes I hadn’t chosen that specific pair to wear. Maybe he will comment on the vibrant vermilion earrings I have on today, ever tangling, dangling, jangling. What will he say? The suspense is asphyxiating.

5 for 14 runs off 4 overs …

… playing the last post on my own in front of the whole school was one of the most terrifying things I have ever done. Exhilarating of course, but also horribly nerve wracking.

… “Time for bed everyone. Lights are going out.”

… Thring’s statue in the September sunlight as we come to Chapel … … the year is 2018, the penultimate match between Farleigh and Meadhurst for house football: stakes are high, seems like the whole season’s come down to the last few minutes of this match.

… it is alarmingly hot today. Me and a friend are camping outside Baines, staring at the door until an employee walks over, turns the sign to “Open”, and allows us entry like a pair of vampires. Once we have had our fill of freshly prepared food, we turn our attention to the English block, in which various songs are blaring from the speaker of E3. The kettle boils, and along with it a rising anticipation for the first lesson of the day … … Pollies in their boaters outside greeting visitors … … Wake up, eat, walk, Chapel, walk, lesson, walk, lesson, walk, eat, walk, lesson, sleep (in lesson), walk, lesson, walk, lunch, walk, lesson, walk, lesson, walk, collapse, eat, work, sleep, repeat … … “Hi sir, how’s your day been?” Always a classic question to ask the guest during lunch. Here comes the classic response. “Oh, not bad, pretty good, actually.” Now it’s time to dig down to the root. “Do you have any lessons in the afternoon?” See, this is how you start a conversation at Uppingham. … the sweet incense of the sun-lit room with its square windows and tables with rounded corners … laughing when somebody sings slightly too loudly, and awfully out of tune, during Congers in Chapel … Finally getting to the English block- not another misdemeanour … … “Sorry I’m late sir.”

… And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England’s mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On England’s pleasant pastures seen! …

… as I walk down the hill with the fresh gravel on the road, the heat hits my forehead in a green vibrant bliss of my last days of term … … the sweet taste of hot chocolate on a Wednesday break … … when a busy day is full of mystery, rustication, suspension, and expulsion, we want to know all about it. So, we wait patiently, sitting on the edge of our seats, blatantly waiting for a summary, our fill in. When the time finally comes, the glasses are put on, the laptop opened: “Silence please, I’ll try to get through this as quickly as possible”

We all turn our heads in unison. After the half-hearted banging on the tables for those who received Commendations and other unnecessary notices. Finally, we will be informed of the most recent reprobates of Uppingham to avoid at all costs. A recent message from the jewellery police and perhaps a trip opportunity to Rutland Water. Next, “Any questions?” Oh, the pleasures of Call Over …

… “To the Library, quick!” … … the ten-pudding challenge. He’s going for the ten-pudding challenge. This will not end well

… “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.” … … Right, let’s talk about last night in the theatre, and this visiting theatre company, the Rutland Linebenders. I was at the performance to watch what I thought was Hamlet, however I got something quite different

… SPLASH! Water gnaws at my fingertips, dragging me and my wetsuit closer and closer to full submersion.

My heart is pumping out of its socket, squeezing through my ribs and pulsating my skin. Hairs on my arms are stripped of their roots, left to be castaways adrift on top of Rutland Water. Droplets settle in my nose, depriving me of any sense of smell. My veins cower back into the depths of my wrists, hoping to seek warm refuge among my flesh. My eyelids shield me from the invading daggers of icy water, piercing my pupils with no remorse. I hear the outbursts of laughter around me, wondering if they too have felt this sensation … … “Can I go to my music lesson now, Sir?” … … Amen

… every moment is another moment to remember as an Uppinghamian.

God Complex

Deep, dark, in the woods. A church appears in the mist, with a full moon above. In the background you can hear howls of wolves and birds screeching. Little yellow lights seemed to glint in the darkness like eyes. A glowing and oddly distorted figure appeared.

“Follow me,” echoed all around, not coming from one place. So, it was confusing. For one second, I lost the figure altogether, and then a soulless hand placed on my shoulder. I follow the voice into the church, I could hear God Complex, bouncing off the church walls. My heart was racing, my mind was sizzling, all I could think about was… death. The reaper was calling my name and he continues and continues until I woke up to the cold reality. There is no escape from death. The people and things I see are figments of the Devil himself. Satan.

I realise the church I had been led to was where the devil was formed and where it will end. No reasoning. No repentance for my life’s failure. No escape from death. The trance is enriching, devouring me in its alluring veil.

11:03, the clouds were as dark as the devil’s heart, the wind whistled like a ghost’s deadly whispers. My sister and I drove down Mint Street after a long day in the bakery. One second the night was peaceful, then the lightning struck. In a frightful flash, the town sunk into darkness. My heart jumped and I jumped a little. I calmed once I realised it was just lightning. I turned to my sister. A white glaze coated her usually spritely green eyes. She was frozen, pale as though she’d seen a ghost. Even the purple veins in her arms glowed in the moonlight. It was then I turned to see what she saw.

A bright light pierced my eyes and then my eyes latched onto a glowing figure. I screamed but no noise came out. I tried to run but my legs wouldn’t move. The distorted face was now tattooed in my mind. The vision would never leave me. Suddenly I realised this creature was a disformed, battered angel. Its cold eyes stared into my soul. One look made me collapse to the ground. The words of the angel surrounded me.

“God Complex. God Complex complete.”

It wasn’t long into the darkness of Hallow’s Eve. All was coated in thick blackness aside from the angel-like areas illuminated by the Wolf’s moon. I was still at my table. I lost track on the count a few hours back; the only indicator as to my time spent down there was the pulsating pile of lacerated, struggling for life bodies in the bathtub. My eyelids grew weary as I hoisted a final body over my shoulder, dark, red blood oozed slowly down my white apron, and I dumped them into the palpitating mound. The bodies weighed me down, I slowly felt my muscles start to give in, my strength was oozing out of me as my hunger appeared from out of sight. The moon lit up the bodies and the shattered glass of the clock reflected deep into my soul. Suddenly from behind me a noise echoed. This could only mean one thing.

The souls of the bodies I had killed had slowly seeped into my mind. I could hear the voices of the victims asking for their life back. They had lost everything and were worthless and they didn’t want what happened to them to happen to the next person.

White walls, white ceiling and a plain white bed, room 21C, Southern quad of the mental hospital. I can’t tell what’s real or what’s in my head, but I can see the eyes of her as the knife dug into her neck and the cold realisation the knife met her bone.

I wake up. I fall asleep. I see her again. And again. And again.

Night after night I see her. Her void-like eyes and disturbed voice whispering in my ears. Her tattered hospital gown spattered with blood. The memory of her lingers in my mind, the same room and the same knife every night. One thing that changed was where she stood. Every time I think about it, the woman in my mind gets one step closer, near the white walls of blood in the hallways. I wake. Everything is numb. My arms tingle with deadly pins and needles. My food hatch rattles, “Prisoner 001, breakfast”. The hatch rattles shut. I cried. And more and more. It was as though I wasn’t able to stop, a constant flow of tears- enough to water the Sahara. Through the wavered, foggy view of my tears, I noticed her.

Emily Winter

It flies by just out of reach as the minutes disappear Tick, tick ticking away stealing the moments of our lives, We hold on as long as possible being pulled by the force. Time. Runs. Out. A new time appears but it is not quite As surreal and amazing as the times before. You start once Again, having to make new memories and new moments Just so those moments in life can disappear out of reach Each time, repeatedly time pulls away as you try to hold onto The precious moment. Tick, tick, tick. They are gone.

It stands still, it stays. 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week, repeatedly it stays the same. Memories become distant. Friends fall apart. The world changes. But time, always ticks. Never stops. Never leaves. It goes fast, It goes slow but it is still always there watching over the moments of life, Stealing the time away from the memories. Making life feel short, But time feel long. Carrying on never stopping. Time is what keeps us going, Makes us forget the past and live in the present. Ticking by time Watches over us, defining the length of our lives. It stays. Always.

Freya Martin

Step by step I watched one foot be placed infront of another. The arid beach was beneath my feet and the sand was swept up by the wind. I was lost. I was lost on this beach, and no-one was around. My throat was achingly hoarse as I persistently called out for anyone to hear. I looked back and all I could see was sand and sea. The waves were oozing onto the beach and the marbles of water rolled backwards. The air was peaceful, and the silence was deafening. I struggled for breath as the air around me started to thin. I started being able to feel my heart jumping in my chest, and as I sat down, I immediately passed out. When I opened my eyes, I saw what I wanted to see. I caught sight of families and small children playing in the sand and people swimming in the sea. A smile swept across my face, and I felt safe again.

Suddenly I blinked and gasped for air as everything around me disappeared. Time had slipped away. I looked around only to see an abyss of nothing, the pain was like a prison, and I knew there was no way to escape it. Stuck in a painful embrace of time

Mao Yamanouchi

Years go by, Months go by, What have I found? What did I find in all this ground?

Weeks go by, Days go by, What did I find with all my might? What did I change all these nights?

Dusk goes by, Dawn goes by, Who did I help with this time? How many screamed. This is a crime.

Antony Tsai

Time is valuable It’s inescapable It doesn’t matter wherever you go No matter how high, no matter how low It all goes spiraling down Away without a sound.

Barnett

I’m running out of time Watching a beloved friend’s life decaying to dust. Tasting the bitterness of their life being robbed like a blameless crime. Touching our beloved life, like a car you’re holding onto which is brokenwith bumpy rust.

You’re running out of time Feeling your heartbeats slowly settling, throwing in the towel, your energy melting. Hearing the birds outside the hospital window don’t sing so sweetly anymore. The birds have now stopped singing, Life is going and nobody is noticing.

Jess O’Donoghue

It sat there cold and stagnant, rotting away distant memories leaving the space blank, unclean. It was mourned and pitied upon but, also feared and despised. People said time had caught up to it but they were unaware we are all time. Trapped in a cage filled with whispers of sorrows left confined in our bodies. It used to say that life was an experience but now it says existence is a sin. Slowly it drains itself of being, sluggishly tormenting the cracks within its skin. One more time its soul grovels praying for the freedom of death.

It is gone. Its pointless life lay forgotten, held within time.

Elsie

Review of Othello (Frantic Assembly) at the Leicester Curve

By Mia Pinaeva

Following highly acclaimed runs in 2008 and 2014, audience favourite Othello returns with an updated version for 2022.

As we walked into the theatre, the set provided a powerful introduction for the following hour and fifty minutes. The pool table, red leather armchairs, bright, glimmering arcade machine, and retro wallpaper transports the audience into an old-timey bar right off the bat (yet another prominent prop, by the way), and the thumping, rhythmical music creates an innately disturbing sense of excited foreboding. The production opens with a wonderfully choreographed dance/fight scene along to the crescendo-ing rhythms, introducing

the themes of danger, desire, and violence through the fast-paced interactions.

All the major fight scenes in this production were presented similarly in terms of sudden break into dancing action and intense background music, and although I appreciate the sense of cohesion that this instils, the transitions surrounding this felt disjointed and illogical. A little more subtlety would have helped this niche aspect of the production live up to the talent and effort it takes to organize such scenes, and therefore lead to a more enjoyable experience.

As expected, Frantic Assembly delivers a legendary example of how proxemics change everything when

well thought-through, the sheer closeness between the actors (partially due to a quite claustrophobic main stage) at crucial times emphasizing each personal conflict immensely. The grace and comfort each actor moves with is simply impressive, giving the actors a large amount of credibility in the audience’s eyes, and rightfully so.

Costume-wise, the production wavers between a success and a failure. Although clothing the actors in Adidas and Nike tracksuits fits perfectly with the class and era of people they are supposed to represent, the visible, white on black brand names took away from the experience of emotionally charged scenes as I sat there, trying to make

out whether Iago’s shirt says “Nike” or “Puma”. This added many connotations to interpreting each character, but I still cannot decide whether those connotations are good or bad. Ultimately, there are better costume choices out there for conveying a more modern (and poorer) array of Othello characters.

There is very little to say about dialogue as it was delivered perfectly by most actors. The Shakespearean language clashing with the modern setting is quite a cliché contrast but still works insanely well, creating this anachronistic atmosphere you only get with modern interpretations of the great playwright.

All in all, the esteemed play was produced very, very engagingly by a talented cast and team. The primarily romantic, conflicting, and passionate narrative was conveyed in an accessible way.

Frantic Assembly strikes once more; ★★★★

Image credits: Tristram Kenton

An Arresting Mind

By N Abdul-Karim

5pm, July 7th, 2021

In a cluttered bedroom of a town centre flat, a computer purred on automatically. The whirring and the fluorescent glow were insignificant in themselves, but not for Nadia. Instinctually, she moved from her bed and dutifully sat at her makeshift desk. A single, red polished finger hovered over the keyboard. Writing was addictive. Euphoric. Like literary heroin. In this cyber vortex, she existed in a world of possibility: reality and fantasy were mushed together in a palatable, gloopy soup. Nadia wrote stories. Lots of them. At age six she was writing the usual humdrum of princes meeting princesses. Now she pushed the boundaries, and the green maze of her hard drive was home to thousands of narratives. All waiting to be released. Waiting to be read. Publishing was her dream, but for now they were housed in the virtual terrain of her Lenovo. Her words were hoovered into the microcosm of her computer; inhaled into the fibre optic cables that existed in the

machine. No, they were not for public view. Not yet. Right now, her tales were like a sacred offering to her laptop. The whirring turned into a hissing like sound, making Nadia wince. Like some A.I Mephistopheles it owned her soul, and this was a reminder of the consequences of not writing. Tonight was going to provide fodder for a special kind of story. Her eyebrows twitched as she tried to push aside this unpleasant memory. More squiggles appeared on the gleaming canvas of her Word Doc and before long she had written a couple of sentences.

Expectantly, the cursor continued to flash after the full stop. She knew exactly how tonight would go - she had written it after all. Every single moment. A belching-like sound emerged from the depths of the hard drive. Her eyes became metallic, as her fingers, once more, danced along her keyboard. One titillating word after another appeared in a frenzied wordplay. She had a few hours of writing before her rendezvous at the Fisheries Inn.

Beauty Anonymous

Her skin is oh so flaky, golden brown it is The sun reflects off her flourishing skin She sits waiting patiently behind the prison glass She catches your eye as you walk into the shop.

She is so beautiful on the inside, sweet like a cake She’ll always be there to help you, she is ne’er fake ‘Tis not my fault, nor my regret, that she looks good tonight Stay away for she is mine; she is mine tonight

I don’t have to give much of myself for her to be with me Easy going, easy loving I want to let her see She isn’t vein or boastful, she is just beautiful I’ll guard her with my life until I see her funeral

To get her, of course, it should be your goal Of course! Of course! Of course! She’s a Greggs sausage roll.

Zeus and Io

By D W J Addis

Io was a lovely lass, porcelain skin as smooth as glass. She caught many a roving eye, but none more famous than from high Olympus, where Lord Zeus resides, ruling over lands and skies. Never one to miss a chance to join in some immoral dance, he glided down, and found her sitting a good Greek girl doing her knitting. Alone, just wanting peace and quiet, Not to sate an immortals’ diet.

In a flash of godly flair, He cleared his throat and did declare “Io, do not be afraid. I am, Zeus, the Heaven-made. I wish now to profess my love, and tell you that, by crook or shove, I must have you to be mine” And in his head that sounded fine.

But Io was a different sort, from other Greek girls gods had sought. She had her pride, and by her honour, refused the rude god thrust upon her. “I am not some kind of prize, for your famous philandering eyes. You shall be having none of me, so go away, and leave me be!” Mighty Zeus is rarely swayed from a plan already made. He pressed onward trying harder, “You attempt to deny my ardour?

I’m King of the Gods, lord of thunder, Please speak sense, do not blunder. It’s not a “what”, merely a “when” so do not challenge me again.” Io rooted still with fear, her arms felt week, tum felt queer. She did not know now what to do, a saviour was long overdue.

But praise the gods, she did appear Hera, the only god Zeus fears. His wife who was, we know, acquainted with how their marriage bed was tainted. She noticed a sudden lack of beard at her left hand and so had feared that her husband was in pursuit of some young maiden small and cute. She looked around and when she saw the halo that her husband wore, she hurtled down in full attack to catch him in his furtive act.

She bellowed loud “I have you now!” But standing there was just a cow. Her husband sounding awfully smug said “Hello dearest” with a shrug. She was aghast and so frustrated her plan to catch him was castrated. For Io, still of whitest hue, could not talk, but only moo.

Language Hallucinating

By Ethan Cousins

Gerrymandering: We divide, we have the advantage whilst they are just meandering. Aa: Lava cools, becomes jagged masses of death. I hope I don’t hit my jaw. Flub: I might have botched it, if you need me, I will be at the club. Kakorrhaphiophobia: I really don’t want to fail this; I’ll think of another idea. Curmudgeon: He’s bad tempered. I wonder if he could get help from religion. Erinaceous: It looks like a hedgehog. How precious.

Impignorate: I need to mortgage my house. What a cruel twist of fate. Xertz: Don’t drink so quickly, you’ll get a brain freeze and that will hurt. Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious: The cheese was very good, but I thought it smelled dangerous. Crwth: An instrument that I did not know existed. And that’s the truth.

To Whom it May Concern

By Kerecsen Martin

To whom it may concern, To those I love, and have known For ages long. Or so I thought before A brittle bone broke within the mind

Sit awhile, listen, delve, dive and Reminisce. Strolls of inconsequential bliss To no avail, suspended on barbed wings Before plummeting into the known.

Was I mistaken? A crown of thorns worn To remind me of the purpose. Yet doubts ceaselessly swarm as swallows do their nest Yearning for truth, hoping for rest.

We’re close now - the mist is lifting ‘Say something’. It will shatter things. ‘Say something’. I could be wrong. ‘Say something’. Alright.

The thorns are no more, replaced with iron, dense and dull, A silenced spark whispering sombre melodies upon deaf ears. And yet we now know. No more precarious words; only truth. Only sighs.

For when the sighs subside, diminished by unrelenting life, We return to that ever-sensual matter refreshed, but aware of What awaits us –Replaced by whom we knew would do so.

Down then. Heal, move on. Forget regret; the road is long…

Elegy for the Moths

By Alejandro Pena Mibel

To my inevitable audience:

Sightless, speechless, Out of sight, out of mind, Thought mute, knowledge blind Beloved of light, little creature of night My written word for you a feast.

Imagist Short Writing

By Alejandro Pena Mibelli

Dragon

Jimmy smoked on the roof. Up, up away from the world everything seemed so small to him. As he leaned against the chimney pots, he let the wind wash over him; at this height jimmy could’ve closed his eyes and imagined he was flying. Why did jimmy smoke on the roof? He couldn’t for the life of him tell you. Maybe there was a kind of peace up there, far above the world in a red brick forest; or maybe there was a shame in him, briefly visible in the heartbeats between inhalation and exhalation, but mostly hidden: spirited away by howling winds.

Whalebone corset

Grey haired, slim waisted, sharply featured, Ms. Vestuchi resembled in every aspect of the word a sewing needle. With steely-grey eyes she dissected Anne with enough regularity and precision to make a watch-maker weep with pride. Faced with such a discerning gaze Anne couldn’t help but shift in her seat; every minor blemish felt magnified infinitely by Vestuchi’s horn-rimmed spectacles. “Annabel,” she began, “I hear you decline to wear a whalebone corset”. Guiltily Anne stopped picking at the mole on her thigh and looked up. “Yes madam,” she replied, “it’s too tight, I don’t feel like I can breathe right”. Vestuchi cleared her throat. “Annabel I have here your figures: one hundred and seventy centimetres in height, fifty-one kilograms in weight, eighty-six centimetres hips and, ah, sixty-eight-centimetre waist”. Anne swallowed“yes madam”, she said. Wearily Vestuchi took off her spectacles and rubbed her forehead with forefinger and thumb. “Annabel, you must understand; the academy has standards we must uphold, you are fortunate to be blessed with a good natural form, other girls are not so fortunate and must take more serious provisions, you will either wear the corset, be kept on a keening diet, or be asked to leave the academy. Do you understand?” Numbly, Annabel gave a felon’s nod. “Good” spoke Vestuchi, with a grim finality, “you may go”.

Vitriol

Burning vitriol writes a hateful scripture on the inside of my skin. Writhing words itching to escape. They choke out the humours and rearrange the mind, thoughts that are poisonous, wanting to leave, wanting to strike.

Duck eggs

Jesse ate duck eggs. The sun was on his back, the wind in his hair, and Jesse ate duck eggs. He liked his duck eggs plain. Others liked tabasco, some katsup, and there was even a minority who preferred chimichurri, degenerates. Jesse looked down on them all: he liked his duck eggs plain. There were some, oh yes there were some, who presumed to criticise his choice of eggs; they drove him mad with anger, who were they to say what type of eggs were best? They weren’t Jesse, because he was Jesse, and he liked to eat duck eggs. A clock chimed in the distance; Jesse grinned a gleeful grin: it was time to eat duck eggs. He did not care for the season, oh no he didn’t, rain or sun, snow or sleet or fog, none could stop Jesse, why? Because he liked to eat duck eggs. How long had he been here, eating duck eggs? Was it a month, a year, a decade? No, none of those, it was his birthday, he knew this because on his birthday: he would always have duck eggs.

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