The smell of my aunt’s house has always been there, in the back of my mind, a cup brimming with glowing memories. When I was younger, I used to spend winter evenings at home imagining those idyllic sunsets in the native Maryland woods behind her house, or the heat of the midday American sun reflected in the brook down the dirt-track road. The smell of freshly mown grass was often associated with these summers and these memories – but as I grow older I realise that this is just one piece in the jigsaw puzzle. A part of me knows where the other pieces are. Scattered. Some teeter on the brink of extinction whilst others dart in and out of the glow of recollection. Some pieces are lost in the archives of childhood. It hurts to think that I have carelessly lost that little treasure I hold so close to my heart. I don’t want to risk losing it ever again so I shall simply write.

It’s incredible what exposure to raw weather can do to a person. Those evenings I used to dance in the summer thunderstorms, feeling the humid shower embrace me, I felt – and there’s no other word to describe it – so alive. As though the grey speckled skies released their blood-warm rain to fall to revive me and to wash away the troubles of life. I used to feel it slip through my veins, rejuvenating every cell in my body, as I stumbled through long grass, revelling in the nature surrounding me – my own analogous chorus of the roaring thunder and radiant lightning. Back then I roamed with nature, confiding to it the questions I did not understand, yet still yearned to answer. In turn, nature roamed with me. It whispered in my ears and painted a smile on my face – what it said to me I could not possibly say; only my juvenile self understood this language of innocence we used to share.

I remember the beautiful memories of hot days where the sky was so blue and the sun so bright that it ingrained itself into your vision every time you blinked. The urge to lose yourself for days and days, the only thing guiding you being your infinite imagination and lack of all sense of reason. I remember us scrambling amongst the thorns and nettles in a desperate attempt to grab the juiciest, biggest blackberries from the furthest branches, and then the juice staining our lips and fingers – and the pure feeling of satisfaction after indulging in the excess of fructose. Until hours later when our stomachs would ache as we sat, exhausted, under the blooming wisteria tree near a river. And then the immediate guilt after my mother scolded me for not leaving enough berries for the pie she was baking.

Certain days I can remember well. Like the one my cousin and I spent down by the river, wallowing like hippo calves in the shallow streams that meandered away from the main body of water. The water was as blue as the sky – sharp, cold and refreshing. Being the biologist I have been since a young age, the wildlife surrounding this river fascinated me. From the darting minnows, to the crayfish and the emerald water serpents, I watched over them as though it was a beautiful kingdom and I was the queen, free to roam among my loyal subjects without the need for rules or societal pressures.

The first time I caught a crayfish was magnificent. It was barely able to fend for itself against my tight, prying fingers and grip; but, all the same, I was so proud of myself. That was until it managed to clamp onto my knuckle and cut through the flesh around it – I still bear the scar today as a trophy of my adventures amongst the wild waters of Maryland.

I go back to that house every year, but, of course, it’s not the same. Age, maturity and experience, though I have little, still manage to mould a part of that memory to something new, unfamiliar and unexpected. And most often, it’s something unwanted. I went back there a few weeks ago. I hadn’t been for a couple of years and I was eager to escape the dreary streets of Putney to return to my own paradise. No rules, no responsibility, no restrictions. Just the purity of natural life, untainted by man’s mark on the planet – a solace, perhaps, sought in times of loneliness. I was battling my way through a rough patch at that time and I thought that returning to that magical place would provide a sort of counsel – a psychological remedy.

I don’t think I could’ve been more wrong.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, I could feel the change. I felt it in the air. The sun squatted dully in the midday blaze and the comforting breeze was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t a light heat, but one that suffocated; heavy, feeling every single molecule crammed in your nose, throat, head, mind. When we began to ascend the gravel drive leading up to the house, I abandoned all negative thoughts and galloped to the garden where I so often used to lose myself. And then I stopped. And then I stared. Shock. There was nothing. The wisteria tree that used to stand in the centre of the garden was dead, its once lilac flowers shrivelled and its bark as wrinkled and thin as the pages of an old tome. The rows and rows of towering oaks that used to enclose the place had disappeared, leaving nothing but an occasional stump and the oppressive sight of a busy highway in the distance. The blackberry bushes were gone, leaving nothing, not even a root. The bamboo forest, the pond reeds, the tall grass – all of it gone. All that was left was a solitary patch of dead, blunt grass, stretching out to the road. This couldn’t be happening, not now, not when I needed it the most. I staggered to the centre of the garden where a pitiful, diminishing pond resided, hoping that I might still hear the unintelligible whispering of the wind through the creaking boughs of that wisteria tree, or feel the raindrops bless my skin.

Silence.

It pressed down on my ears, harsher than the symphony that usually embraced the place. The crickets no longer chirped, the red robins no longer warbled their melodic tune. Only the marring buzz of a jeep in the distance. In the span of a few seconds, my remedy was snatched from my grasp. This was no longer a place of infinite possibilities, no longer an isolation from the outside world, no longer a secret to hold that only I knew of. I didn’t mind about the trees, after all they would grow back. Same for the blackberry bushes, the bamboo, the reeds. That wasn’t what upset me the most. It was the fact that this place just seemed so ordinary – that’s what hurt the most.

I had no idea it could ever change; I was gullible enough to believe that maybe one thing in my life could just stay the same. I was ashamed of myself for bringing my hopes up so high.

I have come to realise, as I desperately try to relive those ever-fading memories, that I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want responsibility, I don’t want maturity, I don’t want experience. All I want is to be perched on that crumbling stone wall in her garden, watching the world as something fascinating, pure and new, content to just sit there and watch the lanterns of the dancing fireflies as the fading sunset illuminates my world.

Farewell, innocence; I hope someday, somehow, we can meet again.

image: ‘primarily a mixture of oak, sycamore, tulip poplar and beech trees’ courtesy of My Virtual Maryland Garden

EMILY B 10A

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

The aged brass clock seems to tick endlessly, reminding me of the seconds I am losing in this grimy pit.  It mocks me, each tick taking with it a part of my sanity. Each echo of the clock sounds rehearsed and military as if to keep marching soldiers in line. I guess that’s the treatment I get now, treated as another squaddie – a small spec within lines of lifeless men and women forced to exist in a shell of a life down here, though soldiers are heroic. I am anything but a hero. A small opening is situated in the top  right corner of the cell carved into the stone letting in minimal light the only indication that I knew whether it was night or day. It’s almost timeless down here, days merge into the pool of weeks and weeks to the river of months and months to the sea of years. I’m not even sure how long I have been incarcerated. I should be marking the walls, etching in the torture of time as it flies by without me.

The priest was set to visit that morning, to absolve me of my sins, to allow my last confession. I have nothing else to confess I am guilty and that is it. I’m not one to believe in a higher power or fate, or the notion that everything happens for a reason. Fate leads people to believe they are not to blame that it was fate that brought them to a decision that changed their life and if it had not been then it would have been later. Fate would be too easy to blame, if my sister hadn’t taken the responsibility for me all that time ago she would’ve encountered something else that led to her downfall. It wouldn’t be my fault. But it is.

I knock my empty skull against the stone wall in an attempt to conjure an idea of some sort, an escape route, a memory but the only recollection I have is of the colour of iron. Iron is the colour of the manacles I wear, iron is  the colour of the bars that restrict me, iron is the frozen bed frame where I lay my head and iron was the small bowl in the corner into which I relieve myself. Streams of consciousness, memories, speech, images all seem to fuse together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I am aware my harsh exterior gives nothing away, I am aware I am guilty, I am aware I am on death row ready for execution and  I am aware I seek solace in an old tune my mother used to sing when I couldn’t sleep. I revive it through a whistle though it will never measure up to the comfort I once gained from it.

The priest swirls into the cell in, a cacophony of colours painting his robes. He is brandishing a bible, holding it out as if his faith will protect him and threaten such a monstrous creature like me. I cower in the shadows as he shuts the metal gating with a reverberating clang. He pauses, his wizened features contorting in almost pity as his gaze travels around my cell before his eyes settle on me.

“Please be seated,” he croaks struggling to lift one of the metal chairs for me to sit across from him. I take it and sit staring up at his crumpled features before he inhales shakily and continues,

“You have been sentenced to death for the murder of Mariah Mackintosh. You are aware these are your last hours, I am here to help you make your peace with God for your such detestable actions. If you confess, God will repent for your sins and forgive you.”

I almost laugh at that, peace with God. I lost my faith long  ago when I realised there was no one looking out for you, there was no one protecting you but yourself.

“I don’t deserve to be forgiven, not after what I’ve done,” I say bitterly.

Bored with the conversation, I let my eyes go in and out of focus creating hazy lines in objects around me, it’s the only entertainment I can illicit from a place as  tedious as this.

“Everything that happens is part of God’s plan,” the priest counters.

“If God meant for everything to go as planned then why let my sister suffer for my sin. She’s a good person. If this God is meant to be omni-benevolent and omnipotent why does he let good people suffer.” My voice grows louder the more I speak and the more frustrated I grow.

“You must confess your sins, you have so much rage, let God relieve you of this pressure before you are relieved of your life,” the priest breathes. I inhale sharply trying to regain my composure.

“Alright then ‘Father’, I’m angry, I’m angry at God and his plan, I’m angry because a stupid decision I made years ago is taking its toll now.  I’m angry I dragged my sister into it. I’m angry it meant she lost an opportunity. I’m angry she took the blame for me and most of all I’m angry I couldn’t say sorry.” I breathe unevenly, needing to keep my anger and hysteria in check before I say something I regret.

In an attempt to calm myself down, I glance over to the small opening where a sharp point of sunrise penetrates into my cell, I often hated this part of the morning where the shadows which kept my guilt at bay  fled to be replaced with light, and in light you could not hide from your actions. Yet today I welcome it as it is the last sunrise I’ll ever see.

He pushed on, trying to extract a confession from me.

“My child, what sinful act has plagued you so?” The softness of his voice is almost painful, I haven’t heard softness like that in years not even from my parents.

I sigh, the priest won’t be able to change anything it won’t make a difference if I tell him. I need closure, I want closure, I have to have closure. I’m sorry sister, I’m sorry.

“In my youth, I decided to be rebellious and harbour an illegal substance, thinking it was cool, nothing would come of it. I’m sorry sister. My sister and I were closer than two peas in a pod and so when my parents found my stash she took responsibility for it. I’m sorry sister. My parents wildly overreacted and sent her away. I’m sorry sister. This led to her downward spiral. I didn’t hear from her for years. One day she calls me up and says she’s killed someone. I’m so sorry sister. What else could I do? I had to help her, I never got to apologise all those years ago. I’m so so sorry sister.” There’s no taking it back now. Not that the priest can change anything, not that he would. A confused expression crosses his face, he sits straighter crosses his arms, raises his eyebrows, inhales and utters the only question I hadn’t  been asked yet,

“So you aren’t guilty?”

I sigh, my ears just picking up the pounding footsteps of the guards coming to collect. It is time.

Of course I am guilty, I’m guilty of being the hands that pushed my sister off the wagon down to the dark abyss of immorality. It was I who was responsible for her actions and any further actions she may take. All that time ago she took the blame for my wrongdoing and it led to the destruction of her life. It led to her breakdown, her losing her mind. I owe her this much, she took the blame for me.

So I will take it for her.

image: Lady Justice, atop ‘Old Bailey’, The Supreme Court of Justice, courtesy of http://cdn.londonandpartners.com

APRIL P 13V

I know a humble little paradise, far, far away, of the utmost innocent and free spirited joy. It’s a place of boundless youth and infinite possibilities, where fears and anxieties of today vanquish entirely. Indeed, this haven is difficult to find, as I believe it is trapped within my memories. So allow me to take you there. Can you imagine it? The sun, the heat, the humidity…

I grew up by the water, learnt to swim before I could even speak. My hometown goes by the name of Hainan, meaning ‘South of the Ocean’, a small piece of paradise located in the South China Sea. In my memory, there isn’t a single shadowed corner of the island unkissed by the sun, and indeed, it is as if the sky is constantly painted with a piercing swatch of blue. The humidity would hit you the moment you step off the aeroplane, thick, dense air. You can almost smell the water vapour molecules, tickling your nostrils as you inhale. It smells slightly of both tarmac, and pollen, of blinding blue skies and towering palm trees. If you really concentrate, if you’re patient enough and determined enough, you can almost smell the salt of the ocean, though its probably just your senses deceiving you.

The mid-august early afternoon sun is poisonous. Two minutes under those blistering rays are enough to saturate you with sweat, oozing out your pores. That’s why the summer afternoons are slow, quiet, lazy. It takes dusk to bring the city to life. When the sun begins to set, it is as if you have acquired saffron tinted vision. The horizon becomes rimmed with a warm shade of blood orange, dissolving into the dull turquoise of the water. This is my little slice of paradise.

I will never forget those carefree Sunday afternoons, when my father and I would drive down to the beach, a mere twenty minutes away from our house. The car would be overwhelmed with excitement, music blasting, father and daughter harmonious, giddy with joy. When the smell of salt would hit us, pungent and liberating, and we would roll down our windows and begin searching for signs of the sea. You can always smell the ocean before you can see it. Palm trees would pave out our path on either side of the road, tall and rigid, like fences, guarding the waters beyond. It would tease us with glimpses of blue through the trees as we approached, as if the ocean were coy, playing a game of hide and seek. I would bubble in anticipation, yelling and rejoicing “I can see the ocean!”. And then, as if exiting a long dark tunnel, the trees would suddenly clear, and we have arrived.

I remember the exhilaration I felt as I charged down the shore into the water, spraying the blistering sand behind me on every step. My feet would tingle in anticipation as they dove into the cool, crisp waters, feet first, then thighs, then waist. Yelps of pure, concentrated bliss. When underwater, my hair would flow gracefully around my face, like the ribbons of a delicate ribbon dancer. The water was never crystal clear and the shore would always be packed with people, but I was always too submerged in my own joy to notice. Sometimes I would become overwhelmed, and mistakenly inhale the salty ocean. I would splatter and cough, then laugh at my own carelessness. The salt was sharp, but always bearable.

When evening struck, the smell of barbecue would dominate, luring us out of the water. By this time my stomach would be quivering with hunger. We would feast on the shore wrapped in towels, and my salty hair would drape down my back. Drip, drip, dripping wet. The evening was never cold, only refreshing. We would indulge in the lavish flavours of the grilled squid and lamb and chicken and aubergine kebabs, ordering another and another, seeking pleasure in excess. My father and I would each be drinking our own chilled coconuts through a straw, comparing size and sweetness. The sound of gentle waves would wash in and out behind us. The sand would remain in my hair for days.

Even today, the seaside serves as a sanctuary, a place of comfort. I often stroll by the ocean at night, alone with my thoughts, alone with the sea. The water, dancing in and out beneath my feet, erasing any footprints I imprint in the sand. I could stand for hours, watching, the blackness of the water and sky, feeling the ocean breeze tickle my hair. All my worries would dissipate, washed away by the waves and carried out by the current. I would be left with a feeling of undisturbed harmony and tranquillity, an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, yet, a hint of melancholy from those memories lost to the past.

This is my paradise. Can you imagine it now? The sand in my hair and the gleaming turquoise ocean. The comfort, the safety, a blanket of air that wraps around me. Childhood, joy, and the exhilaration that anything was possible

JENNY R 13R

Moonclad only, I walk with a trickle of grass and dirt underfoot. I had to be out tonight, as though some celestial pull commands me. Like the ocean- however fierce I can be I’m chained to the tick-tock tide. The hum of the wood at night envelopes me as its shadows do. As my foot crosses its ancient hearth, I’m painted by the rustle of leaves and the earthy tang of bark. Becoming a nymph, I left my shoes- my dress, on the forest’s doorstep, not wanting to dirty the place. My skin enlivens, the liberty of the wood seeps into me, through every pore, crevice, ebbing down all my lines and blooming behind my clum eyes, tainting them jade.

I am more awake than I’ve ever been, the breeze’s arm takes me in hold. I waltz with the wind over mossy veins that the earth breathes through- we inhale each other, together. Like a sparrow avoiding the enamelled thorns I pick blackberries from brambles I pass, and stain my lips, my freckled cheeks, with their purple blood. The bush crickets play me a symphony, serenade my wandering toes and swinging arms until I step in time to their lusty buzz. Gummy dew that clings to the leaves distort the cracks of moonlight oozing through the canopy, a chandelier in the organic ballroom.

A rook’s cry carries in sharp swirls around the dormant trunks and prickles my ears- a warning. Run. Go – go. Once full of faerie pleasures, the wind crumbles, the trees knot together, claws out to scratch my bare flesh. Narrow leaves slap my now wet cheeks- when did these tears start? The wind echoes my howl as I blunder through the tempestuous yews.

Bursting into a clearing, I flee the scathing branches like a naïve dormouse from the screech owl. And here, the wind grabs me into its cantankerous whirls that rip up my hair like weak blades of grass- sensuously turn my dimpled skin to gooseflesh. The wind wants me, to assimilate our bodies into symbiosis. And my body responds, under every inch of my paper hide the tremblings of change grow and I bloom, there with no one but the moon to watch, I sigh and come into being.

I’ve dropped to an instinctual crouch, but any danger has ebbed back into the jaws of the forest. I stretch up and find the wind tumbling over my back, through my fingers. A weight hovers, a cloy has been spread over me- some second skin has sprouted out of every pore, it clings to my space and sheens me in something velvety. My back is burdened by some hunch that was not there before.

I feel so odd, the wood’s attitude towards me has changed, not a predator lying in wait, but a lush hubub where the trees sing and sway, inviting me to dance for their pleasure, sing their lullabies. There is a pool in the centre of my haven- so still, as though the night had melted and a pearly drop of indigo and white-gold fallen here. Stumbling toward the shining surface, I can hardly dare to look down at this alien flesh I am so unaccustomed to.

Blooming over my reflection are a canopy of dazzling feathers, still slick with down, glinting in moonlight. Topaz and garnet, burgeoning verdant over my arms in a wonderful cascade, brilliant pearly moonstone plumes burst around my eyes in owlish furls, wide dark rabbit holes. My limbs are aflame, cardinal bristles burn up my legs, clothing me in the most gorgeous blaze.  My arms are wings; I spread them wide, feeling the sweet caress of dawn’s air breathe new life into me, tasting the possibility of the sky.

I stand to my full height, hearing my spine crackle under fresh weight. With the cool kiss of night on my lips, I smile- how strange, now wonderfully strange. Testing my legs, I walk with skipping, scaly feet- taloned toes- about this smooth enclave in the heart of the muddles wood. A new rhythm beats in my limbs, my walk is disjointed but spectacular, animal but beautiful. With a dancing sense of new excitement I lie, and rock in the soft mulch of damp grass and crumbling leaves- I look into the infinity that is now mine.

In pigeon coos I hear the echo of my grandmother, aunt, sister, mother. The tales that weaved their way through my childhood with stinging truths and briars that bound me to a pre-chosen path. Words had seeped through my flesh and sown the seeds of this plumage before I sprang raw and lithe into being. This was written into me by my grandmother’s tongue, birds don’t chose their song. They are taught one.

The whole of the fathomless sky seems cold to me now, and my skin prickles. Under the moon the hours drag into millennia, seconds bloom into seasons and I watch as in one night, years fall by. The down on my wings melts into gloss, the colours fade slightly, becoming wan, experienced in one dose of moonshine.

The world that once seemed mine has been snatched away from me- the woods don’t encompass the globe, these accepting shadows cannot extend, cannot release me to what I have known before. As the longest night drags itself to the dawn, I am the legend that longs for normality, for humanity.

Sudden fear moves me as the sprint of a doe haunts long grass, I spring up- held by an urge to return. My home is in artificial warmth, words from men’s tongues, not this otherness. Not in the black sky and wordless leaves. Up, stumbling on another’s ungainly feet, I move back to my reflection. It is my only sense of reality perforating the fairytale.

I reach; touch the cool of the puddle, the version of myself suspended in the star-riddled sky and ripples distort my at once familiar and unearthly face, my flesh shivering with the water. My teeth have become pointed, a beast’s jaw, set to kill, tear. I stare at someone not myself, a nymph chained to the forest, trapped in the green haze of my iris. A monster’s, beyond humanity. Beyond what I can be. Sitting  on my hackles like an animal, tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth, tasting the world, raking in its scent as a brute would- the wood has claimed me, torn from me any emblem of my own world. The branches have ensnared, encircled me in the clearing that is my prison, towering high above my freshly crowned head stand the walls of yews, sycamores, oaks. Leaves upon leaves are waxy barbed wire that fence me in.

My mind burns, my hands work. Witless my body rejects itself, and in fistfuls, I tear them all, green, blue, pink, red – I spare not one feather.. Frenzied, I know not what I do, as from my virginal hide I pluck any beauty – leaving only raw pain that aches through the punctures. The blood wells and seeps. I feel it pour and wet my body, drying into rank brown that reeks of metal. The agony lasts, nothing dulls as I claw myself apart.

It is done. I ache, tremble, and cry. My body convulses, and I look back down to the calm of the pool. What gazes back, deep into me, is unutterable, some terrific, abominable tiger, with wild hair and striped with gore. It. Not her, it, that thing. I run, flee from it, from that place, engorged with the knowledge of my betrayal. At the edge of the forest, I cloak myself in my dress, coffin my feet in shoes and run away with this artificial skin clanking against my petal-soft toes, chaffing them to pulp.

As it revolves, and the wood shakes with my violation, the world cries and screams in bursts of rain that pelt me as I bolt back to encase myself behind wooden doors and shutters. Even as I curl up sheltered, it beats the doors and curses me. The feathers I have left must have been washed away by now. Or at least I hope so.

image: a magnified feather,  of a penguin – a rare and remote bird that cannot fly

PAIGE M 10A

Soft denim shorts

frayed

at the bottoms.

Stray thread swaying

against thighs

in the velvet wind.

Gooey aftertaste lingers

coating lips and fingertips

in a flavoured cloud of stickiness.

Subtly enhanced

by the ocean that

stains our crinkling hair.

Toffee’s sickly cousin embracing

tastebuds in that desirable concoction

you love so much

and that I’ve never liked.

And infused with seawater

all the more reason

to dislike.

But it’s soft hue, so similar

to that of your damp hair

takes me back

to the bench

where we shared

a partially melted cone of gelato.

A flagpole of flaky chocolate

for myself

to reward

for being such

a good sport about the flavour-

Your favourite,

Not mine.

Dribbling over our fingers as the mid-afternoon sun

let scoop turn

to liquid.

As we wasted away

the hours on that

peach bench,

you’d mocked it

for its sickly colour.

The change in our weighted pockets rattling

as our bodies

shook

with laughter.

I tug at the fabric

with my fingers

bringing the scent

closer to my nose

savouring its nostalgic comfort.

As the sun

lay down to rest,

long before we even

shifted our position

from the wooden

planks upon which we sat-

your legs

lazily crossing mine.

The buzz of laughter and conversation

flowing east from the Devonport less

assertive in its sound than that

of a bee.

Dull vibrations ringing

in our ears

drowned by the volume of our contentment.

Lapping waves against the shore

the epitome of satisfaction

no need to cloud memory

with cluttered noise that had

no worth to us

all it needed was a dribble of syrup.

image: gelato by Peter Brooke

SACHA E-O 12N

Crumpled.

From our fight. On my bedroom floor.

A disjointed corpse. Your stripes run

From freshly knocked over week-old

OJ inside of my grieving cocoon.

Am I not too old for this? Tell me.

Your stars are burnt

What-The-Hell-Do-I-Care urine-yellow.

A clean canvas no more. Your

Skin now. Lies in the void

Withholding your unuttered words.

And you bleed Red. White and Blue staining

My bedroom floor, tinging  the stars

That were in your eyes. Now sunk

Beneath the blue. Disappeared.

So I bathe you. Resurrect you. Iron

over your folds: crisp as your uniform

Was. And return you to your

Box: dad.

image: The ‘stars and stripes’, crumpled on a bedroom floor, courtesy of https://thumbs.dreamstime.com

AIYLA S 10M

‘We’ll be expecting a slight breeze all throughout the week, with a few light showers but mainly sunny days to look forward to…’

White noise crackled through the cafeteria as the radio died. Doris shifted in her stool, alone in the corner. Three others occupied themselves in the room; two played chess and the other tuned a violin. A yellow light beamed just above Doris’ head, illuminating her under an unnerving spotlight. It reflected off the white-washed concrete walls, swamping out the single beam of natural light that peered through a misty window high up on the wall. Her white knuckles gripped a chipped bowl full to the brim with lumpy mush. It was her eighteenth day and she was already sure that death was waiting to pounce, just around the corner. Every now and then, a shriek would emit from the violin as its owner dragged a bow across its strings. The sense of having nothing to do seemed to be eating her up; she had always hated being bored, ever since she was a child. And now she would always hate it until the day she died. At least the radio provided some form of entertainment.

Her fingers itched and her legs jittered, but she didn’t dare move more than that. Doris had already been taught her lesson. It had been boredom in the first place that tempted her to kill those people, that lured her into a courtroom, into a prison cell. It was boredom that destroyed her freedom in three whole seconds. She couldn’t even remember how she had killed those people exactly – and she had tried, desperately. She could remember a white-hot flash of frustration, and then seeing a woman, crushed under a block of rubble. It was her fault, apparently. That was what all the spectators muttered to one another, what the police officers reported through their radios and what the lawyers all concluded. Doris set down her untouched mush, ran a hand through her short, electric blue hair and looked around the room.

The radio hummed to life once more and Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ reverberated around the room.

In the far side of the cafeteria, two men sat hunched over a table and a chess set.

‘Check mate!’

Smirking victoriously, Ike looked up from the board. His glasses flashed as they caught the glare of the light above his opponent’s head and his nose piercing glinted smugly. Andrew curled his lip in disdain, his frowning dark eyebrows accentuating his patchy red skin and gold-plated teeth. Leaning back in his chair with a squeak and placing his hands behind his head – one with five fingers and the other with six — Ike continued to smirk.

‘And that’s the third time. We both know how it goes from here…’ he raised an eyebrow and flexed his biceps.

Andrew snorted with contempt, “Sure, whatever. It’s just a game, Ike. You’re too competitive, did you know that?” He studied his adversary. Although he was lean, muscular and physically stronger, Ike was also easily agitated if the right buttons were pushed. Luckily, Andrew knew that console very well.

Ike ran a hand through his dark hair, staring coolly at Andrew,

“And you’re too stupid, but you don’t hear me complai—“,  Ike glared past Andrew to the woman holding the violin, “would you shut up?!”

She scraped her bow across tight strings and another scream shattered the air. Slowly raising her hazel eyes to meet his glare, she lifted her long hair away from her face, revealing a mutilated stump in the place of her ear.

“Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” Her glare challenged him to say a word and her sarcasm mingled with the tension in the air until it was palpable.

Andrew chuckled, “You make me laugh.”

Ike’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. He knew he could never win a battle like this. The past three years had taught him that.

“Round four?” Andrew offered. Ike couldn’t help but allow a smile to crease his almond-shaped eyes.

Suddenly, the mellow notes of Pachelbel were interrupted as the weather man jumped to life.

‘Light breezes are steadily increasing in speed to heights of 15mph… don’t forget your warm coats and waterproofs!’

“Bring it on,” Ike challenged.

‘The weather takes a turn for the worse as heavy showers begin to scatter the north and move down to the south.’

Katrina finished tuning her violin before setting it down on the red leather couch. Shaking her dark curls from her eyes, she walked over toward the two men who were both deep in thought.

“Let me guess – Ike’s winning and Andrew’s winding him up.”

Neither man answered. Katrina leant forward onto the table, which groaned as her crimson nails dug into it. She tried again,

“Why don’t you two just try a new game?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ike’s eyes scanned the board.

“Well I apologise for trying to help!”

“Help? There’s nothing to help,” Ike studied the game meticulously as Andrew continued to contemplate his next move.

“Only the fact that you two have been stuck like this, every day. If nothing changes, you’ll both be stuck here for the rest of your damn lives,” Katrina glared at the pair. Andrew wiped sweat from his forehead and grimaced against the rising heat of the room. Standing up, he made his way to the old air conditioner that squatted, buzzing in the corner of the room. He bent down to adjust the settings. Nothing happened. Sighing, he gave the machine a punch. It just groaned weakly and coughed up a storm of dust.

“Stupid thing! Why can’t you just work?”

The radio stabilised its frequency with a loud announcement echoing around the room.

‘This definitely isn’t just any wind… Dr Smith, what are your readings over at the lab?… a hurricane?!’

Katrina, Ike, Andrew and Doris all remained silent, waiting for the next spit of information from the radio.

‘It has been confirmed; a large hurricane is currently making its way from the north to the south…stay tuned for more information.’

The weather forecaster’s voice was drowned once more, this time by Bach.

“Great, now look what you’ve done…” Ike groaned.

“Shut up! It wasn’t just me; it was you two, too!” Katrina folded her arms and pouted.

“Ow! It was never any of your business in the first place, why’d you come over here and interrupt us anyways?! Go back to your stupid violin…” Ike stood up, inching closer to Katrina. She hissed in fury,

“I came over to help!” Katrina turned to walk away, “Stupid, immature brats… just take the blame yourself, for once…”

“What… did you just say?” Ike’s voice was low and threatening.

‘We have more news here; the hurricane has approached quicker than we previously expected. A weather warning has now been issued as the torrents of rain plummet down and the harsh winds reach up to speeds recorded at 100mph.’

Katrina whipped around to face Ike,

“I said that you were a stupid, immature child and should just take the blame yourself for once. You’ve already killed so many people, I’m sure adding on a couple more won’t do much to alter your rep—“ Ike launched at her, and pinned her up against the wall, his fist entangled in the grubby fabric of her t-shirt.

“Says the woman who killed just as many, if not more!”

‘This is serious — people are advised to stay indoors!’

Andrew sprinted over to Ike, grasped his shoulders and tried to pull him off Katrina. Ike shrugged him off, continuing to spit,

“Don’t you dare, for one second, think that I don’t regret killing those people. Because I bloody do. If it weren’t for them I wouldn’t be caged up in this bloody place!”

Ike drew back a six-fingered hand as though to punch her.

‘BREAKING NEWS! In the incredibly strong gusts, a woman has been swept into a busy road and under a car—‘

Andrew caught Ike’s fist and pulled it downwards, causing Ike to fall to the ground, cussing. Stumbling away, Katrina gasped for air, straightening her t-shirt.

“Stop, please!” a small voice erupted from the madness. Ike stopped, turning to the small girl with electric blue hair. She wrung her large t-shirt nervously in her hands as the other two looked toward her.

“What?” Ike’s eyes widened in shock.

“I said stop! Please, if we don’t stop this now, we’ll only end up killing more than we already have,” Doris pleaded, despair evident through her shaking voice.

The other three looked down, avoiding all eye contact with one another. Deep down they all knew this scrawny little teenager was right, but none of them could admit it.

“She might be right – but that won’t stop me next time,” Ike growled, retiring back to the chess table where he sunk into a chair, glaring at the board. Katrina and Andrew silently followed his lead, each moving to a separate corner in the room where they began to contemplate. Doris sighed as a huge weight crawled off her back, and she returned to her stool.

‘Good news – the hurricane has moved on suddenly, taking another course toward the ocean. There won’t be any more immediate damage from what Dr Smith says, but the future of the weather seems to forever remain as a mystery. That’s all from us – have a good night.’

image: satellite image of hurricane Katrina August 2005, courtesy of https://youarenotsosmart.files.wordpress.com

ANNA ROSE F 8N

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Through the fake utopia,
past impeccable nurses with
blinding bleached uniforms.
Down the corridor,
heels clicking
against the stark white tiles.
Elevator doors opening,
sentries of metal
with emotionless, sheer surfaces.
A creeping silence settles
as they close.
She never liked the silence.
Silence
was unwelcome.
Silence
was unabiding.
Dark reminiscence of past horrors,
drag her resolve away.
Those frantic eyes
rise from the misted mind.
Her strangled shouts
echo in her ears
once more.
The sounding
of the bell.
The innocent
ding
shattered the suffocating void.
It’s plaintive,
reassuring tinkling
freeing her from haunting thoughts
of sterile rooms and scarlet stains.
Open
Slide the doors.
Infinite corridor waiting.
flickering light,
casting a sheen of lies
across the dark walls.
that cursed scream
from that cursed night
waits behind the door.
Onwards
she walks,
Terror in every shaking
click
of her heels.

image: the terrifying Nurse Ratched, from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (Milos Forman, 1975)

AMELIA B 12C

Winter comes

At night. Waking

In the young shadows behind

A shed, where a boy

And a girl,

Shiver and shake the darkness.

He shares

Words, which fall

Like fresh snow-

Beautiful and chilling.

But as frost

Gathers in her silence

His blue lips begin to waver,

Needing a response.

But she is

Wintering; frozen in fear

Of changing seasons,

She has no words.

Only a silent substitute of kisses

That distract like snowflakes –

Just as delicate

Just as cold.

They will not settle.

image: Snow in an Iceland bike shed, courtesy of www.entouriste.com

ISABELLA CLERY 9N

Purest skin,

Effortless beauty,

It was an honour to glimpse,

Into her unharmed eyes,

Eyes that would instantly hypnotise you,

As you danced in the abyss.

Little cardinal stars

Floated on her unblemished face,

Lost in her delicacy.

Her rosy heart

Steadily knocked against her silent body,

Leaving fragile footsteps

Following everyone’s deranged reality.

The steady knocks change

Into rapid flutters of a bat,

Agile and alert,

Yet blind to the truth,

It starts to race,

Pulsating faster and faster,

Slamming against her chest,

Waves of elation start to drown her,

Drops of water rest on her wistful skin,

Skin that is no longer pure

But covered in blemishes

Contaminated by love,

Not love when your eyes shine,

Or when your mouth upturns

Only a mirage of eternal happiness,

Designed for distraction,

A futile intervention.

Love.

image: a mirage, courtesy of startupsecrets.com

SACHA EYLES-OWEN 12N

Take my hand. I shall show you the world.

Follow me to a bridge floating bowls filled

With gardens. Every boat a balcony of Babylon

In salt and peppered sun. Smell fresh for sale.

Bangkok has sprung as boats cloud the river.

Take my hand. I shall illuminate macro illusions.

Clink on the rack, sulphur dioxide lens. See

Fire snap, collisions of almost nothing pop to

Coloured wonder. Gaze at rising balls of gas

Lift off a dullening strip, of not-silver.

Take my hand. I shall show you shadows of reality.

Black. Blackity blackness of black. Abyss

Wider than mind’s eye. Oil slicks into gold

Statues; flawed beings. Analyse word-wounds

Littered there; speculate what lies beneath.

Pick up your pen. She said.

Name. Date. Title. Are On the board.

This poem on was inspired by Surbiton High School’s Founders’ day, on which we celebrate our founding principles of decent education and opportunities for young women.

image: Bangkok’s floating market on the Chao Praya river