Literary Review - Summer 2025

A Year of Literary Triumphs and Inspiration As we draw near to the end of another brilliant school year, it is with great pride and admiration that I reflect on the extraordinary achievements and experiences of our English students across all year groups.

This year, the spotlight shines particularly brightly on Benjamin C in Year 8, whose outstanding poetic talent earned him second place in the prestigious ISA Poetry Competition. His entry stood out for its emotional depth, imaginative flair and technical control, a remarkable accomplishment that not only highlights individual excellence but also represents the flourishing culture of creative writing within our school. Alongside this, students across the school submitted thoughtful and compelling entries to the ISA Essay Competition. Whilst we await the results with anticipation, I commend all those who took part for their intellectual curiosity, commitment and courage in engaging with complex themes and crafting persuasive arguments.

Beyond the classroom, our students have had the opportunity to experience literature come alive through a series of unforgettable trips. From the dazzling reimagining of Shakespeare in & Juliet, to the chilling moral inquiry of An Inspector Calls, and the powerful stagecraft of War Horse, these theatre visits have sparked lively discussions and deepened our appreciation for performance as a vital form of literary interpretation.

One of the year's most enriching highlights was our A Level residential trip in December, taking students to the literary treasures of Bath and Hay-on-Wye. Exploring these historic towns - both steeped in literary heritage - offered students a chance to connect directly with the landscapes, authors and eras they study. It was a joyous fusion of education, exploration and inspiration.

As English teachers, it is our joy to nurture not only skills and knowledge, but also a lifelong love of literature, language and critical thought. This year, our students have exceeded all expectations, not just in competitions and assessments, but in their conversations, reflections and sheer enthusiasm.

Here’s to another year of reading widely, thinking deeply and writing boldly!

National Poetry Day………………P2 Year 7 Poetry……......……………..P4 Year 10 Poetry...…………...……....P6 Key Stage 3 Writing Workshop…..P9

Staff poetry……………………….P12 KS3 ISA Competition Entries……P14 Year 8 Transactional Writing..…...P19 KS4 & 5 ISA Competition Entries..P20

As I count the fallen trees, And see the grounded, brown, dead leaves, I’m reminded of our time on Earth, And all the harm we’ve wrought since birth.

As I see the glaciers break, And the fragile icebergs quake, Counting the days as the ice caps drift, Witnessing the world slowly shift.

As I watch the oceans rise, And hear the seabirds’ distant cries, Counting the moments, watching the years go by, Wondering how long until we say goodbye.

Yet in this cry, a hope we must revive, To seek a future where we can all thrive.

By Dominic H-L, Year 9

Time to be different Time passes by Counting every second Every minute, hour, or day Could change What we do, think and act So spend your time wisely You never know what could happen But I know There is always time to be different.

By Luca S, Year 9

2

When I do count the clock that tells the time I look back on my life Not with happiness, but with regret.

For I have not achieved everything I set out to.

From infancy all I wanted to do was travel At school I loved geography I loved to learn about the world But would I see it one day?

On to my A levels I went: Geography, History and Spanish were my three I took my exams and got all A*s Everything was amazing!

Then it all went wrong.

Yes I got into my perfect university but studying Geography, no.

I had settled for money over happiness From there my life fell apart...

Boring life Boring job Boring house Always in the same boring place!

What I had set out to do in life I failed at.

I didn't want money or nice cars, I wanted to see the world I lived in That is why when I do count the clock that tells the time, I look back on my life.

Not with happiness, but with regret.

By Oliver S, Year 9

3

What am I? As tall as Big Ben, Arms reaching out towards the sun, Tall towers as old as time, Sometimes dressed; sometimes bare, A bud unfurling, A sea of emeralds, An Autumn fire, A tinsel wrapped decoration, Swaying like dancers, Still as a statue, A whisper in the wind, Rooted to the spot, A blanket of green covering the landscape.

By Lucy B

Metaphor and Simile Poem He rises early, like the sun, A beautiful voice, like an opera singer, Small and plump like a plum, Skinny legs as fragile as glass, Eyes as black as night, Darting around like a busy bee, Bobbing like a rabbit, when on he stands on the fence, He wags his tail, straight like a ruler, Eggs like two little blue pebbles on the beach, His chest is a rose, Like Christmas, we see him this time of year Cassian

4

What Am I? I am a white sequin on a black dress.

A diamond in the rocks.

I have family but they live far away, And I don’t get many visitors.

I am as stiff as a Grandpa, Though I move more than you.

Sometimes I am hidden and sometimes full.

I am a cosmic mirror.

A blank canvas.

A dove in a murder of crows.

I am the disco ball of the night.

By Grace W

Who am I? A jaguar ready to pounce, A powerful cat ready to leap, Tumbling like Jenga blocks, Across the floor of molten lava, As rhythmic as dolphins in perfect harmony, A cast like a fishing pole, A flip like a pancake, Balance like a set of scales, As free as a butterfly.

Olivia A

5

These stanzas were inspired by Rudyard Kipling's poem 'If' which students have studied as part of their GCSE English Literature course..

If you can, as the river that runs down the mountain, flowing down even if you meet rocks and obstacles.

If you can, as the free west wind, brings hope and growth around the world, even if you are doubted or hated.

If you can, as the blooming flower, presenting and proud of your petals, even if it was partly dissolved or hurt; If you can, each time I doubt your love, with no holding back, no suspicion and no impatience, Tell me your love, as majestic as a mountain, as endless as a stream, as free as the west wind, and as grand and luxurious as a blooming flower....

by Darcy Z

If you can understand and hold my hand when things get rough, or even prove that you actually have love, you're the one.

If you can listen, take in the breeze, have me at ease, you're the one for me.

If you can trust, listen to your gut, a flower will blossom for us.

If you can resolve, find a way to solve, without having to revolve, problems will disappear.

A Year 10 student

6

Slipping Away I used to feel you pull away from me.

Not physically. never physically.

But I felt you leave slowly - you slipped away.

You pushed me further and further from you, But you never let me go.

You needed me, you said.

Now, you’ve pushed me so far I'm lost at sea, Trying to swim through the dangerous water, Trying to swim back to shore. Back to you.

You could see me struggling. Desperate.

You still needed me, you said You’ve let me out of your sight now.

You turned away and walked off the beach.

I’m still fighting against the rough waves.

I need you.

Now I sleep so I can be in a world where you DID dive in and save me.

I still need you.

Maybe life is easier when you can’t see me Struggling.

You don’t need me…you say.

But I still need you. Forever.

I will wait I will wait till your years show on your face.

I will wait till your brown hair turns grey.

I will wait till the moon tires from running Around the earth each day.

I will wait till your bones ache, But still, they will never ache as much as I ache For you.

Every single day.

I will wait till all the stars in the sky burn out, I will wait till the day my heart stops beating.

I will wait at the phone for your call, and for your smile to pass me by.

I will wait till my blood runs dry.

I will wait.

Until you need me once more, my love.

I will wait for you.

If that’s what I must do.

7

I heard the wind begin to sigh, before the spring could close her eye.

A void that stirs, a breath so near, your traces float, still linger here.

I lack not love, nor your reply, but crave the warmth when you came by your fingers brushing through my skin, a whisper soft beneath the din, your hand within my soft hair, with comfort hidden in the air.

Yet still, you left me full of ache, a longing no soft wind could ever take.

Did you know I hung my pain on stars that bloomed like jasmine rain?

Each petal fell upon your face, a silent ache I can’t erase.

And did you hear my morning cries, at four, beneath the weeping skies?

Each drop a sigh, each sigh a plea, each tear a wish you’d come to me.

I wrote a list of how to be, when you are gone, far gone from me.

But every line said “Don’t think through, don’t let my soul remember you.”

I grew my hair, I turned my way, but your soft shadow begged to stay.

The ocean blue, the bud so green, the last farewell you left unseen.

You wrote it in the clouds that roam, and hid it in a dawnless home.

8

The tenderness you never said still dances by my window’s thread.

The last time I longed for you this way was three heartbeats before that day the day we met, when time took flight, and memory burned with wings of light.

My dreams have slipped through dates and days, through curtains drawn in springtime haze.

I heard you call me in my sleep, a voice where storms forgot to weep, deeper than oceans ever lie, brighter than blooms beneath the sky, a light fiercer than stars above a sound that breaks the bones of love.

I smiled through spring as best I could, but every flower understood.

They bloomed to show me where you were, in light, in scent, in memory’s blur.

I hold the last bloom spring could bear, in alleys where you breathed no air.

I wait for dreams that lost their track, for letters that won’t find their back.

Before the spring has reached her close, before the final tulip grows— if just this once, if time allows, would you still hold me here and now?

我又听见风的呢喃， 在春天还未合上眼睛之前。 虚无，涌动，处处是你留下的气息。 那些未曾说出的温柔， 还挂在窗边，摇曳成我眼中的光。 距离上一次这样想你，是在遇见你三秒中之前 像是岁月跳下悬崖， 记忆化为火焰般的翅膀托举我飞往自由 我不缺爱，也不缺你的回应， 我缺的 是你靠近时，指尖滑过我脉搏的温热， 是你在我耳边低语时，我不敢眨眼的瞬间。 是你抚摸我的头发，把所有安慰藏进风里， 却没有带走我溢满胸腔的思念。 我的梦已经溢出日历的缝隙， 溢出春雨织成的帘幕。 我听见你在梦里唤我名字， 比任何风暴都温柔 比任何海洋更深沉 比任何花朵都灿烂 比任何星光都耀眼

你是否看见我把思念挂上夜空， 一瓣一瓣像茉莉落下，砸在你肩上？ 你是否听见我在凌晨四点的雨声中藏下的叹息， 一滴一滴如泪滴落下，砸在你脸颊？ 我试图笑着将春天过完， 却在每一次花开之时更清晰地想起你。 我写了一份你离开后，我该怎样活下去的清单， 但上面写满的，只是重复的“不要想你”。 我蓄起长发，换了方向， 却始终走不出你温柔投下的阴影

我手捧春天最后一朵花， 在你不曾走过的小巷静静等待， 等待一场误入的梦，或你未寄出的道别。 蓝色的海洋，绿色的新芽， 是你留给我的最后一次告别信， 写在风里，藏进我睁不开的清晨。 如果可以， 让我成为春天的最后一场雨， 落在你掌心， 无声无息，却满含深情。

春天合眼之前，可以拥我入怀吗？

9

Maya M My head was pounding like banging on a door that’s locked. That’s how my life felt.

Locked. No escape. Trapped. Until I searched through my dad’s old things in the attic.

That’s when things started to get strange. A teal glow emerged from a dusty box in the corner like an abandoned shipwreck. Something was pulling me closer. My body moving without control. Dragging my feet across the dirty wooden planks.

Matthew P As the dusk engulfed the once bustling funfair, the deafening silence eerily crept toward me. The air was lukewarm. All you could hear were the autumnal leaves swaying elegantly on the tree’s flexible branches which were a caramel-coloured brown. All of a sudden, a skeletal creature stroked against my quivering legs. The cat released a sorrowful-like purr almost as if it hadn’t seen a human in years. As I stealthily walked cautiously on the secluded pathway, trying to keep quiet so I didn’t alarm anything or anyone – Was anyone here?

Holly B It glistened, floating between the crumbling rocks opening its wide oval eye. Its scales were misplaced, uneven and rotting – clearly this was not a creature to be reckoned with.

The light shone off its slithering tail. I looked out, I found myself surrounded by these elegant yet terrifying creatures. I was stuck, no place to go, no place to be. Only the inside of its stomach. As it arose from the depths swamp, its head was revealed. A long mouth was followed by a threatening snigger. Sharp blades morphed out of its mouth. These were my last thoughts. I knew it was the end.

Lucy M I inhaled the sweet, cooling air. The bottle that had saved me was still grasped in my trembling hands. My brain was still processing what had just happened. Had I actually done it?

Was this all a terrific dream? The sound of triumphant trumpets broke through my ears.

People cheering at the top of their voices, people I didn’t even know. Was this really all happening? Had I imagined it all? But no. I knew exactly what had happened. I really had done what I thought I had. This was not a dream. It was a feeling of victory.

10

Catherine A From the darkness an image appeared a faint glow. A fire. The image would flick quickly and intense through the darkness. A figure in the midst of the fire draped in black apart from a mask. A white mask with a tickle of red and an infectious yet horrific smile. My heart began to pace. The figure was approaching and quickly too, yet I was stuck. The darkness would come and every time the image would appear, the figure would come closer and closer. It was hard to breathe. What was happening to me? In his hand he held out something – a cross decorated and rich with engravements. A gem in the middle began to turn red. Ahhh! A hot pain flooded my body. I didn’t know what was happening, but I prayed it would be over soon. I woke up in a cold sweat, I’d had visons, but never like this.

Atticus H-C Tokyo, October 14th 2018 Shiwa grasped onto his phone, checking it every now and then. He was skipping school again, but he didn’t care. He grasped the side of his left bloated cheek, which still stung from his last encounter with Tayuta, a guy who in his own opinion was a jerk.

He soon crossed into Shibuya which was filled to the brim with businessmen and women, jampacked with American tourists. Yet he felt relaxed and calm here, everyone surrounding him but paying no attention. He felt sweat drip down his neck.

It’ll be summer soon, he thought to himself.

Patrick M As the mighty wooden ship smashed into the water, spray flooded into the thick hull. Jeff the great was steering the one hundred metre ship when at that very moment the side of the ship exploded.

There were millions of pieces of wood that flew everywhere, including people’s flesh. Twenty men were wounded or dead. Then we saw it – the mighty skull and crossbones on the sail. It was the Red Skull!

Harry L The box of futures past, that’s what they called it. My mum always said whoever got their hands on it would be able to change something on the future to change the past and present. And here it was, glistening in my hands, the edges of the golden artefact heavy and . . .

“Oi, what are you doin’ ‘ere?!”

I looked back to the box . . .it was gone!

James M As I walked up to the weathered old door, I felt a rush of nervousness and worry rush over me. I had to do it, and I wanted to, so I did. I turned the handle and flung it backwards. I walked in, slowly and cautiously. Inside there was a perfect cube with an old cloak limply hanging over the box.

The room was old and smelled of wood and the old smell of artefacts.

I flung off the cloak and lowered my eyes as an intense brightness flooded the room. Inside was a golden hen.

11

In school, I learned to split myself: one part English, crisp and polished, one part something else, tied in the threads of my mother’s embroidered shawls, in the syllables of a language I barely understood.

I learned to hide pieces of myself: the braid my mother wove tightly each morning, the name they tripped over until it sounded like someone else.

I watched other girls, their hair loose, laughter light as air.

They didn’t carry the weight of tradition in every glance, didn’t fold themselves quiet and small, like I did, in the back of each classroom, dark eyes downcast.

At home, we kept the world outside, windows fogged with incense smoke, kitchen warm with spices that clung to us, a second skin and Punjabi words fell like soft rain.

My mother’s voice was quiet but firm, guiding me through prayers I mouthed without knowing the meaning, only the weight of history in each breath.

Outside, I tried to be something simpler, tried to scrub the scent of spices from my clothes.

I wanted to be light as air too, to let go of all they saw as strange, as other.

But at night, when I freed my hair from its prison, I’d feel my mother’s hands in the strands, hear the stories she told in whispers, stories of women who carried strength like fire, silent but unyielding.

And in the mirror, I’d search my face, looking for a map that could hold both worlds the streets I walked here, grey and bleak, and the land I imagined in distant stories, where every name meant something deep, something I was still learning to find in myself.

And I wondered if, maybe, I could carry both worlds, the narrow paths I paced each day and the boundless fields in my blood, learn to be whole in a place that only asked for half.

12

I love the way books breathe without lungs, whisper without lips, how they slip through the cracks of my solitary hours, leaving my world larger than it was before.

There is a stillness in reading, but it is not quiet.

Pages hum with voices from distant lives: the thunder of wars, the tears of a lover long turned to dust.

I have held empires in my hands, traced maps of imagined lands, caressed the ink-stained threads of a thousand unseen lives.

Here, I am an explorer, unbound from the shackles of the present.

The weight of a book is heavier than its paper, heavier than the ink.

It carries the anguish of questions that cannot be answered, the lure of mysteries that aren’t meant to be solved.

I love the way words build a shelter, how they let me stray into the storm but stay dry, how they teach me to love what I do not know, to fear the edges of truth and still walk toward them.

Books do not seek out love, but they deserve it, tangled as they are in the mess of me a quiet fire I feed, page by page.

13

My Life as a River I was born in the quiet whisper of rain, A ripple at first, soft and unsure, But soon I learned to carve through the earth, Finding paths where none had been before.

I sing to the pebbles, I dance with the reeds, My arms wide open, cradling seeds – Life’s tender passengers float on my skin, A journey of destiny where I begin.

I weave through forests, where dark shadows play, Reflecting the sun’s soft golden ray, I kiss the roots of old, wise trees, That bow to the wind and speak in leaves.

In my depths, stories sleep – ancient and bold, Of mountains eroded and secrets untold.

I carry their weight but never complain, For I know I will soon meet the ocean again.

There are days when I rage and my banks overflow, When my spirit is wild, and I cannot slow, But after the storm, I return to my song, Whispering softly as I glide along.

In Winter’s chill, I shimmer with ice, In Summer, I laugh under moonlit skies, But always, always, I move, and I roam – For a river, like life, is never at home.

So, I run, and I curve, I bend, and I fall, Embracing the journey, embracing it all.

And though one day I’ll vanish in the sea, The echo of water will still be me.

14

My Life As...

Lo, my life as a river, winding yet free, Swiftly I glide through valleys, to the sea.

In shadows I dance, with the sun I doth play, O'er the thrashing waters, I chart my way.

My life as a stout tree, rooted yet bold, To heaven's great canopy, my branches unfold.

Leaves flutter like laughter, in breezes they sway, And jest with the Autumn as they wither away.

My life as a whisper, soft in the night, A secret that wanders, gentle and light.

Carried by moonbeams, I brush 'against the heart, Echoes of life, in which I take part.

My life as a star, flickering with might, I shepherd the lost through the darkness of night.

Young children, they wish upon me, they pray, Their hearts reaching heaven, at wells where hopes lay.

My life as a canvas, colours spread wide, Brushstrokes of joy and of sorrow abide.

Each hue tells a tale, each splash hides a tear, In the gallery of moments, dread shadows appear.

My life as a song, where rhythms do play, Melodies rise with the dawning of day.

Harmonies weave 'twixt laughter and pain, I sing 'neath the sunshine, I dance in the rain.

15

‘We listened, flinching there: And looked and looked on the untouched meal, And the over-toppled chair.'

I didn’t notice them. They appeared faintly, like whispers on glass, until one day, they refused to be ignored. The whispers turned to screams and the screams to desperate cries. What was happening?

As I approached the mirror, the dark shadows behind me crawled and writhed- their mouths slowly stretching like an agonistic cry. I touched the glass. Small cracks appeared, shaping themselves like pieces of a puzzle. Perfectly fitting with each other. But the room—the room had changed, though I had never seen it happen. The chair by my desk lay on its side. My bedside lamp flickered though no hand had touched it. And the mirror—the mirror was different. The dust was disturbed around it, but not a single fingerprint remained.

A plate sat on my nightstand, untouched, food long since gone cold. Had I left it there? Had I ever taken a bite? I couldn’t remember eating. I couldn’t remember sleeping.

The cracks in the mirror revealed hidden messages. Secrets began materialising– whispers became words, names, warnings and suddenly a dark figure emerged from the mirror. Not a reflection, not a hallucination: a figure. My eyes fixated on the entity on the other side. Soon more and more appeared, decayed and twisted, each one staring right at me with gawking eyes.

I examined every one of them- I looked deep into their souls opening a lock for every new person.

Their secrets spilled forth, unravelling before me. Something almost felt familiar. As if I had known them my whole life- yet I didn’t recognise them. Their faces left a blur in my mind; each one of their features were unfamiliar, as if lost in time.

As I stood there, surrounded by faces eluded in recognition- I felt something. My eyes felt itchy and my whole body was shaking. A creeping sensation took over me, twisting my words into phrases I couldn’t understand. I sensed a satanic sense slowly swelling within; my legs trembled, and my arms extended as I turned. He was here.

The dark figure from the mirror had arrived walking out, resembling someone I knew very well: my father. Something was wrong. His eyes were black, darker than I remember. His mouth was stretched - almost like he never stopped smiling. Yet he didn’t look happy; he spoke. “Its been a long time,” His voice was crisp almost like he was forcing the words out, “Why have you let me out now?” I didn’t understand, my mind was blank and when I tried to speak, nothing. Came. Out…” why now?” he repeated it over and over and over again- twisting my brain, hurting my soul.

“WHY NOW!?” I stopped, I looked in his eyes and my mind fell into a loop. I searched for the answer. Why did I let him out? All it took was to awaken my curiosity, wonder what really lay on that mirror. The writing meant something, I meant something. I knew why. I pulled out a knife from the draw by the mirror- I always keep a knife near me-, pulled it up and ran at him, I couldn’t stop. I forged my way through him, ripping him to pieces; I didn’t know when to stop.

I hit the wall.

I bashed my head.

I didn’t know what was happening.

All I know is that this would be the end.

My body lay in a puddle of blood, my own blood. I regret wondering.

Holly B, Year 8

16

In The Shadows I hate it here. I hate the silence, the silence that drowns my thoughts, slowly, and painfully, as if it thinks it’s a fun game, tormenting me from inside and out like a form of pleasure. I’m bored of looking at the bland, cream covered walls, and the darkness in each empty corner from floor to ceiling, everything is the same. The ancient wooden door - I can hear it creaking in my sleep, it’s not my imagination, it’s them. My thoughts spiral round in my sleep and the tangled, inky, figure haunts me, I’m trapped, trapped in my mind, there’s no escape, there’s no escape from the Shadow.

I remember sitting on the white marble floor, leaning up against the matching walls, only having a view of my father’s pristine, polished shoes, and his brown leather briefcase that sat beside them.

Most of it was a blur, my eyes were flooded blue, and my screams and thoughts were bottled up inside, almost on the edge of overflowing in a mess. There was a familiar taste of saltwater, that harshly spilled from my sore eyes, trickling down my throat, blocking my words from exiting, even if they tried. My head felt heavy and was clouded with unease.

I felt his eyes tracing up and down my bruised, scarred arms, and how they grew larger and more alert when he noticed the damage done, like a scope from a gun locking in its target, ready to shoot and create a scene. However, there was no-one else in the house apart from him and me. I suppose I felt sorry for him, watching what was left of his daughter he once knew, scrunched up in pieces, slouched on the floor, like a piece of rotting food, wasting away. I missed him, I miss him now.

I think to myself, I barely have any memories left, the Shadow keeps taking them from me, I wish it would stop, why can’t it take away the painful memories? The ones I wish to forget.

But then the night reaches me, and I’m back in my dark, deserted hospital room, where the Shadow pays me a visit.

It's smoky aura gushes through the cracks of the door where the rusted, iron handle twists ever so slightly, gently letting the beastly creature in. It’s long, frail hand peeks round the frame of the door, with the other one following shortly after. And then the opaque, masked face and torso emerges, with its skinny, fragile legs trailing steadily behind.

It then starts to multiply.

I’m shaking, shivering, I can feel their presence in the room, I carefully peek over the corner of my torn blanket. And we make eye contact.

The flimsy display of shapes starts to twist and dash round my room, I scream and scream, “I’m in the shadows! there’s no way out!”. I cry, and shriek. Doors slam. I hear loud footsteps in the corridor, which echo louder and louder each time I wail. The monster-like shadows grow taller and stronger, yet I feel smaller and weaker. They start to reach their long sharp fingernails through my mind and scratch, pierce, and poke round reaching for something, and then they find it.

A memory...

17

I am five again and I’m on the swings in our local playground I am all sticky and hot from the sun shining down on my ice lolly we bought at the café beforehand. I can feel the breeze brush past my face and the sand stuck to my skin. I can smell sunscreen and can taste strawberry sauce round my mouth. I seem happy, I feel happy. I can hear a voice behind me yelling “one, two, three, whoosh!”. And I can hear myself giggling each time I replied with “higher, Dad, higher!”.

The Shadows pause, they too are watching the memory hovering in front of me, like a star in the sky, they want it, but I grasp it tightly to my chest, and close my eyes, and just for a moment the swing moves back and forth, and back and forth. I awake to the same bland, cream walls and empty corners, but this time the Shadows are gone, and this memory is mine.

By Rose Malcolm

My Life as an Android…

November 18th 2072 The cold November air crosses across the tall blades of grass, And the sound of the spluttering rain bounces in my ears.

I stand in the grass, lifeless Like I soon may be.

I have used up three years and ten months, And for what?

So that I can just trudge around like a human, Look the same as them yet so different.

I wish I worked like the others, Or even start a rebellion like some.

But instead I have sat in the corners, Crouching in the darkness, Engulfed in it, Unknown to a single person.

Even the computers don't remember me, Not even the runners.

What have I done?

I fall to the ground, I plunge my fists into the mud.

I grit my teeth And grasp on to the grass.

18

Has this been a life worth living?

13th of March 2025

Nautical Times

Preserve or submerge?

Should the SS United States be sunk?

Save don’t sink this historic vessel!

The iconic SS United States faces an uncertain future; experts debate if she should be a historic landmark or have a dignified end under the waves. The ship is currently being towed to Florida from Philadelphia to be gutted and then sunk. However, there are many maritime enthusiasts and historians who are determined to save her. For years, the SS United States has been the subject of numerous preservation efforts, but financial struggles have always been a logistical challenge and have threatened her survival. Designed by William Francis Gibbs, the ship was launched in 1952 and remains the fastest ocean liner ever built, capable of crossing the Atlantic in just 3 days. She even includes Cold war security features like being transformed into a troop carrier if a state of war was to exist between America or her allies.

Supporters of preserving the SS United States, like Sir Alfred Conran and Evan Lius, argue that the ship’s importance and potential for economic benefits make it worth saving. Captain Rick stated the following: “The Queen Mary has proven that historic ocean liners can be repurposed into thriving attractions. With the right investors, the SS United States could become a world-class destination and a living tribute to American innovation” Captain Rick is a retired naval officer and when he stated this he suggested that the SS United States should become a floating museum and hotel like the Queen Mary it was met with a lot of fan air but the price was getting out of hand; in 2010 it was estimated to be 10 million but now in 2025 its estimated to be 25 million.

Critics argue whether restoration is even feasible anymore. Susan Gibbs, the exclusive director of the SS United States Conservancy, acknowledges the challenge of restoring the 60-year-old liner with the statement, “We’ve explored every possible avenue, but the financial realities of maintaining such a massive vessel are overwhelming.” Susen Gibbs believes that the ship holds a immense historical value but resources would be better spent on preservation attempts with higher percentage success.

As the SS United States drifts towards an uncertain future, the debate about her future remains as heated as ever. While some believe that she should have a dignified end under the waves, others argue that her historical and economic potential make preservation a worthy investment. However, the staggering cost continues to be a major hurdle to overcome. Will she find a new life as a floating museum and hotel? Will she become a memory beneath the waves? Only time will tell.

19

Homecoming Pain is a war with no winners.

As I lie restrained, I have never been so desperate for sleep. For rest. Unable to move, exhausted beyond comprehension. Noises blare and ring in my head - are they even real? Time slows; every minute seems stretched into hours. I feel as though I am floating in a dark ocean of oblivion. An abyss which brings me no comfort.

Existence and Life are such vague constructs. One can exist and yet not truly live, stuck between the two notions of consciousness and unconsciousness: life and death. Being but never feeling.

Thinking but never understanding. Focusing merely on the next breath I breathe.

Agony is a relentless thing. I can withstand the never-ending throbbing from my leg, the sharp pain from all the instruments and machines embedded in my flesh. What I find hardest is being trapped. Trapped in my mind, in this hospital bed, in this state of existing but never living. Rest is impossible. Now I stare at my leg, where there is a Doppler machine, with a wire implanted deep into my ankle. Constantly measuring my blood pulse and outputting the horrifically loud whir and beat of my leg’s pulse, making it a brutal battle to even attempt sleep. However, perhaps it is not the disruptive and loud nature of it that scares me, but rather the fear that I shall suddenly hear nothing at all. What I hear is my life. So simple. So vulnerable. What I am truly afraid of is the threat of abrupt silence. Because as much as I hate all of this pain, it grounds me, reminding myself of one thing.

I am alive.

And yet, I am a machine. Hooked up to so many wires that I have lost track of how many times I have been unplugged and plugged back in. Each twitch I make, every shiver that I have, results in pain. Over the past few days, I have learnt a lot about myself.

-One: I have two pillars of hope that ground me. My mother, who sits beside me, night and day, and my faith. Even throughout the hardest times, I know I am not alone. Without that, I could not survive this.

-Two: numbness is worse than pain. Pain I can control, but this numbness I feel, it frightens me.

Pain can be a reminder. A driving force to fight. But the numbness overcomes me, leading me into a tunnel of emotional detachment.

When I woke, it wasn’t just pain that washed over me – it was also absence. My leg now feels foreign. Useless. A part of me gone terribly quiet. I have lost a piece of myself that I worry will ever fully return.

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On my left is a button. Press it and I receive pain relief. But at what cost? Each button press, each burst of morphine that I receive feels like a step further away from myself. The pain reduced, but at the loss of some part of my humanity, trapped in some detached form of life. Drained of blood: nothing more than a husk – a hollowed shell of my true self. I can no longer think; all I can do is trust. I surrender.

The operation took eight hours, and in that time, I might as well have been dead. It is perhaps the oddest sensation, those minutes leading up to the surgery. Sleep is natural. You never go to bed saying: ‘I shall fall asleep in three, two, one…’ So, if this isn’t sleep, then what is it? It takes great courage to hand your body, your life, away into someone else’s arms. To trust that all will be well, as they count back from ten, and the world dissolves around me.

Day seven, I have been transferred to a black, aluminium-framed wheelchair. As I exit my hospital room, I look back one last time. Before my eyes, I see a spiralling lifetime of struggles and pain, cruelly shrunk into the span of a singular week. Yet although my body is weaker, my mind feels stronger and more honed than ever. In a weird way, perhaps I am grateful for it. I leave this place different. Hopeful and determined. Because after travelling to the furthest points away from life, after being trapped for one hundred and sixty-eight hours, after continuously breathing the same recycled air, it is finally time for my Homecoming. I embrace my awaiting parents and although I know the challenges are not over, I look forward to all that I shall face in the road ahead, because beyond that is life in its fullest. As I take a deep breath, my eyes fall upon sweet blossom trees, their flowers dancing in the sun.

Somehow despite all of this… I have won.

In Shakespeare’s Aristotelian tragedy Othello, the role of "wife" binds women under a shared societal expectation, creating an illusion of similarity between them. While Desdemona and Emilia appear to occupy the same role, their experiences, beliefs, and personalities diverge significantly. Although both endure mistreatment at the hands of their husbands, their responses reveal distinct worldviews: Emilia’s proto-feminist pragmatism standing in stark contrast to Desdemona’s idealistic loyalty. To a Jacobean audience, this divergence would, in all probability, have highlighted the limitations of rigid gender roles, exposing the fragility of assuming unity among women based solely on marital status.

At the outset of the play, Desdemona receives seemingly better treatment from Othello than Emilia does from Iago, yet both characters are confined by patriarchal expectations of loyalty and obedience. Desdemona’s declaration, “but here’s my husband,” in response to her father’s disapproval, reinforces her devotion to Othello. The possessive pronoun “my” and the alliterative emphasis on “here” and “husband” underscore her steadfast allegiance, even at the cost of 21

her social standing. As the daughter of a respected Venetian, her choice reflects not only love but also a submission to the role society has assigned her: wife first, daughter second.

Similarly, Emilia acquiesces to Iago’s demand for Desdemona’s handkerchief, despite apparent unease. Her line, “I nothing but to please his fantasy,” portrays her as painfully aware of her role as a tool for her husband's manipulation. The word “nothing” diminishes her sense of self, reinforcing her function as a pawn in Iago’s schemes. “Fantasy” implies frivolity, suggesting she recognises the irrational basis of Iago’s desires but feels powerless to resist. While her actions may stem from fear rather than loyalty, certainly considering Iago’s constant verbal abuse, her submission still illustrates the societal expectation of the time period for wives to serve their husbands' will, regardless of personal consequence.

As the play progresses, Othello’s perception of Desdemona deteriorates under Iago’s influence.

He begins to mirror Iago’s disdainful treatment of Emilia, calling Desdemona a “strumpet” in Act 4, Scene 2. This alignment in language reveals a chilling parallel in how both men perceive their wives once trust erodes. The derogatory noun, used frequently by Iago, signals the collapse of respect and the shared vulnerability of Desdemona and Emilia under patriarchal control. Their marginalisation echoes the experiences of various female characters in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, who, although oppressed by both race and gender, similarly find themselves silenced and disempowered. In both texts, women are forced into submission, their agency erased by the authority of their oppressors.

Despite their shared oppression, Desdemona and Emilia respond to their circumstances in starkly different ways. Desdemona remains the archetypal “Madonna”, pure, faithful, and idealistic. Emilia, however, gradually rejects the submissive ideal, revealing a more critical stance on gender inequality. Their exchange on infidelity illuminates this divergence. When Desdemona swears “by this heavenly light,” Emilia wryly replies, “I might do’t as well i’ the dark.” Her dark humour mocks the sanctity Desdemona attaches to marriage and morality, while also exposing the hypocrisy of male infidelity. Later, Emilia boldly asserts, “the ills we do, their ills instruct us so,” framing male misdeeds as a rationale for female defiance. Her use of “instruct” is laced with irony, suggesting that women learn subversion through the very systems meant to control them.

These differences in worldview are further shaped by age and experience. Emilia’s cynicism reflects a life worn down by Iago’s cruelty, whereas Desdemona’s naivety speaks to youthful idealism and a lack of exposure to betrayal. Their contrasting archetypes, Emilia as the Shrew and Desdemona as the Madonna, serve not just to contrast their personalities but to critique the limited roles available to women in a patriarchal society.

Ultimately, while Emilia and Desdemona share the title of “wife,” their experiences and philosophies sharply diverge. Shakespeare constructs their relationship to reveal both the unifying and alienating power of gender roles. Though they are similarly oppressed and ultimately killed by their husbands, they differ in their understanding of that oppression. Thus, their similarity is ultimately superficial, grounded not in shared beliefs or behaviours, but in a societal structure that reduces their identities to their marital status.