UppLit Volume 10_Uppingham School

UppLit Volume 10

Contributors Theodore Gandy Lottie Reddy Sam Taylor Rafe Younger

“Cockroach” “Cockroach” “Cockroach” “Cockroach”

Sophie Addison Mr Addis Benedict Braddock

“Dreams are Only Dreams” “Narcissus and Echo” “From 35 Poems After Du Fu” “Miscellaneous Works” “Isiah 1:17” “Invisible Strings” “Emergency Landing in Bermuda” “This is Me” “Trust” “I Am Me” “Silent Sacrifice” “Cloud” “Doing the Right Thing” “Gothic Writings” “Embrace of Blindness” “Shrivelling Up” “The Gravedigger” “This is Me” “I AM” “Dead End”

Ava Eccleston Liv Filtness Grenya Head Khadija Ibrahimli Lyra Javed Aidhin Kaleem Lisa Li Lavinia Martin Jake Merritt Jess O’Donoghue Helena Sams Sasha Sherwin Kit Theakston Milo White George Wilding

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Editors’ note Welcome back to Issue #10 of Upplit!

To begin with we have yet another collection of Fourth Form gothic writing entitled “Cockroach”, so any entomophobes beware. We also have a slew of gothic writing ranging from gravediggers to the loss of senses.

Benedict Braddock has also offered up some of his poetry and prose, in his typical and unique way, and Mr Addis once more graces us with his poetic exploration of Greek Mythology.

We are also continuing the “Flecker Society” section, so save the dates as there are some fascinating talks coming up this term.

We hope that you enjoy this latest issue. Until next time, Ethan Cousins, Mia Pinaeva, Alejandro Peña-Mibelli and Rosie Tetlow

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“Cockroach” Theodore Gandy

Lottie Reddy

Rafe Younger

As I awoke, I felt an itch of terror, my irresistible curiosity led me to seek the source of what I was feeling. I jittered and wriggled clenching at my bed sheets, shared by visitors, hundreds, thousands of them, each devouring and tearing my skin and muscles into miniscule pieces, never have I been in shock, or this level of fear, caused by a little bug, a cockroach.

I was lying down on my sofa, and I could hear some noises moving around it, getting louder and louder. I could hear small little creatures moving under the pillow. I stood up and took the pillow off and there is a massive crowd of creatures working together to eat my pillow. These little rascals had invaded my sofa, there were so many that they were stacked up on top of each other. They started crawling round the room, I couldn’t do anything. Suddenly the lights turned off and the cockroaches disappeared, I could feel them crawling over my foot. I could hear their little feet rattling on the floorboards.

I awoke suddenly to this repulsive feeling on the back of my body. They were moving. I could feel many sets of nauseating legs irritating my skin. A sudden feeling of pain rushed to a corner of my back. Something bit me!

The thought of what was under me made me wretch. With a quick jerk I sat up and the horrors clung to my hair. I tried to find the light switch while these sickening organisms itched all over my defenceless body. I tried to push them off, but these talons nipped into me. I cried out, but in vain. I was in a real-life nightmare. I crawled out of bed; insect juice being spread all over me as I squeezed these insects beneath my hands and knees.

They were everywhere. I couldn’t find the door; I was stuck in this neverending nightmare. I searched and searched while crying out in pain as insects stuck to me.

I began to sweat; I breathed and attempted to flee the seemingly unclenchable clasp of death. I felt heavy, my bed sheets felt warm, blood gushed out of my leg, like a disinfectant causing them to flee. My head began to spin, I saw hands reaching out to assist me, I must fight back for my life, a life I had created and formed so perfectly, now Satan must strike and diminish my happiness. But to believe in supernatural powers you must have a disagreeable factor of heroism, that is the only reason I escaped that bedroom, that is the only reason I live to tell the tale of that uncanny sleepless night.

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Sophie Addison “Dreams are Only Dreams” Sam Taylor Glaring straight at me was the concoction of my mastery. I had the idea when I was seven, I never thought it would really come to life. The creature, which was lit by the moon and a few candles, was built with used parts, its eyes, I found from a seagull which flew into my window, its nose, from an ape, and its mouth, from one of my failed experiments victims. Its barbaric head rested on a body made mostly of human parts, apart from a few. The adrenaline was gushing through me as it pushed the fear behind me. I was hovering over the switch that would wake him up, I froze.

The fear had come back, why was I doing this? Should I do this? I paused and thought about all the horrible things that could go wrong. I was then shaking above the lever and the possibilities that lever held. It could be pulled to create a scientific mastery, or it could be used to cause chaos to all humanity.

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My name is Sophie.

I’ve always wondered if dreams come true, The imagery, the secrets Are they real?

Or are they just fantasies.

My dream is to be a fashion designer.

A GREAT one.

I hope my clothes someday will be draped on some of the finest models known to Mankind.

But sadly, dreams are only dreams.

A dream could either be an ambition, or a series of thoughts in your mind.

The decorative patterns, cuts, colours All can be shown and made in so many ways.

The different aspects of fashion, are like the many different poetry techniques in a poem.

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Mr Addis “Narcissus and Echo”

Benedict Braddock “From 35 Poems after Du Fu”

A man was walking by a river, Handsome, making people quiver.

The one who was the most vibrating, Echo, almost salivating stared and wished that he’d be hers that he’d buy her jewels and pearls.

A beauty of a nymph herself pristine of form and perfect health, thought that she could catch his eye but instead he walked on by.

I Near T’ai-shan

And so she went to get some aide, from the immortal Cupid Babe.

She begged and pleaded with the boy, And his love-enducing toy.

Eventually he did agree and filled his quiver, arrows three.

With the target by a pond, Echo hid a tad beyond, waiting for the tell-tale thrum to indicate the job was done.

She heard the strike and bounded near, So that the first thing he would peer into, was her golden eyes.

But she met a sharp surprise.

He was not looking at Uranus’ daughter Instead, he gazed into the water!

You see, the key of Cupid’s trick for everlasting love to stick, Was that it is only the first who gain from boyish Cupid’s curse.

He did not gaze lovingly at our poor Echo, heavens be, he fell in love with his reflection.

The target of his delectation.

He couldn’t tear himself away, from his oddly familiar bae.

Slowly he began to fade not an utterance he made, Until he straight ran out of power and was turned into a flower.

Now Echo could not stand to see this undeserved catastrophe.

She tried to wake him with her voice, he couldn’t move. He had no choice.

And so she didn’t stray from him, Her voice becoming small and thin.

Till it was merely a sigh, that only copies you and I.

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And what of Tai-tsung?

Its green is seen through Ch’i and Lu, Vast throng of sanctity in stone— The summit cleaves the dark from dawn.

While clouds suppress a spluttering chest, Frantic skies thrill eyes Far-reaching Mountain, I’ll surmount thee And overlook more puerile heights. __ Author’s note: Du Fu was born at Gongyi in central China in 712 AD. T’ai-shan is the foremost of the Five Great Peaks of China, and is of great sacred importance.

Tai-tsung is one of T’ai-shan’s names as a god.

Ch’i and Lu are the two lands that lie to the north and south of the mountain.

II Song of the Convoy Rumble of wagons! Each horse over cavity, Thud riving the axle-tree, rut against pivot With deadening stroke, Each conscript bowed and bequivered of waist: Young and old fumble farewell (Some snatch at their garments, tug, stamp, bar the way, Or snivel the name of a local divinity) but are Lost in the dust on the Hsien-yang bridge.

Passing by, I asked of a soldier, who said— “Here, sir, Call-up comes often: Some who went at fifteen to blockade the river Now even at forty work the land in the west; The hairs that once were tied up by the headman Have whitened or greyed, though war carries on— The lakes fill with blood, sir!

Is greed never satisified?

Our own thousand hamlets are vanquished by weeds, And those that are left are unschooled in husbandry, While all the Ch’in soldiers are hardy in fighting, Driving ours out like chickens or dogs.

“You ask, sir, but conscripts Never show their displeasure: Though even this winter conscription’s not ended, Collectors are out to take in the tax.

From where, sir?

I say, sir, it’s bad to bear a son here— The sentence is life, then you’re lost on the steppes; A daughter, by contrast, is not quite as bad— She can always get married and have kids of her own.”

I often dream of Kokonor’s shores, Pitted by washed-up white bones uncollected.

The new ghosts howl and shriek in complaint and O the bunting’s cry In the sunless sky!

— Author’s note: The Hsien-yang bridge crosses the River Wei to the south-west of the imperial city Chang’an.

Ch’in corresponds roughly to the modern province of Shensi.

Kokonor, or Chin’ghai Lake, is the largest in China and lies in a hollow of the Tibetan plateau.

III Song of the Beautiful Women New spring— On the promenade Courtly silk To summer blazes With the peacock glow.

The kingfisher clings To the pearl-pressed apron.

Author’s note: Du Fu observed this scene in Chang’an on the day of the Spring Festival in April 753. The ‘beautiful women’ are the the great ladies of the court: Yang Kuei-fei, then Empress in all but name, and her sisters, the Duchesses of Kuo and Han. Yang Kuei-fei’s detestable cousin, Yang Kuo-chung, had become Chief Minister in 752; rumours abounded, and the profligacy of the Yang sisters was already a public scandal.

IV At Full Moon Full moon in Fu-chou— My lady’s chamber unoccupied Almost.

Forget me not, O my dear ones— Forget not the air, Heavy with fragrance, Blunting the light Over her skin— Let us dry our tears In the brightening.

— Author’s note: Fu-chou lies on the Min river in the south-east of China.

Du Fu observed the Autumn full moon alone in Ch’ang-an in 756, separated from his wife and children by the devastation of the An Lu-Shan rebellion.

Green-cauldron camels And gleaming fish coax The ladies of state, Too full for more, Though steeds Bring fresh Luxuries.

Drum and pipe— A way for the rider!

Disdainful dismount: The willow’s established.

Fly home, daughter— Fly, learn to neglect The Chief Minister’s eye!

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Benedict Braddock Miscellaneous Works Priapus The knotted god of orchards loaths the passions of the pear, but I have gazed on eyes sustained for all the petals’ chafe— cum tacet nox the madman tried to kiss the lips of him who is my brother and my flesh.

Come then, O crude immortal: let us take hands in the flowerfall.

Days of 1895 Taormina : Gloedeniana A side-room’s seclusion grants time for reflection; he remembers them all, the face, place and date— Here is the Boy with Flying Fish, the Faun, the Self-Portrait with Turban— here are the Satyrs, first fruits of the spring, to recover lost youth.

In each he imagines a new Adonis, but in Sicily any beautiful brat will wolf down ten lire for a photo and—

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From THE EXTRAORDINARY ONIONS OF NICHOLAS HORSFALL (fragment of a prose Epic) Mr Wainthrop, like the Prodigal Son some centuries ealier, was distinguished from his fellow man by his peculiar espousal of the venereal attitude to soil; though perhaps he did not possess precisely the same mud-lusting inclinations of his parabline antecedent, his earthy devotion to the place of his nativity was without parallel: one might discover him parading along the ridge road at daybreak, or else in some meadow wallowing in patriotic reverie; seldom did he venture beyond the ruddy hills the village skirted, at least never out of curiosity. Should a traveller have stumbled upon the musty idyll of Stokesby-cum-Alsworth and environs and listened carefully into the wind, the faint grumble of “’s no compost else’er’s a-fluent’r than th’ tides” or some such would never have been far from the ear, and so you can imagine it came as something of a shock to the local population when one morning they saw Mr Wainthrop, having marched up a hill very much alive, promptly roll back down again very much not.

From WE WANT BARABBAS (FRAGMENT OF AN ABSURD TRAGEDY) B T H Braddock with due deference for reasons unknown to A A P M G C &c In resurrection, there is confusion if we start to argue, if we stand and stare (H D, Trilogy) PERSONS IN THE DRAMA Martin, playing Zacchaeus Adam, playing Abraham The Director Pontius Pilate Crowd of Commoners Guards, Jesus, Barabbas (all mute)

MARTIN ADAM MARTIN ADAM MARTIN ADAM MARTIN

What are we doing here, anyway?

We’re doing a play, aren’t we?

No, no — (gesturing outwards) I mean what we are we doing here?

Ah… I thought you might say that.

Oh? Mm. (in thought)

(silence) MARTIN ADAM MARTIN ADAM MARTIN

ADAM MARTIN ADAM

MARTIN ADAM MARTIN ADAM

Well you can only be in a crowd so long – and once the curtain falls…

Well I suppose Heaven’s a possibility.

(Bemusement) I didn’t know you were a friend of Dorothy…

What?

Not that it matters, obviously, I mean you can do what you like with your life. I, on the other hand, have a family to feed.

That’s a funny way of putting it.

I don’t follow, I’m sure…

But it’s quite a nice metaphor I suppose in its way. I take it you mean you’re referring to the communion of saints?

Hah! You wouldn’t call my wife a saint if you’d met her!

That’s besides the point, if our end is generally metaphysical— et in Arcadia ego, and all that…

Even in the Arcade I am?

Not if I’m in Heaven…

And already the commotion is beginning again as the stage begins to reassamble itself in expectation of another runthrough of the crowd scene. Director always offstage, speaking loudly through a microphone.

DIRECTOR

Alright, alright, back to the beginning please ladies and gents…

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et in arcadia: a sedentary perspective (Waal certainlee if Fogo burns the aktivists will be out at it – [accusations from the balcony]

burns not higher

then h’it’d be necessary to out it at it’d countermand – respice (in the Latin) not – not – Deus meus – (meus!)

“neither shall Ignez de Castro bid Ruy Diaz sequester” to thee end

(needless to say)

Waal there we are, and such as the like for it.

Bid truncation cease; end fact, try fiction – not as at Perpignan or Perigord

(sky blot met sky),

as in the flood years—

And at least in Jones we find it written all grass is as

Any Rain’l do a rain does rain do— Ah, ’tis a threnodying seson…

Redimiculum matellarum: (rain not necessarily dispensable: Frank) MAIL

SUN

OR

METRO

RUN

RAIL

ALL

WET

Forget it.

(Dash epitaphic, don’t yer think?)

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SLOW DEEPEN

REGRET

Ava Eccleston “Isaiah 1:17” I am not a monster. I am not the devil. I am not a witch.

I am a woman.

The words reverberate through every nerve, every cell, every organ. My mind screams for mercy upon my ghastly, yet inevitable, fate. Panic grips at me, snaking around my windpipe, choking my breath. Like a destitute child, abandoned and alone, fear grasps itself around my stomach. The sound of my own breath is a deafening silence that blankets the marketplace; rasping, methodical breaths belabour my rib cage, consuming any energy I have left. I am struck by incoherence, physically and mentally. I only have one choice: to resign myself to my pursuer, to exhaustion.

Thousands of splinters penetrate and pierce my bare, bruised shoulders for my body is tethered upright to a stake. Metal chains grasp me, like icy fingers, clinging to the remains of my freedom. Squinting through my contorted, mangled eyes, I gaze upon my isolated surroundings: the dilapidated cobbled marketplace is mocking me, taunting me with the thought of how spirited it would become tomorrow morning; once everyone would had forgotten about the barbaric murder that took place the night before.

Instantly grabbing my attention, a growl from the heavens drags my eyes upon the malevolent, sinister sky - it seemed unfathomably dark, suffocating every living, breathing thing. I am immobile, frozen, staying stagnant in this horror scene. Tremendous, cataclystic clouds began to rapidly approach; the sky is an opera, and clouds are dancing to the roar of heaven’s drum. A monstrous wall of water is released from the hands of God flooding the Earth: a punishment to cleanse the wickedness of humankind.

Yet I see no rainbow. The vast sky, endless with possibilities, contradicts my mere insignificant existence.

Wind gnaws and gnashes against my lifeless, drenched body, I have no choice but to crawl into my mind to find some comfort. Yet, none was found…

All I find is that my mind, my limbs, my memories regress back to where this all started: June, 1862, Yorkshire.

An event that demands to be lived all over again…

As I sat in my usual seat during the Sunday sermon, I noticed through the stain-tinted windows that the red, purple, and blue colours dimly danced upon the room.

Trapped and tortured, questions were begging to escape my mind, pounding, etching to be voiced. Why must we be subject to a man? Why must my brother have more freedom and liberty than me? It is unjust. I am a woman. I must be silent. The priest began his opening verse; his

voice was lethargic and methodical: “Women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission, as the Law also says.

If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church” – Corinthians 14:34 His voice sent chills down my spine. His words echoed through my soul, whirling, swirling and lashing at my heart.

My emotions had grown into a surging torrent, a bulging blister of exasperation and hatred. I found myself propelling upwards to my feet. A furnace of fire unleashed the voices of fury. “No! No! This is not right! What does a man have that we do not! Wake up!” Thoughts echoed through my soul; they begged and thrashed against my mind like a brood of vipers. The serpent of anger had deceived me, and I ate.

What had I done?

Raucous gasps and thunderstruck eyes seared through my skin. My hand with a mind of its own covered my mouth as if to stop anything else from surfacing. There was silence.

Nothing, but silence. Then my dreadful fate: a mere whisper from the back of the room.“Witch… Witch… Witch…

Witch! The cacophonic chants engulfed the room. It began to close in on me, oppressing me, choking me. My eyes darted around looking for reassurance, but it’s too late. Pressure seized around my shoulders; the forceful momentum drags me back. My limbs are suddenly seized by a power greater than mine and while I thrash and struggle, I realise I am going to die…

June 1862, Yorkshire: the moment that changed my life forever – the moment I was labelled a witch…

I am freed by the prison of my mind as I notice the compact, eager crowds descend upon the marketplace; hushed whispers snake and slither through the crowds, spitting out damned words. My eyes, battered and bruised, are watching those that I used to call family as they congregate for their own daily amusement: the killing of a supposed witch. The reality of my fate clings to my mind like a persistent toothache. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. All I can do is listen…

“Today we are gathered here to witness the damnation of a witch: a witch who agrees with the devil. Let this flame signify the ones that she shall burn in for eternity.” I dared not move. The crowd falls deadly silent, not one whisper can be heard. I lift my chin, and with a fierceness that I never knew existed, I declare, “I am no more of a witch than I am a woman, a human, you may accuse me of being the UppLit Volume 10

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Ava Eccleston “Invisible Strings” devil today, where it is you who will be damned tomorrow.” More gasps, more looks of disgust emulate the marketplace. If I should die for my ‘sins’ so be it. I was doing what no one else dared to do: stand up to a man.

Without warning, the smell of gasoline seizes my lungs, flooding them as it was doused upon my vulnerable body.

The taste was so bitter, and it was causing me to cough viciously, it is as if I am drowning. But, I am drowning… I’m drowning in my own silence. I am drowning because I am a woman! The chants resume again like a countdown for my demise. Witch! Witch! Witch! My eyes wide to the birth of a flame upon a torch, like a predator watching its prey.

Screaming. Howling. Wailing: my mind beseeches me to run, to hide, to survive. I strain my neck towards the sky and notice that the voluptuous clouds have disappeared; instead, there is a harsh haze of smoke, which covers the heavens like a veil of death… the fire, full of life, begins to slither towards my chained body. One step closer; two steps closer; three steps closer…

This heat is a deadly cancer, spreading and seizing every organ, every muscle, every cell of my fragile body.

Galvanised by fear, sweat beads my forehead. I am choking, suffocating, gasping, my body is screaming for help as the smoke bewitches my lungs. Inhale; exhale; inhale; exhale - it is no use. The serpent of fire reaches me and strikes at me, engulfing my body, burning and etching into my soul. A light drapes over me in the midst of the monstrous flames. And there are only a few words that I can fathom…

I am not a monster. I am not the devil. I am not a witch.

I am a woman…

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Those invisible strings That tie us together Those invisible strings by the blood of our loved ones I know you are with me, By those invisible strings souls connected.

When we can’t see those strings We forget they are there Blind from one end Mute from the other Oh, it feels so alone.

But by those invisible strings I feel your hands on my shoulder By those invisible strings we are infinitely connected.

Liv Filtness “Emergency Landing in Bermuda” The monotonous hours on the plane felt indefinite; I’d exhausted every outdated game available on the in-flight entertainment and both my parents were asleep, along with many other tired travellers. I heard whispering a few rows behind me, which eventually grew into a quiet conversation; I peeked round the seat to decipher the words. My efforts, however, were unsuccessful.

A loud ‘ding’ slashed through the silence and stopped my thoughts in their track.

The soft muffled thump of heels on the hard carpet followed the piercing sound. I looked around to see where the stewardesses’ service was required. The professional smile faded into a concerned face as I watched her mouth move in an attempt to comprehend the conversation.

She quickly stood upright and hurried down my aisle into the cockpit.

I was perplexed, but I didn’t think much more about it; after all, I’d been on a lot of planes, and nothing had gone wrong before. Why would it now?

The piercing sound returned once more as I began clicking on the in-flight entertainment for the hundredth time in the hopes that the hours till landing would magically decrease. However, it felt even louder than previously; it must have been as it startled both my parents and multiple passengers back to consciousness. This time following the sound was a male’s voice. The captain’s voice. I couldn’t understand any of the terms or complicated jargon he was using. I began questioning my mum on the definitions but was rendered mute by her panicked expression.

Silence fell around the cabin as passengers listened intently, hanging off the pilot’s every word- the tension was palpitating. A sea of harsh whispers crashed through the quietness; apprehensive expressions etched on each face visible to me. I shuffled in my seat impatiently, but still blissfully unaware of the cause to everyone’s worry.

Without warning the plane began to tremor; another loud sound reverberated around the enclosed space. The seatbelt signs illuminated overhead, like fireflies in the night. I scramble to connect the cold metal fastenings together, satisfied the task was complete by the audible click.

The impending reality of the situation became abundantly clear, even at my young age. The word emergency ringing in my ears, fear written all over my face, I turned to look at my mum. She placed her hand on my cheek, brushing the hair behind my ear, she gave me an unconvincing smile muttering the words “everything will be okay sweetie”.

My stomach fell with the plane: the further we descended, the higher my anxiety.

My father, a grown man, my idol, and the person who was meant to protect me, was paralyzed by the agony in his ears. Tears flooded his eyes and poured down like rain; all I could do was watch in despair.

I watched the window attentively hoping to see land; instead, I was blinded by a sea of blue light dissecting through the darkness. Like a ship lost at sea we were looking for our lighthouse.

As the gleaming blue formed into the flashing lights of emergency service vehicles, I tried to picture them being the blinks of paparazzi cameras.

When I felt the jolt of the tires hitting the tarmac, I was still clutching my mother’s hand. I drifted off for a minute, attempting to process what had just transpired. What had just taken place? It had all happened so abruptly that I had little time to grasp what went on.

Looking back on it now, we were so close to catastrophe. It could have all gone so wrong.

The tannoy sounded, bellowing the orders: “Cabin crew, prepare for emergency landing”.

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Grenya Head “This is Me”

Khadija Ibrahimli “Trust”

The ocean is like my second home, The place I live is quite unknown, Down on the coast, waves lapping On the rocky shoreline.

In a world of masks and hidden guile, Trust emerges, a flickering smile.

For in the bond of faith, we find, A sanctuary where souls unwind.

The trees in the forest dancing in the sea breeze, I’m on an island in the middle of the seas, I have big dreams, Throughout my childhood I was I the rivers Playing in the streams.

Trust is a delicate, fragile thread, Woven with whispers, never unsaid.

It blooms like a flower, vibrant and pure, A foundation steadfast, forever secure.

On the island, its different, To how life is over here, Here is busy, busy.

With trust, walls crumble, bridges rise, Hearts connect, under infinite skies.

It’s a leap of faith, a courageous stride, A tether that binds, two souls side by side.

I am quite sporty, Winning a match is great glory, My dogs love to run, Hearing them bark as if a race has begun.

But trust can waver, like a wavering breeze, Fractured by doubt, shaken with unease.

It takes time to build, yet can shatter in a breath, A delicate dance between life and death.

Where I live I swim every week, Over here the salty sea isn’t there, Here there’s mountains with the tallest peaks The weather is still the same, With the wind blowing through my hair.

Yet still, we trust, despite the strife, For without trust, we wither, lose life.

In its embrace, we find solace and peace, A sanctuary where fears and doubts cease.

So let us treasure the trust we hold dear, Nurture its roots, let it banish all fear.

For in trust’s embrace, we find love’s embrace, A bond unbreakable, a sacred grace.

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Lyra Javed “I Am Me” The birds chirping in the morning tweeting a tuneful melody.

The golden cockerels squawking waking up the whole village.

The stunning view from my window as I wake up with the sun rise gleaming and the sun beams bouncing to the earth.

The long mighty hay and wheat being cut and collected in the fields. Haystack after haystack.

Hearing sheep’s calls and the bonnie lamb’s feet hitting the grass as they frolic in the lush green fields. waking up to a hot steaming cup of tea, its scents rushing up your nose. Sat by the fireplace feeling the warmth of my toes.

The weasels and deer camouflaging themselves in the tall thick grass hearing every crisp sound.

The rain pattering, splashing to the surface of the earth.

The soft wind brushing against my skin waking me up to this beautiful location I live in: The smell of the fresh, crispy-cut crops and the scrumptious egg sizzling on the frying pan; The sound of the big mighty tractors roaring up and down the fields collecting an array of wonders.

The farm is my home.

The farm is me.

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Aidhin Kaleem “Silent Sacrifice” Freezing and holding myself together, I walk past the wooden gate alone.

Feeling the warmth of your head on my heart, teary-eyed before you waved goodbye and the car drove away.

Wearing my jacket stained with your tears, all layered-up, uncertain what cards the cold would play today.

Away from the heat that drove me up, trying to find you to warm me up.

Some nights I hear your voice through the door, elated I get to hold you tight again, only to be disappointed it’s all a dream; so, I hug my pillow thinking it’s you.

From sheets of paper that’d fly under our door, marked with a red stamp at its foot; to nights you’d sleep on the couch in a crowded home, you pulled the sheets over my head through it all.

The records are all a blur, the chronology missing its pieces, the battles you lost and won, it’s all a mystery to me.

Silent sacrifice, Silent sacrifice, I’m starting to put the pieces together.

It’s silent, it’s silent, It was silent sacrifice.

Unconsciously conscious of the loud noises, banging on the door, hugging me every morning.

You were holding me afloat, despite the fact that you were sinking.

After long days you’d spend at work, I’d have nightmares at 3 a.m., and you’d hug me tight and say, “It’s going to be okay.” (it’s going to be okay.)

Wish I could go back in time and tell you “You’re gonna be okay.”

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Wish I could reach back in time and hold your hand.

I dream of being the artist of my own painting like you painted yours; who built a raft in the deep end; who made a name for yourself rather than make a name for other people.

Wish your dad could see the incredible daughter he raised; If I could talk to him I’d tell him “She’s my mom. She’s my hero.”

(She’s my mom. She’s my hero.)

Lisa Li “Cloud” I floated quietly in the air, The wind held my hand, Took me through sunrise and sunset.

The wind stopped, I picked up my telescope, Squinting, Through the dazzling sunshine, And the golden ginkgo, I saw a girl among the bustling people.

She wasn’t outstanding, Like one of the countless stars.

She is like everyone else around her, She goes to school, Celebrates parties, She will laugh, Will cry.

I discover something else this time.

I find out that---She is the silence in the noise, The eternal calm in the panic.

She always has weird ideas that are different from others.

She longs to be her inner self， She wishes she can let those cold faces shine for her, Instead of treating her like air.

She hopes she can make those who don’t care about her uproar for her, Instead of believing that she can’t do anything successful.

She won’t cry because no one cares about her, But she will cry because someone cares about her.

She accepted her own ordinary, But she didn’t give up on becoming what she wanted in her heart.

I put down the telescope out of boredom, And look up.

I put down the telescope silently, And look up.

The universe is bright, The stars are shining, It’s reasonable to say---That she is difficult to notice.

Yes, she is so small, so small, so small that even I feel sad, She is so ordinary, so ordinary, so ordinary that I can’t find anything different from other stars in her.

The universe is bright, The stars are shining, She isn’t outstanding, Like one of the countless stars.

She isn’t as bright as the Daystar, But she is as staunch as Polaris.

I picked up my telescope again with interest squinting, I don’t believe there are really people in world who can be that ordinary.

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Lavinia Martin “Doing the Right Thing ” The sun entered centre-stage, scorching the treetops that nodded on the horizon and setting the sky alight with colour. Brilliant pinks and oranges streaked the landscape, illuminating plumes of smoke and streets dark with blood.

Blood, smoke, fire. He blinked out of his daydream. Who was he kidding? The sun hadn’t risen in two months.

Stumbling out from the hot, dark pile of rubble in which he had taken refuge, the boy peered out into the gritty smoke. Through it, he couldn’t even make out the horizon, let alone nodding trees. He smiled jeeringly at himself. Nodding trees. Good God. It was impossible to tell the time of day, but some semblance of a damaged internal clock told him he was tired. With that realisation came a sudden weightiness in his limbs, and he collapsed to the ground with a resigned grunt.

He felt a tight gnawing in his stomach. As his eyes closed against the burning air, he found himself dreaming of sunlight again.

Moments later, he became faintly aware of a strange, strangled wailing sound.

After a moment, he recognised it. It was no longer uncommon to hear the final cries of babies left to the mercy of the elements by desperate mothers no longer able to nurture them.

Cracking open his eyes, feeling them being lacerated raw by that cruel, gritty wind, he looked around absent-mindedly for the source of the noise.

The baby was lying barely ten feet away from him. It must have been left there in the night as he slept. With an air of calm detachment he watched its little face, deformed into ugliness by radiation poisoning and further contorted by its incessant wails. The wails became hysterical. Several minutes went by before it occurred to him that he should help it.

The boy caught himself at that word, ‘should’. Why ‘should’ he? He ‘should’ get some rest. He ‘should’ find something to eat. With an odd, trembling emotion he had not felt in a long while, he recalled the last words of his mother as she choked to her death five cold months prior: “So long as you do the right thing, sweetheart.”

He swallowed. He looked at the baby: a new life, hopeful, innocent, doomed. He ‘should’ help it. He felt the heaviness of his limbs.

The wolf inside him growled.

He ‘should’ find something to eat.

He should find something to eat.

He moved towards the baby.

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Jake Merritt “Gothic Writings” As I was basking in the glory of my downstairs fireplace, a sudden rattling came to my attention followed by a dramatic crash. I burst from my slumber and leapt to the door, seeing only a neatly folded envelope perfectly placed on the brown door mat. It read ‘to Brian’ in large writing.

Exquisitely I picked up the letter emboldened upon it stood a red seal. As it was in the early hours of the morning, I was certainly inquisitive to who would send a letter at this hour. So, I ripped it open like a child, the words were letters from different newspapers. On it was escribed “I’m looking forward to this”. These words sent chills down my back like an ice bucket had been tipped over me. However, I promised myself that they got the wrong address and proceeded to my evenly slumber upstairs. The sight of my bedroom complete with fresh sheets and newly made bed made me forget the upsetting events only a few minutes ago.

I awoke to the crackle of thunder and crash of lightning parading around my ears. My eyes blinded by the flash of bright light allowing my eyes to adjust. I gathered by vision and stumbled out of bed for the toilet to grab some water, as my throat was as parched as a desert. Almost hobbling along to the bathroom, flicking the light I realised that the window of the bathroom was wide open. As it danced in the wind swaying left and right I shut it and did not give it much thought as I stumbled back to my room. Arriving to my destination I flicked the light on and in the corner of the room stood a ghostly figure, dressed in a black cloak so you could not see the skin, however you could its body shape: almost 7 foot tall and thin, almost decerped in looks like a rose being withered away leaving only a grey stump behind. I jumped in fright and spilled my water all over my body and closed my eyes in despair. I kept them as shut as a locked chest for at least two minutes until I had the daring to open them, and when I did no monstrous figure greeted me, no dark silhouette hovered over my room, a sigh of relief gushed over me as I leapt into bed.

The next morning I aroused myself and descended the stairs to the kitchen getting to ready to feed my dog Echo when I noticed, emboldened into the carpet were the words “just you wait”. My heart suddenly jolted like a roller-coaster, the writing was sticky brown and a slug like texture which after much deliberation no amount of force could remove and as I was removing the carpet from its floor and depositing it in the trash, I was reminded of last night’s adventure. A shiver went down my spine. Even more so after remembering reading the letter.

So, I have started to prepare for the inevitable, that being that something had snuck into my house and was visiting me nightly. I of course set about my plan to stop any more

nightly disturbances. A quick visit to the shop and not one, but three new locks were added to my door. Not only that but a knife is now kept in my bedside cabinet if it comes to the worst. Even Echo has been given extra safety measures as his crate has been moved to my room.

After my daily activities were finished, I was getting ready to head upstairs to gently fall asleep and as I was closing the curtains. There it was the figure ornated in that cape face down into skin almost peeling away from the flesh, it looks malnourished and mentally strained, its skin as white as snow. Its sudden appearance had my skin prickly up as I realised that I was being confronted by a force of supernatural, I headed up stars and in fear darted under my sheets clutching my knife in desperation. When suddenly I heard a faint tinkling sound coming from my bathroom.

Still far too afraid to go there, I cowered in my room for what seemed like an eternity, until I heard a howl come from my bathroom my dog Echo. In fear of my companion being harmed I grabbed my knife and sprinted into the bathroom.

There was no one inside the bathroom however the bath was still running and was starting the overflow as water flooded my feet and to my surprise it was icy cold, in fact the whole room had a certain level of frostiness to it.

Bending over to stop the bath running, I was stopped by a horrible sight. In the centre of the bath there was Echo, hair matted by the water, floating at the top of the bath absolutely motion less. Tears began to rush over me as trying to get away from the picture. I look up at the ceiling and in the same sluggish paste was written “you will be next”. At this point my emotions overcame me as I cowered on floor and crept into a ball whishing it would all go away.

Sophie (Brian’s sister) For three days Brian has not responded to a single one of my texts or calls and knowing his history and track record I was starting to get worried, so fearing the worst in the early hours of the evening I drive off to his house. It is only a few minutes away in a quiet little avenue but I am starting to stress as many thoughts exit my brain, those thoughts at that time was consisting of is he ok, and even is he dead.

Anyway, I arrive at his house. I am greeted by no opening of the door, no embrace from by brother, luckily after much banging on the door, I used my own set of keys and entered. The moment I entered the house the atmosphere shifted, the house felt unwelcoming and cold. And I noticed that the carpet was gone. But then my eyes were aroused by the gentle tickling of water upstairs. I called Brian’s name a few times almost shouting, “Brian” … no response. So, I head upstairs, and I realise a wet sensation UppLit Volume 10

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Jess O’Donoghue “Embrace of Blindness” on my leg. It is ice cold water flowing from the bathroom and down the stairs. An awful thought comes to mind but I shove it out of the way and stride into the bathroom.

There he is a sopping mess of flesh and bone, huddled like a pathetic animal, a knife in one hand, the other rapped like a coil around his head. My eyes then notice the bathtub and see the dog; a sharp pang hits my heart.

And when I look up, I see the writing.

This doesn’t need an explanation I bundle Brian into my car and drive straight to our parents’ house, telling him that it is time for him to go to a new home where people can look after him. You see this is not the first time that something like this has happened. As I am telling this he protests and even shouts at me demanding his mental story about him being haunted. As I am pulling up to our parents’ house a glimpse catches on my eyesight: a person, extremely tall, standing in the opposite road looking right at us, the stare went right at me and felt icy almost penetrating my mind.

However, as I looked away and then looked back it was gone, perhaps it was just my mind playing tricks on me.

The darkness blanketed my surroundings like a blindfold, stealing the sight from my eyes and replacing it with impenetrable black. Fear choked me, banishing every logical thought from my panicked mind.

Touch, Hearing, Smell. The only other reliable senses that had not yet been snatched from my helpless soul. I extended my arms staggering through the unknown, desperate to find something to cling to, a life ring in this perplexing place. I walked for what felt like days although it could have been mere minutes, I walked until my lungs burned, my feet ached, and I could go no further. I began to crawl, determined to find something that would give my slipping sanity a small shard of hope. Time continued to drag on as though it wanted to extend my suffering for as long as it could. Until I became a shuddering wreck, with nothing except my maddened thoughts for company.

A numbing cold seeped into me as I lay defeated, exhausted on the unforgiving ground, gradually losing my first hope. Touch.

Hearing, Smell. I strained my ears attempting to locate any sort of sound that could give me a clue as to where I was. Occasionally I thought that I had heard footsteps; another desperate person in need of help? But I never heard them again. The silence began to creep in just as the darkness had, oppressive and absolute, I had lost my second hope. Hearing.

Smell. I drew in a deep breath through my nose, scenting the air wishing, wanting, needing any indication that there was something other than eternal black. A sharp aroma filled my nostrils, it reminded me of happier periods, of cool sand between my toes. Was I by the sea? That flickering ember of hope fluttered in my chest becoming a small flame as it clutched at the lifeline that filled my being with its salty scent. I inhaled again, savouring the tang that would become my link to the outside world. As I continued to breathe through my nose, I noticed the more breaths I took the more intense the scent became, it burned through me, a merciless fire that tore apart my lungs I rapidly lost my final hope. Smell.

If I could have screamed, I would have burst my eardrums if only I could Hear. If I could See I would have shivered whilst blood flowed over my skin. If I could have Touched myself, I would have wept as my skin rippled between my fingers in endless spasms. If I could, I would have Smelt the coppery aroma of blood as I collapsed in on myself, lost in my own terrified mind.

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Helena Sams “Shrivelling Up” I sit here, waiting.

The glorious sphere of light rises, just to be replaced by the moon.

I watch her.

She dances, rushes, works But I am waiting for the time that she Pays attention to me.

She stares up at me in awe, eyes watering at my beauty, Red, luscious petals, stretching out in front of her.

She softy touches my soil, as dry as sandpaper.

It feels like peanuts, the ridges sinking into me.

She rushes, yet again and pours rivers of water to comfort my dry scales.

But it is too much.

I shrivel up in pain, how cruel, how cruel!

She stares back at me, a cloud of guilt and shame hung over her.

My roots rot right before her eyes.

So, I let go…

My once delicate petals now drop beneath me, I am no longer beautiful, but she still loves me.

Yet the chasm between us just grows deeper.

Kit Theakston “This is Me”

Milo White “I AM”

In a world of countless faces, here I stand, No mask to hide behind.

This is me, imperfect, flaws, and all, A simple soul.

Winter’s breath, crisp and chilling, Amongst a silent world, covered in white.

The harp’s warm hum of emotion Seems to melt the snow with glowing devotion.

Through failures, victories, I’ve come to be, A unique page in life’s vast story.

This is me, in brutal honesty This is me, to me.

With caring fingers, the harpist weaves, A tapestry of cold, frosty leaves.

Each note a soft icicle, pure and clear, In winter, the harp sings sincere.

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George Wilding “Dead End” As I walked on into the forest the trees either side of me grew darker and more menacing. I did not notice my fear at first or perhaps my own arrogance and self-belief would not allow me to be scared. Fear was for lesser mortals not for sports champions. All the same I felt something I had never felt before, something, something which I thought was incapable of feeling. A cold shiver running down my spine. I swallowed and looked around. Fog was on me like cats amongst pigeons, as cold grey mass of darkness and loss. The fog swarmed around me like sizing up its new pray. Ahead of me there was darkness. Behind. Darkness. I couldn’t even see the moon though the dense fog.

The trees ither side of me grew tall and cast long shadows on the muddy sludgy path. They swayed this way then that whispering to each other. They were all close to each other as if they were afraid of being singled out. The trees’ thick roots were now all over the path some as large as a human body, a great tip wire of the devil. The bushes either side of me were closing in trapping me in a cage with no escape.

Something dark and ominous dripped from the low hanging leaves. Drip, drip, drip, drip. It was a count down, a count down to my own end. Or the timer death counting all the heat beats it had left. Something screamed in the night like a tortured child screaming for its parents to come and save it, it was a sound of raw fear. I looked up quickly.

Crows were soaring over the treetops obviously disturbed by some devil lucking in the trees. However, through my hazed vision I could see that one had broken off and was diving towards me, I lost sight of it through the fog, but I heard scratching of metal.

The bird had flown behind me, so I crept back up the way I had came avoiding sticks which could make a racket in the now deathly silent forest. Then out of the gloom an old sign loomed out at me, a sign with nothing on it which had not been there before. A single crow was perched on top, it took flight when it saw me creeping through the shadows.

It was a yellow caution sine rusted with age and looked like it had been there for years. I could see the flakes of rust peeling of it. Then a horrible scratching sound, that sound when you scratch metal with your fingernails. In that that moment I was paralyzed on the spot. Unable to move.

Unable to speak. I could not take my eyes of the sign. Lines were appearing from nowhere on it. The sound was getting louder and louder. I could then see that the lines the scratching noise was making had angered themselves into words.

“Dead End”

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What devilry was this? I knew that some invisible monster had done this, for I could not think of any other way in which it could have happened.

I closed my eyes in silent fear and horror. I was hugging my mother, like I was three again. “It’s alright now, I’ve got you,” she said whispering into my ear.

Her warm hand slid down my hair and onto my back. I pulled away and said, “I love you mum”.

I opened my eyes. Nothing was there. I stumbled backwards. Who was I hugging, I thought panic-stricken.

Nothing alive or dead was near me.

I knelt on the ground, curled up in my own distress, trauma, and horror. My very bones were shrieking release from the body they longed break. My tears had formed a puddle of misery and despair.

“GOD WHY, WHY ME?” I yelled into the night as if the release of my own suffering would help me. My heart was pumping 3 time faster than normal speed, but I just lay on the floor and wept. I then saw though the reflection of the puddle a dark and deathly shadow looming towards me. It was darker than the night. Colder than death. A deadly killer. The darkness loomed towards me. It surrounded me until there was nothing……….

Nothing!

Sasha Sherwin “The Gravedigger”

Flecker Society

Pumpkins savaged with the knife; their innards pulled by fists Then lit with that same bloody hand for the amusement of the kids.

In the gravedigger’s collection there lie empty orange skulls, She poisons the flesh of the pure, then wears their heads for her own.

Welcome to the Flecker Society!

We meet weekly in the library at 5.30 Monday and host a range of student and staff talks. Look out for reminder emails from Miss Kinmond and if you are in a younger year, do not be afraid to come along and see what Flecker is like, and if it does pique your interest then Mrs Sherwin runs a Junior Flecker Society, same place, same time. Below is the list for the next term’s talks. If any catch your attention, then make sure to put it in your diary so you don’t miss it.

The gravedigger runs away, boots colliding, whispered discord, To get away from the cupboard of her many broken records.

Flaming leaves meet with their deathbed on the rain-soaked gravel, Then turn to sodden embers, skeletons imprinted, gossamer bones.

She finds herself inside a cave, usually she loves the dark; But this dark is of the ink she used to write the cold regards, In a letter shoved down the throat of anyone who met her, By the hand covered in paper cuts that never seem to heal.

Always shall she dig her grave when someone talks to her, Unless it is the moon in which her soul is wrapped, preserved.

She greets the black cats, spills the salt, gently pats the raven, Nevermore shall the crystal ball show anything but cobwebs.

Her sleepless nights are haunted by the ticks of backward clocks, Her only tool, the shovel, can do nought but make it worse.

She stares until she sees the ghosts, behind the curtain of the night, But they retreat as soon as they see her silhouette approach: Her pumpkin head, the cloak that’s made of pages that she reads, But if you take her shovel, smash the pumpkin, then you’ll see: Amongst the dying bed of leaves, The gravedigger is me.

15th January – Benedict Braddock The Poetry of James Elroy Flecker 22nd January – Miss Abdul-Karim A Poetic Meditation 29th January – Hugo Laing Orlando Virginia Woolf 5th February – Mrs Hunter 12th February – Ethan Cousins House of Leaves

by Mark Z Danielewski HALF TERM 4th March – Miss Neilson 11th March – Mr Tolond The Prince

by Machiavelli

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Uppingham School is a charitable company limited by guarantee registered in England and Wales. Company number 8013826. Registered Charity number 1147280. Registered Office: High Street West, Uppingham, Rutland LE15 9QD