WRITERS’ WORKSHOP SHOWCASE 2016 - 2017
INTRODUCTION NGHS Writers’ Workshop have had a busy year. In addition to expanding their own brilliant projects, they’ve been creating stories and poems in response to a variety of writing prompts and competition call-outs. Qing-Ling Lu and Meghana Alurkar began the autumn term rising to a challenge from the Poetry Society to write poems inspired by the Great Fire of London. Meghana also tried her hand at writing a monologue, ‘Lucy’, and we’re delighted to hear that her poem, ‘An Ode to Motherhood’, has been highly commended in the Mother’s Milk Poetry Competition 2017. Among with Dominique Browne-Gallina’s great ‘I have a dream’ poem, we’ve also featured her ‘So Free I Fly’, which was a runner-up in the 2016 Buster Rhyme Poetry Competition, and published in their anthology, ‘Voices of the Future’. This booklet also includes some stunning prose from Tamara Falcone in her ‘Extracts from The Rise of Man’ and ‘And Fear Shall Have No Dominion’, and two incredibly powerful pieces from Anvitha Shetty, ‘A different mask, a different person’ and ‘Blocked’. We are also extremely proud to present Sophie Varma’s wonderful short story ‘Petit Courage’, an incredibly worthy winner in the Year 10 and 11 category in the GDST couragethemed writing competition. Judge, author Harriet Goodwin, said of this piece – “I had the shivers reading this. Great concept and very exciting. I was right there, in the head of the protagonist.” I’m sure you’ll be as impressed as Harriet with ‘Petit Courage’ and with all the incredible writing talent showcased here. Ms Taylor
CONTENTS Lullaby of the Flames by Qing-Ling Lu Acknowledgement by Meghana Alurkar Lucy by Meghana Alurkar An Ode to Motherhood by Meghana Alurkar Extracts from The Rise of Man by Tamara Falcone And Fear Shall Have No Dominion by Tamara Falcone A different mask, a different person by Anvitha Shetty Blocked by Anvitha Shetty I have a dream by Dominique Brown-Gallina So Free I Fly by Dominique Brown-Gallina Petit Courage by Sophie Varma
LULLABY OF THE FLAMES Qing-Ling Lu I’m drowning, drowning in heat, The dancing light. Flickering in my shining eyes, Swallowing me. I can hear the screams, Pounding through my ears. Almost deafening the thumping of my heart, Flames, taunting, cackling. Far away, I see. Parliament crumbling. Or my hope. I can’t tell which, Not anymore. Curls of smoke. Searching for me. The burning hands of Death, Closing around my neck. And then I fall back. The flames smothering me. Lulling me to sleep.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT Meghana Alurkar A love for buns is a love that is always satisfied, For come morning or night, a dainty, quaint baker’s -on the corner of the next avenue or the one after that Will always be open. The baker’s boy, most unfortunately, is often about as reliable as the newspaper boy, With their round, red-robin faces, and bird’s nest hair, they are all quite the same. One was more the undertaker for the day a few years ago, however After forgetting to put that little oven out. The poor child, disinterested in the oven for so long that Golden flames began licking their way over those frost-topped, ivy-painted houses Until I am most certain you could have seen the whole ordeal from miles way. ‘London Ablaze!’ slammed on all the front pages of the town paper, and all but from a baker’s shop. Smoke would be choking that pitiful city, strangling it like the hangman breaks the last gasp from the sinner, for who was to save it? It was truly a sight, for the ash-grey, muddied rows of buildings, (only wood and plain straw, no less!) Were quite withered in seconds, lying bare and in all the glory of their skeletons. Just like those that straggled within them. Even so, out of all that anguish and pain, One should even feel a little pity for the buns. Because everyone frets and fusses over the people, and people, oh, we all open the door to our under-worldly graves Smoothed and fitted with a lush armour of grass, and to keep us warm and safe and sound even when we are long dissolved into the heart of the world. But those scorched buns the blackened, hardened, sorry little buns were just Left behind.
LUCY: A MONOLOGUE Meghana Alurkar Lucy: You see this sheet of paper? Look at it, Harry. Look at it, and listen real good. Because this is the day I have been waiting for, for twelve years. Whilst you and your ditsy little klutz of a wife were sunning around in Calabasas and St. Barts, I was slaving every day, from 6:30 to 10 at night to keep my little girl in school. You know that; you know that too well. Oh, wait, hang on, you don’t. You never even came to visit your niece, did you? We too lowly for you, Harry? Were our cotton clothes and little apartment and old car just not enough for you? (she turns away, tears in her eyes, and takes a breath before turning back furiously) You know what? I am disgusted to call you my brother. I bet Dad was rolling in his grave hearing us. Hearing you. You fiddled every penny that I deserved from his will. You took it all from me, from Verity, after driving away my dear husband. Who - who even gave you the audacity to take money that Mum and Dad left to us? Money that I could have used to give Verity a better life, to send her to a proper school, to be able to give her the pretty clothes and toys and books that I always imagined for her. God, you are shameless, aren’t you? You’re still - what are you - Will you get off that stupid, useless, phone! (in quite an uncontrolled fury, and holding the file inches from his face) This. Your name, on this file, containing the sheet from Dad’s will that declared my money. You hid it, didn’t you? I was only eighteen, but you felt nothing of embezzling money that was deservedly mine, money you splash out on your extravagant yachts, cars, jets and homes, and whisk yourselves away to exotic places on holidays for months and months, but god forbid you come to see your own family once in a while! (she slams the table, catching her breath, then calmly) But today, Harry. Today, everything in your hunky-dory, rose-tinted, glorious, little life will fade away like my trust did all those years ago. This is the only retribution that I need. Oh, and if you think this is open for compromise? Don’t hold your breath.
AN ODE TO MOTHERHOOD Meghana Alurkar Don’t trust me, or perhaps, let me beguile you, for the moment you let slip from Christmas time: ephemeral the weather-lady’s lips will wilt like snowdrops, and the mother will mutter a sigh as the first sight of tissue paper skies peeks from behind the steam of the kettle. “Awful weather today, isn’t it?” paired with a petulant tut of the tongue as they grab their still-damp briefcases. All my wrath, always my wrath. I may put a sliver of sunshine into your hazy windscreens so your eyes might open a little. But before that, a sparse rain to dwindle over heads Just so you second guess yourself before leaving that umbrella next to the shoe rack.
Her nails burnished, fingers wrapped tight around a mug of unduly hot coffee to quash the unmerited chill that stands outside your door like an unwanted guest. A doorbell rings. Don’t open the door, don’t open the door. But just the mailman, who gives a wry smile, brushes away the contentious raindrops and stands. The tiny bundle in her arms is taken tighter, held closer, closer, consumed in warmth, and love, and please-stay-stills as the other hand adjusts to scrabble for the door handle with all the grace of a newborn foal. And the door opens. Parcel passes between hands a flicker of light as the signature sweeps over the pad, and the cold is once more left on the doorstep. A short encounter, but arduous nonetheless. A rattle, a click and a murmur of affection as the tiny hands and feet slip into place Filling the cot with contentment. And stands as I notice a slight worry. “Let’s go to the shops, sweetie.” Encouragingly to the child. But she worries. The rain doesn’t comfort the weary shoulder. I watch. The rain falls. And the wind flies. But I am more forgiving than that. So I give the mellow showers an interlude, a suspension in the symphony of the bitter cold and wind caesura - in the skies. She listens, the sensitive ears tuned to the frequency of coos and cries, pick up silence where there was the whisper of rain. With tentative fingers, she peeks outside And the grass sparkles blithely, tipped with white light and warmth. And a slump of the shoulders, a peek of a smile. No more discomfort in an open door. I learnt that in a mother’s bustling life, as one waters and nurtures her little seedling with all the tenderness you could muster a ray of sunshine is worth everything.
EXTRACTS FROM THE RISE OF MAN Tamara Falcone AT THE TIME of the sun’s retreat, when the sky dims to a melancholy darkness and the creatures of the night emerge from their silent sanctuaries, thousands of winged beings flood the sky, carrying fire. At the age of seven, Solomon was fascinated by these creatures. He would sneak out into the darkness and pursue their flight, simply to stand in their midst and watch them in wide-eyed awe. For some time, he dared not catch them, as it seemed to him that they were no mere insects: the way each creature alit upon autumn leaves on the earth, or upon the tips of grass stems, or upon the sides of bridges and walkways, tracing lucent paths into nowhere‌ All this seemed sufficient proof of their divine nature. He was convinced that the fire they carried was the same fire that flickers inside each breast, giving warmth, the same fire that blazes down from the sky, giving life; and so, he decided that these little creatures - these lanterns, these Lucifers, these vessels of magic - were, in truth, carriers of life, that their bodies enclosed immortal souls, and that capturing one would be either an act of impiety, punishable by death and hellfire, or one that would require much thought and preparation. With time, he shed these notions as a snake sheds its skin. The immortality of the soul, he learnt, was a fiction conjured by the credulous and the feeble, stripped bare by the Time of Unravelling. Esau had told him this; he was loath to accept it at first, and told himself that Esau was taking away the little he still had, diminishing any wonder he still felt. But eventually, he realised that he had rooted himself all too firmly in unstable ground, that his claim was about as credible as the claim that the earth is flat, and accepted that he, not the cynics and naysayers, was in the wrong. He discovered that the fire-creatures - which, he learnt, were named Lampyridae and belonged to the beetle family Coleoptera, like the dull ugly bugs that littered his Assembly did not carry true flames, as he had thought, and most certainly not souls. The sparks of light were produced and emitted by chemical means, in a process known as bioluminescence. The purpose of this strange property, he discovered, was not for the dead to solace the living, nor to illuminate paths so that forest wanderers like he would not lose their way, nor even to heighten the beauty of the swamps and lakes and forests; its purpose, in truth, was to help the Lampyridae to attract sexual mates, to live and to breed. His beloved fire-creatures were in no sense divine heralds or carriers of souls. It was only when he had realised this that he could summon the courage to catch them; and so he did, enclosing a cloud of sparks in a small glass jar. He kept it by his bed, expecting them to glow forever, like flames that waver but never perish.
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THE WORLD WAS UNAFFECTED by our torpor. Beyond this strange human experiment, with its controlled conditions and ageless bodies, the world was born, grew, flourished, wasted away and died. Not once did Nature give a thought to what was in the minds of her children; not once did she listen to their complaints and grievances. She continued to exact, with intolerable certainty, the fates she had assigned her mortal creatures. Out she sent the fire to annihilate the forests. Out she sent the waters to drown those lured into violent currents. Out she sent the wind to swing its scythe at those too weak to stand. And all this she did with no concern for purpose, with no interest in salvation, with no ultimate end to which she was guiding her subjects. And yet, despite this humiliating fruitlessness, the world continued. At a sub-microscopic level, beyond anything the human eye could perceive, persisted the dissolution and synthesis of proteins, of polysaccharides, of lipids, in delicate yet feverish entropy, and their assembly with one another giving rise to the strangest of forms. The first slime slid out of the sea’s depths, a formless amoeba with no consciousness to speak of; then, the transitional organisms, still intellectually numb by nature, but capable of basic arousal by light, touch, or warmth, and of advancing or recoiling in response; and so on and so forth, up to the true emergence of consciousness, that secret, ineffable and infinitely intricate phenomenon which freed the animal, in the hostile face of Nature, from having to choose either compliance or death, giving it not only knowledge and understanding, but manipulation, mastery, and resistance. Beneath our feet, the fertile earth gave birth to organic wonders. In the furtive warmth of her womb, she offered her child the legacy of the preceding life, of the dead themselves, and endowed it with all it would need to endure the world’s strains and stresses. And with time, when she was sure that it was ready, she allowed it to break through her layers of love and protection. The seedling thrust its delicate neck through the earth, burst forth into the realm above, turned its sensitive eyes in awe to the sun, and grew upwards, upwards, hoping to rediscover the origin of energy, the origin of warmth, the origin of life. Time and again, however, the innocent sporophyte failed to attain it; it remained forever rooted in the ground, in the realm of defect and sickness, hopefully and hopelessly seeking. Yet still it persisted in its growth. Touched by rays of life, its soft-skinned cotyledons split apart, the delicate morphologies of stems and leaves emerging; the seedling embarked on a series of subtle but wondrous transformations, shifting through shapes and shades, cells multiplying in a frenzy of cytokinetic division, of specialisation and integration. Its stem grew and thickened into the hardy scaffold of a cherry blossom, and from it erupted soft clouds of pink. And there it stood, a living symbol of youth, its head forever in the clouds. Yet it too could not pride itself eternally on its loveliness; it too was subject to decay. The great sun turned away his face, leaving the earth to the winds of encroaching winter; the tree’s flowers were swiftly stripped off and scattered through the air, leaving its branches stark and naked. With time, its bark softened, crumbled, darkened, swelled, split open, or rotted from the inside out. Necrosis ate away at its beauty until it succumbed to the same fate as all other
organic life: decomposition of its constituents, and a return to the coldness of the inanimate world. Thus, the delicate and self-sustaining cycle would come to a momentary end. It was in the mortal creatures of the animal kingdom that it continued, a river of energy flowing ceaselessly through their forms and exhausting its dying source. No human suffered the grievances that had once been part and parcel of his finite nature; but this blessing had not been extended to the deer, boars, eagles, swine, mice, or any other creature made of flesh, bones and brains. They, the unhappy ones, suffered still. Whilst we, delivered from time and illness, remained beautiful and deathless, their bodies were destroyed by toxins, parasites, deficiencies, infectious tumours, the worst elements of the natural world zeroing in on the most vulnerable of animals, hastening their sad progression from youth to death.
AND FEAR SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION Tamara Falcone My world is the House. Outside of it, I have no name, no history, and no existence. I know only Dolores; my star, my sweetheart, my soul. Her face speaks of a life in darkness: skin that has seen no light, flat expanses in place of eyes, cheeks hollowed by hunger. Only I know that our souls are confined to a dreary and featureless world in which there are only shades of grey. Spiders have erected vast networks of thread over their kingdom, and the only source of illumination is a lone wax candle whose flame perishes as soon as one draws close. You see, Dolores is blind. She does not suffer from the tedium of colourlessness, of darkness, of gloom, for she has always been blind. She is happy here. Yet she suffers bitterly under the knowledge that there is an Outside; to her, it is a purely conceptual realm of horror and mystery. Dolores refuses all contact with the Outside, barring all the doors and windows; she despises the Outside, and wants everyone to do so as well. And for a long time I have respected that fear, have abided by her wishes despite my own suffering; after all, I cannot bear to see my Dolores in pain. As I write, she is in yet another flight of mania. Though she believes that spectres and ghouls await her outside, she continually opens and closes the doors in her strange, frenzied rituals. She hears the shrill whistle of wind, the wild rustling of leaves, the disconsolate cries of owls and nightingales; and in fear and revulsion she cries, throws herself to the floor, rocks back and forth violently as she nurses her sick head. And this, I cannot abide. No, I cannot, I cannot. I love my Dolores, but her irrationality is intolerable. I cannot. So, purely to spite her, I open a door. Her eyes widen and she screeches and babbles incoherently. She rushes up behind me and attempts to throw herself against the door, which now stands ajar. But I tell her, look: there is no danger. There are no shadows, no howling winds, no malevolent ghouls and ghosts; there is only the tortured mind which has taught the eyes and ears to perceive only what it creates.
Dolores, open your eyes. The Outside is not the realm of danger you thought it was; there is only the sky, and it is beautiful. You cannot see? Then I shall describe it for you. It is a riot of ribbons, rising and falling as if woven into the fabric of the heavens; it is a storm of souls, silent and formless and free; and with the silhouettes of pines in the distance, and streams of light pouring out from between the black clouds, it inspires no fear in my heart. Dolores does not listen. She continues to murmur incoherently, cradling her fragile skull in her hands. I realise that she is irredeemable, unalterable, hopeless; for she was born with eyes that will never open, a mind insulated from anything outside of its own illusions. And so, I leave her behind in the House. I walk down the steps, and onto the front yard, sit down on a bench and peer up at the sky. I am alone, but I do not lament my solitude. From here, the House looks dark and shrunken and ugly. What if I had done nothing? I ask myself. Where would I be now? I answer: I would still be cowering inside that dreary place. I would have continued hating and fearing the world, unaware of its splendour.
A DIFFERENT MASK, A DIFFERENT PERSON Anvitha Shetty Look at yourself. Look at the honest lies you’re spouting out. It’s just that easy, isn’t it? It’s just so straightforward to be something completely different. To be someone else. You dyed your hair, changed your name, you put on a different persona and mask. For God’s sake, you even burnt all the diary entries which reminded yourself of me. Or should I say us? Because someone like you can’t change who you truly are inside. I am a part of you which shouldn’t be subtracted from the equation. I am a living, breathing person underneath your skin. I am your heart which won’t stop beating continuously until the day you lie sick and nearly dead. So go ahead and pretend to live with a new identity. Go ahead and deny the fact that you’re not tuning in with your true nature. This temporary person can paint over me. You can sniff the satisfying smoke from the flames which incinerate me to ash and nothingness. Then you will return back to your dollhouse and carry on. But I will always be here. We will always be here.
BLOCKED Anvitha Shetty His body falls flat on the bed with his eyes fixated on the typewriter. His hands grope the air above him, pretending to push letters. It sucks, doesn’t it? You can hear that same thought again and again and again. Like a video on loop. Crumpled pieces of paper surround the floor as you continue to write another idea. But it doesn’t work because there’s a hard steel wall dividing you and creativity. It’s stopping you from making something new. It’s denying you access even though you’re pounding your fists furiously against the blocks. I’m surprised the
wall hasn’t been demolished yet. Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t broken yet. I told you to wait and that it’s a normal situation for you to face. But you just don’t know what patience means, do you? Because imagination should be a constant flow that keeps on moving, like an endless river supplying resources to the creatures of the forest. But what happens when the water gets murky?
I HAVE A DREAM Dominique Brown-Gallina I have a dream where we will be the same I don’t want you to lower yourself to my “height” I don’t want you to lower yourself to the “middle” So I can meet you halfway I want to be raised up to the same playing field I want to have the same chances as you Because I have a dream A dream where I will not be small So you can be big I won’t owe you a smile A giggle Or my time I won’t walk home with violence in my chest Baring my teeth like fangs Instead I will have the same opportunities I will have the same chances The same choices Think about it When you portray a trait Associated with femininity You are less that a man That is not fair And don’t tell me that we are equal Bullshit We are not But we will be Soon Because we all dream the same dream
SO FREE I FLY Dominique Brown-Gallina In a world surrounded by hate You push me. Close in on me like hunting dogs With their prey. You confine me to the corners Push me to the edge. But I will not, I will not let you Crush me and make me fall. So free I fly. In a world shredded by difference You taunt me Like hyenas You destroy my dignity Bind me with iron chains. But I will not back down Whether you label me Black, white, gay or straight So free I fly. In a world decayed by normality I stand out Like a star In a black sky Giving light to the saddest of hearts But what is this ‘normality’ you speak of? I lay awake at night thinking What must I do to be like you To walk, dress, to feel like you? Even if in my heart I know That I shall never be like you Because free I fly. But in this world I see hope, Behind your imposing shadow. I will walk right through you to get there, Break free from the chains you put me in Shrug off the label I wear, for you are only skin and bones After all Behind the shadow I see you
In the same chains I broke free from The ones others put you in. Break out, hold my hand So free we shall fly.
PETIT COURAGE Sophie Varma Twelve men have walked the moon but only one man, Philippe Petit, will ever make this walk. 7th August 1974. 7am. I almost forgot, in the excitement and adrenaline of the scene. I brought a black marker pen out of my pocket, pulled off the cap and I signed the beam of the tower, the strokes I’d created with my pen, leaving my signature. It was permanent. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘LET’S GO!’ ‘Good luck,’ Jean Louis said, then paused. ‘When you’re ready.’ A tone of unease seeping through his voice, as he paced backwards, his camera hanging around his neck, waiting to capture it all. Breathing in the last air of New York, I moved towards the wire, one foot on the heavy cable, the other safely positioned on the edge of the tower, land, the last part of ground. I stepped onto the wire - into the air, essentially, and brought my foot millimetres behind the other. Seconds went on and the pole grew heavier in my hands; the minutes went on, time grew older. The taste of exhilaration was on the tip of my tongue yet the scent of fear lingered in the air, pervading the city. My eyes focused on the destination - that identical, symmetrical, mirror image of the other tower. Its twin. My future was in front of me. I did not dare look down. I was only four hundred and eleven metres above civilisation and normality and, to look on the positive side of things, I only had to walk four hundred and eighty-eight metres. The length of thirty-two buses, that is all. It suddenly occurred to me how deranged my thoughts were. Focus. I allowed the thought to depart, move from the crowds below. My hands gripped firmly onto the pole. I had every right to; it was the only thing I could rely on. The wire was thin, too thin - thinner than it had seemed before. I took a few more steps, slowly, steadily, my feet moving one in front of the other, more carefully than in the training, the rehearsals. Time paused. Minutes and seconds must have ticked by. Is this not such a pleasurable moment, up here in the sky, with no hold of time? I could hear the faint, familiar sound of sirens, the reassuring noise of the NYPD, the murmured drone of crowds that had gathered, enthralled, below me, the hammering of my heart which was the loudest of all - the noise that
would not fade. I was half way. I felt enraptured but I was not there, not yet. Smiling, I moved down, my knee resting on the wire and I saluted to the crowds, hearing their approval. I stood up; the pole feeling lighter, like the air of the taut atmosphere. The wire felt light on my feet, thinner, but I remained calm. My eyes focused on the twin, which stood proud; in front of me, spectacular, sharp and serrated against the blur of its surroundings. Several officers up on the tower roof now, shouting remarks. I ignored, of course. I had to be impenetrable; my dream surmounted the towers themselves. The tower did not seem as far away as it had. I was almost at the end, almost, but not quite. I became close enough to the rim of the metallic bronze beam, to the words of NYPD. One offered his hand. I could have quite simply taken it, I could have finished the astounding walk then, and the team and the world would be honoured. I could have, but I didn’t. I rejected the hand, making slight movements, holding the pole securely and took one step…backwards, and another. I was the Lord of the Tightrope enacting the performance of my life. Walking steps backwards and forwards, in different directions, I then crouched, inching downwards. I lay on the wire. This is where the unexpected would arise. My head was in the laden clouds - infinitesimal droplets pattered down, rhythmic applause. I chortled, and grabbed my balancing ally; it rested on my pounding chest. Swiftly, deftly, I moved upwards, and took a bow. I’d reached the end, climbed over the beam. And that is when I felt it; the euphoria, the sheer emotion of success, and jubilation spread through my veins. Officers looked at a loss for words, shock still registered across their faces, replete with respect. I looked at the wire and then at Jean Louis, who waved his camera about and danced in delight. I grinned - thinking how my dream had been fulfilled. One of the NYPD officers escorted me down the stairs of the roof, into a rapidly descending elevator, then I was back on ground, safe ground. The chanting and cheers were loud - adults, children calling my name, repeatedly. Reporters and people from the press were flooding me with questions and huge microphones. ‘Philippe! Why did you do it?’ one asked. ‘I hate heights,’ I responded. I went one day, back to the tower, and I noticed my signature engraved onto the beam. Nobody else had noticed it but I knew it would be there forever. Almost.
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