SpOken Magazine Issue 4

Winter 2023

Sp

Issue 4

ken

The Oakham School Literary Magazine

Foreword

Welcome to the fourth issue of SpOken, Oakham School's student-led literary magazine. Edited by students and editor-in-chief Dr Reddy, we have here selected creative pieces unified by themes of home and refuge, Autumn and Winter.

In this issue, among other things you will discover clever reverse poetry, a depiction of a perfect Christmas, and a review of the wonderful creative writing workshop in which local author Andrew Ashwin inspired L1 to create their own fantastical stories.

We would like to welcome our new Assistant Editor, Lilly Seeberger (F6). We also must thank Print Services and Marketing, Mr Deane for his festive photography, and indeed all the artists and the writers who have submitted work, without whom there would be no magazine.

Remember: if you submitted something that hasn't been included in this issue, then it may be that we are holding on to it for Issue 5.

Finally, if you wish to submit your own work to the magazine, be it writing or artwork, please do contact Dr Reddy via email eer@oakham.rutland.sch.uk

SpOken wishes everyone a restful Christmas break!

Front page artwork by Leila Bowden, Form 4

Contents L1

The Fruit Stalls, Bella Steiger

4

F1

An Autumn Afternoon, Harriet Devenyi October Afternoon, Max James October Afternoon, Charlotte Sampson

5 6 6

F2

October Afternoon, Harry Fairweather October Falls, Isabelle Gibbons The Inevitable, Ted Lewin October Afternoon, Jessica Warke The Storm, Caden Law Storm Poem, James Melville

7 8 9 9 10 10

F3

Voices, Joshua Lai Home, Joshua Lai Finest Refuge, Stephen Upton My Dream Christmas Day, Florence Oakenfull-Cox

12 13 14 15

F4

The monster beneath you, Solomon Danjuma

16

F6

Longing for Dad, Arabella Lloyd-Edwards Fantasy of Time, Anders Yuen Norma, Evelyn Brammer A Cosmic Adventure: exploring the galaxy of sound, a Review, Lilly Seeberger

18 21 23 25

F7

Home, Lara Nesselhut Pools, Bella Fox

27 28

Lower School

Artwork by Alice Davey, Form 4

L1 The Fruit Stalls Bella Steiger Frost wind brushed against my face like a cat’s tail. The cobbled pavement I stood on felt rough and rutted beneath my feet. Suddenly, my feet started moving almost automatically to the Fruit Stalls. Like a rocky mountain the dragon fruit was jagged and bumpy, where the mangoes were soft as cat’s fur. As I touched the icy cold metal of the coins, I felt like someone was watching me. Shivers went down my spine! I took a mouthful of delicious fruit, but it did not taste the same way it usually did.

Crash! Spinning round as fast as I could, to see what had crashed I saw a creepy cat with brown dots. Deafening noises came from the busy town behind me, but time froze and everything went silent. Something! Something about this cat was unusual and strange, like it had been watching someone. Like it had been watching…me. It danced down the street, further and further away. But I just watched. I watched it disappear.

4

F1 An Autumn Afternoon Harriet Devenyi

As he ambles further down the cobbled path, soars The wind and dips over the dreary hills, drained of colour crisp auburn leaves of all shapes and sizes flutter gently in the breeze quaint cottages with tiny windows their fires are alight and blazing huge fields, scattered with pumpkins, paint the landscape of rolling mountains with orange dots smaller than your hand

5

October Afternoon Max James

The leaves are falling to the ground, The colours have changed all around, From green to orange as they grow old, They cover the ground in a blanket of gold.

The sun loses its warmth as the days grow short, Fireplaces are prepared and logs are bought, The windows grow misty and images blur, As we get out the hot chocolate with marshmallows and stir.

I bruise my body on cold rugby pitches, Children draw pumpkins and cobwebs and witches, We prepare the bonfires and people sell poppies, Conkers fall down and we crack open their bodies.

October Afternoon Charlotte Sampson

With the fire gently crackling with warmth, I slowly sway my legs back and forth.

As the sweet taste of hot chocolate settles in my mouth, The feeling of safety fills the whole house.

Some pumpkins stand proudly around the room, Whilst some hide in the gloom.

The distant chatter of children fills the street, As I slowly draw closer to the fire seeking its heat.

Nodding my head to the unrecognizable tune, I wonder how beautiful ‘twas this October afternoon.

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F2 October Afternoon Harry Fairweather What is it? When the russet bush-tailed squirrels scamper - arrows in the breeze, and scale the crook’d horse-chestnut tree, who’s shedding their golden leaves.

When the trees turn old, and the air becomes cold, and the cobwebs hang like wispy silk, sewn by spiders intricately into the air: iridescent, glittering thread.

When the sun’s rays are water, filtered through foliage, cascading upon an autumnal scene.

A child may sprint by, to collect the priceless bejewelled conkers, enveloped by their barbed cases, strewn across the undergrowth.

“That’s autumn.”

What is it? When the apple bearing tree leans precariously in the wind, dropping their fruit for balance.

When the cluster of lights turn bright, and the obscured village comes into sight, Its warm glow penetrating the dusk.

A village, where the comforting illumination of the merry flame brings colour to every home.

A village, where the plump pumpkins laugh and the serpentine road sprawls as the night begins to call.

A young man and his family may skip from a glossy plated car and enjoy the last light, at the summer sun’s end.

“That’s autumn.”

What is it? When the rutted and weathered path ambles through the field, cleaving a division: trees to grass.

When the weather turns bleak and the clouds begin to creek, and the rain drizzles down upon the plain.

And the shaggy sheep: galumph; scatter; leap, whilst the blue-tits weave in and out of the hedgerows and heathers.

An old man may stroll, his ebullient dog nipping at his foggy shadow, as he stares sentimentally out at this bucolic world.

A conker clasped in his palm, a tear in his eye - how time flies by, you might hear him say: “That’s autumn.”

7

October Falls Isabelle Gibbons

When the small breeze follows you And the coldness swallows you When the leaves turn brown And the trees die down, When the pumpkins arrive And the glow seems alive, When the spooky chills appear,

And the goosebumps fear.

Note this down when it comes, Then you know fall has begun The season of fright but also delight.

The cosiness begins without sleight, But snow will appear soon near.

Your thoughts will change to snow and ice With a whole new season freezing upon you.

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The Inevitable Ted Lewin

Frost seizes the days A different world begins Summer ends with haste

October Afternoon Jessica Warke

Autumn came once again, Tasteful plants turned to brown, Flowers faded away, And the rain soon came pouring down.

As we walked through-out the woods, There were many leaves under our feet, Dark colours carpeted the paths, And the smell of their death was strong and sweet.

The trees were merely bare sticks, Stripped of their majestic, lush cloak, And left to freeze in the frost to come, Left in the wind of fireplace smoke.

Autumn came to remind us that, Everything must end its mighty reign, Even all-mighty, youthful Spring, So that it can flourish once again.

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F2 The Storm Caden Law I have woken up to a terrible sight, The scenery fills me with shivering fright.

The lightning roaring, howling, growling, Like listening to a leopard prowling.

Fierce winds blowing away, It has been the strongest today.

Hurricanes, tornadoes, typhoons, Like a bomb going KA-BOOM. Heavy rain drenching everything, As if rain is going down the drain.

The storm’s downpour growing stronger, As I start to get poorer.

Deafening thunder blasting to the ground, Terrifying me with ear-splitting sounds.

I am panicking, pacing back and forth, Feels like it is shaking the Earth...

Storm Poem James Melville

The dark clouds rolled over the sky with a terrifying noise As if it was a tiger waiting to pounce on its prey.

Ready to kill. Ready to kill or destroy anything in its path.

You could hear the torrential hail coming down Along with the rapid wind. The storm was immense.

The camp was destroyed. Nothing could stop or survive the storm.

The thunder and lightning were massive - bigger than I had ever seen.

Humongous. The noise was immense, Incredible but scary.

A good experience, but also a bad one.

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Middle School

Photograph by Mr Deane, Teacher of Computer Science

F3 Voices Joshua Lai

I do not belong here So never say I'm welcome Because I know They hate me It doesn't make a difference if there's someone out there who'll accept me All that matters is A thousand voices beat one So why should You treat me like one of them NOW READ IT AGAIN FROM BOTTOM TO TOP

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Home Joshua Lai When I close my eyes I can still picture The lights twinkling across my favourite view The flavours of home wafting through the air The vibrant streets filled with people The buzz of a flourishing city But as I look around and see The lights shrouded by smoke The smells, once sweet, now burning of gasoline The alleys littered with broken glass and bricks I realise My home is not home any more And as I rise into the clouds leaving the land behind I wonder if it's the right choice After all Because I'm a fish on dry land flailing gasping No matter how much I cry It won't be enough to save me I can feel without even turning around the stares the whispers the fingers They pick me apart to the bone I've served myself On a silver platter To hungry, vicious sharks In their minds All I am is a Tramp Beggar Thief They will never understand The pain They call me a refugee But is this place truly refuge?

13

Finest Refuge Stephen Upton

In search of safety, they seek a new shore, Leaving behind all they had before.

Seeking refuge, a place to call home, Where acceptance and compassion freely roam.

Across borders and oceans, they journey far, Escaping turmoil, guided by a guiding star.

Their stories of resilience and strength, Echoing through time, their voices extend.

From different lands, cultures intertwine, Creating a tapestry, beautifully designed.

Immigrants bring diversity and new perspectives, Enriching societies with their collective objectives.

Let us open our hearts, embrace with care, Extend a helping hand and be aware.

For in refuge and immigration we find, The power of humanity, beautifully aligned.

14

My Dream Christmas Day Florence Oakenfull-Cox

Imagine a ski holiday in Winter Wonderland. The air is fresh and crisp, filled with the scent of pine trees. I’m surrounded by majestic mountains, their peaks dusted with powdery snow. The sun glistens off the icy slopes, making them sparkle like diamonds. I can hear the exhilarating swish of skis cutting through the crunchy snow and the happiness and laughter of families enjoying their day, then arriving home, cozying up to the open fire, and reminiscing about the day’s excitement. The room fills with anticipation and excitement as we open presents. The tree is twinkling, casting a warm glow on the array of presents underneath.

Gently, I peel back the paper to reveal the hidden treasure inside.

Watching the smiles on everyone’s faces, as laughter and joy fill the room, I experience a pure moment of happiness and warmth.

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F4 The monster beneath you Solomon Danjuma

Do call the name of the creature in your dreams, It crawls and creeps and feasts whilst you sleep.

Don’t scream or cry for it awaits you with an open eye.

Don’t heed its moans and sulky groan.

It’s a scheme to prevent you from returning home.

Do call the name of the creature in your dreams.

You may run or flee even raise up your chin, But this beast is at every corner with a sinister grin.

Don’t scream or cry for it awaits you with an open eye.

But at last, the sun has begun to arise, and this despicable demon meets its demise.

Do call the name of the creature in your dreams, Don’t scream nor cry for it no longer awaits you with an open eye.

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Upper School

Artwork by Salome Epie, Form 6

F6 Longing for Dad Arabella Lloyd-Edwards As the girl ran from the disaster in her life, she did not stop to realize that she was leaving behind the one she craved and loved for so many years. Whilst she sprinted along the cold, muddy, hardened path, tears started to fall from her eyes as she realized she would never see him again, but with every leap she took the memories came flooding back. She slipped. Her face collapsed into the thick sloshy mud; her legs sucked into the ground as if it were keeping her hostage. The girl whimpered like a puppy being separated from their mother. It was as if she was drowning in her own salty tears. She gave up.

Slowly the wind started to numb her face, and now not only could she not feel mentally, but she could not feel physically. Slowly the rain started to stop. She closed her eyes.

4 hours earlier Butterflies started to swirl around her stomach as she stepped in front of the prison gates. She inhaled the stench of crime and took a nervous step. “You can go in you know” a faint voice said. There was a pause. The girl slowly turned her head to see a tall man glaring down at her with a distinctive brown moustache gelled with flick. She gulped. Stuttering, she struggled to withdraw a single word from her mouth. He smirked like the devil. She instantly got chills darting down her spine. Without warning the prison guard called out to her: “Anastasia Greenwood.” She quickly snatched her eyes away from the mysterious man and turned her attention to the prison guard. Rapidly she made her way over to the main entrance. As she walked through the halls all she could hear were people faintly shouting in the far part of the prison and the thought of her Father living in these conditions made her feel sick. Walking down the corridors she felt the walls caving in on her as if the end were getting smaller and smaller. Finally, they reached the visiting room, the guard opened the creaky door and the girl stepped once until she was on the edge of the corridor and the room.

The lights were dim, and the sound of prisoners crept further and further into her eardrums like a bell bouncing off the tower's wall adventuring into the atmosphere.

She explored the room witnessing droplets of water surging through the roof and rats scurrying in desperation like they were in survival mode. Her attention swiftly turned to a man whose head, drooping down in sorrow, and engulfed with blackening drained from his character. The man was her father. She forced herself to leave behind her feelings of despair and shield them with a weak smile. A prison guard rammed her father's head up to meet eyes with his daughter; he was calm and level-headed. She withdrew the confidence to take a seat. “You look like Uncle Fester from the Adams family” she chuckled. She had to start somewhere. A smirk formed from his lips followed by a wink.

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“I'm in character just for you,” he replied. The prison guard released his prized possession and whipped the man on the back once. “STRIKE ONE” he bellowed, followed by “unnecessary conversation is not permitted in these walls.” The man side eyed the clock, “ten minutes until the Grim Reaper snatchers away my soul” he says.

The girl could feel the salty tears forming from within her eyes. “Mother couldn’t attend” she utters.

“I was set up,” he whispered. Silence. A deadly deafening silence. “A monstrous man.” He was cut off by the officers cuffing him back up again.

“Time’s up sweetheart” the officers declare. “No, we have more time, we have 5 more minutes.” she says in horror. She could feel the sweat dripping down her back and the shivers controlling her body as if she would never say another single word to her father again.

“We are running behind schedule” declares the officer.

“SCHEDULE” she roars as the officers forcefully drag her father out and away from her safety. Just before he is out of her reach he shouts, “A MOUSTACHE,” “HE HAS A MOUSTACHE.” The curtains arose. The sound of classical music was playing far in the distance, sounding like a horror film. It was empty like a movie theatre, but she was the only one who had come to witness the ‘show’. Jet black gloomed over the room. Abruptly a flash of light appeared from the other side of the glass.

Before her was her father who was aggressively strapped to a chair, being suffocated by a black bag attached to his head. Her heart was racing faster than ever recorded in her small fragile body. You could see him gripping onto the chair engraving the wood with his fingerprints. She glanced at the clock; it was winding into her. She could not help wondering what her father said. A moustache? The electrician gave the nod to proceed. All set. A moustache?

The officers snatched the black bag off the inmate's lifeless head. A moustache? She could hear every petite detail, from the footsteps upstairs to the sweat dripping down her forehead. His life was a flick of a switch away.

Then, the phone rang.

19

Photograph by Mr Deane, Teacher of Computer Science

Fantasy of Time Anders Yuen It is half past two.

I have a memory that only spans three seconds. When my teacher was gone, I rested in a calming position, and then I went to sleep. I often dream about the piano. In these dreams, I play it perfectly, imagining myself as a sublime being, I relish the feeling of performing flawlessly. However, there is also a sense of wistfulness and nostalgia in these dreams. I seem to be gazing at the sooty colossal tripod, the lower you play the stronger the root. The resilience grew, but I can't see the keys. I feel as if I'm astray in a silent desert. I can hear the music perfectly, but I can't see or play it. I feel as if I'm stuck in a sort of limbo.

Immediately I heard a structured repeating rhythm playing in my dreams. When I realized what it was it was too late.

It is half past three.

The school’s tintinnabulation abruptly woke me up like a menacing sound chasing you in a time loop.

Suddenly, I was packed into the familiar classroom. In the room, there was a piano in the back corner. It made me remember my childhood.

I was sitting in the sterile, wood panel-filled room with an imposing whiteboard on the wall. I was suffocating; it was fiery in a claustrophobic, prison-like, trapped feeling and I felt like a minuscule ant seeing the world from their threatening world.

It is half past four.

As I sleep on the table, I pictured myself in a medieval quaint cottage.

My head drops back onto the table and sleep. This made me remember back to my mother. Outside the window, I could see the primeval blocky Victorian clock tower with a rounded face. The presence of time ticking showed me that my time is passing as every second ticks.

I can imagine the rhythmic TikTok of the clock giving me a burden.

The ancient brick was surrounded by black rocks - in the middle was a reddish flame. It warmed the whole room, like a mother who sends love and gives warmth to the family while caring for their children.

I was speechless when I heard the exquisite great black piano. It was like he was trying desperately to communicate with me. Sending signals to me and attracting me like an

21

octopus tentacle and not letting me go. Using the indescribable music was playing a rich, sweet, melodic opera for me. It is like a song without words. The piece was tuneful, and it did not need lyrics to enhance the melody; it is like the sound of whispering birds. The music was taking me back down memory lane. Weeping like a child, I crawled under the black belly of the piano. I felt a strange but familiar thing. A familiar figure smiled at me with her dimpled cheek. She played the piano keys as she synchronizes with her soul.

Her control was magnificent and finesse; her passion moved the boy.

I had a hesitating nod while my hands were shivering, I asked myself: “Is this a dream? Is this a fantasy?”

“Mama” I said in a jolted way “I waited so long to finally meet you.”

“Mother, am I in heaven?”

She stood there in silence. She was walking me on the path between life and heaven.

I said: “I tried to forget about you because I was emotionally unstable after your death, I tried many ways to recover, but it did not work.”

It is half past five.

I woke up. It was like it was fulfilling all the dreams I could imagine.

Surprisingly there was a monster-like creature marching through the narrow corridor. I realized that I’d been waiting in the classroom for hours. The teacher returned back to the classroom. I explained in an orderly manner to her, like I was trying to confess the truth and to tell her the whole story: “When I was young, it was a halcyon period, when my mother was a music teacher. She always had a dream which was to compose a set of works, but she didn’t have much time to complete it until she lost her battle against her illness. From then on my father banished me from playing and learning instruments because he said it would trigger bad memories from his past. My ambition is to help my mother to complete her work and finishes what is left.”

For a brief moment, there was just emptiness in the room.

For many months and years, I have been preparing for the day to come.

I was sitting in the same classroom where I had been dreaming of my mum trying to thank my old teacher. I released my emotion through the process which made me accept my mother’s death.

22

Norma Evelyn Brammer

Her last words were simple ‘Don’t miss me when I am gone’, But little did I know how soon She would join the throng Like a new member in a flight of swallows Commuting far away, She left me there on my own And I never got to say, ‘I love you. I’ll miss you’ Oh how will I last a day, And I should be at peace Because I know I’ll see her again someday.

My great, great aunt was great.

She always knew what to do, She always said what was right, But always listened too.

But someone took her hand and led her Far away.

They left me here on my own, But she would always say ‘I love you. Don’t miss me’ and ‘You will be okay’, And I just hope she’s happy now Though she is far away.

23

Still images from an animation by Edward Fairweather, Form 5

A cosmic adventure: exploring the galaxy of sound Review by Lilly Seeberger I recently had the privilege of attending an event that interestingly weaved together the areas of music, the cosmos and an intricately spun narrative. The talk, which took place on a quiet Friday evening in the WA and began at 4:30pm, was an exploration of a story that spans celestial dimensions.

The event began with an unexpectedly engaging body percussion session orchestrated by the author, Andrew Ashwin, within the speaker area. Around 20 children happily took part in the author's prepared activities with great enjoyment.

A special feature of the event was the inclusion of pupils not only from Oakham’s L1 who extended a warm invitation to children from neighbouring primary schools: Oakham C of E, children from Catmose Primary School and Brooke Priory School, who were invited by Oakham, also took part.

The focus of the evening was the author's book Drumendus, an adventure set against the cosmic backdrop of a planet very close to the moon. The author gave an insight into the painstaking six years of work that culminated in the realization of this literary work.

The story revolves around the lives of two protagonists, Ella and Freddy, who are united by the wise guidance of Ella's Aunt Belinda. Their common goal is to thwart a cosmic adversary, a plot line enriched by the enchanting revelation that every musical note played in this universe triggers extraordinary events.

Mr Ashwin explained in an erudite manner the intricacies of constructing such a narrative, illuminating the various facets of the creative process. One particularly notable aspect of the narrative is the depiction of the planet's inhabitants, dressed in shades of purple and characterized by large ears.

The highlight of the evening was the introduction of a musical element by the author, who captivated the audience with a live performance using a trumpet. The question and answer session that followed allowed the children to find out how they could improve their next piece of writing. The children from all schools enjoyed asking questions.

Andrew Ashwin then moved on to a live reading of the book, which was really interesting to listen to. During a musical interlude that followed, he operated a keyboard and instructed the audience to clap in sync every time the name Drumendus was mentioned.

At the end of the event, participants had the opportunity to get signed copies of the book, which was free for everyone. For anyone interested in tales in which elements of music and cosmic wonders merge seamlessly, this literary work is a prime example. I personally found the presentation of the book really enjoyable to look at and would recommend the book to children aged 8 to 13. All in all, it was a memorable and joyful workshop.

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F7 Home Lara Nesselhut

When the wind and the weather come knocking at the windows, Home is the blanket, Hugging, holding, and hiding you From the troubles outside.

Home are the precious people Who love, support and believe In you and what you choose to do.

Every day, every month, every year Your home stays warm and near.

Home is the word in your book.

Home is the comfort of sleep.

Home is safety.

Home is warmth.

27

Pools Bella Fox

Tears hit the dust-covered floors like weights, Creating pools as water dances in swirls.

Glimpses of light create, Past images of laughter, and happiness shines like pearls.

These pools begin to tremor and shake, Feet run heavy, dragged down by fear and threat, Ravenously running with their lives at stake, Desperately clawing at chances of peace.

All the while, under the blanket of noise, a child sits in a rut, Clutching at their skin and bone, Tightly pressing their ears shut, Wishing and wanting for the water to swirl calmly once again with each tear that falls.

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Photograph by Lou Meinel, Form 7

Get your work featured in SpOken!

We invite all pupils to submit their creative writing.

Whether you write poetry, short stories, descriptive pieces, it matters not!

We want to hear from you.

You can submit your work all year round as there will be plenty of future opportunities to be published.

For every issue prizes are available for outstanding work.

We are also looking for artwork for the magazine. If you would like to see your art in print, please do not hesitate to get in touch.

To submit your work, please email it to Dr Reddy eer@oakham.rutland.sch.uk