EMU Issue 1

ISSUE 1 / SUMMER 2021

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EDITORIAL to the debut issue of Emu — Emanuel’s very own literary magazine. The aim of this publication is simple: we want to showcase the outstanding literary, journalistic, and artistic work of our students.

In these pages you will find a broad range of content from students in every year at Emanuel. We begin with POETRY, where twenty-six students from Years 6-9 have contributed to an alliterative animal-based project inspired by Carol Ann Duffy’s playful ‘F for Fox’. Following this, we have included poems on more general themes, such as old age, beauty, power, and a series of haiku inspired by the natural world.

In the FICTION section, students have produced work inspired by the ‘iceberg’ minimalism and simplicity of Ernest Hemingway, as well as homages to the Gothic genre, Greek mythology, and stream of consciousness narratives. Some Year 7s have also taken part in the 100word story challenge — a rewarding exercise in linguistic precision and control.

Students have demonstrated their skilful use of rhetoric and persuasion in the OPINION section, where a

range of cultural, political, and scientific ideas are debated with keen intelligence. Articles here range from the social responsibility of Disney films to the global implications of NASA’s latest technology.

This magazine would not and could not exist without the exceptional artistic talents of Emanuel students littered throughout its pages. You will see a plethora of paintings, drawings, and photographs on display here — by k i n d p e rm i s si on o f th e A rt D e p a r tm en t — a n d w e a re particularly proud of the artwork that has been specially commissioned and tailored to accompany the original poems, short stories, and articles throughout this publication. It goes without saying that these pieces really bring the magazine to life.

We hope that you enjoy the superb student work on offer in this issue.

This magazine is of course only a taste of the wonderful work of Emanuel pupils, and it is our intention that it serves not only as a physical memento of the talent on offer at our school, but also as a rallying call to all students who are inspired to contribute to its pages in the future.

WELCOME

COVER IMAGE BY

EMMA T, L6RJB 1

CONTENTS 1

Editorial

3

Poetry

33

Fiction

48

Art & Photography

55

Opinion

74

Contributors

MADELEINE M, 6CAL 2

P O E T RY P O E T RY P O E T RY P O E T RY P O E T RY P O E T RY P O E T RY 3

RACHEL W, 9PAK 4

A for Alpaca ISAK M, 6CAL The alpaca ascended over the Andes in South America.

Atop the apex of the Andes, the alpaca awaited the sight of amazing grass.

The avid alpaca descended adroitly, anxiously anticipating the astonishing Andes pastures.

But when the alpaca arrived at the awesome plains, he abruptly abandoned his plan at the sight of an assembly of other alpha alpacas, all feasting on every available patch of amazing Andean grass.

B for Bunnies KIT R, 6CAL Bunnies bounding in the blazing sunshine, bouncing beyond the brambled burrow, are beckoned by the beautiful berries and broccoli and beans and butternut squash growing boldly beneath the bright blue balmy sky.

No brash badger or beaver or barn owl will stop them from breakfasting on their brilliant banquet!

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C for Crocodile HUGO K, 9HJC The crocodile curdled in the water, showing in its cruel eyes a cunning plan.

Its tail curled, ready to cleanly launch for its clueless lunch.

A skull crushed like a can, and bones crunched as the prey was crippled.

Like a prisoner in cuffs, The poor creature was caught in the jaws.

D for Duck OSCAR V, 7MSH The duck dawdled dizzily, ducking down under a dirty drainpipe, dipping himself into a dark lake, deciding to doze into a deep dream.

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E for Elephant GRACE H, 9SDG The endangered elephant walked for hours and hours — evacuating from any human encounters, energy quickly escaping, his once ecstatic aura running out of charge as he edged across the endless desert.

Being hunted for his excellent tusks.

That was all the elephant ever knew.

Every second had been spent escaping — escaping from evil humans.

The elephant moved for hours, Until it was excessively exhausting to go any further.

His eyes shut, enveloping him in a dream: an extraordinary dream — in an exotic land full of mouth-watering fruit and extra elephants, more of his own kind — not just him on his own mission of escape.

This was exactly what he had always fantasised about.

Eyes opening again, he looked around.

Eyes — not his own — eagerly stared back at him, stared into his soul.

Taking a deep breath, exhaling, he was ready to submit — Ready to allow them to take what they wanted: his tusks to be extracted, and every other expensive good he had on him exported from his body.

But it didn’t happen.

He had felt everything. Everywhere he had experienced loss and heartache, But he realised that maybe these extra-terrestrial beings weren’t trying to hurt him.

They were — each and every one of them — trying to help.

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F for Flamingo SERA C, 7MSH The flaming fuchsia flamingo flapped its fuzzy wings.

Fluttering her head forward and backward, she fished for shrimp ferociously.

Funky, furry, fleecy, the creature flailed its wings like fans. Her striking feathers stood out flamboyantly as she flew through the fresh morning air.

G for Guinea Pig GRACE B, 6CAL The gorgeous guinea pig, running gracefully on the grass, greedily munches on a vine of green grapes.

His glossy fur gleams in the bright golden sun, glinting and glistening as he gobbles his glorious grub.

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H for Hyena DIANA P, 6CAL The hyena hurried across the horrendously hot and hostile landscape, huskily heaving like some hellish hog from the hateful depths of Hades.

Harnessing the hefty gales, he hacked his way through mounds of high sand, his huge hirsute face contorted with hawkish hunger.

I for Iguana SOFIA G, 7MSH It is very hard to imagine, through so many identical beasts, a single ineffectual iguana. They are intractable, but of no impact, no importance.

But why is it that there is no importance introduced to iguanas? Why is it that they are ignored, like an irritating infection? Why do people interpret them as illogical, imperfect, inconsequential?

Is it that hard to imagine the single ineffectual iguana, when its species around it is fading away?

But a single ineffectual iguana, of no impact and no importance, set out to erase the indecency and to introduce importance for iguanas.

How do I know?

Because that iguana… is me.

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J for Jaguar SAMUEL T, 7MSH The jaguar jumps, jaws open, and the jungle peace is jarred with pain.

Joyful with his duel, he jogs away on his journey to join his fellow jaguars, his jagged outline dwindling, the July day dying.

K for Koala DOUGLAS G, 7MSH King of the forest: climbing up the giant tree, keeping careful concentration on where he places his kittenish feet, he steps cautiously on the knots of the kite-like leaves.

Reaching the top of the canopy, where other young and quick koalas climb through his kingdom, he keenly kills the shoots of the budding kempt trees.

He sits with his claws like knives, kneeling and clinging to his knobbly branch. He has the keys to the kingdom, and squats with a kind and kingly smile on his kissable face.

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L for Lion THEA A, 7MSH The lethal lion is the lord of his land.

As he leaps across the lake, His long tail loops around him.

His leathery fur lounges across His large body.

Then the lion leaves to Look for his lunch, And there he lusciously stands, Lonely in his liberty.

The lion makes a logical move And then lavishes over his lucky catch As his little meal lays lifeless.

The lethal lion is a legend.

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M for Monkey MARY M, 7MSH The monkey makes for a mossy branch, moving miles and miles, so very fast.

Mischievously smiling with its mouthy grin, the monkey misbehaves like a mighty king.

The muggy morning matches the monkey’s muggy fur. His mechanical jumps cause the jungle to stir.

Merrily, he meets his mate for their mission at the market. With their milky eyes they mark their major target.

N for Nightingale

Mouselike, they move towards the merchant’s fruit. The merchant with the moustache always has the best loot!

ELGAN G, 7MSH

The monkeys have made a massive mistake! Within a moment, the merchant is armed to retake.

The native nightingale flew over the Nile with nimble and neat agility, navigating the journey it had flown numerous times with a feeling of natural nostalgia.

It was a noble nightingale with notably nourished wings.

People had paid good money to see this nightingale, but no one had ever spotted it: the nice-looking nightingale with the nice-looking features.

The monkey is maliciously chased by the manic merchant. He somehow escapes with his meal with a magnificent stunt.

Miraculously, the mischievous monkey swings back to his mother, munching on his monthly meal with scarcely a shudder.

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O for Orangutan FERGUS H, 8AEM As the orangutan’s old orange coat creases, He prepares to face the oncoming obstacles.

He sees them cut down his oaky oasis And prepares to overcome the oncoming obstacles.

He cries at the occasion to which he cannot object And prepares to hide from the oncoming obstacles.

He looks away, unable to observe the obscenity unfold, And prepares to run from the oncoming obstacles.

He feels helpless and flees the old-fashioned oblivion, And prepares to escape the oncoming obstacles.

His home is obliterated; he has nowhere to owe allegiance.

That whole ordeal… just for some oil.

P for Polar Bear EVIE C, 9REM Pounding heavily, A pack of polar bears plodded: Peaks of pasty white snow Powering ponderously, Paws pushing across the polished ice.

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Q for Quail ELIZA S, 7MSH Quail, quick!

That quirky farmer quietly pursues you.

He desires your quality feathers to use for his quill.

He’s waiting for you by the quarry.

Don’t question me!

Quickly — his eyes are on you!

Quietly — fly!

When this quest of the farmer’s is quit, then you can quiver no more.

R for Rat JOSHUA J, 7MSH The ruthless rat was ravished and retreated from Russia to Romania.

Upon arrival, the risky rat robbed and raided a rich residence, and was rewarded by his relatives with a rapturous round of applause for the raisins and raspberries that he had reaped.

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S for Snake ANNIE W, 9REM Silently slithering, sleek and smooth: Scales of skin secretly stalk.

Slender and slim, a solitary soul Seeking sustenance to survive.

Silently slithering, sleek and smooth: Superior senses set to snatch.

Sneaky and sure, seductively seeking — Suddenly still: a supper spied!

Silently slithering, sleek and smooth: Suddenly seizing, strangling, stunning.

A sufferer struggles, now stifled and stiff.

Saint or sinner? A snake satisfied.

T for Tiger CHRISTIAN R, 8AFH The tremendous tiger titled ‘Terrence’, Tip–toeing timorously, Travelled throughout the Taj Mahal.

Terrified throngs of tourists tore away in terror, Thinking their tasty torsos a tantalising tiger treat.

Trembling, tearful, and troubled, Trusting Terrence took a talkative tack.

“Turn terror to tenderness,” Terrence tried.

“Tenacity in tolerance is totally trendy!” he tittered.

Too teary to try another time, Terrence tarried.

The timid tourists took to the town like Termites terminating their tall tenement!

To trust a tiger is too tantalizing, It takes thrills to the extreme.

Don’t try to treat tigers like teddies!

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U for Unicorn GELILA T, 7MSH The unicorn has my utmost astonishment. She is utterly unique, with all her unusual features.

That undulating mane and horn sharp as an urchin!

They are underpopulated here on earth. It would be unbelievable to see such an unearthly animal. Don’t ever underestimate the ultimate unicorn.

V for Vultures ANATOLE C, 6CAL Vainglorious, villainous vultures are Viewing the vast land for Vulnerable prey.

These voracious And vicious vultures Will stop at nothing, vowing to Vigorously violate Until they visualise victory.

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W for Whale KATIE H, 6CAL A whale washed up on the shore, wailing while waiting for a wonder.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Seeking water, the whale waddled closer to the wonderful ocean, whining as the wicked wind pulled the water out of the whale’s withered blubbery skin.

Finally, the wonder came in the form of a woman who, on a whim, walked up to the whale and, with a wince, pushed with all her might and watched as the weighty whale was welcomed back into the wet waters from where he came.

X for X-Ray Fish ISOBEL H, 8AFH Extending across the extravagant expanse of the ocean, deep in the exiles of exotic waters, lie extensive coral reefs of exuberant X-ray fish.

Emerging unexpectedly, they excogitate an exhilarating expedition.

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Y for Yak ESME M, 8AEM As yellow rays over yonder hill broke, The anything-but-youthful yak yearned yearly for its yesteryears, As it drowsily yawned, sleep yielding to the young day.

The younger yaks yipped And yanked at the yak’s thick, Yarn-like fur.

Z for Zebra WILL S, 9HJC The zappy zebra’s zealousness inspired a zincographer to make a zincographical painting that only a zillionaire would buy.

It depicted a zebrafish doing the zapateado against a backdrop of zygophyllaceous plants.

Within a zeptosecond, zillions of zany collectors arrived to see the zebra-inspired zincograph.

One was a zen meditator, sitting on a zafu, and he decided to purchase the zincograph for price with an awful lot of zeros.

The zebra returned to his zaftig zonkey wife, zooming home like a zeppelin, zigzagging back to his baby zebras with zillions of pounds in his pockets.

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ILLUSTRATIONS BY

EDIE F, 9MJR

Ginger Snaps ELIZA S, 7MSH The door opens: Your smile appears like a light in the dark.

You pull me into a tight hug; I will still smell your fresh, flowery scent long after leaving.

You lead me into the kitchen; an array of spices and flavours are laid out for our favourite recipe: ‘Ginger Snaps’!

You wrap me in an apron, tying a secure knot, your hands full of wisdom.

You passionately chatter on while we bake. I listen carefully to every word that is spoken.

You have had a life full of adventures — all of which I’ve heard more than once, but I don’t care.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Your radiant personality is as blinding as the sun.

I can’t put a price on these memories, But I can hope that they’ll stay with me forever.

Even when you’re gone.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

RACHEL W, 9PAK 19

Grandpa’s Day JAMES R, 7MSH Then Grandpa trudges back down the garden, carrying his hefty can, and waters the potatoes, the carrots, the parsnips, and finally the beetroot.

Grandpa wakes up at eight o’clock and cautiously walks down the creaking stairs.

For breakfast, Grandpa has two slices of toast with honey, and a bowl of muesli.

Every day, mid-morning, Grandpa walks to the allotment, where he grows: potatoes and beans and courgettes and peas and onions and carrots.

And then, at the end of his active day, Grandpa sits down in his soft, sagging armchair, and slowly falls asleep.

In the summer, he grows: strawberries and raspberries and blackcurrants and gooseberries.

Grandpa also has a vegetable patch in his garden, at the very bottom, and every day, he takes his watering can — a colossal contraption — and bends down, staring down his well, scooping up bucketloads of water at a time.

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Our Unlikely Hero FLO M, 7MSH Denis the Commodore sits at our table, the lines on his face and the last strands of hair show his eighty-four years on this earth.

The twinkle in his eyes recalls his past adventures: in them he’s a boy again and everything is new.

He conjures stories of his past, which swirl around our kitchen like sparkling mist — pops and flashes — old worlds, strange countries, deep blue seas, mighty ships.

As he passes around the potatoes, he is reminded of his homeland, and his childhood on a farm in Ireland: of little Ned, who’s grown huge, of his brothers, his sisters, of the work on the soil; a life now gone, a time now past, but vivid in his retelling.

As the night comes to an end, our wonderful neighbour, our seemingly unlikely hero, with his epic stories of a world long since past, picks up his coat and waves goodbye, the twinkle in his eye still shining brightly.

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ILLUSTRATIONS BY

RACHEL W, 9PAK

The Grand Piano MARTHA G, 7MSH I sat down on the old velvet stool and glanced at my great aunt, sitting peacefully.

It was magical.

Was this what my delicate great aunt had once done?

Was this how she had once felt?

Had this been her life?

This was the grand piano.

This very piano had been onstage with her in her musical career.

Now, here she was, watching the next generation follow her journey, follow in her footsteps.

This very piano was her life, her dream.

I realised then that my great aunt may be elderly, but inside she is still the same unique and independent woman who played the piano so beautifully.

My fingers brushed over the smooth keys, just as her frail fingertips had once done.

From the corner of my eye I peered at my great aunt.

Had she really been a professional?

Had she really brought great music from this old piano?

She is my brilliant geriatric great aunt.

She is still the musician with the grand piano.

I played a note.

Something struck with her.

She got to her feet and stood behind me, her breath warm on my neck.

I played a tune.

And in an instant I was thrown onstage in her shoes.

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My Grandma NICOLE F, 7MSH That chestnut silky hair that blew in the cool breeze.

Those hazel eyes forever protected by thick, solid, shaded glasses, hovering over her frail droopy eyelids, making sure that no one ever saw what was underneath.

Always with a grin, those chalky white teeth contrasted with those cherry-red lips, stained with crimson lipstick.

What I wouldn’t give to have met my spectacular Grandma.

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Reflections on Grandpa MILO M, 7MSH Often my grandpa Comes for lunch; All his jokes and tricks Cheer me up a bunch.

He’s unsteady on his feet now, And leans on a walking stick.

His hair is wispy and grey now Where it once lay dark and thick.

His skin is wrinkled and thin And I can see the veins underneath As he laughs at my jokes, Flashing his false teeth.

As I stare into his eyes, I wonder how many memories are stored In the treasure trove that’s his head.

The thought of him being gone fills me with dread.

He may need glasses, but there’s still A twinkle in his crystal-like eyes.

He may walk like a tortoise, but there’s still A spring in his step.

He may be old, But he is still the man he was All those years ago.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GRACE S, 10CMB 24

The Tempest SOPHIA L, 10SJB Concealed Tendrils caressed the cheek bones Of a draft, which she had ignored, only to realise that the helicopters now spun with a strenuous stamina The rain, with an attempt, pierced like a passionate kiss.

She, who was oblivious to all this, now concluded that this was

Small Mercies

the Tempest.

Christmas in prison.

ALICE F, 10RET The powers that be have determined that each prisoner shall receive a small bag of cookies and seven grapes.

Not eight, not six.

Seven grapes.

There Again FREDERICK A, 10RET I still remember those grassy plains, The tyres caked in dirt remain.

Those neat suburban rows Of pebble-dashed homes.

Waking with a joyless Sense of annoyance, This summer’s burning through the pains; There’s no way I’m going there again.

The constant sense that town is wasting away, The constant sense it’s all in disarray.

There’s no way I’m going there again.

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The Fruit Does Not Fall Far from the Tree SOPHIE L, 10NS Her ladle over the pan, Wrist the perfect slant, A warm smile beside me And the night breeze carried something sweet; The lingering scent of chrysanthemum tea Which she ushered me to drink when she Foresaw that cold coming in.

Her thread was never tangled, she spun it tightly — intricately around the spool, Eyebrows knitting as the sewing machine chomps away at the fabric: She’s mended the cavities just so I can wear it again.

In the living room where we sit, I pluck out her grey hairs; Curious about her youth, I can’t help but think Has she ever wanted to be more than this?

I see the hurt in the browns of my mother’s eyes, Like the flowers that ache for spring, How she bears the weight of the world So that I wouldn’t feel the harsh ridges of the land — How she swallows her dreams So I never have to.

But when I am faced with the question: ‘What do your parents do?’

I wonder why I always answer: Dad is a contractor, Mum doesn’t work.

Forever DANIELA J, 10DGA Skies swooped low, Surrounding the trees, Swallowing each leaf And spitting them back out, Left to rot upon the ground: Forever there, while forever not.

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Poet Laureates...

The following poems won the English Department’s inaugural ‘Poet Laureate’ competition.

Year 7 students wrote poems on the theme of ‘nature’.

Year 8 students wrote poems on the theme of ‘identity’.

The Floral Quartets ELSA L, 7AFK Released from the sky to melt into earth, She nestles in the warm soil.

Long, tender fingers dig into her root-place, And a hopeful young sprout, Curiously, Emerges to face the sun.

Affable blossoms wave and nod, in the bright green-scented wind.

Buds rouse from their winter sleep, and the sun beams down on all.

Petals unfurl like new wings, Her striking beauty evident.

Fierce bold pride, flirting with the wind, She shakes her mane of colours and, Confidently, Stands tall to face the sun.

Striped, flying visitors, drawn to the vivid tones, hum in the blistering heat.

Sweet specks of gold, cling tight to their taxi, and fall to the other bright blooms.

Her dress of leaves wilt and sigh, As her broken wings pale and droop.

She clings to the hope of colourful pride, And an ageing flower, Wistfully, Smiles at her beautiful ghosts as she turns to face the sun.

The carpet of fire shrouds lost whispers of flora, leaves tumble and dance towards the flames.

Autumnal foliage, a patch-work forest, say goodnight to the sun as they fall into slumber.

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Eaten away by the carpet of white, Her wings are torn and brown.

She hopes for new life among her seeds, And a forgotten bloom, Nostalgically, For the last time turns, To face the sun.

Violet and viridian sky silks dance, in the inky, unlit night.

Underneath the cover of frost, new seeds push up towards the impending light.

The Factory Worker ESME M, 8AEM Slumped on a chair, his face mucky with dust From the steel-clad machines.

His face is a crinkled linen shirt, Waiting to be ironed out by a good night's rest.

In overalls of lurid orange, He guards a fleet of machines With hands like sanding paper. Abrasive and rough, They are rugged. All day he hears Monstrous whirring, the clank and whir of metallic mountains.

When evening comes the conveyers And machines stop.

The clamorous grumbling ceases, He walks out, keys in hand.

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The Haiku is a very short poetic form originating in Japan.

The rules of the form are very precise.

There are three lines to the poem: the first line contains 5 syllables; the second line contains 7 syllables; and the third line contains 5 syllables again.

The idea is to create a short, sharp, impressionistic image, a snapshot of beauty — especially one linked to the natural world...

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Melting GEORGIE C, 6CAL A small polar bear Watches icebergs float away.

Its world is melting.

The Rainforest JESSIE R, 6CAL Dense forest of green: Treetops tower above the Sapphire waterfalls.

The Ocean EFFIE K, 6CAL Beautiful ocean: Dolphins jumping in the waves — The most playful things.

Beneath the White CHARLOTTE R, 8AEM Crisp carpet of snow: The emerald grass below Wants the sun to show.

Snowflakes THOMAS F, 8AEM Sun shines off the snow.

Snowflakes like fragile feathers Float softly like clouds.

Summer Arrives MALORY B, 8AEM The flowers blossom And the sun is glistening In the summer breeze.

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The Bee JAMES T, 8AFH The honey-maker: Buzzing around with great sound, Ready with a sting.

Hedgehog VALENTINA S, 8AFH Slowly as a slug, Hedgehog crawls on crunching leaves In the autumn night.

The Eagle KASHMIR K, 8AFH Hunter of the skies: Eliminating its prey In one vicious swoop.

The Mole ZAC V, 8AFH Crawling through tunnels, Blindly furrowing through dirt, He waddles along.

The Frozen Lake HENRIK G, 8AEM Fluffy frozen flakes fall softly on the solid icy azure lake.

Snow Time FLO M, 8AEM White snow trickles down: Children will play carelessly Before it is gone.

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Butterflies CORDELIA H, 9FRL Unique butterflies, Showing off all their colours, Are fragile as glass.

Morning Sun GRACE H, 9SDG The sun glows brightly As it wakes from its deep sleep, Rising from mountains.

The Cat LAKSHMI P, 9HJC White fur, sea-blue eyes: The majestic feline sits On the lush green grass.

The View NICK T, 9VCO Out of my window I see lush green rolling hills.

The bright sun shines down.

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EDIE F, 9MJR 34

Stranded JESSIE R, 6CAL As I open my eyes, scorching sand shocks me and I leap to my feet. Birds tweet above my head while the sun’s rays beam down on me like a flashlight.

Coconuts roll along the ground like bowling balls and knock into verdant trees. The serene atmosphere is almost foreboding, with only nature’s sounds replying to my cries for help.

The smell of bitter, salty seawater wafts up my nose and creates a permanent stench. Miniscule insects scuttle across the sand, trying to find their way home; I hope I find my way home soon.

Before long, the sun becomes unbearable and I take shelter beneath a palm tree. The weather is balmy and, for a split-second, I take it all in. The peaceful environment, the diverse species: as soon as I get assistance and travel home, this will all be gone.

As I look around, I am bombarded with emerald green shrubs and plentiful plantation; maybe being stranded isn’t that bad after all. The ebb and flow of the never-ending ocean is enchanting, and it mesmerises me. On the horizon, a bedraggled ship sails away — my ship that I will never see again.

My stomach rumbles rapidly, but I ignore it, for there is still so much to explore. As I go deeper into the picturesque palm tree forest, I forget about my troubles and pain. Instead, the sounds of animals make me stop.

Monkeys howling, birds tweeting, even

ants scuttling. Each of these sounds catch my attention.

Palm trees loom over me like gods watching from heaven. The atmosphere is so calm that it almost lulls me to sleep. In a moment of excitement, I spot a juicy fruit unlike any that I have ever seen. Despite the danger, I cannot resist the temptation and take a big bite. It is glorious.

Grabbing the whole fruit, I grin contentedly and run off, seeking further riches in the forest.

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Ariel and Sycorax MIA S, 6CB It was a bland, tedious day as Ariel, a little spirit that resided on this mysterious island, fluttered around looking for anything he could savour and cherish. Back then, the only thing that caught the attention of the spirit’s eye was a scrap of food; this could be fruit, bread, or even a somewhat edible flower — any would suffice. The same desperate routine would repeat itself for weeks, even months, and it had been that way ever since he could remember.

Although the scenery was striking in this land, it was actually barren and deserted. You would hear the growl of beastly creatures but never see them.

Spirits were one of the only two living things that could speak on the island, the other one having never been seen.

There were ghost stories about a witch with bright blue eyes and wrinkly skin, and the thought of her made even a mountain tremble. More rumours accompanied her: that she lived in a house made of nothing but grass and stones, that her magic could apparently bring back the dead, and finally, that — no matter one’s size or age — everyone would do exactly what she said.

Ariel, however, knew nothing of these stories. His parents shielded him from the dark reality. This proved to be dangerous, for the spirit was oblivious to the dangers lurking behind every corner. There he was, gently tapping the ground ever so often as he flew. He had travelled much further

from his home than he really ought to have done. He smelt delightful scents, so he simply followed them and followed them until he had found his goal. It was an elaborate platter of cheese, bread, grapes and sweets, and Ariel was practically bursting with excitement. As if in a trance he rapidly pushed the tray into a nearby bush, hiding it to feast upon later. The tray was heavy, but nothing would get in the way of this rare find. He took a moment to catch his breath. Though he only stopped for a moment, it did not take long for his good fortune to change.

Ariel suddenly became conscious of heavy breathing. He then heard a ghastly cackle, and — before he knew it — he found himself trapped in a terrible cage. Iron bars surrounded him at every turn. From the shadows came more laughter, and in a haunting voice came the words: “I Sycorax have captured an eternal servant, and I will order you to obey my every wish, no matter what the risk.”

T r au m a ti se d , A r ie l s h i ve re d, wondering how he had found himself in such a horrific situation. This wicked and vile creature had caught him and had plans for his future that he could only dread.

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The Never-Ending Streets AIDAN H, 8AFH walking onwards into the bowels of the city.

He faced a fork in the road: re-join his companion or be left alone in the gut of the beast.

Drip drip drip, thud thud thud.

The boots of the weary men hit the street just like the rain struck the highway. The deserted road stretched out for what seemed like miles. The skyscrapers loomed over the city with an imposing might. Gloomy clouds flung droplets of rain like unrelenting gunfire onto the despaired travellers.

“It’s this way, I’m sure,” exclaimed one of the men.

His companion sighed heavily.

“I can assure you that this is the correct way.” His long arm was outstretched, reaching in the other direction.

They stood, eyes locked, unmoving.

One man took a deep sigh of relief, pulling a map from his pocket, but was distraught to learn it had been ruined by the unforgiving weather. One man expressed that they should go his way first and, to his surprise, the other man reluctantly agreed. The duo started to hobble down the once bustling streets of New York City.

The rain grew stronger, the skyscrapers grew taller, the streets grew longer, yet their legs grew somehow weaker.

After a while, one of the men slowed to a standstill.

“I shan’t go any further while sun sets and we continue to walk in the completely wrong direction.”

His unlikely companion took no notice of the man’s plea, instead 37

The Painting ZAC V, 8AFH It was a grim day. There were two people — a man and a woman — staring at a vivid painting. It had faint mountains in the background, and two people were happily holding hands in the foreground on a layer of short bright-green grass.

The man and the woman were in a large room filled with furniture: chairs, tables, sofas, and various different artistic pieces. The walls were painted in a cream white and the floor was covered in a royal blue carpet. There was a grand chandelier in the middle of the room, hanging down, invading their privacy. The sun shone onto it and the light bleakly gleamed onto the painting like it was the centre of the universe.

There was a suitcase lying on the floor, jam-packed with clothes and

other belongings. On top of the suitcase was a deodorant and a tie, neatly folded, covering a red shirt, which looked like it had only just been ironed.

“I remember when we got this painted,” the woman said.

“Me, too,” the main replied. “Around Christmas, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” the woman stuttered. A tear rolled down her face.

The man drew her into a warm hug and made her feel loved again.

“It will be okay,” he said. The woman nodded, though she did not seem to really agree.

The man stepped away from the woman and the painting, took a deep sigh, and said, with a smile on his face, “You can keep it.”

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

RACHEL WADIE, 9PAK 38

The Toy MANASSEH L, 8AFH It was melancholy in facial expression, suddenly lying on the sofa. It was callous, heartless, apathetic. It created a climate of fear, forcing unspeakable horrors upon all children (or rather, victims) who had the impertinence, the audacity, to touch it.

It did nothing; it lay like a stone: still, stationary, stagnant. Its hair seemed to resemble a river, streaming with dirt. If you looked closer, you could see what used to be hair. The dirt and dilapidation and the decrepitude and dotage of it. It sat on the sofa. The bare sofa. The bare, barren sofa. The bare, barren, bleak sofa. It was calloused, too. It could not have fit its inhabitant any better.

Suddenly, it blinked. The sullied eyelids creaked, distinctly pristine (in its own way). For decades, people had rejected it. People would palpitate in its sight. Now it was its turn. The smiling face that had been (literally) plastered on slowly moved. It showed malevolence and malignancy.

It was alive.

It had been restored of its beauty — if you could call the transition from something caked in dust, to a malevolent, violent creature ‘a restoration of beauty’.

Like it had just been shot, it groaned, and then it said three words. Those three words were ‘he is awake’. It was dead. In coming alive, all that had seemed dead was suddenly revitalised.

Its hair was restored, its pink dress

was restored. The hair — once stained with blood — now shone in the pale moonlight.

It lay back down again. There was a long pause. Abruptly, it sat up. It grinned. It moved out of the room.

The door closed.

Moments later, there was a noise, and a scream of pain, as a plunging noise came from the hallway.

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The Jungle SAMUEL T, 7MSH The sun shone through the canopy onto the rugged path as the verdant rainforest sang in the golden sunlight.

The air was stuffy and shallow with humidity, and clouds began to sidle over from the west.

The rainforest was a vivid paradise: flowers of every colour imaginable breathed reds and yellows and purples into the sea of green; birds of every shape and size swooped and danced in the treetops, making use of the last patches of sun.

Then the rain came. Suddenly new wonders emerged — trails of ants stretched from tree to tree, blue and yellow frogs croaked, their eyes black as charcoal. And still the ever-present humidity hung in the air as the rain thundered down, lingering in the air like a horde of insects. The forest swayed in the downpour. Delicate butterflies took refuge from the torrent under massive thickly set trees, their barks more green than brown thanks to the ivy that snaked along them, stretching towards the ominous sky.

Slowly the explorer trudged on, through the damp but luscious undergrowth, clung to by mosquitoes and sweat.

...

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The Last Letter SOFIA G, 7MSH words span in her head.

When the carriage stopped abruptly, it took a few seconds to register what was happening; she was frozen in her thoughts. For the first time in the whole journey, the driver looked at her in the eyes. They were full of meaning. Sighing, she stepped out.

What was stopping her? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Was it the weather, dark and miserable, surrounded by lightning? Was it the lifeless streets and their melancholy air? Or was it fear? Somehow, it seemed like the last option. She could feel a cloud of fear covering her, darker than the ever-looming clouds in the sky.

Finally, she reached a door that looked like it had been concealed for years. She held a shaky hand to a knocker that appeared to be the shape of a skull. Knock… Knock… Knock. As thunder rumbled like a washing machine, the door creaked open. It seemed like an age until the doorway loomed on her – it was empty, but there were footsteps. It was the only thing she could hear. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should turn back…

More footsteps. She had to run; she had to hide! But her feet were glued to the ground. And suddenly, the footsteps stopped, and a shadowy form appeared. Before she could react, it had grabbed her and she was engulfed into a sea of darkness…

The letter arrived on October 31st.

The date meant nothing to her – she had eyes for only the letter. It made her heart ache and fill with joy at the same time; the result left her more confused than she already was.

However, it was the last line that made her pause and hesitate, as if it were pulling her back from making a decision: ‘But remember: I know what you did, and I know who you are…’ Even so, her heart was already convinced.

She was going to the orphanage, and she was going to adopt a baby – even if her mind disagreed.

The wind howled like a wolf, urging her to stay in her warm, cosy house.

She ignored it; it was hard enough not listening to her brain. By the time her carriage had arrived, there was lightning striking among the dark clouds. Her heart was in her mouth — perhaps that was why she could hear it so clearly. Soon, however, looking at the miserable grey streets, or at the lightning, warning her to head home, became too much for her and she took out her pocket mirror staring instead at her amber eyes: the only colour for miles around. Her skin was a pale white, and her hair was so black it looked unidimensional. Her friends often teased that she looked like a vampire, but she thought she would most likely realise if she had a thirst for blood. Even so, as the carriage rocked back and forth and the thunder rumbled in the distance, the 41

The Clock Tower JUN H, 7MSH The tower loomed in the dark inky sky, shadowing the gloomy city from the light of the full moon. It stood neglected and covered in vines that snaked up and strangled the tonnes of stone bricks that lay on the soft clay beneath. Crudely fashioned wooden beams groaned as they split under the weight of the upper levels that they held up. Ravens cawed and shrieked in the night, their cries penetrating the cold night air. The clock itself, which was hung up on the top of the tower, had once been beautifully made with stained glass panels, but these were now shattered and smeared in soot from years of neglect. Crumbling ornaments and statues were perched high up looking down on the thousands of inhabitants of the city around. Huge, withering dead trees surrounded the tower, daring anyone to come and build upon the withered grassland of the pastures that surrounded the tower.

In the city, lay a small, homely house.

It was ensconced neatly between its two neighbours. There were candles lit in the windows that flickered warmly in the street. Three residents lived in the house: a young boy, his mother and his father. The boy was lying in his bed awake. He wished to go to the clock tower that grimly overshadowed his house. Earlier that day, his friends had dared him to enter and climb to the top. They were afraid, but he wasn’t.

He slid the window open and then climbed out, into the dark streets that sprawled across the city. It was nearly midnight when he arrived, the sky even darker than before. The foreboding tower seemed to have an aura of death around it; the grass and the plants stayed away in a neat circle.

The door had no need to be opened, as it had already fallen off its hinges.

He took a nervous step inside. Some of the walls were tainted with flaky red paint, and bats had appeared to have made their nests in the many support beams that held up the tower. On his approach they shrieked and flew upward in the tower, hovering in a giant cloud of darkness.

The boy apprehensively stepped up the wooden planks that jutted out of the stone brick walls. When he finally reached the highest floor there was a majestic oaken door, engraved with patterns and carvings, but no sign of a doorhandle.

Hesitantly, the boy opened the door.

Little did he know, a vampire was standing behind it, waiting.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

FINLAY A, 8WGD 42

100-Word Stories...

KAI W, 7SMR He was on a boat on a lake. It was midnight. He was looking for the monster. He could finally see the home.

It seemed abandoned, but he had read the book. He had read all the books to find this beast. He knew it was there. In the ancient home. After an hour or two he finally arrived at the home. He docked his boat and went onto the shore. All of a sudden, the clouds moved from the moon. He grew fur and sharp nails and he realised, right then, that he was the monster.

MARIE W, 7SMR Clarice stumbled up the creaky attic steps; it was the last room to investigate in her new house. The door creaked open ominously, the darkness of the room engulfing her.

She could hear her family unpacking downstairs. Her eyes fell on a fulllength, ornate mirror leaning against the opposite wall. Strangely, she noticed irregular footprints leading towards it upon the dark floorboards.

Overcome with dread, she was drawn towards the mirror. Gasping, she realised that the reflection’s hair was wavy, whereas hers wasn’t. She reached to touch the image. She screamed. Warm fingers pulled her towards the mirror.

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MILLIE Q, 7SMR I trod through a derelict, foggy graveyard and touched a weathered gravestone. I could barely make out the words. Lord Arnold Williams, owner of Howler Mansion. 1824 — 1869. I shivered. Suddenly the fog cleared, and on a steep hill, a house stood. I can’t explain how I felt. I was drawn towards it, like I had been there my whole life, yet, I had never seen it before. I reached the house and read the name. Howler Mansion. The door opened and an old-fashioned man stepped out. “Hello,” he said. “I am Lord Arnold Williams. Who are you?”

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

ROMAN G, 8AEM

ALBA N, 7SMR Gripped by the terrifying fear that someone was watching me, I woke myself up. But I felt heavy weights pulling me back down on to my creaking bed. I was neither asleep nor awake at this point. All I remember is the dream I had last night: the empty church yard covered in mossy graves.

Petrified by the thought, I closed my eyes to get it out of my head. I had almost drifted off when the sound of ravens squawking woke me up.

Opening my eyes, I realised it wasn’t a dream. I had been buried alive…

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The Fall of Icarus KATHRYN H, 9HJC Fire flickered behind his eyes as he dived and soared. Icarus glided across the surface of the sea, the spray wetting his wings. The winds lifted him up and up as his father shouted, “Son, come down. Don’t fly too high!” And the gods looked upon him, smiling at this display of mortal fearlessness and kleos. How they envied the burning sparks of mortal lives. His shining mortality was that which all gods envy.

They all long to be shining and living and dying and young and desperate and tangible. Even Atlas smirked at the young, doomed joy.

Some say he grazed Helios or Apollo; I say he grazed freedom and everything that is good in the world and crashed through the limits of existence. For a few infinite moments, he was ageless, everlasting, deathless.

For a few brilliant seconds, he lived. I say he touched divinity. He touched life itself. And he lost it. They say it was youthful carelessness. That his helplessness drowned him like the waves he later plunged into.

Sparks licked the feathers of his wings. As the wax caught alight, it hurt a little too much. His wings were the colour of burning sunset, his feathers littered the air like autumn leaves, the fire burned him — red like light on closed eyes. Red: the colour of hearts falling to their knees and whispers leaving wrecked lips, of looking into hardened eyes for the last time and

screams bursting into existence; it is not the colour he later fell into.

He locked eyes with his father, whose discord and anger and despair fluttered before him, just out of his reach.

Daedalus tossed and turned, raged and did not burn nor fall nor scream to his dying son — a jarring silence amid flames crackling.

He was numb like he had been in cold water for too long, but then he could not feel anything but relief tinged with happiness. He knew what he was meant to feel. Doubt. Frustration. Fear. But Icarus laughed as he fell. The youth fell like a snowflake, graceful and doomed and tragic. Falling - that was all there was. Icarus screamed in joy and he laughed. He was light and hope, glowing like a star. With feathers floating around him and burning wax running down his skin, he laughed. He lay on his back, face turned up to the searing sun.

A blissful smile. Firelight glinted amber on his face. There were constellations in his eyes; blazing, brilliant flames covering his back.

He died, flickering, in the sun’s warm embrace. This was a moment that exploded. A star burning as it fell. A splash. Gone, gone, gone.

In the end, he was only mortal, and the fields of Hades welcomed him home.

He dared to defy death, and he lost, but isn’t that more than most ever do?

Isn’t living like that worth death?

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This is not a story of reaching too far and failing and limits; this is a story of living and laughter and flying and being on top of the world. It is not a warning; it is an encouragement.

Icarus may have fallen, but he flew for longer.

ILLUSTRATION BY

ROMAN G, 8AEM 46

Getting to the Point LILY M, 10CMB I had another dream. Calling it a nightmare would be too immoderate; nevertheless the word ‘dream’ romanticised the very theme of it, thus leaving me with nothing but perhaps a fantasy or visualisation. So there it lay: somewhere in between a purgatorial haven and a dystopian utopia, like lukewarm water after a muggy day. I could and will describe it to you but do understand that I am as clueless and bewildered as you are.

Furthermore, my etiquette to socialise in a normal manner is distinguishably undistinguishable. But I have been told you would listen, and with that I shall proceed. I have tried numerous times to grasp onto the fairly insignificant morsel of knowledge I know and have now, researched in almost every humane way imaginable. Leatherback books with fragmented spines, teacoloured newspapers that reek of senescence, a rather peculiar magazine featuring Britain's ‘Top 40’ and the winners of a karaoke contest which looked seemingly well overdue. And, as might be expected, the vast internet — which didn’t seem so big after all when exploring my particular affairs, hence leaving me with so much yet so little, in addition to feeling a nostalgic sense of familiarity in each of these sources. I can only hope that once I have finished talking to you, and once you have done what has needed to be done, I can breathe a sigh of

relief, because there will be nothing more to know. I have started questioning the quintessence of existence, and whether or not these dreams of mine tell me what I want to know or what I already am aware of.

When I wake, around three AM, and lasts night’s bleakness still dawns upon me, enveloping me with monotonous echolalia, and the birds outside have yet time to wait to sing the songs of spring, and the expanse of the universe rests soundly, forgetting the manifestations of yesterday’s emotions — that is when I can see. I can see clearly and the fog has not yet come and I can remember what I was dreaming. I know what I have to do and say to recognise what has become of our earth. However, this brief euphoria leaves as quickly as it comes, its presence like a single wave, until I’m left with nothing but a jumble of senseless words and codes.

Deciphering and debating. Despair and ecstasy. Until the next night advances.

And thus the cycle proceeds.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY

WILLOW W, 6CB 48

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EMMA T, L6RJB

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ISAK M, 6CAL

MIA S, 6CB 51

EVA S, 7MM

FINLAY A, 8WGD 52

AYEISHAH O, 7MM 53

GRACE S, 10CMB 54

OP I N I O N OP I N I O N OP I N I O N OP I N I O N OP I N I O N OP I N I O N OP I N I O N 55

LOLA F, L6HVW 56

AUTISTIC DESERVE Autistic voicesVOICES deserve to be TO BE HEARD IN HOLLYWOOD... heard in Hollywood...

CLARA T, 9VCO poke fun at those on the spectrum, without ever having to face the ‘awkwardness’ of having an openly autistic character. Furthermore, attaching a myriad of stereotypes to Sheldon’s character without labelling him with a diagnosis means that the show’s writers could continue to present an inaccurate image of what ASD is. They were able to avoid doing research into the condition or having to dedicate scenes to meltdowns or sensory overloads. They could profit from those seeking representation of themselves in the media. It is vital to remember that Sheldon Cooper is not the only character of his kind; film and TV writers have been exploiting autistic behaviours for years. All of this raises the important question: how has the Autistic community been harmed and what can we do about it?

When Australian singer-songwriter Sia revealed that she would be making a movie (2021’s Music) about a girl on the spectrum, many people (including myself) were thrilled. Having a highprofile movie be based around a female autistic character sounded like an incredibly significant step forward in terms of representation. For too long, men had been the solely represented sex when it came to Autistic representation. But as news started to leak regarding Sia’s movie, that excitement quickly began to fade.

When it comes to autistic representation, it is no secret that Hollywood loves to include one very specific stereotype: a socially-awkward white man with spectacular machinelike mathematical and scientific abilities.

He loves equations and science experiments and tends to shun all social interaction. This stereotype ranges from the 1988 movie, Rainman, all the way to the 2017 medical drama, The Good Doctor. If you’re an avid movie or television watcher, you can likely name at least one more.

For me, Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory comes to mind. Whilst it is never outwardly confirmed (in fact, it has been publicly denied by the show’s writers) that Cooper has ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), his behaviours have always been consistent with the diagnosis. It is difficult to deny that Sheldon Cooper aligns closely with stereotypical ASD. Traits such as social dysfunction, touch aversion and an inability to grasp sarcasm can consistently be recognised in his character. Whilst having these traits represented on television might be a key step towards normalising and accepting autistic behaviours, Sheldon Cooper is certainly not the pinnacle of ASD representation. The unwillingness of the show’s writers to admit that his character is a tick-box for ASD stereotypes implies they were happy to 57

and bullied as children for their stims, so Sia’s decision to have Maddie Ziegler copy those behaviours comes across as incredibly tone-deaf.

In addition to the emotional hurt that it has already caused, this film includes scenes that have the potential to physically endanger autistic individuals.

Meltdowns, which are defined as intense emotional responses to overwhelming circumstances, are often not handled appropriately. Whether it is strangers feeling the need to step in when they see an autistic person in distress, or a parent who is not educated on their child's condition, incorrect handling of a meltdown can lead to severe consequences for the person experiencing it. A common example of this occurs when autistic people are confronted by the police.

Symptoms of meltdowns may be perceived by police officers as erratic or drug-induced behaviour, which may lead to the autistic person being wrongfully arrested. If they then proceed to resist arrest (due to their heightened emotional state), they could be misunderstood or even injured.

Education on autism is slowly being introduced into police training, but incorrect information on meltdowns can still cause harm. Sia’s film prominently features scenes where ‘Music’ is physically restrained, which spreads a worrying message that restraint is an effective tool to stop meltdowns, which is irresponsible. The inclusion of these scenes is proof that Sia’s ‘research’ in preparation for this film was surface-level at best. After continuous outrage from both autistic and allistic (non-autistic) people, Sia finally made a statement regarding these scenes: ‘I’m sorry. I plan to

First came the news that Sia had cast Maddie Ziegler in the title role. This was one of many signs, prior to the release of the trailer, that this wasn’t going to be the breakthrough in representation that many had hoped for. Casting a neurotypical (defined as an individual who does not present any autistic or other neurodiverse characteristics) in a neurodivergent role has always been Hollywood’s favourite way to tell neurodiverse stories. It allows filmmakers to exploit the experiences of disabled people without the ‘hassle’ of having to accommodate an actor with that disability.

Sia claims that she had originally attempted to cast an autistic actress, but this actress was later let go after being overwhelmed by the environment on set. But many feel that if Sia had truly cared about giving opportunities to autistic actors, she would have made a larger effort to accommodate this actor’s needs.

Despite the initial backlash over Sia’s casting choices, filming of the movie continued. Later in production, a press released picture confirmed that Ziegler was indeed doing what many people had feared: she was portraying a caricature of an autistic person. Using exaggerated facial expressions and hand movements, Ziegler was, whether she intended to or not, mocking the mannerisms of autistic individuals.

W h i l s t s t i ms ( s e lf - st im u l a t or y behaviours) such as hand flapping and contortion of the face are incredibly common in neurodivergent people, it is not appropriate to copy them as a neurotypical. Neurodivergent people stim naturally; Maddie Ziegler does not. Many autistic people are mocked 58

remove the restraint scenes from all future printings. I listened to the wrong people and that is my responsibility; my research was clearly not thorough enough, not wide enough’. Whilst this apology is progress, it does not erase the fact that thousands have already seen and been influenced by the film.

When Sia was asked about her research before creating her film, she cited Autism Speaks as an organisation that had stood behind the creation of the film. To somebody with no prior knowledge of the organisation, her involvement with them might seem like a successful attempt to consult professionals. However, to those who are actively involved in the Autism community, this is further proof that Sia’s research was neither thorough nor careful. Since its inception, Autism Speaks has painted autism as a ‘disease’ – in other words, something to cure.

Despite backlash from many autistic people, the organisation continues to gain mainstream attention and support.

Whilst many who donate to Autism Speaks are trying to contribute to ethical ASD research, they end up giving money to an organisation that, according to autismadvocacy.org, only gives 1% of its budget towards family services and direct support for autistic people.

Since 2005, Autism Speaks has merged with the Autism Coalition for Research and Education, as well as the National Alliance for Autism Research and Cure Autism Now. The latter two organisations dedicate the majority of their funds towards researching ’cures’ and intensive treatments, rather than supporting autistic people in need. If Sia had collaborated with services such as the Autistic Women and Nonbinary

Network (a service dedicated to supporting autistic people with marginalised gender identities), her film likely would have been more well researched and sensitive.

Despite the general lack of well rounded autistic characters in the media, there are a few examples of writers who are certainly on the right track. Openly autistic writer Dan Harmon was one of the writers on NBC’s sitcom, Community. Harmon has spoken publicly about how his autism influenced the creation of Abed Nadir (one of the main characters on the show) and how the process of writing Abed’s character helped him come to terms with his own diagnosis. Although Abed is still portrayed by a neurotypical actor (Danny Pudi), which is problematic in itself, his character does show significant progress in terms of accurate representation. Whilst it is never explicitly stated that Abed is on the spectrum, it is very clear that his character was written to reflect some of Harmon’s autistic traits. The benefit of autistic characters being written by people who are also on the spectrum is that it is very unlikely that they will resort to stereotypes and misinformation. Instead, the writers can draw from their own experiences and create an accurate representation of what autism is. Rather than focusing entirely on the things Abed finds difficult (such as social interaction), we see him learn and develop throughout the show. One of the main focuses of Community is friendship, and Abed is not excluded from this; although it is true that autistics often struggle with being social, it does not mean that it is impossible for them to connect with others. Abed’s character enjoys a 59

others. Abed’s character enjoys a multitude of interesting, positive and loveable characteristics, and his behaviour is not exploited for comedy, unlike so many other neurodivergent characters in film and television.

The media has a long way to go before autistic people start to see themselves represented accurately and positively. Music is not the first movie to negatively portray autism, and unless we make a change, it will not be the last. For years, millions of neurotypical people have had their perceptions of autism shaped by inaccurate portrayals in the media and it will take years to undo the damage. However, the film and TV industry can decide to move towards repairing the damage now. The process of telling autistic stories is a feat that cannot be achieved without major input from autistic creatives. I firmly believe that Autistic people are the only people who can tell their stories correctly. There is no shortage of autistic artists willing to create positive and inclusive work, so it’s time for Hollywood to start hearing their voices.

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DISNEY FILMS PROMOTE Disney films promote dangerous DANGEROUS STEREOTYPES... stereotypes...

LAKSHMI P, 9HJC Both you and I once saw Disney characters as role models. At first glance, Disney films seem like harmless entertainment, but, upon further inspection, we can locate the pervasive and subliminal lessons which they spread throughout our society.

I began to take notice of the questionable intentions behind the exhilarating, exciting and dazzling Disney stories at the age of nine.

Whilst watching my favourite Disney films, such as Tangled and Beauty and the Beast, I noticed that the plots tended to progress with similar storylines. The ‘damsel in distress’ was weak and useless, in need of rescue by the braver and stronger male characters like Tarzan or Simba. This is extremely wrong. This repetitive storyline suggests to young children that men are the heroic and powerful figures, whilst women should be helpless and fragile, as if they are delicate objects, merely existing to be looked at and sympathised with.

How can you tell me that gender equality has been ‘almost achieved’, when you allow brands such as Disney to continually produce films that instil messages promoting the superiority of men? Recent studies tell us that in Disney films, such as Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and Pocahontas, men speak from 70 to 90 percent of the time, leaving female protagonists practically silent. This yet again

demonstrates my point that Disney is irresponsibly educating children of the world.

I am certain that the large majority of modern-day children will have watched Disney’s popular 1941 film, Dumbo.

Those who know this film will be familiar with a small group of crows who teach Dumbo how to fly. I once saw this as an innocent and harmless moment. I was wrong. These crows have exaggerated ‘black voices’, a highly insensitive stereotype. As if this wasn’t callous enough, these exaggerated ‘black’ characters are voiced by white actors. The leader of the group of crows goes by the name: ‘Jim Crow’, an outrageous reference to a set of racial segregation laws in the Southern United States during the early 20th century. Disney uses this group of crows (creatures viewed as a bad omen by many), in the film to represent a group of black people. This tells your young children that black people should be seen as ‘bad’ or associated with animals and that they should not be treated with adequate respect.

Received at a young age, the ideas implied by Disney films will stick with your children forever. Is it any surprise then that, every day, millions of men, women and children of colour around the world have to drown in the ocean of racism and stereotyping thrown towards them by uneducated minds?

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Are you truly willing to welcome the idea that your child might be contributing towards negative or harmful stereotypes simply because of the films that you may well have recommended to them? While it isn’t the child’s fault, an d we do acknowledge that many of Disney’s ‘classic’ films were made in very different times, these so-called ‘children’s films’ do deserve greater scrutiny.

So again I ask you: How can you say that equality has been ‘almost achieved’ when you allow brands like Disney to nonchalantly escape from these racist allegations without lifting a finger?

If you believe in change for the better, then I urge you to stop turning your back on the situation and to help spread the awareness that is necessary to combat a problem of this scope and scale. I am not asking you to stop watching and forget about your favourite Disney films; I only request that you help the children of the future by bringing attention to the gender and racial inequality taught by Disney.

ILLUSTRATION BY

GRACE S, 10CMB

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GENDER STEREOTYPES INare SPORT Gender stereotypes in sport still AREprevalent...

STILL FAR TOO PREVALENT... far too ISOBEL P, 9SDG 100 years ago, our attitudes to gender were far less developed and progressive than we are nowadays.

Women did horse-riding and tennis.

Men did boxing and wrestling. In fact, a century ago, women in this country had only had the vote for a couple of years — and this wasn’t even available to all women! How is it true that we have the same stereotypes for sport after 100 years of supposed mass development? Why do men and boys still feel the need to be muscular 100 years later? Why do women and girls drop out of sports to seem less muscular in 2021?

Over 60% of athletes and sporting professionals are male, and only 4% of sports presenters are female. Imagine a young girl: she wants to be a boxer, but she is scared of being bullied for it.

Imagine a young boy: he doesn't like going to the gym, but he is worried that the 62% of males who believe men should be conspicuously muscular will laugh at him. We need to stop judging people for doing what they want just because of their gender.

As a girl in the cross country community, I have seen stereotypes at their height. If I overtake a boy, a Dad shouts at them to go faster. When we had to record a time for the London Youth Games, I was told to do a 2km run, whereas, a boy of the same age as me was told to do a 3km run. Boys may be statistically faster than girls, but

does that make them able to run a kilometre further than us?

A study run by Tampax asked people of all ages to run how ‘a girl would’. All of them, no matter gender or age, pranced around and swished their hair.

When told to run like a boy, they ran as technically as Usain Bolt. In football the men are constantly pushing and kicking each other to get the ball, masculine aggression and competitiveness seemingly built into their psyche. Women, on the other hand, are perceived as weak or less ‘hungry’ for sporting success. Many times, when I have been in the stands, I have heard people shout to the player ‘Get up!’ or ‘You’re crying like a girl’ when the player had been completely wiped out. What does crying like a girl even mean? I have never seen some of my female friends cry.

Society needs to change its attitudes to equality in sport. These global gender stereotypes are affecting millions of people’s mental health and attitude towards not just sport, but life in general. With the growth of social media and editing apps (allowing us to project false images of ourselves), it is getting harder to steer people away from this attitude. It’s devastating to think that the young girl and boy I spoke about may never get to be who they want to be. We need to change more in the next hundred years than we did in the last.

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CONSERVATORSHIPS ARE EXPLOITING Gender stereotypes in sport are still THE VULNERABLE... far too prevalent...

ILSE L, 9PAK The issue of conservatorship is relatively unknown, only reaching the spotlight recently, thanks to Framing Britney Spears, a documentary shining light on the dangers of the famous popsinger’s complicated situation. A conservator is a guardian or protector, appointed by a judge, to manage the financial affairs or daily life of another due to physical or mental limitations.

The idea is that the conservator essentially has complete legal control over the client’s life.

To assume that the system is well regulated and controlled would be foolish. People need to understand that conservatorships should be considered the most restrictive from of court intervention, for they strip people of their individual rights. How many people may be currently living under the thumb of an immoral or exploitative conservator? The issue deserves our attention.

Just because this abuse isn’t physical, it doesn’t mean that it’s insignificant.

Let’s take the case of Britney Spears: one of the most w ell-known conservatorship abuse cases. At just sixteen-years-old, Spears became one of the most famous people on the planet. After her overnight stardom, she was constantly stalked and harassed by the paparazzi (similarly to Princess Diana), which then led to a very unfortunate battle with alcoholism

and drugs. Spears’ struggle is what evidently led to her conservatorship being instated. But — though she may have needed help with her mental health — the reality is that she has now been imprisoned by this conservatorship, an arrangement helmed by her father since her infamous breakdown twelve years ago.

Under the rules of the conservatorship, Spears had everything taken from her, including custody of her children. But nobody seems to have thought about when this sentence might end.

Britney Spears has had twelve years of growth and rehabilitation and is still being stripped of basic human rights.

Conservatorships are designed to protect people who cannot take care of themselves, but Spears has worked tirelessly and faithfully over the course of the last twelve years to better herself, yet she is still being treated like a prisoner. Her fans launched the #FreeBritney movement, utilising social media to bring awareness to the di s crep an cie s su rrou n d in g th e conservatorship. Documentaries are also helping. But there is still a long way to go before Britney Spears can reclaim her former life.

Spears’ case is just one of thousands (possibly millions), which highlight the profoundly inadequate American justice system. The OVC Conservator

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Exploitation Project, run by the National Centre for State Courts, was set up to determine the consequences of conservatorship abuse. The investigation explored conservator exploitation cases that appeared from 1st July 2015 through 31st December 2016. The team discovered twentyseven different cases of exploitation and the average victim was eighty-twoyears old. These are helpless human beings needing guidance from the younger generation, and we are robbing them of their rights. Half of these victims lived in care facilities – meaning that the systems facilitates those preying on defenceless, powerless and unprotected people as if they are a piece of rubbish thrown on the street.

The phrase ‘respect your elders’ was imprinted on everyone’s mind as a child, but for some reason we seem to forget this, seeing the elderly and vulnerable as fair game. What is especially shocking is how many ruthless conservators are related to their victims. In the OVC study, twenty -six perpetrators were identified and six were family members! That’s twenty-three percent. Can you imagine leeching off and victimising your own blood relative?

A 2010 review of twenty cases found that ‘guardians stole or otherwise obtained 5.4 million dollars in assets from one hundred and fifty eight incapacitated victims’. Incapacitated, defenceless and debilitated, these victims are as helpless as sitting ducks.

But what’s next? Are you going to help? Are you going to speak up for people whose voices aren’t being heard? Let’s shine more light on the issue of conservatorship abuse.

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ELLIE H, 7MSH 66

‘AMERICAN PSYCHO’ ‘American Psycho’ and the AND THE AMERICAN DREAM American Dream ICE D, 10AJL The so-called ‘American Dream’ is the flawed belief that any American, regardless of class or upbringing, can achieve any goal or aspiration purely through hard work and determination, placing a huge emphasis on upward class mobility and wealth. This sustained myth is a key theme in the 1991 novel, American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis — a grotesque satire on American capitalism and consumerism.

The plot centres around self-obsessed investment banker, Patrick Bateman, who ultimately resorts to homicidal acts after experiencing a total loss of self in his futile quest to achieve the ‘American Dream’.

Bateman is an utterly desensitised individual, allowing him to commit vulgar crimes with zero remorse. This phenomenon is a direct result of his monotonous existence, an identical routine which he repeats day after day until any form of human emotion has been numbed. This sedate reality is documented carefully by Bateman, its dull repetition acting as a gateway into his deranged mind — forcing one to accept the insignificance of the actions (and eventually crimes) that take place in the novel, due to their high volume and similarity. This odd coping mechanism can be found in a variety of those deemed ‘successful’, though they may not be murdering people, due to their intense desire to find purpose once more; for after achieving the

‘dream’, the individual no longer has a clear or motivating objective. They are already fulfilled in every aspect of their superficial existence.

Another key issue, highlighted clearly

by Ellis, is that of a collective identity.

In most cases, a collective identity is simply a group you associate yourself with, a small part of your own individual identity that offers a feeling of belonging. In ‘American Psycho’ however, said collective identity is so overwhelming, one loses all sense of individuality — instead becoming an unrecognisable manifestation of those surrounding you. This is proven by the frequent character misidentification that occurs throughout the novel, for not a single Wall Street yuppie is even vaguely distinguishable from the next; they are totally interchangeable. This is perhaps due to the key traits that characterise them all, their endless lust for material objects and an unhealthy obsession with social status. These traits are often found in ‘successful’ people, leaving many to lead a life as meaningless as Bateman’s own. This is due to their ongoing self-obsession and desire to remain above those that surround them. Bateman fixates over trivial matters, such as the quality of a business card, in an effort to maintain his superiority among colleagues — his thin veil of confidence gradually deteriorating as his anonymity becomes apparent.

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Moreover, it is crucial to note that Bateman is an entirely isolated character, with all friendships and relationships taking place at a purely superficial level. This forces him to rely heavily on drugs and sex. Initially, we see Bateman take drugs solely for social purposes (e.g cocaine with colleagues), with little effect on his personal or professional life; however, as the novel continues, Bateman’s drug use becomes manic and antisocial — with him eventually requiring a Xanax to simply partake in conversation. This adverse decline highlights not only the power of addiction but also the dangers of total isolation — a common issue among many (‘successful’) highranking business officials, perhaps due to the competitive nature of their profession.

In addition, a fundamental flaw of the ‘American Dream’ is the class rigidity that it enforces, primarily through its obsession with upward social mobility.

This is due to the misled belief that one can only be deemed ‘successful’ through high social status, or more superficially, the material and financial means to prove it; thus cementing the toxic boundary between the ‘successful’ elite and the general population. This inevitably causes classism (albeit to varying degrees of severity) — an issue perfectly depicted

by Bateman and his yuppie co-workers.

Instances of severe classism continue to surface for the duration of the writings, ranging from cruel taunts to a brutal murder, and can be seen as a direct result of elite class socialisation — a parenting method common among achievers of the ‘American Dream’.

This upbringing inadvertently spawns a generation of classist hyper-capitalists

due to its emphasis on politics and class superiority.

As a satire, then, American Psycho illustrates the defects of the ‘American Dream’ through flaws present in the protagonist, Patrick Bateman, highlighting its fanciful nature via his descent into madness. Ellis distinguishes Bateman from general society through his grisly homicidal endeavours, choosing instead to utilise him as an abstract manifestation of capitalist ‘success’; thus allowing him to experiment with reality and the flaws of such a phenomenon. Throughout the novel, Bateman experiences no personal growth whatsoever, instead continuing his destructive path towards the illusion he deems ‘success’ (or the ‘American dream’). This odd resolution is perhaps due the driving force behind all of his decisions, his public persona: a fabricated identity, necessary to atone for his depressing reality. This identity functions solely upon the opinions others, driving Bateman to insanity through its obsession with achieving the ‘American Dream’ — merely an essential status symbol. Bateman exists as a classist and isolated individual, superficial and desensitised, immoral and dependent, totally unaware of his own reality.

To conclude, the principal concept behind both American Psycho and the ‘American Dream,’ is that of ‘image over identity’ — summarised perfectly

by Bateman himself: “All it comes down to is: I feel like s*** but look great”.

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WILL NASA’S NEW MARTIAN ROVER ‘American Psycho’ and the FINALLY REVEAL SIGNS OF LIFE? American Dream ANNABEL R, L6SPP Mars has always fascinated scientists and astronomers, mostly because many believe that billions of years ago, its appearance was not so different from Earth’s today. We have found evidence of liquid oceans, a much richer atmosphere, and volcanic activity. But due to its small size (about half the size of Earth), its favourable conditions deteriorated over time. Its liquid core solidified, causing its magnetic field to vanish. This in turn exposed the planet to powerful solar winds which blew away the majority of its atmosphere, leaving only the heaviest molecules (like carbon dioxide) to make up the thin atmosphere and arid landscape we see today. But in that ideal Earth-like window, more than 3 billion years ago, life could have flourished and left behind signs ready for discovery.

On the 18th February 2021, NASA’s new rover, Perseverance, touched down in Jezero Crater on the Martian surface. Having launched in July of last year, this latest t ech nological innovation set out with two main objectives: to seek signs of ancient life and collect samples of rock and soil for possible return to Earth.

Perseverance weighs in at one tonne and includes six wheels for navigating the Martian surface. Fully equipped with two microphones, navigation cameras and Raman spectrometers, the rover will be able to record the first

sounds we’ll hear from the red planet, as well as search for microscopic, fossilised cells and organic material in places that once could have been ideal for life.

Perseverance is a mission unlike any other. There have been a total of four rovers on the surface of Mars, one of which is still active — NASA’s Curiosity rover, which has been conducting onboard analysis of rock, soil and air samples for over eight years. But Perseverance has a new secret weapon which will allow it to identify specific spots on the surface to extract samples. That weapon is the Mars Helicopter.

Ingenuity is a mini helicopter hitching a ride on the Perseverance rover. Once landed, Perseverance will release Ingenuity onto the Martian surface, where it will perform a series of test flights and begin to scour the ground with a bird’s eye view. The helicopter weighs no more than four pounds and is powerful enough to lift off in the extremely thin Mars atmosphere (only about 1% as thick as Earth’s atmosphere.) If Ingenuity is a success, it will allow Perseverance to collect samples from previously unidentified or supposedly unreachable places.

In addition to Perseverance and Ingenuity’s work on the planet, NASA, in collaboration with ESA (The European Space Agency), has begun plans to retrieve the rock and soil 69

Samples collected by Perseverance and return them to Earth for investigation and analysis using all the capabilities of terrestrial laboratories.

Once Perseverance has collected enough samples, it will be ready for a Sample Retrieval Lander. Current plans are for the Retrieval Lander, scheduled for arrival on Mars in 2028, to deploy a rover which will collect the samples from Perseverance and transfer them to a rocket that will launch the samples into Mars orbit.

There are also alternative plans for Perseverance to transfer samples directly to the rocket. Either way, the rocket will become the first ever to launch from another planet, sending the sample return container into orbit around Mars. A separate orbiting spacecraft, launched by ESA in 2026, will then meet up with the sample container and send it out of orbit, ferrying it back to Earth. This retrieval mission is still in the planning stages, but it is an exciting and potentially rewarding prospect to have access to the first rock samples from another planet.

Of all the planets in our Solar System, Mars is certainly the most fascinating. It is hoped that Perseverance will finally give us concrete evidence that life did indeed exist on the red planet billions of years ago, and if that turns out to be true, what might the implications be for planets in other Solar Systems?

Could extra-terrestrial life be secretly flourishing out there in the cosmos? Or are we truly alone in the Universe?

Both scenarios are equally terrifying.

ILLUSTRATION BY

GRACE S, 10CMB

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IS IT RIGHT TO REMOVE ‘American Psycho’ and theSTATUES OF THOSE WITH UNDESIRABLE VIEWS? American Dream REBECCA S, L6ASO Following the recent protests of the Black Lives Matter movement (BLM), there have been controversies afoot in countless countries concerning statues of people who have been directly involved in racist acts, or engaged in other practices that are generally considered unacceptable in view of the moral codes of our modern society.

Perhaps one of the most memorable instances in the United Kingdom was the defacing of a statue of Sir Winston Churchill in Parliament Square during the BLM protests in June 2020. The statue commemorates Churchill’s efforts in leading Britain through the Second World War successfully, yet Churchill held many public views that many now deem totally unacceptable.

These include his apparent belief in White Supremacy, and questionable views on the Jewish and Muslim communities, amongst other problematic revelations. The recent defacement of the Churchill statue involved the words ‘was a racist’ being sprayed beneath his name, leading to an increase in security to protect the statue from future vandalism. The incident has inevitably sparked debate over the precise nature and purpose of our statues: namely, what they commemorate, and what we can overlook.

Although the statue of Winston Churchill represents his efforts in the war and our achievement of peace, it

it still represents a history of institutionalised racism to many, especially since Churchill occupied such a high position of power and influence, expressing his views on an amplified platform. Therefore the question is: can we separate his nowunacceptable public views from his success in a leadership role? The question is similar to the perennial ‘can we separate the art from the artist?’ debate, yet it is far more personal.

These statues present the person, as a whole, as a hero to the public, and are built into the city for all to see. These statues can be seen either as a commemoration of our history as a country, or a glorification of the slightly dubious past.

The Churchill statue defacement isn’t a singular case, though; there are countless recent examples of statues that have raised a similar issues. Of particular note is the heated debate regarding the statue of Edward Colston (a man who profited from the Bristol slave trade, which funded his philanthropic efforts), which was toppled and thrown into the river by protesters last summer. It is clear that, although Colston did objectively good things for the people of Bristol, his money to fund this was unethically sourced and directly caused the suffering of many, even if it did benefit others. Can good deeds cancel out bad ones? Where do we draw the line?

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We might also ask whether these people’s questionable views are ‘of their time’ and whether, therefore, their transgressions can be overlooked.

But there were many people in the past who did not believe in, and did not promote, white supremacy. In my opinion, it is a matter of current social relevance. If there are statues that the general public feels are now offensive reminders of colonialism, or institutionalised oppression, or if they represent something in the past we’d rather not glorify in statue form, there should be a process allowing the formal removal of these statues via democratic petition.

But it is also valuable to recognise that informal protesting can play an important role in sparking important conversations that need to be had. The Churchill and Colston incidents crossed the news all over the UK, and so raised questions that, arguably, needed to be asked. As a country, we strive to move past painful instances of the past and work towards equality and justice — so we must ask ourselves: do these statues serve as symbols from which we can collectively learn, or are they simply a painful reminder to minorities whose ancestors were affected by these powerful figures?

Contrary voices have claimed, however, that we cannot censor our past, as this could lead to endless debates over which figures are ‘controversial enough’ to be removed, and which figures caused ‘more’ suffering than others. Some not in favour of the removal of statues have even gone as far to say that if we are removing statues from our recent past, then we may as well remove classical statues of figures with arguably even

more appalling beliefs and practices.

But I find this argument invalid when considering statues from classical antiquity. Take, for one example, Emperor Nero of the 1st century C.E, who was responsible for the Great Fire of Rome, and blamed it on Christians (whom he tortured extensively). There are many statues of Nero for the general public to see in museums, but we understand as a society that these statues are significant for historical and cultural reasons, representing a portal to our distant past. Besides, when we look this far into the past, there is no plausible direct influence of their actions on citizens of the modern day.

Nobody is citing Nero as their hero.

There are still many conversations to be had as to which statues qualify as ‘offensive’, and whether statues of people who represent views we cannot and do not uphold nowadays should be automatically destroyed. There is the option of adding additional information to problematic statues to explain potential controversies, but this may not be enough for some. Perhaps the only logical answer may be to retire such statues to the galleries and vaults of museums, where they can be appreciated not as celebratory or commemorative ideals, but as historical documents that we may debate, analyse, and ultimately from which we may learn.

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ETHAN B, U6SMJ 73

EDITORIAL TEAM EDITOR

Mr A. Maskell STUDENT EDITORIAL TEAM

Phoebe P Rebecca S Rosalind T Emma T ARTISTS

Finlay A Edie F Roman G Grace S Rachel W WITH THANKS TO

Miss R. Cottone Dr. K. Donn Mr D. Hand Ms J. Johnson Mrs A. Limon Miss E. McCloud Ms S. MacMillan Miss S. Routledge Miss H. Windsor

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