The Haberdashers` Aske`s Boys` School Creative

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The Haberdashers’ Aske’s Boys’ School Creative Writing Magazine
Spring 2013 Edition
Contents
Editorial - Luke Vaz ....................................................................................................................................... 5
Grandpa - Archuna Ananthamohan.............................................................................................................. 6
Interrupted - Kishan Ganatra........................................................................................................................ 8
The Knock - Daniel Nikzamir........................................................................................................................ 9
Echoes of Silence - Curran Kumar................................................................................................................ 10
Family Reunion - Jamie Harper................................................................................................................... 11
Silent Night - Yathavan Sriskantharajah..................................................................................................... 12
50 Words for Scribe: A Competition............................................................................................................. 13
Olympic Perspective - Gordon Hao............................................................................................................... 14
Autumn - Sameer Aiyar-Majeed.................................................................................................................. 15
Early Morning in the Alps - Ben Stewart..................................................................................................... 16
I Hear Them Whisper - Ben Young............................................................................................................... 17
Krakatoa - Henry Gould............................................................................................................................... 18
Man Lying on a Wall - Savan Mehta........................................................................................................... 19
Proverbs - Freddie Wright.............................................................................................................................. 20
The Boyhood of Raleigh - Jonathan Levitt.................................................................................................... 21
The Mona Lisa - Daniel Trethewey.............................................................................................................. 22
The School of Athens - Amol Karkhanis........................................................................................................ 23
The Scream - Joshua Gottlieb........................................................................................................................ 24
Port with the Villa Medici - Freddie Wright................................................................................................ 25
The Triumph of Death - Abbas Kermalli...................................................................................................... 27
LBA Novel-Writing Competition Submissions............................................................................................. 29
The Eviction - Covi Franklin........................................................................................................................ 30
Legend of the Mother Lioness - Siddharth Sheth and Jason Lam................................................................ 35
The Nightmare Code - Archuna Ananthamohan......................................................................................... 38
A Powerless Coincidence - Jordan Bernstein................................................................................................. 41
Full List of Entries for the 2012 Novel-Writing Competition...................................................................... 47
Interview with Dr. Craig, Deputy Head (Pastoral)...................................................................................... 48
Scribe | Spring 2013
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Editorial Team
Editor: Luke Vaz
Deputy Editor: Jake Lewis
Supervising Editor: Mr. A.E. O’Sullivan
Copy Editor (Poetry): Jack Lewy
Copy Editor (Features): Andrew Djaba
Copy Editor (Short Stories): Gordon Hao
Online Editor: Curran Kumar
Editorial Assistants: Jordan Bernstein, Adiyant Lamba, Luke Silverman, Noah Max
Publicity: Noah Max
Artists: Nikhil Ladwa, Martin Lee
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Editorial – Luke Vaz
Welcome to this edition of Scribe – the foremost (OK, the only, but still pretty good) Habs Literary
Journal. I am extremely proud to present to you writers from across the school who have contributed
to this edition with an astonishing range of subjects, styles and sentiments. The quality of the writing,
uniformly impressive from across the age range, bodes extremely well for the future. In a break from
tradition, I invite you to disregard the age and year of the writer, and let the writing speak for itself.
In a world still feeling the shockwaves of an extraordinary period of international conflict, it is
appropriate to read the response of Curran Kumar, in Echoes of Silence, in which he considers our
military culture and a man’s call of duty; Freddie Wright, on the other hand, suggests the needlessness
of human sacrifice by fighting in his piece Proverbs. The settings of the contributions are various, from
Yathavan Sriskantharajah’s Silent Night taking us into an uncomfortable urban setting, to Jonathan
Levitt’s Boyhood of Raleigh, in which it is almost like we are there, the wind whistling through our ears,
to the nightmarish world of Josh Gottlieb’s The Scream; the translation of human emotions onto a page
that has truly impressed the editing team this year.
Appreciative works are something we have enjoyed in this edition, Daniel Trethewey’s Mona Lisa
poetically depicting the eponymous maiden as if she were alive today, and Ben Stewart’s Early Morning in
the Alps reminding us that in many ways words can paint a picture more just as valid as that of a painting
itself. This form of appreciation is truly captivating, as it takes actual understanding and a creative eye to
decode the original message of a painter, even a message that can be related to the modern world.
The 50 Words competition has seen several intelligent and witty entries judged against each other
by its founder Gordon Hao. We are pleased to announce a winner in Harry Kingdon, whose clever
submission (based on Cambridge University research) manages to balance thought and humour
admirably. I congratulate him on being the first winner of the competition and herald many more of its
kind to come.
The inclusion in this edition of two of the winning entries, and two other very fine pieces of writing,
from the Habs/LBA Novel-Writing Competition, is a new and exciting development. I urge you to
take the time to read these ambitious contributions: one never knows where the writers, all budding
novelists who have produced some outstanding efforts, might be getting their names printed next!
I conclude with a final note in urging younger and older pupils alike to dabble in creating their own
piece and to take note from boys who have passed through the school before you. Leave your mark on
Habs before it’s too late, and create a lasting legacy as only the written word can do. I look forward to
seeing editions of Scribe live long and prosper in years to come. Hopefully when wars have ended and
casualty lists have been counted, poetry will change all together beckoning a new age of the achievability
and practicality of peace. Though styles and themes will change, the immortality of old books won’t; the
written word truly is powerful.
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Archuna Ananthamohan
Grandpa
The pall of the dense clouds and bleak economic future plagued the streets of Croydon. Needles of
rain, in their regimental fashion, pricked the pavement. Violent winds, vast masses of frost and hostility,
smacked the frail lamp posts and walls, tattooed with graffiti. The breezes howled a macabre chorus. Neither an anorak nor an umbrella was in sight. But it was in these streets I roamed, an impoverished young
man whose hopes and aspirations had been smothered when, a few months ago, London was besieged by
anarchy, nihilism and thuggish looting.
I stood there alone, mourning. The merciless past had not left me. I stared at the reconstruction of what
used to be several flats, Mr Gilbert’s Furniture, and my home. Now what remained before me was a
skeletal infrastructure of metal rods, damp cardboard and buckets of paint. For years I had watched my
grandfather converse amiably with the customers at Mr Gilbert’s Furniture, selling and craving the finest
ebony wood. The family legacy of running the shop, dating back to the Great War itself, came to a sudden, bitter halt on that cruel August night.
I stared at the building. The siren of a fire brigade buzzed through my ears. Thunder boomed from
the sky. My heart thudded. I kept staring at the building. My breathing slowed to deep diaphragmatic
intakes like the final gasps of a euthanised animal. Beads of perspiration trickled down my neck. I began
to tremble. I could feel the wicked heat. I was returning to the nightmares of the past. I was inside that
burning building.
“We can make it!” I cried with excruciating perseverance. I pressed my grandfather’s hand. Beyond the
blockade of sulphurous fumes was the fluorescent green sign with the little white emergency exit man. I
focused on the emerald light. Above us were innocent, unfortunate lives devoured by the evil rage of fire.
Behind us were mischievous, cackling flames singeing the carpets and wallpaper. To the left were hysterical screams. A pyromaniac’s abhorrent dream.
We kept running, fighting our way through the dust and soot. Amber sparks flurried over us. The fumes
and the sweltering heat were agonising. We just ran. We ran for our lives.
Finally, we reached the safety exit. At once, I sprinted out of this threshold of Hell into the cold,
unforgiving British weather. The sudden contrast of light blinded and confused me. I was in the arms of
a fireman. A blanket was wrapped around me. I could hear my heart pounding. Though my vision was
blurred, I could perceive the building ablaze. Sounds bombarded my ears. The panicked voices of policemen. The droning siren of the fire brigade. The weeping of survivors. There was something missing.
Where was the voice of the leprechaun? Where was Grandpa?
He must have collapsed on the ground. He was still in that burning building.
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Grandpa continued
“Grandpa!” I shrieked, intending to save him at any cost, but the firemen restrained me.
Cold air chills through my spine. I’m back in the torrential rain, staring at the reconstruction. Life isn’t
fair. It’s a brutal thing. But if there is one thing Grandpa hated, it is me being weak-willed. That would be
shameful to my family. Grandpa is dead. He’s dead. Whatever the problems, I will carry on running Mr
Gilbert’s Furniture. I will do it for the family. I will do it for Grandpa.
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Kishan Ganatra
Interrupted
Sarah ran. Where she was going she didn’t know, but that was of no importance. The screeching was earsplitting. The howling was terrifying. Stumbling, Sarah urged herself forward. The beasts were closing in,
advancing with every leap. What could she do?
Their fiery yellow eyes seemed to be watching her every move. Out of breath, she arrived at a clearing.
The moon, piercing through the starry sky, illuminated her. Then she suddenly saw their six shadows
closing in and sensed their mouths drooling in the darkness of the night.
An owl hooted in the distance, producing a distinct, eerie chord. Sarah stooped behind a grassy knoll
clenching a rock in her palm, her knuckles white with fear. She hurled it blindly into the deep black
of the clearing. A shriek echoed around the forest. Searching for another projectile, she found a loose
branch on the ground. The snarls drew ever closer, hungrier with every step. She knew she had to act.
Before it was too late.
She thrust the stick into the shadows. With a growl, the branch was snatched from her grip. Sarah
turned to run as hellish jaws clamped around her ankle. She tumbled to the uneven forest floor, and
caught a fleeting glance of the beasts in front of her in the darkness. A howl emanated through the forest. In the silence that followed, all she could hear was the noise of her chest.
Pounding. Pounding. Pou-
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Daniel Nikzamir
The Knock
The sun set over the ocean of green, murky water. The scene was familiar to Francis, standing casually
beneath the gate of the lighthouse. Slowly, he made his way to the door. His bony fingers clutched
the icy door handle and pushed inwards to reveal hundreds of steep stone stairs. With caution, he
trudged up the stairs, the door creaking shut behind him. By the time he had reached the top, the sun
had set, leaving only darkness. Crevices in the walls allowed portions of moonlight to glimmer into
the small room.
The deathly silence was broken by an unusual sound. From out of the blackness, a bat swooped past his
head, sending a shiver down his spine. Unfazed, he sat down on a wooden chair and gazed out towards
the ocean over the howls of distant wolves. As he drifted off into the vast emptiness of sleep, a sudden
knock at the door startled him. Unafraid, he awaited the inevitable arrival of the Great Unknown.
A shadowy shape loomed over him, a shape which seconds ago had not existed. Francis felt his heart
pounding as he accepted his fate. The end had come.
Sitting in his chair, Francis passed away. All else died with him, leaving only the knocks and creaks of the
lighthouse to fill the void.
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Curran Kumar
Echoes of Silence
He stood precariously with his platoon. The acute intensity of the Middle Eastern sun pierced the back
of his neck. He shivered. Silence.
“TEN-HUT!”
With this deafening boom, his spine straightened instinctively.
Staring into the shrewd eyes of the sergeant, he recalled a particularly ruthless experience from his
training. He remembered the grotesque taste of sand being sprayed into his mouth as he ran through
the plains of the Negev with his fellow patriots, all training to protect their nation at the most elite level.
Those moments of temporary anguish seemed bleakly distant and trivial; he knew that what was to
come would be much worse. He quickly realised that nothing, not even his undying fervour of love for
his beloved nation, would supersede the talismanic smile of his dear Natalya - one of the few fragments
of hope that had guided him to this point. His only mission now was to make it back alive. For her.
He stumbled slightly. As he straightened himself again, the visceral thrill of having finally to face up to
his duty surged through his veins, like a round blasting out of the chamber of his assault rifle, clutched
close to his chest. He had known this day would eventually come, but it had not dawned on him until
then. That very moment. His sergeant’s interminable speech had at last come to an end. His country’s
national anthem droned through his head. This was it.
10
Jamie Harper
Family Reunion
Tom staggered desolately towards the hard, unfriendly cave which had been his home for the last two
months. Or was it three? He had lost all sense of time, driven half-mad with worry and exhaustion. He
was miles away from his tranquil home in the American countryside, marooned on a deserted island. He
had no clue where he was. He had no clue what time it was. He had no clue where his family were.
This all started that dreadful night on his family’s boat. They had been on holiday, visiting friends on the
South East coast. Then the storm hit. Everyone rushed below deck, but Tom, transfixed by the massive
waves, refused to go. Suddenly the boat had lurched violently, throwing him over the railings and into
the raging sea. It was so cold that his muscles were frozen at first impact, dragging him further under,
before an imposing wave crashed onto him. An unknown amount of time later, his limp form was
washed up onto the golden sand.
Hopelessly trapped, Tom slumped against the jagged rocks, fuelling his beacon of fire with twigs and
dried leaves, scanning the unforgiving sea despairingly, as he had done every day, in the hope that his
family would come looking for him. A sudden movement caught his eye, but as he turned to stare, it
vanished. But there it was again! As clear as daylight. A black sail. The black sail of his family’s boat
perhaps? Hope and energy surged through him. This could have been the moment that he had been
dreaming about for so long. He charged towards the beach waving his arms and shouting frantically, but
as he did so the boat began to turn away. It glided past the island as if it had deliberately ignored him.
Hope seeped away like the waves slipping back from the sand.
He was woken by a firm finger prodding his empty stomach. He looked up, bleary eyed, and could not
believe what he saw. There was his three-year old sister, Holly, jabbing him with her pudgy finger. Tom
leapt to his feet, tears of joy welling in his eyes as he saw his parents standing behind her. Emotional hugs
followed, and he felt as if he was in the middle of the best dream ever. After a few moments of tearful
silence, Tom’s parents began to explain how they had spent the last six weeks sailing up and down the
coastline, desperately searching for him. When they had escaped the storm, lifeguards had trawled the
surrounding sea but found no trace of him.
The last few months of fear and anxiety melted away and were instantly replaced with a sheer and
intense pleasure; he was back with his beloved family again.
11
Yathavan Sriskantharajah
Silent Night
A nebulous curtain falls off the land, creating flickering spotlight, beautifying the velvet framework of
the night.
A gloomy mantle of darkness envelops the dimming azure sky with sparkling diamonds, some covered
with fluffy, shady cotton. The sun has completed its journey and been replaced by wonderful stars,
sprayed all over the inky canopy.
The pale moon, casting a hazy glow across the town, hovers in the vast inky blackness, bestowing a vague
light upon the land. It is a tempestuously windy night; the swaying of trees and rustling of leaves is
heard, but not seen, as the complete darkness blocks out all but the faintest forms of life.
The wind is gently blowing, bringing the unpleasant smell of rotted garbage. Headlights gaze frightfully.
Discarded wrappers and newspapers pass by. Dustbins flinch. Street lights boast their green light. Shop
doors are shut like a zipped mouth. There is never silence.
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50 Words for Scribe: A Competition
It sounds easy: write a 50-word story. But perhaps it’s more difficult than it might seem? Not 48 words, nor
51 nor 49, but 50 words, exactly. Prompted by the (50-word) poster challenging boys to come up with the
very best they could, these boys submitted the most successful entries.
In the presence of tens of thousands, yet still I feel so alone. In the midst of a boisterous crowd, I
bellicosely hollered for my team, echoing the voices of past and future. To my utter abhorrence, this had
no impact; the outcome of the match had already been decided.
Sam Gottlieb
A scream! I jerked my head up, and my eyes scoured the walls of my prison, searching for any shapes in
the dense canopy. All was still. Green fronds reached out, slyly beckoning me deeper into the luscious,
grotesque undergrowth. The trees stood by me like false friends, watching; waiting…
Sajan Rajani
Having caught sight of the conspicuous posters that had been shoddily attached to the woefully empty
walls that lined the infamous lunch queue, with ’50 Words For Scribe’ flamboyantly emblazoned across
each and, having deemed that writing for Scribe was worth my while, I decided to write a long sentence.
Gordon Hao
The Number 50 is quite fascinating. Actually it isn’t; I lied. I just looked on Wikipedia for some relevant
facts about the number 50 so that I could submit something to Scribe and feel quite proud of myself for
making some sort of effort. Now I’ve run out of room.
Zachary Lande
Phil was alone; the past was the only thing which occupied his mind. His pills were failing him, his
carers had forsaken him. All he did was pine for his previous life, whilst shedding endless tears about his
recently departed wife and, all the while, the other pensioners moved on.
Peter Glenister
Stand up. Sit down. Run, jump, punch, kick, impale, fight, love, care, hate, eat, pray. All these words and
many more are attacking my mind. Is it possible, only fifty words? Dr. Seuss did it. Panic, panic, panic
strikes. Just nine words left. Now five. Time’s up. It’s over. Finally.
Sahil Baid
WINNER
Words are funny things. We gorw up wtih tehm. We snped yreas tiynrg to frgiue tehm out, and mroe
yaers utnil we raelsie how ltitle we udrantsend aoubt tehm. Tehy erxspes emtioons and flil our lveis,
bnrinigg wnedrfuol nwes one menomt and hiorinrfyg nwes the nxet. Wrods are fnuny tignhs.
Harry Kingdon
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Gordon Hao
Olympic Perspective
Most were escalated into a state of unprecedented euphoria; usually dreary pastimes like handball and
modern pentathlon both surged in popularity as cathodes would when exposed to metal ions. Gordon’s
emotions, however, remained as unmoved as the doggedness of the prefects’ unwavering reluctance to
vacate their beloved common room. His reaction to the arrival of the Olympic Games was blunt apathy.
Gordon genuinely did not understand why the Olympics required as much especial attention. He could
not understand why the Olympics made people so contented.
Gordon was confused.
He could not accept why the country united itself behind ‘Team GB’, for he considered the rowers on
the rippling waters of Eton Dorney as adequate a representation of the green and pleasant land as the
Army in the plains of Kandahar; both undertook their professions with the Union Jack bedecking their
attire, exerted virtually equal amounts of physical strength, yet received such starkly varying degrees
of support. The supposedly impressive standards of sporting excellence exhibited, in any one of the
Olympics’ component events, seemed to warrant just as much merit as at its world championships.
Despite his unusually frantic endeavours, Gordon found nothing unique about the Games.
Gordon acknowledged that, for many, the Games were of greater significance than any world
championships. But what bemused him was that people were more than willing to brand competitors
as deities for the Olympics, yet would not even dream of lavishing such praise on them on any other
occasion without questioning their dignity.
But Gordon probably doesn’t exist. The Olympics were wonderful.
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Sameer Aiyar-Majeed
Autumn
Leaves are falling thick and fast,
A chestnut leaf is twirling past;
A squirrel with an apple core,
Running up to check its store.
The golden dawn, the misty air,
A set of tracks, in a pair;
The bellow of a mighty stag,
Shakes the forest like a rag.
The tinkling of a little brook –
Let’s run down and take a look!
The forest carpet, work of art:
A sight with which I will not part.
Scarlet, crimson, streaks of cherry,
Auburn, golden, ginger berry,
Russet, chocolate, golden jade,
How many colours are in the glade!
Mushrooms lurking everywhere,
Magical, and hidden there.
Conkers rolling in the dozens,
A squirrel darts with all its cousins.
The animals prepare for Winter ahead,
A dormouse makes its cosy bed.
The chilly air is clear and clean:
The best Autumn I’ve ever seen.
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Ben Stewart
Early Morning in the Alps
The early morning sun appears,
Peeking through the clouds up high.
Shining brightly on those hills,
Rising up tall in the sky.
A river winding through the landscape,
Crashing water at every bend.
So far it is from its start,
The oceans meet it at their end.
And in the mist of the morn,
Darkness seems to seep away –
Disappearing slowly, calmly,
Hidden from the light of day.
And the little hut stands
All alone in this barren place.
Why would someone venture here?
There’s little around, except for space.
Animals bask in the light,
Birds baldly singing proud,
Quickly lighting up the hilltops,
Because of the parting of the clouds.
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Ben Young
I Hear Them Whisper
Well, I hear them whisper,
I hear the woods come alive.
I feel every heartbeat,
Every second,
Every moment.
My parents say I am a waste.
A failure.
I ran away;
I belong to the woods now.
There are rumours among the pine trees
That they’re coming;
Burly men with axes.
The chipmunks are moving out;
The robins abandoning their nests.
And I scream out,
“I hear them whisper!”
Then I cry and weep.
I climb up a tree
And strap myself to it.
And then I make a promise to the trees,
“They won’t bring you down, ever!
If they do I’ll come down with you too!”
And there I was,
And there they came,
And down I went,
With the trees.
Why,
Oh why?
To these poor trees!
Being slaughtered and slain,
What a world!
The madness that takes place in thee.
I hear their cries,
Their sour whimpers,
The animals scurrying,
Trying to flee.
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Henry Gould
Krakatoa
Hush my child, don’t say a peep,
I’ll hold you tight until you sleep.
Though rumbling starts do shake the ground,
And people scuttle all around,
I shall cradle your precious head
Till all the terror is gone and fled.
And left us here behind a wall
Of rock and smoke. Cut off from all
The noise and rage erupting near,
Sealed in our coffin we lie here.
Waiting for the end to come with a crash,
The frightening lightning starts to flash.
Across the brooding, blackening clouds,
There forms an ever-narrowing shroud.
Higher and faster the smoke skeins fly
To choke the sun in the darkening sky.
The mountain coughs and splutters blood,
Scorching the earth in fiery flood.
But hush my child, don’t watch me weep.
I’ll hold you tight until we sleep.
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Savan Mehta
Man Lying on a Wall
A man lies on the wall.
So calmly, with such tranquillity,
In the working town.
The man takes a break
And reposes on the wall.
Who is this man,
With his suit, hat and case?
Dressed with importance,
Yet with no cares at all.
I wish I had the power
To join him on the wall.
Could I be that man?
So calm, so tranquil.
Man Lying on a Wall
(1957) by L.S. Lowry
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Freddie Wright
Proverbs
Peace will never come,
No one is smiling or living without fear.
The town is under civil unrest.
What is the hole for?
How could one, with a narwhal and a snake let
loose in the river?
The lack of manners runs riot among the rabble of
the devil’s valley.
Any courtesy shown by the bum sticking out the
building side
To plant a tree?
Soaking up the summer sun?
Not in this town.
Dead sheep, dead cows and the dead, bloodcovered body,
The man who digs –
Spread bare amongst the blood-carpet of Lucifer’s
persecution chamber.
Here stands a man, spade in hand
With his plot uncovered.
Like a dormouse with nowhere to hide.
Gardener? Undertaker?
Maybe to dispose of the frail body in the corner,
Or the man who’s being strangled by a bare
kitchen cloth.
Maybe he works for the man with the knife,
Stalking those who
trespass along his
valley floor.
I’m just a pessimist
But how can you
look up when hell
is stealing the show
beneath my very eyes?
Netherlandish Proverbs
(1559) by Pieter
Brueghel the Elder
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No one is safe in the field of misery.
Archers, knifers and stranglers people the devilish
mist of Satan’s valley floor.
Jonathan Levitt
The Boyhood of Raleigh
The wind whistled in my ears;
I could taste the salty sea.
We sat together in the sands,
As I listened patiently.
My friend sat huddled before the man,
Dressed in clothes so fine.
His eyes were lost across the beach,
As if transfixed by time.
The curious man, whom we’d met by chance,
Was dressed in sailors’ robes.
His feet were bare, he wore a hat,
With earrings on his lobes.
Oh how time passed, it whisked away,
As I followed his mighty tales.
Of a life beyond the beach,
Brought closer by wind and sails.
He told of tales across the sea,
Of lands both far and near.
Rich with minerals, gems and spice,
Brought home over the years.
The Boyhood of Raleigh
(1870) by Sir John
Everett Millais
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Daniel Trethewey
The Mona Lisa
Her chestnut eyes beautify the scene behind her,
Her gorgeous skin is as smooth as silk.
Her graceful smile transfers happiness with ease,
Her exquisite hair conveys radiance.
Her gaze, staring intently, concentrating.
Her enduring gown encloses her beauteous body,
Her veil covers the magnificence of her glossy face.
Her body, more beautiful than a rose swaying in the wind.
Her emotions express her blessed feelings;
She is the heart of the universe.
La Gioconda (1503-6) by Leonardo da Vinci
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Amol Karkhanis
The School of Athens
Erudite people fill the room,
Bonding through their superlative knowledge.
Two in the centre:
Aristotle, the ultimate philosopher,
Cogitates and wrangles with Plato
Over complicating and perplexing topics.
And here we are with the great Pythagoras,
A king of Mathematics,
Concentrating deeply on his intricate sums
Whilst oblivious to his surroundings.
There is Ptolemy!
Delicately holding a spherical globe
With the tips of his fingers,
He disputes with Zoroaster, who holds a celestial sphere.
Raphael even includes himself,
Standing next to Ptolemy.
Eyes aghast,
Muscles taut;
He is focusing on us,
Nervous and apprehensive.
Scuola di Atene (1510-11)
by Raphael
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Joshua Gottlieb
The Scream
I was walking along a path.
Alone.
The sky was an ominous blood red.
Suddenly, I felt awash with anxiety.
Pressure had been building and building,
And now it had reached breaking point.
I sensed a scream coming from within me,
A terrifying, haunting, unforgettable scream.
One which would linger with me for as long as I lived.
Times were not good,
Business was not booming,
Persecution was looming.
As was the landlord, seeking his rent;
Pogroms were becoming more frequent.
Last time they burnt our house –
Next time, I feared, it could be our children.
The Scream (1893) by Edvard Munch
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Freddie Wright
Port with the Villa Medici
Down the gull swoops
Avoiding the orange radiance of the sundown twilight,
Casting its shadows
Carelessly amongst the local villagers.
The ebb and flow of fishing boats,
Concealing the wide, desolate ocean,
The family trip and the sea merchants
All dismounting their raft.
Port with the Villa Medici (1638) by Claude Lorrain
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Freddie Wright
Port with the Villa Medici continued
On the beach are the workers,
Not basking in the autumn sun,
For their day has only just started –
Caring for young gentleman of the town.
A boat then drifts past
Under the clouds,
Which bar the celestial Sun
Giving shadow to the crows which gnaw at the vessel’s ropes.
On the deck lies the captain,
Sprawled across the wooden beams,
Resting below the flare of the exuberant sunset,
Passively watching his frantic men.
Across the port stands a glistening white building:
The Medici Palace.
Its beauty ignites the shores of Port Villa Medici.
The sun is down, the tide is out, the day is done.
The birds and creatures head home
And the seagulls journey back to the nest.
Up comes one such gull, gliding over the turbulent waters,
Drifting into the imaginary sky of Rome.
26
Abbas Kermalli
The Triumph of Death
The net of fate hangs over the swarming fish.
Each knot, each hole, each piece of string,
Perfectly aligned to fit the head of the human.
The scythe shatters skulls, breaks necks and crushes backs –
A weapon used to cut down crops.
Death cuts down his human crops.
Who deserves to suffer such a fate?
The expansive coffin opens up.
The sheep run towards it.
One by one they enter the trap, the fake hope of escape.
The Triumph of Death (c.1562) by Pieter Bruegel the Elder
27
Abbas Kermalli
The Triumph of Death continued
Death traps his human sheep.
The gallows lie empty,
Gallows are primitive; there are better ways to kill.
Death’s cart comes through his heaven of skulls,
He picks them up,
He looks at the skull and shoves it in the cart.
Death has human skulls in his cart.
We deserve to suffer this fate,
We perish through worldly possessions,
Through our desire for a carefree life.
We play cards and gamble,
We have jokers for entertainment;
Death thrives on materialism.
Death wins again.
We have Popes and Priests,
These are the people of God.
Shouldn’t God give them an easy death?
God doesn’t because he feels betrayed;
They praise him for personal gain.
Death now has humans to mock.
Death wins again.
The two lovers play music.
Death hangs over their heads.
Death can mock them but they don’t notice.
Does Death lose here?
28
LBA Novel-Writing Competition Submissions
In 2009, Mr. Luigi Bonomi, of Literary Agents LBA, approached me with an exciting proposition. Did I
think that a competition could be run whereby boys and girls could be set the task of writing the opening
pages of a proposed full-length novel? I was immediately struck by the idea. Our students are so talented,
and they love nothing more than a seriously ambitious challenge. I thought that he was definitely on to
something. Would it work? That remained to be seen.
The LBA/Habs Novel-Writing Competition is now in its 4th year, and the results have been breathtaking. Every year, entries flood in of the most astonishing quality: the breadth of setting, character and
style chosen and, most of all, the quality of prose produced testifies to the outstanding creative talents of
our boys and girls.
I present here the two winning entries from the Boys’ School, together with selections from other
submissions which, while they missed out on prizes, provide yet more evidence of the phenomenal quality
of writing which this competition brings out at all levels of the school.
Enormous congratulations are due to all the boys and girls who entered and made this such a thrilling
competition. My thanks, once again, go to Mr. Bonomi for his vision in suggesting this competition,
together with his unstinting support for it as it has evolved.
AEO
29
Covi Franklin
The Eviction
Covi’s entry, ‘The Eviction’, won Third Prize in the 2012 Habs/LBA Novel-Writing Competition
Chapter 1
It was a brutally torrid day, the relentless sun beating down on my bare back. I shuffled uncomfortably
under the intense gaze of the large fishmonger. “The fish is good. It can go for no less than 500 and that
is a good deal!” I wiped the thin layer of sweat from my forehead as I gazed down at the large trout. A
persistent group of flies swarmed around the rotting eyes of the fish, continuing until swatted away halfheartedly by the stall owner. “I have 300.” I replied.
The man thought about this for a moment, while rubbing his unshaved chin. “You pay 400
and the fish is yours.” He lifted up his fat arms to release a stench that had been waiting under the folds
and hairs of his armpit. He wore a grey sleeveless bib that highlighted the layers of fat on his grossly large
belly. His skin was a dark red due to the burns that the heat had afflicted and he seemed to resemble a
pig; lazy and disgusting.
“I only have 300… Please! The fish is old and will soon be rotten. I am sure that you would
be glad to get rid of it,” I pleaded with the fishmonger. “Rotten! You think that this magnificent beast is
rotten? 400 is the best that you shall get!” I spread my hands out wide in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t
have any more.” He sniffed in disgust as he realised that I could not pay for his catch; that I was just
another street urchin. He walked back to the centre of his stall, mumbling about how every customer
was a waste of time, and proceeded to scan the little market for more buyers.
I moved off, keeping vigilant for another cheap food stall. From my vantage point I could
see three stalls. There was the fish monger, who’s only customers were the lingering flies, drifting in the
wafting smell of boiling fish. Then next to it was a large bar. Inside were two bustling waitresses, both
wearing tatty blue uniforms. They were carrying trays of large gourds of cool white wine, which after two
or three bottles seemed to appease the flustered businessmen who had spent the day baking in tiny office
cubicles to earn their family’s food. Finally I turned my gaze towards a busy stall with the word BAKER
painted carefully at the front.
Behind the wooden counter stood a short bald man who was in deep conversation with a
young attractive customer (much to the frustration of the long cue of waiting mothers, standing with
impatient children to buy their dinner.) The baker continued to flirt with the girl, ignoring the rest of
his customers. I understood the attraction. She was tall and slender with straight jet black hair. Her eyes
were a mousse brown, which seemed to seep healthy colour into her slightly tanned skin. She giggled at
something the baker had said, flicking her hair out from her smooth face.
I glanced quickly towards a freshly baked sponge cake, still steaming slightly. It would be
worth at least as much as the fish, if not more. I licked my dry cracked lips, spreading a thin layer of
congealed saliva over them. I stuck my filthy hand into my pocket, before looking glumly at the three
scrunched up 100 paeso notes that my father had passed on to me after a day at work. It was barely
enough to get two soups at Lambo’s shack and we had four to feed.
30
Covi Franklin
The Eviction continued
I drew my head back up, eyeing the bread hungrily. I was too fixated on the cake to notice
the large glob of drool swelling at the corner of my mouth. Thoughts, that usually I managed to block
out, began to swim around my head. Thoughts of sin and robbery. It seemed as if they were enticing and
seducing the better part of me away.
A small crunch sounded below me. I glanced down, only to realise that it was my foot
stepping towards the bakery. My animalistic instincts were daring my mind to stop it from continuing. I
took another step, and another. Then one more.
“You are such a pretty girl, you must come back to my store!” I was now close enough to
hear the conversation playing out between the baker and the young girl. She was now making a fruitful
attempt to wriggle her small hand out of the baker’s clammy grip. Another warm drop of sweat trickled
from my brow and onto the dead skin of my upper lip. The extra perspiration was partly from the
unforgiving heat but mainly from the thought of what I was about to do.
“You know it’s wrong to steal, Heraclio? People who steal are taken away and never come
back!” My mother’s words of warning rang out in the back of my mind. I ignored her, allowing the idea
of a good meal drown out her pleas to be honest. I crouched down as I approached the stool. It seemed
simple; just reach up and snatch the cake. The baker was surely rich and would not miss one small pastry.
I crept up slowly, praying that the baker didn’t turn around. My heart thudded against
my chest. The wooden plank, holding up the iron roof of the stand, loomed in front of me. I waited,
crouching. My courage grew as I played the situation over in my head. I would take my prize and retreat
across the small stretch of desert which lay between the market and the labyrinth of houses which I knew
so well. Once I made it there I would be safe for sure. The many tiny passages would shield me from any
man looking to make me pay for my crime.
I took a deep breath. 1...2...3. Like a snake I darted forward, snatching the cake from the
counter and clutching it to my chest. The young girl witnessed this and shrieked loudly at the baker. The
baker twisted round to face me. At first his face seemed shocked with the sudden cries of the girl, but
as soon as he processed what was going on, his eyes narrowed and filled with a cloud of pure rage. My
mouth made a neat ‘O’ as I stood there, frozen in terror.
The baker stormed towards me, screaming foul curses at my face. A small crowd had formed
immediately after the screaming of the young girl to see what all of the commotion was about. As the
baker approached, two young men broke through the crowd, proudly brandishing batons. They both
wore bullet proof vests, along with the standard black Policia Federale uniform. The baker was in my
face now, spit flying onto me as he screamed.
“Calm down!” yelled the officer, trying to make himself sound authoritative over the torrents
of abuse raining down on me from the crowd, who had clearly taken the side of the baker. The other
officer barged his way between me and the baker knocking me onto the floor. My mind clawed its way
out of the cocoon of fear that had temporarily paralysed my body and allowed me to stand up.
As I surveyed the scene and wiped the dust off my tatty green shorts, it became clear that the
Policia presence was obviously calming the baker down. I guessed that the Policia themselves had not
31
Covi Franklin
calmed him down as much as much as the intimidating Heckler and Koch MP5’s that were strapped to
their chests, along with the subtle black Glock pistols tucked into their belts. The crowd too had calmed
down slightly, their anger replaced with a twitchy nervousness of being too close to such dangerous
weapons. Nobody wanted to be the first to anger the policia, so instead they all just kept quiet, allowing
the officers do their job.
The officer and the baker exchanged a few short words before the baker raised and pointed a
quivering finger at me. Quickly I began shuffling into the edges of the thinning crowd, trying my best to
disappear before one of the officers spotted me. As I turned round, I saw out of the corner of my eye the
officer talking to the baker make a brief signal to the other officer. I sped up, trying my best to walk away
without being noticed by the policia.
As I strode casually away from the market along with rest of the crowd, a large strong hand
clamped down on my shoulder, anchoring me to the spot. I jumped slightly in shock. Very slowly I
turned to face the Policia officer. He wore a black buttoned uniform under the thick vest. There was
a large golden star just above where I imagined his heart to be, and on the centre of his cap. The cap
shaded his strongly tanned face, which had spent so much time in the sun that it seemed to be made of
dry leather. The officer had a thick bushy moustache and two large eyebrows that looked strangely like
caterpillars. He seemed to be in his early forties, but his eyes portrayed him to be much older. They were
weary and sad, as if tired of seeing the evils that mankind could commit daily.
“Slow down, slow down,” said the officer “now, that man over there has told my colleague that
you made an attempt to steal some of his food. Is this true?” His voice was kind enough but my mouth
was too dry to say a word. My lips parted to speak but instead just gawped silently, like a fish out of
water. “Is it true?” he repeated. I thought about lying for a moment before realising how foolish it would
be; there were numerous witnesses who had seen me snatch the cake.
I nodded slightly, hoping that he would let me off easily. The officer frowned, as if
disappointed. “Now we’re going to have to take you in for questioning. If you’re guilty you might get a
fine, that’s all.” I shrunk backwards in horror, mumbling unintelligible excuses and pleas. “Please! I was
just... just looking at it. No, don’t take me away! My father, he...he can stop you!” I continued ranting
about power that my father didn’t have, as the officer took out a pair of handcuffs from his belt and
advanced towards me.
He took my hand and tried to twist me around gently to put the handcuffs over my wrists. It
might have been the sun, slowly draining me of all common sense and replacing it with a fierce agitation,
that made me do what I did next. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that the handcuffs were
just a standard procedure and that if I kept my head down I would make it out just fine. These thoughts
might have kept me safe if not for the thick panic that filled my body. I just couldn’t let my parents find
out, and how would I pay the fine?
So as the cold metal rings closed around my hands, the agitation and the panic suddenly
combined, creating an explosive reaction. I lashed out violently at the officer. “No!” The officer tripped
backwards and onto the floor in shock. The officer standing with the baker looked up at my scream and
32
Covi Franklin
after seeing his friend sitting dazed on the floor yelled, “Cruz, you alright?”
At the sound of his colleague’s voice, Cruz pushed himself up, his eyes alight with anger from
the embarrassment of being knocked down by a young boy. “Fine, Rubin. Just fine,” replied Cruz. At this
Rubin visibly sighed with relief that nothing was seriously wrong. His hand let go of a large object on his
belt and began scratching his stubbly beard. I shrank backwards as Cruz marched towards me. He spun
me round effortlessly and held my arms in place, squeezing them together painfully. Only now that he
was tensing did I notice how strong he was.
Cruz bent into my ear, causing goose-bumps to prickle up along my arm. He breathed heavily.
“You’re gonna pay for that you little brat. You’re spending the night in jail, kid.” He spoke with such
gleeful cruelty that I almost burst into tears but I held them back, stubbornly refusing to give him the
pleasure. He slapped the handcuffs down, tightening them until I gave a squeal of pain. A grunt of
satisfaction came from behind me.
Cruz marched me away from the market, signalling for Rubin to join him. As we walked, I
noticed a patrol car sitting on the side of the road. It was long and white, with two blue stripes on the
side and the word Policia written in large black letters. I looked back again. The market had returned to
its normal calm state. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of me anymore, other than the baker, who
was smiling smugly as I was escorted towards the patrol car.
As we approached the car Cruz took hold of my head, while Rubin opened the car door
ahead of us. Cruz shoved me into the car, waiting before I got both my legs onto the old grey fabric
of the back seats to slam the door behind me. I looked around the car in awe, stunned slightly by the
technology. I had only been in a car once before; for my Aunt Lilia’s wedding and even then, that had
been a tatty Nissan. This was sleek and clean, at least in my eyes it was. I jumped slightly as the engine
started. It sounded like one of the small cats that I would see in the town, purring contentedly.
Through the smeared security glass I could see Rubin turn the steering wheel left and onto the
thin desolate road. He accelerated forwards, causing the metal framework of the car to rattle as we tore
across the numerous pot holes. I glanced backwards at the cloud of dust that we were kicking up behind
us. There was nothing much to see other than long stretches of desert and the occasional small town. I
gave up on staring out of the window after about five minutes, the boredom becoming too much to bear.
Instead I tried enjoying the refreshing feeling of the cooling air swirling out from the slits beside my leg.
It was a pleasant change to the unbearable heat of summer, even if the endless droning noise that came
with it was driving me almost to insanity.
We drove on for around 15 minutes, before pulling in to a small car park. There were five
other cars, all identical to the one that I was in now. The car park was connected to a tall white building,
which seemed to have turned an unhealthy grey with time. There were few windows, other than on the
top floor, which I presumed were the offices. Cruz came round and pulled me out of the car. We walked
towards the building. As we got closer I saw a small bronze plaque reading ‘Comisaria de Policia’.
A short plump man waited for us behind the desk. “You’ve brought in another one I see,
Cruz.” He eyed me down suspiciously, “Looks a bit young to be making trouble don’t you think?” Cruz
33
Covi Franklin
sighed and replied in a tiresome voice, “Just sign him in Raul.” I was commanded to sit down on one of
the visitor’s chairs by Cruz, who then proceeded to start the long process of completing the paperwork.
While this took place I was watched over by Rubin.
As I waited I surveyed the room. It was very small, with white walls, not too dissimilar to the
outside. There were a number of plastic blue chairs lined against the wall in a neat row for visitors to
wait in, but I doubted that such a small station got many at all. The desk was painted green and had been
chipped all over to reveal the wood beneath it. The ceiling was lined with long thin lights, the majority
of which were extremely old and flickered on and off.
After what seemed like hours I was called over by Cruz and asked to sign my name in two
places. I scrawled ‘Heraclio’ on the bottom of two pages in black ink. “Cheers Raul.” Cruz nodded to
the man behind the desk before leading me off to a corridor on the side of the room. We walked until we
arrived at a large iron door, which Cruz unlocked with a small key from his belt. The door clicked open
and we walked through into a narrow corridor. On either side of the corridor there was a series of small
cells, protected by thin metal bars. Most of the cells were empty apart from the two at the end.
“Here we are.” Cruz pointed to the final cell on the left, occupied by a man curled up on the
single bed and staring at the wall. “But there are loads of empty cells! Why can’t I have one of them?”
I complained. “Sorry... they’re ‘occupied’.” He gave me a wicked smile, before unlocking the cell and
shoving me in. He pushed the cell shut with a clang, locked it and walked away down the corridor.
Click clack, click clack. His shoes slapped loudly against the floor. The door at the end of the corridor
slammed shut and a wave of silence washed over me.
I glanced at the other man in the cell with me. He had turned and was now staring intently at
me. His pupils were unnaturally large, two black caverns in the centre of his eyes. They seemed to look
everywhere at once while being completely unfocused. I had seen men like this in the town, hiding in
dark passages or shady areas. Mother had told me to always stay away from these men; that these were
bad men. I had never really understood why.
“So... what they get you for.” He spoke in a deep husky voice. “What?” I asked, confused by
his question. “What... did... they... catch... you... doing?” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if
I was a fool or a foreigner who didn’t speak Mexican. I hesitated, then replied, “Stealing from a baker.”
He looked at me doubtfully, “So that’s why you’re spending the night in a cell? You must have done
something to annoy them.” He waited for an answer. “I shoved an officer over.” The man grinned before
giving a quick laugh. “You got guts kid!” I avoided looking him in the eye, there was something not right
about him.
“The name’s Victor, you?” He extended a sweaty hand. I stared at the hand, as if it might bite.
Slowly I reached out and shook the hand. “Heraclio,” I muttered quietly. “Nice to meet you, Heraclio.
And welcome to prison.” Victor itched his ankle revealing a flash of silver under his sock. I gasped in
horror at the sight of the knife. He saw me gasp and gave me a wicked smile. The kind a shark gives to
a trapped fish. I shuffled to the corner, where I curled up into a ball and hoped that I would leave the
station alive.
34
Siddharth Sheth and Jason Lam
Legend of the Mother Lioness
Intricate frost patterns wound subtly over leaves. The sun began to cast its first red glow over thatched
roofs of tipis, causing dazzling sunbeams to lazily penetrate the gaps in the homes. The dawn chorus
began its first movement, chirps and tweets floating over the icy mountaintops whilst the grass winked
and sparkled with frozen dew. Within one of the small huts, a girl with pale skin and dark hair awoke.
Around her were her younger brothers and sisters, who remained asleep. She rose from her mattress on
the ground and slowly peered out into the open as she wrapped herself in fur. The sky was tinted with
beautiful reds and yellows.
“Are you scared, Luvitsa?” A voice spoke.
She whirled around in surprise to see a frail old man in ragged clothes, sitting by the bank of
an icy stream. He was the witch doctor of the tribe.
“No,” she replied adamantly.
“You should be,” he told her gravely. “These woods that surround us are not to be
underestimated, as the white lions have lived in these woodlands for longer than us. The huts may be
ours, but the woods are theirs. No matter how much preparation you have been through, if you do
manage to slay one of them, it will only be through luck.”
“Are you calling every one of our warriors, including my father, lucky? Are you saying that you
have never killed a lion because you have just simply been unlucky, rather than not having the courage to
face them alone?”
“You misunderstand me. If the lions wished, they could take down the strongest of our
warriors, even your father, but as long as they are not disturbed, they remain peaceful. Your father did
not kill his lion out of bravery, but out of fear. The fear of being attacked first, the fear of starving to
death. That is your father’s weakness. And as you go out there, he will fear for you, too, though he may
not show it. Deep down, he fears the possibility of failure. The possibility of your death.”
Luvitsa looked down as she began to understand.
“Luvitsa, you bear the same name of the white Lions of these forests. Our tradition has taught
that in order to conquer your fears, you must fight them. But the fears will always still be there, and will
remain in your heart. I believe that in order to conquer your fears, you must be one with them. That
would be true courage, Luvitsa. Be one with the Lions. Break the tradition.”
Sensing he had nothing more to say, the witch doctor stood up and hobbled slowly towards
the forest, out of sight. Luvitsa thought carefully about what he had said to her as she watched him
depart. To follow his words would mean going against the teachings of the rest of the tribe, including
her parents. Yet his words seemed so clear and true. She anxiously walked along the stream towards her
father’s hut, the Chieftain of the tribe.
It was the largest hut in the village containing many ornaments and decorations. In the
middle, there knelt the Chieftain, wearing the fur coat of the lion he had killed many years ago. At his
feet there rested a spear, a dagger, a bow, and seven arrows, each one crafted by Luvitsa herself during her
training. He rose up and looked at her as she entered.
“Luvitsa,”
35
Legend of the Mother Lioness continued
“Yes, father?”
“It’s good to see you,”
She glanced to the side furtively. “It is good to see you, too,” She replied.
“You will be expected to survive in the forests and mountains, for possibly several days, or
even months, using nothing but your tools and knowledge, and wearing nothing but what you have
now. You will not be allowed to return without the hide of a slain White Lion. If you do return empty
handed, that would put shame onto yourself and your family.”
He paused for a moment. “This will possibly be the greatest challenge you will ever face. This
trial will test your discipline, courage and skill; all of which we have taught you. However, we cannot
guarantee to you that you will not face additional challenges that have the potential to interfere. We
wish you all the luck we can. May the spirits guide you well.”
Luvitsa looked down at the weapons presented before her - spear, dagger, and bow. These
would be the tools that would serve her throughout her journey, and their main purpose would be to
kill a white lion. But she remembered what the witch doctor had told her previously. Hesitantly, she
muttered, “the Witch Doctor spoke to me earlier today, father.”
The Chieftain stepped forward, intrigued. “What did he tell you?”
Struggling to retain eye-contact, she answered, “He told me that I shou-”
A small arrow landed onto the roof. Flames roared as it suddenly became engulfed by fire. The
cries of unknown creatures and the whistling of arrows echoed from outside. The horns of a foreign clan
resounded through the small settlement. It was an ambush.
“Quick, Luvitsa. Take your weapons and go!”
She instantly picked them up and used straps to secure them to her waist. Tongues of fire
swiftly crept down the walls as the roof became weaker. Sensing this, she dashed for the exit.
But she was too late. The roof crashed down onto her. The darkness encircled itself around
her, paralysing her as all became silent for a moment. Then the muffled shouts. A speck of light crept
its way through the ruined roof, followed by another. Finally, the darkness was broken by an opening
through which light flooded in. A hand reached through the opening, and pulled Luvitsa out.
She scrambled over the burnt debris and into the clearing. All around her, fellow tribesmen
fell to the ground as the invaders tore them apart with swords and spears, whilst flaming arrows were
spewed onto the other huts. She looked around to see who rescued her, but could not find anyone
amongst the confusion, not even her father.
A heavy-set, muscular man stood watching the carnage unfold before him. Beside him, two
bodyguards, dressed simply in black hooded robes and sandals, holding long, curved swords. The man
whirled around and saw the girl. His eyes flashed with recognition when he saw the elaborate symbol
tattooed on her forearm signifying she was the Chieftain’s daughter. He pointed with his sword towards
her and shouted in a language incomprehensible to her.
The two bodyguards turned slowly and, without a trace of anything but sheer hatred on their
faces, advanced towards Luvitsa. She stood frozen with fear for a second, then realised she could only do
36
Legend of the Mother Lioness continued
one thing. She turned and ran.
She hurtled through the woods as trees and leaves became a blurred mesh of greens and
browns. The wind lashed at her cheeks and her eyes watered as she ran. Not consciously deciding
on a destination, her only aim was to escape. She ducked under a branch and allowed herself a quick
backward glance. The two bodyguards moved silently and efficiently, faces blank and eyes glazed,
ghosting past trees, like leopards stalking their prey. They moved incredibly fast, yet barely made any
noise, single-mindedly focused of Luvitsa. She was tiring, even after many hours of training; running
at such a pace was exhausting her. She slowed down a little, and the guards, sensing her weakness,
accelerated. She knew she could not keep this pace up much longer. Her eyes roved the surrounding
area, searching for something, anything that would offer an avenue of escape. The guards were almost
upon her.
She gave one last frantic look around and spotted a triple slash on one of the tree trunks,
the sign of a white lion’s territory. She diverted and ran towards it and, as she had hoped, she spotted a
couple of cubs play-fighting, pawing at each other behind a bush. The mother lay lazily nearby.
The words of the witch doctor came back to her, “If they wished, they could take down even
the strongest of our warriors, but as long as they are not disturbed, they remain peaceful.”
She turned and in one smooth movement drew an arrow and lodged it into her bow. It was
an arrow of the finest quality; she had made it herself, and spent many hours sharpening the flint to a
deadly point. She took aim in a split second, and remembering all her training, fired. The arrow flew in
a gentle arc over the heads of the guards. They began to smile, as they thought she had missed. But the
arrow continued its path and buried itself right next to the cubs.
Luvitsa was not watching it land, for she had hidden herself behind a bush, her heart
pounding, praying she had got it right. The mother of the lion cubs looked around for the source of the
attack, and her bright yellow eyes settled on the guards. Luvitsa stayed hidden. A roar shook the forest,
birds rose from the trees as a cacophony of squawking and flapping ensued as they flew away in fear.
Luvitsa emerged and stood behind the white lion. The lioness stared at the guards and gave a low throaty
growl. They stared at Luvitsa her, then looked back at the lioness, who slowly began moving towards
them, her eyes ablaze with anger. The guards took one last look at Luvitsa, and turned and sped back
into the woods, before the lioness could pounce.
She turned her head slightly to look at Luvitsa, but sensing that the girl posed no threat,
walked back to her den. The girl remained amongst the tall, thin trees. The sun in the sky was blurred by
snow that gently floated down.
Luvitsa, daughter of the Chieftain of the White Lion Tribe. It was the tradition that every
member of the tribe who wished to earn the title of ‘hunter’ would have to go through certain trials
first. They would be cast out and would not be allowed to return home without the hide of a white lion.
Except for Luvitsa, she no longer had a home to return to. Nor did she have a family. She was now one of
the last of her tribe, which depended on her to continue its traditions.
The trials had begun.
37
The Nightmare Code
‘What is the most fatal threat to mankind?’
Professor David Newman opened the lecture by plunging straight into controversial debate.
Indeed all lectures by the eminent professor were a recipe of piquant acrimony, crisp conviction and
impressive wits.
‘Nuclear bombs?’ a student replied in a deep, American accent. The audience nodded fervently.
‘Well, Iran hasn’t struck Congress yet - so no,’ the Professor replied, teasingly. He still had the
same enthusiasm. By now, many professors at his age would be retired and haggard, after decades of
posing such provocative questions which demanded such strenuous responses. Yet Professor Newman
was hardly exhausted; instead he found the subject of Philosophy an invigorating tonic to his old age.
‘Can anyone tell me the threat to mankind?’ the Professor repeated.
“Sex!” – Laughter trickled through the audience. The Professor shook his head in dismay. He
pitied the heckler. He was still young. There were various replies to the question, most of which were
antithetical: socialism, capitalism; punk, classical; government, anarchy; rich, poor and so forth.
‘The naïve think nuclear missiles, government or even AIDS will bring mankind to its knees,’
the Professor revealed, in an admirably prophetic tone. ‘Those merely happen after the threat.’ He
casually held a glass of water, imbibing it like vintage wine.
‘Man’s fundamental need is freedom,’ the Professor declared axiomatically, ‘freedom from the
Government, freedom from the State, freedom from everybody else! The attack on privacy and freedom is
the lethal issue. Time and time again, we have seen the loss of freedom give birth to history’s darkest hours
- from Nazism to the massacres of Tiananmen Square, from the purges of Stalin to Gadhafi and the Arab
Spring. In this age should the belief in freedom perish, we will not see a revolution of communists as in the
past. Oh no - we will witness a revolution far greater and far darker than man has ever encountered…’
*
*
*
*
‘Professor David Newman,’ Agent Skinner stated, ‘was Oxford’s gem. He worked in the PPE faculty,
and was a don at Trinity. His publications have always been well-received – from theses on free-market
economics to freedom. He delivered his last lecture a few days ago, ending it by posing a rhetorical question
about what form a revolution against freedom would take. Just an hour later, he committed suicide.’
‘He was onto something. But what?’ the Home and Defence Secretary hummed pensively. His
mind breezed through a kaleidoscope of events: the Olympic Illuminati ring, the Arab assassins, the Tartan
Army and the Triads. This, however, had no relevance to a Professor obsessed with society under the hands
of the ill and powerful. He must have been a crackerjack professor or one of those “thou-shalt-repent-forthe-eleventh-hour-has-come” loonies. Yet Professor Newman worked in Oxford, a place which did not
welcome such fanatical thinking. The Secretary stared at Agent Skinner before further rumination. This
urged Skinner to reassure the hassled Secretary, ‘We will look into this, Mr Cassidy. You needn’t worry.’
*
*
*
*
Jessica Powell, like other fifteen-year-old girls, was on a temporary swing between obnoxiousness and
irritation. She had returned from a class detention. Teachers are such hypocrites, she thought. Her
blood boiled in fury. Back home, Jessica slammed the door. The smell of cooking lingered in the air. Her
38
The Nightmare Code continued
mother was attempting to prepare a cooked meal by a celebrated, narcissistic, spinach-loving chef.
‘And how was school?’ Jessica’s mother asked sardonically. Her mother had come out of the
sauna kitchen with a deluge of steam behind her, furthering the cynical effect of her sarcasm.
‘I hate you!’ Jessica cursed in a blurry way, storming upstairs, into her bedroom. Her mother
carelessly shrugged her shoulders, only to giggle at her daughter’s tantrums. Within a matter of seconds,
the Jamie-Oliver protégé heard the expected slam of yet another door. Jessica Powell had a rebellious
nature. ‘No one will treat me like a doll!’ Jessica snapped. Belligerently, she kicked the bed, before
admiring the beauty of her room. Jessica’s character, however rebellious, was contrary to her taste. Her
room had a tinge of class and the debonair.
The corners of her room curled elaborately like the divine ends of a Corinthian pillar. The cream
walls were covered in posters and souvenirs – thatched masks from the Zambezi River to treasured
autographs of athletes who had competed in the London 2012 Olympics, a few years ago now. On her
table was a flurry of Post-it notes, an army of laser pens, a clutter of pencils, a Mac, a few Blackberry
gizmos and a Starbucks macchiato with the flake remaining – quite frankly, the lot. Every room in the
house had some version of CyberKey, preached as “the People’s Guardian.” It was simply a door, wooden
in looks, programmed to lock when there was no presence detected in the room and opened if certain
people were near.
Jessica lay on her bed. Her head had shovelled beneath a heap of pillows. The air was so thin she
was in the process of being smothered to death. She was in a profound state of confusion. The girl was
furious. Her eyes flooded; her cheeks burnt scarlet. It was the neglect led her to such fragility. Yet her
mother did not care what her daughter had. Suddenly, Jessica’s phone vibrated. It was a text.
Hey, Jess. Wanna have fun?
Jessica screamed with rage, almost dropping the phone. She texted back, purple and indignant. i
kno who u r – josh hudson. wait til they arrest u 4 harassment!
Suddenly, her desktop switched on showing a Skype notification. Jessica approached the Mac. It
read: Anon. has sent you a friend request.
Come on Jess, a message popped-up, you know you want to.
This is not Josh Hudson, Jessica thought. This is someone else. She panicked. More messages
made obscene demands. Texts barraged her phone, it vibrated erratically. The acute ringtone bled into
her ears. It was endless – text after text. The Blackberry suddenly ran a display of hacked images. The
haunting Guy Fawkes mask on the screen horrified her – a mask whose reptilian eyes and nefarious
broad smile, sinisterly penetrated into her soul, ripping the very fabric of her confidence.
‘What?’ A frenzied cry pierced the air. Just then, the CyberKey door locked itself. Instantly, Jessica ran to
the door, vehemently pushing and violently kicking it.
‘Mum!’ she howled, in agony. ‘Someone please! Open the door! Help me!’
She turned around to find the desktop of her Mac under someone else’s control. The printer
hissed. The phone’s vibrations threatened to burst her eardrums. She screeched hysterically. In an
attempt to escape the infernal cacophony, she slammed the monitor. Yet the technology kept attacking.
39
The Nightmare Code continued
In retaliation, the keyboard sprayed venomous, electrical sparks at her, burning her fingers. Jessica
recoiled to the door.
‘What are you?’ she faltered, glaring at the ceiling. A deep masculine voice droned. It was
from the Mac. The calamity stopped. Everything stopped. Everything was still. Hellish laughter from
the speakers shattered the menacing silence. The webcam was on. The Taser light blinded her eye. The
microphone traced her every breath. She was being watched; she was being recorded.
Her heart pounded frantically in her chest. Tears streamed down her face. Frosty chills shivered
down her spine. Frozen beads of perspiration trickled down her neck. An influx of adrenaline discharged
through her veins. He could hear her. He could see her. The frail lamb had nowhere to hide.
We are Anonymous. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.
‘Please!’ she begged. Cackling laughter attacked her ears.
‘Look into the camera. Do what I say. The fun’s only just begun!’
*
*
*
*
There is a parallel dimension to ordinary, humdrum British life; the dimension only known to the few
who have power or skill, with its agents dedicating their lives to save the public from terrorists, dictators
and psychopaths. The cheerful waitress working at the local café, the solemn commuters in the London
Underground and the shrewd businessman attending his conference all carry on with their lives as per
usual. None of them, however, realise that a second ago, had the British Intelligence not diffused the
nano-bomb, they and millions of others would be dead. That zest for espionage and backstabbing, that
sophistication and class and that overwhelming prospect of an entire country’s fate in your hands is
reality for the Secret Service. Spying is a dangerous game but for the agents, the thrill of the tight-rope
walker narrowly escaping death and the whole bravado of the gymnast, made it the finest game.
A couple of years ago, Simon Lawson joined MI6 exactly for that purpose. He was at a “tender age”,
as Colonel Crompton pompously once described him. First identified as a potential spy by MI6 when, on
his gap year several years ago, Simon saved five MI6 officers and rescued an entire operation. His intuition
and extraordinary skill at deciphering codes, which had rescued the operation, were worth noting. His agility,
persuasion and, most of all, his willingness to die, deeply impressed the Colonel. Yet the most promising
part of the young man’s profile was that he was not easily seduced by women. Many enemies, particularly
the Russians, have used this tactic to obtain Britain’s most confidential information out of vulnerable British
agents. Since Simon could not be distracted by such, it was all the better for MI6 to recruit him. And now
Lawson was driving, in his humble little car, to its very nucleus, national security at its zenith, the living
memory of assassination plots. Simon Lawson was heading for the Secret Intelligent Service Headquarters.
It was magnificent, standing sanctimoniously above all the other spires, domes and bridges of
Vauxhall – an accomplishment of British architecture. The Headquarters was among history’s finest
buildings, which included the Colossus of Rhodes, Dubai’s Burj Khalifa and the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
The SIS Headquarters was the epitome of elegance. Its teal-blue blocks and marble-white front was a
picturesque sight. They called it “Babylon” for its ziggurat shape. Welcome to Babylon, Simon thought,
upon arrival.
40
Jordan Bernstein
A Powerless Coincidence
At the Prize-Giving Event for the Competition in November 2012, Gordon Hao read a section of Jordan
Bernstein’s entry, ‘A Powerless Coincidence, and together they were voted winners of the Audience Prize.
“Who knows whether I shall have the untimely displeasure of not making it out of this situation?
Certainly not I, yet as I stand here knowing the possibility, nay, probability of my forthcoming demise,
I am not so much frightened by death as by the instrument with which death itself shall be brought
about. This is most certainly a bad idea, I’ll call my wife. Sharon, O Sharon! No! I must face this task
alone. Barely have I stepped out of the car before the feeling comes rushing back. Why did I agree to
the appointment here of all places? I am decidedly a foolish fool to have thought that my fears could be
faced.
“I look around at the vast expanse of empty parking spaces which surround me. How poetic
that I, the hero, meet my death alone in John Lewis of all places. I step through the door and can hear
death coming almost automatically.
“And what if I do come out alive? I will live another day to see my dirty clothes, for I refuse to
have them washed by any vial creature in white metal casing with a drum spinning around that mimics
my heartbeat, making me feel tiny, with foam rising from its depths and sloshing around devouring my
clothes. Oh, and yes, I meet the evil many a time when my wife stupidly mixes in one of my precious
white socks with her favourite satin red dress. To paraphrase Alice, Oh Woeful Day, Calooh Callay!
I can no longer where the white socks, if one can any longer associate them with that pure colour, for
every time I look down as I scratch the ulcer on the back of my heel I am reminded of the bloodshed by
the treacherous creature that sits locked tight in my utility room, and whose fleet of electrically powered
comrades the world is yet to realise will one day take over the universe in all of its once-natural glory,
forcing the whole of human-kind to do their washing, and filling them with the foul-tasting Fairy nonbio washing powder.
“I am reminded of one day, after seeing the advert on the television and hearing the jingle sound:
“Washing Machines live longer with Calgon”. What was I to do? The police would never listen to me;
they would simply say I was mad. And yet was that to deter me? Oh nay! First of all it would be washing
machines, the poison of the Earth, the scum, the vagabonds, the ruffians living for longer, (perhaps even
outliving the humans), and then the advances in technology would inevitably lead to washing machines
lasting…forever. I marched straight into my local news agent and purchased every single box of Calgon
that they had and destroyed the powder by whichever means came easiest. I poured some into the River
Thames, dropped some boxes off of my top-floor office in Canary Wharf. I did my bit to save mankind.
“And so, with my heart on my sleeve, standing in the car park of John Lewis, Borehamwood
after Sharon, innocent naïve Sharon insisted that we meet a special consultant to help fix our fridge, even
after I insisted that we should instead by a new one off of the internet to avoid coming the this hellish
place where the monstrous dogs of Hades himself are frightened away by the likes of Bosch and Zanussi,
I decide to embrace my fate. Why not? It has obviously been pre-ordained by the gods of machines that
Alastair Jones is here to end his meek existence. He is the only one that knows. He is the only one to be
41
A Powerless Coincidence continued
overcome. He is the force of right and reason.
“I remember only last month when I had had enough of the washing machines silently
mocking me behind my back as I edged away from the electronics section at Tesco. I ran to the Garden
Maintenance section and picked up the heaviest shovel I could find and then…it was all a blur. The fines
for damages and the bail at the local prison that Sharon had to post were but a small price to pay for the
delaying of an inevitable and unnecessary evil.
And so I think of what will happen when I do go into the store. Will they attack me straight
away, the washing machines? Will they rush up to me making their horrific whirling noises upon my
simple entering of the department store and assault me right there and then, in front of Sharon and
countless other passers-by? Will they leave in their tracks as they waddle back to their displays shards of
my innards mangled in the carpet as if tossed carelessly aside by a faceless perpetrator? Will one be able
to see for days afterwards a thick, red, liquid trail leading from the entrance to the washing machines,
and will one assume that this is just a rust leakage and report it to the store manager? Or will they
perhaps know the truth?
“Will the damned figments of a monstrous reality perhaps wait for me to begin to feel more
easy and comfortable before they pounce, doors open, and gobble me up, suffocating me as my legs flail
behind me, probably kicking Sharon in the face once or twice? Will a woman, seeing the incident, runup to a shop-assistant and show the occurrence to him, only to find that he seems completely unaware of
the grave situation, for he has been brainwashed, quite literally.
“I look behind me and Sharon is no longer there, and in her place is a pile of washing
machines, dripping with rabid foam, stepping out of a car made of washing machines. I have a dark
glimpse of the future; a future where the washing machines sprout wings and so, as an eagle might
swoop down and with its talons pick up a victim, so too shall be the sacred and horrifying ability of the
Mighty Bosch. I hold my forearm above my head so as not to let the sun interfere with my eyesight at
the precise time when I am most needed to be on my guard. What I see shocks me to my very core, for
all that is to be caught by the eye is a sea of washing machines of all colours (assuming that the colours of
the spectrum are variations on black and grey).
“What was that song that my son was watching on that babies’ television show? “At the end
of messy play, it’s time to wash the germs away”? Well, I fear that my messy play is just about to start,
and how ironic that it is to be brought about by the very instrument that is to solve such problems. I am
nothing if not one to laugh at life’s little jokes. The only escape is through the doors of the store! But
what of my fate? What of my death? Such risks must and should be taken. I turn. Sharon is walking by
the washing machines and I see one, just about to pounce, that turns and winks at me, then scowls. No! I
rush in. Oh Sharon, Sharon, I die for thee!...”
“And what the Hell was that supposed to be?”
Terry was exhausted. This was his fifth day of casting and none of the idiots that dared try
their hand at the male lead even came close to what he was looking for. And of all of them, of all of the
lunatics that could be found in the thin scrapings of the bottom of the barrel, this short, balding middle-
42
aged man that stood on stage, defiling this once great theatre, was the absolute worse.
“A monologue, Sir,” Alastair replied, sweat dripping from his brow with every slight
movement of the lower lip.
“Well I got that much,” Terry wished not to be locked in frivolous conversation with this man
any longer.
“I wrote it myself,” Alastair stood with his chin raised higher, preparing his look of utter
indignation for when the time came. He mustered up the confidence to wipe his sweaty hands on his
cargo trousers. “It’s loosely based on Juliet’s speech just before she drinks the poison.” Here the aspiring
actor managed a grimace as the casting director looked incredibly bemused. “You know, Shakespeare.”
He smiled a weak smile.
“Oh no, I know what you referring to. I’m just trying to work out whether you’re deranged,
crazy, or sent by my mother in an effort to get me to change careers.” It was true; his mother had
sabotaged his career on more than one occasion, feeling that he was wasting a Cambridge degree
running off-West-End shows. Of course, when she referred to off-West-End, she would use the term
“Potato-farming sector”. This was not because his mother, obviously like the man that was standing
before Terry currently, had a history of mental health issues, but because Terry had made the mistake
of telling her after his first day of work that the people he had auditioned possessed the social charisma
of Devon’s most boring potato-farmers. But then that was just his mother, a woman that since her late
husband’s passing had been bitter and belittling towards her only son and completely the opposite
towards her only daughter.
“I guess that’s a no then,” Alastair was not really phased; he had expected as much. “Is there
anything I can do to improve?”
Terry grinned. He loved this moment. Not only could he be incredibly patronising and
condescending to someone that was obviously older than him, but he could make little jokes at the
expense of the person auditioning, which would always make the producer, sitting to his right, laugh
hysterically. He turned to his right and caught the eye of Margaret, the producer. In this brief exchange
of eye contact, it was decided that it was indeed play time. He would make it quick and painless…for all
those sitting on his side of the table. It would also greatly extenuate his upper-class accent, providing yet
more comical contrast to the thick Scottish accent with which he was greeted.
“Err, yes actually. And, if you follow this small piece of advice, I can almost guarantee to you
that you’ll get the next play you audition for.” Terry grinned. So did Alastair in fact.
“Oh?” Alastair was excited; he was never given any constructive criticism, just comments
about his age, or height, or face.
“Yes. Perhaps next time you could use a monologue that was actually written by Shakespeare.
Really, it’s nothing personal, it’s just that it will go a long way to making you sound a tad less like a serial
killer that has been driven to insanity by thirty years in prison.” Margaret could hold it for no longer,
and burst out in a tremendous eruption of devilish laughter, soon followed by Terry himself.
“I’m an honest guy with a family at home Sir, no serial killer.” Alastair no longer needed to act
43
as if he was indignant, for it was simply coming naturally to him.
“Huh,” Terry was managing a genuine look of incredulous shock. “Maybe you just haven’t
found the right victim yet.” Margaret could hardly bare it and had to run out of the room, probably
heading for the balcony, generally her favourite place to cry out to the whole of London in one of her
murderous cackles. “But yes, sorry it’s a no this time. You’re just not quite what we’re looking for. This
plays not about vulnerability. For God’s sake, it’s 2080! We’re as advanced in society as ever. The fact that
you’re so scared of washing machines, and that your fear was so believable tells me as a casting director
that you won’t be able to portray a male lead that resides above fear. Thanks for trying though, and trust
me, if you were auditioning for a play even thirty years ago, you’d have the part locked down.”
Alastair was fed up. Some people called him quirky; others just called him plain strange, so he
kept his differences under-raps. So what if he was not your run-of-the-mill inhabitant of near twentysecond century London? Like that arrogant casting director had said, even thirty years ago, it would
have been people like himself that were considered normal, and the rest were the odd ones out. Working
in property, dealing in the buying and selling of land and estate - it was the most boring job imaginable!
Then again, that was all his friends, teachers and family said he could ever do. That was all that someone
like him could do. It was racism, or at least discrimination on some level that that was the society that
he called home. Where was the justice in his being treated as part of a second-class when in the year
2013 (only 67 years ago) the Prime Minister, with only days of his being in power left, preached a type
of social equality where no rights guaranteed in a modern world could be taken away from any innocent
man. This was not the world that Alastair knew.
Inside the Hamilton Theatre it was becoming apparent that Alastair was not the only one
that was thoroughly fed up. Margaret, having quite composed herself after having had to rush out of
the room, was giving Terry an earful. Terry of course did himself no favours by remarking as Margaret
re-entered the auditorium “that was rude”.
“Look Terry,” Terry hated it when Margaret said those two words consecutively, as they would
usually be followed by her face taking on a slightly purplish colour and her eyes beginning to bulge with
red intensity. And of course, all of that meant that he was about to be ripped to shreds not by the volume
of his producer’s voice (for she, though well-spoken and what might once have been termed “posh” sixty
or so years ago) but by the content of her speech, as it was always woefully accurate.
Margaret began to roar incredibly loudly at him for minutes on end, about how he could
be too harsh on those who auditioned, about how she had invested a lot of time and money into this
production, and finally about how if he did not find the right actor to play his lead role in the play
“Alpha-male of Alpha-males”, or find another script to produce with actors already lined up, she would
pull the proverbial plug. She then of course went off in another huff. She thought he was not trying?
Not stressing every moment of every day about the costs, the set, the actors, the script, the direction? It
was incredibly insulting in fact. He knew when he wrote the script, in the long while it took him to do
so, that the casting would be a bit difficult and that the overall plot was fuzzy at best around the edges,
but it was a good play. Not one of his best, but fine.
44
He looked up around the theatre; it was tiny, only possessing a royal and lower circle with
a royal box at one side, reaching right up to the ceiling. It had always deeply troubled him, as did it
probably trouble many regular theatre-goers why that was where the royal box lay, when one could
argue, and be quite right in the fact, that it contained the worst of the worst seats in the house. You
could even go so far as to say that the British royalty, not that monarchy existed anymore, would be
safer if sitting at the very front of the upper circle. After all, was Abraham Lincoln not murdered whilst
sitting in a royal box? He had heard of but one murder to have occurred in a theatre, and it occurred in
the royal box. Coincidence? Terry flew up to the royal box and planted his feet inside to have a snoop
around. Maybe he was looking for inspiration for a new manuscript (he was fairly sure that it was
nearly time to give up on this one) or perhaps he was indeed looking for God Himself, Terry being the
sort of person that was ever and continuously fascinated by everything and anything supernatural and
metaphysical. This was of course also a craze picked up since the power of flight had surfaced in civilised
society, to the point that almost everyone on Earth had the ability.
No one really professed to know how exactly this power occurred in humans. There
were theories of course, and as with any global event, mass rumours of government conspiracies.
Some claimed that it was a move by the armed forces to make soldiers serving around the world
more equipped and able, and somehow this became contagious and was caught almost instantly
internationally. This could also explain why it was that some people were not susceptible to “catching”
the powers. Perhaps their systems simply rejected the ability of flight.
Others claimed that there was something in the water. Literally. In the summer of 2030 the
world had experienced a mass drought of fresh water. There was panic, and even if one were to take a
stroll down a random road in the middle of London one would hear the loud scampering of a crowd
of disciples, flocking towards an odd man with glassy eyes and a sandwich board round his neck which
read in blood-red ink “The End is nigh”. Or so the story went. In any case, Terry had heard that one
day the water had suddenly come back on in gushing degrees, as if by magic, albeit with somewhat of
a greenish tinge to it that had faded in a day or two. Those that held by this mythical doctrine believed
that the water supply had been re-routed by a devious group of evil professors, deep underground for
experiments, during which it had been concentrated with a lotion or potion that had poisoned mankind
in a most delightful way, making them super-human. And then, being contagious this theory too had the
“disease” spread worldwide, again being rejected by some people. The list of theories went on and on.
In fact, Terry had never really thought about it before, there being some people without
powers. It certainly was odd that the outcasts of yesterday were not given a second glance today. You
got into the street and if you didn’t want to walk, you would fly. No one really needed public transport
anymore, the percentage of non-flyers being so low. Had he ever even met anyone that could not fly?
Margaret re-entered the auditorium. Terry flew down. “I have an idea!” Terry shouted. Margaret was
quite taken aback. After all, Terry had just swooped down, landing within an inch of her own feet and
had leaned forward to speak, perhaps even spitting once or twice in her face; quite an achievement
considering the sentence had been but four words.
45
“Sorry Terry, but what the hell were you doing up there?” Margaret pointed to the royal box,
down from which papers were floating to Earth. It was a shame that they could not fly. Margaret’s eyes
pierced Terry’s skull searchingly.
“I errr, well, I have a fear of lack of height, but that’s not the important thing. I have an idea!”
Margaret looked at Terry quizzically, her face twitching with disbelief for a few moments longer before
deciding to give up.
“Fine,” she conceded. “What’s the big idea?”
“I thought you’d never ask. So, you know that I’m looking for just the right person, an alphamale above alpha-males. I’m never really going to find the person I want. Someone like that wouldn’t be
an actor, they’d be an Olympian, or a wrestler, or a bodyguard. Well that last guy got me thinking that
maybe I went in the wrong direction and it shouldn’t be someone with immense powers, a big burly
guy, but instead someone more vulnerable. Maybe we should do a play about someone that’s powerless.”
Terry was quite out of breath; he had just pitched this idea (in his opinion the best that he had ever had)
to the woman prepared to finance his already written play and it was just dawning on him how stupid
what he had just done was.
Meanwhile outside, Alastair was waiting for a taxi. Who knows? Maybe something would
come up tomorrow, maybe even later today: a part that would be perfect for him. He suddenly heard
a voice from behind him, stepping out of the theatre. “Yes mum, I know I spent ages on this script, but
it’s a great idea this new one.” It was that maniac of a director that had just thrown him out. “Yes mum,
Margaret is still willing to finance it as long as we find the lead by tomorrow night, so I’m going to get
a coffee then make a few calls to some of the actors that I know. Although considering the concept I
want everything to be as authentic as possible.” Alastair began to walk away. He simply could not spend
another single second listening to this stuck-up idiot. “Hey you, wait up! I’ve got to go mum. Hey
wait! Why are you walking away? Hey!” Terry grabbed Alastair on the shoulder, who shrugged him off
instantly.
Alastair turned to Terry. “What do you want, twit?” Fire-eyed fury was now certainly
Alastair’s conduct now.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Terry was indignant. “I was just doing my job back in there. Look,
we’re starting a new play. I’d like you in the chorus; you seem perfect for a smaller part. We can talk
about it now if you’re flying the same way.” He pointed to the looming BT Tower.
“I’m actually waiting for a cab,” Alastair seemed slightly embarrassed.
“Why? Headache?” Terry joked.
“Well, I actually can’t fly…” Alastair was now bright red.
“Can’t…fly?” This was perfect! The man was vulnerable, willing to act and, most authentically
of all, he could not fly! He had hit the jackpot! A look of pure delight spread right across Terry’s face,
misplacing his glasses and moving them down his nose. He re-adjusted them. “Hey, would you like to be
the lead in a new West-End play?”
46
Full list of entries for the 2012 Novel-Writing Competition
Boys
A Powerless Coincidence by Jordan Bernstein
All Things Happen for a Reason by Josh Djaba
BZM by Ben Zombory-Moldovan
Dark Days of Redemption by Rohit Biswas
Dead Hunter by Rahul Nagpaul
Different to Death by Jordan Bernstein
DK by Dhruv Kaushik
Forever by Arun Ray
H.E.R.O. by Zechariah Mohamed
Inside the Forbidden City by Matthew Lee
Kingdom of Beasts by Adiyant Lamba
Last Spies Standing by Jacob Jefferson
Legend of the Mother Lioness by Siddharth Sheth
and Jason Lam
Standing Out by Joshua Baumring-Gledhill
The Diamond of Destiny by Dylan Parekh
The Eviction by Covi Franklin
The Nightmare Code by Archuna Ananthamohan
The Planet Zorkina by Shrey Srivastava
The Stolen Face by Peter Sequeira
The Ultimatum by Khush Kotecha
Troubles of Nimis Opes by Alexander Morzeria-Davis
Zaine by Covi Franklin
Girls
A Smile in The Dark by Sophie Max
Between Lyme and Time by Sarah Hossany
Consequences by Sarah Persov
Evasion by Eleen Inayat
Flight from France by Rebecca Clark
I don’t want to go to sleep by Sophie Riley
Lost Revenge by Danielle McCarthy
Nightmarch II by Sarah Chalk
Red Pandas and Ink by Carolina Earle
Redemption by Rani Mehta
Smile by Anjali Vaz
Splitting at the Seams by Scarlett Stitt
Supersize me! by Jessica Pine
Tetris by Sanjana Pillai
The Runaway by Maya Thakkar
The Taxi Driver by Kirsty Hardwick
The Worst Feeling in the World by Samantha Nead
Under Lock and Key by Hazel Balogun
Whispering Souls by Abbienaya Dayanamby
FIRST PRIZE: Samantha Nead for The Worst Feeling in the World
SECOND PRIZE: Carolina Earle for Red Pandas and Ink
THIRD PRIZE: Covi Franklin for The Eviction and Sanjani Pillai for Tetris
AUDIENCE PRIZE: Gordon Hao (reader) and Jordan Bernstein (author) for A Powerless Coincidence.
47
Interview with Dr. Craig, Deputy Head (Pastoral)
Good morning, Dr. Craig, and thank-you for agreeing to answer questions about your own tastes and
influences in reading. What is the most recent book you’ve read?
The most recent book I have read is the third volume of Robert Caro’s epic biography of US President
Lyndon B Johnson. This is a fantastic study of the “Passage of Power” between Kennedy and his VP in
the years 1960-1964 and probably ranks as the best political biography I have read.
What is your favourite book (novel or otherwise)?
I would have to say Joseph Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’. I’m sure that this is a choice that the English
Department will no doubt approve of !
What do you think is the importance of historical context in a novel?
Personally speaking, I don’t feel it is greatly important. Being interested in historical accuracy I am not
a great fan of historical novels per se. More generally, my view is that it is the text itself that is most
important in studying great literature (and knowing that backwards and other similar work) rather than
the historical context in which the author was writing, or indeed literary criticism.
Does literature influence society or does society influence literature?
Clearly the dynamic works both ways. Literature is certainly a reflection of society (Conrad’s work
very much reflects a nineteenth century commitment to the “protestant work ethic”). One shouldn’t
ignore, however, the fact that individual works of literature have been influential themselves on social
developments. To give an American example, the work of writers like Harriet Beecher Stowe (who wrote
‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’) clearly had an influence in driving anti-slavery sentiment in the north in the run up
to the American Civil War.
Do you think a novel is an effective instrument to change society in today’s world?
In terms of societal transformation, I suspect other forms of media (particularly television) are much
more significant these days because of their pervasive nature and wider reach.
Many thanks for taking the time to answer these questions. We hope that you enjoy reading the new edition of
Scribe as much as we have enjoyed putting it together!
48
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy (1844-1881)

The Haberdashers` Aske`s Boys` School Creative

Transcription

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