Lion Print 2022

Hampton School, Hanworth Road, Hampton, TW12 3HD

Tel: 020 8979 5526 Email: admissions@hamptonschool.org.uk Twitter: @HamptonSchool

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2022

Welcome to Lion Print 2022 Welcome to the seventh edition of Lion Print, Hampton’s Creative Arts magazine that showcases the creative talent and imagination of First Year to Sixth Form Hamptonians. This year we are delighted to include pieces penned in our Writers’ Room, which opened its doors to budding storytellers in November 2021.

Offering a programme of lunchtime creative writing lessons across all year groups, this new facility has enabled pupils to develop their voices further and hone their narrative skills in an engrossing community of fellow writers. We are delighted that some of the impressively imaginative output of the Writers’ Room can be found within the following pages, ranging from fifty-word stories to tales of love and loss.

Other contributions to this edition of Lion Print were produced in response to lessons across the English curriculum or arise from co-curricular activities such as the Arts Award, where pupils are encouraged to pursue a creative area of personal interest. Additionally, we have included pieces from this year’s creative writing competition, inspired by a Character Day visit from Sarah Govett, popular dystopian author of ‘The Territory’. After hearing Sarah describe the influences on her writing, pupils from the Lower and Middle School were asked to pen a dystopian work of no more than 500 words set in a new world of their own. An outstanding range of responses resulted, spanning subjects from life on other planets to survival games and totalitarian

regimes. The entries were a joy to read and involved remarkable creativity - congratulations to everyone involved for producing such thoughtful and engaging submissions.

Most of the artwork that accompanies the creative writing is by Fifth Year Hamptonians, along with some exceptional pieces by Lower School boys. Many of the older pupils’ pieces were created for a project entitled ‘Windows on the World’, while others explored the concept of ‘Time’; the Lower School work explores a ‘Natural World’ theme in celebration of the beauty and variety of life on Earth.

We do hope that you enjoy Lion Print 2022.

Kevin Knibbs Headmaster

2022 Prize Winners Oliver Booth The Trails Lower School Winner Dystopian Fiction Competition Adam Malik First Contact Lower School Runner Up Dystopian Fiction Competition Patrick Moroney The Collective Lower School Highly Commended Dystopian Fiction Competition Rohan Chen Time Was Up Middle School Winner Dystopian Fiction Competition

Ben Claxton The Man Middle School Runner Up Dystopian Fiction Competition

Isaac Crowhurst The Body Farm Middle School Highly Commended Dystopian Fiction Competition

Please note that this year we have included written contributions from our senior Hamptonians as a separate section (For Older Readers) at the back of the magazine.

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Artwork: James Phillips (First Year)

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PLACE

The Shore

Dark, brooding mist crept over the horizon; veils of fog sagged along the twisting shape of the bay. Rain drizzled down from the pewter-grey clouds, cleansing the air of its humidity. The water trickled down the windowsills of the angular buildings, the slate coloured pebbles filled the beach with a skeleton of what it used to be. Slowly, the watery sun pierced the clouds like a needle, filling the gloomy, cobbled beach with a memory of its former glory. A line of huts protruded onto the colourless beach, their pastel hues of blue, pink and yellow were like a kaleidoscope of colour compared with the bleak beach.

A murky maroon filled the water, the shadows of the town imposed above It, draining the last shades of colour out of the vast expanse of the ocean.

A crumbling note pierced the eerie silence as a short and stout man wearing a navy-blue puffer jacket, trekked across the cobbled beach with his scrawny black terrier yapping away as its paws tapped across the glossy black stones.

Waves rocked along the shore, forming a melodic rhythm as the salty sea breeze gave the air a briny tinge. The aroma of steaming hot food wafted along the misty streets, making the mouths of the passers-by water as they dreamed of the taste. The market square began to come to life. The clunking of carts along the paved streets, the crates of food being emptied into the stalls. A few people came, their voices cutting through the monotone noise of the city, but they soon scurried like rats up the streets as the rain began to fall, echoing on the stone. Seagulls screeched their harsh tones, frightening the couple below them, making them exclaim. The chalky-white paint of the bakery was beginning to peel back and expose the reddish bricks; water ran down the thatched roofs of the tall, square buildings that lined the edge of the beach.

The discarded glove lay dying on the floor, the murky shades of grey and brown seeped into the ornate patterns of trees and mountains.

By Ben Silver (First Year)

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Artwork: Matthew Barnett (Fifth Year)

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Artwork: Matthew Barnett (Fifth Year)

PLACE

The Beach Dark, brooding mist crept over the horizon; veils of fog sagged along the twisting shape of the bay as rain drizzled down from the pewter-grey clouds, cleansing the air of its humidity. The water trickled down the windowsills of the angular buildings. Slowly, the watery sun pierced the clouds like a needle, filling the gloomy, pebbled beach with a memory of its former glory. A line of huts protruded onto the colourless beach, their pastel colours of blue, pink and yellow were like a kaleidoscope of colour compared with the bleak beach of slate grey pebbles. A murky maroon filled the water, the shadows of the town imposed above it, draining the last shades of colour out of the vast expanse of ocean.

mouths of the passers-by water as they dreamed of the taste. Shops opened as the market square came to life. Sounds filled the air: the clunking of carts on the paved streets; crates of food being emptied into the stalls. A few people came, their voices cutting through the monotone noise of the city, but they soon scurried like rats up the streets as the rain began to fall. Seagulls screeched their harsh tones, frightening the couple below them, making them jump. The chalky-white paint of the bakery was beginning to peel back and expose the reddish bricks; water ran down the thatched roofs of the tall, square buildings that lined the edge of the beach.

A crunching noise pierced the eerie silence as a short, stout man wearing a navy-blue puffer jacket, trekked across the cobbled beach with his scrawny, black terrier, yapping away as its paws tapped across the glossy, black stones.

Drips of murky blue fell, splitting on impact. Pools of darkness seeped into the paved ground, the gloomy lantern-light reflected off the dark abyss. Drifting past, a leaf, carried by the wind and damp from the melodic raindrops, brushed along the bumpy ground, twisting and turning as if it were in a nightmare, the edges of the dying plant curling into a ball, it flew along the grey pebbles and into the rough, rude sea.

Waves rocked along the shore, forming a melodic rhythm as the salty sea breeze gave the air a briny tinge.

A sweet aroma of steaming hot food, wafted along the misty streets that led away from the beach, making the

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By Alexander Barton (First Year)

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PLACE

Stormy City The stars were shunned by a thick blanket of fog that smothered the desolate city like butter. The only light that seeped through the opaque clouds was a timid glow from the moon, though it was impossible to make out its shape.

Nothing moved in the stagnant air and the sky sagged lifelessly above the sprawl of rectangular roofs that crowded the skyline. Angular buildings erupted out of the rough pavement, looming above the deserted streets. The vertical lines of the geometric turrets of concrete were contrasted by the horizontal lines of empty roads, now totally devoid of the bustling hum of rumbling cars and whirring bikes.

An eerie black aura was suspended throughout the grimy alleyways as the clang of a cat knocking over a metal dustbin echoed off the hard, flat walls. This coal-like atmosphere shrouded the grey city in slumber and isolation, barely pierced by the sharp yellow light through a grubby window. A winter chill shot through the air, baying for someone’s ears to bite and sting. Minute fractals of frost lined the brutish kerbs of roads and drew intricate shapes on windows.

Suddenly, from the heavens, fat rain drops plummeted down and tapped furiously on flat roofs and smooth paving stones. Strong winds were funnelled through the maze of apartments as in the turbulence, a soggy newspaper was kicked like a stone down the street, where the visibility was barely enough to see to the other side of the frigid lake that once was a road. A clap of thunder resonated and the entire city was illuminated by a brilliant flash of white light.

Torrents of rain plunged down as with each roaring wave, leaves and countless curled pieces of litter were washed down maroon, rusted gutters. Another deafening boom of thunder sounded as a scrawny cat, with its jagged ribs clearly visible, briskly padded out of a side street.

By Alfie Keller (First Year)

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Artwork: Charlie Coulter (Lower Sixth)

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Taking the Train

PLACE The hoots of horns and the deep, resonant hum of engines – both car and train – echoed over the area surrounding the train station. Grand plazas packed full of commuters stood on all sides of the station and passed them, skyscraping office buildings rose from the ground. Within the bustling crowd pushing and shoving to get into the train station where the elite businessmen and lawyers mingled with cleaners and builders. All were equal in the struggle to take a train. The frosted eaves of the station glittered, reflecting the amber setting sun, which threw shades of grenadine and magenta across the horizon. The sunset was brilliant but the commuters failed to notice through their glazed eyes and due to the pounding music filling their ears.

The interior of the station was no better; the barriers and huge volume of people bore a striking resemblance to a cattle pen as the commuters funnelled through the bottleneck. Shops lined the square here, their neon sapphire signs pleading with the people to buy a snack or the newest technology before they went home. The crimson and dirty white trains of TFL lined up next to the far-reaching ultramarine and canary-yellow carriages that travelled out of the city. Past the gates, the workers meandered to their transport like zombies having used the little energy they had left to get to the crowded station.

Large glowing lamps illuminated the platforms now as darkness crept over the sunset outside. The groans of the trains reverberated through the enormous station, overpowering the hubbub of the commuters. A speaker stuttered on the intercom, announcing that the 6.02 Piccadilly line to Cockfosters had been cancelled, and apologising for the inconvenience. Then the ding of a train door opening with a flood of commuters pouring out and another wave shoving themselves in. To the right, a huge advertising board flicked through the perfect offerings of the commercial world, revealing the wonders of new supplements and investment opportunities. The public paid no heed.

Further down, through the maze of tunnels placed in dusty white tiles, the strum of a guitar resonated down corridors giving them a pinch more of energy. Then coins clinked as passers-by chucked the artist a few pounds for his effort.

The beautiful melody stretched up the clanking escalator and overrode the beeping of the small set of underground gates. Down the escalator, advertisements for new awardwinning musicals were displayed. It was getting later now, and the lifeless workers were slowly being replaced with interspersed pockets of couples as the nightlife of the city ignited a new sense of energy and excitement.

By James Greenfield (Fifth Year)

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Artwork: Leo Sutherby (Fifth Year)

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PLACE

The Journey I walked swiftly past the mirror-like puddles that were deep and wide enough to be miniature lakes. The occasional lone raindrop still fell from the roof of one of the city’s ancient buildings, hitting the water with a faint splash that could easily be heard in the silence that came after a thundering storm. The concrete pavement was a darker charcoal near the station, worn from years of scraping by the boots of those fighting to get in. The rain had washed away much of the fresh dirt that had built up along the entrance to the station, however some determined pieces - a darker cinnamon brown than the rest – still clung on to the cracks in between the paving stones. A faint rumbling of train tracks could be heard through the humid fog around the building, increasing in volume and intensity as the train neared.

Now more people began to enter the station, unwittingly carrying mud and small gravel-like rocks in between the gaps of their boots. The beeps of the avocado-green ticket machine became more frequent as it efficiently snatched away their money in exchange for an indigo cardboard ticket that meant the barred gates would allow you inside.

Through the gates were bright shades of green, red and blue meant to attract your attention and lure you into buying one of the sweet-smelling delicacies exclusive to train stations like these. Just a few steps away were the platforms, where the smell of oily fast food and sweets mixed with that of the freshly fallen rain outside. The ochre line that indicated the danger of the tracks below was faded and cracked in places where people stood the most.

Against the stone pillar, next to the small sea-green sitting area and in front of the twisting lines was the railway map.

A deep rumble could be felt through even the thickest of soles as the next scarlet carriage carefully halted at the station. The steel wheels scratched with an unpleasant high-pitched noise of metal scratching metal. The train was new and almost perfectly clean as if it had just been put together. The shiny doors of the train reflected the ashy black and brown of the station’s platform. From a tinny speaker, a woman’s voice could be heard warning

hurrying passengers about the imperfect alignment of the train to the platform. Shoes clunked loudly as they moved from the stone surface of the platform to the hollow plastic floor of the train.

It started its journey with a rapid acceleration, the noise of the engine similar to that of a jet plane. Outside, dazzling paint and twisting lines formed graffiti along the otherwise barren, tall, green walls of the railway track. The carriages followed each other closely under the unusually bright colours of the thin bridges over the tracks. Steel cables shuddered as they desperately struggled to hold the dense crowd of people as they casually walked across – as happened every day since the station was built 50 years ago. Blue signs with bold, glacier-white text displayed long street-names that guided the driver through the many overlapping cross-sections of oils.

The inside of the train was many degrees hotter than outside. As people’s sweat mixed with the water vapour in the air, long waterproof coats were removed in the hope of feeling a cooling breeze from the open windows above.

The seats were packed close together with bright verdant patterns and the logos of old companies. Their soft surfaces were tainted with dirt and water, making many reluctant to sit on them. More posters and advertisements were overhead, however this time without the adjacent shops of food and snacks.

The speakers beeped and the train started to decelerate as it neared another station, flooded with people as much as it was with rain. Heavy luggage was pulled over the gap and out of the train as people left; a sudden silence dropped over the train once again. The doors remained open as the sights in the cabin faded and the seats were left to dry in the early patchy sunshine which peeked through the fist-sized holes in the ceiling of the station and through the long, tinted windows of the carriage.

Left-behind cans of drinks and snacks rolled deeper into the train as the wind pushed through to clear the air.

By Danil Eliasov (Fifth Year)

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Artwork: Findlay Barrand (Fifth Year)

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Artwork: Camilo Clarke (Fifth Year)

PLACE

The Station You heard it before you saw it. The busy chorus of the morning rose high in the air, and could be heard from several blocks away. This was rush hour, in one of the busiest train stations in the world. An ever-changing, constantly moving, utterly disorientating throng of commuters, tourists, families and school children, resembling a restless sea of bobbing heads in which I lost my sense of direction in an instant.

On either side of the platform were the trains, each sporting a trim, ivory coat with a dark windscreen. Their noses curved smoothly downwards, their aerodrome design giving them an air of elegance and sleek dignity which belied their simple, yet crucial purpose. Every ten minutes, a train would slink away from the platform like a cat hunting prey, before proudly accelerating towards its destination. Its presence would swiftly be replaced by the next train, slowing down into the station before coming to a smooth halt, the doors aligning exactly with markings on the platform. The clockwork precision with which all actions were executed conveyed the efficiency of the entire operation, demanding respect and reverence from all.

The main spectacle however, was not the trains themselves, but what was pouring out of them. There were streams of travellers of all descriptions, leaving the train at a constant rate to join the slow-moving flow down the platforms. There were office workers, late for work, desperately clutching briefcases and plastic cups of coffee, their panicked expressions frantically searching for the quickest route through the crowd. Schoolchildren clad in new blazers and backpacks, trudged grudgingly along, listening to music through flimsy headphones. There were mothers, carefully cradling infants in case they were swept

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cruelly away by the chaotic throng. The occasional tourist, complete with camera and sunglasses, made the grave mistake of trying to walk in the opposite direction to the crowd, attempting to push against the irresistible flow of bodies, before inevitably giving up and letting themselves be carried off by the never-ending tide of people.

Sometimes on the platforms, there were shops – small convenience stores well-equipped to satisfy the hunger and thirst of travellers. Steamed buns, each ornately decorated with patterns of sesame seeds gave off enticing aromas of meat and spice, and I found myself being dragged, as if by an invisible hand, towards one of the shops. The shopkeeper’s kindly eyes beckoned me in, gesturing towards the vast array of confectionery and savoury snacks. Crisps in multi-coloured packets lined the walls, boasting cheap prices and desirable flavours.

Sweets and chewing gum of unimaginable varieties were stacked precariously on shelves, while rice cakes and sandwiches offered a more savoury option to those famished after a long commute, in need of an inexpensive, yet delicious source of energy.

The chaotic atmosphere would continue long into the night, only subsiding in the early hours of the morning, when only a few drunken party-goers and jet-lagged tourists could be seen making their way to or from their accommodation. A few disregarded food wrappers floated gently down the platform, carried by a light breeze. Empty trains lay motionless on the tracks, like dormant beasts.

At last, there was silence.

By James Abrahart (Fifth Year)

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PLACE

p a he G

T d n i M

The ebony and crimson speckled brick walls of the station seemed to be bleeding, as if punctured by a needle. The peeling scarlet paint and vermilion display-boards seeping from them like blood, a violent warning of the dangers inside. The rough walls were unkempt and jagged, poised to graze and scab. By all means, this place resembled a tomb; a flat dark box, a coffin of sorts, the people inside as devoid of human life as a corpse.

An electronically automated voice blandly listed off numbers and words, soon to be lost among the equally robotic, lifeless churning sea of jostling bodies that filled the station. Shops and stores lined the insides of the building, bright vibrant, neon lights dancing across the crowd in an explosion of amethyst and shamrock, contrasting and drawing in the lifeless husks like moths to a flame. Tickets were methodically handed out by the hundreds, if not thousands, the pale azure paper as faded and cold as the people to which it was given. A constantly maddening cacophony of footsteps clacking along the white marble floor rang out from all sides like the crashing of waves against the shore and the crumbling of rocks falling from the cliff faces lining the nearby beach.

At once, a screeching wail screamed, piercing like a dagger through the crowd as a silver streak ground violently to a halt. The arrow-like train sat there, still and stiff, silently waiting. Like mindless machines, people robotically stepped up onto the platform, and then to the packed carriages. ‘’Mind the gap,’’ repeated the voice as their sweaty hands clutched the faded tea coloured, grimy railings and bars as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, yet oblivious of one another, gazing blankly into the distance with glazed, empty eyes. The faded carmine seats were frayed and pierced with gashes and holes, a violent reminder of this train’s past. The sleek outer shell gleamed as it caught sight of the sun, blindingly concealing the inside as it scurried away towards the setting sun, its scuffed grey wheels charging along the track with no

Artwork: Nizar Al-Milli (Fifth Year)

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mind or care for whatever should get in their way, an unrelenting, emotionless figure mindlessly moving from one place to another, with no mind for the world. Similarly, the cramped insides of the train were crammed fully of swaying figures, isolated despite their proximity, and even though they would watch the world go by, they, like the train, would pay it no regard.

A clock chimed out, the hand striking, and by now darkness had begun falling upon the station. I watched from a railway as the jet-black shadows did not halt nor become fewer, and so the sea continued to toss and turn into the night. Pale amber lights flickered on weakly. Their beams were struggling to pierce the sable night as they suffocated beneath layers of dust and soot. Despite this, the tickets continued to pile up, the lilac signs of the shops standing out against the inky, swarthy station like the moon illuminating the night sky and controlling the tides of the sea whilst travellers continued on their meaningless journeys. Their chatting voices drifted through the night like spectres until the clock struck 12 and the station finally fell silent.

The trains would still come, wailing into the shadows as they approached, yet now they were all but empty, like shelters of what they were not long ago, and would soon again be. Brooms and vacuum cleaners swept across the floors like scavengers, searching for the last remnants of crowd, leaving the marble floors glistening like a diamondstudded dress beneath the sapphire light of the moon, adorned by earrings of lavender signs and painted, silver arrow-shaped nails moving like daggers through the empty ebony night, a reflection of the inky depths and emptiness found within the hearts of those who once wore this dress, those who once, and soon would again, stream into the station like a flood, the darkness giving way to a new day as land gives way to the sea.

By James Mellor (Fifth Year)

Artwork: Camilo Clarke (Fifth Year)

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PLACE

Of Gloom & Ghosts The darkness enveloped me in its shadowy folds, snatching me up and dragging me into its world of menace and gloom. Up above, the distant moon was obscured by an army of clouds bathing the earth with a dull yellow glow. Behind me, the sinister, looming silhouette of the battlements rose up into the sky, as if it were a beast, poised and ready to strike. Snowflakes fluttered and danced as they fell through the air, a contrast to the bleak and melancholy landscape. In the distance, the harsh contours of the landscape gave way to a vast expanse of ocean, which rolled on endlessly.

The thundering roar and crash of waves bombarding the cliffs, faintly pierced my ears as I reluctantly began trudging forwards. Bitter air stung and assaulted me, like needles pricking my skin. The familiar sight of weathered, crumbling bricks beneath my feet and a route I had traced a thousand times before, lulled me into a false sense of security. It would not last for long.

Abruptly, a voice cut through the frosty night air, like a ship’s bullhorn, yanking me out of my daydreams. It was the voice of my comrade and good friend, Francisco.

Standing upright, sword aloft and covered in armour from head to toe, he looked uncomfortable, disjointed.

Just as I was about to respond, the distinctive sound of footsteps, heavy and slow came from behind me. Two figures appeared out of the mist, like ghostly apparitions, their movements dreary and clumsy. As they grew closer, I noticed another sentry, Marcellus who seemed agitated and jumpy. Besides him was a man I didn’t recognise.

Much shorter than his counterpart, he was dressed in comfortable pristine clothing, which provided him with little protection against the devil that was Mother Nature herself. His piercing blue eyes were bleary and his eyelids almost dropping as they finally arrived at the sentry post It was abundantly clear he did not belong out there on that treacherous winter night. Seeing the bemusement on our faces, Marcellus explained that his companion was Horatio who doubted his story of the heinous apparition we had seen the night before. A shudder ran down my spine as I remembered the petrifying moment as the invincible apparition strode closer and closer, until disappearing like smoke into the air.

After bidding Francisco a pleasant good night, I began explaining the story; my skin crept with fear as an icy gust of wind crashed over us.

By Joshi Rasi de Mel (Third Year)

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Artwork: Nick Murray (Lower Sixth)

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Artwork: Camilo Clarke (Fifth Year)

PLACE

Silhouettes Of Light Dark, ragged clouds lurked in the inky sky, looming over the jagged battlements. Above me, tucked behind the leaden-grey clouds, thunder trembled ominously. Wispy silhouettes of light intertwined through the thick blanket of snaking mist above, as the pearlescent orb-shaped moon hung on top of the sinister battlements. A sprawling outline of the sinister Elsinore fortress towered over my figure.

The castle’s roofline was obsidian, gleaming evilly in the moonlight; its grim contours were as spiked and savagelooking as the spine of a dragon. The night’s frigidity pervaded the icy air, weaving the world into a suffocating, choking net of trepidation.

Peering across the horizon, I felt the rage within the nearby anthracite sea. Vehement waves crashed endlessly onto the crumbling cliffs which lay far, far below where I stood.

Stones cracked and crumbled, tumbling down from the cliff into the water, the sound resonating in the distance. Ebony cliffs laced themselves along the meandering coastline and protruded in the sombre horizon. Along the clifftop, a cobbled road stretched out and onto the distant horizon, continuing in a curved line, encircling the hills and stretching on towards infinity.

It was my turn to join the others on the castle roof and fulfil my role as one of the King’s watchmen, proud to serve the crown in this way. Urgently, I walked towards the lone guard, Francisco, who stood alone, facing out across the beleaguered battlements, trying to remain awake and alert, as he had done throughout this bitter-cold night. Gently, I tapped his shoulder…

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Startled, he turned back with great haste. This guard wore chain mail; like mine, it clinked as he moved. Scars were etched across his frail face. It was certain that these soldiers had endured many punishing past wars and battles; Francisco had fought bravely in numerous Danish conflicts - as had I. So why did he seem so afraid? Here, on this silent parapet?

I glanced around the moss-covered battlements he guarded. A lone torch was placed at either end of the long battlement path and a rickety wooden chair was all there was to sit on throughout our sentry duty. Vigilance was rewarded and sitting was discouraged. This was a wretched place just before dawn; it was dank, dark and miserable. The battlement path’s musty earthy smell made me retch a little. Just then, a billowing gust of wuthering wind whipped my chalk-pale face.

It was now time to free Francisco from his guard duty. We exchanged a few curt sentences. With relief, Francisco informed me that he had not even witnessed the stirring of a mouse. It was almost too quiet, too calm, too peaceful.

I crouched down on the grubby ground and grabbed a rough gritty handful of dirt. Standing upright I let the deathly-black run through the palm of my hands and blow away into the blackness.

As Francisco was leaving, my fellow guards - Horatio and Marcellus - arrived. They too wore thick silver chain mail which gleamed dully under the moonlight. Their durable leather boots clacked on the ground like the hooves of a horse.

Suddenly, the air grew even colder. I had the oddest sense that I was being watched. The air blew strongly through the trees and a dark cloud blocked out the moon. Then we saw it.

What I saw next froze me with fear and yet I couldn’t turn away. A cadaverous armour-clad figure hovered before us, ghostly and cloaked in a veil of mist...

Instinctively, we raised our short swords. We knew we could not slay a ghost but we wished it to stay and speak.

“Stay! Speak!” I cried. I hoped to put an end to its sinister journey and give me the answers I demanded from it.

However, the spectre was as invulnerable as air and melted into nothingness. One of us tried to stab it - a foolish act as it moved so effortlessly and shifted its shape. Nothing could be done to capture this phantom or to end the entity’s eerie silence and force it to speak to us. Horatio tried to get it to speak but it looked offended and turned away. The clanking metallic sound of its ancient armour resonated as it trudged along the damp ground, then vanished. Crackling leaves were all that remained of where the spectre had hovered.

I was utterly stunned by what I witnessed. I had never known my knees to tremble and my flesh to creep and then turn as cold as stone. Its resemblance to the late King Hamlet was striking. Perhaps it was a sign? A portent? A warning to us all, that something is rotten, wrong and bad within our kingdom?

The bone-pale illusion had gone. A storm had been brewing and now torrential rain pelted us from the black skies above. Only the howling of the frenzied wind could be heard along the rainy ramparts. My flesh crept with fear and my heart was as cold as stone. Vicious gusts of wind spat them into the freezing air around me until they encircled me and ripped against my clothing.

My eyes darted, hoping for the appearance of the king. The rustling leaves continued to torment me until the vile gusts died down, leaving snapped branches on the battlement’s path. A damp smell rose up like a miasma, encircling us like a spirit’s vapour. Puddles lay beneath my leather boots, splashing my toecaps and chilling me to the marrow. As the storm above grew louder, droplets of pattering water landed on my frozen palms. The rain brushed my pale skin.

We three huddled together in the rain, wondering what to do next. Horatio vowed to let Lord Hamlet know of what had taken place. May Heaven direct him!

Anticipating the ghoul’s return, I gazed at the many puddles of glimmering water which glistened in the pearlescent moon, swaying and shifting its shape as the never-ending rain pelted down.

Finding the courage to sit on the creaking chair, I resumed my night watch over the battlements of Elsinore.

By Xavier Fricot (Third Year)

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CHARACTER

ARTS AWARD NOVELLA The following is the opening to The Underground Pickpocket, the novella Gabriel Kelly is writing for Arts Award, where he evocatively introduces us to his protagonist, a pickpocket. As part of the Silver Arts Award, Gabriel has also attended literary festivals and interviewed a crime fiction author. In the summer term, Gabriel will be running creative writing workshops at Hampton Pre-Prep School, sharing his experiences of writing and inspiring young minds!

The Underground Pickpocket Following her prey, she snuck down the bustling streets and approached the dazed businessman. She held his briefcase fiercely, whilst swooping out of the man’s pockets with a mobile phone and a wallet. The businessman ran after her, huffing down the steps into the station, in a frenzy, shouting “Get back here! Someone, stop that thief!”. As soon as the businessman seemed to catch up with her at the turnstiles, she vanished into the crowd of people. He stood in the middle of the platform, clueless, having lost the thief in the boisterous tunnels of the metro as it was starting to get dark.

“Please mind the gap,” a monotonous voice bellowed from the distance. Eve flicked the crumpled notes into her palm, counting her earnings from the day. The voices of a few old homeless men echoed around the tunnels, whilst a rodent scurried around in the sludgy corners. As she passed by the men, they edged towards her, away from their fire, which had been lit in a black wheelie bin with some old newspapers and muddy sticks.

She continued walking into a street, where only the dim lights of a corner shop paved the way through the road. She took off her leather gloves and pulled down her ragged balaclava from her nose, whilst entering the cramped store. The neon light saying “Food, Wine and Beer 24/7” twitched repetitively as she stepped over the frail, wooden ramp which was separating the threadbare blue carpet from the drenched pavement. She looked around for a box of instant noodles and noticed cheap chicken-flavoured ramen. She walked towards the rusted crate and picked up the packet of ten.

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However, as soon as she turned back around, she was greeted by the shopkeeper shouting, “Out of my store! Now!” She replied, waving her hands innocently, pleading “What?

I’ve got money. Look, I just need to get some of this food for my brothers. I won’t be a second.”

The shopkeeper shook his head, pointing his grimy finger towards the door. Eve scoffed, staring down the shopkeeper outside of the grubby windows, and slumped out onto the cracked pavement.

She wandered back towards the tunnel, glanced behind her shoulder, and swiftly turned right before the entrance.

She stamped past the rotten shrubbery behind the stained brick walls and went towards a crevice behind the tunnel.

There stood a tiny khaki tent, camouflaged behind a prickly bush. She unzipped the entrance with care and quickly zipped it back up again. Two young boys, her brothers Milo and Daniel, perked their heads up inside their fluorescent sleeping bags. They waved at her as they placed their heads back down onto the thin pillows Eve had found outside a nearby landfill site.

“Milo, catch,” she whispered, throwing him a small chocolate bar. A grin spread across Milo’s face and Daniel started to whine.

“What?” he complained, “Why does he get one and not me?”

Eve handed him another bar she had found in her pocket earlier and she sat still whilst her siblings chomped on their chocolate. They sat, listening to the scurrying of the mice outside until they had finished their food.

“What’s for dinner?” Milo asked sheepishly.

“What do you mean? We’ve just had some food right now.”

She replied, surprised at her younger brother.

Artwork: Lucas Hermann Sosa (Fifth Year) “I’m just really hungry, I guess,” Milo said, looking at his sister.

“I know, I know. But we’ll have a lot more soon. Promise,” she said, ruffling her brother’s matted hair.

“Well, if we’re not sure yet, can we have some of these cheesy chips that Mum always got us from that place nearby? Oh, wait, and also some of that chocolate mousse for dessert,” he joked, licking his lips. Eve chuckled.

“Eve,” Daniel muttered, “When’s mum coming back?”

Eve looked back at Daniel with guilt, “I don’t know Daniel, but soon I hope. Soon.”

For the first time in a while, she thought about the last time she was with her mother. She remembered the smell of fresh paint on the fences in the garden, and the home-cooked food her mother had made for her children.

Her brothers were running around an old television as music from their favourite cartoons blasted across the living room.

“Right loves, off to bed,” their mother demanded in a sweet tone. She remembered how they all sighed, as they walked up the stairs into their bedroom. The bedroom was small but still was big enough for the three children. On Eve’s side of the wall hung a crumpled poster and dolls sitting on the edge of a posted-up shelf. Daniel and Milo slept

on opposite ends of the same bed above her. Her mother switched off the lamp as Eve was reading and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

The morning after that delightful day, Eve realised her mother had left during the night. She regretted remembering now, remembering the feeling of waiting, waiting for her mother to return. They sat on their leather sofa looking out of the window for days before they realised she wasn’t coming back. Within a week of her mother abandoning her children, they heard the landlords outside their house looking inside, shouting their mother’s name, and banging on the door aggressively. Eve knew that someone would find out they were alone soon, and if that happened, the Social Services would take them all away. She couldn’t bear anyone else from her family leaving and decided to take care of her brothers herself on the streets. It was better off for them to stay together instead of being split apart, she thought to herself at the time. They found a tent that they had previously used on a camping trip in the Lake District, and packed bin bags with their clothes, toothbrushes and food that hadn’t gone off already. She remembered the agony of leaving her beloved house and knowing that they would never return.

By Gabriel Kelly (Third Year)

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CHARACTER

I scream. I realise it’s just Jerry, my pet rat. But before my eyes, his body quickly rots away, from the dirty city rat I know, to a half-eaten carcass, to a skeleton. I stand there, mortified and terrified, but I don’t linger on it. I try to flee back to my apartment. I can’t. My limbs are locked in an iron cast. And when I move forwards, towards the horror that that shape surely is, my limbs are freed. I contemplate standing there, waiting for death to slowly take me. Surely it would be better than that. I carry on, anyhow, because at least this death would be quick. I take one look back at my apartment. At the grimy hallway, at the takeaway boxes that line it and I wish I was back in bed. But there’s no point ruminating. I walk out of the door, and into the street that accompanies it.

It’s a crisp, blue morning, but that sight seems almost ironic as I stare around me. The thing that had just happened to Jerry has spread throughout the street. My mouth opens in horror as I see skeleton, upon skeleton...

Some of them are human. The damp, disease-ridden streets of this part of town were known for death. You’d often see a sufferer of a disease or illness, ranging from a cold to cancer, but this… this was unnatural. This was something from your nightmares, something that should never have happened. I walk up to the nearest skeleton.

I examine it thoroughly. A fox skeleton, seeming to be an adult or large juvenile. And when I touch it, it crumbles into dust.

The Call “Come,” it says, “Come.”

The voice awakens me from my sleep.

“Hello?” I mumble, then shout, realising I’ve just woken up, “I’ll be with you in a minute!”

“Come,” it says, “Come.”

I don’t bother to switch on the light in my cold, unwelcoming bedroom. In the worst of apartments, I am only given a bed and a lamp. I follow the voice through my living room, with its one sofa, and my bathroom, with the dirtiest of toilets and sinks. I open my door. A winged shape soars down the stairs, but not gracefully, in a weird way, an almost jerky fashion. I follow it. There is something eerie about the way it looks, but I can’t ignore it now. I need to know. As I walk down the flight of stairs, something alive, wriggling, knocks against my foot.

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Artwork: Henry Hughes (Fifth Year)

I’m paralysed with shock and horror. And I thought it couldn’t get worse. Of course it could. It can always get worse. Surprise takes me as I realise that this is taken from one of my nightmares. Is the shape doing this to terrify me out of my wits? Or is this something else… could it be?

Suspicion grows in my mind, but with a quick shake of my mind, I put it off. This is just wishful thinking. All it is. One of my major issues. Trying to avoid the problem at hand by looking at other ways it could be different. Then again, I probably won’t have time for daydreaming, so better to have fun now, rather than when I’m six foot under.

I move on further forward, my heart sinking down to my toes as I see more skeletons throughout the streets. Is this because of me? All because a ghost wants me? My walk turns into a brisk trot, and next into a run. I need to end this now. I may not be a perfect human being, and wouldn’t risk my life for a stranger, but when it’s this wide scale I find it hard not to feel compelled. I see the ghostly apparition in front of me. I sprint, trying to catch up to it. It turns right.

I do too, into a backstreet alleyway. And the shape is right in front of me.

“C’mon, get it over with!” I shout at it, “I don’t want to hang around here all day, waiting to die! I saw how quickly you ended the others, so end me!”

“None of them are dead,” He whispers, in the voice of Death, “They are all alive.”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not.” And with that, the ghost morphs into a human.

My mouth drops open.

“What… what… what?” I manage to stutter out in shock.

“Yes, I was a human this whole time. Everyone you saw is alive. They probably should be on their journey to work or school by now. You acted exactly as was planned to join The Institute.”

I feel like I want to strangle the man, but I don’t. Doesn’t seem very wise.

“So, who are you?” I ask, “and why was this all important?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” the man answers, “But what does matter is your second question. It is imperative we do this because it is where we train the best minds in the world. And don’t even ask how I did all this. It is much too complex for you to understand currently.”

“Ah,” I say, “you really expect me to believe that!”

He’s about to reply when he sees something behind me.

His eyes widen in terror.

“Behind… Behind you,” he gasps, looking as white as death.

“What?” I say.

I turn around. I see a creature, for that is the only way to describe it. Its mouth is lined with razor sharp teeth, and a gaping maw greets me.

“Come,” it whispers. “Come.”

The creature leaps, a big soaring leap, with its mouth open. I cry in fear, and that is the last sound I ever make.

As I my eyes close for the last time, I see the man running, fear in the streets as the creature starts chasing people.

And the place I’ve lived in is no longer familiar. And my world turns dark, for the very last time.

By Nihal Bahl (First Year)

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CHARACTER

Over & Above As the Summer evening sun began to fade, the sweatdrenched man began to prepare. The Big Push was to commence at 10:00pm, when the enemy were hopefully tired and ill prepared for battle. It would be risky, the Sergeant thought, wiping the sweat from his brow, but it would be worth it. He smiled. By tomorrow the King would have a few more feet of land and the Kaiser would have a few feet less. That was only going to happen though if the men put their all into it, just putting one foot in front of the other and paying no attention to the chaos around them. He turned around and prepared to make his way out of the hut when Major Buthorn walked into his small, damp quarters. After saluting each other Major Buthorn started the conversation. “There is unrest among the ranks Sergeant,” said Major Buthorn, his voice rising up an octave as he went. “Especially among your platoon!”

“Yes Major,” the Sergeant replied, “it’s nothing. They’re just nervous, that’s all.”

He stood to attention and watched as the Major’s beady eyes stared him up and down as if looking for any sign of disobedience or defiance.

The Major went on: “being nervous is for civilians, Sergeant.

Scared men don’t serve well in the army. It’s up to you to give them backbone, Sergeant, do you understand?”

The Sergeant nodded, too afraid that if he opened his mouth all of the apprehension that was building up in his stomach would cascade out. He had tried to give them ‘backbone’ as the Major put it, but even the strongest backbone was weakened by their current circumstances.

What’s more, the Sergeant just couldn’t tell if the Major really thought what he said was true, or if he too was just acting a part for the benefit of his underlings.

The Major paused, then nodded and smiled, “The Push is in half an hour Sergeant, get your men ready.” And with that the Major marched out the room.

Sergeant Myers hung his head, and thought to himself about the twelve other Big Pushes. They had all been failures, every last one of them. The eighth had been the

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Artwork: Tom Milton (Fifth Year)

worst, he had lost seventeen men in his platoon alone to that disastrous push and he was one of the thousands wounded with a bullet to the leg. He was up and about again in three weeks but it was the memories that stayed with him. All those men, young and old, dying to a bullet in the head or a stray piece of shrapnel. It was a massacre.

He blocked those thoughts from his head though, as he fixed the bayonet to his rifle and strode out to his platoon.

He was greeted by Private Shanks, a tubby boy of sixteen who was an enthusiastic patriot to the bone. Newly arrived to their trenches with the innocence and inexperience of his age, Sergeant Myers couldn’t decide whether it was being cruel or merciful to leave him to discover for himself the horrors of trench warfare.

“Sergeant!” Shanks jumped to attention and saluted joyfully as the rest of the platoon rose to attention more wearily.

“At ease boys,” replied Sergeant Myers. “We have enough going on today as it is.” Try as he might to give a morale boosting performance for his troops he knew there was nothing more to say. Whether it was nerves or unrest, it would be dealt with tomorrow.

As all of the men began preparing their bayonets, Sergeant Myers wondered how many of these men he would see again. He had lost too many men to see these ones be wiped out. As the men stood in line and prepared to go over the top, Major Buthorn squelched in the mud behind the men with pistol in one hand, whistle in the other, ready and waiting to blow. As the final men got into position the Major raised the whistle to his lips and blew three times, the signal to go. As Sergeant Myers climbed the ladder over the top and began running he saw chaos. Men were dying everywhere, scythed down by the German machine guns. As he ran on, Sergeant Myers felt the bullet puncturing his skin, and as he felt the bullets hit his chest, Sergeant Jonathan Myers realised that the 13th Big Push was no better than the previous twelve. It was still an idiot’s desire to see a few more feet of land won over by Britain at the cost of thousands of lives.

By Rory McEwan (First Year)

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Artwork: Felix Droy (Fifth Year)

CHARACTER

Loneliness I ran as fast as I could, blind, my breath ripped out in rags, and I slowed. My hands reached for my knees as I wretched and coughed, I was not built for this. I had been running for a while. Too long. Sweat beaded on my brow and dripped down my arched nose, dripping into a puddle of salt on the ground. My throat had been torn from the effort, blood lined the walls of my trachea. I rasped and heaved as I struggled for air. Snot leaked down out my nose onto my upper lip, I’ll let it sit there. I’ll clean it later.

I fell backwards on to the cracked ground. I opened my eyes. The sun was a harsh bright ball in the sky, I couldn’t look for too long as the imprint of it was burned into my retinas, but I had always wanted to see deeper into that light, experience it truly. I could not. I closed my eyes. I could hear the blood rushing in my eardrums, it surged and then slowed, surged and then slowed. A familiar pattern. I still lay on the ground; it was too much of an effort to move. I’ll get up in a minute. I like lying here. I flattened my knees and stretched out, my legs spasmed involuntarily - cramping awkwardly. I withdrew my legs, curling up in a ball - I was a baby. This was comfier anyway. I closed my eyes. The blackness of my mind poured into my eyelids, those familiar and welcoming fuzzy patterns danced across the darkness of my closed mind.

I could sleep to this, forgotten by myself. I’ll give myself just ten minutes. Yes - this felt good. When I woke, it was dark. The sun had long gone, I must remember to wake to see the sunset next time. No matter, for I surely have many sunsets left to see. The bleakness of the night was a welcome contrast to the intense light of the day. I moved my cracked tongue against the smooth rear of my teeth.

Skin flaked off my tongue. My mind raced with pain - even screaming aloud was too hard. I needed water. Did I need water? Although I hadn’t had it in hours, it didn’t matter really. Someone would find me. I would be ok. I didn’t need water. I’ll get it later if needs be. The blood was still agonisingly surging in my ear drums, great. This is great.

I reached up with my hands and tugged hard on my ears, stretching and pressing the lobes down onto my jawbone.

I released them. The surging continued. I again screamed frustrated in my mind, the high-pitched squeals echoing

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off my skull. I lifted my head off the ground and slammed it hard down until it met the dried mud. The echoing screams stopped. But there again was the surging. Great, I thought. I gave up. It’ll be better soon. I ran my parched tongue across my upper lip. Skin cracked and flaked off onto tongue - everything was dry. The dried snot had now formed a thick crust below my nose, there was no removing it, it had cemented itself there. There was no point trying to clean it. If only I had water. I really needed water. Badly. I lifted my head slightly up off the ground, the vertebrate in my neck slid over each other, snapping uncomfortably and shooting pain down my back into my fingertips and toes. I slowly raised my head further up off the ground, my hands reaching along behind my back on the floor until I had propped myself up-joints stacked and head lolling on my shoulders. I felt weak, pathetic. I had felt this for as long as I could remember.

The subconscious feeling of worthlessness, my existence was feeble and muted - who would listen anyway. Not my wife. Not my parents. Not my friends. It. It had been chasing me, loneliness, clawing at my heals, I had been running desperately from it but it’d all been in vain. It gets everyone someday. It starts as just a harmless scratch, just one negative thought and you ignore it, push it away, bottle it up. Once left untreated, it grows and infects your whole body and being, diseasing you until you’re done fighting, alienated and scared it leaves you. Nowhere to run anymore, it consumes you. It becomes you. You are buried in a coffin of your own making, no one will hear your shouts from six feet down, you are too afraid to voice them or acknowledge them yourself. It remains there, always in your mind, trapping you until the blessed day you die.

You wander aimlessly, you become Cain, living through an eternity of generations, the relativity of time increases a hundredfold in the vast chasm of emptiness in your mind.

You cry out to God but only the devil hears your screams.

We are all burning in the melting pot.

By Seb Biedrzycki (Lower Sixth)

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WAR POETRY

WAR POETRY First Year pupils studied poetry from World War I and were inspired by the likes of John McCrae, Wilfred Owen and Rudyard Kipling, to write their own poems.

Faded in Glory

An Empty Victory

The sound of gunfire is out of the norm, As is the sound of this raging storm, All we can see is the tearful falling rain, And occasionally, hear the odd shout of pain.

We dart for the masks, though face after face is bare Above us, His breath looms Brothers in arms suffocate under the putrid air And, as we choke, the artillery booms Then, screams, as one by one they fall to His scythe Blood-curdling screams.

As clear and sharp as a knife They will follow and twist my dreams

Yet why should such a calamity arise?

Perhaps it was the hatred, the rage?

Or was it only the greed, and lies?

So maybe it is time, to turn a new page.

Sir! Can’t you see what we have done?

Our soldiers lie, faded in glory, When really there is nothing to be won, But a story, just a story.

So why don’t we all put down our guns, So one day we can tell our sons, “Once, some time ago, We made peace, so you could grow.”

Based on the Russia/Ukraine conflict

By Huw Parry (First Year)

The dead sink into the mud Is it salvation or is it the claiming of souls? Or both?

The bloody flower of war continues to bud Death’s hunger will not be sated As we marched into battle, summoning all our might He stood, watching, and waited And once we were trudging through the trenches, the beast took his bite.

Now claims of victory.

Now tranquil waves lap at my feet on the empty, silent shore Yet we, alone, understand, That Death is the only victor of war.

By Umair Mukhtar (First Year)

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Artwork: Oliver Goodchild (Fifth Year)

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PROTEST POETRY

PROTEST POETRY These poems by Second Years were inspired by our study of protest poetry in English by poets such as William Blake, Maya Angelou and Anne Sexton in the summer term. The boys were given a wide brief to write about something that angered them. We were impressed particularly by the way they deployed rhyme to get their message across.

Uniform

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Homework

School uniform, They say, It’s smart and fashionable, They say,

You said you’d set us two a week But instead you set us five You said that you forgot But that was just a lie

Bleached shirts, With their stuff y collars and restricting sleeves, It’s respectable and clean, They say,

What makes you think you’re special Above all the rest If all the others were like you Then we wouldn’t get any rest

Banded ties, With their iron grip and choking hold, It’s fine and neat, They say

And whose to say they aren’t All setting more than is due What if we really are Sacrificing our sleep for you

Pinched shoes, Bring on aching blisters and weighty soles, It’s stylish and favoured, They say

Homework’s like a disease Or a global super power Stored up like a nuke And when it’s released – all will cower

Itchy trousers, With their constricting waistline and unbending fabric, It’s ideal and splendid, They say,

And we can’t complain For whom would we tell Our complaints become lost Inside of our own shell

School uniform, We say, It’s unjust and it’s unfair, What happened to our welfare.

Want to know something ironic I’ll give you just a clue That even this poem Was homework for you

By Alexander Pickles (Second Year)

By Elijah Hipkins (Second Year)

Artwork: Kieran Bowmeester-Reid (Fifth Year)

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Artwork: Oliver James (Fifth Year)

DYSTOPIAN FICTION COMPETITION Lower School

DYSTOPIAN FICTION COMPETITION Following the presentations she delivered on Character Day, this competition was inspired by the visit of Sarah Govett, popular dystopian author of ‘The Territory’. Having heard Sarah describing the influences on her writing, pupils from the Lower and Middle School were asked to produce a dystopian piece of no more than 500 words and bring to life a new world of their own.

We had an outstanding range of entries spanning from life on other planets to brutal survival games and totalitarian regimes. All of the entries were an absolute joy to read and demonstrated phenomenal creativity and skill. Congratulations to all entrants for producing such thoughtful and engaging pieces of work.

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Tsunamis still relentlessly crashed into the high barriers built to save what little bit of England remained. Money was unfairly distributed to the different regions, and Region Seven, it was the poorest. Your only chance to escape was the Trials, tests of intellect and athleticism. When you were sixteen you were taken to a compound to be trained and you completed the Trials when you were eighteen. If you passed, you were taken away to work for the Government.

Those who failed had two options: have a chip implanted into their brain or be shot.

However, something strange happened to those who had the chips; they became obedient to the Government, completing unpaid labour to increase the wealth and power of the Leaders, something they already had in excess. The region borders were patrolled by armed guards who shot on sight. Really, my only chance to escape poverty and the controlling chips were the Trials; and I wasn’t enthusiastic about my chances of passing.

The welcome darkness of sleep finally overtook me and, in my dreams, the only place where I could escape the worry of what would happen if I failed the Trials, I lived in a world which hadn’t gone so terribly wrong.

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R

D io y s t o p i a n n nC o ompetiti

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I lay in my bed, in Region Seven, staring unfocused at the ceiling. I was fifteen, tomorrow would be my sixteenth birthday. Ever since the ice caps had melted, due to global warming, and the sea levels had risen, swallowing most of what was once known as England, your sixteenth birthday was the big one. It was viewed by some people with hope, a chance for a better life. Others, well, it was one step closer to the dreaded eighteenth birthday.

WINNE Fi c

The Trails

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The muffled stirring of my parents from the room next to mine arose me the next morning. For a moment, I lay peacefully, as a weak beam of sunlight fought to get through the thick layer of smoke and fog to shine on my face. Then the realisation set in. I shot up. Today was my sixteenth birthday. My heart began to beat faster and faster. I rushed to the kitchen in a frenzied panic and scrambled towards the door. I wasn’t going to let them trap me in a compound. I reached to open the door; but a cold, pale hand clasped mine harshly. I looked up at my father, his wan skin seemed to be stretched over his bones too tightly, enunciating every hollow space which the lack of food already made too visible. His black hair was speckled with grey and even this seemed limp and dull. As I stared into his lifeless eyes, sunken deeply into his face and framed by dark shadows, a fresh wave of emotion overcame me. I wasn’t going to run. I would only end up dead. I was going to fight, and learn, and pass the Trials. I stared at the puckered red line on his forehead, where the chip had been implanted, that contrasted with the slight yellow tint to his skin.

“We must obey the Government,” my father said simply.

My mother standing next to him nodded. A pair of skeletons, void of emotion, for the Government to control.

Determination filled me. I would pass the Trials.

I had to.

By Oliver Booth (Second Year) Winner of the Lower School Dystopian Fiction competition

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L OO

The human species had been living on Mars for approximately 30 years after Enol Misk constructed his Falcon12 rocket to send us across the galaxy. After Enol died, a group of scientists who called themselves ‘Sideways’ revolutionised the world of astronomy by designing Falcon20. This expedition on the Falcon20 to Earth was to quench their curiosity to discover if any new organisms had inhabited their old planet after the human race departed Earth to settle on Mars.

R UP

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Ring! Ring!

The alarm on Doug’s bedside table rang, signalling the start of a new day. He got changed and hurried down the stairs, adamant to have a successful launch and enhance the important irregularities of his otherwise mundane life on Mars. However, this wasn’t just another ordinary day, today was the day that Doug (and the rest of the ‘Sideways’ space crew) would travel back to Earth on the new ultrapower rocket Falcon20, devised by Cypher Bateman. It was designed not only to travel to different planets, but also to survive combat against any lurking UFOs.

RUNNE Fi c

First Contact With Earth no longer inhabitable due to the climate crisis, civilization moved and settled on Mars. After losing his wife, Doug volunteers to travel back to Earth in the hope of finding alien lifeform and investigate what has become of the planet he once called home. Him and his close friend Tom make the journey back to Earth, what will they discover…

Artwork: Felix Droy (Fifth Year)

RS WE CH O

DYSTOPIAN FICTION COMPETITION Lower School

over him. Tom, his crewmate was in high spirits, impatiently ready for launch and excited to explore what planet Earth was like now. Many theories and rumours had emerged that there was presence of alien life on Earth. Deep down Doug had mixed emotions about the possibility of this. He did not like the idea of coming across alien race but did feel the exhilaration of being the first human to witness alien lifeform if any. A robotic voice sounded over the loudspeaker, instructing them to immediately lower the visors on their helmets. Falcon20 was launching in sixty seconds!

To Doug’s surprise he suddenly felt tense and a little anxious, the unknown dangers of the journey ahead had suddenly dawned on him. It was too late to process the unease going through his mind…

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, lift off!

The engines of Falcon20 ignited and a fireball shot out from the thrusters of the rocket as it jolted from its stationary position. The pressure of the G-force pushed Doug back into his seat as the rocket shot upwards and reached speeds of over 15,000 mph! The turbulence encountered as the rocket went through Mars’ atmosphere felt as though the rocket was going to be pulled apart.

As thunderous as the ascent was, it suddenly became tranquil as Doug and Tom entered the vast but familiar area called space.

Although Doug struggled to cope with his work and personal life, he still flourished in his profession and excelled in the field of scientific research. Nevertheless, Cypher had been piling an abundance of pressure on Doug due to his backlog of tests that had been delayed due to the sad demise of his wife. Doug felt lost without her and needed a new purpose, it was this which instigated him to volunteer for the journey to Earth. He had fond memories of the time he had spent with his wife on Earth and felt it would be a way to reminisce their time spent there.

The journey took six months and six days. As they finally reached the Earth’s gravitational atmosphere, they identified France and prepared to land their craft on one of the last sites used when vacating Earth. The ferocious heat generated as they travelled through the atmosphere was almost unbearable and the landing spot could not have come sooner. Amazingly and to Doug’s delight the hexagonal flaps Doug had designed enabled him to manoeuvre Falcon20 to land perfectly on the now faded ‘X’ marking. Once the rocket had landed, Doug and Tom high-fived, cheered and gingerly stepped out into the now unknown concrete floor beneath them.

Doug turned the key in his pod and navigated his way to the door which led to the ‘Sideways’ control deck. Take off time was quickly approaching! He was wearing the space suit he himself had helped design, a sense of pride came

As Doug scanned the barren, deserted land he noticed impressions on the land around them. They looked like footprints but bigger, as Doug knelt down to examine

them his glove had a sticky honey like substance on them. Every bone in his body was telling him to get back on the rocket but his curious scientific mind urged him to investigate and carry on their mission. He hesitantly started to follow the trail.

“Not a chance!” Tom yelled.

“There is no way you’re doing that; who knows what that sound was and what is behind this wall!” His voice was noticeably trembling.

CLANG, CLINK, CLANG!

“Tread carefully,” Doug’s co-pilot Tom whispered.

“We could be on the brink of something truly amazing Tom,” Doug replied reassuringly.

Before Doug could touch the pad the doorway in front them started to sink into the ground, the ground shook under their feet. They both stared at each other, the horror etched in their eyes.

The truth was he was unsure of his actions, but he knew there was no turning back now. The track led them through heavily overgrown surroundings and suddenly into a wide opening. A large stone wall appeared, it stretched as far as one could see to either side. Was this the outer wall of a complex? They did not recognise the mammoth structure – it was not there when they departed Earth.

Screeech!!

The noise came from behind the wall. It was the most highpitched noise Doug had ever heard and left his eardrums ringing. Doug noticed a small palmprint on the wall in front of him, it looked like a recognition pad to activate a door.

As he reached out for it, Tom grabbed his arm.

In a daze, Doug could hear Cypher’s faint voice echoing in his helmet.

“Abort! Abort! GET OUT OF THERE!” shouted the voice.

After the initial shock and moment of freezing up Doug’s senses came back to him like a jolt!

“RUN TOM!” he yelled.

“BACK TO FALCON20!” he gasped.

The screeching sound became louder, more deafening and from multiple directions. Maybe the great idea of returning to Earth was not so great after all…

By Adam Malik (Second Year)

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DYSTOPIAN FICTION COMPETITION Lower School

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L OO

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HIGH COMM LY ENDED Fi c

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The Collective Mikhail had been selected. For the next five years he would be part of the group of 1976 representatives ruling the country. Mikhail did not choose to be considered, he was not elected and had not gained this position by a hereditary right. No, he had been randomly selected by the collective. The collective oversees the people who live in the country. No one knows where the country is, how big it is, what it’s called or what was once there, but it is believed it is the entire world. The people of this nameless country are the collective, yet it is the collective who decides what the people want and as part of the collective they must want that.

With such a prominent position Mikhail could do anything he wanted, and the people would have to obey. Except some in the collective would replace him. Because no one had ever gotten to the end of the five-year term. Because they had upset the collective and disappeared. It was difficult to decide what might upset the collective as what made the people happy may upset the collective.

So on the 9th September as Mikhail entered the building where he would govern he shook with terror. Above the entrance was a massive poster of workers doing their job for the collective and others saluting while gazing forward at a far greater presence behind Mikhail which they were loyal to.

He went through a long corridor into a great hall and took his seat. Number 1893. This gave him the dark thought that they labelled them with numbers instead of names because they changed so quickly. His thoughts were soon dispersed though as he heard an announcement through a speaker. “Please may representative numbers 824, 55, 1240, 1818 and 1431 come to the committee for

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law enforcement inside the collective and Representative numbers 1199, 1702, 535 and 1893 come to the committee for recording notable historical events.

Remaining representatives stay seated as you will be guiding public opinion as decided by the collective.”

As Mikhail walked down a corridor with yet more pictures of devoted and happy workers he wondered what would be the fate of those who were going to the law enforcement committee. Eventually he reached a bland metal door with the name of the committee printed on it unceremoniously. He opened the door to find the other three people who had been called to the committee lying on the floor stone dead like they had died hours ago.

Looking straight at Mikhail, was a completely silent and still figure. The figure was one of a dozen who knew what the collective was, individuals looking for power.

Because there was no definite leadership of the collective and members were chosen randomly those who wanted power did so by killing unlikable members and hoping who replaced them might be better. Except there were a dozen people who knew, who all had varying ideas of likeable and unlikeable representatives leading to endless killing in a quest for their power. The figure had realised that its power seeking was over.

Mikhail looked up from the bodies and at the figure and saw it bend over and collapse. He went towards it and lying next to it was a piece of paper with eleven numbers.

Mikhail looked around to see if there was anyone else and noted that there was nothing in the room except the bodies and the piece of paper.

By Patrick Moroney (Second Year)

Artwork: Matt Venner (Fifth Year)

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London was burning. An acrid smell burnt its path through the monuments and into my core. Tongues of fire licked the sky as they stretched higher and higher in an attempt to devour the clouds. Decimated ruins of iconic buildings were illuminated by the flashes of warfare while groups of evacuees followed safety personnel as they huddled together in the howling breeze that chased down the streets in search for its prey.

The insurgents had taken St Paul’s, or that is what the broadcaster had said. They had resisted assaults with scavenged guns and crude energy weapons and had expanded to the surrounding areas, but the Military were already challenging their control of the areas, forcing them to relinquish their supply stores. Reinforcements were expected to arrive by 1800 hours and the analysts estimated the insurgents could only survive for two days at most, a generous estimate based on past events. Control would sort it out, just like those previous times. I checked my battery, thirty-eight percent, long enough to survive until Thomas returned home.

1745 hours

The Military had extinguished the fires and pushed the insurgents back to the building of St Paul’s and cordoned off the surrounding areas, but they were still defiant, waving painted signs demanding freedom and criticising Control. It was ridiculous. Control had helped them take back their land from those across the Sea, it had re-built London after the Shakings, it had created peace.

It offered them mercy. Surrender and live, stay and die.

Some of them trickled off the building, handing themselves over to the Military and allowing themselves to be rolled off on transport bots, back to their underground quarters.

The fools remained on the buildings, firing recklessly at the Military, who stayed unmoving. Waiting.

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Artwork: Leo Sutherby (Fifth Year)

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1738 hours

WINNE Fi c

Time Was Up

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1803 hours

Time was up. Heavy footfalls of booted feet echoed through the empty streets as soldiers arrived at St Paul’s, columns of shining metal catching the sun’s fading light.

Reinforcements had arrived. The Military engaged.

Desperately, the insurgents fired at drones as they hovered over St Paul’s, broadcasting the insurgents’ locations to the infantry. Clouds flashed green as energy weapons discharged. The first wave of troops rushed over, planting jump pads at the base of the walls. The second wave of jumped up to the roof and began firing at the insurgents, their limp bodies collapsing to the floor. It was all over in an instant, every last insurgent was carried unconsciously off the roof, and onto the transport bots.

1813 hours

The doorbell rang. It was Thomas, his chest riddled with bullet holes leaking oils and electrical flux. A gaping hole in his shoulder sparked and his eyes flickered on and off as his processor diverted current to his legs and speakers.

“Thomas! I didn’t expect to see you so soon! What happened?”

“Human. On r-roof.” He held his loose arm up. “Wires are b-bust. Salvageable?”

“It should be fine.” I paused as I traced bullet wound to bullet wound. The HUD told me most had barely missed the and his shields had deflected most of the damage, but some of the wires still poked through his armour and he was on the edge of a shutdown. I connected myself to System and requested the necessary parts. “Come on I’ll plug you into the charging ports.”

By Rohan Chen (Fourth Year)

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Artwork: Felix Droy (Fifth Year)

50m above, the dissonant sounds of the city were evidence of the extensive society. The downtown was impersonal, uncaring, and despondent. Concreted earth was baked under the heat of the summer sun. Arrogant workers navigated the city streets and alleys, mindless to their surroundings. The scorching rays made even the darkest shadows light. Two labourers collided, one apologetic, one rude, unheard over the cacophonies of noise. Time was money, and everyone was prudent in their spending. No-one noticed the empty sky or the silence outside the city boundary.

Standing up, the man searched along the corridor. There was nothing for him. No sounds, no light. He called out inquisitively but there was no response from the dark.

Despite the obscurities, the man, alone in the extensive constricted corridor, could feel the walls were close; tight.

There was nothing to be found in this place; it was a world, not to be seen. He became curious as to where his corridor would lead, or what it would hold.

The vast highway tore through the city, concrete pillars standing prominent under the expanse of tarmac and steel. The expressway bisected the city, a scar in the cityscape. Further along, an inefficient intersection tore open the land, the only open land remaining dry and dead beneath. Its multiple choke points kept traffic at a permanent stand-still, the air around it thick with exhaust.

Off the intersection a maze of streets erupted, connecting

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The man stirred. Complete darkness tricked him into thinking it was still night.

RUNNE Fi c

The Man

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the city to the highway. The main street led down towards the fourth sector, an area bland in colour and style.

Identical blocks of painted concrete adorned with square plastic windows stood soullessly, with quick production and build, prioritised over appearance and comfortability.

The dull colours seeped into each other, the edge of one merged into the other. The commercial streets crept along; idle vehicles polluted the surrounding air. No-one had any desire to be in the area, it was just supposed to be the fastest route. The local bus was to be fifteen minutes late already. Trees with crispy yellowed leaves lined the avenue.

Flat expanses of tarmac ran along the lines of buildings, wide, loud, and unfriendly to those not inside a patented metal death box on wheels.

A breeze began to lift; there must be an end to this corridor. The man found his concerns fade away – he had felt something new, something that could lead him.

He continued along the midnight corridor, only to find lengthwise metal on the floor, cold and dull.

Then a radiant light cut through the dark, coming around a bend. He was standing on a track. Nowhere to go, only forwards or back. The light approached. The ground shook. The man went to join it. His steps crunched underfoot. Tremors paced the length of the corridor. The intensifying light split to two. It approached. The breeze was now a deafening scream; metal scraped against metal. There would be no time to stop. The lights arrived; The sounds stopped. A release overcame the man, as he, floating above, escaped the rational limits surrounding him.

By Ben Claxton (Fourth Year)

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HIGH COMM LY ENDED Fi c

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His knees were jammed into his head, feet propped awkwardly against the harsh, cold bars of the metal cage which consumed him. Matthew was trapped.

Drooping emerald green crops encircled a single line of cages, housing men like Matthew – confused and lost; prisons boxing them in, pressing down upon them.

Matthew’s mind raced. Where had he been before? Why was he here? Would he die? Was this the end?

“Get out,” a gruff voice declared. Whilst being suffocated in his thoughts Matthew had failed to hear the demanding footsteps as they approached, the crunching of crops as they parted and the creaking of a metal door as it opened ominously. His rough, scarred hands latched on to the sides of the cage, firmly grasping the bars of it as he clambered out, limbs aching and cramping up. Leaves scratched his face as he tried to detach his legs from the final grips of the jail which had imprisoned him for heaven knows how long. Slowly lifting his head, he saw a larger man stood in front of him – characterised by a red jumpsuit of battered cloth. Lifting himself up, Matthew’s head span and he slowly saw the man’s chest, arms, shoulders neck and…

Mask! There was a… a… a snout and two eyes but not human eyes; they were animal eyes. It was a mask, rubbery wool framing a face of malicious intents and a perverse smile which now whispered eerie prophecies of discomfort and torture into the vulnerable ear of Matthew.

Gun to head, hands tied and mind dazed, Matthew walked the boggy path which threatened to swallow him whole; crops loomed over him, screaming at him to leave.

Perched on trees sat watching hawks, silently waiting for a bullet to pierce Matthew’s fragile skin; poised to feast on his rotting flesh – seeing no difference in Matthew’s meat to that of any other animal, it was all flesh at the end of the day.

Rattles of other men crawling in their cages faded into the distance as Matthew scuttled across the ever-growing field… unsure of where he was. The only building within sight was a rust-coloured barn which sat roughly a kilometre away from the cramped prisons where he had awakened just minutes ago. Even from this distance, the

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Artwork: Joseph Mawdsley (Fifth Year)

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The Body Farm

unmistakable smell of mouldy, rotting, left over flesh that sat in the open for scavengers to feast upon lingered in the air. His feet unwillingly dragged along the floor as Matthew was forced towards the grimy and smoke-stained barn from which the paint peeled and bled off. The mere skeleton of what once was a large building, was now decrepit and tired, its skin sagging and the age creeping in.

In the moments of visceral fear which encompassed him, Matthew was lost and drowning- however if he could harness the cacophony of thoughts resonating in his head - he would see they were all from the last 24 hours. Not picturesque moments of childhood innocence or treasured memories of hugs with family - but of driving along the ill-trodden Arizonan tracks, music blaring and gears screeching; framed by a blood orange sunset.

The field died in the distance as protruding thorns and brambles poked viciously at Matthew’s thin skin, skating along it like ice dancers and carving trails of blood as they did so. Trees, the sleeping souls of the forest, glanced away from the man in red overalls who guided Matthew, their leafy canopy denying any passing-by planes to even glimpse him, unwilling helpers in this twisted farm of mystery and despair.

Doors could be a portal to heaven or hell, the place you dream of or the place of nightmares, and yet something about this one gave Matthew the impression it wasn’t a door leading to his hopes and dreams. It could have been the coating of dripping blood, or the smell of decaying flesh which seemed to coat the whole building like a layer of paint, or the fact it made the hairs on Matthew’s neck not just tingle, but shiver as the building’s icy glare stared down upon him. As if waiting to devour Matthew the door stood metres above him; it’s splinters of wood sharp teeth practically begging for his succulent flesh which hung weakly off his body. With a simple knock it was tamed, its splinters receded back into the blood-stained façade.

Opening fractionally, screams pierced Matthew – stabbing his heart and sending shards of fear into his body. It wasn’t death that confronted him – but something far worse…

By Isaac Crowhurst (Fourth Year)

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THE WRITERS’ ROOM

50 Word Stories The Writers’ Room opened its doors to budding storytellers in November 2021. Offering a programme of creative writing lessons during lunchtimes across all year groups, pupils have developed their creative voices and narrative writing skills.

At Hampton we are hugely fortunate to have a range of excellent facilities to meet the interests of the boys.

With the Hammond being a space for actors and musicians alike, and the 3G and field hosting a multitude of sports, the Writers’ Room is a place where those who value the written word can feel part of something and engross themselves in a creative writing community. We are delighted to be able to showcase our first entries to Lion Print, which range from 50 word stories to tales of love and loss. As well as the work in this section of the magazine, our writers have also contributed pieces in other parts, for example the Dystopian Fiction competition - we hope that you enjoy all of them!

ude l c n I h c i h Stories W ow’ n S ‘ d r o Th e W As soon as I saw through that window, the world waiting just a few metres away, my mind was exploding. I chucked myself into the closet, and prepared for triumph. To the prying eye, I looked like an uncivilised buffoon, but I didn’t care. It was snowing.

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ai n r T A n O t tories Se The path’s clear. Finally, the nightmare ends. I can return to the blue world. All my capabilities exhausted; I could do with a restoration. Why do I slave away, when the weight on my back can relax all it wants?

This life is inequitable, but what can a train do?

Revenge, a topic used ever so much in books since forever. And movies. But this is real life. Or real dead - on the train to Hell. I want to take the life - suck it all up - of one particular woman. She is the type who would *kill* to get anything.

By Sriyan Stankovic (Second Year)

By Oliver Dugaric (Third Year)

Paper. Paper. Another paper. You try to write; you can’t. What would the others on the train think?

Ha-ha, look at that writer loser- can’t write a word to save his life. The gears of the train churn. The wheels move faster than they have ever before. It clicks.

‘Ah these poor souls,’ I thought, ‘they are about to meet their end.’ For them horrifying, horrendous and horrible, for me easy, bliss, paradise. Nice and simple sabotage. Yes, the train of death. No-one suspects me, the little, cute service girl. But I am relentless.

By Agalyan Sathiyamoorthy (Second Year)

By Charlie East (First Year)

A crash as the train’s roof bent in. A shout of surprise, an exclamation of dismay. An inquisitive head pokes out the window, searching the dark night. A fleeting shadow raced across the steel roof. “What on earth...?!” he exclaimed as a shadowing face appeared and a fist flashed out.

By Lorenzo Ingrassia and Benedict Butterfield (both First Year)

A dashing shape in the snow. Heads drawn to the movement. A furious growl. “Run, he’s here!”

A frantic chase. Hours later in a dark cave: “I saw some monkeys running around, annoying blighters.”

The yeti grunted in annoyance, as he sat down, hungry, before the plate of roasted fox.

By Sriyan Stankovic (Second Year)

By Lorenzo Ingrassia and Benedict Butterfield (both First Year)

The sound of my exhaustion is overpowered by the crunch of diluted, mud-spattered snow beneath my feet making every step a struggle, leaves crusted with frost slicing through the inky black void of the night enveloping me. I can’t see. It’s so cold. The warm arms of Death beckon me.

The frost. It has spread. But I survived. The eternal flame is hard to find. Snow envelops everything like a pillow that makes it look like a barren wasteland.

All life has been banished. Forever, unless I can make the life-draining quest. The world’s fate is in my hands. Oh well.

By Ben Rowe (Third Year)

By Charlie East (First Year)

The hunt for love. As cold as snow, burning as hot as fire. It is easy to get lost in the maze of blood.

Whether hated or loved, everyone can imagine the pain of never having one, or however many one can take. In the lonely pain the forest creates.

Anger. The anger of the Sun can make the crops rise and the water to dry. The anger of the clouds can carpet the fields with snow and cause the deaths of millions. The anger of humans can replant forests and destroy their own civilisations. The world is anger.

By Oliver Dugaric (Third Year)

By Agalyan Sathiyamoorthy (Second Year)

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Se e h T o T nked i L s e i r o St That mysterious vault. He had been told never to go near it but he itched with curiosity. He saw the key, hidden in plain sight. He reached out to it but in the crystalline reflection he noticed something.

A kappa, a water demon. And he thought, ‘Now I know why…’

Up and down I went. The waves crashed against the orange rubber of my dinghy. The freezing water burned my hands. No-one could survive this, drowning in the heart of the sea. ‘Teenagers,’ I thought, the kind who like to jump dangerously. And I must endanger myself for them.

By Charlie East (First Year)

By Oliver Dugaric (Third Year)

So close… weeks stranded at sea; land was a few fingertips away. This was it. A blink. A flash. I woke up. These days all I can think about is returning to land. I thought I was awake. That’s when it happened.

Another blink. Another flash. I woke up.

Cans, bags, bottles caps, all pouring into the sea. A smiling face of guilt as the waves take the junk away into the ocean’s depths. An unexpected rumble. A sudden shake. A wall of blue sweeps over the trawler.

Down into the deep, shadowy depths, along with their own waste.

By Agalyan Sathiyamoorthy (Second Year)

By Lorenzo Ingrassia and Benedict Butterfield (both First Year)

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FOR OLDER READERS

Vinegar Finnergan Vinegar Finnergan flicked a wicked wink through the pelting rain as she sank to her knees.

Bolts of bloodied mud shot out from the boggy Earth, splattering her accusers.

Was it just the relentlessly dense downpour that created a fog around the steaming townsfolk, who watched intently from the bottom of the mound, or had the last blow to her head affected her vision more than she thought?

She stretched open her dripping red mouth. Was that a deathly grimace or a defiant grin? Hard for anyone to tell in these conditions, even up close. In truth, Vinegar Finnergan didn’t even know herself but, frankly, after what barbaric tortures she had endured over the last few days, it really didn’t matter either way.

What did matter, what was far more important to Vinegar, was that there was still a fire in her belly, even after all the brutal beatings that had set out to break her, that had tried to stamp out the small glowing embers of her life.

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Maybe now it was merely a diminishing, dying fire but, at this moment, it was the only sensation she could salvage across her entire body. And she planned to hold on to it for as long as she could.

What was that? Out of the corner of her veined, sodden eyes. A glint? The merest glimpse? No, she should have known. She should have expected. A long, gnarled wooden staff adorned with bands of iron that glistened in the rain sliced through the grey blanket of the storm and crashed down on Vinegar’s lower spine jerking her head up and back. The fire within her flinched again, caught between fizz and fizzle.

Some inaudible words were exchanged and then the most thickset of the three constables standing behind her took a superior stride forward and seized a fistful of her muck-spattered, matted hair and pulled down. Hard.

This was his moment. To present his trophy. And to be acknowledged. As protector of the people. Yes, he was acting in the name of God and all His glory, of course.

But surely, he could be forgiven for seeking the respect that he felt was so desperately deserved. He glared at the dripping, silhouetted throng and violently sucked in his

cheeks as if to force out a reaction from them. But none came. Where were the triumphant cheers that had been promised? Where were the resounding roars to recognise their hero? He pulled down again. Harder. Still nothing.

Well, if the damn girl’s neck had to be broken to elicit a response, then so be it.

“By all that is holy!” This came from the rotund and ruddycheeked, robed reeve, who was astute enough to bring a premature end to the constable’s injudicious actions, at least in front of hundreds of witnesses. Raising both palms aloft, he stepped forward to take charge of proceedings.

“By all that is holy!” he repeated, just in case the gathering was not fully aware of who was now speaking. The constable, barely able to hide his disgust, tugged on Vinegar’s hair once more, then moved back into line.

Torrential rain continued to hammer down into Vinegar Finnegan’s star-gazing eyes. How was it possible to flit so swiftly between consciousness and unconsciousness?

She needed to keep in the moment and control her pain.

To hold on to – what? Faith deserted her but maybe she still held a semblance of hope.

“Let it be known, that we are here solely to bring justice back into our community and to restore the faith of our lord. It is through His guidance, His spirit and His soul that we have finally woken up to the terrible wrongs that have befallen our community.”

The reeve paused. His audience was suitably entranced.

“Witches have walked amongst us! And this creature here, Vinegar Finnergan, whose name and reputation we have trusted over time, is charged with being at the centre of the coven. This most tempestuous day is the surest sign of God’s anger. Yet due process will be conducted and justice will be served, whether she be found innocent or guilty. Our laws are sacred and have stood the test of aeons past. It is so decreed. Trial by ordeal. Let her retrieve this holy signet ring and thereby find salvation or slip forever more into darkness. And death. Bring forth the pot of boiling water!”

Diluted hope was all but drowning.

By Ben Rowe (Third Year)

Artwork: Leo Sutherby (Fifth Year)

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FOR OLDER READERS

Eye of the Storm Pain had driven Atlas from his house and out into the dark, violent night. Nothing is worse than remembering the look on your brother’s face when the lifeblood seeps out of a hole in his chest and soaks your hands. Atlas had sat there, cradling that lifeless body until the police taped off the area, and the paramedics declared him dead. A random senseless attack, wrong place, wrong time. Such a stereotypical ending, such a trivial and minor incident in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t the manner of his brother’s death that numbed him, nor the timing, but the fact that he had been there the whole time. His attention drawn away only by the street racing in the car park next to the corner shop. His brother had been caught up in a robbery by a junkie with an itchy trigger finger in that same store. He swore at the stars; their silence was deafening.

It was overwhelming, he could not think past the death, it was a punishment for not being there to stop it. He screamed at the wind and punched at the moonlight; nothing would stop the pain. He sank into a bottle.

loved him like a mother, she could not feel hate or anger, only empathy and affection. It was a testament to how little men are loved unconditionally, but only for what they can provide for others.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt strangely refreshed and energized, the remnants of the previous night merely a nightmare fading upon his memory. He ambled into the kitchen.

Sit.

An oversized t-shirt and flip-flops, with a head full of black, neat braids flowing over her narrow shoulders. She turned at the sound of his presence and smiled. Her nose piercing caught the sunlight and flashed towards his face.

His eye of the storm.

Morning Sleepyhead.

Sleep well? Came the response.

Like a stone.

Ashanti turned, holding a pan and deftly plated its contents onto a pair of dishes.

Sit down my love. Her voice soothed his mind, hunger itched his stomach and so he sat.

They ate together. Conversation was not a commonplace event between them, they had a deeper, more intimate connection holding them together. His mind drifted back to the first time they met. A grey beach and a black sea, she had walked by and smiled that perfect smile at him. It had shocked him to his core that he had smiled back, but he did, and he had felt himself slowly becoming intoxicated by her presence. It was a simple chemistry yet boundlessly complicated, the whole relationship with her still seemed alien to him. She had embraced him like a brother but had

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She looked across the table at the man who could not bring himself to look her in the eye and wept internally. Here was the man she loved unconditionally yet was completely blind to the intensity of her emotions for him. A sad story really. But her determination stopped her from breaking down in frustration, she knew she was the only stability in his life, and he clung to that like a mother with her newborn.

Would you like some more, my love?

No thanks...

Come here.

Atlas got up and paced over to her, his positivity fading with each second. She could see it eating at him and decided to do something about it.

He sat in front of her with his back turned, legs crossed, and hands neatly folded in his lap. She shuffled further forward in her chair so that his head rested between her thighs so that her hands could reach it. In this position, she began to massage the top of his scalp, slowly moving down onto the tips of his ears and temples. He sank back.

We are going to have a great day; I have planned something for us two.

She bent over and kissed the top of his forehead, her lips leaving a cool imprint on the worried surface of his head.

Now get up and get some clothes on, she said springing up, grabbing both of his hands and trying to pull him up with her. He got up reluctantly.

Where are we going?

You’ll see.

She smiled and laughed, a tinkling, silvery sound. He could not help but smile back at her.

There we go, that’s what I like to see.

She raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips and walked off into the bedroom.

I made him smile, she thought.

Atlas stood there for a while and contemplated what shoes he would wear, reaching a decision he quickly showered, brushed his teeth and dressed.

Artwork: Leonardo Falcone (First Year) As he walked out into the hallway his eyes flashed towards her. She wore a red and black tight-fitting T-shirt with flared jeans and the purple trainers he had bought her some weeks before.

You look stunning.

So do you. She smiled, her lips stretched daintily across her white teeth.

Let’s go.

They stepped out the door and Ashanti turned back to Atlas and hugged him around his waist. Taken by surprise he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, careful not to smudge her make-up. Why she wore it he didn’t know.

Come on baby. She grabbed his hand and began walking towards the concrete steps.

He followed, his broad steps doubling her small skips.

He took the steps two at a time as she hopped each one on their way down. Atlas could feel the body heat of her hand within his own. He did not mind holding her hand, he felt it was a positive affirmation of her love for him, it was comforting. She turned back to look at him, her braids flicking across her back. Blowing her a kiss, she caught it and held her hand to her heart, it did not matter where they were going, all that mattered was her.

By Sam Skinner (Upper Sixth)

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