Welcome to this edition of The Downside Literary Magazine. Every piece you’ll find in these pages – whether it’s a short story, poem, or piece of creative writing – was written by students who put their ideas into words and have been generous enough to share them with the rest of us.
There’s something powerful about reading work created by your peers. These aren’t voices from faraway places or professional authors – these are the people who surround you every day. And that’s part of what makes this magazine so special. It reminds us that creativity isn’t something rare or unreachable, it’s here, in our school, every day.
We’re proud to showcase the talent, e ort, and imagination of our Downside students. Whether you’re reading this as a fellow writer, an avid reader, or someone who’s just curious, we hope you enjoy what’s inside.
Thank you for reading, and a big thank you to everyone who contributed. Keep writing and creating, as you never know who you might inspire.
From the Supervising Editor
A big thankyou and well done to the fantastic quartet of L6 editors, whose determination on Wednesday afternoons has turned a vague idea into this splendid finished product. Thankyou also to the Art Department, teachers and pupils, for providing wonderful artwork which complements the written pieces so well.
I hope you enjoy this magazine as much as we have enjoyed putting it together.
Editorial
In this edition of the Downside Literary Magazine we find our talented peers dealing with evocative topics in a wide range of ways. In all cases, though, we have picked these submissions because we feel the writers successfully engage with their readers (and listeners) and make the process of reading one of shared experience. Eloise Pickett, in “Souk El Had” responds vividly to a memorable experience in Morocco, showing a deep appreciation of the country’s culture and history. In Liv Pike’s “Guilt”, the memory is again vivid and emotive, but here it is a negative retrospection; the narrator is deeply regretful of her past actions and her feelings towards the past, though stirring, are painful. Similarly, Lola O’Kane’s “Lake House” presents us with a narrator with a troubled past; she misses her mother and desires their old connection, even though she is gone. Here as elsewhere across our selection, the first-person narrative is immersive and allows us to connect to the world of the story on an empathetic level. Both Nathaniel Lai and Izzie Hathaway provide melancholy reflections on what home means to them – but there are positives nevertheless to be drawn from the raw emotions recollected here. And we find the drama brought into the present in Katie Spurling’s “Halfway through a Story”, which uses the technique of inmediasresto narrate a terrifying experience with real immediacy. Antoine Crews-Montes gives us a link between the past and the future, using the form of a Greek myth to teach a powerful lesson about climate change.
Two of the submissions we chose give us another chance to consider speeches we heard this year in Hymn Practice. In Natasza Wyganowski’s speech we learn about one peer’s experience of cutting-edge medical treatment, with fascinating links to broader scientific ideas. Ed Howlett takes a different tack, using a Hollywood blockbuster as a jumping-off point for some well-observed thoughts about friendship.
Drama of a different sort can be found in Awele Onunkwo’s “Greiving with God” with an intense emotional turmoil expressed right at the beginning of the piece. As the writing continues, the emotions develop, we and the writer understand more about the nature of the experience, with the ending of the piece satisfying and convincing through its use of catharsis
All in all we hope that Downside’s Literary Magazine will prove a wonderful read and that readers will perhaps be motivated to produce their own pieces of writing for a future edition.
The Editorial Team: Charlotte, Eva, Molly and Awele
CONTENTS
Souk El Had
Guilt
School People
The Lake House
Lost Souls of the Wave
Whispers of Dawn
Descent
Autumn–Winter
Type 1 Diabetes (Speech)
Friend’s Demise
Nimbus and the Weeping Nymph
Tides of Calm
Packing up the Past
The House
Oh! His Final Days
Lina and the Lost Magic
La La Land: A Speech
Halfway through a Story
Grieving with God
Eloise Pickett
Liv Pike
Anonymous
Lola O’Kane
Sofia Kellock-Ryle
Anonymous
Anonymous
Anonymous
Natasza Wyganowska
Ethan Kwasi Owusu
Antoine Crews-Montes
Anonymous
Isabella Hathaway
Anonymous
Nathaniel Lai
Arthur Mills
Ed Howlett
Katie Spurling
Awele Obinna-Onunkwo
Souk El Had
Stacked in mountainous heaps lie rich crowns the colour of cardamom and cinnamon. Djellabas, woven with sunlight's threads and timeless purpose, hang gracefully from billowing canopies and sturdy beams.
Dates, figs, and blushing peaches spill in vibrant clusters, their sweetness mirrored in the smiles of the market.
Arabic and French punctuate the air – a mighty dance.
Handshakes and greetings flow under shifting light, every gesture rooted in tradition; every smile fuelled with connection.
Beneath Souk El Had's melodic tunes beats the strong pulse of Agadir's soul.
Eloise Pickett
Guilt
The elevator opened with a cold mechanical click, but my heart remained heavy. I was here every day. As I took the so familiar path, I plastered on a smile and wished under my breath conditions had improved. They hadn't.
I tried to be full of joy and happiness but as I saw the blank, slightly confused expression on her face, I could not suppress my tears. My body began to shake but I had to remain strong. An overwhelming sense of guilt hung over me. I knew I could have prevented this. Echoes of the last words I spoke to them haunt me. I shouted that they were selfish, ungrateful, bratty friends who could "die for all I care." If only I had known. If only.
My eyes came back into focus. My heart aches looking at them –strapped into machines – eyes once so full of life and warmth; now only a cold misery remained, reflecting the depth of their sadness.
Their ward is cold and lifeless. A sterile expanse of white walls and flickering fluorescent lights. Not a decoration in sight and despite the duration of their stay it could not be less homely. The air is heavy with antiseptic, as if even the smallest trace of life has been scrubbed away. Beds are in the centre of their room and pale curtains hang limply between, offering little privacy and even less comfort. An echoey silence fills the ward and a constant chill lingers in the air.
I perched on the end of her bed trying my absolute hardest to remain positive, but I found myself wondering if she would ever make a full recovery or if the spark in her eyes would be forever dimmed, leaving only a hollow, shadow of her former self. I quickly brushed away the thought – thinking like that helps no one. I recounted the old stories with a hopeful smile, but the blank stare felt like a blank of memories we once shared.
The cherished memories of when we were young and had no care –if only we know what was going to happen.
I tried to have hope, but I could not suppress my worry and concern. The idea it was my all fault lingered with me always. Her eyes searched mine with a flicker of recognition that quickly vanished, as if I were a memory from a life she could no longer reach.
Quietly I left, I found myself wondering if visiting has any impact – it feels like it doesn't, yet I knew no matter would be back tomorrow. I would always be.
The guilt follows me – I cannot escape it. It's within my always. Consuming me. All because of a petty argument. I refused to go out and insisted they left me behind when they pleaded for a lift. I acted out of frustration and pettiness and look where it got me.
The elevator door shut and with a heavy heart I headed home.
Liv Pike
School People
People in school walking, bustling, racing, going everywhere to all their different places with all their different hopes, loves, hates, fears. Do they know what each other are thinking? Are they kind to each other? Do they understand each other and where they're going? At the mirror they reflect on their situations and at the front gate they say goodbye to their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, pets, and their homes. Out on the sports field they run into each other et, ils ne savent pas pourquoi, but in whatever language, they are all in it together. Anonymous
The Lake House
I wanted to make my own decision. I know Mum wouldn't have wanted me to be taken away from here. I love this place and so did she. It's the one place where she is still alive; she's in the walls; under the herringbone floors; behind the frosted mirrors; between the hedges leading down to the lake. Everywhere else she won't matter, but here. This place holds her.
I remember the first time Mum took me down to the pier. I can't have been more than five years old. It was a lively summer day. Mum took me down to the little beach where she held my hand in hers and we splashed around in the shallow waters. She told me stories of when she first came to the lake house: hours spent diving off the rocks, finding fish friends, late night fires and paddling out close to the protected island where the coots nest. How she would watch the sun hit the water elegantly from different angles as hours passed at the lake. That's all gone now. The sun is setting and casting a fiery light across the waters. And then the sun slips down and is gone. And she is gone too.
I slowly get up, forcing my legs to move – to move away. Away from where my Mum still is.
As I reach the lake house, I see boxes through the windows, and I know it's over. There's no use fighting it. I go up to my childhood bedroom and see that it is no longer really there. The furniture has sheets like shrouds over it, all my belongings packed away as if they were never there. I bring a box down the stairs and place it in the boot of the car. Dad hugs me from the side.
"How you doing, kiddo?"
"Fine," I say.
I'm not fine. I never will be. The only good thing in my life was this place. And now they are taking that too. Tears blur my vision, but I don't let them fall. If one tear would fall, I would fall with it, collapsing into the lake with all my memories.
"Do you want to get in the car? I'll get the other things," Dad says. I nod my head. As I put the box down, there's Mum. An old photograph of Mum about to dive into the lake from the pier. I clutch it tightly. I will never let it go. I put it in my pocket and get in the car.
The ride to the city feels like a blur. I look out the window and see the trees, houses, cars rush by. I don't have to open the window to know that the air of the lake house has gone.
Just like her. As soon as I get to the new house, I know everything is wrong. I will never be happy here. How does Dad not know that? We eat dinner listening to our own silence. Dad tries. It feels as if I'm living someone else's life. The real me is back at the lake with Mum, where everyone knows who I am.
After dinner I go out into the new back garden. Not a garden really. The fences holding me; imprisoning me in this urban frame. I take the photograph from my pocket. This isn't where I belong. I belong at the lake house. There, the birds sing songs of her; the sun reflects her face in the water; the rooms echo her words; the trees exhale the air she breathed. I wanted to make my own decision, to decide when to let go of her hand, and the place where all seems right in the world.
Lola O’Kane
Lost Souls of the Wave
Crashing wave cries the scream of lost souls, Its pale-faced foam like that of clawing hands Reaching out for boats.
Boats piercing its skin-like spears rowed by wailing seasick men who come to ride its waves again.
Lapis lazuli reaches man's shores in an effort to crush its Emperor who stands, snow-tipped, just past that sand, So tall, so mighty – but to no avail.
Roaring wave covers the shouts of new dead.
Sofia Kellock-Ryle
Whispers of Dawn
Nestled into the snug coastline, the small fishing village is slowly revealed by the light of dawn, which uses its gentle touch to prise away the morning mist. The narrow, cobbled streets wind through humble cottages, weathered by decades of salty breezes.
Flowerboxes are attached to the window of every home, blossoms spilling over the edges, eager to spread joy to any passer-by. Quaint tea rooms rest beneath slate roofs, offering a place of relaxation and peace, where delicate china teacups reside on elegant lace doilies, which tinkle together as the light breeze brushes past the open curtains.
Approaching the harbour, fishing boats can be seen in an array of colours as they bob slightly, producing rainbow beams of light that play across the surrounding walls. An iridescent film of oil laps against the hulls, like a shoal of fish breaking the surface. Aged fishing nets and lobster traps are draped over the edges, weary and worn from their endless years at sea.
The soft sound of waves stroking the shore is often shadowed by the sharp echo of seagulls that circle and shriek overhead. The bitter air contains a salty tang, which blends with the sweet smell of golden pasties freshly taken out of the oven, forming an irresistible wave of aromas that tickles those who wander by. The earliest fishermen nonchalantly stroll towards the waves, which lightly lap the bay. Shingle clinks and clatters in the foamy swash and swell. This merges with the noise of the ocean, gradually wearing away the coast. Nearby, the half-awoken fish market can be seen, with the freshest catch displayed on a bed of ice. Scarlet lobsters and giant cod await –chests out, hoping to beckon wide eyed customers.
Further up the street, the local pub, with its low ceilings and worn wooden beams, resides in the heart of the village, warm and inviting. Empty at this early hour, aside from silence. There is a notable absence of laughter bouncing from the walls and frothing pints of ale being generously shared. Once the comforting blanket of darkness
wraps the town then music, mirth and pleasure will ooze out from all sides.
In the distance, on a clifftop, lies a centuries-old church. Although sturdy and determined, it has surrendered to a cluster of ivy after a battle of many years, now being steadily suffocated. The long tendrils ease open all gaps, before engulfing the crumbling stone. The windows are barricaded. Only slivers of light are allowed to pass through, casting an irregular pattern that mixes with the kaleidoscope of light warped by the stained-glass. Its graveyard overlooks the huddle of homes, reminding of generations past. However, one eye forever remains on the glistening ocean, an old friend of all creatures who live nearby. A distance from this, a lighthouse stands sentinel on the edge of the rocky cliffs. Flakes of paint float downwards onto the surrounding sea, having been picked off by the teasing wind. They momentarily rest on the surface, before being carried away by a sweep of the ocean.
Towering cliffs bursting with tall grasses and vibrant wildflowers stretch around the village as far as the eye can see, offering a protective embrace from any storm that may have lost its way. Lush green fields stretch to the horizon, full of satisfied sheep munching on the feathery grass. Paths flow over the landscape towards the ocean. Sharp rocks jut out of the cliff face. Hidden coves lay nearby, entrances to unseen lagoons where light leaps and shimmers over still turquoise waters like the wings of a dragonfly reflecting the morning sun.
Within the cottages, the cozy warmth of light and the distant hum of the sea act together, to create a tranquil atmosphere. It seems as though the town beckons all forwards, offering a warm embrace and sense of belonging. As the sun rises on the horizon, bird song drifts above the town and into the ocean, spreading a peaceful melody that is widely heard. The sun’s golden glow gradually progresses forwards, allowing all forms of life to quietly stir.
Descent
Slow and steady, without a sound, I attempted to reach for the scissors. My mind screamed, reminding me: "It's you or him." I have a life, my friends, my family. Or do I....?
I've forever been warned of the dangers of the outside world – the fact that there's two paths to choose from. I knew what I would make of my life, and I was forever supported and surrounded by those who loved me. But what if I told you it started with a pen?
As I left my home in the morning, it all felt off. To start with, everything was quiet. I wasn't the only one who had things to do, but I also knew I wasn't the one who takes the lead. My older brother and our parents missing. We lived in a relatively large family home, and any door opening or closing would leave an echo as if to say goodbye. I ran from door to door, room to room, and even floor to floor, but nothing. There was a startling breeze, leaving me with an uneasy sensation. The smell of breakfast had long faded with no sign of food left out. The cars were gone; the keys displaced.
I rushed to get dressed and walked myself to school along the snowtraced streets. No footprints in sight. Traffic lights were red, and the day's glow of civilisation was the light-blocked LDR's shining from their last two years clean off. In one hand, I held my phone and, in the other, a small kitchen knife.
Reflecting onto the metal pole after every hesitant step. Finally, I arrived in school. The lights were out, and the doors were still. As I entered the hallway, a cautious thought entered my head: Run.
However, it felt stupid, so l ignored it, continuing my hike to my locker on the top floor. The floors and walls glimmered, almost looking like a damp substance.
As I climbed, I came across a dim light followed by an uncomfortable silence. My hands began to tremble, fluttering at the sound of my own breath. I tried the lights. Nothing. The classroom doors. Nothing.
I even tried exiting the way I entered, but no matter where I went or what direction I stepped, I came back to the light, the size of a squeak. Without another thought, I made my way to the room slowly enough to be aware of my surroundings but quick enough to not be scared of my own shadow.
As I approached, the heat seemed to vanish away from my hand. Then I was struck by a sudden cloak of heat. It made my palms sweat but my feet cold. Then I looked at my hands. The walls, the lights, the door handle, the floor...everything. I was covered head to toe in a rich red liquid that had a hint of a two–penny coin.
The room began to shake; my feet gave way. Anonymous
Autumn–Winter
the sun set at 4.24pm and it's 4.26pm now. she says it's therefore evening.
an uncommonly voluminous collective of corvids pass, croaking or creaking, in almost precisely the opposite direction to where, some miles away, the starlings are settling down for the night's roost admired on their way by professional birdwatchers and visitors alike.
November 13th might be winter or possibly still autumn hanging on not yet dead
I glance up to check on the silhouetted white birds etched (to prevent accidental collision or convergence) artfully on the windows not expecting my attention to be immediately diverted to the copper illumination of sky above the woods beyond. A dull, widespread brilliance which deepens by the minute.
Anonymous
Hymn Practice Speech: Type 1 Diabetes
Cyborgs are real, and they are here, amongst us. Think of all the people you've seen with hearing aids, cochlear implants, prosthetic limbs. The impact of technology on medicine is, to many, literally lifesaving. Hard-researched, carefully designed, and constantly developing technology is the reason people like me – and even perhaps some of you, now or in the future – are alive.
As many of my friends know, I suffer from T1D – a serious, lifelong medical condition where the immune system attacks and destroys the pancreas cells, leaving it unable to produce insulin – the hormone needed to process food into energy. The only way to manage the condition is through invasive treatments like insulin injections or infusions, 24/7 monitoring of blood sugar levels, and strict control of every time you eat, drink and exercise. The cause is not known, and neither is the cure.
This means that once you're diagnosed, there is no way out. From that moment you are responsible for calculating doses, injecting insulin, and dealing with life-or-death situations on the daily, as a normal occurrence. Most people are diagnosed as children, rarer teenagers, but for people like me who were diagnosed as very young babies, I don't even have a notion of what life without this illness is like. My hope is, that someday, people like me, will.
Although I'm certain almost all of you have heard of "diabetes", there is an astounding number of misconceptions and myths surrounding this disease, so I will go over some of them:
1.Diabetics cannot eat sugar. Actually, we can eat anything and everything we want, as long as we take the right amount of insulin to go with it. I can tell you off the top of my head that a slice of toast is 14 carbs, a spaghetti bolognaise is 40, and a small apple is around 10.
2. Type 1 diabetes is caused by poor lifestyle choices. This is a very commonly believed myth but refers to Type 2, not type 1. Type 1 diabetes, the one I am discussing, occurs completely randomly without any known cause. So no, I did
not "eat too many sweets as a child" and am now stuck dosing myself with insulin.
To go along with that, T1D cannot be prevented or reversed, and changing diet or increasing exercise does nothing.
While T1D used to be incredibly difficult to keep stable, incredible advancements in technology have allowed many diabetics to have a better quality of life. Scientists, engineers, and diabetics themselves have hacked their own bodies, to bring themselves closer to a normal life. The insulin pump, for instance, is one of the most groundbreaking pieces of bio machinery ever created: I wear one myself, to automatically give me insulin throughout the day, meaning I don't need to take multiple injections. The first prototype, made in 1976, weighed 60kg. My pump today, can fit into my pocket.
People not knowing what it is always leads to entertaining interactions: it is not a bomb, or a "phone", and quite a few people ask me if it is an iPod – well, it would be quite interesting if I could hack it to play music as well as a side bonus to keeping me alive. In fact, when I was younger, I used to tell my classmates that it was a government tracking device, and that I was a robot. I also wear a sensor which automatically monitors my blood sugar levels, an amazing piece of technology only developed a few years ago, though it does have the inconvenience of getting caught on doors a lot. A real-life cyborg, perhaps?
Why is any of this relevant to you, you may ask? There are some harsh realities: today, around 400,000 people in the UK live with this condition, and over 29,000 of those are children and teenagers, like us. 1 in 15 children have a close family member or friend with this condition. Statistically, a handful of you, hearing (or in this case, reading) this, are likely to be diagnosed with this disease in your lifetime.
Or perhaps your partner, your own child, someone very close to you. I do not mean to scare you, however, because scientists are working hard to not to let diabetes win this fight – though it is challenging.
Every single day, doctors have told us, "In 5 years there will be a cure!", but as many years as I have lived, double, triple that, that cure hasn't yet come.
While research teams work intensely to find a cure, others are bent on continuously designing, producing, testing, distributing cuttingedge technologies that are helping diabetics all around the world have an actual chance at life. Amazingly, most of this life-saving research is voluntary, done by teams funded by people like you, including the team JDRF which is one of the leading teams of research. I am one of these patients who have been able to use this fascinating, incredible technology, the highest-tech pumps, and sensors, by contributing to clinical trials and testing out new devices. Thanks to people like them, and people just like you who have supported this research, lam able to write these words today, to have feeling in my fingers, to have a better quality of life. And I want to thank all those people for this.
On the 14th of November each year, diabetics honour and remember the birth date of Sir Dr Frederick Banting, the Canadian surgeon who won the Nobel Prize for the discovery of Insulin in 1921. This discovery changed medicine and life for diabetics forever, before which T1D was literally a death sentence. And now, over 100 years later, we have Hybrid Loop Monitor systems, Sensors, Automatic Pumps, because doctors and patients alike have never given up on finding a cure and better treatment for this condition. Many high-level research teams, such as JDRF (BreakThrough T1D) and Diabetes UK pioneer lifesaving advances and work tirelessly to give diabetics a better chance at a less stressful life, where we can live to our full potential, free from the snares of ill health.
I invite you all to remember this: all the diabetics and scientists who have fought, are fighting, and will continue to fight this disease, not resting until the day the cure is found. And we hope that this future will someday arrive.
A Friend’s Demise
In dusk I grasp a friend's last breath, His laughter silenced, a melody gone, His face fading from the picture, a rose losing its petals, a river stopping abruptly, a soul leaving his body, His absence shadows on the sunlit hill, But memories bloom where sadness lies.
Each tear and burden to tear But still through golden fields of wheat his essence glimmers bright still aflame.
NimbusAndtheWeepingNymph
Ethan Kwasi Owusu
Nimbus and the Weeping Nymph
In the beginning we have Acidus, who was a simple nymph who was always joyful, she never seemed to cry or be upset, she worked with her mother Aspra; they were farmers in a small village in Athens.
Acidus shared a close bond with her mother, yet Aspra deeply despised her own daughter, because Aspra had lost a child before, but Acidus, with her joyful expression on her face all the days, felt as a betrayal to Aspra’s grief; but still they worked hard on their farmland.
Aspra needed respite from the crushing beast, The Kalydonian Boar, which had minimized the growth of and decimated her crops; accordingly, she had desperately asked the God of the Clouds, Nimbus, to set apart the clouds for the sun to shine on Acidus’ crops and bring forth rain to nurture the soil. Nimbus had agreed, and so Aspra and Acidus’ crops thrived, along with their delight.
It had been the next day and Acidus had gone out to sell to the nearby Nemeans, Aspra had forgotten one important task, which was to bless Nimbus’ temple and thank him for his work.
Nimbus was enraged by this oversight and at the nymph's behaviour especially, as Nimbus could have not aided their needs. So, the furious God unleashed waves of rainstorms above the Nymphs’ homes, destroying their yields.
Aspra was pleading to the God to stop this attack, and to punish not her, but her daughter. The God, almost ashamed for her betrayal to Acidus, decided to punish both; so, Nimbus, with a mighty heave, lifted Aspra into the heavens, with his mighty strength, and turned Aspra into the Asperitas Clouds.
Acidus had just come back from Nemea where she faced the Great God, Nimbus, still enraged, cursed Acidus into a cloud where she would forevermore weep and cry bitter tears which would destroy farmers’ crops until the Earth was treated with more respect.
Antoine Crews-Montes
Tides of Calm
Grains of golden crystals weave their way through my toes, sending gentle tingles along my feet. The tunes of joyous laughter caress me as I spot children with smiles as big as the moon using their small fingers to create large curves and swirls in the serene, sparkling sand. For how much longer would their parents allow them to continue to etch playful patterns and misspelt words into the soft dunes before packing up?
Like a shell thrown back into the sea, I begin to sink as the shore welcomes my feet further into its embrace.
Further along the coast stands a couple, years engraved into their faces, clinking glasses of a berry-red, bubbling delicacy, whilst holding each other tightly. Immediately, a glossy, curly-coated puppy excitedly jumps in and out of the water – as if seeing it for the first time –causing droplets to fly into the invigorating air and pirouette back down.
Orange-infused pillows, painted across the sky by a masterful artist, gently glide with the grace of a thousand swans – I can almost taste their citrus tang. Like an old friend, the honey drenched sun reaches out to me, submerging me in her touch; warmth begins to dance all over me like ballerinas in their finest performance. Her life-giving rays continue to pour all over me as she becomes sleepier and starts to yield into the pillow's soft embrace. Winged acrobats soar through the vermillion sky as they call out to each other with melodic chirps and tweets, their songs laced in lulling rhythms.
As I breathe in the fresh zephyr, the taste of salt sticks to my lips, alongside the smell of seaweed that clings to my nostrils. Steadily, the wind whispers long-kept secrets into my keen ears as the woosh of the waves tries to drown them out. The boundless ocean decides to playfully nibble my feet before fizzling into the hot sand. Just as before, the waves lick my feet and then disperse into a tapestry of white galore. Calmly, I look further out at the uncontainable sapphire-hued sea: it twinkles with admiration for the gleaming sun,
like millions of white opals and blue tourmalines that reflect the light in otherworldly ways.
The aqua sea invites me closer and so I leave ephemeral prints in the deep yellow behind me.
Instantaneously, a cooling sensation climbs up my legs as waves lap shyly into me, before retreating in a sublime display of effervescence. Seaweed, full of exuberance, wraps around my leg which causes an unexpected tickle to overcome me. Swiftly, I shake it off and watch it drift back into the endless mass of glistening blue. As I wander further, I feel myself become lighter, as if every anxiety is being drawn out of me and washed away. I feel my feet glaze over something, and as I pick it up, it reveals itself to be a spiralling lilac shell. From its spectacular engravings and prints, it's clear it has spent many years gathering all the songs of the sea, told by the creature it was once home to. The sun continues to find me, allowing me to discover many more shells with varying ridges and curves, each a holder of unique tales...
Along the horizon, I see the soft ripples guiding tawny boats closer to shore with affectionate tugs and pulls, as if they were children. The sails twirl and wave in thanks. Back on the softly lit shore, the children try to squirm out of their parents' gentle tugs, so that they can wave one more time at the boats coming inland. They spot someone waving back and happily oblige, leaving all the proud castles, sand-mosaics and lettering they spent their time creating as a parting gift to beach. Little did they know their offerings would be carried away gratefully by the waves.
Packing Up the Past
Clothes spilled onto the bedroom floor from my tattered suitcase, surrounding me. Downstairs, Mum darted back and forth, her hands always finding something to straighten or fold. Dad, on the other hand, stood silent, brow furrowed, mind filled with how exactly we were going to fit all of this into our little car. It had only just hit me that this was the last time that we would all be living together under the same roof. Fighting over whose top was whose, who ate the last biscuit, silly little things that would soon be a distant memory.
I hadn't really seen much of anyone in the house for days, only the cat coming for her afternoon snooze in my chest of drawers. Everyone avoiding what was soon approaching, scared to submit to the inevitable. The normally boisterous bellows from the younger siblings would shake the house from its foundations; now only muffles, stripped of the usual sparkles of laughter.
I knew this was for the best. A new beginning. After we lost her, it was never going to be the same. It was obvious. We all tried to move on in our own ways, the little ones back to their childish games of hide and seek in the garden, dad back to sing as loud and offkey as he could in the kitchen, mum experimenting with new flavours in her famous cupcakes and me. Well, honestly, I'm not really sure what I've done. After a year, watching seasons sweep over her grave, hoping for clarity that never came. This town had always been too small, but now it felt suffocating. Its bakery, its corner shop, the single clothing store an hour's drive away —all of it stuck in time while the rest of the world spun on.
Packing up the last of my boxes in the car; this was it. Watching my family stand on the front porch waving as their silent tears rolled down their faces, meeting their solemn smiles. I was leaving them behind. Them and all I had ever known started to fade away as I drove further down our road, the little ones desperately chasing after the car. A sharp pain twisted in my chest, a voice in my head begging me to stop, to turn around. But I couldn't. Staying would have meant slowly unravelling, every corner of this town a reminder of what was gone. The house, the garden, even the stars overhead —
they all belonged to her, and they always would. My one and only best friend, flesh and blood, was gone and would always be here. We had always said that if we were to leave this town, we would do it together. I guess things don't always go to plan.
Leaving my family alone to dwell in this ghost town felt like I was single-handedly stabbing each and every one of them in the back, over and over. However, I had to save myself before I drowned in the subtle reminders that were left here. I knew my parents would never leave when she was buried here.
Driving past the borderline of the area, I felt something loosen — a tether snapping clean. The weight of guilt, doubt, and grief I had carried for so long began to lift, piece by piece, until I could finally breathe again. Every one of them being left behind.
Isabella Hathaway
The House
In front of me a gate, arched, elaborate, and suffocated by rust, lurched forward like a sick beggar, screeching in the icy wind. It felt brittle and tired as I passed through it, moving its cold, metal frame with my frozen hand.
The once-driveway was infected by moss and had shrivelled under the watch of dark, thorny, green-black bushes, whose irregular growth had deformed the drive until it became twisted, broken, and snapped like bones.
On the right, hidden by a lightning-struck apple tree, a Bugatti lay crashed into a garden wall. Infested by rats, the car was attacked by the vilest, most robust vines – the only plants able to overcome the bleeding car's lethal, black blood. A grinning champagne bottle reclined on the dashboard in view of the hollowed eyes of someone whose ivory hands still held the wheel.
Roaring wind whipped ropes of rain around my head, thick clouds veiled the sun from the darkening sky, twigs and branches were ripped from swaying trees, and rumbling thunder rolled in from the tempest-ridden sea; icy blood burned my veins, with my shaking hand for support, I stumbled away from the scene – what had happened here? I tripped on a root, fell, scrambled up, and staggered past.
Having fought the army of weeds and thorns to the end of the driveway, I saw decrepit stone steps lined by two handrails. One was ensnared by such a mass of creepers that it was hanging limply off the steps' edge, and the other completely gone, aside from tell-tale broken balusters that stabbed in anguish into the heaving rain.
The steps led to the doorway of a sickening house. Rain and hail swung through the dark sky, blitzing fractured windows and bombarding bruised, mould-blackened walls. Rushing wind tore through splintered floorboards, smashed roof tiles, and crumbling walls, making the house wheeze, grunt, and groan.
The doors were rotten and rattled in the wind like a pair of exhausted lungs. Stepping into the main hall, a once-great room winced back at me. A chandelier hung exhausted from the ceiling like an executed murderer, paint peeled off the walls as if disgusted by the very building it had pressed its ear to, and ripped carpets oozed sludge every step I took. Years ago, it seemed, ivy had invaded the house and, like a rich man's greedy fingers, was stretching across the walls, grasping everything it could touch and tightening whiteknuckled fists. It clawed upwards ruthlessly, smothering the house.
Despite this, the room inspired me: the chequered marble floor; curved, ceiling-high windows on the far wall; and grand staircase which rose to a balcony. I saw how golden sunlight had poured through the windows on warm, lush, long-forgotten evenings and made the blue-black and white marble floor gently glow. In my mind the gate was shining and strong, a proud protector of the house, the drive, sweeping and neat, a red carpet over which the rich and famous longed to pass, and the house, a magnificent and beaming building, not wheezing under natures burden, but sighing as warm breezes and jazz music poured out. The curtains, now torn, screeching in the wind, and half coated in mud, were once soft and delicate, sparkling from light the chandelier playfully twinkled across the room.
Suddenly, a door swung open with a tremendous crash, yanking me from my imaginary mansion. My eyes dilated. My heartbeat quickened. My breathing faltered. Horrendous bangs echoed throughout the house as the door drove into the wall again and again before slamming shut. It was only the wind. I approached the door.
I will never forget the room behind that door. I will never forget the acrid odour from the room which stung my eyes and blinded me. I will never forget the revulsion that, like a hand reaching down my throat and yanking my stomach from my body, gagged me and brought me to my knees. Warm, stagnant air, infected with acidic spores and stale from years of incarceration, drowned me and dizzied me as if I were stood in the sea, right at the point where the wave crest broke and thundered down onto my head.
The room had a high ceiling from which a chandelier, coated in flyfilled cobwebs, clung helplessly. The walls, once brilliant snow, had, like a rotting apple, browned and stank of smoke which scraped at my skin with dirty, yellow fingernails. Ornate mirrors hung on the walls and reflected the horrific room tenfold. Almost every mirror was cracked: it was as if the room, drunk and vain, had attacked the glass, revolted by what it had seen.
A mahogany dining table stretched the length of the room atop which a half-eaten banquet festered. The meal, unrecognisable under thick mould, seemed to bubble as if it were alive and maggots, writhing over one another, dragged their swollen bodies to mounds of rotten meat. The sound of small, wrinkled, pink paws scratching the floor made my ears burn and ring. Rats. One rat began its sly approach towards me, one gnarled foot carefully after the other. Cold sweat trickled down my spine and my whole body shook. I turned and fled.
The rain was harsher, the sky darker, the wind faster, the hail sharper. I didn’t care – that house was no place to hide from a storm.
Anonymous
Oh! His Final Days
A city away, yet with nothing to say, A boy, alone, sat like a marble statue. A challenge yet to confront, in ephemeral days: Fate, going to England, seems to be true.
Bearing his memories, he prays for resolution, The pure desire for just an exhilarating illusion. But time’s whisper tells him –4 days left for your EXECUTION.
I see the sky collapsing.
Wanting to stay in Hong Kong forever –A thought that never gets out of sight. Naught to be seen the future of familiar days.
The unceasing attempts of my mind fades. Off my bed, greeting the final dates.
Soon the sun feels exhausted, and falls. Tripped by time, I fall into long sleep. Abstruse thoughts in my head repeat. Yet my thirst of staying constructs and draws.
What belonged to me is lost. My eyes, bleeding tears. Listening to the stillness, Lingering to the sweetness…
As my time passes, My heart, returning to favour… I decide to walk.
It’s lunch time for them. But if I was still in school, I’d spare my time.
With all my past and memories,
I think and dream of fantasies. It persists and twists. Vanishes into mist. Tangles me with ferocious fury.
A new wind, a bubbling dream
The new target, more desirable than anything else Future of myself yet to be redeemed As the old, cursed self no longer dwells.
The Maverick, The Hero, The Brave Guiding us in everyone’s hearts. Not to hold us in our grave But to set us free and let us depart.
Soar high into the sky, Oh one Who takes the steps in the path As I will shine brighter than sun.
So now, I invite you To bear the hurt.
Nathaniel Lai
Lina and the Lost Magic
In a village calm and serene, lived a girl, a sight to be seen. Lina was her name so bright, Her heart as pure as morning light.
One day, through the forest deep, where shadows lay and secrets keep, she found a grove, ancient and untold, with stories whispered yet untold.
An elf appeared, small and wise, with twinkling eyes, a pleasant surprise, “Dear Lina”, the elf said, “There’s magic lost we must find today”.
Hand in hand through trials they went, over rivers, through forests bent.
Lina’s courage never did sway. Guided by the elf each day.
At last, they found a tree of golden that began to speak, “Magic’s found in hearts that seek. In love, in kindness, and in care, the magic’s always waiting there”.
Lina returned to the village, with lessons learned, she held them near. She spread the magic far and wide, with love and joy, she was their guide.
The village thrived, in harmony, with Lina’s heart, so kind and free. For her soul, the lesson stayed, that true magic never fades.
Arthur Mills
La La Land: A Speech
Whichever group you are in in this Abbey: Smythe, Barlow, Isabella, Roberts, Caverel or the choir, you will be sitting with a community of friends. Friends you may have known for weeks, months or years. I want you to keep these friends in mind throughout this talk, and not just those sitting with you, but those who have left the school that you have known.
A film that was released in 2016 fired this thought in my head, and it has been circling round and around for two years. ‘La La Land’ remains to this day the film that changed my life forever. Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone brought out my love for musicals, acting but more importantly – the choice to pursue our dreams, and not forget those who helped us along the way.
Ryan Gosling plays Seb, a struggling musician set on opening a jazz restaurant, which he believes is a dying breed. He meets Mia, played by Emma Stone, who chases audition after audition for an acting role. Mia and Seb meet, and as their relationship progresses, Mia and Seb are both within the possibility of achieving their dreams. But they must part ways, with their dreams taking them in separate ways.
5 years later, established actress Mia, and her husband search for a place to have dinner. They walk into a jazz restaurant named ‘Sebs’. After finding a seat, Mia watches as Seb walks out to play the piano. After the piece, Mia turns to leave. But not before Seb turns around and sees her, and the eye contact is made.
The look lasted mere seconds, but it was a look filled with many emotions: love, happiness, and sadness. But not regret.
This look spoke the beauty of achieving your dreams. Dreams push us throughout our lives. They fuel our motivation and our passion. Seb and Mia met in the climax of their distresses, and they solved each other’s problems. They built each other up, and together they completed their dreams. But in order to do so, they went their separate ways. The love between them didn’t force them together
but respected their desires to go forth and fulfil their dreams. This is so meaningful to me, because I see it all around me here.
Downside is a school filled with national, and international students. During your stay, you will meet and make friends staying for a term, a year or longer. I’m sure, if you have been here for a long time, that you have meet people who have come and gone. Initially, it is sad to see a close friend leave over a short, or long period. But the impact that one person can have on Downside, a community so tight-knit and close, is immeasurable. If we focus on their absence, then we could forget the mark they leave on all of us.
In this community of many languages and ethnics, we will all be inspired to follow what we love. You will do so surrounded with friends, and the impact that they will have on you is amazing.
Some might leave. Some have already left. But hopefully, I have encouraged you to remember them. All the small things and the big ways which they impacted you.
If you are leaving soon, student and staff, then bring those impacts that we, as a community, left with you. Seek your dreams, your passions and your love for life, and know that there is nothing regrettable about leaving, knowing you will bring something back with you that wasn’t there before.
Ed Howlett
Halfway through a story
The subway is packed with people rushing from work to the shops to home – everyone has somewhere to be. I pull my faded blue cap further down over my face and push through a group of people to a free seat by the train doors. The seat is stained, of course, but it is all that's left, so I sit down avoiding the stain as best I can.
“Next stop is...”, says the lady through the train speakers.
I don't even need to listen to the rest – all I know is the next stop is my stop, the stop to end someone’s chapter in this life. I look up slightly as the train begins to slow and I catch my reflection in the window opposite me. My hair is, as always, in a ponytail, and pieces of blonde hair escape the hat to surround my face. The train stops and the doors beep open as though saying welcome and goodbye while everyone steps on and off. As I walk up the subway stairs up towards the busy streets of New York City, I hear two men behind me speaking in hushed tones. I turn my head slightly to the left and I see one of the men point at my back and then quickly whisper something to his friend.
As soon as I reach the busy street above, I am greeted by the sound of cars and beeping horns and, of course, rain. I walk as quickly as I can, my feet burning in my black high heels because behind me are the two tall men from the subway stairs. I turn down a street and they follow; my only comfort now is knowing that I have a dagger concealed in my jeans. I quicken my pace and turn down the street that leads to an abandoned block of flats where I could corner the men, but personally I don't feel like cleaning up a murder scene tonight. I quickly slip my dagger into my hand, pushing it up my sleeve, just in case…
Katie Spurling
Grieving with God
I was grieving. I was grieving the loss of old friendships, the loss of old routines, the loss of my childhood.
I wanted it back. I wanted to go back.
But God had set a boundary for us mortals: the boundary of space and time, my only hope now was the unknown, the uncertain, the vast, uncharted future.
“Take me back!” I cry out to God. My future seemed just as bleak and bland as my present. Nothing could comfort me, not even the new friends I had who I knew would go to the ends of the earth for me and back.
“No,” God says, “Awele, you must grieve.”
The words were so clearly, so undeniably His.
And then, out of nowhere, as it always happens when one communes with Yahweh, there seemed to be a pause in time, in history itself. One of those moments where one realises that words so astutely just spoken will have a lasting impact on generations and generations to come. It was one of those rare moments, where His word really did cut deeper than any two-edged sword, and indeed pierce the centre of my heart.
I resounded truth, “I must grieve.” It wasn’t just the mere three words that locked the air in my throat for a moment. It was the unspoken truths dancing behind the words. God had a way of speaking so very little but revealing so much, for in three words I understood this: Jesus grieved. When his friend Lazarus died, he grieved, he wept with his friends and family. When he was sent away to be crucified, he grieved.
I too must grieve. Not just because my master, lord, and saviour did, but because it is natural, it is humane, it is necessary. It allowed for true restoration and healing to take place.
Grieving served a sort of transitioning purpose. It was clear, I couldn’t change my past, nor could I go back to it. But there was an unknown future awaiting my arrival. A land created and designed by God, but uncharted by man. There I would make history.
For it is the glory of God to hide a thing, and the glory of man to seek it out.
I needed to grieve, but I understood that at the end of the mourning would come a joy, a sense of fulfilment, a peace so deep that it could only come from Elohim himself.
“Awele, you must grieve,” I say with a smile on my face. God had comforted me. His truth was comforting; it was filled with hope. My spirit perceived His goodness. His love was evident in his instruction. His hope for me, His love for me, His care for my future, His providence, His lovingkindness, His tender mercy, His invaluable grace, all made evident in three words, “You must grieve.”
Where am I headed now? What exactly is going to happen? I am not sure. But I do know this: I am placed in a time set by God, guided on a path, narrow but sure, leading towards the Kingdom. The end of the road just escapes my sight but what I can see, when my head is held high, is the brightest and purest of light, blazing through the doubt that tries to overwhelm me, casting a hopeful, glowing tint on the path God said was made for the Righteous.
